Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  Forty seconds since the spies had sounded the alarm.

  He climbed fast, hauling himself up to the platform and then vaulting up the stairs to the next platform. The rusted steel gratings rattled and jolted with every step. A week ago he would have been blowing hard and literally sweating out the booze. But now Porter moved with speed and determination. He still had it. He could feel his muscles pumping, the old strength coming back. Back in Spain, he thought he’d lost it for good. He’d fucked up, and the team had nearly lost Deeds as a result. But now he felt strong. It felt good to be back in the game.

  He pounded up the last staircase and reached the top platform with Bald a few metres behind. Porter pulled himself up the low ledge leading to the flat rooftop. He sprinted across the rooftop and headed towards the eastern side of the building. Fifty seconds now. Porter could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he raced towards the ledge twenty metres away. Sixty seconds. He hit the far ledge and looked down, scanning the balconies below. He spotted the one leading to the Serbs’ penthouse. It was on the eastern corner of the block, on the top floor below the rooftop. Most of the other balconies were in a state of disrepair but the parapet on the Serbs’ place had been given a fresh lick of paint and it stood out from the rest. There was a drop of seven or eight metres from the rooftop to the balcony, Porter figured. He caught his breath then swung his right leg over the ledge, glancing below to check that he was directly over the balcony. The platform was narrow, no more than a metre wide and three metres long. Then he started to lower himself down the side of the building.

  The guttering was loose and Porter could feel it sagging as he eased himself down. This side of the apartment block looked out across a dimly lit side street and there was no noise from below except for the distant rumble of traffic coming from the main road to the south. Porter dropped down the last five metres to the balcony and landed on the platform with a heavy thud. Then he signalled for Bald to follow. The Jock promptly swung a leg over the rooftop ledge and began to ease himself down after his mucker.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack as a section of the gutter buckled under Bald’s weight and sprang loose from the railing. Bald lost his grip and plummeted down, crashing to the balcony and landing a few inches away from Porter with a dense thud. His trailing leg clattered into a neat arrangement of potted plants, shattering the clay pots and making a ton of noise. Bald scrabbled to his feet as an angry shout went up inside the penthouse. Porter could hear the voice getting louder, accompanied by the sound of footsteps fast approaching the balcony door. Footsteps and the incessant rhythm of eurodance music. Porter snapped his suppressed Beretta 92 out of his shoulder holster and wrapped his fingers around the pistol’s walnut grip. Then he kicked open the wooden balcony door and crashed inside the penthouse.

  The door wasn’t locked. It swung back violently on its hinges. Porter looked up. Saw Kavlak three metres in front of him. The Serb was charging towards him, ready to wade in with his fists. He was fast. But Porter was faster. He lunged forward in a lightning motion and arced his gun arm across, clipping the Serb in the face with the Beretta. There was a pleasing crunch as the stainless-steel barrel clattered into the bridge of Kavlak’s nose, shattering the bones and grinding up cartilage. Kavlak let out a pained grunt as he stumbled backwards and pawed at his mashed-up face, the blood streaming out of his nostrils. Porter stepped inside Kavlak and unloaded a low jab, twisting at the torso and slamming the flat of his fist into the Serb’s ribs, winding the fucker.

  Kavlak stumbled back a heavy step, caught himself and then launched a punch at Porter. It was big and slow, and it had more warnings on it than a cigarette packet. Porter sidestepped the blow. Kavlak’s fist steered east of Porter and connected with thin air. Then Porter jerked his head forward, butting the Serb square in the face. Kavlak grunted as the hard dome of his opponent’s skull bulldozed his broken nose. Porter followed up with a kick at the guy’s ankle. Kavlak lost his balance and fell backwards, his flailing arms grappling hopelessly. He crashed into the coffee table, spilling vodka and cigarette ash and takeaway cartons across the floor.

  Porter noticed a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision. Coming from his nine o’clock. From the direction of the hallway. He spun towards the figure. Saw Petrovich charging at him.

  A kitchen knife in his right hand.

  THIRTY-ONE

  2023 hours.

  Petrovich was four metres away. He was close. Too close for Porter to bring the Beretta up and discharge a round at the guy. Too close to evade the attack. For half a second Porter was convinced that the Serb was going to gut him. He would die, right here and now. And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Then Porter saw a flash of sudden movement at his nine o’clock again. Bald rushed forward from the balcony door and hurled himself at Petrovich. The Serb turned towards the onrushing Jock, his face registering a look of dumb surprise. Bald charged shoulder-first into Petrovich, knocking the guy backwards. Petrovich slammed against the kitchen counter. The knife clattered to the floor beside him. Petrovich made to grab it but Bald burst forward and beat the Serb to the weapon, trampling his hand underfoot and grinding up the guy’s knuckles like he was stubbing out a cigarette butt. Petrovich howled in agony. Bald released his foot from Petrovich’s crushed right hand. Like taking his foot off the pedal. Then he bent down and drove his elbow into the back of the guy’s head. Petrovich groaned. He looked up. Saw Porter training the Beretta on him. The fight drained out of the kid.

  Porter kept the Beretta targeted at Petrovich and said, ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘Bedroom,’ Petrovich croaked. ‘End of the hall.’

  Porter tipped his head at Bald. ‘Go check on them, mucker.’

  ‘Aye,’ Bald nodded.

  He turned and disappeared down the hallway. Kavlak was writhing on the floor. His hands and face were badly cut up from the shattered glass. Let’s see if Bald’s got anything to say about my performance now.

  Thirty seconds later, the Jock returned with Ophelia and Evelyn. They were bruised and a little shaken up, but they could stand upright and neither of them appeared to be bleeding.

  ‘You okay?’ Porter asked.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Ophelia answered.

  They didn’t look fine. But they were dealing with it. Like professionals. Risking their lives was part of the job description. If they couldn’t handle it, they would never have made it past the Firm’s rigorous vetting process. Porter looked back to the Serbs. Petrovich was glancing up at them. The blood glistened from the deep cut on the side of his head, matting his hair together in thick clumps.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Petrovich spat.

  Kavlak gave a dry laugh as he scraped himself off the floor and propped himself against the wall. ‘You fucking idiot, nephew. Don’t you recognise their faces? These are the pieces of shit who killed Dragan and Markovic.’

  Petrovich’s eyes immediately widened with fear. Porter ignored him and fished out his burner, a Sagem 815 handset he’d purchased from a local electronics shop in downtown Valletta. He drew up the only number in the contacts list, hit Dial and waited. Devereaux answered on the third buzz.

  Porter said, ‘Everything’s under control. Any trouble down there?’

  Devereaux said, ‘None, fella. The girls are quiet. Not a word out of ’em. Just swinging back around to St Paul’s now.’

  ‘Good. Park close by and get Coles up here. Tell him to bring up the toolkit.’

  ‘Roger that, fella.’

  Petrovich’s eyes widened a little more. Porter killed the call and tucked away the burner. Bald shut the balcony doors and manoeuvred around to the sofa, his Beretta deholstered and pointing at Kavlak. Ophelia and Evelyn sat at the kitchen table, smoking Marlboro Menthols. Petrovich winced in pain. Kavlak glared at the two spies. Two minutes passed. Then the intercom sparked into life. Bald thumbed the entry button on the panel next to the front door and buzzed Coles up, releasing the latch on the door. Thirty s
econds later Coles marched inside, carrying a large black Stanley toolbox in his right hand and a bucket filled with domestic cleaning products in his left. The South African paced over to Porter. Set down the cleaning products. Popped open the toolbox.

  There was a flash of fear in Petrovich’s eyes as he caught sight of the contents. Inside was a claw hammer, a Stanley knife and a bunch of nails, along with a Black and Decker cordless power drill and several drill bits. There was also a roll of black masking tape, plus some soiled rags and a couple of pairs of plasticuffs.

  ‘The fuck are you doing?’ Petrovich said in a pleading tone of voice.

  Porter and Bald said nothing. Coles slapped a pair of plasticuffs around the Serbs’ ankles and wrists. Petrovich looked anxiously at the operators. His eyes were bouncing from one guy to the next like a couple of pinballs in an arcade.

  ‘I said, what are you doing?’

  ‘The fuck does it look like?’ Kavlak answered. ‘They’re going to torture us, nephew. Then they’re going to ask us what we know.’ He stared defiantly up at Porter as an evil grin spread across his mug. ‘These fucking sacks of shit think they can make us talk. They think we’re weak.’

  Bald shook his head slowly. ‘Nah. You’re not weak. You’re just a couple of sick cunts. Only a twisted bastard could have murdered those lads at the Brecons.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Kavlak repeated. He sniggered. ‘But you are mistaken. Those men were legitimate targets. They were British soldiers trying out for the SAS. That makes them our enemies. They deserved to die.’

  Bald could feel his blood rising again. ‘They were unarmed. They didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Like our brothers, then,’ Kavlak spat. ‘Like the soldiers you bombed at Zvornik. There is no difference.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Porter. ‘Yes there fucking is. You lot were slaughtering women and children. Butchering them and dumping their bodies in mass graves. Them lads we blew up were cowards. Just like your boss. Brozovic.’

  Kavlak glared at the operator. A look of rage spread across his face. ‘Brozovic is a hero. He was the only one prepared to stand up to the Muslims . . . to save our homeland from extinction.’ He looked at Bald and snorted. ‘When the Tiger finds out what you’ve done he’ll cut you up into little pieces and feed you to his hunting dogs. He’ll find you, no problem.’

  ‘Good,’ said Porter. ‘It’ll mean killing him that much sooner.’

  Kavlak looked away and snorted again. Porter looked the Serb up and down. He noted the red cross tattoo on the side of his neck. The same tattoo Porter had seen on Bill Deeds’s neck. He saw, too, the look of cold hatred in Kavlak’s eyes. Most people gave up the hero act once they were face-to-face with the reality of death. They started pleading for their lives, or begging to whatever god they believed in. But not Kavlak. He just watched his captors with an expression of utter contempt. Which told Porter that the guy was rock-hard. Fearless. Breaking him down wasn’t going to be easy. He took Bald to one side so that they were out of earshot of the two Serbs and spoke in a low voice.

  ‘What’d you think, mucker?’

  Bald grunted. ‘That older one’s gonna be a tough nut to crack.’

  Porter nodded in agreement. ‘He’s got balls on him.’

  ‘For now,’ said Bald, grinning. ‘I can take care of that, mate. Hammer a few nails into his bollocks. That’d break the cunt down.’

  Porter paused and then said, ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  Bald grinned, reading his mind. Porter spun back towards the Serbs. He paced across the room to Coles and passed him the Beretta. Coles kept the pistol levelled with Kavlak while Porter dropped to his knee beside the toolbox and picked up the power drill. He took a nine-inch metal drill bit and set it straight in the chuck. He thumbed the gear setting to high and twisted the clutch to the drilling position. Then he took the drill and swung back around to face Kavlak. Bald stuffed a dirty rag in the Serb’s mouth. Kavlak tried to protest but all that came out was a muffled cry. He kicked out with his legs, trying to wriggle free. Coles moved over to help restrain him, leaving Evelyn and Ophelia to guard Petrovich.

  The younger Serb looked on in horror as Porter knelt beside Kavlak and pressed the drill bit to the side of his skull. Kavlak was screaming wildly now. His eyes were the size of pitching balls. Every vein in his body was pulled tight with tension. His nostrils were working overtime, trying to flood his body with oxygen. Bald pinned Kavlak to the floor, holding him in place so the drill wouldn’t slip. Ophelia and Evelyn just watched, expressionless and businesslike. Like they knew what was coming and were both cool with it. Like they’d seen this kind of thing before.

  Kavlak clamped his eyes shut, bracing himself for the pain. Then Porter depressed the trigger.

  The drill whirred. Kavlak howled in agony as the bit bored into his skull, grinding up bone. The Black and Decker made a distinctive, shrill sound like a dentist’s drill. Porter pushed down hard, keeping his grip firm as he drove the bit deeper into the Serb’s cranium. The drill jerked a little and there was a wet sucking noise as Porter pierced through the bone, scrambling his brains. Porter kept drilling. Bits of cranium spat out of the hole in the Serb’s head like wood chips flying out of an industrial chipper. Kavlak shuddered violently. His eyelids twitched. Blood oozed out of his nostrils. His legs kicked out, the soles of his shoes scuffing the polished floor.

  Then he stilled.

  Porter took away the Black and Decker. The drill bit was smeared with sticky blood and bits of diced-up brain matter, and the air was thick with the sharp tang of blood and hot metal. He turned his attention to Petrovich. The guy was staring at Kavlak, his lower lip quivering. His face went whiter than the lines on a freshly painted football pitch. Porter could smell the fear coming off him in waves. Fear, and urine. There was a large dark patch on his trousers from where he’d pissed himself. The plan had worked a treat. The younger Serb had just seen his brave-as-fuck uncle take a gruesome trip to the dark side. Now he was terrified. And ready to spill his guts.

  Porter looked at him and said, ‘You’ve got two choices. You can talk, and tell us what we need to know. Or I can give you a home-made lobotomy like your uncle there. What’s it going to be?’

  Petrovich gulped. Said nothing. An uncertain look flickered in his eyes.

  Bald said, ‘Think hard, pal. Think very hard about your next move.’

  Petrovich nodded. ‘Okay, okay, I talk.’

  Porter lowered the drill. ‘There were four gunman who got away from the Brecons. Bill Deeds, you and your uncle. Where’s the fourth guy?’

  ‘Tell us,’ Bald added, ‘if you don’t want a fucking hole in your head.’

  Petrovich glanced at his slotted uncle. At the blood disgorging from the ragged hole in the side of his head. Then he looked back to Porter. Swallowed.

  ‘Stankovic. His name is Milan Stankovic.’ The words came out in a rapid-fire burst. Like the kid had too many words in his throat and he had to spit them all out before he choked on them. ‘He’s in a safe house in Budapest. Same deal as the rest of us. He’s not to leave until he gets the green light from the Tiger.’

  ‘Why Budapest?’ Bald said. ‘Why not here, with you two?’

  ‘Brozovic told us it was better if we were split up.’ He spoke with a mouthful of blood. ‘He said we’d be harder to find . . . if anyone came looking for us.’

  ‘Not that hard,’ Bald replied. ‘We fucking found you, didn’t we?’

  Petrovich said nothing.

  Porter said, ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘It’s a block on Népszínház Street. Sixty-one. He’s on the third floor. Number twelve.’

  ‘That’s all you know?’

  Petrovich nodded. ‘That’s it, man. I swear.’

  Porter nodded back. ‘That’s too bad.’

  The Serb shot him a quizzical look. Porter ignored him and looked towards Ophelia. She was still pointing the Beretta at Petrovich, gripping the semi-automatic in a confident manner that
implied she’d used a piece more than once in her lifetime. Which she probably had. Porter gestured for her to hand over the Beretta. Porter clasped his finger around the Beretta trigger mechanism. Swung back towards Petrovich.

  ‘No,’ the Serb said. ‘No, no, no.’

  Porter grabbed a pillow from the sofa and stepped towards Petrovich.

  ‘Wait!’ he screamed. ‘I know where he is!’

  Porter hesitated. ‘Who?’

  ‘Dusan Ninkovic. He’s the Tiger’s right-hand man. They’re close, you know? They fought together. In the Red Eagles.’

  Ninkovic. The name rang a bell. Deeds had mentioned the guy, Porter recalled. We did everything through his 2i/c, Deeds had said. Some guy called Ninkovic. He used to serve in the Red Eagles under Brozovic.

  ‘Close enough that he might know where Brozovic is?’ he asked.

  Petrovich shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where can we find him?’

  ‘He’s got a log cabin. Out in the countryside. Word is, Ninkovic fled to the cabin after the war. Right after NATO put out the warrant for Brozovic’s arrest.’

  ‘Where’s the cabin?’

  ‘In the west of Serbia. Close to the border with Bosnia. A place called Zlatibor.’

  Bald grunted. ‘How are we supposed to find a log cabin in the middle of bloody nowhere?’

  ‘There’s a trail,’ Petrovich said. ‘South of Zlatibor. It leads up to the mountains. There’s a lake nearby. Lake Ribnica. That’s where you’ll find the cabin.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Petrovich nodded quickly. ‘My uncle used to take me fishing there years ago. I remember it.’ He looked up at Porter with frightened eyes. ‘That’s all I know, I swear to fuck. I don’t know anything else.’

  Porter said nothing for a beat. Weighed it up. The kid was too young to be a serious player in Brozovic’s operation, and the look of terror stencilled across his face told Porter that he’d given up every shred of int he had. There was no point grilling him over the whereabouts of Brozovic himself.