Last Man Standing

by Stephen Leather

  ‘No, I was upstairs.’

  ‘That’s right. Max and Boris were with him. So what, you heard the shots?’

  ‘I was checking the bedrooms. I heard shots downstairs. I went to see what was happening and he shot at me.’

  ‘On the stairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Lucky that he didn’t kill you. He killed Max and Boris.’

  Lipov nodded. ‘If I had been downstairs he would have killed me, too.’

  ‘So where did he shoot Max and Boris? In the hall?’

  ‘No, in the sitting room. They had just brought Koshkin in and were making sure he was settled. Once he was settled we would usually wait in the kitchen.’

  ‘And they had already checked the downstairs area?’

  ‘That was procedure. One of us would go inside first and when they were sure the area was clear we would take him inside.’

  ‘But you brought him in before checking the upstairs.’

  Lipov frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Standard procedure would be to keep the client outside until the whole house had been checked. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘It was the way we did it. It was his house, anyway. We weren’t expecting any trouble.’

  ‘And who decided that you would check the upstairs?’

  Lipov’s frown deepened. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked again.

  ‘Who was the leader of the security team?’

  Lipov’s jaw jutted up. ‘There wasn’t a leader. We all knew what to do.’

  ‘So you were lucky?’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘Well, whoever stayed with Mr Koshkin died. That was Max and Boris. And the American. If you had been in the sitting room when Bobby-Ray started shooting …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘You are asking a lot of questions about Los Angeles,’ said Lipov.

  ‘It’s an interesting situation,’ said Standing. ‘And we think that whoever paid for the killing in Los Angeles probably also paid for the poison attack in London. Who do you think wanted Mr Koshkin dead?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Did you not have threat assessment briefings?’ The Russian frowned again. Standing wasn’t sure if it was the language or the concept that was confusing him. ‘Didn’t the security team ever discuss who might want to hurt your client?’

  Lipov shook his head. ‘We were just told to protect him.’

  Standing nodded as he considered his next question. He wasn’t used to interrogating suspects, he usually left that to the intelligence experts. His forte was action and combat, attacking the enemy with a carbine and grenades, and he didn’t feel comfortable sitting on a sofa trying to outflank Lipov with words.

  ‘When you came down the stairs, Bobby-Ray was in the hallway, right?’

  Lipov’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And by then he’d already shot Mr Koshkin, Max and Boris. And the other American bodyguard.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have your gun out as you came down the stairs?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Bobby-Ray had his gun out, obviously.’

  Lipov’s eyes narrowed even more but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘I guess my point is that Bobby-Ray must have known you were upstairs. And he must have known that you would come down to investigate the shots. So he’d have been waiting for you. With a gun.’

  Lipov nodded. ‘That’s what happened.’

  ‘But he didn’t shoot you, did he?’

  ‘He did but he missed.’

  ‘He’s a Navy SEAL and you’re not a small target. And he missed?’

  ‘I fired at him.’

  ‘Yes, you did. And you missed.’

  ‘He was moving fast.’

  ‘Really? So he was what, running for the door?’

  ‘Yes. He was running for the door and I was shooting at him.’

  ‘But he got away.’

  ‘He was moving quickly.’

  ‘But why didn’t he shoot you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He shot Mr Koshkin. He shot Max and Boris and the American. What was his name?’

  ‘Kurt,’ said Lipov sullenly.

  ‘That’s right. Kurt Konieczny. He killed Mr Koshkin and three bodyguards, but then he doesn’t kill you. He shoots and misses, right?’

  ‘So?’

  Standing shrugged. ‘So Navy SEALs don’t usually miss.’

  ‘Like I said, I was shooting at him. Max and Boris and Kurt weren’t shooting back.’

  ‘Then there’s the gun,’ said Standing. ‘The gun’s a worry.’

  ‘What gun?’

  ‘Bobby-Ray’s gun. He left it behind. Outside.’

  ‘He’d done what he wanted to do. He didn’t need it.’

  ‘It had his fingerprints and DNA on it. A smart killer would have taken it with him.’

  Lipov shrugged. ‘People make mistakes.’

  Standing looked at the Russian, his eyes hard. ‘They do, don’t they?’

  The Russian stared back at him. ‘Who are you?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I told you who I am.’

  ‘You’re not a detective.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Most British cops are overweight and out of condition. You look battle fit. And you haven’t written a single note. Who the fuck are you?’

  Standing could see the Russian tensing but he was big and had a lot of mass to move so he’d be slow, slower than Standing anyway.

  ‘Mr Lipov, I’m just a police officer doing his duty …’

  The Russian moved while Standing was talking, bending forward at the waist before pushing himself up off the sofa.

  Standing moved at the same time and both men got to their feet simultaneously, the coffee table between them. Lipov said nothing, which confirmed that an attack was coming. Standing didn’t say anything either. There was no point. What was going to happen was going to happen, no matter what he said.

  Lipov was big and strong, which meant he was probably confident that he would be able to overpower Standing with just his hands. There was no weapon in sight and nothing on the coffee table that either man could use. Standing waited, his arms relaxed at his side, his eyes taking in everything. He began to count in his mind. One. Two.

  Lipov’s right hand bunched into a fist a fraction of a second before his arm moved back. Standing turned side on and lashed out with his right leg, putting all his weight behind a kick that caught the Russian in the stomach and sent him sprawling over the sofa. Three. Four.

  Standing pulled back his leg, twisted around and stepped away from the coffee table into the space by the door. Close up, Lipov would be devastating, especially if he managed to get hold of Standing. He’d have the strength of a grizzly bear and Standing needed room to strike.

  Lipov roared as he pushed himself up off the sofa again. Standing grabbed one of the wooden chairs from the dining table and smashed it into Lipov’s left leg so hard that the wood broke apart. Lipov grunted but held his ground. Standing smashed what was left of the chair over the Russian’s head and it disintegrated completely. Blood dripped down Lipov’s forehead but he stayed on his feet, glaring at Standing. Standing had a chair leg in his hand, about two feet of splintered wood that was sharp enough to use as a weapon until he could grab something else. The kitchen was the best bet, but that was a good ten feet away to his left and running there would mean turning his back on the Russian. Standing was sure he could outrun the man but if he didn’t get a knife straight away, Lipov would be on him.

  Lipov bent down, grabbed the coffee table and upended it towards Standing. Standing jumped back and the glass top crashed on the floor just inches from his feet. Lipov rushed towards him and Standing lunged with the chair leg. He doubted it would make any impression on the man’s barrel chest so he aimed at Lipov’s throat, but the Russian was surprisingly fast an
d knocked it out of the way. His momentum carried him forward and he slammed Standing against the wall. His right hand grabbed for Standing’s throat.

  The chair leg was still in Standing’s right hand and he stabbed Lipov in the ear. Lipov roared but didn’t release his grip. Lipov grabbed the chair leg with his left hand and twisted it out of Standing’s grasp. As he raised the chair leg to hit Standing, Standing brought his fist down on the man’s nose and heard and felt the cartilage break. Blood poured down Lipov’s face but the grip on Standing’s throat was relentless.

  Standing used both his hands to twist the fingers away from his throat. He raised Lipov’s arm in the air then brought it back down and twisted hard, pushing himself away from the wall and forcing the Russian down. The Russian resisted but all he did was add to the pressure on his shoulder. He lashed out with the chair leg but Standing saw the blow coming and managed to avoid it. He brought his knee up hard into Lipov’s chest and heard a rib crack.

  Lipov jabbed with the chair leg again and this time caught Standing with a glancing blow to the thigh.

  Standing stamped down on Lipov’s instep, then kneed him again in the chest. This time Lipov lost his balance and staggered to the side. Standing kicked him on the knee then fired off two quick punches to the man’s chest. It was akin to hitting a tree.

  Lipov straightened up and raised the chair leg above his head. Before he could stab with it, Standing slashed him across the throat with the side of his hand. He felt the trachea crack and for the first time the Russian registered pain. Blood was still pouring from his broken nose and soaking into his sweatshirt.

  Standing threw two more punches, aiming for the man’s solar plexus, but Lipov took them without flinching. They were close to the dining table now and Standing grabbed another chair. He jabbed the legs towards Lipov like a lion tamer, first at his face and then lower down. Lipov stood his ground. The Russian was breathing heavily but didn’t seem tired.

  Standing knew the chair wouldn’t do any serious damage, but it would keep Lipov at bay for a few seconds. He tried to move towards the door, but Lipov moved with him, blocking any escape. Standing jabbed with the chair again and Lipov swatted it away like a bear knocking a salmon out of the water. The chair almost slipped from Standing’s grasp but he managed to keep hold of it. Lipov seized the opportunity to rush Standing, but Standing moved to the side as deftly as a matador avoiding a bull. He brought the chair crashing down on Lipov’s head and again the chair smashed into several pieces.

  Lipov bent down, then shook his head and straightened up. Standing let loose a side kick that would have sent most men hurtling across the room, but Lipov was so heavy that it was Standing who lost his balance and staggered back.

  Lipov growled, dropped his chair leg and threw himself at Standing, wrapping his massive arms around him and squeezing. Standing struggled but Lipov had interlinked his fingers and locked them tight. He increased the pressure, forcing the air from Standing’s lungs. Standing head-butted the Russian, his forehead slamming into Lipov’s nose. Lipov grunted but tightened his grip. The blood pouring down his nose and running into his mouth made it hard for the Russian to breathe and he turned his head to the side, gasping for air. Standing took the opportunity to bite into the Russian’s ear, grinding his teeth together and chewing through a lump of flesh and cartilage. Lipov screamed in pain and released his hold on Standing, staggering back as blood poured from his mangled ear.

  Lipov lashed out with his fist, a lucky punch that Standing didn’t see coming. It hit him on the left side of his chin and sent him crashing to the floor. He rolled to the sidee and hit one of the sofas. He braced himself for an attack from Lipov as he got to his feet but the Russian was staggering towards the kitchen.

  Standing rushed towards him but Lipov had already ducked through the door and grabbed a knife from a knife block. He turned with the knife in his fist, grinning maliciously.

  Standing stopped and raised his hands in front of his chest. The table leg had been a dangerous enough weapon but the knife was a game changer. It was a butcher’s knife, long and pointed, perfect for trimming cuts of meat or slicing open a man’s stomach.

  There was a black bomber jacket hanging over the back of an armchair and Standing grabbed it and quickly wound it around his left hand and arm.

  Lipov was switching the knife from side to side as he advanced on Standing. His sweatshirt was drenched in blood and it was dripping onto the carpet.

  Standing waited, rising up onto the balls of his feet. His mind was calm; there was no point in having any sort of plan. All he could do was to react, and he trusted his instincts.

  Lipov’s left leg moved forward as the knife arm went back. Standing moved, springing forward with his covered left arm out, his right hand pulling back and forming a fist. Lipov growled as he saw the attack but all his weight was on his back foot, so he could only move forward. He started to strike with the knife but the jacket was already blocking the blow. Standing’s fist connected with the Russian’s nose and he put all his body weight behind the punch, crushing the cartilage.

  Lipov pulled back the knife and thrust it at Standing’s chest but Standing managed to deflect it. The tip of the knife snagged in the jacket.

  Lipov surged forward and Standing felt his legs collapse underneath him. He fell back, trying to keep the knife away from him. As he hit the ground, Lipov fell on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs.

  Lipov straddled Standing but wasn’t able to pin Standing’s arms to his sides, so Standing was able to toss the jacket to the side and grab the hand holding the knife. Lipov’s left hand fastened around Standing’s throat and squeezed.

  Lipov was gritting his teeth together and staring at the knife as if he could move it by sheer force of will. Standing was pushing up with both hands and was just about managing to halt its progress. He grunted and twisted the blade so that it was pointing up, then he thrust upwards with all his might. The rapid movement took the Russian by surprise. The knife plunged into Lipov’s chin and Standing pushed even harder. Lipov’s body went into spasm and he released his grip on Standing’s throat.

  Standing gave the knife one final thrust and more than half the blade disappeared into the Russian’s skull. Blood was pouring down the blade and along Standing’s arms. Lipov’s hand released the knife and Standing pushed it another inch or so until he couldn’t push it any further. Lipov fell to the side and Standing wriggled out from under him. Lipov rolled onto his back. His chest was still moving. Standing bent down over him. The knife was still embedded in his chin. It had almost certainly gone through the roof of his mouth and into his brain, so death wasn’t far away.

  ‘Who hired you, Nikolai?’ asked Standing.

  The Russian glared at Standing.

  ‘Just tell me, Nikolai? Who paid you to kill Koshkin?’

  Lipov’s chest shuddered and coughed and blood trickled from between his lips. His mouth opened slightly and Standing saw that the blade had speared the Russian’s tongue. Lipov sneered at Standing. ‘Fuck you,’ he managed to grunt, then he shuddered one last time and went still, his pale-blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the ceiling.

  Standing stood up. His hands were wet with the Russian’s blood and it was all over his jacket and shirt.

  He went over to the front door and peeped through the security viewer. The hallway was empty. There had been plenty of noise but hopefully anyone else in the building would just assume it was furniture being moved around. He stayed peering through the viewer for a full thirty seconds and no one appeared.

  He took off his jacket and shirt, then went over to the Russian and pulled out the knife. He took it over to the sink and washed it carefully, then dried it with a cloth and used the cloth to put it back in the block that Lipov had taken it from. He washed his hands and arms under the tap, then used the cloth to wipe away any prints on the bits of chair lying on the floor, then dropped the cloth on top of the jacket and shirt.

  He picked up
the jacket that he had wrapped around his arm. Other than a couple of small nicks from the knife, it was in good condition, and there was no blood on it. He went into Lipov’s bedroom and used the jacket to open a mirrored wardrobe. He pulled out a white T-shirt. It would have been tight on the Russian but it was loose on Standing and he pulled it on, then put the jacket on top. He checked his reflection in the wardrobe door and nodded.

  He went back into the main room and looked around for anything that might identify him as Lipov’s killer. When he was satisfied that he was good, he went back into the kitchen and picked up an empty supermarket plastic bag and put his own jacket and shirt into it. He took another look around, then used the cloth to open the door to let himself out, and to close the door behind him.

  He went downstairs and used the cloth to open the main door, then put the cloth in the bag with his jacket and shirt. He slipped out and dumped the carrier bag in a skip outside a house that was being renovated before heading to the nearest Tube station. He’d done all he could do in London; it was time to go back to LA.

  20

  Standing called Kaitlyn on FaceTime as he waited to board the flight to Los Angeles but there was no answer, so he sent her a text with his flight details. He slept most of the way. The queue at LAX immigration was, if anything, longer than on his first visit, and the man who scrutinised his passport seemed to have taken it as a personal affront that Standing was trying to get into his country. He was a big man but carrying more weight than was good for him, bald with a neck so thick that hands alone wouldn’t have been enough to strangle him. He frowned at the passport, and his frown deepened. ‘So you were here for, what, three days? Then you went back to the UK for two days. Now you’re back.’

  Standing grinned. ‘I thought I’d left the stove on.’

  The immigration officer stared at Standing with unblinking pale-blue eyes. ‘You think this is funny?’

  ‘I was just trying to lighten the moment,’ said Standing. He stopped smiling and met the man’s gaze. ‘I was here to see a friend. Something cropped up back in the UK, business-related. I flew back to take care of it and now I’m back here to see my friend again.’