by WOOD TOM
He was slow to turn the handle, and so Victor shoved him through. He knocked the door closed behind him with his foot as he followed.
‘Throw the gun on the bed.’
The man reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out his handgun, gripping it with only thumb and forefinger. He threw it onto the bed. It landed in the centre. Not a bad throw considering.
Victor let go of the blond guy and hurled him forward. He stumbled and collapsed to the floor. He lay in a crumpled heap, almost foetal, clutching at his damaged testicles. His Casanova days were very over. He was younger than the other three, twenty-seven at most. His features were different, his demeanour more controlled. Victor regarded him curiously, recognizing that he didn’t quite fit in with the others. An outsider. Or leader.
The man’s eyes flicked toward his right foot then quickly looked away. In a black leather shin holster, barely visible where the right pants cuff had come up in the fall, was a black snubnosed revolver. He saw that Victor had seen him look and read his thought process.
Victor shook his head just once.
He took a step forward, levelled the gun at the centre of the man’s forehead. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Seven.’
‘Including you?’
He nodded, grimacing, not able to speak for a moment because of the agony in his groin. Excluding the big guy in the elevator, somewhere there were three more.
‘How many cars did you bring?’
The blond man was quick to answer, spitting the word out as fast as he could. ‘One.’
‘Just one?’
‘It’s a van.’
‘What’s the registration?’
‘I … I don’t know.’
Victor put a 5.7 mm into the floor between his legs. It wasn’t very economical with the remaining bullets but he didn’t have time for a lengthy interrogation.
The blond man stared at the singed hole in the carpet. ‘I swear.’
‘What make is it?’
‘I don’t know … it’s blue. A rental.’
His French was good but not fluent, not a native speaker.
Victor asked, ‘Do you know who I am?’
He didn’t answer straightaway. Victor took another step closer and the man found his voice. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Just an alias, we had a picture …’
‘How did you know where I’m staying?’
‘We were given the name of the hotel.’
‘When?’
‘Three days ago.’
Then his accent clicked. Victor switched to English. ‘You’re American.’
He spoke back in English. ‘Yes.’ He was from the South, Texas maybe.
‘Who’s in charge?’ Victor asked.
‘I am.’
‘Private sector?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been following me?’
‘We tried to but you always lost us.’
‘Why wait until now to kill me?’
The American paused for a moment before answering. ‘We had to wait for the green light.’
‘Which you received when?’
‘Oh-five-thirty.’
Victor could tell he had decided to tell the truth, perhaps thinking he might have a chance if he answered honestly. Blissful ignorance.
‘Why did you send those two guys in before I’d returned?’
The blond man grimaced again. ‘I lost my nerve. Thought you weren’t coming back. I sent them in to check.’ He scowled despite the pain. ‘Bad timing.’
‘That wasn’t very smart,’ Victor said. ‘What about the flash drive?’
‘We had to make sure you had it, then secure it and wait for instructions.’
Victor’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you working for?’
The man’s head slumped. Tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘Please …’
‘Who are you working for?’
He looked up at Victor, saw in his eyes that there was no mercy, no pity. He sobbed.
‘How the hell would I know?’
Victor believed him.
He shot him twice in the face.
He knelt down by the body, looking for some identification, and saw a radio in the inside jacket pocket, switched to send, the light flickering. There was a microphone attached to the underside of his collar.
A floorboard creaked.
Victor froze, looked over his shoulder.
Through the crack under the door Victor could see a shadow moving in the corridor outside. He dived to the right as the big guy with the dark beard burst into the room, submachine gun in hand, already firing before he’d acquired a target. It was a compact MP5K fitted with a long suppressor, its rapid reports reduced to a series of sustained muffled clicks.
The gunman shifted his aim, following Victor’s path as he leaped into the adjacent bathroom, bullets blowing a line of neat holes out of the wall behind him. Ejected brass cases clinked together on the carpet around the assassin’s feet.
In the bathroom, Victor came out of his roll into a crouch, letting off a quick shot, firing blind before he’d fully turned around. The bullet whizzed through the open doorway, sending up a puff of plaster as it struck the wall on the other side.
The bathroom was no more than six feet by four, a tiled box containing a bath, sink, and toilet. There were no defensible corners or objects behind which to take cover. On fully automatic the MP5K could unload its mag of thirty in just two and a quarter seconds. At this range, and with that volume of fire, the gunman literally couldn’t miss.
With his left hand Victor pulled the Beretta from the back of his waistband and pointed both guns at the doorway, one in each hand. Not so good for aiming accurately but he needed the extra stopping power if he was going to drop the gunman before he could open fire. He was a big guy and neither subsonic 5.7 mm or 9 mm rounds were going to guarantee putting him down instantly unless he was shot in the head, heart, or spine. But with enough bullets it wouldn’t matter where Victor hit. He held the Beretta directly below the FN so he could still line up one set of sights. Victor had seen amateurs hold two guns at arm’s length, hands shoulder-width apart, trying to emulate their favourite action movie stars. They always died quickly.
He heard something thud on the carpet and clink against the spent 9 mm casings on the floor. A second later came the sound of a gun reloading and the MP5K recocked. It hadn’t clicked empty but his attacker had loaded a full magazine anyway while he had the chance.
Victor stayed in a crouch, as far away from the opening as possible. If his enemy was smart enough to reload before he was empty he wouldn’t be stupid enough to burst into the room when all he had to do was point the gun around the door frame and spray in some rounds. Victor sensed the gunman was creeping along the dividing wall to do exactly that. In his current position Victor knew he was a dead man. He forced himself to stay calm.
He needed to do something, and quick.
He looked around, saw a towel on a rail, a line of toiletries above the wash basin – toothpaste, shaving foam, antiperspirant, a razor, aftershave.
His eyes fixed on the can of antiperspirant.
Victor fired another round from the Five-seveN at the doorway to act as a deterrent, then another a few seconds later to buy himself some time, to make the gunman wary. He placed the Beretta down in front of him, switched the FN to his left hand, stood, and grabbed the can of antiperspirant from above the sink.
Squatting back down, he fired through the doorway with the Five-seveN, twice more so the weapon clicked dry, advertising that he was out of ammo, giving the gunman all the incentive he needed to seize his chance.
Victor dropped the empty gun, switched the antiperspirant to his left hand, and took up the Beretta in his right. Jumping to his feet, he flung the aerosol through the doorway just below the top of the frame as the submachine gun’s muzzle rounded the corner.
Victor fired the Beretta three times.
The last bullet
hit and the aerosol exploded in midair.
Victor was already running before he heard the scream, darting through the doorway, bent over, even as the panicking gunman opened fire.
The bullets missed, flying clear above him. The man was stumbling backward, pressed against the wall, the only thing keeping him on his feet. His gun was still raised at shoulder height, and he fired in desperation, spraying wildly.
Slim shards of glinting metal protruded from his scorched face and eyes. His hair was on fire.
The gun clicked empty, and for a moment the man’s groans subsided and his breaths came quick and sharp. He blindly looked around the room, weapon still raised in some last pitiful defence. The air smelled like roasted pork.
Victor stood up straight, pointed the Beretta at the centre of the gunman’s chest, and put two right through his heart.
CHAPTER 5
08:38 CET
Victor made his way through the hotel, walking quickly, keeping the Beretta in hand and hidden under his jacket. He had his empty FN in a pocket. He made his way through the corridors of the ground floor, in his head visualizing the hotel plans he’d memorized on his first night. He came to a door marked staff only.
He could hear policemen elsewhere on the floor, talking loudly, overwhelmed. They would be patrolmen first on the scene, responding to the emergency call. Others would be coming fast. If Victor wasn’t gone soon, he knew the hotel would be sealed off, the street following, and then probably the whole block. Victor wanted to be long gone before that happened.
He drew out the Beretta and pushed open the door to the kitchens with his left hand, using his knuckles out of habit despite the silicone coating on his fingertips.
It was surprisingly cool inside. The back door had been wedged open, perhaps in the mass exodus of frightened guests and employees. A refreshing breeze funnelled through. Victor noticed for the first time he was sweating. There were no members of the kitchen staff. Everyone had wisely fled. Victor drew the smell of cooked breakfasts into his nostrils. Eggs were burning in pans on the stove. Bread and croissants baked in ovens.
He continued breathing deeply to keep his pulse down and gripped the Beretta in both hands as he walked forward, slow, cautious of the large open space and the blind spots created by rows of appliances and storage. He kept his eyes moving as he crept toward the door, wary that there were three other gunman very much alive. He had to assume they were still after him, leaderless or not. If they hadn’t withdrawn they wouldn’t have left this exit unguarded.
He moved closer, staying near to cupboards and work surfaces for cover in case someone burst through from the alleyway beyond. An approaching siren beckoned him to walk faster, but his awareness of the current danger ensured his movements were slow and controlled.
If another gunman was waiting in the alley and covering the doorway, Victor would need to have surprise on his side to stand a chance of making it out alive. Hurrying would only make an enemy’s job easier. They were going to have to earn their money today.
He took another step and stopped.
Movement.
A reflection on the stainless steel cupboard door to his left. Just a blur of motion, but he understood its meaning and spun around to see a pantry door swinging open hard, a dark-haired woman charging out of the darkness, her handgun rapidly coming into line with his position.
Victor reacted faster, shooting first, two shots, hitting centre mass. The impact knocked her off her feet and threw her backwards into the adjoining room from where she’d emerged.
He covered the distance fast, saw her lying on her back, alive, eyes closed, two small circles of blood around the scorch marks in her blouse. She was gasping, one lung collapsed. The gun was right next to her, but she didn’t try to get to it. She was too scared.
Victor’s shadow fell over her and she looked up. She was surprisingly attractive, twenty-eight or -nine, pain in her delicate features, terror in her piercing eyes. She stared at him, gaze pleading, tears spilling down her cheeks, lips he would have liked to kiss, moving but making no sound, not enough air in her lungs to speak, to beg. Or to tell him anything useful. He spared a moment to consider how someone like her could have ended up in this business. But whatever her story had been, it was about to have a depressing end. Her head shook slowly from side to side.
The smoking cartridge bounced on the floor tiles.
He searched her. Like the others she had no wallet, no identification of any kind. They were clearly smart operators even if they had been dumb enough to take this contract. One of those left had to have something Victor could use. He didn’t want to entertain the thought that they might not.
He discarded the Beretta and picked up the dead woman’s gun. It was a good weapon, a Heckler and Koch USP, compact version, .45 calibre, with a short, stubby suppressor. He pulled out the eight-round magazine, saw the match-grade hollow-point rounds, and slammed the mag back in. Obviously a killer who took pride in the tools of her trade. Well, used to.
He grabbed a couple of spare mags from her jacket before rushing out the back entrance and into the alleyway, keeping low, gazing left, then right, sweeping the HK as he looked. No one. He hid the gun in his waistband and headed toward the main street, pleased that finally one of them had a decent gun for him to steal. Assassins could have such very poor taste.
With the woman dead that made five down.
Only two to go.
There was a large crowd outside the front of the hotel. Guests and employees alike, shocked, overawed and scared, seeking solace together. Only a handful of people knew what was lying in a corridor on the fourth floor, but talk of blood and bodies had spread fast. A single policeman was doing his best to try and move them back. Pedestrians were rushing to the scene to find out what was happening.
Victor exited the alleyway and walked among the crowd, his pace brisk but no quicker than anyone else’s, moving laterally as much as he could, not wanting to give any possible snipers an easy target. It was unlikely that anyone would take such a shot, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it. He saw the blue van parked fifty yards down the street, sitting anonymously along the kerb by a phone booth. The rear doors were facing towards him. He couldn’t see if anyone was behind the wheel.
If it hadn’t gone yet there was a good chance that at least one more assassin was still about. As Victor approached he caught sight of exhaust gases emanating from the van. Good, there would be someone behind the wheel while the engine idled. In the commotion, Victor knew he could get right up alongside the van before any driver knew he was there. He went to cross the street, his right foot leaving the kerb, but he went no farther.
On the other side of the road, directly opposite from the hotel, a stocky man was hurrying down the steps at the front of a whitewashed apartment building. Slung over his shoulder was a large black sports bag, the kind that could easily contain a tennis racket, hockey stick.
Or high-velocity rifle.
He stopped dead when he saw Victor looking straight at him. His reaction a perfect ID. Both men stood completely still as chaos swept around them. The stocky man was first to break the stalemate. He glanced to his left, towards where the van was parked. He and Victor were equidistant from it.
Victor took a step forwards. The man took one backwards. He reached into his jacket. Victor did the same. A police car turned onto the street, lights flashing, siren blaring. Both men saw it and any thoughts of drawing guns vanished.
The assassin again glanced at the van, perhaps in the hope that help might be coming. When he realized it wasn’t he turned around and rushed back up the steps to the apartment building.
Victor quickened his pace but to avoid drawing attention couldn’t run. He reached the opposite sidewalk in time to see the door slam shut behind his prey. He took the steps two at a time. He tried the door handle but it was dead bolted. He couldn’t risk kicking it in or shooting the lock through, not with more police entering the street.
Victor descended th
e steps and looked up and down the street, searching for some way to get round to the back of the building. There was an alleyway twenty yards to the right. Victor hurried towards it.
As soon as he was out of sight he sprinted, coming out of the far end and into the backstreet, .45 in hand. No sign of the stocky man. If he’d left the building already Victor would be able to see him now. Which meant he was staying put. Victor was surprised. The assassin had chosen to wait, to fight.
Victor wasn’t about to disappoint him.
The lock on the back door was a good one and would’ve taken Victor almost thirty seconds to pick had the fat .45 calibre slugs not blasted it to pieces. He loaded a full magazine and stepped into a wide, sparsely furnished hallway, the floor covered in a colourful mosaic. There were three interior doors, two with numbers on them. A large staircase dominated the space.
Victor approached it, gun held out before him in a two-handed combat grip. His hotel room had been on the fourth floor and so it would be from the fifth that the stocky man had been covering Victor’s window. That room was familiar, safe. If the man had fled to anywhere, he would have gone there.
Victor took the steps one at time, slowly, quietly, always looking up, ready in case the assassin was waiting to ambush him. He reached the second floor, scanned the landing, then started his way up the next flight of stairs.
He paused for a few seconds on the third floor to listen. When he didn’t hear anything he made his way up to the fourth. From the fifth floor, he heard a door open, then a woman’s voice, somewhat surprised, but friendly, helpful.
‘Puis-je vous aider?’ Can I help you?
Then a clack clack followed by the thud as a body hit the floor. Victor made his move, sprinting up the flight of steps while the assassin was momentarily distracted. He saw the stocky man as he was turning around from his kill, standing at the top of the stairs.
Victor fired on the move, the angle bad, and a hollow point blew a chunk out of the banister. The assassin instinctively lurched back, and as two more bullets blew holes from the ceiling above him, a fourth struck the black iron lattice beneath the banister and sent off a flash of bright sparks. The man let off a few rounds from his own handgun, firing blind as he threw himself out of Victor’s line of sight. He appeared again briefly, firing as he moved, Victor returning fire, neither man hitting.
