by Graham Potts
Hartigan cried out and doubled over, noticing another boyevik in the doorway, a cigar clenched between his teeth. She quickly straightened up and Elliot pirouetted, swinging the axe towards Hartigan’s throat.
The boyevik aimed his weapon.
Hartigan raised her hands in front of her but the axe crashed into the wall next to her head. A winch cable snapped with a twang and whipped through a recess, zipping up into the ceiling. The chandelier in the hallway shuddered and rushed towards the ground, crushing the boyevik into the tiled floor. Blood splashed into the room and Hartigan squeezed her eyes shut.
Elliot wriggled the axe free and tossed it on the floor. She held her forearm against Hartigan’s throat and drew her pistol, pushing the barrel into the hollow of the agent’s cheek.
Hartigan clawed at the arm on her throat, but she had no strength left. She was suffocating.
Elliot was breathing heavily, her jaw set, but her face slowly softened and she lowered the pistol. “I didn’t want to make you an orphan, Emily.” She stepped back and released Hartigan. “I didn’t want to take your dad from you.”
Hartigan slid down the wall and sucked in air, her throat burning. “You’re lying!” she croaked. She coughed violently and crawled forward on all fours, her hands sweeping across the stone floor, searching for her pistol. “Come back and fight me.”
“Go home, Emily,” Elliot said. “If you stay, then you become one of them, one of us.”
“Fuck you!” Hartigan found her pistol and flipped on to her back, aiming at the doorway. She fired until the pistol clicked empty but it didn’t matter.
Elliot was gone.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 11:30 PM MSK
Singh paused and peered into the room. It was stacked with ammunition crates and assault rifles, grenades and jerry cans of water. He stuffed his pistol into his pocket and glanced around warily before opening one of the boxes. It was full of landmines. He armed one and placed it on the ground behind a stack of crates, gently placing an empty bucket on top of it. He grabbed one of the jerry cans and stabbed the bottom with a knife, standing it on a neighbouring crate so the water could pour into the bucket.
Singh stepped slowly out of the room, doing the calculations in his head. He knew that the landmine would detonate with nine kilograms of weight applied to the trigger, or nine litres of water.
I’ve got about three minutes before that bucket is heavy enough.
“Lee!”
He turned around. “Emily?”
She staggered along the hallway and collapsed against the wall beside him.
“Where the hell have you been?” he asked.
“Around. Are you going to tell me why you’re still here?”
Singh checked over his shoulder.
“They’re here,” Hartigan said. “I had her and she ran away.”
Singh’s head snapped around and he looked into her eyes.
Hartigan swapped the pistol between her hands and wiped her palm on her blouse. “We can split up, okay?”
“Are you sure you’re up to this, Emily?”
“Let’s find out.” She dipped her head towards the stairs. “I’m going up.” Hartigan set off and climbed the stairs, loading a fresh magazine into her pistol.
Singh ran his hand down his face and eyed the ammunition cache.
Two minutes.
He pulled his pistol from his pocket and ran after her.
Murphy stopped at the end of the hall and peeked around the corner. A sharp pain shot through his thigh and he cried out, looking down to see a knife jutting from the back of his leg. He whirled around and Korolev’s fist crashed into his jaw. Murphy tumbled to the floor, his assault rifle sliding away.
Korolev followed up with a kick to the stomach but Murphy blocked the blow, catching Korolev’s leg and twisting his ankle, the Russian falling back into the wall. They wrestled, and Murphy tried to throw Korolev to the ground, but the Russian grabbed the knife, twisting it in Murphy’s thigh. He screamed and headbutted Korolev.
Blood streamed from the Russian’s nose as he lunged for the assault rifle on the floor. He took aim but Murphy ripped the rifle from his grasp and looped the sling around Korolev’s neck, yanking tight. Korolev yanked the knife from Murphy’s thigh and cut the sling.
Murphy chambered a round in the rifle and pulled the trigger but Korolev leapt around the corner. The bullets peeled a painting from the wall and crashed into a china cabinet, shattering plates and wine glasses.
“I’m not done with you, Nikolay,” Murphy growled, limping to the corner. He leaned against the bricks, trying to catch his breath.
Murphy poked his head around the corner and saw Korolev snatch a pistol from a dead boyevik before seeking cover. A shot ricocheted off the wall and Murphy ducked.
“What do you think happens now, Stepan?” Korolev yelled, his voice booming down the corridor. He fired another shot and it smashed into the bricks. “What happens when you’re outside of this palace? Do you think you’ll be free?”
There were three more shots, the bricks crumbling on the far wall.
“You will be trapped by the words they use to define you,” Korolev said. “You will be caged by their accusations. You will be chained to the very thing you’re trying to kill me for.”
He fired three more shots and Murphy turned his head away from the corridor.
“Not even death will set you free, Stepan,” Korolev said. “Their fear is your only freedom.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Murphy said. “But it’s my choice.”
“You’re a foolish man,” Korolev said. Murphy heard a yelp and looked around the corner. Korolev had his arm around Emily Hartigan’s chest and was holding his pistol to her temple.
“Let me go!” Hartigan said, squirming in his arms.
“So come make your choice, Stepan.” Korolev held Hartigan tighter. “See if they think you’re any less an animal.”
Hartigan cried out: “Let me go!”
Murphy ejected the rifle’s magazine and his shoulders slumped. It was empty. There was one round left in the chamber.
“C’mon, Stepan,” Korolev said. “Come set yourself free.”
There was a loud crump and the palace shook violently. Murphy reached for the wall and peered around the corner in time to see Korolev and Hartigan fall through the floor.
Murphy stepped out of the shadows.
“Stop right there, Murphy!” a voice bellowed.
Hartigan was lying flat on a pile of rubble. Sparks spat across the ceiling and she could see the reflection of flames dancing on the far wall. She sat up and saw that she’d impaled her thigh on a metal spike that jutted from shattered stone. It was a barbed length of steel reinforcing from the floor that had collapsed beneath her. Blood gushed from the wound but she couldn’t feel a thing.
Something shuffled nearby and she looked up. Korolev punched her in the face and Hartigan lurched backwards, shaking her head as he raised a knife.
No!
She blocked him and drove her fist into his throat. The blade fell into the rubble. He toppled on to his back, coughing for breath and searching for his knife.
Her pulse quickened and she grasped the spike in her leg, gripping it tight. She took a deep breath and yanked on the barbed steel. Korolev lurched to his knees, holding the knife. Hartigan cried out, pulling on the spike. It came free just as Korolev pounced. She blocked his attack with the spike, kneed him in the groin, and headbutted his bloodied nose. Dazed, she heaved with all her strength and pushed him away. He rolled on to his stomach and she raised the spike above her head, yelling as she drove it into his back.
Korolev screamed and exploded to his knees. Hartigan staggered back on to the rubble. He snarled, his eyes gleaming and his bared teeth dripping with foaming blood. He lunged at her, his hands outstretched, and she felt his tight grip around her throat.
No!
Hartigan reached out her hand, fumbling through the rubble for something, anything, that would sav
e her life. She felt dizzy, her brain screaming at her to find air, and her heart pounded in her ears. Her hand fell on a rock, a brick, and she smashed it into Korolev’s face. He collapsed, his grip falling away, and Hartigan swallowed a lungful of air, her eyes blurry, her breath rasping through her burning throat. Korolev tried to lift himself up.
No!
She raised the rock above her, holding it with both hands, and pounded the back of his head. She smashed his skull over and over, screaming for him to die, until the stone in her hands was slick with blood.
She stopped, the rock heavy in her hands. The stone slipped out of her grasp and she trembled.
Hartigan crawled backwards, her chest heaving, and stared at the man she had killed. She picked up a coin, holding it in quivering fingers, blood dripping from her hands.
“Lee!” she cried out.
Nobody came. She sobbed, her body shaking, and ran her bloodied hand through her hair.
“Lee! Help!”
Murphy raised his assault rifle, peering over the sights at Lee Singh, his fingers tightening around his weapon.
“I said stop!” Singh growled, his pistol aimed at Murphy.
Murphy clicked his tongue. “Well, well, Lee Singh,” he said, his finger hovering over the trigger. “I was wondering if I’d run into you.”
“Miss me?”
“It has been a while,” Murphy said. “I spent a lot of time fantasising about what I was going to do to you when I found you again,” he said, limping around Singh. “And then a couple of other things came up and you suddenly didn’t matter anymore. I almost forgot all about it.”
Singh tilted his head, turning with Murphy. “Aw, I’m hurt,” he said drily.
Murphy felt his insides burning, the blood pounding through his veins. “It’s all coming back to me, now.”
“So what are you waiting for?” Singh asked, licking his lips and taking another step closer. “Are you out of bullets, or something?”
“Are you?”
“Lee!” Hartigan’s cries echoed along the hallway. Singh glanced over his shoulder but looked back to Murphy quickly. He adjusted his grip on the pistol.
“This rings a bell,” Murphy said.
Singh took another step. “Shut up.”
“Lee! Help!” Hartigan wailed.
“We’ve been here before, remember?” Murphy said. “The job or the girl?”
“I did the right thing!” Singh said. “I did the right thing.”
“And he died anyway.”
Singh shook his head. “Take your shot.” He cocked his pistol. “Let’s see who the best soldier really is. C’mon, teach me something.”
“Okay, lesson one: don’t shoot innocent girls in the face.”
Singh slapped Murphy’s weapon away and fired but Murphy had ducked, dropping his rifle and lunging forward. Singh sprawled across the floor, the pistol spilling out of his hands.
Singh sprang to his feet but Murphy punched him in the jaw and Singh fell into the shattered china cabinet, the broken glasses shuddering. He reached behind him and grabbed a broken wine bottle, jabbing at Murphy who stepped aside, feeling the skin tear open on his back. He gritted his teeth, his movements slow, and Singh sliced Murphy’s arm. Singh slashed again but Murphy turned inside the attack, flinging Singh into the wall. Murphy grabbed the stem of a broken wine glass and stabbed Singh in the stomach. He pulled the glass stem out quickly and whirled around, stabbing it into Singh’s forearm and driving it in with his palm. Singh cried out and dropped the wine bottle. He threw a haymaker at Murphy but Murphy blocked the blow, punching Singh in the stomach and giving him an uppercut to the chin. Singh staggered back and fell to the ground, tumbling over and leaping on to Murphy’s discarded rifle.
Murphy grabbed Singh’s pistol and rolled over, firing.
The pistol clicked. It was empty.
Singh stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the rifle in his grasp. “Look who just took you to school.” He sniffed, grabbing the base of the wine stem in his forearm and dragging it out of his flesh. The glass tinkled on the floor and Singh raised the rifle, aiming at Murphy. “Lesson number two: you always get what’s coming to you.”
A shot rang out, the crack echoing along the hallway. Singh whirled around, toppling on to his back, the weapon falling from his hands. A dark stain spread across his chest. A shoe pressed down on his throat and he wanted to push it away, but he couldn’t raise his arms. He peered up through blurry eyes. A pistol was pointing at his head.
“School’s out, sweetie-pie,” Simone Elliot said.
She fired.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 11:38 PM MSK
A missile rocketed out of one of the windows, spearing into the square below. A tank raised its gun and fired, the shell thumping into the stone wall. The remaining tanks launched their own shells, and the walls of the palace started to crumble.
The infantry were fighting the boyeviks in a swamp of blood and dust. Volleys of bullets whistled across the square. Wounded soldiers and civilians were carried to safety, their clothes tattered and their bodies torn. Some staggered on the lawns with glassy eyes, while others curled up in balls and clutched their ears. An explosion had blown out the windows on the ground floor and flames licked from the building through yawning cracks in the walls.
A neglected cigarette burned between Nevzorova’s fingers, her mind racing.
An army general approached hurriedly, his trousers swishing as he marched. “Ma’am, I have the latest,” he said anxiously. “The commander says that he can storm the palace when reinforcements arrive but that could take another hour.”
Nevzorova shook her head and tossed her cigarette to the ground. “Tell the army to pull back,” she ordered. “I want them to evacuate.”
“But, ma’am,” her assistant protested.
She glared at him, her eyes clear. “Deploy the air force. I want them to scramble bombers and destroy the palace.”
“Madam President,” the general interjected. “I have to—”
Nevzorova grabbed a handful of his jacket and yanked him away from her car, forcing him to stare at the palace square. “Take a look at that,” she demanded. “They are our people and they are dying. Korolev did that and he will escape before the infantry break through. I will not let that happen.” She let him go and turned to her assistant. “Burn it down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” her assistant said, and he picked up the radio with a quivering hand.
Nobody is coming for me.
Emily Hartigan crept towards the wall and used her fingertips to climb to her feet. She leaned against the wall, her legs like rubber, and staggered forward. She wailed painfully and threw out her hand, falling to the floor.
The fires were spreading hungrily and Hartigan gritted her teeth, lurching to her knees. She stood up shakily, stumbling between piles of rubble and roaring flames, her head dizzy. A glowing sign hovered in the haze and she walked towards it, coughing violently and crashing into a door. She pushed the door open, a gust of cold wind swirling past her.
Hartigan staggered into the square outside the palace. She could hear popping sounds, like gunfire, and she could hear cries of pain. She ignored all of it, her eyes focused on a tank parked nearby, its rumbling engine luring her.
Bullets plinked off the tank’s armour as the tracked vehicle retreated towards Red Square, the soldiers still firing at the boyeviks huddled against the palace walls.
Hartigan was suddenly lifted off her feet and looked up to see a soldier cradling her in his arms. He ran alongside the tank, flanked by soldiers who returned fire as they moved towards the fortress walls. The soldier yelled orders, shouting at his men to evacuate.
Hartigan let her head fall back, lolling numbly against the soldier’s shoulder. Jet planes shrieked overhead and banked over the river, forming an attack column and turning towards the palace. Hartigan blinked, trying to make out the small triangular shapes against the velvet sky, and then the who
le world went black.
Murphy inhaled sharply and rolled on to his stomach. “What took you so long?” he wheezed.
Elliot helped him to his feet. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
“Oh, shut up,” he grumbled.
“Our time’s up,” she said, letting Murphy prop himself against the wall.
“No,” he said. “We have to stop Nikolay.”
“But the elevator’s just there,” Elliot protested, jabbing the air with her thumb.
“Relax. I know where he is.” He started limping along the hallway, turning back to see Elliot clutching her wrist and panting heavily. “You should quit smoking.”
She opened her mouth to speak but the words caught in her throat. Something through the window caught her eye. It was moving low and fast.
She was ten feet away from him. There was nothing she could do.
The first aeroplane dropped its bomb short and it crashed into the square in front of the palace. The explosion shattered the windows on the second floor and threw shards of rock at the walls. The shrapnel crashed into the chandelier behind Murphy, showering him in hot metal, plaster, and crystal.
Elliot was bowled over by the shockwave. Her ears rang and she felt dizzy but she got up and dusted herself off. Murphy was lying on the marble floor. He wasn’t moving.
“Stephen!” She ran over, sliding on her knees and stopping by his side. “Stephen!” she shouted. His eyes were closed and blood was pouring from his scalp. She ran her hands over his body to check for other wounds. “Oh, God, oh, God, be okay. Please be okay.” She held her hands in front of her face: they were covered with his blood. “Stephen, wake up,” she ordered, pinching his ear. She could feel her eyes stinging. “Oh, Stephen, please wake up,” she breathed.
Elliot stood up and reached under his arms, the heels of her boots squeaking on the tiles as she dragged him towards the elevator. Her ribs tightened as if someone were standing on her chest. The tendons in her wrist went taut and she cried out in pain. They fell backwards into the elevator and she wriggled out from underneath him. She slammed the gate and slapped the lever, the cage lurching down towards the shelter.