The Game

by Tom Wood

  Police would be swarming the restaurant by now. They would find the abandoned Jeep soon enough. But none of the Georgians had carried ID or personal effects. They had no criminal records in Italy. It would take a long time to identify them and trace their movements, leaving more than enough to complete the job. It had gone bad but the gunman had come too far to let a little setback like the deaths of four of his fellow brotherhood members stop him from seeing it through and enjoying the money. And it was a lot of money. It had been a lot of money split six ways. It was a huge amount split two ways. A thought occurred to him.

  It would be a monumental amount if it was not split at all.

  It wouldn’t be long. Leeson and his bodyguard couldn’t wait as long as the Georgians could. Witnesses had seen them up close. Maybe their names were in the restaurant’s reservations list. They had to escape. They had to come this way. The ramp was too risky. There were too many blind spots and choke points and too much cover to worry about. The bodyguard wouldn’t risk that. They had to come this way. They had to come soon.

  The gunman realised that there was another, better benefit to completing the job than just the monetary reward. When he returned to the brotherhood with Leeson’s head in a cool box and the brutal story about how four – five – of his teammates had been killed by the bodyguard that he had managed to kill single-handed, he would be hailed as a hero. His value to the brotherhood would be elevated to an unprecedented level. He would be respected and feared and every boss would want to use him. He had succeeded where five had failed. What better evidence of his skills could there be?

  A sound.

  Muted by distance and the attempt at muffling, but the sound of the stairwell door opening several floors below. The bodyguard.

  A civilian or the target would have made more noise. The gunman tensed slightly, then relaxed and concentrated on listening. He expected to hear the quiet footsteps of a cautious man when he was two floors below. Such a man, moving at a careful pace, would take about a minute to climb the four flights of stairs in between.

  It took thirty seconds.

  The gunman considered. There was only one set of footsteps. Leeson had to be waiting at the bottom for the bodyguard to get the car and drive it down. The bodyguard was moving faster than the gunman had expected, so he was arrogant. He had underestimated his opposition. Not unsurprising as four of them were already dead, but not the man waiting on the stairs. He was alive. He was smart.

  He listened to the footsteps. Two floors below. Then one.

  This was it, he told himself. In moments the bodyguard would appear. A moment after that, he would be dead.

  The gunman stayed focused. He’d seen combat in Chechnya. He knew the danger of distraction. A blink at the wrong moment could spell disaster. Any second now.

  He heard the stairwell door open behind him.

  He glanced back to shoo his partner away so he didn’t ruin the ambush, but the man who came through the door wasn’t dressed in their uniform boots, blue jeans and leather jacket. The man wore no shoes or socks. His shirt was dirty and scuffed. His sleeves were rolled up.

  The bodyguard.

  Disbelief, shock and questions assailing the gunman’s mind slowed his reaction.

  He twisted, turning his body and swinging his arms and the sub-machine gun, but the bodyguard was already too close.

  The barrel of the AK-74SU was pushed aside. The edge of a hand struck the gunman in the throat. He gasped and choked, but his experience and training kicked in and he released the gun and grabbed his knife. But the bodyguard had a hand in his hair and a palm under his chin and he was wrenching the gunman’s head backwards and—

  Crack.

  The second and third vertebrae of the Georgian’s neck broke, rupturing the spinal cord. He slackened and collapsed and rolled down the stairs in a tumble of uncontrolled limbs.

  The Georgian didn’t die instantly because Victor had to rush the manoeuvre and the broken vertebrae failed to fully transect the spinal cord. But he would be dead soon. No messages from the brain could reach the body. The diaphragm couldn’t expand or contract. No air could be sucked into, or expelled from, the lungs.

  Leeson rounded the motionless, dying man and moved cautiously up to Victor, his face pale and sweaty. He pointed back down the stairs to where the Georgian lay.

  ‘He blinked. I don’t think he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Victor replied. ‘His brain just doesn’t know it yet.’

  Leeson looked Victor up and down, noting the scuffed and torn clothes, scratched bare feet, hands and arms.

  ‘I can’t believe you actually did it,’ Leeson whispered. ‘You climbed the building.’

  ‘Just the one level,’ Victor corrected. He used a thumbnail to scrape some grit from his palm and said, ‘Never attack from the front when you can do so from behind.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The last one is still out there. He’s covering the ramp and is dug in well between a pair of Mercs.’

  ‘How do we deal with him?’

  ‘Easily,’ Victor said.

  The last Georgian breathed in short, panicky bursts. He was the youngest and most inexperienced of the team. His job was to drive. That was it. He was armed with a handgun, but he wasn’t supposed to need to use it. He’d never even fired a gun before. He knew how to, and he knew how to kill – he’d beaten a liquor store owner to death as his initiation into the brotherhood – but he didn’t know how to do this.

  The other guy had told him what to do. He’d told him where to wait. He’d told him where to aim. He’d told him their target and said the bodyguard wouldn’t come up this way. He had to watch the ramp anyway – just in case.

  The other guy was going to handle it. He knew how to fight. He’d been a soldier. He was one of the proper killers who had murdered and tortured for the brotherhood numerous times before. Such men terrified the younger Georgian, but he aspired to be one, one day. He wanted to have such a reputation for skill and brutality. He wanted other men to be intimidated by him, not the other way around.

  It wouldn’t take long, the soldier had told him. He would trap them in the stairwell and then they would split the bag of money. The soldier had not explained how they would split it, but the younger man would be happy with his promised cut and his life. He didn’t want to end up a rich corpse like the four dead men.

  An engine roared into life behind him.

  He turned and headlights momentarily blinded him. He heard tyres squealing for traction on the ramp above, the noise echoing around the level.

  The target’s limousine.

  It took the young Georgian a few seconds to react. He watched it accelerate down the ramp, towards him and then past him.

  He squeezed his weapon’s trigger.

  The gun barked and twitched in his hand and a mark appeared on the rear windshield of the limousine. He shot again, and again, and then ran from cover – not thinking, just acting – and chased the Rolls-Royce, shooting wildly as he ran, missing more than he was hitting.

  He chased the car to the level below and his gun clicked empty as the limousine disappeared out of sight.

  The young Georgian stopped running and became aware of his heart hammering inside his chest and sweat dripping from his nose. He used a palm to swipe it from his face, realising that the older soldier must have failed in the stairwell and was likely dead and that the target had escaped.

  He’d failed and would have to accept whatever punishment the brotherhood deemed appropriate. There was no other option. He hoped they would show leniency as he was just supposed to be the driver. If five experienced killers couldn’t get the job done, how was he supposed to? He needed to get out of the city. Now.

  He didn’t care about the money any more. He was just grateful to be alive.

  He turned to head for the stairwell and stopped dead as he found himself staring into the black eyes of the bodyguard standing directly before him.

  THIRTY-NINE<
br />
  Location unknown

  Lucille was waiting near the van’s doors when they opened. She had been on her feet as soon as she had felt the vehicle coming to a stop. She’d been sat on the mattress positioned across the width of the back compartment and next to the front wall. The mattress was queen sized and newly purchased. There was no protector or linens and no pillow, but with her back against the padded wall, it was comfortable enough that she had no aches or pain from the long hours of travelling. She didn’t sleep though. She couldn’t.

  He had her son.

  In time she had become used to the darkness and the constant rocking and swaying and noise and the heat of an insulated room with no ventilation. The pain in Lucille’s head had eased throughout the day, but she felt sick with fear and weak from the hours of crying and screaming. She hadn’t drunk anything since leaving the restaurant, however long ago that was now. Her throat was dry and her lips cracked and sore.

  She didn’t know where she was. She could have been taken south to Spain or north into France, but she didn’t know how long she had been unconscious. They could have reached almost anywhere by now.

  This time when the door opened, light didn’t flood inside and sting her eyes, though she had been braced for it. Outside it was dark. Night time. The blond man stood alone against a backdrop of starry sky and flat countryside. He held a backpack in one hand. For the first time Lucille saw him with her vision unimpaired. He was tall and powerful, dressed in loose jeans and a loose workman’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms covered in fair hair. He looked to be somewhere in his forties, his skin weathered and tanned. His lips were thin and surrounded by a short beard that reached high on his cheeks. The blond hair was clipped short and even across his head, receding at the temples and flecked with grey. Blue eyes that caught the starlight and reflected it like those of a wolf stared at her and she forced herself not to cower.

  ‘Where’s my son?’

  ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘I would have been aghast had you not. He’s sleeping in the cab.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’

  He didn’t answer. ‘Your eyes are focusing better, aren’t they? I imagine the headache has dulled over time too. That’s good. Could you turn around so I can see the wound?’

  ‘Let us go. Please. I’ll do’ – she paused and breathed to stay composed – ‘anything you want.’

  He stared at her. His wolf’s eyes didn’t blink.

  Her heart hammered. She braced herself, disgusted and terrified, but thought about Peter and how she would willingly endure anything to save him.

  The blond man stepped forward. He held up his hand. Lucille looked at it. It was large and calloused. A monster’s hand. She swallowed and reached for it.

  Laughter.

  A loud, coarse sound that permeated every inch of her being and made her wince and shudder.

  ‘You need to fear me, Lucille,’ the blond man said once he’d finished laughing. ‘But not in that way.’

  An image flashed through her mind: a bench, pigeons, a man feeding them.

  ‘I know you,’ she said. ‘From the park.’

  ‘Excellent,’ the blond man replied. ‘You’re over the worst of the concussion if you remember me.’

  ‘How long were you watching us for?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘With that knowledge could you bend space and time and travel back to warn yourself of my presence? And if you were able, would such a warning do any good? Could you stop me? Could anyone?’

  ‘God will punish you for what you are doing.’

  ‘When he has already done so by granting me life, how can any further punishment be worse?’

  Lucille couldn’t stop the tears. She wanted to be strong. She didn’t want him to know how terrified she was. But she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Give me back my son,’ she wept.

  ‘When he wakes he can rejoin you.’

  ‘He needs me.’

  ‘He likes it up front. It’s fun. I let him win almost every game we play. Not all, of course, otherwise he’ll suspect. He’s a smart little child. You should be proud of him.’

  ‘What do you want with us? Why are you doing this? Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt my son.’

  The blond man said, ‘You should know, Lucille, that there is no safer place for Peter in all this world than at my side. You should also know that whether it stays that way is up to you.’

  She sobbed.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said.

  It took a little while until she was able to hold back the tears. She wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist.

  He hoisted up the backpack and placed it inside the rear compartment of the van. ‘In there you will find some water, food and basic medical supplies. There are also some clothes and other items.’ He gestured to the countryside behind him. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t let you out earlier and I may not be able to do so again for some time, so go and relieve yourself now while we have the opportunity.’

  Lucille peered at the countryside. Low verges lined the road. Beyond were fields that stretched to the horizon. There were no lights, no sign of human habitation.

  ‘Where are we?’ she asked.

  ‘That does not matter.’

  ‘Where are you taking us?’

  ‘Find yourself a quiet spot. Climb over a verge into one of the fields.’

  She looked at him.

  ‘I’m not going to come with you,’ he said. ‘Can’t leave a young child on their own even for a few minutes, now can we?’

  The words stung her deeply. More tears wet her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll stay here with Peter,’ the blond man said. ‘Take all the time you need.’

  She glanced at the road, then looked away in case he’d seen. He had.

  ‘I won’t try anything,’ she said.

  ‘You’re an intelligent woman. You know this isn’t some deserted track, so there’s a reasonable chance a car might pass. You know you could flag one down to help. But you also know the occupants will fare no better than those soldiers.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe you’ll get lucky and a convoy of armed police will happen by. But could they stop me before I ripped your boy’s head from his neck? It’s an interesting question. How does one weigh the odds of that which is beyond common comprehension?’

  The blond man held up his hand again and she took it. He helped her down from the van and onto the road. Standing next to him, without the artificial perspective gained from the height of the van’s cargo deck, she realised just how weak and insignificant she was in comparison. If he didn’t want her body she had no weapon to use against him. She was powerless.

  ‘I won’t try anything,’ Lucille said again.

  His wolf’s eyes shone in the starlight. ‘I know you won’t.’

  FORTY

  Lazio, Italy

  Victor found the Rolls-Royce waiting for him a couple of kilometres south of the parking garage. It had been too much of a risk to have such a recognisable vehicle in close proximity to two crime scenes and a heavy police presence, so Victor had told Leeson to drive it away while he took care of the last Georgian. The limousine sat along the kerb of a quiet road, out of the direct glare of any streetlights, as Victor had instructed. As he neared, Leeson climbed out of the driver’s seat and greeted Victor with a smile and a handshake.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Kooi. Thank you so very much.’

  ‘All part of the service.’

  Leeson gripped his hand tightly with both of his own. ‘You saved my life. I don’t know how the hell you pulled it off, but you did. Six of them against the two of us, but here we are, alive and breathing and nothing but some sweat and a few scratches to show we’ve ever been in battle. I really think that—’

  Victor opened the rearmost cabin door and gestured. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you think on the way back?’

  Leeson smiled, in a different way. ‘Yes,
of course, Mr Kooi. Anything you want. Any problems with the last one?’

  Victor shook his head.

  The younger man climbed into the back and Victor shut the door before getting into the driver’s seat. Leeson pulled open the partition window and then slouched back in his seat.

  ‘Did you call Dietrich and Coughlin?’ Victor asked.