Kill Order

Part 1, Chapter 8: First Class

Stansted smelled of cold fuel and wet tarmac, a damp chill that crept through Tristan's clothing and settled into bone. The slate sky pressed low over the hangars as he and Evelyn slipped from shadow to shadow in black ground crew overalls. Forged service patches were stitched at their chests, caps pulled low. Their earpieces rested silent just below collar level.

Ahead, a sleek Gulfstream waited, nose angled toward the taxi line. Cabin lights glowed faintly, engines still dark. Two men in bomber jackets smoked beside a catering lorry. Tristan took one look at their squared shoulders and the pistol prints beneath the fabric and knew they were Borodin's muscle.

Evelyn breathed, just loud enough for him to hear. "Storage hatch at the tail. Three minutes before fuelling starts. Local police won't hold them much longer than that."

Tristan nodded. They skirted the cone of light, boots whispering across grit. Beneath the right wing they crouched by the tailplane. Evelyn eased a slim lever into the belly hatch latch. A quiet metallic pop. She raised the panel just wide enough to slip inside and Tristan followed. He pulled the door near shut until a finger of cold air remained.

Inside the crawl space the dark felt absolute. Only the faint glow of Tristan's watch showed. 19:15. Fifteen minutes until scheduled departure. He steadied his breath, listening to the thumps of baggage overhead. Borodin's guttural Russian echoed faintly through floor panels, sharp commands to his men.

Engines started a low whine. Vibration rolled beneath Tristan's boots. He braced against support ribs as the jet began a slow taxi. The roar of take off pressed his spine to metal. Seconds later the sudden lift told him the wheels were off the ground.

Above them cabin sounds settled. Evelyn pointed toward a hatch built into the bulkhead. She cracked it open. Cool pressurised air whispered past. After a count of twenty she mouthed, "Now."

They slid from the crawl space into a narrow service corridor behind the aft galley. Stainless cabinets lined one wall, lit only by emergency lamps. The scent of packaged meals and old coffee hung in the air. They crept past a stack of trays toward a heavy curtain that hid the rear lounge.

Tristan eased a corner of the curtain aside. Two leather club chairs faced a mahogany drinks console lit by a floor lamp. On the cabin wall a polished cupboard stood half open. Inside, nestled in foam, was the silver bioweapon case. A jolt of relief passed through him. They had a chance.

A door clicked behind. The lavatory swung open and a large guard stepped out, wiping his hands. A stubby hammer hung from his belt. He froze at the sight of intruders in the dim light, then yanked the hammer free and swung.

The steel head smashed into the back of Tristan's skull. Pain flared white. He dropped to one knee, groggy but conscious. Evelyn rammed her boot into the guard's knee. Bone cracked with a wet pop. The guard grunted yet lashed back, catching Tristan's shoulder with the second swing.

Another guard charged from forward cabin, pistol drawn. Two muffled shots shredded a seatback. Evelyn snatched her shock baton but the hammer guard swung a wild fist that cracked her jaw. Blood marked the curtain.

A figure filled the forward doorway. Mikhail Borodin, tall and immaculately dressed, eyes like winter ice. He surveyed the chaos with faint amusement.

"You again," he said in crisp English.

He stepped forward and drove his boot into Evelyn's cheek. The impact sounded like snapping timber. She crumpled to the carpet. Tristan tried to rise, but the guard pinned his shoulders, cold cuffs clamping his wrists behind him, restraining his arms. A fresh wave of pain from the hammer wound blurred his sight.