by WOOD TOM
‘Where to?’
‘Anywhere that’s not here. Find somewhere to hide and don’t come out until this is over.’
She nodded. He lit the handkerchief with Rogan’s lighter.
Sinclair kept his index finger depressed on the trigger until the magazine emptied. Brass clinked on the ground and crunched underfoot as he moved to get a better angle, releasing the spent magazine and slamming in a second.
He stalked closer to the road. He had the MP5 up, stock comfortable against his shoulder, eyes peering along the iron sights.
Without losing focus on his prey he continued to move in a semi-circle, seeking a line of sight. He released a quick burst to keep them in place, to make them hesitant to leave the protection of the vehicle.
Then the killer yelled, ‘MOVE,’ and he rose out of cover, sprinting away from the bullet-riddled car as the woman did the same. They set off in opposite directions and it made Sinclair hesitate for an instant, unsure who to aim at first.
He swung the MP5 to track the girl, putting the iron sights in front of her to account for the speed of her movement. Hitting a moving target was not about aiming at the target, but knowing where the target would be by the time the bullets reached their mark.
But he hesitated because orange light glowed in the darkness, casting flickering shadows. Fire. Near the vehicle’s fuel inlet.
That’s not good.
He turned, and ran.
The burning handkerchief ignited the petrol vapour, which ignited the liquid petrol and oxygen inside the enclosed fuel tank.
The resulting explosion sent a huge gout of flame flowing from the car. The overpressure wave picked Sinclair from his feet and tossed him to the ground. Searing heat washed over him.
He coughed as black smoke and fumes flowed over him. He didn’t know he’d been knocked down until he tried to move, but his body wasn’t responding. With difficulty, he managed to sit up. He then stood, a little wobbly but strength and coordination coming back to him as the sounds reaching his ears grew louder.
He retrieved his sub-machine gun and headed after the girl. However much he wanted to kill Norimov’s assassin, that guy was a pet project. It was the girl who truly mattered.
Another time, sport.
Through the swirling black smoke, a figure leapt at him.
SEVENTY-NINE
Sinclair used the MP5 to parry Victor’s thrust, knocking the knife from his grip, but leaving himself exposed to the punch Victor connected with. The South African grunted and flailed forward, twisting around as he stumbled, bringing his sub-machine gun up, aiming at Victor —
Who was fast enough to grab the weapon before Sinclair could aim it, one hand on the barrel, the other on the stock, directing it upwards, muzzle pointed at the ceiling, but also twisting it against the rotation of Sinclair’s wrists. He had no option to release it or suffer a break.
Victor tossed the weapon. The gun was too long and therefore too impractical to employ at such close range. If he tried, he would only be disarmed as his enemy had been.
It sailed through the air, hitting a wall, crunching broken glass as it hit the floor somewhere in the darkness.
‘You should have taken the bullet,’ Sinclair said. ‘It would have saved you a lot of pain.’
Victor had his guard up in time to ward off the subsequent attack, and they traded blows, some scoring hits, others parried, neither landing anything meaningful until Victor was hit with an open-palm blow to the chest, knocking him off his unstable balance. He slipped and blocked another. A third hit him in the side of the ribs. He sagged, and risked a sweep at Sinclair’s load-bearing leg.
The lingering effects of his injuries slowed him and the sweep was checked with a kick, jolting him off balance, restricting his movement enough for Sinclair to grab him by the jacket and swing him through ninety degrees and into the wall. Victor responded with a headbutt now they were close, but again he was too slow or his enemy expected it, and the attack missed, only glancing the South African’s skull, causing no real damage.
Sinclair backed off to create space and responded with a forward kick, heel missing Victor’s pelvis by an inch as he sidestepped, grabbing the outstretched leg before Sinclair could withdraw it, pulling him closer, feinting another headbutt that made Sinclair twist away, putting himself further off balance. A short sweep put him on the ground, hard.
Victor stamped down but Sinclair caught the foot before it could crack ribs, twisted to break Victor’s one good ankle, but turning with the movement saved the joint.
The South African released him, rolling away from his vulnerable position on the ground and was fast to his feet, attacking even faster, going for the takedown.
Victor had been expecting it, but couldn’t react in time to avoid it altogether. He broke the fall by rolling with the impact, going for where lay a section of pipe. Sinclair’s grip not secure enough to stop him, but he was on top of Victor before he could employ the weapon. Sinclair batted it out of Victor’s hand, who then blocked the first punches aimed at his head, twisting and rocking to lessen the damage of those that got through his guard.
Sinclair pushed his forearm against Victor’s throat, leaning forward to apply extra pressure, but leaning too far. Victor grabbed him by his jacket and wrenched him off balance. He gave up the choke to stop himself falling, but Victor bridged with his hips and pushed the South African clear. As he rolled on to his back, Sinclair tugged a knife free from a belt sheath, stabbing the point down at Victor’s chest.
It caught his triceps as he scrambled away, grabbing a woven rubble sack as he rose to his feet, slower than his enemy, and took another slash to his arm before he had the sack stretched between both hands. He used it as a shield to turn away attacks as he backed away, creating distance, waiting and timing. He knew he was too slow and too weak to match his opponent otherwise.
His timing was good, but his reflexes were dulled. He caught the incoming thrust with the sack, stopping the blade from puncturing his ribs and the heart beneath, but he couldn’t prevent it slicing through his shirt and skin. He gritted his teeth and his arms shook with the strain of keeping the knife point from puncturing further. Sinclair was slightly shorter but far stronger than Victor in his injured state. He had the advantage of leverage, though – better braced, while Sinclair was coming forward, head not in line with his hips.
Victor wrapped the sack around Sinclair’s arm and stepped away. Not fast enough to stop the knife cutting him again, but fast enough so that Sinclair stumbled forward under his own exertion. Before he could recover his balance, Victor used the sack wrapped around the arm to swing Sinclair around and into a pile of cement bricks. He tumbled over them, but regained control, landing on his feet, charging Victor.
The torn sack struck Sinclair in the face, blinding him long enough to land a front kick into his chest, propelling him into a temporary wall, knocking a safety sign away from its mounting. He lashed out with the knife, catching Victor as he followed up with a punch, drawing blood from a shallow cut to his shoulder.
Victor grabbed the knife-holding wrist in one hand and used the other to drive Sinclair back into the wall, trying to impale his skull on metal rods exposed by the dismounted sign, but only gouging scalp. Blood seeped through his hair and down his neck.
The South African ignored the wound and slammed his knee into Victor’s abdomen, doubling him over, but he whipped his head up as Sinclair tried to wrap an arm around his neck, catching him under the chin with the top of his skull, cracking teeth and stunning him long enough to twist the knife from his fingers and into his own grip.
He attacked, thrusting with the knife, but far too slow to score a hit on the South African. Sinclair spat out blood. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, sport.’
Victor ignored him, attacking again as Sinclair circled, moving to the left – away from the knife – arms outstretched, hands ready to parry and try and catch hold of Victor, palms turned inwards to keep the vulnerable arte
ries on the insides of his forearms protected.
Sinclair stayed light on his feet, always moving, careful not to present a static target for when his opponent struck. The injured ankle restricted Victor’s movements too much to exploit the weapon in his hand. He couldn’t cover distance fast enough. Sinclair easily outmanoeuvred him, scoring with kicks and punches when Victor missed thrusts and slashes. And each blow further weakened and slowed him. He spotted the MP5 in the shadows, but not close enough to risk going for.
‘There’s no dishonour in giving up,’ Sinclair said as Victor reeled from an elbow to the face. ‘We both know this is only going to end one way.’
Sinclair was too patient to try anything risky. He didn’t need to. Victor kept attacking because he had no other option, trying feints even though he realised he had neither the speed to trap his enemy nor the strength to overpower him.
A kick to the thigh sent agony detonating through Victor’s leg and he dropped to one knee, slashing with the knife to keep Sinclair from closing the distance.
The South African laughed at him. ‘Now, this is just cruel. Have some dignity, sport. I promise I’ll make it quick.’
Victor maintained eye contact as he rose to his feet.
Sinclair nodded in understanding. ‘Okay. Have it your way.’
He glanced around, saw where the section of metal piping rested on the floor a couple of metres away and scooped it up into his hand. Victor had no choice but to let him. He wasn’t fast enough to intercept.
Sinclair said, ‘Time to put you out of your misery.’
He approached. The pipe was almost a metre in length, far outranging the knife in Victor’s hand. He knew Sinclair would be every bit as focused as he had been before, picking his moment to exploit his weapon’s better range. One decent strike would be all it took to shatter bone.
So Victor reversed his grip, grasped the point between finger and thumb, and threw the knife.
Sinclair hadn’t been expecting that. He was too focused on his own strategy, not Victor’s; too patient to make the kill.
The blade struck Sinclair in the neck, a little to the left of centre, five centimetres above the clavicle. His eyes widened and he stumbled back a step. He didn’t reach for it straight away. He maintained his defences. Until the blood pushed out from either side of the blade and rained down his chest.
He knew he was finished but he wasn’t dead yet.
He dropped to one knee and Victor was running, pain fierce in his ankle, because he knew Sinclair was going for a backup pistol in an ankle holster.
Victor dived to the ground and slid, scooping up Sinclair’s MP5 and twisting on to his back. He depressed the trigger. Fire flashed from the muzzle.
Sinclair, pistol out of the holster and rising to aim, took the burst across the torso and shoulders, contorting and flailing and then dropping. The body armour wouldn’t save him this time.
For the briefest of moments Victor felt relief as he lay in the darkness, but then he stood and heard Anderton’s voice behind him say:
‘Drop the gun.’
Victor didn’t. He pointed it at Anderton. She had stepped out from behind a wall of plastic sheeting. She moved with slow, awkward steps because she had a gun to Gisele’s head.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gisele said. ‘She found me.’
He rose to his feet. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’
Anderton kept one elbow close to Gisele’s torso so her arm didn’t protrude too far beyond her hostage. Her other hand held Gisele in place as a human shield. Gisele was breathing rapidly but shallowly. Scared, but in control. She was wasted as a lawyer, Victor thought. She had the talent to be an exceptional assassin. Not that he would wish that life on anyone.
‘Drop the gun,’ Anderton said, still calm and composed.
Victor shook his head. ‘No.’
Anderton’s eyes were wide in disbelief. ‘No? This isn’t the time to starting kidding around. I’ll kill her.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Victor said.
‘Why not? She’s my hostage. If you don’t do as I say, she’s dead.’
‘She’s not your hostage,’ Victor said, stepping closer, sights drawing a bead on Anderton’s head. ‘She’s my hostage.’
Anderton didn’t respond. For a moment, she didn’t know how to, then she said, ‘I don’t think you appreciate your situation. You’re going to do exactly as I ask, or —’
‘You won’t kill her,’ Victor said.
‘I won’t? You clearly haven’t a clue what I’ll do. You think because I’m a woman I’m not capable of —’
‘I know what you’re capable of, Ms Anderton. But I know exactly what you’ll do. Gisele is my hostage, not yours. Do you know why? Because she’s the only thing that is keeping you alive. If you squeeze that trigger, you will die a second later. So, kill her. But make sure you enjoy that last moment of life first.’
Anderton shook her head.
‘She’s my hostage,’ Victor said. ‘While she lives, you live. You need to protect her. In fact, you’re the best protector she could ever wish for. You’re a better guardian than me because you’ll do absolutely anything to keep her alive. Because her breaths are the only thing keeping you breathing.’
Anderton shook her head again, but slower; weaker. ‘I’ll kill her.’
‘No you won’t. You’re not the suicidal type. You’re a survivor. Everything that’s happened has happened because you’ll do anything to survive.’
‘Don’t fuck with me.’
‘I assure you, that’s the last thing on my mind. We both want the same thing.’
‘That’s right,’ Anderton said, hissing the words, eyes wide and bright in realisation and optimism.
‘That’s right,’ Victor agreed. ‘Neither of us want you to die. Put the gun down. If you keep it pointed at Gisele then eventually you’ll have no choice but to squeeze that trigger. Do you know how long it takes to do that?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Point three seconds to apply enough pressure and activate the firing pin. My gun has a slightly heavier draw, so it’ll take me point four seconds to shoot. Unfortunately for you, it’ll take point nine seconds for you to change your aim. Put your gun down and I won’t shoot. There’s nothing personal between us. All I want is to keep Gisele safe. You want to live. Lower your weapon. That’s the only way you can survive this. You’re a survivor, so live another day. Drop it or find yourself in a closed-lid casket.’
Anderton swallowed. Her face was wet with rain but also sweat – panic and fear oozing out of every pore, realising that she was no longer in control. ‘I’m going to count to ten.’
‘No,’ Victor said. ‘I’m going to count to ten.’
‘I was right before. You are insane.’
‘That’s a distinct possibility. But it doesn’t change the fact I’m going to give you ten seconds to put the gun down or shoot her. Two choices. First choice: you live. Second: you die. Ready?’
‘Wait.’
Victor didn’t wait. ‘Ten,’ he said. ‘Nine.’
‘Stop.’
‘Eight.’
‘Hold on —’
‘Seven.’
‘— a fucking second. Let —’
‘Six.’
‘— me think. You’re —’
‘Five.’
‘— fucking crazy. I —’
‘Four.’
‘— will kill this —’
‘Three.’
‘— bitch.’
‘Two.’
Victor could see the white all around Anderton’s irises. She roared in frustration and anger and fear.
‘One.’
‘Okay. You win. You’re insane enough to actually do this, aren’t you?’ She threw the pistol to the ground. ‘I’ve survived this far. You’re right, I’m not dying for this girl. Not today. Not ever.’
‘Good choice,’ Victor said, the MP5 still aimed at her skull.
‘You promised not to shoot me,’ Anderton reminded h
im.
‘I did.’ Victor dropped the sub-machine gun. ‘And I’m a man of my word. Now let her go.’
Anderton nodded, then released Gisele. She let out a massive breath and staggered towards Victor, legs weak from the overload of adrenalin. She was crying.
Anderton backed away. ‘I hope you understand that this isn’t over.’
‘It is,’ Victor said. ‘You just don’t realise it yet.’
She disappeared back where she’d come from and Victor heard her sprinting away and sirens somewhere on the street above them. He held Gisele’s head to his chest and gave her a moment to let her emotions out. The sirens grew louder and the rain heavier. She stared up at him. He saw her brow furrow in the way it always did when she was working up the courage to ask him something.
‘Why… why didn’t you shoot her?’
Victor retrieved the MP5 from the floor and held it in one hand to push the muzzle against his temple. Gisele’s eyes widened in panic and she reached out to stop him.
He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
‘What with?’ he asked.
AFTERMATH
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM
EIGHTY
Frost and mist covered the common. The short grass was frozen into a crystalline white carpet that cracked and crunched with each footstep. Victor disliked the sound. Too much like nails on a blackboard. Nearby, Canada geese didn’t seem to care. A flock was gathered on and around a duck pond, making their distinctive honking noises at the swans and ducks that also used it. His breath clouded. Despite the cold, he wore sunglasses to filter out the glare of a bright sun. Joggers and dog walkers passed on a path that cut across the heath. Victor stood far enough away that he could not make out either Norimov’s face or Gisele’s.
They sat together on one of the benches overlooking the pond. From this distance he couldn’t read their lips, but he wouldn’t have even if he’d been standing closer. He respected their privacy. He didn’t know much about family relationships, but he knew enough to understand they had a lot to work out.