The Phoenix

‘Mak, we can’t kill her. We’re not equipped. Roger isn’t even armed.’

‘He can strangle her,’ said Mak, so matter-of-factly that it made even Cameron’s blood run cold.

‘No. He needs to focus on Athena,’ Cameron pushed back. ‘She’s our target. Once I’ve got her in the vehicle, I can have Roger follow Ella—’

‘NO!’ Mak shrieked, like a maddened chimpanzee. ‘Don’t follow her. Kill her. I want her dead. Today. We’ll never have a better opportunity.’

‘But, Mak—’

‘Tell your man I’ll pay him a million-dollar bonus, cash, when he sends me a picture of Ella Praeger’s corpse.’

Cameron hung up. It was like trying to reason with a rabid dog.

There was nothing for it. Between them, he and Roger would have to try and kill Ella and Athena. His cunning mind raced. Within thirty seconds, he called Roger back.

‘OK,’ he said with a calm he didn’t feel. ‘Change of plan.’

With one last glance behind her at the empty corridor, Ella opened the door to the pre-op suite.

Inside, all was quiet. Athena lay on her side, apparently sleeping with her back to Ella. Her facial bandages had been removed and her hair covered with a surgical mesh cap. A machine attached to her finger measured her blood pressure and heart rate, and the only movement was the soft, slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, obviously heavily sedated.

Stab, push and go.

One of the medical staff might come back in at any moment. It was now or never. Pulling the syringe out of her pocket, Ella walked towards the sleeping form. She would do it in the back or shoulder, through her surgical gown, just like Gabriel had shown her. Easy. Instant. Painless. ‘It’s better than Athena deserves, Ella. Remember that.’

Ella lifted the syringe.

As she did so, Athena stirred, turning over suddenly as if aware of her presence. When her eyes blinked open, it was like the wakening of the dead. ‘Nurse?’ she queried groggily, eyeing the fatal syringe.

Ella found herself looking at her victim, face to face.

She was young, dark haired and rather plain looking.

And she was not Athena Petridis.

Outside in the corridor, Ella slumped against the wall, her legs like Jell-O.

I could have killed her! I was this close. I could have murdered an innocent woman.

Bile rose up in her throat. With shaking hands, she texted Gabriel.

‘It’s not her. We’ve been set up. Lovato duped us.’

The reply was instant. ‘OK. Abort. Get out of there.’

With pleasure, thought Ella. Just as soon as I can stand.

‘Miss Yorke? Samantha?’

A tall, effete blond man with a cut-glass accent emerged from a door down the hall. Ella stared at him as if he’d just landed from Mars. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m Dr Butler. No need to look so terrified, my dear. Come on in.’

Roger Carlton waited for Henry Butler’s door to open before hitting the call button for the elevator. Number 77 Wimpole Street had one of those beautiful 1930s London lifts with metal concertina gates at each floor that had to be opened and closed fully before the elevator itself would move.

Roger’s palms were sweating as he gripped the laundry cart in front of him. He was nervous. It was more than five years since he’d killed with his bare hands. The technique for breaking a woman’s neck was simple, but he was out of practice and would have very little time. Less than forty seconds to kill her, deposit her body in the hamper and cover it with loose sheets, before he opened the grille on the ground floor and wheeled her out to Cameron’s van.

Nothing could go wrong. She mustn’t struggle. She mustn’t scream. No one else must enter the elevator. He mustn’t botch the move. This was a one-shot thing.