by Tom Wood
He faced Alvarez, raised the gun.
‘Any last requests, hombre?’
Alvarez stared up at Dalweg, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, no fear, only hatred. ‘Go to hell.’
Dalweg sneered, showing cracked and bloody teeth. ‘Ladies first.’
Dalweg cried out as Sykes kicked his heel into the back of Dalweg’s injured calf with as much strength as he had left. Dalweg didn’t go over but stumbled towards Alvarez, who sprang up from his knees, launching his forehead into Dalweg’s unprotected face. Bone, cartilage, and teeth gave way, and Dalweg lurched backward, hitting the side of the truck, falling to the ground and into the pool of diesel, conscious but dazed, Beretta still in hand.
‘ You’re fucking dead,’ Dalweg screamed.
His arm extended in Alvarez’s direction, and the gun went off. The bullet buried itself into the wall to Alvarez’s right, a wide miss, but Alvarez didn’t hang around until Dalweg recovered his senses enough to shoot straight. Alvarez hurried away while Dalweg writhed on the fuel-slick road and Dalweg took another three shots in rapid succession. Alvarez flinched but wasn’t hit. He headed down an alleyway, left palm pressed over the exit wound on the back of his shoulder. There were no more gunshots or sounds of pursuit, so he paused to lean against a wall and catch his breath. He tugged an incisor from the skin between his eyebrows.
He heard the truck’s engine start up a moment later and shuffled back to the corner where the alley met the street, glancing out. Sykes was still lying prostrate on the road surface, his left cheek bruised and probably fractured. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
Fume clouds rose from the exhaust and the truck tried to pull away from the kerb. There were vehicles parked in front and behind it, making the manoeuvre tricky. The blown-out rear tyre slowed it down further. Diesel continued to spray from the ruptured fuel tank.
Alvarez knew that if he didn’t do something soon, the truck would be gone and the missiles with it. He pictured them being sold on the black markets of the Middle East within days. He took a breath. Last-chance time.
Alvarez wiped the blood from his left hand onto his pants and ran out into the road, staying on the driver’s blind side. He moved round to the back of the slowly turning truck and, with his good hand, grabbed the tailgate. With a grunt he jumped up and tumbled over into the cargo deck.
He already knew what he was looking for and where to find them. He quickly opened the box and took a flare. He lost his balance when the truck stopped sharply, knocking his injured shoulder against one of the dive tanks. He cried out and lay for a few seconds, trying to force the pain from his mind while the truck started to reverse slowly. Move.
Alvarez sucked air into his lungs and put the flare between his teeth so he could unlatch the tailgate and drop out onto the road.
His knees took the impact, and his face contorted against more pain. He twisted onto his back as the truck reversed over him, stopping with the rear tyres at either side of his shoulders. The air stank of diesel fumes.
Alvarez grabbed the flare in his mouth, used his teeth to hold on to the cap while he pulled the flare from the grip tube. The truck changed gear into first above him. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it away, reserved the flare so that he was holding the bottom with his teeth, hooked the ignition cord with his index finger, and pulled.
The flare ignited and thirty thousand candela’s worth of light and heat poured out from the end that was pointing away from Alvarez’s face.
The truck started to move forward again, and Alvarez rolled onto his right side, accepting the agony in his shoulder so he could thrust the burning end of the flare into the pool of diesel collecting on the road.
The fuel set alight instantly, and Alvarez’s face was flooded with heat. He lurched backwards away from the fire. It quickly spread up to the fuel tank and both ways along the road. The diesel-soaked tyres started burning, leaving a strip of molten rubber on the ground.
A second later the truck had passed over Alvarez, leaving him lying on his back on the road, choking on thick tyre smoke.
Alvarez knew that although diesel wasn’t explosive like gasoline, it burned much more fiercely. In seconds, flames engulfed the truck’s entire right side and the vehicle stopped abruptly.
Still on his back, Alvarez used his feet to push himself away from the ever-growing fire. His face felt as if it was sunburned, and he smelled burned hair. He saw locals edging closer to check out the burning truck. He shouted at them to get back, but they didn’t understand him. A compressed-air tank exploded, and the resulting bang and fanning of flames convinced the crowd to back off. Sykes had managed to get back to his feet and was stumbling down the road.
The driver’s door opened and Dalweg leaped out, landing on his hands and knees before frantically scrambling away from the burning truck. When he was at a safe distance, he looked back at the flames licking high up the sides of the canvas backing and screamed in anger.
Alvarez didn’t have the strength to move but raised his head for a second to see Dalweg turn towards him.
‘ You fucking happy now, ese? ’
Alvarez wanted to say yes, but instead he coughed. Dalweg strode closer, menace etched into his smashed-up face. His fists were tight at his sides.
‘I may not get my money now,’ he spat. ‘But I’ll settle for cutting your fucking heart out.’
He pulled a dive knife from a belt sheath. It glimmered in the light of the burning truck.
Alvarez looked up again to judge the angle, raised his left hand, and tossed the flare.
It hit Dalweg in the centre of his diesel-soaked chest.
CHAPTER 78
17:38 EAT
Victor’s eyes opened, and for a few seconds he couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything was wrong. Colours and sounds didn’t make sense. The world was brown, blurry, strange. His head hurt. He took a breath but breathed in only water through his nose.
He leaned up, coughing, raising his eyes and nose out of the river. He hung upside down for a moment, gasping. He didn’t know for how long he had been unconscious, but he guessed it could only have been a few minutes. He did a quick assessment of his body, flexing his hands, arms, legs, toes and moving his head, feeling stabs of pain as he did, but his limbs performed as he had commanded. No major injuries.
He unbuckled his seat belt, dropped onto the ceiling — now the floor — going underwater and then scrambling out of the smashed driver’s window. Glass sliced his arms and legs. The river was slow moving, shallow, two feet deep. He struggled to his feet, staggered a step away from the upturned Jeep, soaking-wet clothes clinging to him. He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the low sun.
Victor felt a sharp pain on the top of his head as he squinted. He reached up and pulled a long sliver of metal from his scalp. Blood mixed with water and ran down the side of his face. He leaned against the Jeep while he tried to get back his bearings. He felt shaky, senses all over the place. He breathed heavily. His left leg especially was in pain where the car had hit him, and in response he kept his weight on his right foot. The many minor knocks and scrapes didn’t seem to hurt that badly; the adrenaline surging through him was a perfect inhibitor. If he survived until the morning, he knew he was going to feel terrible. He looked forward to that feeling.
Looking around, he saw the far bank of the river was maybe twenty yards away, the near side less than half that. Victor could see crushed shrubs and small bent-over trees, the path where the Jeep had smashed through the foliage before shooting off a high section of bank. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
He couldn’t see where the assassin had crashed, and maybe he was dead, but if Victor had survived, then so could his enemy. He had to be sure. He needed to see the body. After a few moments of rest, he pushed himself off the Jeep and headed for the near riverbank, wading through the knee-deep water. It was thick and dark with soil, growing shallower the closer he made it to the shore. He felt naked without a
gun.
He’d taken two steps up the muddy bank when he saw a Russian emerge from the tree line, half-crouched, movements confident, Bizon in hand.
№ 9 mm bullets ripped through Victor, so he stopped and waited. The Russian smiled at Victor and gestured for him to come forward. They were five yards apart.
The Russian said, ‘You’re lucky he wants you alive. For now.’
Victor said nothing.
There had been two Russians in each pick-up. Where was the second? Victor approached slowly, shuffling, acting more injured than he was. He glanced around. He couldn’t see the road through the trees and vegetation, but he knew it was there, maybe a hundred yards farther back at the top of the slope. Despite the sun it was dark beneath the canopy. Three yards.
The Russian motioned for Victor to come closer still, and he continued to walk forward, grimacing with every step as though he could barely stand. He needed to be close to try anything, but as soon as he was within range he knew the butt of the submachine gun would slam against his skull. He didn’t control his breathing, letting the adrenaline surge, heightening his senses, supercharging his muscles. Two yards.
Another step and Victor would charge, trusting the Russian had bought the pretence of weakness — a slim chance, but his only one.
From behind the Russian a chill voice said, ‘No one kills him but me.’
Suppressed gunshots. Two. A double tap.
The Russian splayed forward, his features contorted into shock, fear, and pain for a single second before his body went limp and he collapsed face-first into the mud, directly in front of Victor. Two holes side by side in his spine so close together they touched.
No more than ten yards away Reed stood motionless in the undergrowth behind the body. He was holding the Glock in a two-handed combat grip, aiming straight at Victor’s chest. Reed didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.
Victor took a breath, realizing he was a dead man. Killing the Russian might just have been possible, but this enemy didn’t want to take him alive. At such close range Victor wouldn’t miss, even injured, and he knew the assassin wasn’t going to either. The only cover to run to meant heading closer still in order to get into the tree line. Even without a leg he could just about walk on, he wouldn’t get close. Moving back into the river to try and reach the Jeep would be even more hopeless. Even if he could somehow make it to the vehicle without getting shot, what would he do next?
Nothing was the answer. There was nothing Victor could do to stay alive.
He supposed there was something fitting to be killed by one of his own kind. Norimov had told him for someone so careful to stay alive he lived as though he had a death wish. If he did have such a wish, it was about to come true.
Victor stepped forward and stood up straight, showing his enemy he wasn’t going to cower or beg. It wasn’t much, but it was all Victor had left as he waited for the bullet to the heart or brain. He didn’t have to wait long.
Reed fired.
CHAPTER 79
17:41 EAT
But he didn’t fire at Victor.
There was a sound, the crackling of vegetation. Reed spun instantly to its source, ninety degrees to his left. He shot once into the darkness beneath the canopy, dropped to one knee, reducing the size of his body while at the same time providing a more stable firing position. Shot again. Suppressed automatic fire came back at him, mud flying up as bullets raked the ground around his position.
Victor didn’t hesitate, moved while Reed was distracted by what had to be the second Russian from the pick-up. He sprinted towards Reed, towards the dead Russian, towards the Bizon still clutched in the Russian’s hand.
Reed fired again at the unseen gunman, and a cry emanated from the trees. Victor covered the ground quickly, but Reed was already spinning back towards him. Victor tensed, anticipating the bullet’s impact, but then he saw the slide was back on the Glock in Reed’s hand.
Empty.
Victor reached the Bizon and scooped it up into his hands. He levelled it to fire, but Reed was already on him, pushing the gun’s barrel to one side before he had it in line. A hand grabbed Victor’s shirt a split second before a foot looped around his leg.
He crashed to the ground, on his back, right arm extended, hand still gripping the submachine gun. Reed landed on top of Victor, his weight knocking the air from Victor’s lungs.
Flames spat from the muzzle of the Bizon. Ejected brass cases struck the mud. The recoil made Victor’s arm shake and flail about wildly. Reed forced Victor’s index finger down on the trigger. The magazine was empty in just over three seconds, the last bullet escaping the gun into nearby vegetation.
Victor reached for Reed’s hair, found it too short to grab hold of, went for his eyes instead, but Reed was already rolling. He came to his feet a few yards away and Victor likewise rose.
For a moment the two men stared into each other’s eyes. Victor assessed his opponent while he knew he was likewise being assessed. The assassin before him had a compact frame, but Victor could tell that every pound was honed for strength and speed. He wore his hair short and with no care for fashion or style, no more than a centimetre or two in length all over. Too short for an enemy to grip in his fingers, as Victor had found out.
Blood ran from the assassin’s right ear. Superficial wounds on his torso and arms, Victor assumed from the crash, were visible where his shirt was red. His face was damp with sweat, chillingly empty of expression, conveying no anger or excitement or even determination. It was as if no thought or feeling existed behind his eyes.
With a slow, casual motion, Reed reached his right thumb and forefinger up his left shirt sleeve. He drew out a knife from a wrist sheath and smoothly opened the folded blade.
It had a four-inch, partially serrated kriss blade with a gladiator point. It was matte black, precision crafted ceramic, strong as folded steel but much lighter and sharper, invisible to metal detectors. Victor had never seen the model before. Custom made, then, for an expert.
Victor backed away a step.
They were five yards apart, far enough away for Victor to tear off his shirt and wrap it tightly around his left arm. He gripped the end of the shirt tightly in his fist to keep it secure. Reed nodded to him — the killer’s bow — a mark of respect between enemies.
Victor didn’t nod back.
There was a pain growing in his lower back, bruised vertebrae from the crash or the earlier fall. It was getting worse, but he showed no sign of it on his face. Reed likewise stood as if he was not injured and bleeding in several places. Neither man displayed any weakness lest their opponent take the advantage.
Reed held his knife loosely in his right hand, the point up, thumb resting along centre of the blade. He kept it at chest level, arm bent at the elbow, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, balance ready to shift in an instant. Victor stood with the same stance. He was taller than his enemy. It didn’t matter.
He took another step back, instinctively retreating away from the blade but also moving towards the river where the water would help support his leg.
Reed rushed forward, covering the distance fast, jabbing upward at Victor’s neck. His speed was incredible. Victor dodged away, hearing the whoosh as the blade sliced through the air. He used his shielded forearm to ward off a follow-up thrust to his stomach, hitting the blade from above with the back of his wrist. Victor punched with his right arm, hoping to hit his opponent’s exposed jaw.
Reed pulled back, used his left arm to block the blow, and whipped the knife up. Victor saw it coming, moved, but felt the blade cut his right arm. The knife was so sharp it barely hurt.
They stepped away in unison, both equally vulnerable to the other, neither willing to take uncalculated risks. Each face was a blank mask, impassive.
Victor was considering his tactics as he knew his opponent was also. The assassin may have had a knife, but he was no fool. He wouldn’t commit himself blindly until the moment was exact, and neither
would Victor. But in their first engagement Victor was cut and the assassin uninjured. All his enemy had to do was repeat the process, each time wearing Victor down. But he’ll try something else, Victor thought; he won’t repeat the same attack.
Reed leaped forward, the knife held high and wide, bringing it across for a wild slash at Victor’s eyes. Victor didn’t take the bait. He jumped back out of his opponent’s reach as the assassin’s arm pivoted, driving the knife downwards. Instead of plunging into the side of Victor’s neck, the blade hit only air.
Victor knocked the knife hand to one side, kicked at Reed’s stomach. Reed threw his left arm in the way, accepting the blow where it had little effect.
Victor edged backwards, his feet now under water. The next attack came with frightening speed, more following as Victor dodged. Reed didn’t slow his momentum, coming forward with every thrust, keeping Victor on the defensive. All Victor’s effort was focused on stopping the knife point from entering his flesh. He blocked and dodged, always retreating. The water reached the midpoint of his shins. He took a slash to his abdomen when Reed changed his attack and Victor wasn’t fast enough to avoid it.
The wound made Victor wince, and he cursed himself for showing pain. Moving through the water slowed him down but was easier on his injured leg. His enemy’s speed was likewise affected, but his reflexes were still blindingly fast. The warm blood on Victor’s stomach and arm proof those reflexes were faster than his own. The slash to his stomach wasn’t deep, but he could feel it tearing more every time he moved. He wouldn’t allow it to slow him down. If he tore himself apart, so be it.
Victor concentrated on parrying, hoping to wear his opponent down while he waited for the opportunity to counter-attack. The shirt wrapped around his arm was cut in a dozen places, but so far it had protected his arm from the knife’s edge. It was razor sharp, as he expected it would be, but still couldn’t penetrate all the way through the thick layers of cloth in a single slash. But each attack took its toll, and, as Victor parried, his shield was slowly being destroyed. With luck it might last another few minutes before it would be useless. When it did, Victor would use his bare arm as the shield.
