Kiss My Assassin Read online

  The hallway was too open, with long stretches of no cover. They had to move quickly, but that meant making more noise. It was a balancing game.

  Given time, Bishop would have admired the ornate Georgian hallway. But that wasn’t on his mind just then. Survival was.

  At the halfway point they passed a hallway stand. Without missing a step, Bishop picked up a bright green decorative glass bauble, slipped it into his pocket and kept moving. The ambassador gave the MI6 agent an odd look but said nothing.

  Ahead, Bishop heard the slow, measured creak of a door opening. The police would never be so careful, so Bishop could only surmise it was an unfriendly arrival. He forced his tense body to unfurl. He had to be loose. He had to be ready.

  Yanking Demir by the collar, he pulled him into the nearest room. It turned out to be a library. No additional weapons in here, unless they intended to bore the Kali to death with Kierkegaard.

  On the opposite side of the hall was a door to what seemed like a parlour of some sort. Extracting the ornamental bauble from his pocket, Bishop crouched into a baseball pitcher’s stance. Demir’s mouth dropped open. He seemed to believe Bishop had finally slipped into madness.

  Throwing the pitch across the hallway, the bauble found a hard surface in the parlour and smashed with an unholy crash. With the ambassador crouched behind a desk, Bishop found a dark corner with a direct line of fire across the hall. Pistol raised, he took an upright Weaver stance and waited. Agonising seconds ticked away.

  The footsteps in the hallway were cautious. Bishop heard faint rustles of fabric; probably the sound of hand gestures indicating what would happen next.

  They were trained and patient. So was Bishop.

  The first intruder slithered up to the parlour doorway, KRISS Vector submachine gun pointed skyward. That was some serious hardware for one little ambassador. Moments later his compatriot joined him, issuing a reassuring nod. Turning to face the wall, they readied themselves to pounce.

  The two had less facial scarring than the previous intruder Bishop had encountered. All had hard faces, like ex-military. Fair complexions, but deeply tanned, like they’d seen a lot of sun over extended periods.

  They were about to burst in, all guns firing. Too aggressive and prone to high casualties for Bishop’s liking. Aware they could move at any second, he acted.

  The first shot took out the intruder closest to the door, destroying the back of his head. A second quick tap through the centre of his back guaranteed the kill. The second intruder had time to react and swung around to face Bishop, shocked smeared across his features.

  The movement meant Bishop’s headshot missed its mark. Instead of a clean centre of the forehead round, it entered his cheek, dislodging his jaw in an agonising injury. He screamed in pain, clutching his severed body part. A further bullet to his heart ended the agony.

  The element of surprise was now blown. Anyone around the house would have heard the shots and come running. They had to move. No time to search the bodies, no time to untangle the weapons strapped underneath them.

  With a flick of his thumb, Bishop motioned for the ambassador to follow. They entered the hallway on high alert, searching for further threats.

  As Demir stepped over the prone corpses, he whispered, “That was not honourable, Mr Bishop.”

  “Perhaps an honourable man would care.” Bishop observed both ends of the hall. “I wouldn’t know.”

  No point in being stealthy anymore, the two men charged down the hallway towards the front entrance. Bishop updated his mental calculations. He’d taken down three. There were anywhere from one to ten more obstacles before them. He hoped for the former.

  Nearing the grand entrance, Bishop’s eye caught a shadow that fell across the front window. Another intruder held his KRISS submachine gun as he swivelled his head towards the garden, watching for threats. He was looking the wrong way. A carefully timed bullet through the window crumpled his now-lifeless body.

  Bishop whispered, “It’s glass. Who uses glass for cover? I have to wonder who trained these people—Helen Keller?”

  The ambassador wisely chose not to answer. They were at the front door. It was now a game of odds. With four down, their chances were improving, but there was no way of telling if the odds were in their favour. There was only one way to find out.

  Bishop flung the door open and counted to six. He stepped out, pistol at the ready. Having taken down the front of house guard, they were fortunate, but it wouldn’t hold. The ambassador followed Bishop’s shadow and they slowly made their way across the portico, scanning for foes.

  The fallen intruder by the window lay sprawled on the garden bed, his submachine gun glistening in the sun. Bishop had counted his bullets; his pistol was out.

  He turned to the ambassador. “Do you know how to fire a gun?”

  “I have seen it in the movies.”

  “I’ve seen tap dancing in the movies, that doesn’t make me Fred Astaire. I’ll take that as a no.”

  Before they could reach the machine gun, a huge shadow fell across the garden. From around the corner of the building a massive hulk of a man stomped towards them. The other intruders had been well-muscled, but this guy was something else. Angry disposition and arms like felled trees, he looked like he crushed skulls in his spare time.

  Demir stepped back from the approaching behemoth. “Good lord.”

  The giant of a man aimed his own submachine gun at them. The pistol in Bishop’s hand was empty, and he couldn’t reach the dead guard’s machine gun without being cut down. Bishop held up his hands and took his finger from the pistol’s trigger.

  Sizing up the intruder, Bishop smirked. He tossed his pistol aside and raised his fists in a boxing stance. “Let’s settle this like men, shall we?”

  The man-mountain grinned.

  The ambassador’s mouth flapped open. “Are you mad? Look at the size of him!”

  The man-mountain placed his submachine gun on the grass. He stood tall and cracked his neck, limbering up.

  The MI6 spy shook his head. “Lunatic.”

  Bishop reached around and extracted Underwood’s pistol from the back of his pants. The man-mountain’s mouth gaped open and he lunged for his weapon. Too late. Bishop landed three shots in quick succession, one head, two chest. Each found their mark, and the huge man collapsed onto the grass, dead eyes open.

  “That’s for Underwood.” Turning to Demir, Bishop said, “Let’s go.”

  They jogged towards Bishop’s car.

  Between panting breaths, Demir grimaced. “Like I said, not honourable, Mr Bishop.”

  “Do me a favour when we’re driving out of here? Check your pulse. If you still have one I’d kindly ask you to shut it, thank you, Mr Ambassador.”

  Unsure if he had terminated the last of the intruders, Bishop took no chances. They took a weaving course towards the Audi, ensuring no one could get a clean shot. Keys in hand, he unlocked the car and they were in.

  Before the ambassador had time to put his seatbelt on Bishop started the car and took off. The ambassador was flung against his door. Zipping down the gravel driveway, Bishop thought of relaxing, but it was too soon. First he had to get the ambassador to safety.

  Who were these goons? Who the hell had the balls to murder police in broad daylight? Was it the mysterious Kali arms dealers Demir had spoken of? They must think they’re untouchable if they thought they could kill police and ambassadors without consequence. No foreign government would ever be so provocative. It would be considered an act of war.

  Perhaps it was.

  Safety first. Then questions. Vengeance soon after.

  Reaching the end of the driveway of Lambert Estate, Bishop prepared to swing the powerful car onto the road. The polite use of an indicator seemed inappropriate, given the circumstances.

  The sound was deceptively small, like the plop of a dropped egg. But the spray of blood across the windscreen told Bishop the ambassador had been shot. Mid-turn, Bishop lost control of
the vehicle. The Audi’s wheels slid out on the gravel and when they hit asphalt, the car went sideways.

  The world tumbled before Bishop’s eyes. Flipping violently across the road, the car crunched and flew apart as it rolled three times before smashing into the far embankment, upside down.

  The interior of the overturned car was all airbags, flying glass, powder and pain. Blood flooded Bishop’s vision. His own, he guessed, but he had no idea from where. Agony consumed him, but he didn’t know the source of that either.

  Beside him, the ambassador’s lifeless eyes stared blankly into some unknown void.

  Bishop’s vision was blurred, like he’d put on someone else’s prescription glasses. He fought the oncoming blackout. He lost.

  The world went dark.

  Blurred vision returned. How long had he been out? A second? An hour?

  Outside, all Bishop could see was the driveway he’d just left.

  He coughed blood. It gurgled in his upside-down throat.

  Blackness.

  Then Bishop saw the bottom half of a figure striding down the driveway.

  Blackness.

  He snapped to consciousness. The figure was close now, across the road. He could see their full height. The figure stood tall, grey hood over their head, face obscured. In their hands, a sniper rifle.

  Bishop struggled with the seatbelt above him, his hands slick with blood, unable to release him from his inverse position.

  Blackness.

  With his last remnant of strength, Bishop’s bloody hand reached for the belt release, his fingers like spaghetti. Shades of black stabbed into his vision. His fingers refused to work. His unfocused eyes could see the hooded figure taking aim. There were shouts. Tyres skidded. Bishop coughed blood.

  Everything went black.

  The chirp of birds woke him.

  He lay beneath crisp white sheets in a crisp white room. Hospital.

  Planting his fists on the bed, he pushed himself upright. It was a mistake. The room spun and Bishop’s vision blurred once again. He collapsed back into the soft pillow.

  “Woah there, cowboy.”

  A middle-aged nurse rushed towards him, placing his hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “You’ve been in a car accident, mate. Best take it easy for a bit, yeah?”

  With a nod, Bishop continued to lift himself from the hospital bed, ignoring the advice.

  The nurse placed a surprisingly firm hand on his shoulder. “Heard you were a tough one. Listen, you’re not going anywhere, mate.”

  Bishop pushed against the hand, attempting to shrug it off, but the nurse was having none of it. He pushed the spy back.

  “I’ll take a blood test, and I can be really bad at finding a vein.”

  Opening his mouth, Bishop released a hoarse wheeze. “That’s not much of a threat.”

  The nurse raised an eyebrow. “Then I’ll do the same with a catheter.”

  The two men stared at each other for the longest time.

  Bishop frowned. “Maybe I’ll stay here for a bit longer.”

  “Excellent choice, sir.”

  Letting loose an arid cough, Bishop flopped back into the bed. His mouth was drier than a long Saharan summer.

  The nurse checked his chart. “Water’s fine, hang on.”

  He filled a plastic cup from a water jug. Bishop downed it in one gulp and held it up for a refill.

  “You’ll wet the bed.”

  Bishop turned to see Paul enter. He wore his usual immaculate suit, but an unusual expression of concern. The nurse gave him a nod and left quietly.

  “Where am I?” Bishop croaked.

  “Barts. St Bartholomew’s. Thought you’d like to be somewhere near home.”

  Bishop finished another cup of water. “The ambassador’s dead.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Paul nodded. “They took out five police officers along the way. The Home Secretary is screaming blue murder. I can’t blame her. This is tantamount to—”

  “An act of war?”

  “Precisely.” Paul pulled up a chair. “What do you recall?”

  Bishop gave a rundown of events, providing Paul with all the details he could remember.

  “The one thing I don’t get is why was I spared?”

  “What makes you so special?” Paul gave a slight smirk. “I hate to tell you, my old chum, but I don’t think you are.”

  “I have a contact list in my phone that’ll tell you otherwise.”

  Paul rolled his eyes, no stranger to Bishop’s justifiable boasting. “No, I mean whoever the sniper was, he was scared off by the locals. They heard the car crash and came running. If you hadn’t made it to the road we wouldn’t be having this quaint little chat. My guess is there were too many locals to pick off, so the shooter scarpered.”

  “The intruders’ bodies at the mansion. Any IDs yet?”

  “That’s the trouble. There aren’t any.” The surprise must have been evident on Bishop’s face. Paul went on. “No assailants were found in the mansion or in the grounds. The downed police, the ambassador and your sorry arse were all that was left. Well, there were several pools of blood. I suspected they were your handiwork.”

  “No evidence, no leads?”

  “None. Except now we have your statement. MI5 and the Met will want you to repeat all that, of course. They’ll most likely give you a medal, I suspect.”

  “Sod the fucking medal, give me the son of a bitch who did this. All I need is a soundproof room, a few hours, a filleting knife and some pliers.” Bishop recognised the anger burning inside him. The dead police and the ambassador’s lifeless stare swirled before his eyes. “Do we have anything on an arms dealer called Kali?” He explained what Demir had told him.

  “We’ll look into it.” Paul blew out a lungful of air. “I hope it’s not a new player. We thought we were doing so well on that front.”

  Bishop tilted his head inquisitively.

  Paul went on. “In the last year or so we believed the illegal arms trade had decreased. A few high-profile dealers have either publicly retired or disappeared. Can’t say we’ll miss them terribly. Interpol have been taking credit for the downturn.”

  “Or maybe someone has taken over, and they’re better at concealing their tracks.”

  “That’s an unpleasant thought.”

  To distract himself, Bishop stretched and examined his arms.

  As if reading his mind, Paul said, “Nothing broken. Some internal haemorrhaging, but nothing too vital. Some rest, some medication, and you’ll be on your feet in a few days.”

  “You get me out of here today, Paul.”

  “I’m not sure that’s …”

  “Today.”

  It was generally ill-advised to raise one’s voice with a superior, but at that moment Bishop didn’t give two shits about decorum.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Paul frowned at the request, but Bishop sensed there was more to his reaction. Perhaps a sense of pride that one of his own was so dedicated to the Service. If Paul felt that, it was fine, but he was wrong. It wasn’t the job that fired Bishop. It was the thought of revenge.

  “This anger… you seem so driven by all this.” Paul seemed embarrassed, a rare occurrence. “Is it magnified, perhaps, because of Tessa?”

  Bishop was taken aback. “How is this even remotely connected to her?” He realised too late the antagonism in his words.

  “It’s been two years—exactly two years. I remember, because exactly one year ago we were sozzled under a pool table in the Kings Arms. I thought perhaps the anniversary of her…”

  “Dumping me and throwing my heart in a blender?”

  “Yes, that.” Paul was never comfortable talking about emotions. “I thought it might be playing on you.”

  Bishop hadn’t realised it was the anniversary. In this instance his boss was way off. Had it only been two years? He’d spiralled into one-night stands without consequence or emotional entanglement. He closed himself off to any hint of intimacy. Over time h
e had built a solid ice wall around his heart to keep it from ever being hurt again. It had worked, but at a cost. The loneliness was the worst. Especially when he had a naked woman in the bed beside him and knew he’d never see her again. Tessa had hurt him like no one ever had, but she wasn’t the one who had stoked this particular fire.

  He needed to change the subject. After a deep sigh, Bishop shook his head. “Who the hell has the power to kill an ambassador under the protection of the Metropolitan Police?”

  Paul’s face was gravely serious. “That’s what you’re going to find out.”

  Listening to the sound of morning traffic outside his window, Bishop sighed. “What happens next?”

  “We get you to Marrakech.”

  Chapter Three

  She was a woman men would have gone to war over in times past.

  Bishop did his best not to stare.

  Marrakech Menara Airport was architecturally striking. It made a grand first impression with its abundance of natural light, tastefully mixing modern and Moroccan styles. As Bishop sat in the airport bar, he ignored the remarkable space. Instead, he watched the woman walking down the causeway carrying a brown wide-brimmed hat and pulling her luggage. She stopped to talk with a porter, her long blonde hair swishing with even the slightest head movement.

  Airport bars were the same the world over. Why had the Irish pub become the be all and end all of international travel? Why anyone would fly to Africa only to decide they absolutely needed to down an overpriced Guinness was beyond Bishop. But there he sat, propped up at the bar, indifferently taking in the passing parade as passengers flitted from one destination to another. Until she walked by.

  Outside was a dry heat, but it was nothing compared to what the woman in the sundress projected. She had a casual confidence, but it wasn’t fuelled by her beauty. There was far more going on underneath the flawless skin. That was why Bishop was smitten from afar. Attractiveness only entertained for so long. When a woman had depth and intelligence to match, he found it hard to resist.

  But resist he did. He was on a mission. His attention turned to an international rugby match on the pub’s big screen. Wallabies versus the Springboks. After a disastrous lineout, the Springboks turned the ball over for a try. The Aussies were goners. When he glanced across the concourse again, the woman was gone. Just as well. There was too much at stake for distractions. Though there was nothing wrong with the occasional daydream.