by Tom Wood
The Russian grimaced, then roared, lifting him off the ground by his neck and slamming him into the car’s bodywork, but Victor didn’t release Yigor’s hair or lessen the pressure on his eye. Yigor slammed Victor down again harder, then, having no other option to avoid losing his eye, snapped his hands free to tear away Victor’s own.
An anticipated move and Victor was already acting, kicking Yigor in the sternum and propelling him backward a few steps. It exhausted Victor to do so. He gasped and coughed, weakened by the strangulation.
He was still fast enough to block the first punch, but not the second. Victor’s vision darkened. His head swam. He almost didn’t see the next one. He jerked his head to the side, slipping it—just—with Yigor’s thumb scraping across his ear before the fist smashed into the edge of the car’s roof where it met the driver’s door.
He howled and jumped back, letting Victor slide along the bodywork and out of range, sagging from the effects of the punch and oxygen deprivation.
The Russian clutched at his broken fist and snarled in pain and rage because he knew he was beaten with his dominant hand now useless, no matter how temporarily weakened Victor was. He came forward anyway, turning sideways, ready to fight to the end with only his left hand.
“Stop,” Gisele shouted.
She was out of the car and looking at Yigor, holding the pistol Victor had given to her in shaking hands. The Russian faced her, good hand rising, passive. Victor blinked, trying to put the world back in focus.
“No . . .” he managed, because he saw what was going to happen.
Yigor shuffled toward Gisele, hand still raised. By the time she realized he wasn’t surrendering it was too late. He tore the gun from her hand and aimed it at Victor.
The Russian said, “I win.”
Chapter 65
Yigor held the gun in his left hand because the right had to be broken in more than a dozen places. It hung uselessly at his side, bloody and swollen. He used the gun to usher Gisele and Victor together and then over to his car.
“Why are you doing this?” Gisele asked.
Yigor said, “I want money. I sell you both and make all the money.”
He walked a couple of meters behind Victor and Gisele. It was the textbook distance in such circumstances—too far for the captives to turn and take their captor by surprise, but close enough for the captor to respond should his captives try to escape. At that range, no one missed, even someone shooting with his nondominant hand. Only amateurs pushed a muzzle into someone’s back, and even an amateur could turn around fast enough to disarm someone who did. Yigor was no professional in Victor’s sense of the word, but he wasn’t stupid, and, more than that, he was afraid of Victor. That was unusual. Victor’s manner was carefully constructed to appear nonthreatening. Such a disguise of normalcy meant enemies were apt to underestimate him. That wouldn’t happen here. Yigor’s battered face and broken hand were painful reminders not to drop his guard.
Gravel crunched underfoot. Victor stopped when he reached the Fiat. He saw Yigor’s reflection in the window glass and Gisele next to him.
“Open the door and get behind the wheel,” Yigor said.
Victor stood still.
“No stalling. Just do it. Or I kill you both now.”
“Then you won’t get paid,” Victor said.
“You want to find out? No, you don’t. You want to keep alive long as you can. So open door.”
There was no option but to obey. If there had been, Victor would already be acting. Driving the car was something he did not want to do. In the back he had a number of workable plans of action he could implement. But Yigor wasn’t stupid.
Yigor waited two meters away with a clean line of sight. Even if Victor had a key he couldn’t get the engine started and accelerate fast enough to avoid Yigor’s shot from such a short distance. A guaranteed hit for anyone even remotely competent with a sidearm. A guaranteed kill shot for someone like Yigor, even left-handed. Victor couldn’t risk it. He couldn’t allow Gisele to be alone.
He opened the driver’s door and climbed in.
“Seat belt?” he asked as he pulled up the lever to edge the seat forward a couple of notches.
Yigor hesitated because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. There were pros and cons. Seat belt on meant Victor was bound to his seat, preventing sudden movement, but gave him a far better chance of surviving a deliberate crash. Off meant he couldn’t risk any reckless driving but provided freedom of movement to try something else. It was a difficult choice. Which was why Victor had asked Yigor to make the decision for him, because the answer would reveal more about Yigor’s thought processes than was smart to let an enemy like Victor know.
“No belts.”
Victor nodded.
Yigor pointed the pistol at Gisele. “Get in the passenger’s seat or I shoot your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“And he never will be.”
She did. Then Yigor climbed into the back, sitting directly behind the driver’s seat. It was the best place for a captor to sit in these circumstances. The Russian pulled the door shut behind him.
“Don’t forget I have gun,” he said. “Try anything and you will be shot. Maybe I don’t get paid all the money, but that’s life. But not for you. You’ll be dead. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t forget.”
“That’s good. You fight pretty well for a little man. I cannot lie. You hurt me. But I hurt you more, yes?”
“Tell that to your hand.”
Yigor frowned. “I only need one to pull trigger.”
“Don’t do this,” Gisele pleaded. “Alek will pay you.”
Yigor laughed. “Norimov has no money. He’s the poor man. Why you think I work against him all this time? She pay me plenty money to tell her about warehouse. She will pay even more for you two. I sorry, Gisele. You nice girl, but money is money.” He gestured at Victor with the gun. “Now, you in front: drive car. Remember this gun. Do anything I don’t first tell you to do, or try acting the crazy, and bang-bang in your back. Maybe I get lucky and you don’t die. Maybe you become the cripple. Then you can watch me hurt the girl before I hand her over. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you? I’m pretty good at making people hurt. And you know what? I like doing it.”
“A shocking revelation,” Victor said. “You’ll be telling me next you have trouble forming meaningful relationships.”
“Relationships are for the pussies. Now start engine.” He dropped the keys over Victor’s left shoulder. “Keep thinking of the gun at your back, okay, Mr. Smart Mouth?”
Victor inserted the key and started the engine. “Where are we going?”
“To the warehouse.”
“What for?”
“To wait. Nice and quiet there, yes?”
“I don’t know the way from here.”
“You stupid. I’ll be the guide.”
“Thank you.”
Yigor laughed. “Nice try, my friend. I see what you want to do. You think if you are Mr. Polite, then I will be nice to you. You think maybe I will let you both go? You are the funny man. You a coward. I don’t know why Norimov thought you could help. Look how you ended up.”
“Manners cost nothing.”
“Drive, Mr. Dead Man.”
Victor did. Gisele kept her gaze on the road ahead. Her eyes were wide and full of fear. He wanted to say something to reassure her, but kind words were not his forte and he respected her too much to placate her now.
Yigor said, “And so you are knowing, if you try crashing car, then you will be the one who hurts. I’m not wearing the belt back here. So you stop fast and I use you as my air bag. Crunch. You’ll be flat like a worm. And me? I’ll laugh. Maybe do it anyway. I want to see what you look like after I crush you.”
“I’ll pass, if it’s all the s
ame to you,” Victor said.
Yigor laughed. “I like that you are the Mr. Funny Man even when you are in the biggest trouble. You won’t be so Mr. Funny Man soon, yes?”
Victor remained silent.
“Please, Yigor,” Gisele said. “Let us go. Please.”
He growled and raised the gun as if to pistol-whip her. “Keep silent or I hurt you.”
She recoiled.
“Do as he says,” Victor said.
“Yes, listen to your boyfriend the hero. But not a very good hero, yes? When I was little long time ago I wanted to be the hero like in the movies. What about you?”
Victor said, “Me too.”
“But now I am the bad man. Same as you. Sometimes I wonder why that happened. Do you?”
“All the time,” Victor said.
“Makes me sad, tell the truth,” Yigor said. “Messes with my head. But too late now to be good. You know what I tell myself, make myself feel better?”
“What do you tell yourself?”
“Fuck it,” Yigor said with a laugh. “That’s what I say. Kids, they know shit. I knew shit. If I known you make the money being bad I would have wanted to be bad. But you, you’ve been bad, but it’s good you helped Norimov. So you been bad but die as good. Nice shit, yes?”
“Beautifully put.”
“Maybe I write poem about it.”
Victor continued driving. Yigor called out directions, guiding Victor through the urban streets. Gisele didn’t speak. The hands of the analog dashboard clock ticked around. Five minutes passed, then ten.
“Next right,” Yigor said.
Victor slowed and indicated. “You realize they’ll kill you when you hand us over, don’t you?”
“Tell me: why do you bother? I know they won’t. They want the girl and now they want you. They don’t want me. I make the money because I help them. You should have helped them too.”
“Dmitri’s dead. So are the others. Gisele and I will be next. Do you really think you’ll be the only one who walks away from this?”
Yigor stayed quiet.
“You’re a dead man, Yigor,” Victor said. “And you’re too stupid to see it.”
The Russian’s lips were pressed together and his nostrils flared with each angry breath.
Victor laughed and laughed.
“Hey,” Yigor said, “you missed the damn turn.”
Victor glanced back. “I’ll take the next one.”
“No, you fucked up. Turn the car around.”
“The road is too narrow.”
“Then back up.”
Victor slowed to a stop and put the gear into reverse. “Watch the road for me.”
Yigor laughed. “You keep trying, don’t you, Mr. Funny Man? I keep my eyes on you all the time. Use your mirrors.”
Victor pushed his foot down on the accelerator. Five miles per hour. Then ten.
“What’s with the hurry?” Yigor asked.
“I’m bored of waiting,” Victor answered.
Fifteen miles per hour. Gisele looked at him. At first in surprise, which quickly began to warp into understanding. Twenty miles per hour.
Yigor frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Do you remember what you said before, Yigor? About the air bag?”
The Russians eyes widened in confusion, then fear when he realized how fast they were going. “Stop the car. Now.”
Victor did. He released his foot from the accelerator and slammed the brake pedal and wrenched up the hand brake. But before he did that, he pulled up the lever to adjust his seat, and kept hold.
The car came to a stop within two seconds. But the unlocked driver’s seat was still moving backward, only stopping when it slammed its weight and Victor’s directly into Yigor’s shins.
Chapter 66
The car rocked back and forth on its suspension for a moment. Victor grimaced from the whiplash. His chest felt a little sore. Gisele hadn’t been wearing her belt and was now unconscious and slumped in her seat. Yigor had come off worse. Far worse. Both shins had snapped. His knees were broken. Even his ankles were broken.
He groaned instead of screamed because the adrenaline in his system was negating the pain. Otherwise he would be unconscious like Gisele. It was one of the benefits of shock, but the disadvantages were going to be as costly for a man in Yigor’s position. He didn’t try to retrieve the gun that had flown from his hand in the sudden stop.
“What the fuck?” he managed to grunt, looking down at the wreckage of his legs.
Victor unclasped the seat belt and examined Gisele. She’d hit her head and was out cold but breathing well. He climbed out of the car. They were on a quiet road that cut between factories. No other vehicles. No people. No witnesses.
He circled the car and opened the far rear door. Yigor stared at him. White showed all around his pupils. Sweat shone on his paling face. Victor ignored him and fished in the foot well until he found Yigor’s gun under the passenger’s seat. There was nowhere else it could have gone.
“Wait,” Yigor said.
Victor closed the door. He circled back around the vehicle. Yigor’s gun was a .45-caliber Colt 1911.
He opened the door next to Yigor.
“Wait,” the Russian said again, this time through gritted teeth because he was shaking off the shock and now the agony of multiple fractures was intensifying with every passing second.
“Please,” Yigor begged. Rivulets of sweat ran down from his temples. “No shoot me. Please.”
“Give me your knife,” Victor said. “Grip first.”
Yigor’s trembling fingers took it from his pocket. He struggled to turn it around in his hand and presented the grip to Victor by holding the blade. Victor took it in his left hand and tossed it away.
“Phone.”
Yigor tried to pull it from his hip pocket, but screamed as he increased the pressure of his trousers against his injured legs in the process. He tugged his hand away and took a series of breaths as he fought to control the pain. Tears joined the sweat on his face.
Victor said, “Either you get it or I do.”
Yigor hesitated, then tried a second time. He screamed again, but this time he didn’t stop. He kept screaming until the phone was free. He didn’t have the strength to hold it up, so Victor reached inside the car to take it out of his hand; he was too weak to try anything.
“Who is the woman?”
“I not know her name. We speak on phone only.”
Victor looked through the call log. Between the most recent calls to Victor’s phone and a call to Norimov, was another number.
“Is this her?” Victor asked.
Yigor nodded. “I sorry,” he said, sobbing. “For everything. I got greedy. I should have said no to taking photo.”
“You took the photograph of Norimov coming out of the restaurant?”
“Yes. I make threat. But not easy turning on Norimov. I had to think about it first. Not easy saying yes. I so sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” Victor said. “But I’m still going to kill you.”
“No,” Yigor spat. “You need me. I can call and help fix things, yes? You need me.”
“I only need you to die.”
“Then shoot. I care not.”
“Unfortunately for you, your gun doesn’t have many bullets.”
Yigor frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened when Victor turned the pistol around so he held it by the barrel, steel grip protruding beyond his knuckles like the head of a hammer.
• • •
Gisele had woken up by the time Victor had driven the Fiat back to the wasteland, gently lifted her from the passenger’s seat, and placed her in Yigor’s rented Subaru.
“Holy shit,” Gisele breathed, groggy and disorientated. “My head is killing me.”
Victor squatted down so he was at her level. He took her head in his palms and peered into her eyes.
“Do you know where you are?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Hell.”
“Follow my finger with your eyes.” He moved his index finger laterally and then in circular motions. “Do you feel sick or does anything else hurt apart from your head?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” Victor assured her. “You don’t have a concussion.”
“What happened?”
“Yigor’s dead. You don’t want to know any more than that.”
She inhaled deeply and nodded. “Okay, what happens now?”
Victor said, “This is what we’re going to do . . .”
Chapter 67
They took the Docklands Light Railway into the city, disembarking the train and making their way out of the station and into the heart of the city’s financial district, the Square Mile. The streets were alive with men and women in business wear and heavy winter coats, sipping from take-out coffee cups or on the move, eager to get home after a day’s trading, borrowing, stealing.
With Gisele at his side and a limited time frame, Victor couldn’t perform the kind of thorough countersurveillance run he would have liked, but he circled his destination at a circumference of four blocks, spiraling inward as he analyzed the environs. It was an area of historic office buildings, ornate and beautiful. Bars, cafés, and eateries flanked the streets at ground level to sustain and entertain the workers.
The sun had retreated behind the horizon but the numerous lights from streetlights, headlights, and shining through windows and from signs meant he had no trouble checking every face and vehicle he saw. Victor bought a black coffee from a street vendor and sipped it as he walked slowly against the flow of pedestrians. Gisele declined one.
The air smelled as dirty as the sky appeared. Here, Victor looked like everyone else and Gisele stood out in the sweatshirt and hat, but she didn’t look like the employee of a law firm and that was the important factor. As they approached their destination, Victor slowed their pace and took his time, searching for danger spots and anyone who could be a threat. He saw no one, but they couldn’t yet risk getting too close to the building housing Gisele’s workplace. If they were watching, they would be near the building, ready to act. Her disguise wouldn’t fool them there.