by Eddy Will
“We need to know who paid Maria to take your wife,” Styx finally said. “I doubt that she is the end of the line on this. I can’t think of a single reason why she would want your wife. There must be someone else up the line,” she said.
“You mean she is a middleman,” Jack said, his heart sinking. He had hoped that Maria Koshkova would have the answers, would have Anna.
Sergey Tarpov sneezed loudly, apologizing to others in line.
“Read the paper, don’t talk,” Jack said brusquely. He sipped his coffee and looked up. A stocky, rough-faced man, seemingly cut from the same wood from which Tarpov had been made, entered the artsy tea house and looked instantly out of place. His small eyes scanned the interior, his focus jumping from table to table until he spotted the redhead. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene and satisfied his target was alone, he joined the line in which Tarpov had been waiting.
“Do you know the man at the back of the line in the black leather jacket?” Jack said, returning his gaze to the book.
Styx stole a glance, her heart pounding in her throat.
“Why?” she said.
“That’s your tail,” Jack said.
“Christ,” Styx said under her breath. She did not recognize the man, but his energy and demeanor told her Jack was right. How he knew, however, she had no idea.
“Wait five minutes after I leave, then head out and turn right. Walk to the intersection of Hammersmith Road and Brook Green, allow twenty minutes to get there, delay if you have to and look for a blue Ford Sedan. I’ll be driving the car. When I pull up at the intersection, get in. Questions?” Jack said, quietly and quickly.
“What about the tail. If he sees me jump into a car, all hell will break loose,” she said. The fear in her voice was unmistakable.
“If you do exactly as I tell you, he won’t see you. I’ll create a diversion,” Jack said. He stood and walked out of the cafe without looking back.
Styx was terrified and suddenly felt very alone. It took most of her focus not to stare at the man who had been following her, a man she had not been able to spot, a man who had tailed her without her knowing, even though she had been looking for him. She checked the time on her phone, intent on doing exactly as she was told. She trusted Jack Storm. She had no choice.
Jack hurried down the sidewalk, moving past the crowd of pedestrians in his way. He was grateful for Tarpov’s tutelage on the hour long drive from Heathrow Airport. It had been Tarpov’s plan to check if the redheaded punk rocker had been followed and it had been his procedure in the event that she had. The Russian certainly earned his fee, Jack thought, as he hurried to the rental car. Studying a map of London, Tarpov had picked the intersection for the potential evasive maneuver. The punk girl was afraid, Jack had no doubt. She would have had no cause, if she were leading him into trap. She seemed a straight-up girl, albeit with bright red hair. Her energy was too artsy to be dangerous. Jack found the car and recalled the route he had memorized earlier to the meeting point. Traffic was heavy and Jack hoped that twenty minutes was enough time. He drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as he crept along Hammersmith Road.
Three minutes to go time, Styx thought, checking the time again. A burly man broke from the line at the counter and left the Tea House without ordering. Her tail, however, did not move. She felt his eyes on her and a shudder ran down her spine. Why did Maria not call them off? After last night, Styx would have thought all was good again. Had Maria fooled her? Was the purpose for their passionate night to keep an eye on her, keep control? The stocky man in line was different from the others. He had a brutality about him that made her uneasy. Unlike the skinny man or the woman dressed in black, this man looked like he could hurt her and she wished that Jack Storm had not left. Styx pinched her thigh hard. She was a big girl and she would handle herself like the strong independent woman she was, she worked to convince herself.
One minute to go time. The clock on her phone was creeping along. She wanted to leave the Tea House and get away from the brutal man standing in line.
The clock flipped over. It was time to go. Styx stood and folded the newspaper. She deposited her cup in the trash and placed the newspaper in a basket for others to read. Then she walked out of the Tea House without glancing at her shadow. She knew he would follow. As instructed, she turned right and headed for the intersection at Hammersmith and Brook Green. There was plenty of time to get to her destination and so she paced herself, strolling along, looking into store windows. Her shadow was not far behind. Had she not been made aware of him, she would not have noticed him. Despite his hard appearance he blended well into the crowd, drawing no attention to himself. There were no sudden moves, no awkward glances, he was part of the scenery, unnoticeable and that frightened Styx even more. She stopped at a street vendor and bought a pack of cigarettes. Peeling back the wrapper, she stole a glance at her tail. He was talking on a cell phone, seemingly unaware of her existence and yet she was the sole purpose of his world at this moment. Styx lit up and continued on her path, pulling her shadow along with her.
She had spent a little over ten minutes of the time allotted her by Jack Storm and had only three more blocks to go. She would have to slow down and kill time. She wanted to do exactly as instructed and Jack had said twenty minutes. Puffing on her cigarette she lingered at a record store. Dozens of Long Play record sleeves hung in lines from the ceiling in the store window. Using the reflection of the window glass she searched for the man with the hard face. She expected him about a hundred feet back and expected him to busy himself with a convincing activity that was innocuous enough. She was startled to see him less than twenty feet away and approaching quickly. She felt the powerful impulse to run, but she didn’t. Instead she stared at the man’s reflection as he closed in on her. And then she felt the iron grip of his strong hand on her arm, his meaty fingers digging into her flesh. She yelped with pain and shock.
“Don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt,” the man said, his face close to hers, his voice cold and calm. She felt the man’s breath on her neck. “I have a gun in my pocket and will use it if you scream,” he said, whispering into her ear. A car pulled up and he propelled her to the curb, almost lifting her off her feet. Styx was unable to breathe, unable to think.
Sergey Tarpov watched with alarm as the redhead’s tail picked up his pace, even though his target had slowed at a store and looked into the window. The man quickly reduced the distance of about one hundred feet he had been keeping since they left the Tea House. The Russian punched redial on his phone.
“Hammersmith Road, West of Colet Gardens. The tail is moving, he is going for the girl,” Tarpov said, speaking calmly but quickly. His experience told him that something had changed and it was not good. The man shadowing the redhead had changed his assignment. Tarpov knew instantly that he was either going to take her out in broad daylight on a busy street or he was going to snatch her, again in broad day light on a busy street. The Russian’s eyes darted ahead, looking for the get-away vehicle which would be there if the mission was kidnapping. A black Mercedes Benz crawled along as if looking for a parking spot. Tarpov knew.
“It’s a grab,” he said into the phone, “Black Benz near curb, crawling. Get back here, now,” he said and broke into a run. He was about one hundred feet behind the redhead’s tail and had to move quickly to catch up. He pushed roughly past pedestrians. The tail had reached the redhead. He stopped behind her and grabbed her arm.
“Christ,” Tarpov cursed and picked up his speed. ‘It was all going wrong’, he thought. ‘Not on my watch.’
The tail-turned-kidnapper pushed the slender girl across the sidewalk. The black Mercedes Benz sped up and came to an abrupt stop ahead of the girl and her abductor.
Tarpov sprinted at full speed, his bulk pushing people like bowling pins. His eyes focused on the kidnapper, his vision tunneling toward the man’s thick neck. The kidnapper approached the get-away car. The rear door swung open. The man slightly twisted his bod
y, preparing to push the girl into the car. Tarpov hurled his body into the air, his thick arms stretching for the kidnapper. The Russian grabbed the man’s neck and pulled him to the ground with considerable downward momentum. The crash was hard for the kidnapper, who had not been expecting the assault. The two men bounced off the sidewalk and Tarpov moved with the speed of a cat to get on top of the kidnapper.
Jack stepped on the gas. According to the Russian he was a block away. The stop light turned red, but Jack did not slow, instead he gunned the engine and laid on the horn. Cross traffic screeched to avoid a collision, cars spun out, others, not so quick to react, ploughed into spinning vehicles. The sounds of crashing metal and shattering glass echoed in the intersection. He spotted Tarpov running on the sidewalk and with surprising agility throw his body for a brutal tackle at the kidnapper pushing the redhead across the pavement. A black Mercedes Benz had pulled to the curb, the rear of the long car jutting awkwardly into traffic. Jack swerved around the Benz and pulled his rental car in front of the get-away car, blocking its path. He jumped from the car.
“Move,” he yelled at the girl. “Get in the car.”
Styx fell when a powerful force tore her kidnapper from her back. She stumbled, catching her fall with her hands. From the corner of her eye she saw the blur of the kidnapper’s body crashing hard on the sidewalk and another man pouncing on the one who had grabbed her. In the distance, screaming sounds of horns and the deafening thud of vehicles colliding intermingled with the sharp explosions of breaking glass.
A car raced from the carnage and turned hard in front of the black Mercedes with the open door, ready to swallow her up. Jack jumped out and yelled.
Sergey Tarpov punched the kidneys of the kidnapper hard. He felt the man tense in pain and go limp. The Russian scrambled to his feet, the redhead stood frozen, eyes wide, filled with terror. An arm stretched from the back of the Mercedes holding a black piece of steel.
“Gun,” Tarpov yelled and dove for the redhead, connecting hard with her waist and folding the slender girl in half. Two gun shots exploded in rapid succession, the large glass of the record store window imploding in slow motion.
The girl did not move, paralyzed by terror. Jack jumped over the hood of the car, when he heard the Russian cry: “Gun”. A hand holding a gun extended from the open car door. Tarpov hurled himself at the girl. And then two shots rang out, the noise deafening. The shop window crumbled and collapsed into hundreds of pointy shards. Jack spun to the open car door and the source of spewing death. The gunman climbed through the frame of the car door. Jack leapt at the open door and threw his shoulder against the black steel. The heavy door slammed against the gunman, crushing him between frame and door. The killer screamed in pain. Jack swung the door open and slammed it into the man’s head. The gun clattered to the ground. Jack ripped open the door and the gunman stumbled from the car, fighting to keep his balance. Jack delivered a powerful kick to the stumbling killer’s face, snapping his head back violently, bones crushing angrily. Jack grabbed the weapon from the sidewalk and swung toward the driver of the Mercedes Benz, who had jumped from his place behind the wheel. His eyes widened in shock at the gun leveled at his head. He quickly ducked and scrambled back into the car and slammed the gear into reverse, burning rubber, backing away. In his hurry to get away he had not noticed the red double-decker bus rumbling down the center lane of the street. The bus driver attempted to evade the fast moving Mercedes Benz shooting backwards into traffic, but it was too late. The crash was horrendous. The sedan, though heavy and powerfully built, stood no chance against the bus and was crushed and pushed forward, its frame devoured by the red monster with every foot that the twisted vehicles moved forward. Jack ran to help the Russian and the girl who laid in a tangle of limbs, Tarpov’s body protecting the girl from the deadly assault of the gunman.
“Let’s go,” Jack cried, tugging at the Russian’s arm. Tarpov scrambled to his feet and picked up the girl with one arm, while the other helped push up his bulk. Jack raced around the vehicle and jumped behind the wheel. A crowd was gathering, shocked passengers stumbled from the bus in a long stream, some crying, some holding their heads, others too stunned to react. Blaring sirens announced the imminent arrival of rescue crews and law enforcement. It was time to move, Jack thought. He had no time to explain the event to disbelieving detectives for the rest of the day. He had to find Anna and he had to hurry.
Tarpov flung the girl into the backseat and climbed in after. Jack sped off before the Russian closed the car door. He took a hard left at the next intersection, racing to put distance between himself and the gruesome scene. He slowed at the next turn and swung a left. He moved to the side of the road giving way to three speeding police cruisers, racing at him at great speed, sirens blaring and lights flashing.
“Everyone alright back there?” he said.
“Bruised but in one piece,” the Russian grunted, straightening up in the seat.
“You?” Jack said, referring to the redhead.
“You are crazy,” she screamed. “What have you done to my life, for Christ’s sake?” Jack connected with the girl’s eyes in the rearview mirror. They were wide and crazed with shock.
“He saved your life, that’s what he did,” the Russian said without emotion, stating a fact. “And he saved mine too,” he added.
“Everybody played a part,” Jack said.
”Never attack man with gun, when you have none,” Tarpov said with the authority of a wise man who was teaching the uninitiated.
“I’ll remember that for next time,” Jack said.
“Don’t. It was a brave move and if it works you are a hero, if it doesn’t, you are dead. Very simple,” the Russian said, his voice gruff and low.
“I take it that judging from your emotional response you are not injured, is that correct?” Jack tried again, addressing the girl.
“I am fucking fine, thank you very much and where are we going,” Styx said, her words shooting out like bullets.
“We need to get off the street and re-group,” Jack said, “any ideas, Ms. Local?” he said, checking the rear view mirror.
“How about frigging Claridges,” Styx said, her tone oozing with sarcasm.
“Can you take us there?” Jack said.
“You are kidding right?” she said. “Have you any bloody idea how much that place is? Its fifty pounds just for a coffee, no re-fills,” she said.
“We can go to Starbucks for coffee. Can you take us there?” Jack said.
A pleasant but metallic female voice spoke from the Russian’s phone, suggesting Jack turn left in about one quarter of a mile.
“Thank you,” Jack said.
Chapter 42
Carpathian Mountains, Romania, August 4, 2012, 7:59 AM
Anna’s limbs were stiff from the cold. She shivered uncontrollably as she inched her way from her perch. The bark of the big tree was slippery with dew left by a dense fog. Sleep had not come easy and had been interrupted not only by Remington’s night tracker, but by a steady stream of scary sounds, cracking, and creaking, snapping, and rustling, the fluttering of skittish nocturnal birds and screeching of other creatures of the night. But finally sleep she did and missed dawn and the early morning hours. She had woken with a start surprised by the bright light in her eyes. She had scanned the area below her perch for signs of the tracker or worse Remington himself, but the forest was calm, birds singing in the green canopy and red squirrels racing up and down trunks, carrying food to hiding places in the soft ground.
Anna stretched once she had reached terra firma and loosened her stiff limbs. She was cold, but would warm up as soon as she moved. The supply of power bars had been cut in half, but she needed the fuel and tore into an Oatmeal Raisin bar.
A fat squirrel worked its way down a tree, a large brown chestnut wedged in its mouth. It stopped abruptly and listened, its head turning in sharp movements. Anna watched the animal with curiosity, as she chewed her own food. Something else changed: t
he busily chirping birds in the trees had fallen silent.
The sharp blast of a gunshot shattered the calm. Anna jumped as the bark of the tree exploded in her face.
“Oh my God,” she cried, the words coming without breath. Anna ducked, her mind still struggling to comprehend, when a second blast punched the tree inches from her head. ‘Could it be over so suddenly?’ she thought. Her limbs did not wait for instructions from a paralyzed mind. Her arms and legs scrambled in a mad dash to get out of harm’s way. She ran along the soft, wet ground like a crab, hands and feet ripping into the soil for traction. Another shot rang out, punching a hole in Anna’s satchel, flipping the leather bag violently forward.
“Oh God no,” she said, in panic, as she scrambled to her feet and started running. There was nothing else to do. Remington was somewhere in the brush. There was no time for defense, there was no time to think. She had to run. She raced through the forest, cutting to the left and right, making it harder for the hunter to take aim. Tiny branches whipped her face as she ran without consideration through the brush, her only mission to get away from Remington’s line of fire.
Another shot exploded, the sharp report echoing through the forest. Anna crouched and changed direction again, racing up a muddy incline, her hands and feet digging into the wet dirt to propel her forward. Distance, she needed distance. She forced her panicked eyes to focus on the immediate world around her and come up with a plan. The hunter could not shoot his prey, if he didn’t see her. She had to break the line of sight.
Another shot. Anna crawled up the hill like an animal and when she reached the top and the ground evened out, she stumbled to her feet and sprinted through the woods. And soon the ground gave way to a steep downhill stretch, sharp rocks sticking out from the leaf- and needle-covered ground. Beyond the sloping ground a landslide from a million years ago had left a sea of rocks, some huge, others smaller, trees and brush torn away. Anna threw her body down the steep hill, rolling and bouncing, arms and legs waiving frantically in a desperate attempt to control her fall. Her bruising tumble ended at the bottom of the steep drop. She struggled to her feet, ignoring the pain, scrapes and bruises from the self-induced fall and raced for the large pre-historic rock slide. The gunshots had stopped. She must have slipped from sight. Swirls of fog drifted across the sea of broken granite. Anna battled across the pile of uneven and jagged stone, the end rock slide hidden by dense fog. She stopped behind a large rock which pointed straight to the sky, nature’s wagging finger at the sight of unbearable foolishness. Her heart pounded in her head from the exertion and panic. She forced her breath to slow and listened. Her ears searched for sounds of a fast approaching enemy, eager to end her life. Shouts, footsteps, rustling of gear, but she only heard her own heart beating a panicked alarm in her chest. She did not hear or see Remington, but she knew he was coming. How long had he been lying in wait for her? She had underestimated her enemy. Anna ran across the rocky ground, jumping from rock to rock, her eyes scanning the ground for the perfect stone, her legs following the instructions. She trusted her athletic prowess and did not interfere with the finely-tuned relationship between her eye and her feet. And so she flew from rock to rock, much like a mountain goat, covering ground quickly.