by Chris Allen
Morgan assessed the new arrivals: two Americans representing Voloshyn’s mysterious investors and, of course, the principal guest and reason for the meeting, Wu Ming.
He turned first to the Americans. They were what he expected: studious-looking accountant types. One mid-forties, thinning hair, slight paunch and a presence that said he was the main player – the one entrusted to make the final recommendation to his masters, whoever they were. The other guy was the apprentice. Late-twenties, eager yet serious. He’d be carrying the bags. Dariusz had been attending to them, particularly the older man, and the three were slowly breaking away from their huddle to join Voloshyn and commence the introductions to Wu Ming. It might have been paranoia, but Morgan was sure they’d all cast a glance in his direction. Had they been discussing him? Fuck it. Time would tell.
He directed his own attention toward Wu Ming, who definitely fit the description that both Reigns and Inspector Lam had provided. Solidly built, packed tightly in the shoulders, bald. Yet there was something about him that didn’t quite fit Morgan’s expectation of a major Triad kingpin. Morgan had faced off against a lot of dangerous bastards in his time, killers, war criminals, and gangsters, and they all had one unmistakable element that could be seen in their eyes and felt in their presence: menace. And, try as he might, Morgan just didn’t feel the same vibe from this guy.
Meanwhile Voloshyn was charming everybody, which Morgan found excruciating to watch. He couldn’t stomach the notion that anyone could enjoy these luxurious surroundings and lavish hospitality while smiling and chatting nonchalantly about the billions to be made from buying and selling human lives. But human beings weren’t considered people by this group. Individual lives were worth nothing to them, they were only numbers on a ledger.
Morgan watched Dariusz and the older American close in on Voloshyn’s chat with Wu Ming. He wasn’t surprised to see the young apprentice mucking about with a cell phone, probably reporting to their boss, whoever that was – Morgan would love to know. Voloshyn left the introductions to Dariusz and the feigned cordiality was even more gruesome to Morgan than watching her charming the bastards. Finally, the group broke up and each found a seat around the ornate circular table. Morgan checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to go.
*
On the other side of the world, Violet Ashcroft-James was in the midst of an exquisite meal in the private dining room at The Wolseley, surrounded by some of her oldest and dearest friends from Oxford, when her cell phone buzzed. She excused herself from the table. Every other phone in the group was switched off – it was considered the rule of their annual dinner. However, most of those at the table knew who Violet was these days and so a blind eye was turned. Of course, they weren’t to know what was a work call and what was private.
Ashcroft-James withdrew to a quiet corner of the dining room that allowed her a view through the arched windows onto the main restaurant below. She had received a text message with an attached photo file. The message accompanying the photo read: FYI, unidentified security consultant here. Extent of his involvement unknown. Sending this image to our security team for urgent ID.
Ashcroft-James tapped on the image, which appeared to have been taken surreptitiously across a crowded room via phone. It was not ideal quality but expanding it to focus on the face of the target gave a much clearer result. When she saw the face, her heart almost stopped. She knew it well. She had met him a number of times, personally and professionally. And now she was about to guarantee that he would be dead within the hour. So, Nobby had been interested all this time. She tapped her directions into the phone and hit Send.
*
The conversation at the table was much more formal than the pre-meeting chitchat. Voloshyn opened proceedings much like the chairperson of a board would, with lots of syrupy-sweet compliments being dished out in Wu Ming’s direction. Morgan felt like drawing the Beretta and the Magnum and letting rip right at that moment but self-control prevailed. He needed at least one, ideally all, of them in one piece, and he couldn’t achieve that on his own. He had to stick to the plan. He checked his watch. Thirty minutes.
Following her introduction, Voloshyn handed over to Dariusz, who proceeded to talk numbers, which were laid out on a laptop in front of him. His equivalent on Wu Ming’s side, Chang, produced a similarly expensive device and continued nodding and acknowledging as the briefing continued. Wu remained absolutely silent. Morgan began to get the impression that his assistant was in fact the brains of the outfit. He still wasn’t sure what to make of Wu Ming. Something was bugging him and he remembered that, amid everything that had happened yesterday, Kajkowski’s guy at the airport had reported no sightings of a Triad team arriving ahead of Wu. Interesting. Morgan checked his watch. Fifteen minutes.
After an excruciating financial soliloquy from Dariusz, throughout which he didn’t make eye contact with any other person, followed by an equally painful Q and A exchange between him and Wu’s assistant, the lead representative from the investors piped up with some apparently palatable assurances that received lots of nods and positive-sounding grunts from the Chinese. Finally it looked as though the first hour was coming to a close. Not before time.
“So, I believe it would be fair to say that we are very close now to an agreement?” An acknowledgment from the Chinese confirmed Voloshyn was correct. “Great. May I suggest, Mr Wu, that we break here for an hour while Dariusz and your man draft the final paperwork for us and we’ll reconvene at two to finalize everything?”
They all stood and there was much handshaking going on when Voloshyn quietened everyone down. “Now, Mr Wu, there has been a room prepared for you down the hall. I’m sure you must be weary after your journey. So, in honor of our partnership to date, I have arranged a very special gift for you, an appetizer. I think you’ll enjoy her very much and, if she pleases you, then please feel free to keep her, with my personal compliments.”
The door from the mezzanine landing opened and Godek Kajkowski appeared with a terrified-looking Jovana on his arm. Her eyes flashed across the room to Morgan, instinctively looking for acknowledgment. He didn’t give it. The last thing he could allow to happen right now was for anyone to get the idea that Jovana had colluded with him. Her appearance wasn’t anticipated but it could be helpful.
Across the room, a cell phone buzzed. The apprentice’s. He looked like he was reading a text message and then, with an expression of utter disbelief, he gazed directly at Morgan and handed the phone across to the older man.
“That man works for Interpol!” snarled his senior, pointing at Morgan. “What the fuck is this?”
“What?” cried Voloshyn. “That’s impossible!”
“I knew it!” Kajkowski said. He pushed Jovana out of the way and headed straight for Morgan, hands outstretched and eyes full of death.
The first explosion stopped everyone in their tracks.
The second one sent them all diving to the floor.
CHAPTER 61
Nobody was prepared to move for fear of there being a third explosion. Morgan played along but used the first moments of confusion to seize the advantage. He ran to Jovana and lifted her to her feet, turning her to the door she’d just entered through.
“Is this your doing?” she asked, clearly in shock.
“Yes,” he replied. “Now, get out of here. Get to the beach and find my friends AJ or George. Tell them who you are. They’ll take care—”
The gunfight erupted around them.
A dozen rounds splintered the woodwork of the doorframe they were standing in front of, showering them both in debris. Jovana screamed. Morgan dragged her to the floor and pushed her out the door on her hands and knees.
“Go!” he yelled. Then he had the Beretta and the Magnum out. He was also kitted out with a Glock 17 from Hemsworth’s stash, and plenty of spare mags for it. He’d empty the other two first and then discard them.
The shots were coming from what remained of Kajkowski’s crew. Kajkowski was nowhere to be se
en. He was probably trying to find a gun because Morgan had taken his or else was saving his own skin. Morgan returned fire with the Beretta but he couldn’t get any clear shots. No matter what happened, Morgan couldn’t let Voloshyn get away. If she did, she’d vanish off the face of the Earth. She’d change her name and appearance, recruit another team of clones to mask her movements, and she’d be gone. Everything that had happened up to this point would have been for nothing. He had to get to her before she managed to escape from the villa.
There was no chance that she’d be getting involved in the gunfight. Which meant she had to be making for the kitchen, which was just off the dining room, and, apart from the mezzanine level entrance, provided the only other access to the outside from this floor.
He had to follow her.
But right now, he was exposed. He crawled across to a point beside a long antique cabinet that ran almost the entire length of the room and took cover behind it. Taking stock of the shooters, he saw one of the Poles stick his head up from behind a settee. Morgan used the heavy-caliber Magnum and emptied three rounds arbitrarily into the settee. He saw the man’s body slump to the floor. Good. He felt no compunction about killing these men – they were bottom-of-the-barrel scum, willing to drug, abuse and murder young women. Then there was some swearing in what sounded like Polish – the dead guy’s offsider had just seen his mate. He loosed off half-a-dozen rounds to cover himself and made for the kitchen exit. Very brave. A sudden burst of fire from where the Triad bodyguards had been standing hit the guy squarely in the back as he tried to escape. Karma.
Morgan fired into the Chinese corner and received a hail of rounds back in response. But they were all haphazard, fired without aiming, and peppered the cabinet and the walls above his head without getting anywhere near him.
He laid low and their guns fell silent. He paused for a moment longer, listening for their mag changes, and as soon as he heard the first unmistakable clicks of magazines being ejected, he was on his feet with the Beretta in his left hand and the Magnum in his right. He caught sight of a tuft of black hair behind the far end of the same cabinet as was shielding him. He fired the last three rounds of the Magnum directly at the target and saw what was left of the guy fall forward in a bloody, mangled heap.
Morgan dropped the empty Magnum and transferred the Beretta to his right hand just as the second of the Triad bodyguards disappeared through the kitchen door. Morgan was on the move, straight after him. There was no one left in the dining room now but three dead bodies. He hoped that Jovana had made it safely to the beach, but right now all he could think about was finding Voloshyn.
He checked the Beretta. Four rounds left. He thumbed them out of the magazine, dropped them into his pocket and tossed the gun. If things got really desperate he might need those four rounds later. Hopefully they wouldn’t get that bad.
Now armed with the Glock, Morgan stepped into the kitchen, his eyeline naturally traveling along the gun’s top slide, through the forward sight and beyond, searching for targets.
He tracked carefully through the kitchen, which was huge by normal standards, and, thankfully, empty. The staff had all fled, leaving behind half-prepared trays of food and things still warming in the ovens. He moved quickly through the room, checking every corner, but then decided that it was clear. The Triad gunman wasn’t waiting around to kill Morgan, he was only interested in saving his own skin and getting back to his boss. Checking the lie of the land outside from a window beside the door, it looked as though the coast was clear on this side of the house.
Morgan rushed through the doorway as quickly as he could and kept going, straight down the stairs. He was heading for the driveway. Escape by car was Voloshyn’s best option.
As he rounded the corner of the building he was met with a spray of gunfire from an automatic. Morgan instantly hit the ground, disappearing into a thick carpet of ferns. It was Dariusz, firing from the center of the driveway, taking cover behind the fountain. Morgan fired back in the general direction until he could crawl forward into a better position. When he reached the limit of the ferns he was on the edge of the pebbled driveway. Expensive engines were revving, screaming under the whip of panicked feet. Two of the remaining Chinese, Wu Ming and his bean counter, were clambering into the Mercedes SUV while their bodyguard, fresh from the kitchen, had been relegated to driving. Dariusz had left the fountain and was clumsily trying to fold himself into the front passenger seat of a Mercedes sedan. Voloshyn was at the wheel with the two Americans in the back.
“Get in, Dariusz!” she was yelling. “Come on! Come on!”
The car was already moving, barely giving him a chance, and Dariusz was hopping on one leg, not able to gain a solid foothold. Morgan stood up amid the ferns. The Glock was leveled. The target was acquired.
“Dariusz!” he bellowed.
The man looked back and stumbled. Morgan fired two rounds a millisecond apart. Both of them struck Dariusz in the side of his chest. Morgan was already sprinting past the fountain, making for the car. The passenger door was still open. Nobody inside was shooting at him. He leaped over Dariusz’s limp body and hit the front seat with a thud, shouldering Voloshyn. Yelling erupted. Morgan’s gun fell to the floor. He fumbled, grappling for it. She began hitting him uselessly with one hand while she stamped on the gas. The car tore away from the house. The accountants were leaning over the seat backs, bashing Morgan as best they could given the confined space and their complete lack of skill.
Morgan took the beating and grabbed the wheel, forcing Voloshyn to change direction. He leaned over her, completely blocking her control of the wheel. He grabbed it with both hands and yanked down on it hard. He knew where he was taking her. It had been decided earlier that morning around George Hemsworth’s breakfast table. The explosion had served a greater purpose than simply providing a diversion.
Voloshyn hadn’t yet pulled her foot from the gas pedal – it was still rammed down hard as she fought him. She was screaming at him, clawing at his face and eyes with her long fingers and manicured nails. Morgan was squinting, contorting his face to fend off the onslaught as her nails tore at the flesh around his eyes. He needed to see and she needed to back off.
He propped himself up on her lap with one elbow, felt rather than knew that the position was right, and then threw his head back twice, bang, bang, as hard as he could within the tight space that separated them. The attack relented immediately. The car slowed too but he pushed his hand down on the pedal and shoved it to the floor. He saw two huge gaping holes in the property’s perimeter wall on the coast side, the result of the explosions. Good job, George. With one hand on the wheel and one down on the gas pedal, Morgan bounced the Mercedes over the top of paths, gardens and outdoor furniture, straight for the first hole. All he could see beyond was white sand and clear blue ocean. Perfect.
Morgan became aware that only one of the accountants was still laying into him. The other, the older one, was now scrabbling for something over Morgan’s legs. What the fuck was he doing? The gun! The bastard had spotted the Glock and was going for it.
Morgan kicked madly, back and forth like a piston across the other seat and into the passenger door, determined to take out whatever body part the idiot had a mind to put in his way. It worked: one kick got an arm and the follow-up collected the side of the guy’s face as he withdrew to the safety of the back seat. The car ploughed through the final stretch of fern garden that ran as far as the perimeter wall and smashed over the rubble left by the explosion. Only the front wheels made it before the car stalled with a final shriek, but Morgan had achieved his objective.
CHAPTER 62
Morgan punctured the steering-wheel airbag with his knife, got the driver’s door open, crawled awkwardly over Voloshyn, under the side-curtain airbag, and tumbled out onto the debris.
At the moment of impact he’d buried his face in Voloshyn’s crotch to avoid copping the full impact of the airbag in the face. As it was the lower part of the bag still smashed h
im in the back of the head. It felt like a punch from a prizefighter, but fortunately the Witch bore the brunt of it.
Morgan staggered to his feet and fell against the car, feeling like he couldn’t take another day of the punishment he’d suffered throughout this mission. His body had endured too much over the past few years. The line had been crossed. He knew that, but he couldn’t give in. Not yet. Not now.
He braced himself against the car, struggling to breathe and to concentrate, thanks to the airbag-induced concussion and general exhaustion. He moved slowly along the side of the car, pushing aside the airbag curtains and surveying the interior. Voloshyn was right in front of him, still at the wheel, semiconscious from the impact. In the back the two accountants were locked in a tangle of arms and legs. They were not yet stirring, still out cold. It seemed they’d smashed heads during the crash. From the look of them, bloodied faces and all, they’d be out for a while.
With her bloody nose and sweat-streaked make-up leaving parallel trails of red and black lines down her white face, Voloshyn looked every bit the Witch. And without her small army of steroid-abusing Polish gangsters to drag her out of the shit, she was finally exposed and vulnerable. She showed none of the power or menace for which she was so renowned. She had eluded international authorities for years by remaining a ghost in the shadows, sending all those young girls, her clones, out into harm’s way to save her own neck. How many of them had she betrayed?
Mental flashes of Dave Sutherland suddenly gripped Morgan: the firefight at the back of the factory in Hong Kong when they’d extracted Beth and Inspector Lam; the battle through the alleys and streets as they’d dashed for the Land Rover, running for their lives, firing all the way; Sutherland closing the rear doors to keep everyone else covered; Sutherland hit, blood everywhere; trying to patch his friend and colleague up as the car sped through Kowloon. As the memory of his last moments with Sutherland hit him – propping him against the wall, covered in blood and bandages, utterly helpless – tears welled in Morgan’s eyes. They fixed like twin 40mm Bofors upon the motionless form of the Night Witch, slumped at the wheel of the crashed car.