by Mark Leggatt
She gasped and placed the champagne on the table. “Wow, do we have time? Oh, yes please!” She held out a hand to Blokhin.
He stood and kissed her hand, then smiled at Montrose. “She has many talents then, as a secretary?”
“Oh yes, she certainly does. She’s a good girl. My secret weapon.”
Blokhin stepped forward and placed a fat hand on the side of her head, then let it slip down, and gently wrapped his fingers around her neck.
Kirsty gasped.
“Are you a good girl?” he said, his teeth clenched.
“I’m a very good girl,” said Kirsty, then gently bit her lip. “But sometimes, I’m bad.”
He took a step back. “Just how bad?”
She held out a hand and ran her finger up the front of his pants.
Blokhin grinned and summoned a bodyguard.
“Is he coming to play too?” said Kirsty. She turned to Montrose. “Please tell me he is.”
“That’s up to Mr. Blokhin. But I’ll let you play on one condition. I like to watch.” He grinned at Blokhin. “I’m sure she will be very accommodating. The more the merrier.”
“He never lets me play alone,” said Kirsty. “But I like him seeing me punished.” She licked her lips. “Will you tie me up?”
Blokhin’s right eye twitched and bubbles of saliva appeared at the edge of his mouth. He grabbed her breast and Kirsty squealed. “Come with me,” he said, “I have something to show you.”
Montrose stood and elbowed Kirsty out of the way. “Bring the drinks.”
“And the ice,” said Blokhin. “You’ll need it.”
“Yes, sir.” She lifted the tray and followed them to the corner of the room.
Leading the way, Blokhin led them into a narrow doorway and down a dark corridor, lined with doors.
Montrose glanced towards Kirsty, and saw her flick her chin to the end of the corridor. He saw the double doors leading to the kitchen. Now? he mouthed.
Blokhin stopped at one of the doors in the middle of the corridor and unlocked it with a brass key. He pushed it open and moved to the side. “After you, my dear.”
Kirsty stepped inside and squealed.
Montrose followed her. A wide bed covered in plastic dominated the room. The curtains were closed and the only other object visible in the room was a six-foot high wooden cross fixed to the wall, made of solid dark wood, with manacles and restraints attached to it. Fixed to the wall was a rack of wooden canes, of varying thickness and lengths.
“Oh my God,” she said. “This is perfect.”
Blokhin stood proudly in the middle of the room and took off his jacket. The bodyguard closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
Montrose tried not to pace around, but slapped his hands off the thick wood of the cross. “Very nice. It might give me some ideas for New York.”
The bodyguard backed against the door and folded his arms across his chest.
Kirsty pointed to the canes. “Which one are you going to use?”
Removing his cufflinks, Blokhin rolled up his sleeves. “All of them. Until they break.” He grinned at Montrose. “As I said, the hardware you seek is very expensive.” He pointed to the bodyguard. “Then we will give you everything you desire, you little slut.”
Kirsty gasped. “I’m going to need my lube.” She rummaged in her bag and at the same time backed towards the bodyguard, wiggling her bottom. “Please, undo me.” She pushed her backside against him.
The bodyguard looked down, searching for a zip or tie, and placed a massive hand on Kirsty’s shoulder. She gave a sigh of pleasure, then dropped her bag and spun around, blocking the guard’s arm with her forearm and burying the seven-inch blade deep into his eye socket. The bodyguard jerked upwards then slumped to the floor, his mouth wide open. Kirsty ripped the dagger out as he fell, turned and hurled it at Blokhin. He threw up a hand in front of his face and the blade sliced across his knuckles and flew past his head.
Blokhin roared, crouching down to charge as Montrose slammed into him, knocking him to the side of the bed. They both bounced off the edge of the mattress and lay at Kirsty’s feet. She brought her heel down hard onto Blokhin’s neck. He gasped for breath, but shot out a fat hand and grabbed her leg, pulling her to the ground then rolling on top of her.
Montrose reached up and grabbed Blokhin’s chin, hauled back with all his might and pulled him off Kirsty.
She scrambled to her feet, seized the champagne bottle and swung it high above her head, then smashed it down onto Blokhin’s face. He slumped to the floor and the champagne turned pink as it spewed around his head.
Montrose stood up, his hands shaking. He shoved Blokhin’s head with his foot. There was no reaction.
“Shit,” said Kirsty. “I wanted him to talk.”
A voice rang in their ear. “It’s Priti. The CIA are close. Police are blocking the roads. You need to get out right now.”
Kirsty hauled Blokhin onto his back and stamped on his groin. “Wake up, you bastard.”
Blokhin’s eyes rolled back in his head. He began to cough as Kirsty repeatedly stamped down on his groin. He gasped in agony and rolled to the side.
“Get his phone,” said Priti.
Montrose shoved a hand inside Blokhin’s jacket and pulled out the phone.
“Give it to me,” said Kirsty.
“It’s locked. Do we cut his finger off?”
“Urban myth. Doesn’t work with a dead finger.” She pressed the phone against Blokhin’s index finger and the screen burst into life. “Priti, give me a number. I’ll text you and then you reply with a worm. Then you can clean this bastard out.”
“I’m on it.”
“You tell us where the missiles are,” said Montrose, “and you get to live.”
“Live?” said Kirsty. She stood over Blokhin as he spluttered blood onto the carpet. “Connor, you know what this place is, right?”
“I don’t care. We just have to…”
She jerked a thumb back at the heavy wooden cross. “You don’t care, yeah? Look at those restraints on the spars of the cross. Look at the distance between them.”
He glanced over.
“They’re for kids. This is a place for torturing and abusing kids. And you think he’s going to get out of this place alive?” She heard Pilgrim’s voice in her head and stopped in her tracks.
“Kirsty. Focus.”
Priti spelled out a number and Kirsty typed in a blank message. Almost immediately the reply came back. She opened the attachment in the message then threw the phone under the bed and leaned over Blokhin. “He’s right,” said Kirsty. “You tell us where the missiles are and you get to live. You better listen to him.” She walked over to the bodyguard, lying slumped against the door, and hauled him to the side.
“Where are the missiles?” Montrose leaned in so close he could smell the blood streaming from Blokhin’s nose and lips.
“No,” said Blokhin, “I don’t think you understand. If I die, then you die. You are a dead man walking.”
“You know,” said Montrose, “I’ve been told that by bigger, badder bastards than you, but here I am, still standing.”
“Get out now. They are closing the roads.”
“Last chance,” said Montrose. “Let’s see if you can redeem yourself. Where are the missiles?”
Blokhin began to laugh, blood and spittle spraying from his mouth. “I’m just a delivery service. You’re asking the wrong man.”
“Then you’re fuck all use to me.” Kirsty held the bodyguard’s gun against Blokhin’s head. “Unless you tell me where I can find the kids.”
Blokhin looked up at her. “What?”
“The ones who died in here. The ones you took from Syria and Iraq.”
“The police are at the front door. Go now!”
“You’
ll never know if you kill me,” he said. “Then you will die too.”
Kirsty stepped back and pulled a pillow from the bed. She placed it over Blokhin’s head. He began to shake and she straightened her arm and forced the muzzle of the gun into the soft, white cloth. “I don’t fucking think so.” She pulled the trigger.
Blokhin’s corpse twitched, then lay still.
Montrose stood up. “Okay. So. Got any plans?”
“Yeah. Run like fuck.” She unlocked the door and stuck her head into the corridor. Voices came from the salon. “Go.”
He ran after her to the end of the corridor and through the double doors, into a dimly-lit stairwell and down several flights of stairs, emerging into a long, wide kitchen.
Two men were busy washing plates, moving to the sound of the North African music that thudded off the tiled walls.
“Southeast corner,” said Kirsty, and she ran for a swing door. It opened into another long corridor and they both sprinted towards the end. “This is where they brought the kids,” said Kirsty. “I know it.”
“Check it’s clear,” said Montrose.
She stopped and glanced through a porthole window set into the door. “Seen.”
“Who?”
“Some dick standing beside a Mercedes taxi with the doors and the trunk open. That will be our ride. And I bet we weren’t getting to ride in the back seat holding hands.” She brought up the bodyguard’s gun. “Ready?”
“You want me to distract him?”
“Don’t be daft, just stay behind me. Let’s hope he’s on his own. I’m not tooled up for a movie shootout.” She kicked open the door.
The taxi driver twisted his head towards her then dropped to one knee and raised a gun.
Kirsty put two rounds in his chest and he slumped to the ground. She ran over and put another round in his head and crouched below the hood, sweeping the sights of her gun across the garage. “Clear.”
“I’ll take his weapon.”
“No, leave it,” said Kirsty. “Priti will make sure we are well equipped. Priti? Can you hear me?” There was no reply. “No signal.” She kicked the taxi driver’s gun across the garage floor and under a car. “There’s a lot of cops out there, Connor. Carrying a gun is not going to help.” She reached under the wheel of a Porsche and pulled out a key. “They’re looking for two people, so I’m going to take this Porsche and play the rich chick, and you can be a taxi driver. Follow me. Once we’re clear we can dump the taxi.” She got into the Porsche, fired up the engine and hit the roof release. The roof folded backwards and the exhaust note rolled off the walls. She adjusted the rear-view mirror and pulled out towards the exit ramp.
Montrose stepped over the taxi driver and got into the Mercedes. He drove forwards, following Kirsty up the ramp and into the sunshine. From the ramp he could see the tops of several police vehicles across the street.
A policeman stood at the top of the ramp where it crossed the sidewalk and joined the street. He glanced at Kirsty and held up a hand.
Montrose saw her flex her shoulders and reach down into the door pocket. “Jesus, don’t do it.” He pressed the horn, and the policeman turned around. He nodded to Montrose and stepped aside, waving Kirsty into the traffic then heading towards the club.
Priti’s voice came over the line. “Can you hear me? Come in, come in, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” said Montrose. “We’re out, heading to the harbor.”
“No,” said Priti, “head for France or Italy. There are police boats patrolling the harbor. We can’t put Mr. Pilgrim at risk.”
“Understood,” said Kirsty.
“I need to ditch this taxi before the border,” said Montrose.
“There is no border post,” said Kirsty, “but there may be some nosey cops. I’ll pull in ahead. You park up and meet me. Nice and calm.”
“Understood,” Montrose slowed and stopped at the curb. He stepped out and walked forward to where Kirsty was waiting. She pushed open the door for him and he dropped into the seat. “Let’s go.”
Kirsty grinned. “You got it.” She pulled out and accelerated down the street. “Priti, we’re heading east and north. I’m just going to take the fastest road out of town. If I see anything, I’ll try to find a quieter route.”
“Okay, but if you do get stopped, you do not want to be searched. Is that clear?”
“Understood.”
“I have left you weapons and equipment in the trunk.”
“Thanks, quartermaster.”
“We are leaving the harbor,” said Priti. “Maintain radio silence until you are clear of France.”
“Roger that.”
Montrose shielded his eyes from the sun. “Which way to Italy?”
“That way,” Kirsty said, and pointed down the road. “Eight miles east.”
He saw a line of police cars pulled into the side. “Maybe we better find another way.”
“No, that’s good news. Those are French cops, not Monegasque. That’s the border with France. Blink and you miss it. And French cops don’t give a shit.”
As they got closer, he saw the cops standing by their cars, watching the traffic.
“We’re cool, Connor. We’re just another couple of rich, parasitical, good for nothing bald monkeys who shouldn’t be allowed to breed or vote.”
Montrose turned towards her.
“Sorry, all my friends at school were Marxists. Or Trotskyists. Something like that. I could never tell the difference. Welsh valleys, you see?” She dropped a gear and pulled into the fast lane. “But I could tell you one thing about them. They never got laid.”
Chapter 19
Priti’s voice came over the line. “Head north. Now!”
A police car sped past, heading for the center of town. Montrose resisted the temptation to turn and look. “What’s going on?”
“I’ve noticed activity on the road cameras at the Italian border, and more police cars are heading for the motorway. They’re going to block the roads.”
“Where are you?” said Kirsty.
“Heading for Corsica,” said Priti. “We just made it out before the police closed the harbor.”
“So where are we going?” said Montrose.
“Germany,” said Priti.
Kirsty and Montrose stared at each other. “Germany?” said Kirsty. “How long is it going to take us to get there?”
“Too long,” said Priti, “they’ll have swamped the roads. Listen to me, head north on the D2566.”
Montrose switched on the satnav. “Got it. Shit, next exit!”
The car swung hard right, narrowly missing a concrete lane divider, and down a steep slip road. Kirsty gripped the wheel hard and the tires bit into the tarmac as the road swept 180° and under the road above.
Holding on to the door and the top edge of the windscreen, Montrose checked the map. “Okay, we’re on it. Just.”
“Keep heading north and take the D93,” said Priti. “Look for a place called Roccaverde, it's right on the Italian border.”
“I’ll find it on the satnav.”
“Why there?” said Kirsty. “Are we crossing on foot?”
“No, it’s a mountain rescue heliport. I’ve chartered a helicopter from Monaco to pick you up there. It’s too dangerous for you to come back into town.”
“Love it,” said Kirsty. “I’m going to miss this Monaco life.” She kept her foot hard down as the roads became tighter, climbing up the foothills of the Alps.
“We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” said Montrose. “Why Germany?”
“Blokhin’s phone,” replied Priti. “When Kirsty opened it in the hotel room, I sent a worm message. Once she opened it, we sucked the phone dry. We have Blokhin’s movements, contacts and call records. Amongst other things.”
“Like Germany?”
“Yes,” replied Priti. “I tracked his number through the cell phone masts around Monaco. He arrived at the hotel two days prior to the attack on the C-130 in the Italian village. And we know that the two men who brought down the plane left the hotel one day after Blokhin arrived.”
Montrose held on tight as Kirsty swung the Porsche into another tight curve. “You think he delivered the missiles to the terrorists?”
“It seems likely. Then I checked back through the locations. He came from Germany the day before.”
“How did Blokhin get here with four suitcases?” said Montrose. “There were two used for the village attack and two for Rome. He must have found a way through airport security with…”
“He didn’t fly. He drove to Monaco.”
“All the way from Germany? This guy is a billionaire. Why would he drive twelve hours across Europe when he could have taken a private jet, or helicopter?”
“Makes sense,” said Kirsty. “Even though it was an internal EU flight, and he could skip Customs, there are too many prying eyes at airports, and too many cameras. It only takes one cop or nosey customs dude to ask what’s in the suitcase and then the gig’s up. And this is one thing that you’d want to take care of yourself. Whoever he was dealing with, they won’t be Boy Scouts. This wouldn’t be something you could trust to some flunky.”
“And I can track him,” said Priti. “Every cell phone mast his phone connected with on the way. I’ve got a lot of information to get through, but the headline is that he stopped in Germany for about five minutes and then drove to Monaco. I checked the date and time when he arrived at the cell phone mast next to the club. Then I checked the cars at that time and I found his Mercedes Maybach. That kind of limo stands out. And it’s registered to one of his companies.”
“And those things are big enough to carry four heavy suitcases in the trunk.”