Even if he was at the main house, his lights should be blazing.
That was the deal; those were the rules, that was how Douglas knew everything was okay when he came home.
Therefore, Douglas had to assume that things were not okay.
His stomach clenched and his chest tightened, he snapped the word “Sam” into the dark void around him and the car phone started dialling.
“Yes boss?” Her voice was perky.
“Call the police,” he had started the Jag crawling forward through the mile of parkland that fronted the estate and he turned off his lights. “Tell them to get to Sommersgate but to proceed with caution. I don’t know the situation yet and I’m going in, I won’t report back. Then call the SIS, you know who to speak to, tell him the same thing.”
She was all business, although her voice betrayed worry. “Check.”
Then Sam hung up on him.
He forced himself slowly (and thus quietly) to glide the Jag toward his home, toward Julia.
He had no weapon. He had no idea of the time that had elapsed from when the trouble (he was certain there was trouble) started to now. He had no idea if the children, Ronnie and the Kilpatricks had already left the house. He had no idea if Nick had managed to get her to safety. He had not noticed Nick’s car at the Gate House so maybe he’d succeeded in reaching her but didn’t have time yet to phone and report in.
This thought was made moot when Douglas saw Nick’s car careened off the road a quarter of a mile away from the house, slammed into another car, Nick’s interior light blazing and its driver’s side door hanging open.
“Fucking hell,” Douglas bit out.
It took every bit of willpower not to gun the motor but he knew he couldn’t go charging in, he couldn’t warn them of his approach. He needed surprise on his side.
He slid forward, his teeth clenched, his hands biting into the steering wheel, his eyes vigilantly scanning the landscape and was assaulted by visions of Julia’s dead body lying in a pool of blood, a pool of his making because he wanted a bigger challenge. He had been bored with his life. He needed a more interesting way to pass the damned time.
He rolled passed the silent and dark Groundskeeper’s Cottage, hoping that meant the Kilpatricks had already taken the children to the curry house. Then he slid slowly down the slope and around the chapel. He stopped before he got to the gravelled drive, pulling the emergency brake and turning off the car, the Jag on the gravel would make too much noise. He exited the car, fleet of foot and silent as a cat. He crouched low, keeping to the edges of the wide arc of light illuminating the outside of the house coming from both the lights from Julia’s rooms (the drapes, disturbingly, not drawn) and the outside light.
He stayed close to the side of the house, inching forward and, chancing a glance around the corner of the portico, finally seeing the front door slightly ajar.
Ready for him.
Waiting for him.
He knew a trap lay inside.
He didn’t hesitate because inside, hopefully still alive, was Julia. And he’d rather get his brains blown out than allow her to experience another minute of the terror she was undoubtedly experiencing.
The moment he quietly slipped into his lifelong home, he knew something was wrong. Not just the danger that lurked there but the house.
Something was very wrong with the whole, damned house.
He’d taken three strides forward, ignoring the alien feeling of Sommersgate, when a voice speaking in Russian told him to stop.
The cold steel of a gun was pointed to his temple.
Without hesitation, and quick as lightning, Douglas’s head jerked back. His left hand shot up, grabbing the gunman’s wrist in a powerful grip. The man fired a reactionary shot but it went wide.
Swinging around with all his bodyweight and using instinct and years of practice to guide him, he slammed the palm of his hand into the man’s septum, forcing it into the back of his brain, causing him to die instantly.
Douglas felt no remorse. He knew who these men were and what they did. That swift a death was an act of mercy. He deserved far worse for the devastation he caused to hundreds of lives.
The Russian fell to the ground; Douglas took his gun, strangely a six shooter revolver rather than a semi-automatic, and swiftly checked its load. Three shots had already been fired which made Douglas’s chest clutch painfully. Forcing himself to remain focused, he felt the dead man’s body for any further weapons and discovered a knife strapped to his ankle. He removed it and tucked it in the back of his belt.
Julia would not be pleased about the knife but he’d deal with that later.
If, pray God, he had the chance.