On the other side of a security fence, various planes were parked up or waiting their turn to taxi to the runway. Among them was a small red and white jet with a red cross on its tail. A trail of vapour was coming from its twin engines. Bolshoi took out the receipt from his top pocket that he’d written on earlier. He checked the number and name on the fuselage and then wrinkled the paper and threw it out of the window. ‘That’s it.’
The two men looked around on the other side of the fence for any sign of a woman and child. There was none. But they could see a pilot wandering around performing pre-flight checks. Mac leaned over the steering wheel, but slid his hands closer to the seat between his legs as he searched harder before saying, ‘They must be inside the airport building, so we’d better go into the terminal.’
He felt a sudden coldness against his temple. Mac didn’t need to turn to know what that meant. But he did, anyway, to find Bolshoi holding a semi-automatic against his head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend, but you aren’t going anywhere. Your day-long vendetta is over.’
Bolshoi was cold, crisp and to the point. ‘I haven’t come down here to help you solve Elena’s murder. I’m here to find out what’s happening to Katia. Your presence will only be one of those boring complications, so I’m afraid it’s goodbye.’
He shoved his hand into Mac’s waistband and took his gun.
Mac had been ready for this. He had known Bolshoi wouldn’t need him after they’d arrived. He sneered, ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple, my friend. Don’t you think I figured out that you could’ve tracked Katia down on your own through your contacts? The only reason you needed me along for the ride was to make sure you got me out of the way permanently.’
His hands between his legs, he slipped a finger into the pin of one of the grenades he’d stolen from the hit men earlier. Very carefully, he used the palm of his hand to show his explosive insurance policy to Bolshoi.
The Russian nodded. ‘You’ll be long dead before you can pull the pin.’
‘Probably. But possibly not. You’ve seen plenty of men killed, haven’t you? Strange things happen when shots get fired into people – and I only need a fraction of a second. Or perhaps my muscles will reflex in my death throes and the pin will get pulled anyway. Go on – I’ve been ready to die all day . . .’
Silence.
Bolshoi kept the gun in place.
Finally, ‘I like you, Mac. It’s too bad you haven’t wised up like Calum and gone into business on your own. I could put some work your way . . .’
Mac turned his head slightly and smiled. Bolshoi smiled back. Without taking his eye or the pistol off Mac, he reached behind his back with one arm. Unlocked the door. ‘I’m going to find Katia. You do as you please – but I’m warning you now, if you cross my path in the coming hour, I will kill you without hesitation.’
Bolshoi scrambled backwards and disappeared into the night.
ninety-four
Mac didn’t follow at once. He knew the sorts of cars that high-end technicians supplied to people like Bolshoi. They always had high-quality concealed weapons in the dashboard or bodywork. He flipped various harmless buttons until, with a tug on the cigarette lighter, a hidden walnut panel opened near the gear stick and a drawer hummed as it ejected. Inside were two pistols. Mac inspected them and chose the high-capacity, low-recoil Glock. Checked the magazine. Fully loaded.
Running was going to bring him attention he didn’t need, so Mac got out of the car and walked smartly across the car park to the doors of the terminal. He peered through the glass. Bolshoi wasn’t hard to find. It was late in the day and there weren’t many people around. The Russian was deep in conversation with a woman on the information desk. She was trying to explain something to her visitor, but didn’t seem to be getting very far. The conversation seemed to heat up. But then Bolshoi seemed to cool everything down by backing off, raising his hands in what Mac was sure was an act of apology. He stopped for a few moments and then headed off in another direction. From his vantage point, Mac couldn’t see where that was.
The automatic doors slid open and Mac took a few steps inside. He wasn’t in the slightest doubt that, given the chance, Bolshoi would follow through with his threat and shoot him. A quick glance around revealed no sign of his man. Slowly and carefully, keeping a constant eye on the doors and entry points, Mac walked over to the information desk. The woman on duty was all smiles when he showed his badge. But her smile cooled when he asked about the air ambulance.
‘As I explained to a rather rude gentleman who raised the same issue a few moments ago, I have no information about private flights or a mother and son who may be travelling. I suggest you contact the company that’s arranging the journey.’
Dead end. He looked in the direction that Bolshoi had gone, but there was no indication of the where or the why. There were doors with ‘no admittance’, ‘staff only’ and ‘security clearance area’; there were toilets and a chapel. But no obvious places a Russian gangster might be pursuing his enquiries. Mac moved back outside, a little faster this time, and over to the security fence. The air ambulance was gently taxiing backwards and forwards, preparing to pick up its ‘delivery’. But there was no sign that Bolshoi had got through any security cordons and was lying in wait for Katia.
Back in the terminal, he twisted round – they were here somewhere, but where? Where? A uniformed airport worker to the left caught the corner of his eye. He kept his gaze pinned on him as a solution started to form in his mind. Distract the worker, disable him, steal his uniform and attempt to get airside with it. Determined, he started forward. Only got half a metre to the left before he heard the voice behind him.
‘Uncle Mac.’
Mac twisted round. In a chair that was far too big for him sat Milos.
‘Milos, who brought you here?’ Mac asked as he sat beside the child.
Milos’s face was pasty, his shoulders slightly hunched as if he was in pain – which no doubt he was, Mac decided, remembering the last time he’d seen the boy, lying in a fretful sleep in a hospital bed.
The boy gazed up at him, his eyes red as if he’d been crying. ‘Uncle Mac – do you know where my dad is? I don’t want to go to Swissiland. I want my dad.’
Mac gently caught the boy’s shoulders in his large hands. ‘Did Auntie Katia bring you here?’
The child’s voice dipped to a whisper. ‘I’m not allowed to say.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s private. I’m not supposed to say anything to anybody.’
‘Don’t worry, I know Katia . . .’
‘She’s not called Katia, her name’s Natasha . . .’
‘Where’s she gone?’
Milos looked confused, as if trying to find the right words. ‘Some men from the airport wanted to talk to her. Her name came booming around the room.’ Mac quickly figured he meant through the loudspeaker. ‘But we weren’t here – we were in the other room. She’s gone with them. She says it won’t take long. She told me not to talk to anybody.’
Mac patted his head. ‘She won’t mind you talking to me because she told me she’d changed her mind. You aren’t going to Switzerland any more. All she wants is for you to have a good night’s sleep.’
‘Will I see my dad in the morning?’
The sonless father looked into the eyes of the fatherless son. Mac hated lying, but at the moment the one thing this child didn’t need was the truth. ‘I’m sure you will.’
Milos yawned and nodded, so Mac reached over to pick him up, but stopped when he saw a well-dressed woman walking towards them. His arms fell back as he tried to see her face. But he couldn’t make out her features because her head was down. She got closer. Closer.
‘Milos, if I tell you to hide under the chair, make sure you do it.’
Mac didn’t check the boy’s face to see if he understood his command because he only had time to see the woman. She got closer. So close . . . Raised her head. Middle-aged, twin-set-and-pearls membership stamped
all over her.
‘Excuse me, young man.’ She addressed Mac in one of those clipped English accents where the speaker doesn’t appear to be moving their lips. ‘I left a bag there – have you seen it?’
At the shake of his head, she rolled her eyes. ‘Fuck. I expect the bastards have taken it away and blown it up.’
With that she turned and stomped away.
‘Do you want me to play hide-and-seek now, Uncle Mac?’
Mac didn’t answer. He couldn’t take Milos to safety as planned, not with the chance that Katia-Natasha might appear.
The boy yawned again. ‘I’m tired. Can we go now . . . ?’
‘Not . . .’ But Mac never finished the sentence. He noticed the boy’s eye was fixed on something behind them. He turned to find Bolshoi standing over them.
ninety-five
The Russian stood motionless, looking down at the man and boy. Walked round and took a seat next to Mac. ‘Is this the kid?’ When he got no answer he whispered, ‘Katia can’t be far away then.’
‘Please, don’t start anything now, we don’t want Milos involved, do we?’
Bolshoi grunted and gestured at Reuben’s son, who was confused and alarmed by Uncle Mac’s new friend. ‘He was involved from the day he was born. And please don’t ask me to believe that this child’s welfare will stop you doing what you have to do, any more than it will stop me doing what I have to do.’
Mac looked down at Milos and wondered if that was true. Bolshoi sneered at him because he knew he was right. ‘Make sure . . .’
Bolshoi broke off and looked urgently over at the door to the administration block, from where a figure in a plain grey tracksuit and hood – pulled down like a mediaeval monk’s – had emerged.
‘Katia?’ Bolshoi whispered as he jumped up.
He started power-walking to the figure that had stopped just as Mac shot up.
‘Katia! It’s me!’ Bolshoi’s voice grew louder as his feet picked up speed.
‘Get under the seat,’ Mac ordered Reuben’s son.
‘Katia. It’s me . . .’
Katia tipped her chin higher just as Bolshoi shifted in Mac’s eye line, masking his view of her face. Suddenly Bolshoi stumbled.
‘Katia?’
With a sharp one-two move, the shape of Katia’s body changed as her hand whipped out. Only when someone screamed did Mac realise what she held in her hand. A semi-automatic pistol. She pointed it at Bolshoi and pumped the trigger.
ninety-six
2:30 a.m.
The side of Bolshoi’s head exploded and he toppled backwards as another volley hit him in the chest. Mac dropped down and rolled to the side as people scattered and screamed. He pulled his head up to see Katia running towards a departure gate.
As he shot to his feet he yelled at the woman with the lost bag, ‘Make sure the kid under the chair is looked after.’ Then he pulled out the Glock and set off after Elena’s sister.
There would be no escape for her. With fences and waterways around the airport barring her escape, and plenty of armed security available, the killer was caught like a rat in a trap. After seeing the professional, almost gleeful, way Bolshoi had been cut down, Mac ran past a desk where someone was yelling, ‘Gunfire in the hall . . . how the heck do I know . . . ?’ The person ducked when they saw Mac and the gun.
‘Armed police!’ he shouted as he ran through the security area, jumping over metal detectors and scanning machines. Then along a glass corridor towards the departure gates. Out on the tarmac, waiting patiently, was the air ambulance. No sign of Katia. Mac pumped two rapid bullets into the glass that separated him from the plane. The glass shrieked as it shattered. He stepped outside onto the tarmac. Caught his breath in the cold wind and looked around.
‘Identify yourself,’ a voice screamed behind him.
Mac turned to find two Airport Special Unit cops pointing their sub-machines at him. ‘My name’s Calum Burns. Security detail. TY45 Section.’ Mac knew the men wouldn’t have the time to check. ‘You need to get inside the terminal building now. There’s a smartly dressed young Asian man shouting religious slogans and carrying a rucksack. I’ll check out here.’ But they hesitated. ‘You need to go now; there are women and children inside.’
That got them motoring away from him. He didn’t want anyone else chasing his quarry. Katia was all his. But where was she? What would he do in a similar situation? Not head back to the terminal building, that was for sure. There were plenty of places to hide: refuelling lorries, staircases, buses, stepways, and of course a number of planes parked up and left where they’d been abandoned when the airport went into lockdown.
He fixed his gaze on the air ambulance again. Lights off but the engines were still running. It was a hundred yards away, so Mac bent slightly and rushed over. As he came round the front wheel, he noticed a small staircase propped up against the fuselage. Ten steps maybe. He ran his gaze up the temporary staircase, but froze when something flashed out at the top. A hood. A shadowed face.
Katia.
Startled, she jerked her head back in. Mac stormed up the stairs, weapon at the ready. He caught a flash of paramedic greens and a hood as he reached the top. She tried to slam the passenger door in his face. He tried to force her back, but she increased the pressure. Mac shoved his gun into the small gap between the door and frame, but half an arm shot out, displaying a red star tattoo. Katia dug her fingers into his wrist, trying to twist his gun away. Mac felt the door start to give, so he pushed on it with brute strength. But then he almost fell through the door as the pressure on the other side let up completely.
He stumbled, pushing out his arm to stop himself falling, slamming the door open. His head came up as he saw Katia rushing forwards. Quickly he straightened up and rushed inside the plane. He saw Katia’s figure run into the cockpit. He belted forward. But he was too late. The cockpit door slammed in his face. The lock turned.
Mac hammered on the solid metal with his fists. ‘Katia. Open the fucking door or I’m going to shoot it off.’ His fists beat in time to his screaming, ‘Open the door, you murdering bitch.’
He stood back. Aimed the Glock at the lock. But he tumbled back as the plane shook. There was a noise out on the wings. A gentle plume of fumes was visible outside as the engines powered up. The plane juddered and lurched forward. He went back to the door.
‘I’m warning you,’ Mac picked up his yelling. ‘I’ll shoot the engines out and kill the pair of us. Suits me – at least you’ll be dead.’
The aircraft veered shakily to the right and he fell to the side, clutching a piece of medical monitoring equipment. The plane began moving down one of the short runways in jerks and bumps, like a car being manoeuvred by a learner driver. Suddenly a window was blown out by a volley of bullets. Mac instinctively ducked.
‘Hear that, Katia? They’re shooting. You’ll never make it.’
The plane dropped slightly to the left as the tyres on that side were shot out. It veered off course, close to the side of the disused former docks that bordered the runway. It slowed and pulled back to the right before sinking again as the tyres on that side were blown to tatters by gunfire. Through the shattered window, Mac could see parts of the wing being shot away. The bare metal of the wheel rims scattered sparks everywhere as they scraped along the runway. The engines became louder as the plane picked up speed, but the shooting stopped as they moved out of range. Mac went over to the window and leaned out into the cold air rushing by. He thought they were doing about 50 mph. Not enough to take off but enough to turn the plane into a fireball at the other end. He went back to the cockpit door.
‘Katia – why did you kill Elena? Are you listening? Crash the fucking plane, but tell me why you killed your sister . . . ?’
The plane see-sawed as the ground became more uneven under its groaning, screeching and rubber-less wheels. The nose rose slightly and then fell back down. Mac rushed back to the window. They were out of runway and in front of them was the perimeter fence. Be
hind that several cops were standing and a police car was parked up. The engines howled and the crazed plane began to accelerate wildly. Mac ducked from the window as it crashed through the fence, sending the car spinning off and the policemen scattering in all directions. Mac crouched on the floor, head tucked into his body as the plane went into its death spiral. The nose wheel collapsed and the front scraped the concrete underneath. It spun round like a drunk and one wing broke off before it ground to a halt facing back the way it had come.
Mac coughed as the overwhelming tang of kerosene filled his nostrils and smoke filled the bodywork of the wrecked aircraft. Shots rang from the cockpit: that was enough to get Mac back on his feet. The cockpit door was bent and buckled but still solid. He pulled it a few more times before doubling back. The passenger door was hanging open. Mac jumped down and ran to the front of the plane. One of the windows had been shot out. He climbed on the nose and peered inside. Empty. When he turned and looked across the blasted, post-industrial landscape, he saw a figure running.
ninety-seven
Mac knew that the plane was going to blow any moment, so he ran. But not quick enough. An almighty explosion ripped through the plane. An orange, red and billowing black fireball and twisted metal erupted into the air. Mac was lifted up and tossed in the air. He landed hard on a patch of grass. Lay winded for a while, his ears ringing. But he didn’t have time to rest; if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth, he was going to hunt Katia down.
Slowly he rose, hearing voices and lights coming his way. He had to get out of here before they reached him. So he mustered up the power and took off. Just kept moving and moving. Finally, near a disused pumping station, he stopped. Bent down, resting his palms flat against his thighs, filling his lungs with strong lugs of oxygen. Then he raised his head, saw, in the distance, billowing red, orange and black from the burning plane. He did a three-sixty look around but could see no sign of his target.
Vendetta Page 30