Severance Kill

by Stevens, Tim

  Calvary watched his eyes. They blazed, dark and malign. For an instant they flicked to the staircase and then back. Calvary said, ‘Forget about him. He’s no use now.’

  He hoped he was right.

  Calvary was five or six feet from Gaines. With his arm extended, the barrel of the gun was less than a yard from the man’s face. He raised it so that he was looking down it. There was sweat, Calvary observed, on the smudged pouches below the man’s lower lids. As he watched he saw a tiny flicker of muscle leap in the man’s cheek.

  It was a problem, his being so jumpy. It meant he might pull the trigger as a reflex, in response to a sudden movement or sound.

  As if on cue a mobile phone rang somewhere. Calvary saw the man’s eyes move first, jerking to one side, saw the tightening of his finger on the trigger.

  Calvary began the pressure that would squeeze the trigger of his own gun, believing as he did so in magic, that the gun would miraculously unjam itself.

  The man got control of himself at the last moment, fished the phone out of his pocket. He pressed the muzzle of his gun – another SIG Sauer – harder against Gaines’s head for emphasis and spoke quickly and softly into the phone, his eyes remaining on Calvary’s. He listened, mainly, except when he rattled off a burst which I assumed was his updating the caller on the situation.

  The expression in his eyes had changed from hate to fear.

  He folded the phone away. Calvary eased himself forward, barely moving his feet, putting most of the motion into a lean until the barrel of the SIG was less than a foot from the man’s face. He could see the tension in him, feel it lashing off him.

  The problem Calvary had created for himself by moving so close was that he no longer had an adequate view up the stairs, which were behind him now. He heard stirrings from above, a low groaning punctuated by a thump. He glanced at Gaines’s face. He was looking past Calvary. His eyes swung up to meet Calvary’s. Barely perceptibly his head shook. Calvary nodded. It was clear behind him, for the time being at least.

  A second problem, also of Calvary’s own making, was that the longer he continued his bluff the higher the risk that the man would call it. He would soon start wondering why Calvary hadn’t shot him, would start thinking that he hadn’t the nerve, even if he didn’t work out that the gun was jammed.

  ‘Lower your gun,’ Calvary said, ‘or I’ll shoot you.’ He repeated it in Russian.

  The man didn’t move, didn’t appear to react at all. Calvary pushed the muzzle forward so that the metal was an inch from his forehead.

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Calvary said. ‘I’m here to get Gaines. I’d prefer it if he were alive, but I’ll take him even if he’s dead. The difference is, if he dies, you die. If you let him go I promise you I will not kill you.’

  There was something in his eyes, then a change. Calvary said, ‘Oh, bloody hell, have it your way,’ and pulled back as hard as he could on the trigger.

  The man didn’t have time to notice that it was jammed because he did what Calvary had suspected he would do and moved the pistol away from Gaines’s head to aim it at Calvary. It was an extremely fast move but Calvary had been expecting it. He swiped his useless gun hard against the back of the man’s hand and felt the metal connect with the brittle bones. The man screamed, his fingers loosening. At the same time Calvary headbutted the man in the face. The man let go of the gun and Calvary prised it free. He stepped back, Gaines dropping sideways off the sofa, free of his captor.

  The man launched himself at Calvary, his other hand coming out, a blade flashing.

  Calvary shot him in the face. It stopped his forward dive in mid-air, flinging him back against the sofa into the crimson spray his blood and brain had made an instant earlier.

  Gaines sat on the carpet, his expression dazed.

  Calvary said, ‘Wait here.’ He went up the stairs swiftly, ready to fire at the first sign of movement. The man was crumpled on the landing, prone but for one leg bent under him. When Calvary had fired through the door he must have hit him in the left shoulder and in the chest because there were exit wounds in the backs of both. His head was turned sideways. Calvary could tell from his open dulled eyes and the way the blood was no longer gouting from his wounds that he was dead.

  Calvary moved back downstairs. Gaines had risen, was staring down at the bodies, the man sprawled on the sofa and his bald associate, throat-shot at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘How many of them?’ said Calvary.

  Gaines didn’t respond at first. Calvary shook his shoulder.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four.’ His voice sounded as if he hadn’t used it for a while, throaty and quiet.

  Only four. There would have been more, previously, but most of them would have been drafted in for the rendezvous at the park. Some of the survivors would have fled, some would be trying to find the Russians and their boss. But some would be heading back here, to protect the prize.

  It would have to be quick.

  Calvary stepped away from Gaines, aimed the gun at him at arm’s length.

  He said: ‘On your knees.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  The Kodiak had changed species. Had squealed like a pig.

  That was how some would see it. Bartos didn’t agree. He hadn’t betrayed anybody, hadn’t dishonoured himself or anybody he respected.

  They’d allowed him to sit up, were over at the far end of the cellar, ignoring him, it seemed. He slumped forward, his shirt and trousers sodden, his ham hands massaging his throat. Impossibly, he was breathing once more. Air, dank underground air that was purer than anything an Alpine meadow might offer, was actually passing through his windpipe.

  So they find the English hostage. They win this battle. What the fuck. Live to fight another day.

  They’d strapped him down on some sort of metal table, four hard and ugly men who knew their business – unlike his own people, the shitty rabble he’d relied on to take down Calvary – and the small guy with the eyepatch had flung the hood over Bartos’s head. The canvas had stunk of old sweat and rot. Then the water had come, a fast thin torrent straight on to his face, moulding the canvas against his nose and lips, driving it up his nostrils and down past his tongue into his gullet.

  It was the most frightened he’d ever been in his life. He’d shat his pants, cried like a snot-nosed baby, tried to shake the hated wet mask off him. They’d done it again, and a third time, and he’d heard himself screaming, promising he’d tell them everything.

  And through it all, he’d kept his wits. Had admired, professionally, the technique, and had made a note to himself to use it himself in future.

  If his men, not his brother Miklos who he assumed was dead, but the others, the shower of shit he’d made the mistake of considering worthy of his trust, had any common sense, they’d give up looking for him and instead protect the Russians’ target, Gaines. Would recognise there was more they could achieve that way. But Bartos assumed they’d be scrambling to find him, and of course they’d fail.

  Gaines was lost, because Bartos had told the Russian bitch where he was. Shit happened. Now he needed to concentrate on buying his freedom. And he had no doubt he could do so.

  Everyone had a price.

  *

  ‘We should leave him behind, under guard.’

  ‘No. We take him with us.’

  Krupina felt the atmosphere had altered. The balance of power had tipped in her direction. Voronin had taken charge during the waterboarding, directing the mechanics of the process, doing the initial shouting; but it was her questions that had evoked a response. Including – praise the Lord who didn’t exist – the blurting of the crucial address.

  They’d agreed, Voronin and her, that Blažek must be kept alive for now. What happened to him in the long run remained to be decided. H could be an extremely useful asset in the city, but if he proved uncooperative then he would have to be despatched. For the time being, however, they needed him alive, both as insurance against his own people a
nd in case he turned out to have been lying about Gaines’s whereabouts.

  They disagreed about what should happen to him in the mean time.

  Voronin said, ‘He will get in the way. His presence will encourage his men to fight harder.’

  ‘Just the opposite. It will be a blow to their morale, seeing their leader captive. And we can use him to enforce their cooperation.’

  He stared at her eyes, then dipped his head in a curt nod. ‘As you wish.’

  *

  ‘Why?’

  It threw Calvary. He was used to displays of defiance, of bravado even, but not this level of genuine incredulity.

  Gaines had complied, his cheeks working, his unshaven face making him look more mole-like than ever. He’d turned and knelt and put his interlinked hands behind his neck.

  The question had come over his shoulders.

  Normally Calvary didn’t engage in banter with his targets. Do the job, get out. Nothing personal. Something about Gaines’s smallness, his age, made Calvary say: ‘Use your imagination.’

  Gaines’s voice was flat, with no hint of a quaver. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ He half turned his head. ‘You were on the tram. You tried to stop them taking me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me who you are? It makes no difference to you, surely.’

  Do the job, get out. Now. They’ll be here any moment, the Russians, the police.

  ‘My name’s Calvary. I’m here because of what you did in the seventies and eighties.’

  A frown crept into the man’s voice. ‘Could you be a little more specific?’

  Calvary drew a deep breath, pressed the muzzle of the SIG against the base of Gaines’s skull, making him flinch a little. ‘Selling out your country. Betraying your colleagues to the other side and getting them killed.’

  A beat.

  Gaines said: ‘I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘And I presume you’ve no idea why there happened to be a Russian surveillance detail on your back while I was tagging you? Why the local SVR cell has been as hell bent on finding you as I’ve been?’

  ‘SVR –’ It was Gaines’s turn to exhale deeply. ‘My God.’

  What are you waiting for. Calvary’s hooked finger began to squeeze the trigger.

  ‘Mr Calvary, I’m not trying to bargain here. But before you shoot me I think you should hear what I have to say.’

  Calvary stepped back. Kept the gun extended.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘May I turn round?’

  ‘Yes.’

  *

  It took two minutes, Gaines perched on the arm of a chair and reciting in clipped, concise sentences, replying to Calvary’s interruptions when he thought them relevant, ignoring them at other times.

  Calvary took a long breath, wrestled down his feelings. There was no time to confront them now.

  In the dead men’s pockets he found three sets of car keys. To Gaines he said, ‘Do you have any idea where they’re parked?’

  ‘No. I arrived here blindfolded. But it was a short walk from the car, so I imagine not too far away.’

  Calvary picked up the gun belonging to the man who’d been shot in the neck. A Glock 17 with an almost full magazine. He hesitated, then pushed it into the pocket of his sodden jacket. He didn’t offer it to Gaines, didn’t trust him enough yet. He took two of the mobile phones he found, pocketing them.

  In the tiny kitchen off the living room he found a drawer with clean dishtowels. Using a roll of duct tape from another drawer he bound the towel around his head. He filled a pint glass with tap water, drank it off, did it a second time.

  He jerked his head. ‘Let’s go.’

  The street outside was ablaze, every light on in the surrounding houses, dark silhouettes peering from behind curtains. He pressed the buttons on the three car keys one after the other. The second unlocked a vehicle several yards down the road on the opposite side, its alarm chirping, its lights flashing. A twin-cab Ford pickup truck, dark in colour.

  ‘Follow me and keep low,’ he said to Gaines. He began to run in the direction of the pickup, the SIG in his hand but kept low at his side.

  Then the headlights came on, two sets, full-beam, shocking in their closeness and in a rapid one-two beat, from ahead and behind, pinning the two men.

  *

  ‘It’s the Englishman, it’s Calvary, he’s got Gaines.’

  Arkady’s yell made her recoil from the handset. Krupina was in the Audi once more, Lev driving, south of the Spanish Synagogue and of the address Blažek had given. Arkady and three of Voronin’s men had parked up the street. Voronin himself, together with three of his men and Blažek, were in the Hummer at the other end. There’d been shooting from the direction of the address as they’d approached, and they’d parked to watch and wait. The rest of Voronin’s people, the four remaining ones, were in two cars several streets away, providing backup.

  ‘We’re moving in.’

  Krupina said to Lev: ‘Get us there.’

  *

  Calvary shouted at Gaines to run and he did, surprisingly quickly, mimicking Calvary’s crouch as the engines gunned and an exhaust backfired and tyres screamed against tarmac. Calvary reached the pickup and rolled over the bonnet while Gaines fumbled with the door handle on the passenger side nearest the road. Because Calvary didn’t think Gaines was going to get the door open in time, he aimed the SIG at the oncoming headlights and pulled the trigger, twice, more to take their attention off Gaines than because he thought he had a chance of hitting anything worthwhile. He heard glass shatter and the headlights veered sideways on to the pavement on the opposite side of the road.

  Calvary dropped into the driver’s seat just as a shot passed above his head from behind. Gaines was in, and Calvary got the key in the ignition on the first attempt and fired the engine, mashing down on the accelerator and swinging the wheel to the left rather than rightwards, aiming for the pavement. The corner of the bumper hit the car in front but tangentially enough that Calvary was able to get clear. He weaved to avoid the low wall on the other side and then straightened out so that the car was pointing directly down the pavement. Then he hit the accelerator again, hard.

  The pavement was wide enough to accommodate the car, but only just. Gaines cringed away from the window, shielding his face, as the pickup scraped past the cars lining the road and one side mirror after another smashed off, car alarms firing in a bizarre and discordant attempt at harmony. Calvary swung the wheel a fraction to the left and the panels on the left-hand side of the car scoured against the low wall in a grinding shriek of metal, his own side mirror catching a gate post and spinning away. In the rear view mirror he saw frantic manoeuvring in the road, the car that had mounted the opposite pavement trying to move out of the way so that the car that had been behind them – a huge beast of a vehicle, an American Hummer – could take off along the road in pursuit.

  At the end of the pavement there was a lamp post. Calvary swerved in time to miss it and clipped the front bumper of another parked car again before pulling free. They were back on the road, just in time to see the headlights of the Hummer behind them advancing at speed.

  ‘Get down in your seat,’ Calvary said. Gaines didn’t move.

  Calvary punched him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Ivor. Get down.’

  He ducked below the headrest, burrowing into the back of the seat.

  Ahead loomed the river, curving eastwards. Calvary tried to remember the geography of the area from the maps he’d looked at. He spun the wheel and took them through ninety degrees to the right, gunned the engine.

  The lights came round the corner behind them quickly, too quickly. The Hummer was bigger and faster than the pickup, but that might be an advantage as it was possibly less manoeuvrable. Calvary floored the pedal and the needle on the dial crept past eighty kilometres per hour, then ninety, but the truck behind was gaining. In their wake he could see a trail of lights coming on upstairs in the
houses.

  He fished one of the mobile phones out of his pocket and dialled and switched it to the speaker function and laid it on the dashboard.

  She answered immediately, a frantic yell. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nikola, it’s me. Calvary.’

  ‘Martin?’ There was undisguised joy in her voice, shot through with relief. And he had to admit he felt a jolt himself, hearing her. She was alive, at least.

  ‘Can you talk? Did you get clear?’

  ‘Yes, I –’

  ‘Did Max and Jakub get free?’

  ‘Both are with me now.’

  Thank God.

  ‘I have Gaines. I think the Russians have got Blažek. They’re after us now, several cars. We’re heading eastwards along the river, on the northern edge of Josefov. I need to know the best direction to take to lose them.’

  He heard her voice off in the wings, talking to somebody in the background. She came back: ‘There is no best way. Max suggests taking the Hlavka Bridge across the river, then left into the Letna district. You are more likely to lose them there if they are based this side of the river.’

  ‘Got it. I need something else. Can you check something for me? An internet search, as quick but as thorough as possible?’

  He told her.

  ‘Of course.’ Then: ‘We will come find you.’

  ‘No, you need to keep away.’

  ‘We will come. What are you driving?’

  ‘A black Ford pickup.’

  ‘Martin?’

  ‘Yes.’ The Hummer was gaining ground, and something was happening at the passenger window.

  ‘Thank you for what you did for Max and Ja–’

  He hauled the wheel over as the flash of the shot blazed behind them and heard the bullet sing past the side of the car. The movement threw the phone to the floor, cutting off the call.

  Gaines was craning his neck, trying to look through the gap between the seats and out through the rear window. Calvary snapped, ‘You’ll get one in the eye if you’re not careful.’