Bad Angels

by Rebecca Chance

  He didn’t have any weapons with him, but Jon was more than used to improvising. The occupants of this new apartment had a very nice collection of kitchen knives, stored in a designer knife block made of tiny rubber filaments which held the knives suspended, without any wooden slots that might blunt their blades; but Jon had also found a knife sharpener, and used that to bring the two smallest Sabatiers to a state in which they could have sliced through tissue paper in one swift hiss. He would have loved the knife holster he had in storage, with leather sheaths for throwing knives, but had improvised with a webbing strap meant to fasten round a suitcase, which he had found in the closet. Two sweatshirts, worn one over the other, protected his chest from the blades stuck through the strap, which was fastened crosswise over his chest.

  And the kitchen had proved a fertile weapons-locating ground even beyond the knives. As so often with the ultra-rich, they had stocked it with every conceivable luxury item, and then never used a single one, from what Jon could tell. There was a pastry-making set, composed of a huge marble board that was way too big to be used as a weapon, and a matching marble rolling pin that was almost perfect for his needs. He had spent quite a lot of time improving that rolling pin, using the wire that came with a cheese-cutting machine – who the hell needs a cheese-cutting machine? – to groove indentations into one end, making the slippery pin much easier to grip, to wield, and he was very pleased with the results. It would be perfect for close-quarters combat, which was precisely the arena in which he would find himself if Dasha Khalovsky turned up with a gun, or goons, or both.

  Prepare for the worst, hope for the best. Jon had nothing to prove; he would be delighted if all his careful preparations were for nothing. He was staking out next door, and would do so for as long as it took until he was sure that the situation with Dasha Khalovsky was resolved; but the ideal scenario would be that all his waiting proved for nothing, did not explode into action. He had sworn never to kill again, and he meant to keep that vow.

  And then what? When it’s done, one way or the other? Do I just head off to the States? Or do I try to see Aniela again?

  He writhed in confusion. What the hell do I do?

  Damned if I know, came the answer. The thought of never seeing her again was like a physical pain; not a stab, but his entire body ached, as if he’d been worked over by a whole group of guys with hammers, and was bruised through to the bone.

  But what’s the alternative? I guess it’s that she comes with me. Jesus, I never thought I’d live with a woman! I don’t know how! I need a hell of a lot of time on my own, that’s for sure. Could she deal with that? What if she expected me to be with her every minute? I couldn’t take that, I know I couldn’t—

  The lift doors pinged, and Jon, sitting by the door on one of the high kitchen stools, with a rigged-up tube pressed against the peephole to allow him to watch the corridor outside without actually pressing his eyeball against it, sprang to attention. Because no one came to this floor – no one but Aniela, who was already inside the apartment, and Andy and Wayne, two days ago.

  Maybe it’s the boys, he thought. Kissed and made up, figured it all out, coming back for Round Two. The idea cheered him up: at least two people’re having a good time on New Year’s Eve, instead of stuck like this with a wall between them like some corny old film. The irony that he was so close to Aniela, but unable to be with her, had not escaped him.

  Swift footsteps came down the corridor, and Jon saw a flash of burgundy uniform, a smooth black head: Andy, dapper as ever. Alone, and coming this way, not towards the corner apartment. He rang the doorbell of the Clinic apartment, and after a minute or so – Aniela checking to see who was there through the spyhole – the door swung open and Jon felt a rush of pleasure as he caught a sideways, blurred image of Aniela standing there in her white uniform. He couldn’t catch everything Andy said, but it sounded as if Andy were inviting her and Jon to Mr Khalovsky’s once again.

  ‘He’s not here any more,’ he heard Aniela say loudly, as loudly as she could without making Andy wonder why she was shouting at him. ‘He checked himself out a few days ago. I have a new patient here now.’

  For the benefit of anyone who might be lurking around, he thought, more proud of her than ever. Smart, thinking on her feet. Doesn’t miss a trick.

  Andy said something else, and Jon saw Aniela shake her head, the blonde hair gleaming in the corridor light.

  ‘Thank you, but I should stay with my patient. Please say thank you to Mr Khalovsky for me.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ Andy said.

  Aniela nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, closing the door, and Andy retreated back down the corridor; as far as Jon could see, Andy wasn’t stopping at any other doors on the floor. The building really was nearly empty.

  Huh, Jon reflected. Khalovsky’s throwing another come-one, come-all party? At – he glanced at his watch – ten-thirty, just an hour and a half to go before midnight? Something’s definitely up.

  And I wonder if this’ll shake things up at all... is his wife in the penthouse too? Now that she doesn’t want him taken out, are they all celebrating together?

  He didn’t have long to wait for his answer: fifteen minutes later, the lift pinged again. And this time there were two sets of footsteps coming out of the lift car: Andy and Wayne? But then Jon saw the men emerging round the corner of the corridor: a matched pair of Grigor Khalovsky’s bodyguards. Jon had been trained to develop as close to a photographic memory as possible, and he recognised the blunt Slavic features instantly. Silently, he picked up the kitchen stool, moved it back from the door, cleared the decks: this could be showtime. Or it could be Grigor extending another of his party invitations. Wait and see.

  He unlatched the door in complete silence as the bodyguards passed, stopping ten feet further down, in front of the door behind which was the woman Jon loved. And although Jon knew that his position, tactically, had been chosen to give him maximum advantage, that if he had been next door he and Aniela would have been sitting ducks, while from here he could fall on the unsuspecting bodyguards from behind, ambushing them, if they turned out to have any nefarious intentions, every fibre of his body was resisting this impeccable logic. It was telling him that he should be with her, keeping her safe, taking a bullet for her if necessary—

  Something clicked in his head, like a switch turning on a light, clear and white and burning illumination into every corner of a room. He eased open his door, just fractionally, as the bodyguards rang the doorbell of the next-door apartment; he could hear the ring, faintly, from where he was positioned.

  There was no answer. Aniela must have looked through the peephole and decided not to respond: sensible girl.

  ‘Hello!’ one of the bodyguards called, in heavily accented English. ‘Hello! We come from Grigor Khalovsky. He invite you to his party. Are you there to come to the party?’

  He jabbed on the bell again. Beside him, his companion muttered something, his hand rising to the holstered automatic under his arm.

  And then Jon heard something in the apartment. He slid out, silently, in the shoes he had borrowed from the owner of the flat in which he was squatting; leather shoes, way better than sneakers in a flight, with harder toes in case you needed to kick someone, and heels that would hurt like hell if you ground them into a soft part of the body.

  The locks were disengaging, the door was opening, and, to his utter disbelief, he saw a man in pyjamas and a bandaged face emerge in the opening. The man was propping himself on the doorjamb, clearly unsteady, but he said gamely, his voice slurred from whatever combination of drugs he had been given:

  ‘I say, chaps, I think you have the wrong place. Awfully nice of you, but I’m in no condition to make it to a party, as you can see. What number do you have again?’

  ‘Chto on skazal?’ said one bodyguard to the other.

  Jon spoke Russian okay, and understood it better. And now the door was open, he could hear them fine. What did he say?
the first guy had asked. And the second guy was answering:

  ‘Kher ego znaet! Zasun’ ego vovnutr’, zavalim ego i vsyo dela.’

  Which meant: Fucked if I know! Shove him inside so we can shoot him and get this done.

  Jon’s body tilted forward, rising onto the tips of his toes. Here we go. Definitely showtime.

  ‘I’m feeling awfully dizzy,’ the man said politely, ‘so if you don’t mind, I think I should probably be getting back to bed. I do hope you find the bloke you’re looking for.’

  He started to close the door. The closer bodyguard thrust out an arm and blocked it.

  And that was when all hell broke loose. The patient, suddenly realising the danger he was in, reeled back, the bodyguard lunging for him, grabbing him by the throat of his pyjamas. The second bodyguard was already pulling his gun, which made him Jon’s first target: with the marble rolling pin in a backhanded grip, he took two swift steps forward and smashed the guy across the back of the skull. As the bodyguard staggered, reeling forward, Jon raised his leg and kicked him squarely into the wall; his face hit the flat surface first, and even as he started to slide down it, Jon was over him, ripping the jacket open, dragging the Glock out of his shoulder holster, flipping the rolling pin into his left hand to hold the semi-automatic in his right.

  The first bodyguard, still with his hand twisted into the collar of the poor patient’s pyjamas, was twisting round to see where the sudden flurry of blows behind him had come from. He had barely a second to register Jon’s face, his jaw dropping in comical shock at the realisation that there was not one, but two men with horribly bruised faces in front of him, before Jon lunged forward, dropping briefly to one knee, coming up with the rolling pin squarely in the man’s sternum, a crushing blow that drove all the breath out of his target. The bodyguard gasped, the hand on the patient’s pyjamas falling away, his body arching up with the blow. He hung, suspended for a moment on the tip of the rolling pin, before falling back heavily on the body of his colleague. His eyelids fluttered up, showing only the whites of his eyes. Jon frisked him, removing his Glock and a knife strapped to his calf, then rolled him off the first guy and took his time frisking the latter, finding a Glock B26 revolver in an ankle holster.

  ‘Jeez, these guys love their Glocks,’ he muttered, piling up the pistols by the still-open door.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the patient reeling back, one hand to his throat. Jon jumped to his feet, heading to catch him; but just then, another set of arms came around the man. It was Aniela, steadying her patient, grabbing him under his armpits.

  ‘What happened?’ she panted. ‘I just went to the toilet! He must have got up and opened the door – are you all right?’

  In her arms, the patient started to thrash around, his hand still clutching at his neck.

  ‘Help!’ he yelled. ‘Help! They’re going to kill me! Help!’

  Aniela could barely hold him; one of his arms flailed back at her. With a stride, Jon was on him, grabbing one shoulder firmly while his other hand cupped round the patient’s neck, found the carotid, and pressed for precisely three seconds. He was ready for the immediate reaction, and took the weight of the patient’s fainting body before he could collapse on top of Aniela. Hauling the guy over his shoulder, he moved past her, heading for the bedroom.

  ‘Grab the guns and bring them in here,’ he said economically; in thirty seconds he had dumped the patient on the bed and was back, seeing the pistols lined up on the kitchen counter and Aniela standing, wide-eyed, beside them. He took her shoulders, kissed her hard, and released her swiftly, heading for the door.

  ‘I’ll clean this up and come right back,’ he said. ‘Lock the door and don’t let anyone in but me. And give that guy something to knock him out. That way he’ll just think he had a crazy codeine dream.’

  She nodded, coming after him; he heard the locks turn as he hauled one, and then the other, comatose would-be killer into the next-door apartment. The first one, who had been hit on the back of the head, was fully unconscious, the second beginning to come to, wheezing: Jon dealt with that by knocking him out with a judiciously placed blow with the rolling pin, and then hogtied both men with strips cut from the apartment owners’ hand-printed Provençal linen tea towels, gagging them with extra pieces of fabric just in case. He paused momentarily to appreciate the very good quality of the material.

  Say what you will, he thought, slicing it up with one of the knives he had pulled from his improvised chest holster, it pays to spend on the good stuff. These’d last a lifetime.

  Or would have, if I hadn’t been cutting ’em up, of course.

  He paused, looking at the label hanging off one of the tea towels, then shrugged, cut it off and shoved it into the pocket of his sweatpants.

  I’ll need this kind of stuff for the ranch house. Bet I can order these online. You can get anything on the internet nowadays.

  He had been careful to wear gloves most of the time in the apartment, but as a basic precaution he did a full sweep anyway, wiping clean every surface that might conceivably bear his fingerprints. He put back the knives, webbing strap and rolling pin, but kept the shoes: rich as they were, these people would probably not even notice the missing items, let alone make a police report, but Jon was nothing if not careful. He did allow himself a moment of amusement imagining how on earth they would explain to themselves the grooves that he had cut into the rolling pin. But then he realised, almost with disappointment, that since it was purely for display, the likelihood of them noticing the changes was infinitesimal.

  Once he was sure that he had obliterated all traces of his presence, he shut the door behind him and headed back to the apartment in which Aniela was anxiously waiting for him.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here,’ he said economically. ‘You got that guy pilled up?’

  She nodded. ‘I gave him some liquid codeine drops on his tongue. He’ll be out for a while.’

  ‘Right, let’s get him into that wheelchair.’

  He saw her eyes widen again in surprise that he knew there was a wheelchair in the apartment, and he grinned.

  ‘I’ve been watching you for days, hon,’ he said. ‘I saw that chair come in, but I didn’t see it leave.’

  ‘I couldn’t help being here,’ she said quickly. ‘I did exactly what you said. But then Mr Bingham-Smythe had a skiing accident, and the other apartment the Clinic owns is having work done, so he had to come in here—’

  He bent to kiss her once again, her body soft and strong in his arms, a delicious contradiction, wide and warm and completely fulfilling; his heart melted into her as he held her fiercely.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he said. ‘That’s all I give a damn about. But I have to keep you that way – you’re my responsibility. This place isn’t defensible – the Clinic is. Plus there, if we get into a siege situation, we call the cops and they’ll be right over. Ground floor, easy access for them, no trouble with the security guys. Got it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I have to keep him safe,’ she said, nodding at the bedroom door. ‘Mr Bingham-Smythe. He’s my responsibility.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I love you,’ he said without thinking.

  And then he looked down at her in utter horror at what he had just said. She was perfectly still, her self-control extraordinary: the only change was the dilation of her pupils, dark circles at the centre of her pale blue irises. Jon was struck dumb by his own words, and Aniela herself paused for a suspended moment, time hanging in the air. Her lips parted as she worked out how to respond to this very unexpected declaration.

  But clearly she decided that now was not the time to try to deal with anything but the pressing emergency facing them. Briskly, she said:

  ‘We must get Mr Bingham-Smythe downstairs and settled in. I have to make sure his vital signs are all right. He was under general anaesthetic yesterday. This shock will not have been good for him.’

  Still unable to speak, Jon nodded.

 
‘The wheelchair’s in the front hall cupboard,’ she said. ‘Will you set it up and bring it in?’

  He nodded again; she turned and went into the bedroom where the unconscious Mr Bingham-Smythe was lying. On the same bed we slept on and fucked on, Jon thought. No, dammit, he corrected himself. We didn’t fuck. We made love.

  Jesus, Jon! How deep are you into this?

  He drew in a long breath, crossed to the counter, picked up the little Glock and pushed it into his sock. One of the other Glocks went into his waistband; after a moment’s thought, he pulled the wheelchair out of the cupboard, unfolded it, locked it open and dropped the second Glock into the pocket at the back of the seat, where it would be easily reachable.

  One damn thing at a time. First let’s get her and that guy safely out of here.

  Then I can figure out what the hell I do about this whole love mess.

  Melody

  I said I wouldn’t cry again before the end of the year, and I’m sticking to that, she told herself firmly. And I mustn’t get too pissed either.

  She’d had a bottle of champagne sent up from Four Seasons room service, and had already polished off a couple of glasses. She’d had tea with Aniela earlier in the day, and they’d planned to keep each other company at midnight: I can’t have any more, Melody thought, looking at her watch. Twenty to eleven. What’s keeping her? I have to make sure that there’s plenty for both of us at midnight.

  She was horribly lonely. Only the knowledge that she had someone with whom to count down the passing of the old year and the incoming new one was keeping her together. I should just have packed up and got on a train and gone back home for New Year’s Eve. It’s my stupid pride keeping me here, and for what? Being alone here in a luxury apartment in a skyscraper at Canary Wharf isn’t proving anything to anyone.

  I did my audition, and I know I nailed it. I was really good. I can’t believe that anyone read better than I did. And I walked out with my head held high. That was what I needed to prove. After that I should just have taken a taxi straight to Paddington and jumped on the next train to the West Country. Mum and Dad and Ash would have been so happy to see me – I’d’ve gone down the pub with all of them for New Year’s, it would have been lovely. And instead I’m just sitting here like a lemon.