Dead Men Stalking 7: For Services Rendered
It would be so much easier to just use his bayonet, and be done with it. But Pollard was his boss. It wasn’t considered good form to kill your boss.
Welcome to part seven of my MI7 Assassin origins story! If you missed part one, read it here:
And if you’re new to MI7 Assassin, I’ve also written two earlier standalone stories:
My paying subs get the hot thrill of reading MI7 Assassin the Sunday before it goes out to everyone else on Wednesday, but whenever you get your hands on it, I would really appreciate your feedback on this story!
Eventually we’ll publish these origins stories as novellas and I want them to be as good as they possibly can be when we do! So if you have any suggestions, something you particularly like or don’t like, want to see more or less of, let me know in the comments below!
Dead Men Stalking 7: For Services Rendered
Stone rolled off the blanketed mound that was Röpell’s corpse, staying in a low crouch as the men crowded the doorway. The room was still in darkness, no doubt the Prussian had removed the lightbulbs to aid his attack and this was now to Stone’s advantage.
The shadowy shape of the first Frontiersman fired blindly into the blackness, muzzle flaring, and missed him by a good six inches, the bullet burying itself in the floorboards. Stone leapt to his feet and retaliated with a powerful kick to the groin. The guard jackknifed and fell to the ground, making a faint wheezing sound. Stone stamped on his neck. The wheezing stopped.
The second Frontiersman stepped around his comrade and swung his gun up to take aim. Stone slashed his bayonet across his wrist, the blade slicing through felted wool and cotton and muscle, down to the bone, as easily as slicing through a meat pie. The guard’s gun hand flopped, blood spurting into the air. But he kept on coming, his left hand clawing at the balaclava, reaching for Stone’s eyes. He got a thumb into Stone’s eye socket when Stone landed a left hook square on his ear. Stone could have slit him open with the bayonet, but he’d sworn an oath to himself not to kill his own countrymen, no matter how traitorous their conduct. The Frontiersman staggered, dizzy from the punch, blood still spurting from his wrist.
Behind him, Pollard snarled, ‘Let me get a clear shot at him!’
Stone deprived him of the opportunity by kicking the Frontiersman in the stomach, throwing him backwards into Pollard.
Pollard braced under the weight of his comrade who sagged against him, keeping his right arm up, with a clear shot at Stone. He didn’t need to be an award-winning marksman to hit his target: Stone was right in front of him. But Stone hooked a foot behind Pollard’s knee and Pollard flailed off-balance. His gun traced a parabola in the air and he let off a round into the ceiling, bringing down the plasterwork.
Stone grabbed Pollard’s gun hand with his left hand and twisted, rotating it inwards, locking the wrist and shoulder. Pollard dropped the gun, but was now clear of his comrade, who was slumped on the floor. Stone’s goal was to make a fast escape, not continue this fight. Every second he stayed in combat with Pollard was increasing his risk of his identity being discovered. It would be so much easier to just use his bayonet, and be done with it. But Pollard was his boss. It wasn’t considered good form to kill your boss.
He needed to put Pollard out of action just enough to buy him time to get out the window and make his escape into the night. Keeping Pollard’s gun hand in a lock, he yanked him close and clamped the hand under his right armpit. Still holding his bayonet in his right hand but keeping the pointy end away from Pollard’s face, he brought his right elbow across Pollard’s arm and pushed down, holding it at near breaking point, forcing Pollard into an awkward crouch. Pollard grunted his displeasure. Stone intended to release several sharp left hooks into Pollard’s ribcage and leave him on the floor, bruised and battered but still breathing.
But Pollard was ahead of him. With his left hand, he pulled a dagger from an inside pocket and stabbed up at Stone's throat. It was pure instinct, not thought, that jerked Stone away from the blade, losing his lock on Pollard’s right arm. He knew Pollard’s skills with a revolver, but had no idea of his knife-fighting talents. He danced back, staying out of reach.
Pollard’s dagger was six inches long and Stone’s bayonet had a good couple of inches on it, but Pollard displayed no fear of being cut. In fact he was coming at Stone like a man possessed. With such a weapon, no special training was required, just the desire to kill, which Pollard had in abundance.
Whereas Stone now lacked his earlier aggression. Having dispatched the Prussian, and with his conflicted feelings about his section chief, he was at a disadvantage.
Pollard suffered from no such conflict, he was fighting like a homicidal maniac. Stone was forced on the defensive, which he knew could well be fatal for him. And to make matters worse, as they passed in front of the open window, the moon briefly illuminated the dagger. He recognised it immediately.
It was one of a pair that he had seen only the day before: two six-inch blades, slim and lethal, that had once belonged to Jack the Ripper.
He had entered Captain Pollard’s office with his latest propaganda series and seen his section chief lost in thought, staring at a dark wooden box on his desk.
‘Sir, my first draft of Tales of the V.C. for your approval.’
Pollard didn’t reply and continued to gaze, fascinated, at the box.
Stone pressed on. ‘As we discussed, I’ve focused on the soldiers’ ordinary life in the trenches as well as their acts of bravery.’
Nothing.
‘That way it gives their acts of courage meaning and depth.’ He paused. Pollard stared at the box, as if hypnotised.
‘Sir? Are you all right, sir?’
Pollard started and looked up from the box.
‘What?’
‘The Tales of the V.C., sir.’
‘Oh, yes. Just leave it there,’ he gestured at the inbox on his desk and returned to staring intently at the box, as if it contained a deadly yet fascinating wild animal.
‘Very good, sir.’ Stone placed the document on the existing pile of paperwork and turned to leave.
‘Wait. I want to show you something, Stone.’
Stone turned back. ‘Sir?’
‘I want to show you what’s in the box.’
Stone watched as Pollard turned a small brass key and lifted the lid. He stared reverently at the contents within.
‘I’ve just been given them,’ he said, with a look on his face that under other circumstances Stone might have thought was shell shock.
‘It’s a great honour,’ he said slowly. Stone decided that Pollard must have been awarded some medal for his work and that was what lay inside.
‘Look.’
Stone approached the desk, expecting to see the Military Medal or the Distinguished Conduct Medal nestled on a velvet cushion. Or perhaps even the Victoria Cross itself. Certainly it had to be an award of considerable significance to have such an impact on Pollard.
What he saw instead were two six-inch long, narrow surgical knives with ebony handles neatly fitting into an interior lined with red velvet. The blades, though highly polished, had the patina of use, small pits and blemishes. Dark stains discoloured the velvet. To Stone’s eye they looked like dried blood.
Pollard spoke in hushed tones. ‘The knives of Jack the Ripper. They’ve just been given to me by Basil Thomson at Scotland Yard. From the Black Museum.’
He reverently picked up one of the blades. ‘This was one of the knives that inflicted thirty-nine wounds on Martha Tabram. Wounds to her throat, lungs, heart, liver, spleen, stomach, abdomen and intimate parts.’
Horrified, yet fascinated, Stone leaned forward to pick up the second knife.
‘No! No! Don’t touch. Don’t touch.’
Stone snatched back his hand. ‘Sorry, sir.’
‘They’re razor sharp.’ He held the first dagger up to the light. ‘When I hold this knife, I can feel his hate, his madness, his bloodlust.’
He seemed very far away, like he himself was walking the gas-lit streets of Whitechapel in search of prey.
‘All those whores he mutilated and disembowelled,’ he mused.
‘Did they ever discover who he was, sir?’
Pollard shrugged. ‘It’s of no consequence.’
Stone felt a flutter of unease. He kept his tone reasonable. ‘But, sir, if Scotland Yard have the murder weapons, then they must know his identity.’
Pollard smiled thinly. ‘I meant such information is not for public consumption. As you will know from our work here, there are certain matters that should be kept from the public.’
Stone nodded mutely.
Pollard gently placed the knife back in the box and closed the lid.
‘Of course, the name Jack the Ripper was invented by a journalist to boost his newspaper’s circulation. You should remember that, Stone. A catchy name sells copies. As you’re aware from your own books. ’Alf A Mo, Kaiser.’ Pollard said the title with an exaggerated attempt at a cockney accent. ‘You know how to reach an audience.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
With great care, Pollard turned the key in the lock and rested one hand on the box. ‘You know, this box is worth more to me than gold. It will be the prize of my collection.’
‘Why did Basil Thomson give it to you, sir?’
‘Well.’ Pollard hesitated for a moment before responding. ‘Let’s just say it was a token of his esteem for certain work I carried out for him. For services rendered.’
‘Services rendered, sir?’
Pollard looked him dead in the eye, his mouth pursed beneath his pencil-thin moustache. ‘It’s of no consequence.’