Winner Kills All

by RJ Bailey

  I almost missed the turning. It was the same sign I remembered, small and insignificant, as if it were a test to see if you were paying attention. All it said was ‘SSA’, with an arrow to the right. I took to the track at low speed, the car bouncing over the same potholes I recalled from before. I reached smoother asphalt and pointed the bonnet towards the cluster of farm buildings made indistinct by the curtain of sleet.

  I drove past the agricultural buildings – a cow shed, a stable and a freshly erected barn for some new machinery – to the second complex: three windowless buildings, all with SSA stencilled on them in white letters. As I pulled into the empty parking apron, a door opened in the largest building and a man stepped out. He was dressed in a US Army arctic parka, hood up. He came over to me and, when he was within three metres, pulled the hood back.

  I lowered the window. ‘You still look like Dolph Lundgren.’

  He grinned. He sort of did, given all the angles in his face and a buzz cut, but a better-preserved one. Not surprising, because he was a good dozen years younger than the actor.

  He grabbed the door handle and hesitated. ‘Hello, Sam,’ Pavol said. ‘Your email was a surprise.’

  ‘I never thought I’d be back here either.’

  He opened the door for me and I stepped out. I am pretty tall, but Pavol towered over me like one of the Carpathian peaks behind me. ‘Well, welcome. What would you like? Coffee? Drink? Food?’

  ‘I’d like a coffee, then I’d like to do some shooting.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And then I’d like you to fuck me.’

  Pavol burst out laughing and shook his head. ‘Sounds like a perfect day.’

  Maybe not perfect, but necessary. In the largest building, which was the training range of Shield Security Associates, I put three magazines each through a Glock, a Browning and a Sig. Then I used an H&K MP25 to wreak destruction on a series of dummies. That was followed by more coffee, and then we adjourned to the small wood-lined apartment above the SSA office where Pavol undressed me and did just what I had asked.

  He didn’t make love to me, just as he hadn’t when we got together the first time around. I lay back and he climbed on top and thrust away until I couldn’t hold on any longer. My friend Freddie says that sometimes a girl just needs . . . well, that. No foreplay, no strings, nothing fancy; just a man with a body that’s taut in all the right places, and more than taut where it counts; just a release that is like a resetting of the buttons. It had been quite a while.

  Afterwards, I lit one of my cigarettes and he refused one. I felt soft inside, but not like I had at Freddie’s. Not weak. This was a warm and cotton-woolly feeling, like a stuffed toy. Right at that moment, I couldn’t have fought off Pingu. But that wouldn’t last.

  Through the circular window opposite the foot of the bed I could see snow was falling once more. The place, with its comforting scents of cedar and pine, could have been a cosy ski lodge. I was about to ruin that illusion.

  He lay on one elbow and studied me. I pulled the sheet up to my throat. My current body wasn’t the one I had brought along as a young trainee bodyguard to get my weapons training certificate. ‘Don’t.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stare.’

  ‘You are still beautiful, Sam Wylde.’

  ‘ “Still” kind of suggests my days are numbered.’

  ‘I’m sorry. My English is not subtle.’

  ‘Nothing about you is subtle,’ I said, touching his cheek.

  Pavol frowned, trying to divine if that meant he had been clumsy or inconsiderate.

  ‘That’s what I love about you,’ I added.

  ‘Love?’ There was a touch of panic in his voice, as if I were about to demand a house in the suburbs and a couple of kids. And a horse.

  ‘Like? I don’t know, somewhere between the two.’

  Pavol sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, Sam. We shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am engaged.’ He lay back, put his hands behind his head and examined the knots in the wooden ceiling.

  I let out a stream of smoke. ‘Congratulations. And that means it’s me who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have. Neither should you. Do you feel bad?’

  He turned and looked at me. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I feel great,’ I said, truthfully.

  He smiled. ‘Good. I am sure Adriana will understand.’

  It took me a second to understand who he meant. The fiancée. ‘No, she won’t,’ I said carefully. ‘Don’t you dare tell her.’

  ‘We have no secrets from each other.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He looked hurt. ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Do you tell her every time you have a wank?’

  ‘No, but that’s different.’

  I reached down for the glass of water I had left at the side of the bed and dropped the cigarette in it. It hissed in the centimetre of liquid in the bottom. ‘It’s not really. Just think of this like that. Functional. Like before. Best kept to yourself.’

  ‘We were not, what did you say . . . functional before?’

  Bad choice of words, Sam. ‘No, but I had someone I liked back home . . . and you and I were never going to go anywhere. It did its job. Which was to allow us both a good time in between blowing cardboard cutouts to smithereens.’

  He gave a little chuckle. ‘You are a strange woman, Sam Wylde.’

  And about to get stranger, I thought. ‘Pavol, the sex was a bonus for me. I honestly threw it into the mix at the last minute. I just saw you and remembered you weren’t just good at hitting bulls. I didn’t come here for that. But I do need your help.’

  He might have bristled a little. I couldn’t tell whether it was play-acting or not. ‘Oh. Have you been softening me up? Is this what this is about?’

  ‘Pavol, you aren’t getting this. That was for me. Not you. If I was trying to soften you up I’d have sucked your cock or let you fuck me up the arse.’

  His eyebrows shot up. ‘Would you?’

  I squashed that thought before it took wing. ‘With that thing? No. Fuck off.’

  He laughed. ‘Only kidding.’

  Yeah, guys always kid about that sort of thing.

  ‘Besides, now we’ve mentioned Adriana I am not sure I can.’

  ‘Good on you. Look, I need some weapons. I need them delivered to Bucharest to a safe house where I can pick them up. It’s quite a list.’

  ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Someone is. It might be me. It’s certainly my daughter.’ I gave him the short version of what had happened with Jess and Bojan.

  After I had finished he puffed out his chest. ‘I will come with you. Back-up.’

  ‘No, you won’t. What would Andrea say?’

  ‘Adriana. She knows I was soldier.’

  ‘Was a soldier. I’ve caused too much pain, Pavol. You come with me, and the odds of you coming back aren’t great. I think aircrews bombing Germany in the war had a better survival rate than my friends. And the last thing I need is Anthea coming after me to avenge her fiancé.’

  He poked me with a stiff finger, which made a change. ‘Adriana.’

  ‘I know, Adriana. This is a solo show, Pavol.’

  ‘I have some contacts in Bucharest.’

  ‘You do know what solo means?’

  ‘Like having a wank.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘Yes. Like having a wank. A one-man, or one-woman job.’

  ‘I give you some names. For local knowledge: hotel, a cab company you can trust, safe house, where to eat, how to avoid police. Advice only.’

  ‘OK. Advice only.’

  ‘So, more coffee?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He slid out of bed and pulled on his boxers and a T-shirt. Most men don’t like making coffee naked. Too vulnerable. Too much steam. He set to work at the small kitchenette that occupied one end of the room. ‘What sort of weapons do you need?’

  ‘A small machine g
un I can use with one hand. An Uzi?’

  ‘You fired an Uzi?’

  ‘When I was here, yes.’

  He turned and mimed shooting the sky. ‘You don’t remember? How they pull? Semi-auto OK, but on full auto the recoil is too much for one hand. I know what you need. Leave it to me.’

  ‘And at least one automatic pistol. That Glock was fine. Maybe a back-up.’

  ‘Two Glocks, then. Don’t mix your guns too much. You want to be able to swap mags.’

  ‘OK, you’re the boss. Then, a knife with a retractable blade. So I don’t stab myself putting it down my trousers.’

  ‘A Benchmade or a Kershaw. Perhaps the Gerber. Or I could get you a local copy of any of them. Cheaper.’

  ‘Money isn’t the issue. Get me the best.’

  ‘Is there much more? I don’t like the sound of this.’

  He certainly wasn’t going to enjoy what was to come. I still had quite the shopping list. I thought I’d get the one that would make his jaw drop out of the way first. ‘Can you get me a TED?’

  ‘A TED.’

  ‘A Tactical—’

  ‘Sam, I know what a TED is.’ He sounded hurt. He came over with the coffee. ‘I am just . . . do you want to start a war?’

  ‘I want two.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a world war.’ He shook his head, like I was Kim Jong-un.

  ‘It’s a local skirmish. I just want weaponry on my side.’

  He thought it over. Then shrugged. ‘Maybe I can get you a TED. Or two. And a VAD. Not from people I enjoy dealing with, you understand.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I put my mug on a side table and extracted the phone from my trousers at the foot of the bed. I pulled up and showed him a photo on the screen. ‘And I need the plans for this building.’

  He sipped his coffee and his face creased in concern, as if he had just realised investments can go down as well as up. ‘You know, Sam, I think I sold myself too cheap.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  How far would you go to save a loved one? Your own flesh and blood?

  This far, I thought, as I eased open one of the art nouveau panelled doors and stepped inside the ruined casino. There were no guards to stop me. That was one of the things I had used Pavol’s people for. They had bundled the three uniformed security guards into a van and would keep them in a remote location overnight, then let them go. Minus their phones, of course, and with a long trudge along snow-covered roads.

  Nothing too cruel.

  Now, some of Pavol’s chums wearing the guards’ uniforms stood at the entrance, just in case anyone got curious about the lack of security for the ‘private function’ taking place. I had until the shift change – six hours – to do my work and get out. I really wouldn’t need that long.

  I closed the door behind me, guiding it into place with no more than a soft click. The interior, lit by fake, flickering electric candles, reminded me of a cathedral: a great soaring dome, supported by once-gilded ribs, now cracked and denuded of decoration. At some point, this house of cards would have rivalled the great casinos of Europe in grandeur. In fact, it would have made Monte Carlo look like a branch of Betfred. I could almost hear the laughter and chink of glasses of the fin de siècle beau monde.

  Almost.

  I listened for any disturbance in the air. Apart from the drip of water from a breach in the roof and the occasional hiss of waves on the promenade outside, there was nothing. The Black Sea has no tidal range to speak of, so the rhythmic thud of waves against the exterior stone walls was a constant.

  Wherever they were, the men I was looking for weren’t in the building. At least, not this part. Why would they be? It might have been out of season, but the roof leaked and there was always the chance of an idle tourist wandering in. A tourist who would find themselves with a hole in the skull quicker than they could think, ‘Oops, wrong turn!’

  No, if I had read the plans correctly, the auction would be below my feet, in the cellars – catacombs? – of this derelict building.

  The Void.

  I had to go down there. I could hear Freddie’s voice in my head: Wait for back-up.

  But there was no back-up. My back-up was either dead or damaged.

  I was on my own.

  I placed the holdall I had been carrying onto the floor and crouched next to it. With gloved hands I pulled the zip. From within, I took out the submachine gun that Pavol had recommended. It was the kind of gun that would get me a hefty prison sentence if I were to even possess it in the UK. If they knew what I intended to do with it, what hate was eating up my heart, they’d lock me up and throw away the key.

  I stood and checked it over in the thin light that penetrated the centre of the hall. It was a weird-looking weapon, all right. Made of polymer, the FN P-90 could pass for a ray gun in a 1950s science-fiction film. Or a device for vacuuming the interior of a car. But, as requested, it could be fired one-handed, could punch through body armour at one hundred metres and its magazine could carry an impressive fifty rounds.

  But even fifty rounds wouldn’t last long on full automatic.

  I stuffed two extra mags behind my own body armour and switched on the P-90’s laser-dot system. As I moved the weapon, the glowing spot danced on the far wall, over the scabrous rococo plasterwork. I imagined it exploding into dust. I made sure the safety was on, just in case my imagination translated into an involuntary pull of the trigger.

  I looked up and scanned the higher floors. There was a circular space where perhaps an internal window once sat. It was empty now. I drew the laser over it but the dot danced in empty space. Nobody was up there getting a bead on me.

  I killed the laser, took out a Glock and put it in my belt, tucked down against my arse. I couldn’t feel its polymer body against my skin because I was wearing a thin neoprene wetsuit under my body armour and clothes. I had a few other bits and pieces that I put around my body, but most of the items were in the small black rucksack that I threaded my arms through.

  I put on a head torch, but left it switched off. Same with the throat mic assembly. I inserted an ear-pro capsule into each side of my head and flipped the retaining clip behind the lobe. Even these US-made earplugs were not as good as full defender headphones, but they were better than nothing.

  Satisfied I was done, I slid the holdall into a corner, then checked everything was tight, from bootlaces to bra straps.

  It was. I was ready to go.

  As I headed for the stairs, limping to ease the pain in my left knee, I tried to recall how all this started; how I’d ended up looking for men to kill. The answer was always the same.

  Albania.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago now, that mountain. How did I know it was a hit?

  I just did. It’s what I do.

  I found the stairwell that would take me down to the basement. I cocked an ear.

  I could hear voices.

  It had been difficult to monitor the comings and goings through the sleet and fog that had surrounded the casino over the past couple of days. Trucks had backed up to the loading bay, boats had tied up at the pier. I hadn’t been able to mount a full watch, so I wasn’t sure how many people were down there. Or if Jess was even in the building.

  I would find out soon enough.

  I padded down the stone steps, feeling the cold air wrap itself around my face. My body was warm; I was sweating under the rubber and the Kevlar that coated me. But my breath was steaming in the chill coming up from the basement.

  I switched on the laser and it traced patterns on the thick black curtain that blanked off the bottom of the staircase.

  I paused at the foot of the stairs.

  The curtain was velvet and new. It was the only thing I had seen so far that wasn’t threadbare or careworn or cracked. Still, the voices from beyond penetrated slightly, past the barrier and my ear protection, enough for me to know that someone was on the other side. I decided on a hard entry. Hell, who was I kidding? It was always going to be a hard entry.

 
I unclipped the two ACS flash grenades from the sides of my backpack. These would explode with the light of 400,000 candlepower and a noise of up to 170 decibels.

  It was disorientating without damaging. That was the theory.

  I flipped back the fuse protector and pulled the pin on the first, lifted the curtain and rolled it under. I repeated the action with the second, but I pulled the curtain aside for this one and threw. Then I ducked away, closed my eyes and put my fingers over the ear defenders.

  I saw the light from the magnesium and mercury powder even through the curtains and my closed lids, as if a sun had been born, flared and died. The pressure wave created by the bang element of the charge billowed the velvet all around me. As soon as I felt that die away I charged through the curtain, the FN sub ready to go.

  Then I stopped dead.

  I had burst through into an empty room.

  THIRTY-NINE

  ‘Room’ was an inadequate description of the space. It was brick-built – although said bricks were weathered – ancient and, in places, water-damaged. The arched and ribbed ceiling was also made of old, uneven brick. The subterranean areas were much older than the casino above, elements of it Roman and Byzantine, with some medieval additions, such as the roof above me.

  The main area was subdivided by two rows of pillars, which flanked a central, nave-like corridor. The floor was made of enormous stone flags, some of them containing rusted metal rings, as if to secure ropes. It was possible this had once been a dry dock of some description.

  There were no windows, just a large circular metal plate high on one wall, where it looked as though a rose window had been sealed up. I knew from the plans it wasn’t a window, never had been. Every second pillar was equipped with a lamp holder with a bare bulb, apart from at the far end, where the darkness shimmered. Smoke from the grenades curled around the lights, and the air was gritty and choking, grabbing the back of my throat, like a forty-a-day fag habit.

  I took all this in within a second.

  My attention was mostly held by a white cinema-style screen hanging at the black end of the nave. Projected onto it was a series of faces, head-and-shoulder shots of various people, mostly male, fifty or older, I would guess. It was like a geriatric Benetton ad or a Michael Jackson video.