Last Man Standing

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘Kaitlyn Barnes.’

  ‘So a girlfriend?’

  ‘Not really. She’s the sister of a friend.’

  ‘And you’ll be staying with her?’

  Standing nodded. ‘Sure.’

  ‘And what sort of business are you in …’ he squinted at the passport again. ‘Mr Standing?’

  Standing knew that lying to an immigration officer was never a good idea. Retribution could be anything from the rubber-glove treatment to being put on the next plane back to the UK. ‘I’m a soldier,’ he said.

  The man’s eyes widened a little. ‘You don’t say. Who do you serve with?’

  Standing met his gaze. Lying still wasn’t a good idea but no serving member of the SAS ever admitted to being in the Regiment. ‘I’m a para,’ he said.

  The immigration officer frowned. ‘A para?’

  ‘Paratrooper. Third Battalion, the Parachute Regiment.’

  ‘So you jump out of planes and shit?’

  ‘It’s been known, yes.’

  ‘Served out in the Middle East?’

  ‘Some,’ said Standing.

  The man nodded. ‘My father was in Operation Desert Storm.’

  ‘Before my time,’ said Standing.

  ‘It’s still a mess out there,’ said the man.

  ‘And probably will be for some time,’ said Standing.

  The immigration officer handed the passport back to Standing. ‘Have a nice day,’ he said. ‘And thank you for your service.’

  ‘Right back at you,’ said Standing.

  He walked out into the arrivals area. There was no sign of Kaitlyn. He took out his phone and called her on FaceTime but there was no answer. He figured she was probably driving, so he headed for a coffee shop and ordered an Americano and a sandwich. He ate the sandwich and drank the coffee, then called her again. Still no answer. He frowned as he stared at his smartphone. It wouldn’t take her much more than thirty minutes to drive to the airport from her apartment, though there was always the possibility that there had been an accident on the freeway and she’d been caught up in traffic. He ordered another coffee and sat down. He tried calling Kaitlyn every five minutes or so, but by the time he had finished his second coffee she still hadn’t answered. He found her address on his phone and then went along to the taxi rank and took a cab to her apartment block.

  He followed another resident into the building and went up the stairs to her third-floor apartment. He knocked on her door, even though he knew she wasn’t going to answer, then let himself in with the key she had given him.

  He dropped his bag in the hallway and walked towards the sitting room. There was an envelope Sellotaped to the mirror. It had his name on it in capital letters. MATT STANDING. If Kaitlyn had left the note, she would have just used his first name. He stared at the envelope for several seconds, wanting to delay the moment when his worst fears would be realised, then he reached out and pulled it off the mirror. There was a single sheet of paper inside the envelope and he unfolded it. TELL BOBBY-RAY TO GIVE HIMSELF UP OR HIS SISTER DIES.

  Standing cursed. Whoever wanted Bobby-Ray dead now had Kaitlyn, and he was sure they were serious about their threat. But what was he supposed to do? He was no closer to knowing where Bobby-Ray was than when he had first arrived in Los Angeles.

  He looked around the room. There were no signs of a struggle. He went through to the bedroom. The duvet was half off the bed and there was a pillow on the floor, but Kaitlyn could just have been a messy sleeper.

  He rubbed the back of his neck as he walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out a beer and popped the cap off, then went back into the sitting room and dropped down onto the sofa. He had the envelope that Shepherd had given him in his jacket pocket and he took it out. He sat and drank his beer as he studied the list of Russian names. Two of them were in Los Angeles.

  21

  Standing twisted the top off the bottle of water and took a long drink as he stared at the house across the road. It was a single-storey wooden-sided house with a new black BMW and a white Range Rover parked in the driveway, which suggested that Stanislav Yurin was at home. Standing was in Kaitlyn’s Polo. The keys had been in the kitchen and the car had a full tank of fuel. It had taken him thirty minutes to drive to Yurin’s house in Venice, just four blocks from the beach.

  Standing took another drink of water. All Shepherd had given him was Yurin’s name and address, and Googling hadn’t come up with anything else. Standing didn’t have a gun, but if Yurin was a high-ranking member of the Russian mafia he’d almost certainly have one, or have people around him who were armed.

  His phone rang and he jumped. It was Kaitlyn calling, but he frowned when he realised that it was a regular call and not FaceTime. He answered the call but didn’t say anything. For several seconds there was just static on the line, then a man spoke. ‘Standing?’

  ‘I’m sitting, actually.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said the man. He had a strong Russian accent, which both reassured and worried Standing. It confirmed that he was right to suspect that the Russian mafia were involved in the Koshkin killing and Kaitlyn’s abduction, but it also meant that he was going up against some serious villains. ‘Have you spoken to Barnes?’ the man growled.

  ‘I don’t know where he is. Let me talk to Kaitlyn.’

  ‘Tell Barnes that if he doesn’t turn himself in, his sister is dead. And before she dies, she’ll suffer a lot of pain.’

  ‘I need to see Kaitlyn.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Proof of life.’

  ‘Fuck you twice. Tell Barnes he has twenty-four hours. He can call us on this phone.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is and he doesn’t call me,’ said Standing.

  ‘And after we’ve killed her, we’ll come looking for you,’ said the Russian.

  ‘Yeah, well good luck with that,’ said Standing.

  ‘Twenty-four hours,’ said the man, and the line went dead.

  Standing put the phone back in his pocket and took another drink of water. Twenty-four hours wasn’t long. He put the cap back on his bottle and got out of the car. He had no game plan to speak of, he was just going to play it by ear. It wasn’t the best way of going into action, but his instincts had never let him down so far.

  He walked up the driveway. The blinds were down at the windows. He reached the house and went up to the front door. There was a doorbell on the right-hand side and he pressed it. He was breathing slowly and evenly and if there had been anyone on hand to take his vital signs, they would have found his pulse was a steady seventy-two beats a minute and his blood pressure was a healthy 120/80.

  He pressed the bell again. The door opened, just a few inches. A man looked down at Standing. He was tall, well over six feet, and big. ‘What?’ barked the man. There was a large diamond stud in his left ear.

  ‘Are you Stanislav?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Definitely Russian. ‘I’m the man asking to speak to Stan.’

  Someone shouted from inside the house. Diamond Stud turned and barked again, this time in Russian. Standing shouldered the door, hard. He caught the man off guard and he staggered back. Standing pushed the door wide. It opened into a hallway. At the far end was a kitchen. There was a man sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in front of him. There were two doors to the right, both open. One to the left, closed. Diamond Stud snarled at Standing and reached down with his hand. He was wearing an LA Lakers sweatshirt and there was a gun-shaped bulge over his stomach. Standing punched him under the chin but even as the punch landed he knew it wouldn’t do much more than annoy him. Diamond Stud weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds and it was all muscle. Armchair warriors liked to say that the bigger they are, the harder they fall, which might well have been true but it required one hell of a lot of effort and some luck to get them to the ground.

  Diamond Stud’s right hand was still going for the gun. Standing
kicked his left knee to get him off balance and almost immediately slammed his elbow in his temple.

  Diamond Stud staggered back. The man in the kitchen was getting to his feet and grabbing something off the table. Like Diamond Stud he was a big man, wearing a tight T-shirt that showed bulging forearms covered in brightly coloured tattoos. The kitchen door blocked Standing’s view so he couldn’t see what the man was reaching for.

  Diamond Stud roared, more in anger than pain, and tried to claw Standing’s eyes. Standing grabbed the hand with both of his, twisted it at the wrist and then used his elbow to force him down. He resisted and Standing immediately moved in the other direction, pushing the arm back and exposing his chest. He let go with his right hand and grabbed Diamond Stud’s gun from under the man’s shirt. Diamond Stud’s eyes widened in panic as he realised what was happening.

  The gun was a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield, which, like the Glock, had the safety built into the trigger. Standing lowered the barrel and pressed the muzzle against Diamond Stud’s right leg. He pulled the trigger and the gun kicked and Diamond Stud immediately sagged against the wall as blood erupted around the knee.

  Standing stepped to the right and brought up the weapon. Tattooed Sleeves had reached the kitchen doorway and was holding a gun in his right hand. Standing immediately went into a crouch and pulled the trigger again. They fired at the same time but Tattooed Sleeves shot high. Standing fired twice and both shots hit the man in the right shoulder.

  A third man appeared in the doorway to Standing’s right and then ducked away.

  Diamond Stud grabbed at Standing’s left leg and Standing shot him in the shoulder. He fell back, cursing.

  As he moved down the hallway, Tattooed Sleeves slumped to the kitchen floor, his shirt a mass of red. His mouth was working soundlessly and he was looking at Standing with a look of surprise on his face.

  Standing walked quickly to the room where he’d seen the third man. He had the Shield up in both hands. If there had been anyone there to take Standing’s vital signs, they would have found that his pulse rate and blood pressure were exactly the same as when he’d pressed the doorbell. He went through the door gun first, his head moving from side to side for maximum vision.

  The man was standing by a desk, his right hand in a drawer. ‘Hands in the air, now,’ said Standing. ‘If I see a gun, I pull the trigger.’

  He slowly raised his hands and turned to face Standing. ‘Are you Stanislav Yurin?’ Standing asked.

  ‘Fuck you,’ spat the man.

  Standing shot him in the leg. The man didn’t go down; he stood his ground and continued to glare at Standing as blood dribbled through his jeans.

  ‘The next one goes in your head and I’ll go back into the hallway and talk to the other guys,’ said Standing. He levelled the gun at the man’s head and tightened his finger on the trigger.

  The man jutted up his chin. ‘I am Yurin,’ he said. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Standing gestured with the gun. ‘Get into the hallway so I can keep an eye on all of you,’ he said. He moved into the hall and stood with his back to the wall. Diamond Stud was sitting on the floor. He said something to Yurin. ‘English!’ said Standing. ‘If I hear one more word of Russian I will put a bullet in whoever said it.’

  Tattooed Sleeves was curled up on the floor and blood was pooling around him, glistening on the tiles. If he wasn’t already dead, death wasn’t far off. Standing felt no guilt about ending his life – it had been kill or be killed, and on the day Standing had been the better killer.

  Yurin limped into the hallway.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Standing. He walked to the kitchen, stepped over Tattooed Sleeves, grabbed two dishcloths and went back to Yurin. He threw one at Yurin and tossed the other to Diamond Stud. ‘Stem the bleeding. If we can tie this up in a few minutes, you can call 911 and get yourselves patched up.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ snarled Yurin, but he placed the cloth on his wound and applied pressure.

  ‘Yeah, sticks and stones,’ said Standing. ‘Now where is Kaitlyn Barnes?’

  ‘You think she’s here? You fucking idiot.’ Yurin spat at him but the spittle fell short.

  ‘At least you’re not denying you know what I’m talking about,’ said Standing. He waved the gun. ‘Where’s your phone?’

  ‘My pocket.’

  ‘Take it out.’

  Yurin did as he was told.

  ‘Call your boss. Tell him a friend of Bobby-Ray Barnes is here and tell him that if he doesn’t let Kaitlyn Barnes go I’ll put a bullet in your head. And speak English.’

  ‘He won’t give up the girl,’ said Yurin. ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘It’s my time to waste,’ said Standing. He gestured with his gun. ‘Do it.’

  Yurin sighed and called a number.

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ said Standing. ‘And remember, no Russian.’

  Whoever was at the other end of the line answered. ‘It’s me,’ said Yurin. The person at the other end spoke in Russian. ‘We have to speak in English,’ said Yurin. ‘There’s a shithead here with a gun. He’s shot Vlad and he’s shot Roman. He’s shot me in the leg and he says if you don’t let the bitch go, he’ll put a bullet in my head.’

  ‘How did this motherfucker get into your house?’

  ‘That’s not the fucking point, is it?’ said Yurin.

  ‘I think it is. How the fuck does one man shoot three of you?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Denis, he’s going to kill me.’

  ‘No, he won’t,’ said Denis. ‘If that was his plan he’d have done it already. Let me talk to him.’

  Standing shook his head and pointed at Yurin.

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you.’

  ‘Then tell him to go fuck himself.’

  ‘I’ve got a bullet in my fucking leg, Denis.’

  Denis began speaking in Russian. Standing stepped forward and grabbed the phone from Yurin. He killed the speakerphone and put the phone to his ear. ‘Listen to me, Denis, and listen good,’ he said. ‘You need to give Kaitlyn back to me.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Bobby-Ray’s. You might have a problem with Bobby-Ray, but that’s nothing to do with his sister. You need to let her go now.’

  ‘You don’t tell me what to do, suka, mudak.’

  Standing didn’t know much Russian, but he knew the words for bitch and asshole.

  ‘If you don’t release her, I’ll kill Yurin.’

  ‘Kill him,’ said Denis. ‘He’s a fucking liability anyway.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Standing. He pointed the gun at Yurin, took aim, and fired twice. He ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.

  Yurin stared up at him in horror. Both rounds had embedded themselves in the wall, a few inches above his head. ‘Ty che, suka, o’khuel blya?’ he hissed. ‘Are you fucking crazy, you bitch?’

  ‘Would you rather I shot you in the head?’ asked Standing. ‘Because that’s what Denis wanted, right?’

  Yurin glared at him and didn’t answer.

  ‘Your boss couldn’t give a damn if I killed you or not,’ said Standing. ‘You heard him. You mean nothing to him.’

  Still Yurin said nothing.

  ‘Here’s what’s going to happen, Stan. I’m going to find Denis and he’s either going to release Kaitlyn or I’m going to kill him. Those are the only choices. And you’re going to have to hope that I do kill him, because otherwise he’s going to come after you.’

  Yurin frowned, not understanding.

  ‘When Denis finds out that I didn’t kill you, he’ll assume it’s because you told me what I wanted to know. And he probably won’t just kill you, right? He’ll probably torture you first. That’s what you Solntsevskaya guys do, right? You’re big on torture?’

  ‘What do you want from me, motherfucker? I don’t know where the bitch is.’

  ‘No, but you know where Denis is. And your best hope right now is to share that info
rmation with me.’

  Yurin gritted his teeth and stared up at Standing, his eyes burning with hatred.

  22

  If there was any doubt about the services provided in The Dollhouse, the ten-times life-size cut-out of a sexy blonde dancer holding a glass of champagne on the roof was probably a clue. Plus the words GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS! above the door.

  It was just after six thirty in the evening and Standing had parked the Polo across the road from the building to get a feel for the establishment. Other than the signage, it had the look of an industrial warehouse. There was a parking lot to the left with a dozen cars there, mainly pick-up trucks. There was a line of expensive SUVs lined up by the entrance under signs that said unauthorised vehicles would be towed away. Standing figured they belonged to the owners, which meant one of them probably belonged to Denis Volkov.

  Once he had realised that Volkov had done him no favours, Yurin had given Standing Volkov’s name, his address and told him that he used the Hollywood Boulevard strip club as his base of operations. Yurin’s wound wasn’t life-threatening but the man shot in the hallway needed medical attention and the one in the kitchen was dead. Yurin told Standing that he would take care of the body and that he had an off-the-books doctor who would tend to the injuries. Yurin’s attitude had changed once he’d realised how little his boss cared about what happened to him, and Standing guessed that Yurin was already planning on taking over Volkov’s operations once Standing’s mission had run its course.

  The gun he’d taken from the kitchen of the house was in the glove compartment. The Shield that he’d taken from the man who had opened the door had been a small, light gun, easy to carry as a concealed weapon but so small that it could only hold eight rounds in the magazine. He had fired seven, so he’d wiped his prints off it and left it in the house. The gun in the kitchen had only been fired once. It was a Beretta APX compact with twelve rounds left in the magazine. But Standing had pretty much decided that there was no point in taking the gun in with him. There was no obvious security outside and Standing was no expert on strip clubs but he was sure he wouldn’t be allowed to walk in with a gun.