The Berlin Conspiracy (The Division Book 4)

by Angus McLean

  He headed into the first alleyway, keeping wide against the wall just in case. It seemed to be a service lane for the neighbouring businesses and a thoroughfare for pedestrians, but aside from a few rubbish bins and a stack of broken plastic pallets, it was deserted.

  Archer paused a moment by the pallets, seeking a weapon. The pallets were all cracked and broken and he spotted one that looked like it had been run over by a delivery truck. Shards of broken plastic jutted out at all angles. He twisted a narrow piece off and tucked it up his sleeve. It was rough and jagged and would do as a makeshift shiv.

  He moved on to the next alley, realising it was actually a cobbled backyard between a couple of businesses. Large steel gates were open right now, presumably shut later to deter thieves. Multiple doors led off the yard and he saw no sign of Semenov’s heavy. Glancing down at the twin gates, folded back to the sides like bat wings, he saw a pair of boots behind each one.

  Not so clever.

  Archer could see the left gate was up against the rear concrete wall of the building fronting the street, while the right gate was a good couple of metres away from the brick wall that formed the side of the service lane.

  He took a short run and threw his weight against the left gate, slamming it against whoever was behind it, and that person against the concrete wall. There was a grunt and he grabbed the edge of the gate, yanked it back and slammed it again against the unseen ambusher.

  He spun back, hearing the squeak of tired hinges and the scuff of boots on cobbles as the guy from the behind the right hand gate made himself known. The gate was swinging at him, fast, and he just managed to dodge it as the guy came at him.

  He was short and stocky, a bulldog in a black leather jacket, and he had an extended ASP baton in his grip.

  Archer stepped round a big swing, stepped again, and landed a front kick to the guy’s thigh that knocked him back. A scuff behind him and he half turned, ducking, the left gate swinging past him, the guy he’d squashed behind it now emerging. Blood ran from a previously-broken nose and the guy was pissed. Tall, broad and stubbly, with a matching black leather jacket. Maybe they all shopped together. The thugs that shop together, stay together.

  This guy didn’t bother with the ASP in his hand, keeping it closed while he charged in, swinging fists the size of pumpkins.

  Archer backed up rapidly, ducking and weaving, knowing that one of those hits would sit him on his arse and then he’d really be in trouble. The shorter guy flanked him, grinning now he had some back-up, the ASP cocked over his shoulder ready to go. Archer spotted movement out of the corner of his eye, seeing Semenov’s heavy step out of a doorway, his game face on. A flick knife clicked open in his paw.

  The big guy wasn’t too mobile but Archer had to keep his distance. He stumbled over a discarded box, hopping to his left to get his balance, which brought him closer to the shorter guy.

  ‘Mr Balls,’ Semenov’s heavy growled, ‘I told you we would meet again.’

  Archer kept his gaze on the other two who were closer to him, with his hands up in a defensive position. He circled further left, the shorter guy backing off slightly as he tried to line up a shot with the ASP.

  The other two chuckled, enjoying their leader’s jibe. He was clearly quite the card, and probably the brains of the outfit.

  ‘You didn’t actually,’ Archer countered, ‘but here we are anyway.’

  ‘Huh?’

  The shorter guy went for a head strike with the ASP while the heavy tried to compute what Archer had just said. Archer weaved back, slapped it aside and got him with a solid left jab to the ribs before the guy got out of range.

  ‘You didn’t say that,’ Archer told him, watching the big guy shuffling in, his big mitts up, blood still trickling down his chin. ‘You’re just pretending you did so these two jerk-offs will think you’re cool. Trying to appear superior doesn’t actually make you superior.’ He risked a look at the guy and gave him a cheeky smirk. ‘See, if you were smarter, you’d know that. And you’d know that this whole scene here is a really, really bad idea.’

  The heavy scowled, hearing him but not quite getting it. ‘Three on one, Mr Balls,’ he rasped. ‘I think you fucked.’

  ‘Well clearly you do,’ Archer said, his tone that of an exasperated teacher with a particularly slow child, ‘but that’s because you’re not thinking.’

  The three thugs all looked at each other. The tall guy smirked first, then the shorter guy. The heavy didn’t like it that they were amused.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he growled. ‘You some kinda tough guy, Mr Balls?’

  Archer gave a modest shrug, still shuffling round in the circle with the other two, nobody quite ready to make a real move yet. ‘I’m nothing special,’ he said. ‘But I was in the Army for a bit. You ever hear of the SAS?’

  The heavy sneered at him and made the wanker gesture again. ‘SAS,’ he sneered. ‘Saturdays and Sundays?’

  ‘Close,’ Archer said, edging slightly forward, keeping the conversation going. If these clowns were listening, they probably weren’t watching. ‘It’s not what you think, you see. People think it’s the Special Air Service, but it’s not.’

  ‘Sausage and Salami?’ the heavy tried. ‘Slip and Slide?’

  The other two chuckled again. He was on a roll now. That was good. The shuffling circle continued moving, Archer tightening it up a little now, getting to about seven o’clock to the heavy’s twelve.

  ‘That’s good,’ Archer said, smirking at him again, ‘there are some big words there. Well done.’

  The heavy scowled.

  ‘No, see, what it really means is speed, aggression and SURPRISE!’

  The last word he bellowed as he leaped forward, loud enough to startle the big guy who was directly in front of him. Archer landed a front kick straight to the family jewels, danced back, ducked the shorter guy’s swinging ASP and grabbed the arm that came with it, twisted, wrenched the wrist to drop the baton, got a hand to the guy’s tricep and locked the elbow back straight.

  He levered hard, hyper-extending the elbow and swinging, propelling the shorter guy into the taller guy, who must’ve had balls of steel because he was barely fazed by the kick.

  As they crashed into each other, Archer scooped up the dropped baton and lashed out at the closest target, landing a solid strike across the shorter guy’s lower back. He howled and clutched at himself even as his mate was throwing him aside to get to Archer.

  Archer dodged left, ducking behind the shorter guy who was staggering as he tried to keep his feet, using him as a shield from the big guy. The big guy knocked his mate aside now with a sweeping arm and Archer ducked his next strike, lashing out with the ASP, low and brutal. The steel baton cracked the guy across the knee, the guy’s huge left mitt clubbed Archer across the shoulder and knocked him sideways, and the shorter guy fell against the wall.

  The big guy growled, snorted, and lined up Archer for his next go. He took a step forward, the knee folded under him with a sickening crunch of smashed cartilage, and he fell awkwardly on his side, grabbing at his shattered knee.

  Archer stepped in again, slammed him across the side of the neck with the tip of the ASP with his full weight, and stooped to grab the big guy’s fallen ASP. From the corner of his eye he saw both the heavy and the shorter guy moving in, side by side.

  He snatched hold of the unopened ASP and hurled it backhand at the heavy. Despite the foam grip, the unopened baton was solid and heavy, and it smashed straight into the heavy’s chest with a dull thud. He gasped and stopped still, winded, gaping like a fish. Archer spun, dropped to his hands as if to do a press up, and launched both feet up and back in a surprise kick to the shorter guy’s gut. He was propelled back into the brick wall, and Archer leaped to his feet, snatching up the extended ASP again.

  The shorter guy was reaching inside his jacket, trying to get his hands on a weapon, and the heavy was sucking in air as he readied himself again.

  Time to stop fucking around.


  Archer flicked the baton into his left hand, and belted the shorter guy across his left elbow with a vicious backhand strike. He heard a bone crack and the guy’s face went white. It wasn’t enough – he could still use his right hand.

  The heavy didn’t even see the strike coming, but he certainly felt it. The shaft of the ASP took him flat across the left side of his neck, swept through and came back. The return strike cracked him across his right arm, causing him to drop the flick knife.

  The shorter guy was in the dreaded No Man’s Land of wanting to fight, knowing he had to, but being in so much pain his body was ignoring his brain’s signals. He was still weakly trying to grab at his concealed weapon. Archer stepped back, lined him up, and slammed the butt of the baton into his right temple. It was lights out and the guy slid down the wall, collapsing in a heap.

  The heavy was almost at Archer now, pistol in his hand, his face sweaty with pain but looking determined. Archer saw the big guy behind him and to the left, drawing a weapon from under his jacket, the pistol almost clear now. He flicked the baton like a throwing knife, spinning through the air end over end before it smacked into the big guy’s forehead and knocked him back flat.

  The heavy was right there now, just a metre away, the pistol coming round, and Archer had no time. He hit him in the face, bent knuckles under the fulcrum, driving the nose up and back, getting some space. The plastic shiv dropped into his palm and he rammed it forward into the soft flesh of the man’s throat. The heavy gasped, gurgled and jerked. He dropped the pistol, grabbing for his throat.

  Archer twisted the shiv and yanked it out, warm blood flooding over his hand. He gave the heavy a hard push in the chest, knocking him backwards. The man stumbled, fell on his arse and flopped down. His eyes were wide and blood was pissing out the ragged hole in his throat.

  Leaving him, Archer checked the other two. The shorter guy was starting to stir and the big guy was moaning, half conscious. Archer went back to the heavy, ignoring the other two for now, and quickly frisked him. He found his cash and recovered it, along with a plain brown envelope that contained the passport. He took the guy’s phone and wallet too, for good measure.

  Turning to the other two, Archer saw the shorter guy as the main threat right now, being conscious and still armed with a pistol. He took a step forward, booted the guy under the chin and knocked him out cold again. The bigger guy was conscious enough to still have fighting instincts, but was too out of it to follow through. Archer kicked his gun away and left him there. He doubted the big guy would ever walk properly again. There was no need to kill him.

  Archer grabbed up the big guy’s pistol, a worn Browning High Power, and tucked it into the back of his waistband.

  He scanned the yard once more. No immediate threats left behind, nothing belonging to him, and hopefully nobody had seen it. No guarantees of that, though.

  He stepped through the gates, keeping his head down, and walked away.

  Chapter 23

  By the time Archer got to the apartment block it was early evening and the scene had changed again. Workers were heading home from the city, the joggers and walkers had emerged and the streets were busy.

  The junkies and whores were still hanging around the basement garage, more or less the same faces as before. As Archer cut through the garage he could see a bloke back-on, standing with both hands braced against a wall in the shadows. One of the girls was on her knees dealing to him.

  Another young guy was furtively making an exchange with a guy and a girl, equally as young but slightly better dressed. They glanced at Archer but continued anyway, cash changing hands for a tiny snaplock bag.

  Modesty and discretion were obviously foreign concepts around here. Archer continued walking, ignoring the activities in the jungle. He didn’t see the leader but could feel his eyes. The guy would be like a shark, always moving and watching, sniffing out bait and ready to attack. He was the one to watch.

  The crew that hung round the front of the block were still there, kicking a football around with about as much enthusiasm as a nun at a Black Sabbath gig.

  Archer took the stairs to the fourth floor, passing a couple of residents and stepping over a dero who was slumped against the wall with his legs sprawled out, blazing on a skinny joint that smelt more chemical than herbal.

  He rapped on the door of apartment 31 and stood back, letting his face be seen. He was desperately hoping that Semenov was still there, but he somehow doubted it. It seemed unlikely for him to be at his place of business without his muscle around.

  He rapped again. Nothing moved. He tried the door handle and leaned into it. The door was as solid as a vault.

  Fuck it. He’d missed the window of opportunity. Semenov was gone.

  Archer felt his heart start to race, panic surging up inside him, threatening to overflow. Fuck fuck fuck! The one lead they had to get to the mystery man and he’d blown it!

  His hands started to tremble and he took an involuntary step backwards. It was all crumbling down around his ears and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do about it. Without getting his hands on Semenov, there was sure to be another major terrorist attack, only this time it would succeed. The local intelligence services could find him, no doubt, but by then it would be too late.

  Scores of innocents would be dead and maimed, and all because Archer had let his ego rule his head. Rather than tangling with the three heavies, he should have scarpered straight back here and dealt with Semenov face to face. Instead, he’d wasted over an hour and now faced a crippling failure.

  He could hear his blood rushing in his ears and his chest felt tight, threatening to crush his lungs.

  Sonofabitch!

  He turned on his heel abruptly and stalked away, his jaw so tight he could feel his teeth grinding hard against each other. He bounded down the steps, his mind racing, searching desperately for an answer, a way out of this fucking mess. It felt like trying to plug the holes in the Titanic with a napkin. The fucker was going down fast, and he was going with it.

  The dero he’d passed earlier had finished his joint and was trying to get to his feet. He saw Archer descending towards him and stretched out a hand, palm up, pleading for something in words Archer didn’t understand and didn’t want to hear.

  ‘No,’ was the best he could muster right now.

  The dero tried to grab at him as Archer came level, and Archer slapped his hand away angrily, moving past. The dero swore and spat at him, a gob of saliva splatting on Archer’s sleeve. In a split second Archer had whirled, lunged forward and grabbed the dero by the front of his stained coat, his right fist hurtling towards the dero’s unshaven, sunken face.

  At the last moment something snapped in Archer’s brain and he stopped, his fist a centimetre from the dero’s nose, balled and tight and trembling with rage. He sucked in a short breath through pinched lips, eyeball to eyeball with the dero. The guy stank of BO and weed and fear. They hung there for a long moment, one man struggling not to wet himself, the other struggling to contain the rage that wanted to erupt from inside him. Nothing would have given him more satisfaction right then than to unload on that poor, sad, broken man.

  He pushed away, the dero putting his hands up defensively and cowering back against the cold brick wall as if it were shelter from the unhinged man before him.

  Archer straightened, uncurled his fists, and turned away. He sucked in a breath, fighting to get a grip of himself and move on. Panicking solved nothing.

  He continued down the stairs, slower now, getting his head together. The more he thought about it, all was not lost. Yet.

  The basement garage was almost completely dark now, the light bulbs long gone – either smashed or redeployed as drug utensils. The hangabouts were still hanging about, although it seemed a couple of them had drifted off, presumably servicing clients.

  Archer walked into the shadows and stopped. He stood still, listening. Waiting.

  It took several long moments, but eventually he heard moveme
nt. Grit crunching under a shoe, the rustle of clothing. The shark was circling, assessing the bait. Archer couldn’t see him yet, but sensed his presence, a few metres away to the right. He could hear him breathing.

  The young guy said something in Czech, his tone soft.

  ‘English,’ Archer said.

  The guy got the message. ‘You want something?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What d’you want?’ The shark moved forward, materialising out of the shadows. He wore a scruffy old blue denim jacket today, dotted with various badges. His greasy hair hung limply to his shoulders.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ Archer countered. He needed the guy closer. He didn’t fancy a foot chase through this place, not knowing where the fuck he was going or who was waiting there.

  The guy shrugged. ‘Some smoke. Girls.’ He looked Archer up and down. ‘Boys.’

  Archer flicked his eyebrows. ‘A girl.’

  ‘You like young?’ The guy had no facial expression at all. It was like his soul had eroded and all that was left was a talking shell. ‘Tweeny?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Archer shrugged. ‘How much?’

  The shark rattled off a shopping list of services and matching prices that made Archer’s gut churn. He struggled to keep the feeling of revulsion from showing in his face, and was grateful for the dark.

  He reached into his pocket, took out a fold of notes, and began to thumb through them. The shark automatically stepped forward, ready to close the deal. Archer’s right hand shot out, knuckles folded, and slammed him straight in the Adam’s apple.

  The shark let out a strangled gasp and both hands went straight to his throat, his eyes bulging with terror. Archer rammed the cash back into his pocket, swept the guy’s legs from under him, and dropped him to the ground.

  Despite the blitz attack, the guy had enough willpower to scrabble under his jacket for his weapon.

  Archer seized the gun hand, ripped it towards himself to straighten the arm and locked the hand forward like the neck of a crane. The shark squealed in pain and tried to push up off the ground. A second later Archer had drawn the pilfered Browning and jammed the muzzle against the guy’s left eye. He thumbed the hammer back with a loud click and the guy froze.