The Game

by Tom Wood

  Leeson stumbled backwards away from the door, his soaked suit leaving a bloody smear on the wall as he leant against it, his legs weak with fear. Victor pushed past him and dashed back into the kitchen.

  Overturned tables and chairs lay strewn throughout the restaurant. The body of the maître d’ lay face down near where Victor and Leeson had sat, the back of her clothes a mess of blood and torn fabric. The room was empty except for the corpses. Diners and staff alike streamed out of the restaurant exit or climbed through the destroyed window. There was no sign of the Jeep or the Georgian mobsters. But they were out there, waiting for the crowd to disperse and ready to open up with automatic fire if Leeson or Victor was amongst them.

  ‘Go back into the corridor,’ Victor said. ‘Lie down facing the exit. Aim the shotgun halfway up, at the centre. You’ll see a shadow on the alley wall an instant before anyone enters. They’ll be hurrying, so squeeze the trigger as soon as you see the shadow. Do you understand?’

  Leeson nodded. He spoke in disconnected bursts. ‘Lie in the corridor. Aim at the door. Shoot the guy who comes through the doorway.’

  ‘No. Shoot the shadow. Don’t wait for the guy to appear. You’ll be slower to react than you think because you’re scared – he’ll be faster because he isn’t. If you wait, he’ll kill you.’

  Leeson nodded again. ‘Shoot the shadow. Don’t wait. What are you going to do?’

  Victor didn’t answer. He grabbed the first Georgian’s shotgun. Broken glass and crockery crunched beneath Victor’s shoes as he stepped across the destroyed room. The last of the fleeing crowd – the kitchen staff who had been furthest away – scrambled faster when they saw him coming behind them.

  ‘Get across the road,’ Victor called after them. ‘Don’t go to the left.’

  Those fleeing were already going straight ahead or to the right because guys with automatic weapons were to the left, but Victor didn’t want anyone to go the wrong way in the elevated panic caused by his proximity. They were even more afraid of him than they were of the Georgians.

  He looked over a shoulder to check Leeson had moved as instructed, saw him lying on the other side of the open kitchen door, turned left side on to the restaurant’s exit, stepped out and immediately squeezed the Mossberg’s trigger.

  It roared and a huge blast of white-hot gases exploded from the muzzle. The recoil kicked in his hands, jerking the unsupported barrel upwards.

  He missed because he hadn’t aimed. His eyes took in a snapshot of the scene before him – the rear of the big Jeep stationary in the centre of the road eleven metres away – a guy with an AK-74SU covering the alleyway – another, kneeling in the gutter, aiming the sub-machine gun Victor’s way – and he retreated back into the restaurant before the crew could respond.

  The kneeling Georgian fired, reacting a fraction of a second too slowly – though fast enough had Victor taken the time to aim. But he only wasted a few rounds as he controlled the burst. A calmer operator than the guy in the Jeep’s passenger seat, and therefore a more dangerous one.

  Victor racked the Mossberg and fired it again single-handed, extending only the gun and his arm through the door. He didn’t expect to hit either of the men, and he couldn’t see if he had, but the minuscule pause before the return burst from an SU told him he hadn’t.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Leeson yelled over the din of automatic gunfire.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Victor called back as he racked the shotgun. ‘Remember what I told you.’

  He fired blind again. Another smoking shell landed among the debris on the restaurant floor. After the roar of shot dissipated he heard a clattering – windscreen glass pebbles raining on the road.

  He glanced at Leeson. ‘Be ready.’

  The Rome police would have been called by now. Average response time for reports of gunshots was sub three minutes across the developed world. Less than two minutes left. The Georgians might not know the statistics, but they knew they didn’t have much time left if they wanted to complete their job and stay free long enough to celebrate a share of the purse gone up three hundred per cent.

  ‘Be ready,’ Victor said again. ‘Shoot the shadow.’

  Three shots fired. Three remaining in the feeder.

  Then two.

  ‘Shoot the shadow,’ Leeson repeated.

  Victor squeezed the Mossberg’s trigger a fifth time. Before he’d finished racking another shell into the chamber he heard the roar of Leeson’s weapon and dashed back across the restaurant, vaulted over the counter and pulled Leeson to his feet and into the kitchen. He didn’t need to look down the corridor.

  ‘I got him,’ the younger man whispered. His eyes were wide. Unsteady legs because there was more adrenaline in his bloodstream than there had ever been before in his life.

  ‘I know,’ Victor said. ‘You couldn’t miss.’

  ‘I shot the shadow. Like you said.’

  ‘You did good.’ Victor used one hand to drag Leeson around the stone counter and onto the restaurant floor.

  Leeson’s voice was still little more than a whisper. His face was pale. ‘What now?’

  ‘We wait,’ Victor said. ‘There’s two left. One with an AK. The other behind the wheel of the Jeep. Neither will try coming in here. They’ve lost two-thirds of their team trying that. No one’s that brave. If they’ve got any sense they’ll get out of here before the cops show.’

  ‘What if they don’t have any sense?’

  ‘They’ll try and wait us out.’

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘Yes. We have to be gone before the police arrive and arrest us. But it’s suicide for them to wait until then. They’ll be caught too.’

  ‘These people are crazy,’ Leeson said.

  But they weren’t stupid. Tyres squealed for traction and a big V8 engine sounded. Victor ditched the shotgun and readied the Daewoo.

  Leeson was still in shock. ‘I killed a man.’

  ‘Join the club,’ Victor said and tapped Leeson on an arm with the back of a hand. ‘Let’s go. It’s not over yet.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Victor peered out of the restaurant to confirm that both remaining Georgians had gone in the Jeep and one wasn’t waiting behind to catch them as they came out – like he would have done. The street was empty. He saw the Jeep rounding a corner at the end of the block.

  ‘Drop the shotgun,’ Victor said.

  Leeson did.

  ‘Take off your jacket.’

  Leeson did, but his movements were slow and awkward. Victor helped pull it off him and threw it to the floor. Blood stained one sleeve and almost the entire back.

  Victor turned him around on the spot to check the blood hadn’t soaked through to the white shirt. It hadn’t. Stains darkened the backs of his trouser legs, but would draw less attention than a man in his underpants.

  ‘Are those sirens?’ Leeson asked.

  ‘Yes. Time to move.’

  Leeson swallowed. ‘You saved my life, Mr Kooi.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But they’ve gone. You said—’

  ‘And they know where we’re going.’

  Leeson reached for the shotgun.

  ‘Leave it,’ Victor said.

  ‘If they’re waiting I’ll need it.’

  ‘If you take that shotgun out onto the streets you’re asking for the police to spot us. I take it you don’t want to be arrested?’

  ‘I don’t want to be killed either. I need a gun.’

  ‘Then you should have selected your sidearm with a little less thought to its appearance and a little more consideration to its usefulness.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do you want to continue this discussion at the farmhouse or in jail?’

  Leeson didn’t answer, but he nodded.

  ‘It’s a two-minute walk to the right to get to the parking garage, but we can’t go direct. So we go left, and we walk quickly but we don’t run. Soon as we get to an intersection we take it and circle the block,
walking like a couple of regular guys. No looking over your shoulder. No watching the road for the Jeep. We just walk.’

  ‘But the Georgians went left.’

  ‘And by now they’ll have already circled the same block and will be waiting for us in the parking garage. Until we get there our priority is not getting picked up by the police. No more questions. I’ve got you this far. Do as I say when I say it and I’ll get you the rest of the way. If you don’t like my methods you can try making your own way back.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll do what you say. I will. Sorry. Let’s go. Don’t leave me. Please.’

  They went, turning left, hurrying along the pavement as the sound of sirens grew louder behind them.

  ‘Don’t look back,’ Victor said.

  Leeson nodded.

  They walked past the scatter of glass pebbles on the road surface where Victor had shot out the Jeep’s rear windscreen. Expended brass shell cases from the AK-74SU glinted. The wail of sirens intensified and Victor was aware of Leeson tensing next to him, but after Victor’s brief he managed to resist the compulsion to look back. Then tyres screeched and the sirens grew no louder.

  Victor took the first turning that presented itself – a side street that cut through the block. Closed boutiques lined both sides of the twisting throughway. A young couple were making out in an alcove, oblivious of the shootout that had occurred less than one hundred metres away, or unconcerned by it. Maybe it helped the mood.

  Walking quickly by with Leeson had no effect on the lustful moans and gasps. They reached the end of the cobbled street and turned left.

  ‘Act normally,’ Victor said as he slowed the pace.

  They reached the intersection and waited for a moment to cross the flow of traffic. A police cruiser sped towards them. Leeson tensed.

  ‘Relax,’ Victor assured him, ‘it’s not slowing.’

  The cop car shot past and Leeson exhaled.

  ‘Containing the scene is the first priority. The emergency call won’t have provided enough intel to act upon. They don’t know who they’re looking for yet.’

  Leeson gulped and nodded.

  ‘Unless we do something to draw their attention,’ Victor added.

  ‘Okay,’ Leeson said. ‘Okay. I understand.’

  ‘Understanding and doing are two separate concepts.’

  Anger was in Leeson’s gaze. ‘I’m not in the business of fucking up, Mr Kooi.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  A gap in the traffic appeared and they hurried across. The signage for the multi-storey parking garage glowed up ahead.

  ‘Do you have a plan?’ Leeson asked as they neared.

  ‘I always have a plan.’

  ‘We’re going to the limousine?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Won’t they be waiting for us there?’

  Victor nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then all they have to do is wait on the top level until we’re out in the open and then we’re dead.’

  ‘Is that what you expect?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is that what you would do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why would they do it?’

  ‘Because it will work.’

  ‘There’s two ways onto the roof – the ramp and the door to the elevator and stairwell.’

  ‘There’s two of them. One can cover each.’

  ‘What happens if one of us appears at the door?’

  ‘The one covering it will shoot.’

  ‘What about the other one: will he join the gunfight or stay covering the ramp in case we’ve split up?’

  ‘That depends if we split up.’

  ‘But they don’t know what we’ll do. If one is engaged in a gunfight and the other can’t assist then it’s riskier for them than it is for us, because maybe we’re both shooting back. Then it’s two on one in our favour. If the other does assist and we have split up then their flank is exposed and they get shot in the back.’

  ‘My weapon is empty.’

  ‘They don’t know that.’

  ‘I don’t know how to do this kind of thing. I’m not trained in combat. I don’t know how to—’

  ‘They don’t know that either.’

  ‘What does it matter? It doesn’t change the fact that they have more guns than us because you made me leave the shotgun.’

  ‘They don’t know that,’ Victor said again, ‘so they’ll act as if we’re both armed. They won’t be on the roof, for the reasons I just explained.’

  ‘Then where will they be?’

  ‘On a level below with the Jeep parked on the roof so we don’t see it. They’ll ambush us as we make our way up, knowing we’ll expect them to be on the roof.’

  ‘Unless they can think like you can.’

  ‘In which case why are four of them already dead, yet we’re still alive?’

  Leeson didn’t answer.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  They waited. All they had to do was wait. It was simply a matter of time. And patience. The target – the man named Leeson – would return to his car. He would never leave it behind. Of this they had been assured by those who had sent them to kill him.

  They were enforcers in an expansive organisation who had been paid up front with a sports bag crammed with bundles of euros and dollars. That money was to be split between six, based on seniority and experience. Now there were only two of them to divide it. There was no consideration of taking the money and running. The brotherhood would find them, wherever they went, and all the money in the world was not enough to buy the protection they would need to live long enough to enjoy it. They knew trying to finish the job that so far had killed four of their six was dangerous, but if they did not see it through they would need to return the money and beg for forgiveness from an organisation that knew no mercy. So they waited.

  The Rolls-Royce limousine was parked on the roof floor of the multi-storey parking garage. Only two ways led to the roof: the stairwell and the ramp. Only two ways Leeson and his bodyguard could come. Only two ways the Georgians needed to cover. And there were two of them.

  They were up against two, but it was only the bodyguard who concerned them. They had not been told about him when the job had been explained. They had been told Leeson wouldn’t be alone, but they had not been told the man with him would be death himself. They took some comfort in the fact that their leader, who had failed to supply them with the appropriate information, now lay slumped in the passenger seat of the Jeep Commander, two bullet holes vivid against the white skin of his forehead.

  The bodyguard was the threat. Neither man relished the idea of facing him again. They had seen and heard the fates of those who already had. He was a killer of men who was not easily ambushed. He would expect another attack. He would expect his enemies to lie in wait near the limousine. He would be ready for that ambush. He knew they would cover the stairwell and the ramp.

  But they were cunning men.

  They would cover the stairwell and the ramp, but not from the roof. They would strike on the level below, when Leeson and his bodyguard were making their way to the roof, when they were vulnerable, when they weren’t expecting it.

  One was armed with a pistol, the second with a sub-machine gun. The former had driven the Jeep and now had the dried blood of the leader smeared across his face. He’d wiped off the chunks of brain and fragments of skull. The latter had exchanged fire with the bodyguard. He was a former soldier. He knew more about battle than the driver, who he had ordered to cover the ramp. He didn’t believe the bodyguard would come that way, but it couldn’t be left unguarded. The man with the sub-machine gun believed the bodyguard would come up the stairwell. Leeson would follow him because he wouldn’t want to be parted from his only protection.

  The gunman crouched in the stairwell on the floor below the roof. He kept the AK-74SU aimed down the stairs. He didn’t move. The only sound he made was that of his quiet, regular breaths. His right index finger maintained gentle pr
essure on the trigger. All it would take was a single squeeze and the bodyguard – who would be leading – would be blasted by a burst of 5.45 mm rounds before he knew he’d been out-thought. Another five bursts would follow before his corpse rolled down the stairs. The gunman knew himself to be an excellent marksman. At this range, with an automatic weapon, there was no way he could miss.

  He could then reload and kill Leeson at his leisure. Maybe even with the knife he had with him. He had never killed a man with a knife before. He wondered what it would be like. He imagined it would be fun to watch the life fade from a man’s eyes. Killing from a distance was so impersonal.