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He began running hard towards the trees, John no longer visible. Covering the ground in seconds, Nikita paused under the canopy of the spruce trees. They weren’t densely packed but provided enough shade for a dark suit to fade into in the overcast afternoon.

Searching the area, Nikita absorbed all the information in front of him, and saw the lithe figure of the bodyguard who was across the road nearing the Rayburn House Office Building. He began his pursuit once more, crossing the grass and hurtling across the street, dimly aware of the blaring of car horns and screeching of brakes as he did so. He cared little, his focus entirely on the man he was pursuing, some hundred yards ahead of him.

John was fast, almost seeming to glide across the ground, so unlike a typical bulky bodyguard. But Nikita was faster.

Even in hard shoes, Nikita was making up ground quickly, but as John passed the Rayburn Building, he threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Nikita gaining on him. He turned a hard left and charged directly into the congressional office building.

Nikita groaned. This could complicate matters considerably.

He then heard multiple gunshots and his chest tightened, knowing exactly what he could look forward to once he entered.

Slowing as he reached the doorway, situated beneath grey stone columns, he held his HDM pistol in both hands and stood with his back to the wall next to the doorway, listening intently. There were no screams or shouts, only silence, which was the worst thing Nikita could have hoped for. He could almost smell the blood.

He nudged the door open with the barrel of his gun and stepped silently into the building, keeping the wall behind him and searching the entry hall with the pistol. Blood was already pooling on the floor, but it was the bodies that Nikita focused on more.

Three security men lay dead on the ground, two behind the concierge desk inside the building, slumped back in their chairs with double taps between their eyes. Another lay next to the metal detector at the entryway, staring blindly up at the ceiling. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two but a wedding ring gleamed on his lifeless left hand.

Three others also lay dead, one Nikita recognised as a congressman, while a man with wispy grey hair lay slumped over a woman in her thirties who even in death was still holding the stack of papers she must have been carrying.

All of the deceased had been killed in identical ways, and Nikita felt the hairs on the back of his neck quiver with suspicion.

He set his shoulders grimly and moved down the corridor, fiercely determined. His breath was heavy from the sprint and he paused to regain control, remembering Denisov’s words: ‘if you act on adrenaline, you act without control. There is no such thing as a KGB agent with no control, because they will be dead either by their own failings or by the enemy’s hand.’

The corridor was deserted, and Nikita was grateful that it was a weekend and most people were not in work. Nonetheless, a building such as this should never be this quiet. Perhaps the gun shots encouraged people to hide, he thought to himself hopefully.

At the end of the corridor, a staircase opened up to the right, and double doors led outside on the left. He quickly spotted the hint of a bloody handprint on the bannister of the stairs.

He immediately moved towards the doors. No KGB agent, double agent or otherwise, would be careless enough to leave a handprint when being pursued. There was also the fact that the victims had all been shot. “No reason to have blood on your hands unless you chose to,” Nikita muttered as he saw that the fire alarm connected to the door had been disconnected, deactivating it. He pushed the doors open.

A bullet missed Nikita by a fraction of an inch, ringing as it ricocheted off the metal doors. He threw himself back behind one of the doors. He chanced a glance around and saw John moving swiftly over the street towards the Spirit of Justice Park, now only about forty yards ahead of him. Leaping out from behind the door, Nikita hurtled across the street and into the park, closing the gap rapidly.

When he had closed the distance to around fifteen yards, he raised his gun. “It’s over, John. Don’t make me shoot you,” he shouted.

The bodyguard slowed to a stop in front of the fountain in the centre of the small, deserted park which was merely a green topping for an underground car park. He turned and raised his arms and grinned at Nikita.

“Drop your weapon,” Nikita said, moving closer.

John withdrew it and tossed it towards Nikita, who nudged it away with his foot. The temptation to just pull the trigger was huge and he fought to keep control.

“What did you do to the vice president?”

“Some good old fashioned novichok agent, comrade; he will not survive. He was dead before he even took to the stage. Dead before he even got into the car,” John said with a chuckle.

Nikita laughed. “Is that right? Then give me a reason not to shoot you.”

“Control, not adrenaline,” whispered John from underneath his long, curved nose, his accent slipping to reveal a thick Soviet accent.

Nikita cocked his head to one side and fired.

CHAPTER 21

Far from looking surprised, John merely smirked as the shot deflected off the stone statue in the middle of the fountain directly behind him.

“I am not here to talk with you, whoever you are; I am only here to take you in for the murder of the vice president,” said Nikita.

“Then he is dead? I have fulfilled my mission?” John said desperately, a look of ecstasy crossing his face.

“Like I said, I am not here to talk.

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