by Tom Wood
Which left Francesca and Leeson.
She wasn’t an enemy or a threat, but if she got in his way she would slow him down a second or two. And if Leeson knew Victor wasn’t Kooi, he would be alert and ready. In the one second it would take to deal with Coughlin, added to the two seconds for Dietrich, combined with the second or two to get past Francesca, Leeson would have gained four to five seconds in total to react to the attack, draw his gun, release the safety, aim, and—
Victor would take a .22 calibre bullet in his centre mass.
At this range Leeson wouldn’t miss. And even if he didn’t score a one-shot drop, Victor wouldn’t then be able to reach him in time to stop him firing a second, a third and a fourth.
He knew his only hope was that Leeson would panic and react too slowly in his shock and surprise. But Leeson wasn’t the same man he had been twenty-four hours ago. By having him guard the corridor and kill the Georgian who had tried to flank them, Victor had given Leeson his first experience of facing violent death and triumphing. Leeson would be less terrified in a similar situation now he knew he could survive one, and less fear meant less shock and less shock meant a faster reaction.
He had given Leeson exactly what he needed in order to kill him now.
Victor watched the younger man. He watched because he was waiting for that first sign. He watched because he would still attack even though it was futile, because while fighting there was always a chance and because even if that chance never materialised, Victor would die fighting as he’d always known he would.
He watched Leeson. Waiting for the first word. The first expression.
‘Good to see you boys are getting along,’ Leeson said.
‘We’re best buds,’ Coughlin said.
He slid his hand from the table, robbing Victor of his opening attack, but shifted in his seat to face Leeson. Victor pictured grabbing the fork first, not the knife, and stabbing it into the side of Coughlin’s now exposed neck, puncturing the carotid, leaving the knife free to drive into Dietrich’s left eye, saving a second. He would then get to Leeson a second quicker, before he could get his little SIG aimed, enabling Victor to rip from his hand and use it on Dietrich and then Coughlin if the initial attacks had not been fatal.
Victor watched Leeson. Because now he had an achievable plan.
‘Put your tongue back in your mouth,’ Francesca said to Dietrich, who hadn’t yet pulled his gaze from her.
He rested his elbows on the edge of the countertop and said, ‘Dress like that and men are going to look. Don’t want to be looked at, then don’t dress like that. It’s pretty simple.’
‘There’s a difference between looking and being a pig.’
Dietrich smirked and snorted.
‘How did you find your room last night, Mr Kooi?’ Leeson asked. ‘I appreciate it’s not exactly five stars here, but I do hope you slept okay on the bed.’
‘The room and the bed did their job.’
‘Excellent. Might I have a word in private, Mr Coughlin?’ Leeson asked.
‘Sure.’
Coughlin pushed back his chair and stood. Any chance of Victor killing him quickly vanished, but Leeson hadn’t yet shown any reason to make Victor think his ruse had been discovered. Unless Leeson was going to tell Coughlin when they were out of earshot. The two men stepped from the kitchen and into the lounge. Victor heard the wooden staircase creak as they ascended.
Francesca poured herself a coffee, sipped it, and raised her eyebrows in disapproval. She said to Dietrich, ‘Something else you’re not good at, I see.’
‘Nice try, sweetheart, but his majesty over there made it.’
She wrinkled her nose at Victor. ‘I’d have expected much better from a man of taste like you.’
She smiled, a thought amusing her, and a mischievous edge changed that smile. Victor knew things were about to get more complicated. She turned the smile towards Dietrich as she stalked over to Victor.
Her hand found his shoulder. ‘That said,’ she said to Dietrich as her slim fingers slid down to Victor’s chest, then his stomach, ‘he can get away with it when he has so much more to offer.’
Victor couldn’t see her face because his gaze was locked on Dietrich, but he knew she winked because Dietrich’s perpetual scowling expression deepened.
‘Word of advice,’ Dietrich said. ‘You’re too old to still be playing the whore.’
Victor straightened.
‘What?’ Dietrich spat and edged away from the countertop. ‘Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?’
Francesca said, ‘Not as much as you offend your reflection every time you look in the mirror,’ and laughed.
‘You’re too old to still be such a whore,’ Dietrich said again, stepping forward, ‘but I’ll still slap you like one if you’re not careful.’
Victor stepped forward too.
Dietrich eyeballed him. ‘You really think you could stop me?’
‘Not think,’ Victor said back.
‘I’m not sure why you have such an attitude, but I’m getting a little tired of it.’
‘I’m surprised it’s taken this long.’
‘You know what, your majesty, I’m thinking this bravado is nothing more than a smokescreen.’ He was close enough for Victor to smell the body odour. Not quite attacking range, but close to it. ‘All this tough guy talk is just that: talk. It’s all bullshit. Nothing but a bluff, and I’m calling you on it. You’re trying to hide it, but inside you’re terrified.’
Victor slowly raised and held out his left arm, palm facing up. ‘Would you like to check my pulse?’
Dietrich glanced at the wrist, then back up, and stared into Victor’s eyes.
‘Da dum,’ Victor said, low and slow, then paused for a couple of seconds. ‘Da dum.’
Dietrich smiled, as if he was about to laugh, as though it was all a joke.
But Victor said to Francesca, ‘Leave the room,’ because Dietrich’s right hand moved towards his waist.
She was out of Victor’s line of sight because she was behind him, but he knew she didn’t move because there were no footsteps and he could still hear her breathing.
‘Let her stay and watch the performance,’ Dietrich said as his fingers touched the grip of the knife sheathed to his belt. ‘I’ll show her what a real man can do.’
He withdrew his knife from its sheath.
‘Okay,’ Francesca said from behind Victor. ‘This has gone too far. You’re both real men. Each as much as the other. Put the knife away. Remember what Robert said.’
Dietrich shrugged. ‘I think I’m about to take some time off, so at this moment he isn’t my boss.’
‘Leave the room,’ Victor said again to Francesca, risking a glance over his shoulder for emphasis. ‘Now.’
He didn’t have to take his gaze off Dietrich to slide the butter knife from the table where he knew it sat. He held it so the blade protruded from the bottom of his fist. Fewer options for attack that way, only downward stabs – but the knife was too blunt to be otherwise employed effectively.
Dietrich looked at it without fear and sneered.
‘Robert,’ Francesca called. ‘Get in here. Get in here fast.’
‘Won’t do no good. I’m on a personal day, remember?’ Dietrich raised his weapon to sternum level, blade close to his torso, his free left hand out. He smiled at Victor, and said in a quiet voice, ‘Are you ready?’
Victor nodded.
Dietrich attacked.
FORTY-SIX
He was fast. But Victor had expected him to be. Dietrich sprang forward into range to slice at Victor’s face, his left hand out to control distance and ward off counterattacks. Victor blocked, striking Dietrich’s right forearm at ninety degrees with his left, forcing the blade away and stepping forward to stab with his own, aiming for Dietrich’s neck but settling for tearing his T-shirt when Dietrich whipped back out of range, bouncing on the balls of his feet, not committing to the attack, testing Victor’s speed.
&nbs
p; Dietrich shuffled forward, shooting out his arm for a quick backhand slash at Victor’s throat, but it was too fast and Victor knew it was a feint to bring up his guard. He was ready when Dietrich followed up with a stab under his left elbow, aiming for his stomach, blocking it by slamming that elbow down onto Dietrich’s fist and sidestepping so the blade missed and Dietrich was off balance when Victor countered with a half slash, half stab that caught him on the shoulder and drew blood.
It wasn’t deep and didn’t slow Dietrich’s assault.
‘Robert,’ Francesca yelled.
Although a large space, the kitchen offered little room to manoeuvre due to the table, but there was enough to move in and out of range while they fought in the same back-and-forth rhythm. If Dietrich fully committed to the attacks and pressed forward, accepting any superficial wounds he sustained in the process, he could easily force Victor back far enough that he would run out of room. Then, without the ability to dodge and create space between them, Victor wouldn’t be able to parry Dietrich’s fast attacks for long before the blade started finding its mark. But Dietrich was fighting like the experienced knife fighter he was – in and out – relying on his reflexes and speed and skill. He had a total disregard of strategy and tactics because he hated Victor, as Victor had wanted him to.
Coughlin arrived first. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Victor didn’t answer because it was obvious. Dietrich didn’t answer because he was too busy attacking and he couldn’t talk and fight at the same time. Victor parried a thrust, blade to blade. Dietrich ducked and dodged back, away from Victor’s counter, slashing at Victor’s leg as he did so. Victor felt the burn of a hit above his left kneecap. He glanced down. A small cut to his trousers and a small amount of blood.
‘Stop this,’ Leeson said as he followed Coughlin, but he stopped in the doorway, not daring to get any closer. He didn’t shout, but he spoke loudly and with authority. ‘Stop this immediately. That’s an order.’
Victor hesitated to see what Dietrich would do now his boss had told him to halt. But his opponent attacked again anyway, trying to capitalise on Victor’s passivity – a high slash followed by a low one, aiming for Victor’s face and then the inside of his thigh. Victor darted out of range.
Leeson didn’t repeat himself because he had to know neither man was going to obey mere words.
‘Mr Coughlin, would you please—’
Coughlin cut him off. ‘I’m not getting between those two.’
‘For God’s sake, Robert, do something,’ Francesca barked. ‘You have a gun, don’t you?’
Dietrich launched another attack, even faster and more frenzied than before, because he knew that once Leeson brought a firearm into the equation everything would change. Either he would be forced to cease his attempts to kill Victor, or he might have to fight a bullet instead.
Victor backed off, keeping out of the blade’s path, defending only because the fight was about to be over – however it ended – and he wanted to appear to have acted purely in self-defence. He let himself be trapped in a corner with countertops converging behind him to encourage Dietrich to lunge in – which he did – and ducked below the knife before sweeping Dietrich’s load-bearing leg out from under him.
Dietrich landed on his back and immediately rolled backwards over his head and on to his feet. He charged forward, rage dictating tactics, and Victor caught the attacking wrist and dropped his own blade so he could lock the arm. But Dietrich was too fast and strong to allow Victor to break it at the elbow.
They hit the floor together.
Victor went down first, Dietrich on top of him. Victor immediately wrapped his legs around Dietrich’s neck, keeping hold of the knife wrist. Dietrich roared and stood, lifting Victor off the floor and slamming him back down, shoulder blades colliding with the floorboards. The breath was knocked from Victor’s lungs, but he kept hold of the wrist.
Dietrich used his free hand to punch at Victor, but though they were hard blows, he couldn’t get his weight behind them. Victor maintained hold of Dietrich’s arm to keep the knife immobile.
Leeson had the small SIG in hand and aimed at the two men fighting on the floor. ‘Mr Coughlin, take the knife out of Mr Dietrich’s hand. Mr Dietrich, you will let him or you will get shot. Mr Kooi, if you don’t then release Mr Dietrich, you will get shot. Doesn’t everyone understand?’ He didn’t wait for anyone to supply an answer. ‘Now, if you please, Mr Coughlin.’
Coughlin hesitantly moved closer.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
‘A stirring performance,’ a voice said from the open exterior doorway. ‘But lacking a certain finesse.’
Dietrich stopped punching and struggling. The aggression slipped from his face. On the floor, Victor couldn’t see the speaker, but in his peripheral vision he saw Coughlin hesitate and Francesca stiffen. But Leeson smiled.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You rejoin us at last, Mr Hart.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Victor released Dietrich’s wrist and scrambled away. The fight had vanished from Dietrich. He seemed to have forgotten Victor even existed, let alone that he had been trying to kill him five seconds before. Dietrich wasn’t looking at him. He was exposed. Vulnerable. But Victor didn’t take the opportunity to disarm his opponent and drive the knife deep into his neck, even though he had been taught never to fail to exploit a weakness, never to give away an advantage. Such single-minded ruthlessness had seen him triumph against the odds several times, but he held himself back now. He didn’t attack because there was something in the new arrival’s voice that stopped him. Something intriguing.
He stood and faced the new guy, taking his gaze off Dietrich because he was no longer a threat.
A man stood outside the open kitchen door. He looked to be somewhere in his mid to late forties. His eyes were small and deep set, pale blue bordering on grey. His skin was weathered brown and red – naturally pale skin exposed to a lot of sun. Deep crow’s feet etched the corners of his eyes. His hair was short, a mix of blond and grey, as was the short beard that covered his cheeks and surrounded thin lips. His expression was one of contemptuous amusement.
His neck was a trunk of muscle as wide as his skull. The bones of his face were dense and prominent beneath the weathered skin. He was about Victor’s height and a little broader. He looked like the few big guys Victor had known in the military: men with natural size and strength, made denser and stronger over many years of hard physical existence, not artificially gained via ritualised weightlifting that built slow-twitch muscle fibre only good at lifting and pushing and too slow and too hungry for oxygen to be of much use when life depended on it.
The man called Hart gestured to Coughlin. ‘Step back from the two lovers.’ He looked at Dietrich. ‘Safety that shiv.’
The urgency left Coughlin’s body language and he backed off. Dietrich obeyed without pause or question. He went to slip the knife back into its belt sheath.
‘No,’ Hart said. ‘Give the weapon to me. You can’t be trusted with it.’
This time Dietrich hesitated a moment. Victor couldn’t predict what he would do next, but he nodded and walked over to Hart, and gave him the knife. He was only a couple of inches shorter and probably weighed about the same, but he seemed tiny and insignificant next to Hart, because he acted as he felt.
Hart motioned and Dietrich moved aside. Hart stepped into the kitchen and Francesca hurried over to him. She threw her arms around his neck and he effortlessly lifted her by the waist from the floor. They kissed, long and hard.
Victor watched for a moment, questions in his mind now answering themselves one by one, only to be replaced by others.
When Hart and Francesca finally stopped kissing, he lowered her down and whispered something to her. Then his gaze locked on Victor. Francesca didn’t make eye contact.
‘What’s your name, compadre?’ Hart asked Victor.
‘Kooi.’
‘The man we’ve all been waiting for.’
‘I t
hought it was the other way around.’
Hart ignored the comment. ‘Good to finally put a face to the name.’ He walked towards Victor. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
Victor said, ‘Funny, I’ve heard nothing about you.’
A corner of Hart’s mouth turned upwards. He stopped and stared into Victor’s eyes. ‘I see you’re already integrating yourself into the team.’