Nemesis by Tim Stevens Page A

you want from me.’
    Purkiss decided to push a little. ‘Rossiter was assisted in his escape by someone who was able to pinpoint his whereabouts with precision,’ he said. ‘We suspect they tracked him through the device.’
    Donovan gave a small nod. ‘And you believe this someone is me. Or one of my personnel. Yes, that makes sense.’
    ‘You’re former Service,’ said Purkiss. ‘You’re an obvious possibility.’
    ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’ Donovan looked unfazed. ‘As for my personnel... it’s feasible. There’s nobody I can think of in particular, but I can certainly supply you with the names of those who might have access to the required software.’
    He went over to a desk, which was kitted out as an elaborate workstation, and picked up a laptop. He keyed something in. A few seconds later, a printer whirred into life. Donovan handed the sheaf of papers to Purkiss.
    ‘My vetting documents on the relevant employees. You may find something there. And I’ve included specifications for the device in question, in case that helps.’
    Purkiss glanced over the latter pages.
    ‘What’s this?’ he said.
    A series of diagrams portrayed the device, a thin, flat object that resembled a match from a matchbook. The tip had a slightly bulbous head, also like a match’s. It was to the tip Purkiss pointed.
    Donovan said, ‘The toxin compartment.’ He studied Purkiss’s face. ‘Ah. You weren’t aware. This device isn’t standard. The modification was my contribution, made to order. It allows the addition of a neurotoxin. One whose release can be triggered remotely.’
    ‘This was implanted on Rossiter?’
    ‘Yes. A combined tracker and, if needed, execution agent. I suppose the reasoning was that if Rossiter ever escaped, he could not only be located but stopped in his tracks.’ Donovan’s face touched on ruefulness. ‘From what you’re saying, it sounds as if he removed the device before either of its functions could be of any use.’
    Pieces were slotting into place in Purkiss’s mind more quickly than he could keep up with them.
    His phone buzzed in his pocket and, his eyes on Donovan, he took it out.
    It was Saburova. Her voice was sharp.
    ‘There are armed men moving towards the house. I see two of them.’

Fifteen
    ––––––––
    P urkiss murmured, ‘Where?’ and Saburova said the front door and he said, ‘Stay back.’
    He rose to his feet, Asher moving swiftly in tandem and staring at him.
    Donovan returned Purkiss’s stare.
    Purkiss said, ‘Two men at the door.’
    He was at Donovan in two strides and barrelling into him and sending him backwards into the armchair he’d risen from. He felt Donovan’s sinews tense, his arms come up and his torso twist in the automatic defensive posture that had been drilled into him over gruelling years of training. But the momentum had carried him back and the chair tipped over and Purkiss was on him with his forearm across his throat.
    ‘How many out there?’
    He relaxed the pressure just enough that Donovan could speak.
    The man’s voice emerged as a throaty hiss: ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    Purkiss had tried to bring down Donovan with the minimum of noise but it evidently hadn’t been enough, because the door to the living room swung open and the two guards from earlier came through with handguns drawn, shouting, ‘Back off, back off. ’
    Purkiss rolled off Donovan and dragged the older man across him where he crouched and slid an arm across his throat once more, this time from behind. He kept the man’s head in front of his so that just his eye peered past.
    One of the guards was advancing on Asher, the other towards Purkiss and Donovan on the floor behind the overturned chair. Both were professionals, walking side-on with their firearms held in the Weaver stance.
    The window behind Asher exploded in a screeching cavalcade of glass an instant before the sound of the shot rang through the room.
    Purkiss saw