The Sacred Sword - Scott Mariani Ben Hope

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dog lolled his pink tongue and began to pant.

      ‘All right, you come with me,’ Ben said. Squelching in his wet shoes he made his way down the passage to the connecting door that led through into the annexe. Everything seemed so still and empty.

      Shuddering with cold, he stripped off his wet things in the annexe’s bathroom and stepped under a hot shower. He stayed there a long time, hoping that the scalding jet of water would blast away the nightmare and that when he came out everything would be back to normal.

      It didn’t happen. He mechanically towelled himself dry and changed into a pair of grey jogging pants and a worn old rugby top from his bag. Finding his whisky flask nestling among the spare clothing, he unscrewed the cap and gulped down a stinging mouthful, then another. That didn’t make any difference either. He padded barefoot into the annexe’s little living room, flipped off all the lights and lay on the sofa with his eyes shut, trying to let his mind go blank. But there was no escape from the images that kept flashing up inside his mind as he lay there. He couldn’t stop seeing Simeon’s face in those last moments. The pallor of his skin, the desperation in his eyes. And Michaela, sitting there lifeless inside the sunken car. The horrific crush wounds on her face and brow.

      One minute he’d been having dinner with his friends. The next, they were gone, just like that, like blowing out a candle. Tomorrow would see the start of the whole terrible aftermath. Tonight, there was nothing but that sickening emptiness, as if the world had been scraped hollow with a blunt knife.

      Ben groped for the flask in the darkness and swallowed down the rest of the whisky. One gulp after another. The visions began to recede. He drifted into a world of vague and restless dreams that seemed to go on forever and were filled with the cries of people in pain. He couldn’t help them, no matter how desperately he tried … there was nothing he could do …

      Ben’s body tensed and he jerked upright on the sofa, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar sound that had torn through the membrane of his sleep. The luminous green hands of his diver’s watch told him it was quarter to one in the morning. He sat up, listening hard.

      A few feet away across the darkened room, the dog let out another long, low snarl, and Ben realised what had woken him. He was about to lie down again when he heard something else.

      A dull thud, coming from the other side of the wall. The sounds of movement inside the vicarage.

      Ben jumped up from the sofa, suddenly wide awake and alert. His first thought was that Jude Arundel must have returned from Cornwall. He went to turn on the light, already preparing mentally for the task of breaking the news to the kid that both his parents were dead.

      But Ben’s hand stopped short of the light switch when he heard more sounds from inside the vicarage: a muted splintering crash that was unmistakably the sound of a door being forced, followed a moment later by the grinding thump of something hitting a wall.

      Scruffy let out another rumbling growl from deep in his throat.

      Ben reached out to him in the darkness and laid a hand on his head. ‘Quiet, boy. Let me listen.’ Creeping across the room towards the connecting door, Ben pressed his ear to it and thought he heard a man’s voice.

      ‘Wait,’ he whispered back to the dog. There was no time to put on his shoes. Without a sound, he opened the door and stepped through into the passage beyond.

      Another thump, louder this time now that he was closer. It was coming from somewhere on the ground floor.

      Silently, stealthily, Ben moved towards the sound.

      Chapter Twelve

      Few men were schooled in the secret of silence. To be able to move unheard, unnoticed yet quickly through any terrain, blending in with the surroundings at all times, was an art that had to be learned and honed through dedicated training and practice – and Ben Hope had been a master of it for many years. Not many of his peers in the SAS had been able to match him.

      The art began with knowing where to place your feet. The vicarage’s old oak floorboards were broad and thick, but age and use had warped the wood so that it was almost impossible to walk over them without a creak. Ben kept to the edges, feeling with his bare toes as he went for any seam or joint that might shift with his weight. His breathing was slow and shallow, his heartbeat controlled and his mind as still as that of a predatory animal. When stalking a determined and trained enemy, even the scent of your fear could give you away.

      Creeping through the darkness, he glanced around him for anything he could use as defence against the intruders. Improvised weapons weren’t too abundant in the home of a country vicar. His gaze landed on a foot-high wooden statuette on a side table. He picked it up without a sound. It felt solid in his hand, like a short club.

      Another dull thud from up ahead. A grinding of steel against steel, followed by a clanging crash.

      As Ben had been expecting to happen any second, the dog let loose with a furious tirade of barking from inside the annexe, muffled behind the thick wall. Ben decided it wasn’t such a bad thing: the intruders would be aware that the nearest neighbour was far enough away not to be alerted by the noise. And the knowledge that the dog was contained in another part of the house would make them feel safe. Exactly how Ben wanted them to feel.

      Up ahead, the shadowy corridor terminated in a T-junction. To the left, all was darkness. Around the corner to the right, a glow of light shone from an unseen doorway.

      Ben stepped closer to the corner. From the source of the dim light he heard a man’s voice mutter something he didn’t catch. He stopped, blotting out the muted sound of Scruffy’s barking and listening hard. Was it the same voice he’d heard a moment ago? Impossible to tell, or to guess how many intruders there might be.

      He advanced as far as the corner, back to the wall, ready with his club. He was within sight of the doorway now. It was a couple of inches ajar, and in the light that streamed out of it, he could see the outline of the splintered frame where the door had been forced open. Careful not to let his shadow play on the opposite wall, he stepped up to the door and peered around its edge into the room behind it.

      Simeon’s study. The walls were lined with bookshelves. A simple computer desk stood in the middle of the room, with a flat-screen monitor and wireless keyboard. In the far corner of the study was a steel safe, like a short gun cabinet, bolted to the wall. The metallic crash Ben had just heard was the sound of it being jemmied open.

      The man who’d broken into the safe was crouching beside it with his back to the doorway. He was wearing a black combat jacket. A black cotton ski mask was pulled down over his face. There was a pistol in a military-style holster at his right hip. As Ben watched, the man grabbed a brown A4-sized envelope from the safe. He stuffed it into the duffel bag at his feet, then reached back inside the safe and came out with a small black laptop, which he bagged as well.

      Just one man. Yet Ben had heard him talking. To himself, maybe, or on the phone. Unless …

      Ben suddenly felt something hard prod him between the shoulder blades. He half-turned and found himself staring into a fat black O nearly three quarters of an inch wide. The muzzle of a pump-action twelve-bore.

      ‘Lose the ornament,’ said the man with the shotgun. His face was hidden in the shadows. The accent was East London. The tone was calm.

      Ben’s fingers loosened and the wooden statuette dropped to the floor.

      ‘Nice one,’ the man with the shotgun said. He advanced into the light. The eyes watching Ben through the slits in the ski mask were the colour of steel, hard and cold. He had the buttstock of the short-barrelled shotgun pulled in tight to his shoulder. That meant several things to Ben. The guy was bracing himself against the recoil, because he had no problem with pulling the trigger if he had to. It meant he was familiar with the weapon and had used it before. It also meant the shotgun’s five-capacity tube magazine was probably filled with hard-kicking solid slug loads that would take Ben’s head clean off his shoulders and paint the wall behind him

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