by Tom Wood
Victor wrapped the sack around Sinclair’s arm and stepped away. Not fast enough to stop the knife cutting him again, but fast enough so that Sinclair stumbled forward under his own exertion. Before he could recover his balance, Victor used the sack wrapped around the arm to swing Sinclair around and into a pile of cement bricks. He tumbled over them but regained control, landing on his feet, charging Victor.
The torn sack struck Sinclair in the face, blinding him long enough for Victor to land a front kick into his chest, propelling him into a temporary wall and knocking a safety sign away from its mounting. Sinclair lashed out with the knife, catching Victor as he followed up with a punch, drawing blood from a shallow cut to his shoulder.
Victor grabbed the knife-holding wrist in one hand and used the other to drive Sinclair back into the wall, trying to impale his skull on metal rods exposed by the dismounted sign, but only gouging the scalp. Blood seeped through his hair and down his neck.
The South African ignored the wound and slammed his knee into Victor’s abdomen, doubling him over, but he whipped his head up as Sinclair tried to wrap an arm around his neck, catching him under the chin with the top of his skull, cracking teeth and stunning him long enough to twist the knife from his fingers and into his own grip.
He attacked, thrusting with the knife, but far too slow to score a hit on the South African. Sinclair spat out blood. “You’ll have to do better than that, sport.”
Victor ignored him, attacking again as Sinclair circled, moving to the left—away from the knife—arms outstretched, hands ready to parry and try to catch hold of Victor, palms turned inward to keep the vulnerable arteries on the insides of his forearms protected.
Sinclair stayed light on his feet, always moving, careful not to present a static target for when his opponent struck. The injured ankle restricted Victor’s movements too much to exploit the weapon in his hand. He couldn’t cover distance fast enough. Sinclair easily outmaneuvered him, scoring with kicks and punches when Victor missed thrusts and slashes. And each blow further weakened and slowed him. He spotted the MP5 in the shadows, but not close enough to risk going for.
“There’s no dishonor in giving up,” Sinclair said as Victor reeled from an elbow to the face. “We both know this is only going to end one way.”
Sinclair was too patient to try anything risky. He didn’t need to. Victor kept attacking because he had no other option, trying feints even though he realized he had neither the speed to trap his enemy nor the strength to overpower him.
A kick to the thigh sent agony detonating through Victor’s leg and he dropped to one knee, slashing with the knife to keep Sinclair from closing the distance.
The South African laughed at him. “Now, this is just cruel. Have some dignity, sport. I promise I’ll make it quick.”
Victor maintained eye contact as he stood.
Sinclair nodded in understanding. “Okay. Have it your way.”
He glanced around, saw where the section of metal pipe rested on the floor a couple of meters away, and scooped it up into his hand. Victor had no choice but to let him. He wasn’t fast enough to intercept.
Sinclair said, “Time to put you out of your misery.”
He approached. The pipe was almost a meter in length, far outranging the knife in Victor’s hand. He knew Sinclair would be every bit as focused as he had been before, picking his moment to exploit his weapon’s better range. One decent strike would be all it took to shatter bone.
So Victor reversed his grip, grasped the point between finger and thumb, and threw the knife.
Sinclair hadn’t been expecting that. He was too focused on his own strategy, not Victor’s; too patient to make the kill.
The blade struck Sinclair in the neck, a little to the left of center, five centimeters above the clavicle. His eyes widened and he stumbled back a step. He didn’t reach for it straightaway. He maintained his defenses. Until the blood pushed out from either side of the blade and rained down his chest.
He knew he was finished but he wasn’t dead yet.
He dropped to one knee and Victor was running, pain fierce in his ankle, because he knew Sinclair was going for a backup pistol in an ankle holster.
Victor dived to the ground and slid, scooping up Sinclair’s MP5 and twisting onto his back. He depressed the trigger. Fire flashed from the muzzle.
Sinclair, pistol out of the holster and rising to aim, took the burst across the torso and shoulders, contorting and flailing and then dropping. The body armor wouldn’t save him this time.
For the briefest of moments Victor felt relief as he lay in the darkness, but then he stood and heard Anderton’s voice behind him say, “Drop the gun.”
Victor didn’t. He pointed it at Anderton. She had stepped out from behind a wall of plastic sheeting. She moved with slow, awkward steps because she had a gun to Gisele’s head.
“I’m sorry,” Gisele said. “She found me.”
He rose to his feet. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
Anderton kept one elbow close to Gisele’s torso so her arm didn’t protrude too far beyond her hostage. Her other hand held Gisele in place as a human shield. Gisele was breathing rapidly but shallowly. Scared, but in control. She was wasted as a lawyer, Victor thought. She had the talent to be an exceptional assassin. Not that he would wish that life on anyone.
“Drop the gun,” Anderton said, still calm and composed.
Victor shook his head. “No.”
Anderton’s eyes were wide in disbelief. “No? This isn’t the time to start kidding around. I’ll kill her.”
“No, you won’t,” Victor said.
“Why not? She’s my hostage. If you don’t do as I say, she’s dead.”
“She’s not your hostage,” Victor said, stepping closer, sights drawing a bead on Anderton’s head. “She’s my hostage.”
Anderton didn’t respond. For a moment, she didn’t know how to, then she said, “I don’t think you appreciate your situation. You’re going to do exactly as I ask, or—”
“You won’t kill her,” Victor said.
“I won’t? You clearly haven’t a clue what I’ll do. You think because I’m a woman I’m not capable of—”
“I know what you’re capable of, Ms. Anderton. But I know exactly what you’ll do. Gisele is my hostage, not yours. Do you know why? Because she’s the only thing that is keeping you alive. If you squeeze that trigger, you will die a second later. So kill her. But make sure you enjoy that last moment of life first.”
Anderton shook her head.
“She’s my hostage,” Victor said. “While she lives, you live. You need to protect her. In fact, you’re the best protector she could ever wish for. You’re a better guardian than me because you’ll do absolutely anything to keep her alive. Because her breaths are the only thing keeping you breathing.”
Anderton shook her head again, but slower, weaker. “I’ll kill her.”
“No, you won’t. You’re not the suicidal type. You’re a survivor. Everything that’s happened has happened because you’ll do anything to survive.”
“Don’t fuck with me.”
“I assure you, that’s the last thing on my mind. We both want the same thing.”
“That’s right,” Anderton said, hissing the words, eyes wide and bright in realization and optimism.
“That’s right,” Victor agreed. “Neither of us wants you to die. Put the gun down. If you keep it pointed at Gisele, then eventually you’ll have no choice but to squeeze that trigger. Do you know how long it takes to do that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Point-three seconds to apply enough pressure and activate the firing pin. My gun has a slightly heavier draw, so it’ll take me point-four seconds to shoot. Unfortunately for you, it’ll take point-nine seconds for you to change your aim. Put your gun down and I won’t shoot. There’s nothing personal between us. All
I want is to keep Gisele safe. You want to live. Lower your weapon. That’s the only way you can survive this. You’re a survivor, so live another day. Drop it, or find yourself in a closed-lid casket.”
Anderton swallowed. Her face was wet with rain but also sweat—panic and fear oozing out of every pore as she realized that she was no longer in control. “I’m going to count to ten.”
“No,” Victor said. “I’m going to count to ten.”
“I was right before. You are insane.”
“That’s a distinct possibility. But it doesn’t change the fact I’m going to give you ten seconds to put the gun down or shoot her. Two choices. First choice: you live. Second: you die. Ready?”
“Wait.”
Victor didn’t wait. “Ten,” he said. “Nine.”
“Stop.”
“Eight.”
“Hold on—”
“Seven.”
“—a fucking second. Let—”
“Six.”
“—me think. You’re—”
“Five.”
“—fucking crazy. I—”
“Four.”
“—will kill this—”
“Three.”
“—bitch.”
“Two.”
Victor could see the white all around Anderton’s irises. She roared in frustration and anger and fear.
“One.”
“Okay. You win. You’re insane enough to actually do this, aren’t you?” She threw the pistol to the ground. “I’ve survived this far. You’re right; I’m not dying for this girl. Not today. Not ever.”
“Good choice,” Victor said, the MP5 still aimed at her skull.
“You promised not to shoot me,” Anderton reminded him.
“I did.” Victor dropped the submachine gun. “And I’m a man of my word. Now let her go.”
Anderton nodded, then released Gisele. She let out a massive breath and staggered toward Victor, legs weak from the overload of adrenaline. She was crying.
Anderton backed away. “I hope you understand that this isn’t over.”
“It is,” Victor said. “You just don’t realize it yet.”
She disappeared back where she’d come from and Victor heard her sprinting away and sirens somewhere on the street above them. He held Gisele’s head to his chest and gave her a moment to let her emotions out. The sirens grew louder and the rain heavier. She stared up at him. He saw her brow furrow in the way it always did when she was working up the courage to ask him something.
“Why . . . why didn’t you shoot her?”
Victor retrieved the MP5 from the floor and held it in one hand to push the muzzle against his temple. Gisele’s eyes widened in panic and she reached out to stop him.
He squeezed the trigger.
Click.
“What with?” he asked.
Aftermath
London, United Kingdom
Chapter 80
Frost and mist covered the common. The short grass was frozen into a crystalline white carpet that cracked and crunched with each footstep. Victor disliked the sound. Too much like nails on a blackboard. Nearby, Canada geese didn’t seem to care. A flock was gathered on and around a duck pond, making their distinctive honking noises at the swans and ducks that also used it. His breath clouded. Despite the cold, he wore sunglasses to filter out the glare of a bright sun. Joggers and dog walkers passed on a path that cut across the heath. Victor stood far enough away that he could not make out either Norimov’s face or Gisele’s.
They sat together on one of the benches overlooking the pond. From this distance he couldn’t read their lips, but he wouldn’t have even if he’d been standing closer. He respected their privacy. He didn’t know much about family relationships, but he knew enough to understand they had a lot to work out.
He stayed on stag until finally Gisele stood and began walking away. Victor caught up with her.
“You can give that a rest, you know,” she said.
“Not until it’s over.”
She rolled her eyes. “It will be. I’ve got her by the balls over this business in Afghanistan. If she has any sense she’ll make a run for it. The rest of my firm knows all about the case now. Lester, bless him, was doing it pro bono without their knowledge. Aziz is going to have his conviction quashed, and then she’s screwed. It’s only a matter of time before she goes down.”
“When she does, I’ll give it a rest.”
They walked some more. She said, “How’s the ankle?”
“Getting better. Slowly.”
“I’m glad. What are you going to do when Anderton is out of the picture?”
“What I always do: disappear.”
“What . . . for good?”
He nodded.
“But you don’t have to. The police aren’t after you. They’re after her.”
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s better for everyone that I go.”
“But you saved my life. Several times. And I still don’t know you. I want to rectify that. I figure you’re a little more personable when we’re not being chased.”
“No good will come of it, Gisele.”
She said, “Why don’t you let me decide if that’s true? My mother liked you, after all.”
“Because she didn’t know me. You know more about the real me than she ever did.”
“And I want to know more. You’ve done so much for me. At least let me buy you a coffee, or something.”
“No,” Victor said. “If you’re in my life then you’ll never be safe. I won’t do that to you.”
“So, that’s it? Once Anderton is behind bars, I’m never going to see you again?”
“That’s the way it has to be.”
“I don’t believe that’s true. I think what you’re really trying to say is that you don’t want to see me.”
He didn’t respond.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve never given a shit about me, have you? You did this for my mother, not for me. And now you’re going to go because you’ve done your job and that’s it for you. All done and dusted. Over. The End. Yes?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
She exhaled through her nostrils, lips locked, jaw flexed. “Fine,” she said. “Fuck off, then.” When he didn’t immediately move, she said, “What the fuck are you waiting for? Go. Go.”
He turned around and walked away.
Anger instead of pain. The better way.
Chapter 81
Marcus Lambert sat in one of the luxurious leather seats in the passenger compartment of his Gulfstream jet. Opposite him sat Anderton. He regarded her with an even expression while she said her piece.
“In a way I admire him,” she was saying. “Whatever his name is. He found the girl under our noses and kept her alive despite our best efforts. That kind of guile is rare. God, I wish we’d had him on our team back in Helmand. Can you imagine it?”
“Admire,” he repeated.
“Yes, admire. But he still needs to be taken care of. As does the girl. Marcus, I need another team. I need a larger team this time. I need more resources. Boots on the ground and guns aren’t enough. It’s not too late to fix this.”
Marcus poured himself a neat Belvedere on the rocks.
“Well?” Anderton said.
He sipped the vodka. It tasted no different from any other kind of vodka, but appearances mattered more to him than enjoyment. He’d worked too hard not to sample the best. He’d worked too hard to throw it all away.
“No,” he answered. “The answer is no. No more men. No resources. It’s time to abort and bow out.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s over, Nieve. Even if you kill them both, that’s yet another crime to keep buried. You can’t have shootouts in the middle of London and expe
ct to stay hidden. That’s tantamount to lunacy. You said you would take care of this. Instead you’ve quadrupled our exposure.”
“I’m taking care of it.”
“Like we took care of it in Helmand? And now look where we are. We couldn’t keep the murder of one British intelligence officer suitably quiet. It still came back to haunt us. I think your unnamed assassin has proved he will not go down without a fight. That’s even more exposure. It’s time to cut our losses and take a trip to a nonextradition country.”
Anderton laughed. She actually laughed. That’s how delusional she had become, Marcus thought. She said, “Don’t be so cowardly, Marcus. This is far from a lost cause. It’s out in the open, yes, I admit that. But proof is such an abstract concept and I refuse to accept defeat until I’m in chains. By the time this is over I’ll have them branded as terrorists. And when terrorists are shot, there will of course be media attention and so on, but ultimately it will come out that Gisele is the daughter of a Russian mobster and the mystery man . . . well, we can create whatever narrative we like for him. Throw in a bit of the Official Secrets Act, and there’ll be no loose threads to pick. Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” Marcus said, thinking I don’t. “But there comes a time when the cost of victory is too great. This is a battle that cannot be won cleanly. Better to fight it another day. In court, if necessary. But not on the street. Not with bullets. We must be reasonable. We must not let our emotions rule us.”
Anderton was shaking when she said, “No, Marcus. It’s far too late to keep this clean. But we have to finish it. There’s no other option.”
Marcus sighed, then nodded. There was no arguing with the woman. All he could do now was go along with Anderton and cover his own ass as much as possible. There were few things he’d like better than to put a bullet in the stupid girl who had created this shit storm, but he wasn’t going to do anything that might get himself killed in the process. The job was compromised. The truth would come out. It was only a matter of time.