A matter of time

"It's a matter of time…"

That's what Denslow had said. With his last words as a matter of fact. And Justin Smythe knew that Denslow had chosen those words carefully.

Smythe grabbed a handful of the broad, yellow plastic tape that stretched across Denslow's front door and tore it away, letting it fall around his feet. A sign driven into the lawn on a single hefty post behind him declared that this house was condemned.

That his home had been condemned so swiftly after Denslow's death made the already flimsy legal pretexts even more suspect. It was clear to Smythe that whoever it was who was behind Denslow's death, and those of four members of Parliament in the last two weeks, was making another move in their shadowy game.

Smythe retrieved the key to the front door from his pocket. Denslow had given it to him two weeks ago, just before the first assassination. It was shiny new brass, never used. Before he opened the door, Agent Smythe checked that his Walther PPK was loaded, the safety on, and the silencer tightened to the short barrel. The key scraped in the lock and he stepped inside.

He stepped over a pile of mail that had accumulated in the hall underneath the drop slot. His mentor hadn't been home for some time, it seemed. He moved through the darkened hallways, not wanting to turn on a light for fear of attracting attention to what was supposed to be an empty house. It was his nose that led Smythe on. He smelled pipe tobacco; the sweet, pungent scent he immediately associated with his mentor. Denslow always had a gently smoking pipe clenched between his teeth. The smell permeated his office at headquarters, smoking regulations be damned.

Denslow's study at home was reminiscent of his office in London. Small room on the second floor, with old books weighing down deep bookshelves, framed portraits hanging from the walls, and an antique globe perched at the corner of the desk. Smythe fought down nostalgia and renewed grief at the loss of a man who had been a second father to him. The anger that welled up against the unseen people who had orchestrated his death was more useful.

Smythe rooted through the office, riffling through papers and files, opening drawers almost at random, letting his instincts guide him. He looked at a slowly revolving carriage clock on one of the bookshelves and thought again of Denslow's last words. "It's a matter of time…"

Of course! He covered the distance to the bookshelf in two strides and scooped up the clock. He set it down on the desk and pulled the short chain on the shaded reading lamp, making sure it was tilted low, so there was no chance it might shine out the darkened window.

Urgently, the agent disassembled the clock, looking for anything out of place, any clue of what Denslow had been investigating that had bought him a death sentence. But after sifting the intricate pieces of the clock, Smythe hadn't found anything to bring him closer to understanding.

The agent blew out a long breath, fighting frustration. It would only make it harder to think. He leaned back in the office chair, feeling the way the old leather had conformed to the ample shape of his mentor. Where would Denslow hide something that important? He was unlikely to let it get far from his superbly trained eye. On consideration, the aging spy probably wouldn't have even left it in his home. Assuming it was small enough, he would have kept it on his person…

Again, Smythe stood, casting his own eyes around the room in the way Denslow had trained him. There! A tweed jacket, fragrant with tobacco smoke, hung from an old coat stand behind the office door. In the left-hand pocket, Smythe found an old gold pocket watch.

The watch clicked open softly and nestled inside, laying atop the clock face, was a carefully folded scrap of paper. Smythe moved to lift it out, but was interrupted by a noise. Most people would have assumed the slight creak was a sound natural to an old house like this, but Denslow had taught Smythe to be better than that. More aware. Someone else was in the house, and they were trying to be quiet.

The agent snapped the pocket watch closed as quietly as he could, dropping it into his pocket even as he drew his pistol. He crouched and pulled the desk lamp's plug from the wall, sinking the dim study into complete darkness once more. Outside the door, Smythe saw four people dressed in black moving silently down the hall. At each door or hallway, the figure in front would point and one of the intruders would silently slip away.

Smythe ducked back into the office and waited, listening as the quieted footsteps grew nearer. They would pass the study, and one of them was sure to enter to search. Anyone looking to get something of Denslow's would come to this room. He crouched behind the door, taking what concealment and cover it provided, waiting. A man slipped into the room, a pistol held out before him, tracking across every shadow with his eyes and the muzzle of his weapon. Smythe didn't wait long, he would be spotted here in seconds. Crouched by the outlet, he plugged the desk lamp back in.

The intruder stiffened as the dim light flickered on, his pistol whipping towards the pool or light over the desk. Smythe stood and neatly shot him in the back of the head. As the man collapsed, Smythe wrapped his arm around his waist, keeping him from falling in a way that might make noise. He dragged the man to the desk and propped him in the chair. He stepped into the hallway, weapon raised.

The other three were in the hallway, speaking quietly. Their search of the other rooms at that end of the hall had ended quickly, implying that they had some idea of what they were looking for. As Smythe stepped out, they spotted him, each of them leveling their own pistols.

Lead filled the old hallway, ripping into yellowed wallpaper and raising a cloud of plaster dust. A vase shattered, throwing porcelain shrapnel. A priceless painting was riddled with scorched holes. Smythe threw himself across the corridor, returning fire. His shoulder slammed into the door opposite the study and stumbled into a small bathroom.

Knowing he had only moments, Smythe ripped the towel rack off of the wall and slammed his foot into the drywall. In three hard shots of his foot, he kicked through the plaster. His assailants were close behind him, but cautious. He had just enough time to tear away enough of the wall to climb through, and then dive into the bathtub.

The black-clad intruders rounded the door ready for him. Bullets sang through the air, shattering the tiles above the tub, but quickly one of them slipped into the room and saw the hole. He leaned close to it and peered through, and Smythe shot him in the back from the cover of the tub. The last of the intruders pulled back, a small woman with dark hair, the one who had been assigning the others to search the house. They both fired, bullets ricocheting from the lip of the tub, and whizzing through the air once occupied by the fleeing attacker.

Smythe leapt out of the tub and ran after her. She obviously knew something and if she got away a piece of this puzzle might be lost. She ran, firing behind her, and Smythe chased her down the corridor, firing after her. Contrary to what was seen in American movies, firing a weapon while moving is extrememly difficult and inaccurate and when your target is also moving, it's almost impossible to hit something.

The woman was lighter on her feet than Smythe, and faster. She was at the bottom of the stairs already by the time he reached the top, sliding a fresh clip into his Walther. Smythe elected not to use the stairs and instead threw himself belly-first onto the banister. He squeezed the trigger as fast as he could as he slid, knowing he would probably not hit her, but hoping to force her to take cover and stop her flight.

Smythe rolled off of the banister at the bottom of the stairs and had to take a moment to orient himself. The front door was open and from outside he could hear an engine chugging to life. As he scrambled out onto the front porch, he saw the huge construction wrecking machine roll forward on its oversized tires. He backpedaled into the house, his eyes fixed on the face of the woman behind the controls. He saw he reach for a lever, shake her head when it would not move, then select another. The long arm of the construction machine swung to the side, the dangling wrecking ball swinging beneath it like a pendulum.

The agent only just managed to throw himself into the house as the arm swung around, bringing the ball into the front wall like a medieval flail. Glass and wood exploded. Smythe pushed himself to his feet and threw off the half of a couch that had landed on his back; his pistol was gone, lost somewhere under the debris. The wrecking ball's arm was swinging back towards the house.

Glancing at what remained of the front of house and the entry stair, Smythe calculated his chances. As the machine began to bring the ball around again, he sprinted forward and dove underneath it. It smashed into the house again, the ball penetrating into the kitchen, the chain cutting into the roof behind it. He pushed himself to his feet, unmindful of the numerous cuts and abrasions sustained by flying debris and scattered glass on the floor. He raced for the stairs. The woman at the controls must have been getting the hang of them, for the ball was swinging into action much faster this time. It swept the stairs nearly out from under Smythe. The floor buckled and heaved, throwing him headlong into the bullet-scarred hallway where they had met.

Smythe heard the creaking of the great chain and knew she would be pulling it back for another swing, to bring the whole house down on top him. He rolled to his feet and lunged at the chain.

He had to admit that he enjoyed the look of surprise on the woman's face as the ball swung back out of the house, the agent standing on top of it, clutching the chain. He leapt from the ball as it passed the wrecking ball's cabin.

Even as he landed Smythe was lashing out with one foot, catching the surprised woman across the jaw. But he had to give her credit, she rolled with the blow and crawled out of the cab, jabbing and kicking. And now it was time for Smythe to be surprised. The way this woman fought…she'd been trained in the same ways as he had. She was MI6 as well.

People within his own organization were working against them.

She was good, and she used every trick they taught in MI6 combat training. But Justin Smythe had been taught personally by Arthur Denslow, and he knew tricks that weren't taught in the classes. A nerve-pinch weakened her left arm and Smythe landed a stunning blow to her neck and a kick that shattered her knee. Smythe roughly grabbed her by the collar and pulled her upright.

"Who are you?" he demanded. When her hand moved he was ready for danger, but his eyes widened at the sight of the grenade she clutched. She jerked out the pin with her numbed hand and tried to throw herself onto Smythe.

The agent thrust her away, but a foot's space was no safety from a grenade. Climbing out of the wrecking ball's cabin, Smythe kicked out at one of the long levers and the wrecking ball's arm began to swing. He leapt and grabbed the chain as it passed, riding it away from the cabin, the explosion ripping at his clothes as he sped from it.

Tumbling from the massive ball, Smythe tucked into a roll and kept his head down until the last of the debris finished raining down. When it was over, the agent pulled himself to his feet. His hand crept down to his pocket and felt the lump made by the pocket watch. It was time to find some answers.