Names of the Dead

by Mark Leggatt

  “Paris! What the hell is he doing there?”

  “We think he fled there after Zurich, sir. But he was arrested and his fingerprints were flashed around all the European cop systems. So we sent a team to pick him up, but the prison told us the Zurich cops had got him and were taking him to Zurich.”

  “Thank Christ! Phone the local team. I don’t care how they do it, but I want Montrose in our custody. Or just shoot the bastard, it’s all the same to me.”

  “Sir, we phoned the Zurich police. They don’t have him.”

  “They don’t . . . What the hell are you saying, Ferguson?”

  “It wasn’t the Zurich cops. But someone from Zurich got to Montrose before us. Probably the Security Services. Now all we’re being told is that Montrose killed three of them and is now on the run in Paris. The French are on full alert for an escaped prisoner.”

  “You fucking idiot! You and the stupid cops! Is there no one in Europe who knows what the fuck they’re doing?”

  “Sir, I think . . .”

  “Shut up! Montrose has got help. He’s going to get the hell out of France. They’ll never find him. That psycho is capable of anything.”

  “Sir, there are three police forces looking for him. We’ve tapped into their systems. As soon as they know, we’ll know, if we don’t find him first.”

  “You fu . . . he could be coming right here. And the Afghan he shot is still lying in a hospital bed.” He thought for a moment then jabbed the driver’s shoulder. “Get me to the hospital. Fast.”

  The Mercedes veered to the left and accelerated past the cars in front. Spinks held on to the door handle and forced the cell phone against his lips. “Ferguson, if the importance of this situation hasn’t got through to you, let me put you in the picture. The reason Montrose ended up in Interpol was so that we could get him away from the Langley computer systems. He went through them like crap through a goose. He saw things that nobody should know, including you and me. Now, all he has to do is kill whoever the fuck he likes, then turn up at the door of some communist bastard South American shithole of an embassy, say he was framed by the CIA, FBI or any other Washington fucker, and tomorrow morning you and I will be starring on Wikileaks!” His voice began to rasp as he bellowed into the phone. “The whole world will be hanging on to his every word! Have you any idea what I’m saying?”

  “ Sir, I . . .”

  “If he turns up in Berlin, I will personally fucking shoot you. Do you understand? Kill him!”

  CHAPTER 33

  The Jag rose into the air over a rise, the hood obscuring the road, then crashed back down. A junction appeared fifty yards ahead. Montrose stood on the brakes and hauled on the steering wheel. The tires locked and the Jag fishtailed wildly before he wrestled it to a halt.

  Smoke from the tires drifted past the window. An acrid stench of burned rubber filled the car. Left or right? He looked south across fields of corn and sunflowers towards a low ridge of hills. No good for an airport. It had to be north. Kessler said ten minutes. Can’t be far. Above the tree line a light aircraft pulled slowly into the sky, its engine straining as it climbed. Kessler won’t be in that piece of crap. It’ll be a private jet. A picture of Sandie flashed into his mind. Christ, what is it with me and private jets? One thing is for sure. That bastard is going nowhere. If I get there in time. He turned the Jag to the right. The trees thinned out and he saw a security fence tracking the edge of the road.

  The end of the runway came into view. A sleek, ivory-liveried Lear Jet was heading away from him along a slipway. Four windows lined the fuselage and a face appeared at the glass. Kessler? Swiss registration. It’s got to be them. The road turned right to track the perimeter fence bordering the runway. Once the jet reached the end of the slipway, all the pilot had to do was turn on the taps and they were gone.

  Montrose gunned the Jag. The kickdown sent the supercharger screaming then pausing for breath each time the transmission banged up a gear. He kept his eyes on the road. Utility poles flashed past. If I come off now, two ton Jag or not, I’ll be sliced in half.

  Gripping the wheel hard, he glanced down at the speedometer. 200 kilometers per hour and climbing. He passed the Lear Jet, glimpsing it in his peripheral vision. The end of the road was ahead. He pressed the brakes hard and the Jag shuddered to a halt. There were no gates in the fence. I’ll have to do this the hard way.

  He hit reverse, the synchro whining as he careered backwards. To the right, the jet was near the end of the slipway. They were ready to go.

  The shoulder was six feet wide with a drainage ditch. If I’m fast enough I’ll go straight over the ditch and hit the fence. Chain link ain’t going to stop me. Fast enough wasn’t a problem. He floored the pedal.

  The supercharger shrieked and the Jag gathered speed. He hit the grass at the side of the road. Turf flew past his window as the Jag shot across the ditch. The fence burst up and over the hood, gouging deep scars into the windshield. The Jag veered to the left as it hit the grass, then snapped back into line when the tires bit into the asphalt.

  The Lear Jet was turning to face the runway. Montrose could hear the pilot wind up the engines. Twenty meters to go. The Jag hurtled towards the tail of the jet. If I’m directly behind when the pilot hits the gas, I’ll be right in line for the engine exhausts. It’ll burn the Jag to cinders. And me.

  The tail of the Lear Jet dipped. The pilot had pushed the levers all the way.

  The blast from the engines scorched the paint from the hood and rocked the Jag from side to side. The windshield glass started to bubble. A few seconds more and the temperature inside the car would be over a thousand degrees. Montrose kept his foot on the gas and swerved to the left. The rear windows exploded in a glass storm. He hauled the Jag in a tight arc to the right, swinging back towards the tail of the plane.

  The rear aileron headed directly for the windshield. Montrose dived into the front passenger seat and tried to tuck his body under the glove compartment. The Jag slammed into the tail of the jet. He covered his face against the searing heat as the aileron burst through the windshield and carved open the roof. The Jag spun around and slewed to a halt.

  The air was thick with the stench of burned paint and jet exhaust fumes. The back seat had taken the worst and flames licked the rear window. Montrose rolled out onto the asphalt and stuck his head around the battered fender of the Jag. The jet had ground to a halt with half of its tail section scattered across the runway.

  He got to his feet and heard the jet engines start to wind up once more. Are they crazy? He looked down the runway, and saw the Mercedes parked by a terminal. No. they’re going for the car. Thick smoke from the Jag drifted past his face. He brought up the SIG. They ain’t gonna make it.

  He took aim along the sights and pumped a round towards the starboard engine. The SIG jerked around in his hand and a chunk of carbon blew off the rudder. Christ, what did that goon load this thing with? He steadied his feet and let loose another two rounds, the first hitting the bottom of the fuselage and the second on target, blowing a hole in the engine cover. The plane shuddered as a deadened thump shook the airframe and a long yellow flame shot back towards him. He hit the asphalt. A whoosh of extinguishing gas blew over him as the engine sputtered and died.

  A face appeared at a window, twisted in shock and rage. Kessler! The face disappeared and Montrose heard the port engine begin to pick up speed. Jesus, don’t they ever . . .? He lifted the SIG and fired directly into the port engine. His ears rang as the turbine shattered and hot shards of metal flew past and embedded into the asphalt beside him.

  Game over. He got to his feet, holding the SIG before him, scrambled under the wing and ran to the port door. Only one way out. Let’s squeeze the rats out of the hole. He steadied the SIG and pointed it at the door. No, wait. Sandie. What did she say about the other exit on a private plane? The day she said she had to step out onto the wing because the guy’s ex-wife had just arrived. Emergency exit. Got to be.

  The
handle of the port door swung down. Let’s make sure. “Stay where you are!” He fired two rounds into the top of the door then rolled under the fuselage. Leaking jet fuel dripped onto his foot as he stood and steadied the SIG on the wing. One of the windows had the outline of a small door. Yeah, she was right. Shoot the first bastard that comes out.

  The frame around the window popped from its mountings and fell onto the wing. A white-shirted man was pushed forward, his hands covering his face, holding onto his pilot’s hat.

  Okay, not the first person. “Get the fuck out of here. Move!” Montrose kept the SIG leveled at the window. The pilot stayed crouched, his arms covering his head and face as he rolled away from Montrose and dropped from the wing, then took off down the runway.

  A voice came from the cabin. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Out! Now! Hands held high!”

  Kessler edged towards the exit, the bag held before him.

  “Guess who, dickweed. Drop the bag.” Montrose pressed himself against the fuselage.

  Kessler twisted the handle of the bag in his hand. “But . . . no. I’m not that stupid. You’ll just shoot me.”

  Montrose lifted the SIG and looked down the iron sights into Kessler’s face. “I’ll fucking shoot you now if you don’t.”

  Arms extended, Kessler dropped the bag out of the exit. It slid down the wing and landed at Montrose’s feet. Montrose kicked it behind him towards the nose of the plane. “Out the door. And tell your man to throw out his gun.”

  Edging forward, hands held before him, Kessler crouched and squeezed through onto the wing then looked back. “Muller? You heard him. Throw out your gun.”

  Montrose stepped back, covering the door as Kessler dropped onto the asphalt.

  “All right, Montrose. You win. How much do you want?”

  Montrose stared at him, fingering the trigger, his eyes darting towards the door.

  “It all comes down to business. So, how much? One million? Ten million? You’re holding all the cards. Name your price.”

  Montrose said nothing. Blood buzzed in his ears. “Tell Muller to throw his gun out. Right now.”

  “You got your girlfriend back. Reinhard wanted to kill her. I changed his mind.” Kessler tried to shrug, but it looked as if he’d just been jabbed with a cattle prod. “Reinhard was out of control. It had nothing to do with me, I can assure you. I’m a businessman. I have no time for such things.”

  Smoke from the Jag drifted across the runway. “You lying bastard,” said Montrose. “You wouldn’t care if she lived or died.” He shouted towards the door. “Muller! Throw out the gun or your boss gets it in the head. Right now!”

  Kessler nodded towards the plane. “Muller has the memory stick from Reinhard. It’s the full video of the murders in Rome. So, how much is it worth to you? Think about it, you’re a man on the run with a lot of enemies.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” He turned to the door. “Muller! You’ve got three seconds. One!”

  Kessler held out his hands. “If I were you, I’d get out while your luck holds. And go back to being an IT geek, or whatever shit job you do. So, can we do business?”

  Montrose wrapped his hands tighter around the SIG. “You know, I’m thinking of a career change. Two!” He felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressing into the back of his neck.

  “Actually,” said Kessler, “I was tempted to say ‘look behind you’, but I didn’t think you’d fall for that one.”

  His throat dried up and he saw a wide smile spread across Kessler’s face. A glance at the reflection in the window showed Muller standing behind him, still wearing the pilot’s hat.

  Reaching into his pocket, Kessler pulled out a memory stick. “Actually, it’s right here.” He waved it in Montrose’s face. “Muller’s a very resourceful man. He knew you’d be careless. Maybe you’re just an office boy after all.”

  “Drop the gun,” said Muller.

  Kessler shook his head. “Did you really think I’d deal with a piece of shit like you?”

  The hammer of Muller’s gun clicked in his ear and the barrel jabbed him at the base of the skull.

  “I said, drop it.”

  It’s useless. Even if I turned around in time, all the guy had to do was pull the trigger. Montrose let the SIG fall onto the concrete.

  “Now,” said Kessler, “let’s get this over with. Muller, shoot this prick in the face then get the Mercedes. I’ve had enough of this fiasco.”

  “Walk,” said Muller, pointing the gun to the side of the airfield.

  “Kessler? Who is this man?” A figure crouched at the emergency exit, his dark face creased with fury.

  “This, Mr. Ambassador,” said Kessler, “is Connor Montrose. And it is the last time he will interfere in our affairs.”

  The Afghan peered at him. “Montrose? The man from Rome?”

  Montrose stood still. Keep talking. Buy me some time. “Yeah, how ya doing, Mr. Ambassador? Sold any heroin lately, ya fucking weasel.”

  The Afghan shoved his hand inside his jacket and pulled out a curved dagger, the hilt studded with colored stones. “You killed my cousin,” he spat. “Now I am going to kill you.”

  Oh, great. End of conversation. “Join the line, asshat.” He tipped his head back towards Muller. “In fact, why don’t you and him fight it out? Winner gets to kill me. It’ll be fun.” Come on, Mr. Ambassador, come closer.

  The Afghan stepped out onto the wing, his arms thrust forward, holding out the dagger. “This has been in my family for a hundred years. It was first used to slit open the bellies of the British women who defiled our country. When I have finished with you, it will be cherished for cutting out your heart.” He dropped to the asphalt and advanced towards Montrose.

  “Dude, I ain’t stopping you. But you can’t both kill me, so why don’t you two discuss it and let me know?” Montrose nodded towards the apron. “I’ll be over there.”

  Muller smacked the barrel of his gun

  against Montrose’s ear. “You move and I’ll blow your head off.”

  He could feel the heat on his face from the burning Jag. Montrose shuffled his stance wider and moved his weight to the balls of his feet. “Hey, Muller, chill. Abdul the drug-dealer is your biggest customer, surely he gets to go first?” He held out his arms and opened his palms towards the Afghan. “What do you say, Abdul? Want to come at me with that fancy letter opener?” Come closer, you bastard. “I’ll bet the last time you held a real knife was eating some rancid goat in a flea-ridden tent, waiting for Uncle Sam to turn up with some greenbacks to buy your ass.”

  The Afghan’s eyes opened wide and his knuckles turned white around the dagger. “I will cut out your heart!”

  “Don’t shit me, Abdul, you couldn’t cut hot cheese with that piece of tourist crap. You probably swapped your sister for it.” C’mon, run at me. “You’re just a camel-fucker in a white man’s suit.”

  Pushing Kessler out of the way, the Afghan lunged towards Montrose, the dagger raised in his hand.

  A scorching blast of heat scoured their faces as the Jag’s fuel tank ignited, showering them with shattered glass. The Afghan stumbled, holding his head, blood running from his fingers where the shards had scarred his scalp.

  Now! Montrose twisted around, sweeping his hand behind and palming away the gun, then hooked his leg around Muller’s knee as he threw his weight towards him. The breath exploded out of Muller’s chest when he hit the asphalt and Montrose landed on top of him.

  Montrose grabbed the snub-nosed revolver, but Muller kept a vice-like grip, angling it towards Montrose’s face. He’s stronger than me. Do something! He plunged two fingers of his right hand into Muller’s left eye, feeling his fingernails scrape the bone as he drove into the cavity and the soft tissue behind. He hooked his fingers and threw himself back. Muller screamed as his eyeball was ripped from its socket, and clamped his hands to his face.

  The revolver lay on the ground. Montrose dived towards it, his chin hitting the asphalt, and grabb
ed the pistol grip, his hand greasy with optical fluid. The Afghan leapt forward and stamped down on his wrist. The gun began to slip from Montrose’s grasp. The Afghan forced his whole weight down, twisting his shoe and Montrose felt the bones grinding in his wrist. I can’t hold it. Pain shot straight up his arms and his fingers flew open.

  The Afghan kicked the revolver away and Montrose watched it skitter across the asphalt. He turned just as the Afghan brought down the dagger.

  Montrose twisted around on his hips and booted the Afghan in the back of the knees as the dagger flashed past his face. The Afghan tumbled to the ground and thrust his leg back, the heel of his shoe catching Montrose flush on the temple. His head swam for a moment, until he spotted the Afghan reaching for the revolver. Get the SIG! He rolled onto his knees and scrambled towards his gun, lying under the jet. With the Afghan’s screams ringing in his ear, he snatched up the SIG, rolled to the side and braced himself for the recoil.

  The hammer clicked. Nothing. Misfire. He dropped to the ground and rolled away as bullets pinged around him, yanking back the slide on the SIG to eject the dead cartridge. His leg buckled under him and a burning pain streaked across his side as he turned and fired blind.

  The Afghan staggered back, revolver slipping from his fingers. He choked and blood erupted from his mouth. He slumped against the side of the jet, leaving a thick smear of gore as he slid down the fuselage, then toppled face first onto the runway. His head bounced off the ground and dropped into a spreading pool of blood, a red froth bubbling from his mouth..

  Montrose saw a wound the size of a dinner plate in the Afghan’s back. Fuck him. Placing a hand flat on the wet ground, he tried to push himself up, but a bolt of pain coursed through his leg and he fell back onto his ass. A deep carmine scar across his side began to bleed, bright red spots forming on the ripped flesh. He looked down at the blood forming at his feet, when a bolt of pain arced through his body and he cried out and fell back onto the asphalt.

  He heard a roar and lifted his head up as Muller got to his feet, blood and fluid running down his face, his lips drawn back tight in a mask of fury and hate. Montrose brought up the SIG. The recoil made the grip slip on his wet hand. Blood and bone spewed from the side of Muller’s head as the top slide of the SIG slammed forward and stayed there.