by A P Bateman
King ran the back of the blade across the man’s thumb joint, the cold steel making the man flinch. “Going to open it?”
“Yes! Yes!”
King pulled the man up to his feet and pushed him against the door. “Get it done, then.”
Vasyli checked his thumb, scowling as he looked for blood that was not there. He was angry that he had been duped, but he knew the merry-go-round was already in motion. If he refused, then King may well cut him for real, and if he gave way so quickly before, then it was safe to assume he would do so again. King had bluffed, and Vasyli had been called. The Russian looked defeated, and he dejectedly pressed his thumb against the screen on the keypad and the door clicked open. King stepped back and taking the pistol off Alaina, he ushered the man inside with the muzzle of the weapon.
King could hear the hum of voices somewhere, the sound muffled by the sheer volume of the building. They were in a storage bay crowded with luxury cars and boxes, and the light emitted from a door at the end of the bay told King that was where they should head next. King counted a dozen BMW saloons and SUVs with as many Mercedes parked in rows behind. Stolen from Europe and ready for resale in Russia. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he could see the shapes of performance cars as well. Millions of euros worth of vehicles about to be lost forever. He suspected many would end up in China and Southeast Asia as well.
“How many men?” he asked.
Vasyli shrugged. “Two. It is the nightshift.”
King thought his surmise was vague at best, but he did not trust a word the Russian said, so he figured there may well be more. He did not have a spare magazine for the weapon, so twelve rounds were all he had, with four loose bullets in his pocket. Not great. But on the plus side, it was a .45 and the bullets were soft-nosed hollow-points, so one shot per threat should be all he needed. He certainly did not want the situation to escalate to that, but after twenty years in this line of work, he knew plan B was always the way it worked out. If he was lucky.
The door to the office opened and the loading area was swathed in light. King jabbed the pistol into Vasyli’s neck. He pushed the Russian forwards, then paused beside a Range Rover which had been parked facing the office. The vehicle broke their shape in the darkness. King glared at the Russian, daring him to make a sound. Vasyli looked back at him, but he did not say anything, did not move. They watched the man walk out of the office and across the loading bay to a stack of cases. He opened the lid to a crate, then sauntered back to the office carrying two bottles of vodka. King could hear voices and laughter, see movement within. As the door closed, he stared at Vasyli and said, “Two my arse. There’s way more than that in there.”
The Russian smiled. “Maybe you should go home?” He paused. “You’re playing games you can’t afford to play.”
King looked inside the Range Rover, saw the key-fob resting in the centre console near the vehicle’s retracted gear control. He was familiar with the vehicle, when the ignition start button was pressed, the giant chrome button rose proud of the console and it was a simple twist which would select drive or reverse. King looked at Alaina and said, “Keep him covered.” He handed her the Makarov. “Just point it at his gut and pull the trigger if he moves.”
She nodded. “My father had a pistol just like it, from his military service. He showed me how to shoot tin cans and bottles. I will not miss.”
King stared at Vasyli. “Well, your gut is a damned sight bigger than a tin can,” he said. “You want to bear that in mind.”
Vasyli sneered, but said nothing.
King opened the door of the Range Rover and belted up. He pressed the ignition button, and the headlights came on as a default. He would have to be quick. He waited impatiently for the gear control to rise out of the centre console, then started the engine and twisted the selector into drive. The handbrake came off automatically as he crept forwards, and as the door to the office started to open – the sound of the vehicle’s engine breaking up whatever party was in progress – King floored the accelerator pedal and the behemoth surged forward driven by a mighty V8 engine which vented through two throaty exhausts.
The door opened, but the inquisitive soul had no room to move as two tonnes of metal smashed through the office wall and deep inside the room. The airbags deployed, and King felt the force impact against his face, the seatbelt snapping him back into his seat. There was a cloud of resin in the air, the smell of explosives from the detonation of the airbags. King unfastened the seatbelt, his eyes blurred from the impact and resin in the air. He got out of the door, the room brightly lit from the light inside, the headlights of the vehicle and annoyingly, the hazard lights flashing amber either by accident, or by design.
King saw two men. One getting up from a pile of debris, the other reaching for a Kalashnikov in the corner of the room. He aimed and fired at the man reaching for the weapon. The bullet hit the man between his shoulder blades, and he was propelled forwards and rested still on the floor. The second man had reached inside his jacket pocket his hand now frozen to the spot, but King couldn’t give the man any quarter at that stage. That was when bad things happened. He fired once, centre mass, and the man went down.
Gunshots erupted on the other side of the vehicle and King ducked down as glass blew out of the Range Rover’s offside rear windows and bullets tracked towards him through the bodywork. King only saw muzzle flashes, and he aimed and fired two shots at them. He wasn’t sure if he’d managed to hit the gunman, but he had stopped him in his tracks. King darted to the front of the vehicle, took a knee, and surveyed the scene through the sights of his weapon. He saw movement near some filing cabinets, then ducked as the muzzle flashes started up again and bullets rained all around him. He dropped onto his stomach and returned fire. Two shots. Six bullets remaining. And a few loose in his pocket, for all the good they would do him there.
King rolled across the room, the splintered door and smashed partition wall uneven beneath him. He found himself rolling over the man in the doorway. He was a mess, but quite dead. His Makarov pistol was still in his hand, so King relieved him of it and tucked it into his back pocket. He fumbled for the loose rounds and hurriedly dropped the magazine, reloaded, and slammed the magazine back in place. Twelve rounds and a new feeling of empowerment in place. He edged forwards, this time seeing a figure move cautiously between two desks. He aimed and fired, but clearly missed. The man ducked down, and King got to his feet and sprinted across the debris, the pistol outstretched in front of him. When the man chanced a look, King fired twice, then skidded to a halt, dropped to one knee, and fired two more shots through the back of the desk. He heard a thump behind the desk, figured he’d hit his target, so he stood up and edged around it in a wide arc. The man was dead, his eyes wide open with an Uzi 9mm machine pistol across his chest, the barrel still smoking. King continued past, checking the corners of the room and the other desks. Four men down. Four men guarding the warehouse, drinking vodka, playing cards. It was enough for a nightshift and he doubted there would be anybody else, but he would keep on checking the entire building after he returned to Vasyli and Alaina. He wondered how well the old building would have absorbed the gunshots, and whether he still had time to do what he came here to do, or whether he should cut and run. He glanced at his watch. It would take at least ten minutes for police to arrive on the scene, even if a patrol car was outside the complex, which he doubted. He still had time.
“Put the gun down…”
King froze, Vasyli’s voice had taken on an air of confidence. He turned around slowly to see Alaina standing directly in front of him. She was a good few inches shorter than Vasyli, and King could see from the man’s top lip upwards. The muzzle of the Makarov was touching her right temple. Vasyli was flanked by two men. Both aiming shiny stainless-steel Beretta automatics at him. The men were both tough looking with matching broken noses. King would attest to them being brothers. The blinking hazard lights lit up a network of tattoos that crept from their collars an
d teased at their faces.
“I’m sorry,” said Alaina sheepishly.
“Don’t worry about it,” King replied. He had the .45 USP pointing to the floor, but near enough to them to cause at least one of them some discomfort if they fired upon him first. He figured that if they were going to shoot him then they would have done it by now. No, Vasyli wanted a little retribution. A beating, some cutting. King had a broad imagination, and it didn’t take the darker recesses of his mind to come up with a playlist of these guys greatest hits. He looked at what he could see of Vasyli and said, “So, this is the part where you tell me to put down the gun…”
“I’ve already said that.”
“Ah, yes. I heard it, but I didn’t feel it.”
“You soon will.”
King smiled. “Right.”
One of the men said something in Russian. Vasyli shook his head. King knew that he was asking if he should shoot him in the head. He didn’t recognise the derogatory term the man had used about him. King had come to realise that most Russian insults involved having sex with farm animals. He wasn’t sure what animal he’d been accused of doing, but he got the gist.
“You want what is in Romanovitch’s safe,” Vasyli stated.
“If you don’t mind.”
Vasyli glanced to the far side of the room and laughed. King followed his gaze, then looked back at him. “You are what the Americans call a wise ass.” Vasyli paused. King could not see the whole of the man’s mouth moving in sync with his voice with Alaina’s head in the way and it sounded a little disconcerting, as if someone were narrating. “Now, hopefully you aren’t just a wise ass, but you are wise enough to know that you are outnumbered, and that I hold all the cards. A gun to her head, and two guns on you. You must be low on ammunition, too. It’s not looking good for you.” He paused. “And less so, for your friends.” King frowned and the Russian smiled. “You are part of the failed operation to get between us and the Albanian Brotherhood for Kontroll. What a ridiculous name?” He laughed. “Fucking peasants, fishermen and goat herders with an eye on easy money and who have watched too many Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese movies!”
King said nothing. He was judging the distance between himself and the three men. He was ten feet from them, and the men were evenly spaced. King noticed they were graded in height from left to right. Shortest to tallest. Not much, maybe an inch each. Three inches from end to end. Less than the amount of muzzle rise he’d expect from the .45, but about right for the recoil of a 9mm Makarov. King straightened, eased himself a little to his left.
“Drop the gun,” Vasyli said coldly.
“What do you know about the men running this operation against you?”
Vasyli shrugged. “The Albanians have them,” he said conceitedly.
“So, they’re still alive?” King asked.
“Yes,” he smiled menacingly. “But not for long. Not in any real sense, because Romanovitch is travelling there to see them. The Albanians have offered them to him in return for a bigger slice of the pie.” He moved the pistol away from Alaina’s neck and beckoned King with it. “Now, I won’t ask you again,” he said, placing the muzzle back against Alaina’s head. “Drop the gun on the floor!”
King shrugged. He steadily moved a few inches to his left and felt the heft of the pistol in his hand as if weighing it as much as his options, before tossing it at the nearest man’s feet. King was handy enough throwing knives and axes. It was a good discipline for accuracy, technique, and control, and he always reckoned it could come in handy one day. He was accustomed to estimating weight and volume and being familiar with the amount of spin and how many revolutions it would take to reach a target. In this case, the cocked hammer on the hard, concrete floor.
The pistol fired, the .45 resonating loudly inside the building. Alaina screamed and flinched to her left. The nearest man hopped somewhat ridiculously out of the way and Vasyli was reaching for Alaina. King already had the Makarov out from his back pocket and took a step forwards as he fired at the nearest man’s forehead. He was aware that he had hit his target, but was already tracking the pistol across to Vasyli, just eight feet away. He fired, aiming right between the man’s eyes, just over Alaina’s head, then sighted on the third man as Vasyli crumpled to the floor. The man raised his pistol but could not get it around Alaina and on target. King fired and the man went down. No more than two seconds had passed since the USP had gone off, and Alaina was still moving out of the way. The .45 pistol was still sliding across the floor. All three men were either dead or dying and Vasyli’s feet were twitching wildly, but he wasn’t going anywhere. The men’s height differences had helped, with each rise of the muzzle at the weapon’s recoil, he found himself aiming exactly where he wanted to, simply easing the pistol two feet or so to the right with every shot.
King picked up Vasyli’s Makarov and ejected the magazine. He switched it over with the one in his own weapon and pocketed the other, before tossing the man’s weapon aside.
Alaina was stunned. She was shaking, staring at the three bodies on the floor. She hovered over Vasyli’s body, staring down at his wide-open eyes and the gaping hole between them. “We need to get out of here…” she said quietly, not taking her eyes off the macabre sight of the bullet hole. There was brain matter visible and blood was draining from the unseen exit wound, the bullet hole looking like a bath drain, unplugged. She remained transfixed, and King broke her stare by touching her on the shoulder.
“We need to go,” he concurred. “But I want what is in that safe, first.” He stepped over the debris, bypassed another body, and headed for the filing cabinet Vasyli had glanced at. “Here, help me with this,” he said over his shoulder. It was important to get Alaina moving. He could see she was bordering on shock, and then she’d be good for nothing.
She picked her way through the debris of broken tables and chairs, and where part of the ceiling had fallen in when the doorframe had been bulldozed out by the Range Rover. She tried to avoid looking at the bodies, but failed as she looked into the cold, dead eyes of the man with the Uzi. “Oh, god!”
“Romanovitch’s men,” said King. “Indirectly responsible for your sister’s death. They are the lifeblood, or were, of his organisation, and that organisation cannot function without foot soldiers like these guys. From these lackeys to Vasyli and then all the way up to Romanovitch himself.”
King bent down and looked at the cabinet. The other cabinet had moved when the man with the Uzi had taken cover. However, this cabinet had not shifted a bit. He gave it a shove with his foot, but there was no give. On reflection, the man with the Uzi should have tucked himself up against this, but there was never any sense in how people acted in a firefight. King had seen seasoned soldiers take cover behind bushes rather than sturdier options nearby. Sometimes the thought processes just didn’t link up to the body’s instincts.
“What is so important here?” Alaina asked. “Money? There were millions in the safe in Albania.”
King pulled out the false drawer concealing the safe inside the cabinet. “Not money,” he said, shaking his head. “Something far more valuable.”
“What, then?”
King took the key he had made from Alaina’s soap mould. He looked at her and said, “Power…”
24
Albania-Greece Border
Rashid slumped on the floor, the cold, hard stone jarring him to the core. The beating had lasted more than twenty-minutes. The equivalent of six rounds of boxing, but without corner breaks, gloves, a referee or being able to hit back. With four men taking turns. It was a wonder he was still alive. His nose had been broken, and he was sure his cheek bone and orbit had cracked. All his ribs had been bruised, and a few had been broken for certain. He had lost a molar as well, and the metal tang of blood filled his taste buds and stung his lips as he had spat, but his survival instincts had soon kicked in and he had swallowed every last drop of blood thereafter. The liquid was packed with precious nutrients he could ill affor
d to lose, and his stomach and organs would be grateful for the hit, even if it only served to balance the loss of blood.
“Well done, mate…” Goldie said. He watched Rashid roll carefully onto his side, then shouted at Shrek as he yanked him across the stone floor to tether his wrist to the wall. “You bastard!”
The Runt aimed his pistol at him and smiled as Goldie flinched. “Big man…” he leered. “Your time will come again soon.”
“Aye, and so will yours, yer wee cock!” Mac growled. He grinned manically as the pistol was turned on him. “Ah, away with you, yer little shit…”
The Runt stared at him, and Shrek stood behind him menacingly. Rashid tried to sit up but rasped as his ribs moved and sent a stab of pain through him. The two men turned to him and smiled gleefully.
Philosopher had barely moved since he had been brought back into the cell. He was lying on his stomach with his left hand outstretched to the shackle. He was breathing shallow rasps. Before either of the men could protest, The Runt aimed his pistol at the back of the man’s head and fired. The gunshot sounded like cannon-fire in the confines of the room, and the stonework bounced the sound around, echoing both in noise and ominous finality. The bullet ricocheted off the stone walls, no telling how many times, and landed at Rashid’s feet in a twisted, deformed mess of copper and lead. Philosopher’s body twitched before resting still, but the spread of blood washed across the floor like a tsunami, a single wave followed by a swell of mass, crimson in colour with a viscosity that meant it appeared to constantly push forwards, contaminating all before it. The blood reached Mac, who at first pulled his feet out of its path, but was soon left sitting in it, resigned to the fact there was no escaping the torrent.
Rashid watched his friend bleed out. The brain did not shut down immediately after such trauma. He had seen it before. But that did not mean he would ever get used to it. There were pints of it, almost a bucketful, and as the men stared transfixed at the macabre scene, powerless in their restraints, the flow slowed suddenly, then ceased altogether.