by Graham Potts
“It aches,” she confessed, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling.
“Okay, it doesn’t seem broken. You’re lucky.” He picked up a washcloth and wrung it into a bowl before gently washing her face.
“How bad is the bleeding?” she asked.
“He split your lip but it’ll be okay.” She gazed back at him as he dabbed at her lips. He cleared his throat and looked away, tossing the cloth back in the bowl. She winced as he stripped her coat off her shoulders. He saw the bandage on her arm before she could hide it. The dressing was weeping blood.
“Where did you get that?”
She held up her hand, showing him a bandaged cut. “Same place I got this.”
He studied her sceptically. “Uh-huh.”
“I was trying to get a chocolate bar out of a vending machine and—”
“And it shot you?”
She pushed out her bottom lip and shrugged.
He shook his head and grabbed a stethoscope. “This could be a little cold,” he warned.
She yelped when it touched her chest. “You did that deliberately.” She hit him on the arm.
He breathed on the stethoscope to warm it. She inhaled and exhaled and he moved the stethoscope around her chest and her back. “Is it hard to breathe?”
“No more than usual,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said. “Your lungs sound like they’re fine. No crackling or wheezing. Which means no holes or anything.” He eyed her briefly. “Your heart rate is a little high.”
She looked down at her lap and he ran his hands along her ribs. His hands were warm, she thought.
His hands have always been warm.
“How badly does it hurt?” he asked.
“It aches a little.”
He pushed on her breastbone. “What about that?”
Elliot grimaced. “It’s not that bad.” She felt his hand stop between her breasts and saw him frown.
He flicked the medallion out of her shirt. It was the caduceus medallion he’d bought her before leaving to fight in the war. He stared at it and grunted, picking up a digital thermometer.
Elliot opened her mouth to explain but he placed the thermometer on her tongue.
“Close,” he ordered.
She obeyed and he busied himself packing away the equipment. The thermometer beeped. “Normal,” he said, reading the temperature. He tossed the thermometer on to the bedside table. “You’re fine.” He stood up and retreated to the living room.
Elliot heard glasses clink and a cork squeak. She swung her legs off the bed and warily climbed to her feet. She was in a hotel.
“What’s with the accommodation?” she asked, entering the living room.
“Shell game.” He poured two glasses of scotch. “Nikolay owns three hotels in Moscow and I stay in them, moving every few weeks. He doesn’t own this one, though.”
“Are we here because of me?”
He shrugged and handed her a glass.
“He’s pissed off at you too, isn’t he?”
“Shut up and drink your supper.” Murphy walked outside to the balcony.
He never smokes inside. He knows I hate it.
He leaned against the balcony railing, watching the rain clouds pour in and swallow the city. She walked out slowly and stood beside him. He offered her a cigarette and she took it, dragging deeply as he lit it for her. They stood there silently, watching the lights burn in Moscow, and she heard a siren cry out from deep in the labyrinth.
Elliot waited until half an inch of ash hung from the end of her cigarette and gulped down her drink. “You’re upset,” she said.
Murphy looked down at the street and sipped from his glass.
Her voice was cold: “You know, if you want me to leave—”
“I do,” he said, flicking away his cigarette. “I’ll even drive you to the airport.” He gripped the balcony rail, his knuckles white.
“Still playing the cold soldier, huh? You can’t pretend that you don’t care. You can’t fool me.”
“You fooled me with that blue uniform.”
“I’m not a real cop,” she said. “I was only trying to…” She groaned and reached for her forehead.
“At the hotel—”
“I was being chased and people were trying to kill me and then you came and you kissed me and I was angry about Darren and I hadn’t seen you for so long.”
“Stop babbling, Slim.” He clenched his jaw. “You’re lying to me.”
And he always knew when I was lying.
“You thought I was there to kill you,” he said.
“No!” she sighed. “Maybe. Briefly, for a second—less than a second.”
“And now you’re here because you stole some paintings and need me to bail you out of trouble.”
She choked. “Is that what you think?”
“Are you going to prove me wrong?”
“What about you?” she said, plucking two photographs from her pocket. “Do you expect me to believe you flew across the world just to give me these?”
“You picked my pocket?” His face turned red, the veins bulging in his neck.
“You promised you would never think of me as just a thief.”
“But I’m just a killer to you, right?” He snatched the photographs and jammed them into his pocket. “Is that how this works?”
Elliot shook her head.
“It’s just like you,” he said. “Any excuse to push people away.”
“I am not—”
“I got too close so you forced me into making a promise you knew I couldn’t keep. If Darren lived, fine. If not, you had your way out, another excuse not to trust people.”
Rain started to patter on the roof and the lights of the city shimmered through the sleet. She ran her hand through her hair. “Don’t do this, okay? Not now.”
“You didn’t even have the guts to come and find out what happened.”
“And you didn’t have the stones to come and tell me yourself!” she screamed. “You hid in your fucking cell.”
“You ran away,” he yelled. “I was locked up.”
“What about the seven years after that?” she cried. “You just traded me away. Just admit that you wanted to forget about me, to forget we even met.”
He heaved his scotch glass at the building across the street. It shattered against the concrete and the glass tinkled to the pavement. He reached for the balcony rail and hunched over it. “I was trying to protect you,” he said, and his shoulders sagged.
Elliot looked away, her eyes stinging. She ran her hand down her face. “I’m sorry, I…” She shook her head.
The rain was heavy now, a barrage of water that pounded the city. “C’mon, Stephen,” she pleaded softly. “We’re like two cage fighters circling each other in the ring.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to fight with you. I never did.”
“But you’re not ready to drop your guard either.”
Elliot peered down at her cigarette and saw that it had burned down to the filter. She flicked it off the balcony and watched it tumble into the darkness. “This has nothing to do with stolen art,” she said. “Nothing at all.”
Murphy nodded slowly. “And I didn’t fly across the world to kill you.”
The rain grew heavier, a white noise that threatened to drown out their voices. He looked at her and her chest ached. She was breathing heavily, her mouth dry, and she placed her hand on his. “What are you afraid of ?”
“It’s funny,” he said. “I was going to ask you the same question.”
Elliot held her breath, her fingernails running along his bare arm. Murphy turned to face her. He held his hand out, his palm up, and she traced lazy circles on his skin. He cupped her cheek and she tilted her head, her eyes closed. He folded his fingers, pushing her hair away from her eyes.
Elliot stood on her toes, folded her arms around his neck, and kissed him softly on the lips. His breath trembled as she fumbled with the buttons of his shi
rt. She kissed him again, hungrily, pulling the shirt from his shoulders and throwing it away. He tore her shirt off over her head.
They stumbled inside, rolling across the walls and staggering into the furniture. A lamp toppled over. A glass crashed on the tabletop. She ripped his belt from his trousers and he threw her on to the bed. He yanked on her waistband and she wriggled out of her jeans.
Murphy fell on top of her and she immediately threw him on to his back, her hair tumbling down on to his bare chest, her lips quivering as she kissed him. She pulled his trousers off, straddling him as he sat up. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.
Elliot exposed her neck as he sank his teeth into her skin, her body writhing above his. She sank her fingernails into his back and moaned.
Murphy stopped, seizing her hands and staring at her.
“Too soon?” she asked.
“No,” he said, gesturing towards the door. “Do you hear that?”
Armed men crashed through the door and ran into the bedroom, fanning out and covering them with assault rifles. There were twelve of them. Murphy looked up at Elliot.
“Didn’t you think to put out the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign?” she asked, climbing off the bed.
“I was busy carrying your big unconscious head through the door,” he replied, standing up.
“Why is it men can only do one thing at a time?” Elliot grumbled.
The men formed a semicircle around the bed. Maxim marched through the doorway popping his knuckles, his bald head shining brightly.
“Can you come back later?” Murphy asked. “We’re in the middle of something.”
“Check their clothes,” Maxim commanded. One boyevik slung his weapon and collected Murphy’s clothes, retrieving a pistol and a full magazine before dumping the clothes on the floor. He tossed the weapon across the room and turned to Elliot, a grin spreading across his face.
“She doesn’t like to be touched,” Murphy warned him. “That includes her clothes.”
The boyevik hesitated, looking to Maxim.
“I’ll take care of it,” Maxim said, waving the boyevik away. He snatched Elliot’s clothes from the floor and scrunched them in his hands. Satisfied, he tossed them on to the bed. He studied Elliot approvingly, head to toe. “Mmm-hmm,” he hummed.
Maxim circled behind Elliot and scooped up some of her hair, inhaling her scent. She squirmed and balled her hand into a fist but stopped moving when Maxim pushed his pistol into the small of her back.
“That feels even smaller than I expected,” she hissed.
He smirked at Murphy. “So this is the woman you would throw away your life for?”
Murphy’s jaw tensed as Maxim slowly ran his fingertip down the length of her arm. Elliot gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Personally, I prefer the money, the status, and the respect.” Maxim twirled Elliot’s hair around his finger and walked around her, looking her up and down again. “But, I suppose nothing beats waking up to a surprise blowjob in the morning.”
Elliot glared at Maxim. “You should sleep with your mouth closed.”
Maxim whipped his pistol through the air but Murphy caught his wrist.
“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Murphy said, pushing Maxim away. The butt of a rifle struck Murphy in the back and he grunted, falling to his knees.
Maxim crouched down in front of him. “I’m going to enjoy playing with her, Stepan.” He grinned. “I’m going to make you watch.”
“You’re going to beg me to let you live,” Murphy said as Elliot helped him to his feet.
“Am I?” Maxim held his pistol against Elliot’s temple. “I think you will be the one doing the begging.”
Elliot blinked and raised her hands again. Murphy was unsteady but she saw him step closer, the veins bulging in his neck. She heard the nervous shuffle of feet as the boyeviks adjusted their hands on their weapons. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and tongues darted out to lick dry lips.
“You have a job to do, Stepan,” Maxim said, “a role to play. Nikolay will keep her alive as long as you remember that.”
“I promise you,” Murphy said calmly. “I’m going to tear your fucking head off.”
“Get dressed. You have an appointment to keep.” Maxim tossed Elliot aside and glared into Murphy’s shimmering eyes. “You’re just a man, Stepan.” He punched Murphy in the stomach. Murphy doubled over, groaning. “I’m not afraid of you.”
Murphy breathed deeply and straightened up. “Then why didn’t you come alone?”
MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 12:19 AM MSK
Murphy and Elliot sat beside each other in the back of a limousine, their hands cuffed behind them. Maxim was in the seat opposite, staring through the window, two of Korolev’s bodyguards huddled beside him. Murphy slouched in the leather seat and glanced at Elliot. She was staring through the window too, doing her best to ignore him.
No, that’s not it. She’s trying to look innocent.
She’s picking her cuffs.
“I heard about Angela,” Murphy said. “I read about it in the paper a few years ago. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Elliot whispered.
“I heard she was murdered. Did you hunt the guy down?”
She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”
“Angela,” he muttered, turning away. He looked back suddenly, his eyes focused. “Didn’t she always order that disgusting drink everywhere we went?”
Elliot cocked her head.
“You know,” Murphy said in frustration. “The one with icecream. It was always green.” His face wrinkled. “Spiders. Always lime.”
“I can’t believe you remember that,” she said.
“It’s amazing what you remember, sometimes,” he said, glancing towards Maxim. The Russian was pawing at his computer tablet, his eyes focused on the screen.
“Remember how you used to race home so you could see me before Darren arrived?” Elliot asked.
“We’re still talking about spiders, aren’t we?”
“Their venom can kill a cow four times over, you said. I looked it up.”
“It’s not right, is it?”
“Nope, I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
He groaned.
“You were right about one thing, though.” He heard her cuffs click as they opened. “I can’t leave you to fight alone.”
Murphy took a deep breath and tried to look at something other than her green eyes.
“I’m here as Simone, Stephen. No tricks, no lies.” She rattled her cuffs behind her back, her eyes earnest. “I promise.”
He finally looked her in the eye. “Are you sure about this, Slim?” he asked softly. “I mean, we’ll probably just end up killing each other.”
“Better than them doing it,” she said, nodding towards Maxim. She winked and turned her back towards Murphy, dropping her handcuff keys into his cupped hands.
Murphy eyed Maxim. He was stabbing at the screen of his tablet, his chin resting on his hand, his shoulders hunched. The bodyguards were studying their hands, occasionally scrutinising their captives. Murphy felt his handcuffs click open and held the key in his fist.
“You know what else I remember?” he asked, turning back to Elliot. “China plates and James Blunt.”
“I remember that,” she said.
“Good, because we’re in a bit of froth,” he said, testing her out.
Froth and bubble: trouble.
Elliot took a moment to translate. “You have a Jackie?” she asked.
Jackie Chan: plan.
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Maxim asked, looking up from his tablet.
“Well, I know your Germans are still up for dipping,” Murphy said.
German bands were hands. Dipping was pick-pocketing.
“You can’t conspire your way out of this,” Maxim snarled. “This nonsense won’t save you.”
Murphy ignored him and nodded towards a bodyguard. “In t
he sky of his billy, he has a bucket.”
The guard had something in the sky rocket—pocket—of his billy goat: coat.
“Bucket?” Elliot asked, confused.
“The club is locked down, Stepan,” Maxim cried. “You’ll be shot on sight if you try to escape.”
“Bucket and spade,” Murphy said.
Elliot paused for a moment, her eyes growing wide when she realised what he meant.
“I’m ordering you to shut your mouth!” Maxim’s face glowed red.
“You’re going to need a hot cross,” Elliot said. “Or we’re brown bread.”
“Shut up, right now,” Maxim hissed, “or I’ll have you both gagged.”
Elliot was right, Murphy thought. A hot cross bun was a gun and they were dead without one.
The limousine pulled off the street and came to a stop. Murphy and Elliot hobbled out, led by one of the bodyguards. The other guard fell into line behind them, while four other men emerged from the alleyway with assault rifles in their hands.
The street outside the King’s Castle was different tonight. Luxury sedans still lined the kerb but every man on the avenue was holding a gun. There were no girls, no drug pushers, and no lost tourists, although the smugglers still had a truck parked in the alleyway, Murphy noticed. Three men were arguing in the dim glow of the truck’s parking lights. A bodyguard spurred Murphy forward and he turned away from the alley.
Elliot and Murphy kept their hands behind their backs, cuffs loose around their wrists and hidden by the sleeves of their coats. They hunched into the rain and were hustled up the stairs of the nightclub, the lead bodyguard holding the door open.
Murphy tripped and stumbled into Elliot. She reached out with her hands as she fell, staggering into the chest of the first bodyguard.
“Your cuffs,” he said slowly. She kneed him in the groin and he collapsed on the floor.
Murphy whipped his handcuffs into the face of the bodyguard behind him, and snatched the pistol from the man’s waistband. He fired twice and the man staggered backwards into the armed entourage. Murphy slammed the door and locked it before turning and grabbing Elliot. They dived over to the other side of the stage, the door shattering behind them under a barrage of automatic fire. Armed men flooded the room and poured rounds at the stage.