Better Off Dead: (Victor the Assassin 4)

by WOOD TOM

  As Victor shot across the intersecting road, cutting through the flow of traffic and hearing thumped horns and braking tyres, he pictured frantic messages and hasty improvisations. They were chasing him because they thought they had been fooled. They had, but not as they thought. They would work it out soon, but he only needed to buy Gisele and himself a moment.

  He braked hard and turned left, back end sliding out but turning into the skid to control it then accelerating again as he drove along the north side of the office building, knowing they would think him heading to a rear exit, hoping to pick up Gisele before they could catch up.

  Victor grabbed the phone as he worked the wheel in one hand, thumbed for her number, and when the line connected, shouted, ‘Go.’

  He didn’t wait for a response. He dropped the phone and focused on the road ahead and the Range Rover he’d allowed to catch up behind.

  Oncoming headlights brightened – two blurs of pale light enlarging and disappearing as they swerved through the traffic.

  An orchestra of horns sounded. Brakes shrieked and tyres squealed. Anticipating a collision, he fought the instinct to tense, instead allowing his body to stay relaxed and loose to lessen the chances of injury and death in event of a crash. He worked the wheel and the brake pedal, avoiding a head-on as he cut into the opposite lane to disrupt the narrative of the attacker, to make him have to think about his own survival and not just that of his target.

  It worked because the oncoming Range Rover slowed – only for a second, but that hesitation told Victor his attackers, however reckless, cared more about living than winning.

  Victor kept his foot on the accelerator, closing the distance to the Range Rover fast – forty metres, thirty, twenty, ten.

  At five his enemy blinked in their game of death and heaved the wheel as Victor had known with certainty he would. They passed within inches, tearing off each other’s wing mirror, making both cars rock in the change of air pressure.

  Victor stamped the brake and pulled up on the handbrake as he sped towards a coming junction. Smoke and screaming was released from the tyres and the car’s back end swung around. Victor didn’t try and fight it and let the vehicle go into a spin until it had performed a one-eighty, then accelerated hard and controlled the wheel until he was racing back to the law firm.

  Sinclair groaned as he climbed to his feet. His Dragon Skin vest had caught the three rounds meant for his heart, but he’d still blacked out. He didn’t know what had happened with Norimov’s hired killer and Rogan, but the specifics mattered little.

  The assassin was trouble and he was good. The presence of the killer necessitated the drawing of Sinclair’s pistol. He could not afford to run into him unarmed and defenceless. He knew Gisele’s protector would not offer him the kind of sportsmanship he would offer in return. Sinclair would not hunt a tiger from the elevated safety of an elephant’s back. He would meet him on the ground, in undergrowth, man to beast. Shame on the hunter who hung his trophy without earning it.

  He moved, content to hurry now he was pursuing an equivalent and not a child. Properly employed haste, like the unflinching application of violence, was necessary here.

  Another man might find rage in the continued interference of the assassin, and indeed Sinclair knew well his own capacity for emotion. Getting shot, even armoured, was no fun, but the dull ache of the blunt-force trauma to his chest energised him instead. He savoured the pain and the thrill of base savagery; it fermented in his soul.

  Sinclair rushed through the offices. Wade’s voice barked through his earpiece:

  ‘We’ve lost him. We’ve lost him.’

  Sinclair said, ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘He left alone. He —’

  ‘You idiots,’ Sinclair spat. ‘It was a trick. He’s doubled back.’

  Victor braked hard outside and dashed up the steps as fast as his injured ankle let him. Gisele saw him before he reached the doors and came out, still scared but glad to see him.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Close. We don’t have much time.’

  She headed to the car, knowing it was the one he’d driven because of the open driver’s door and running engine.

  ‘No,’ Victor said, stopping her. ‘They’ll be looking for it.’

  He went to hail a taxi but saw a minicab against the opposite kerb. He grabbed Gisele’s wrist and they hurried across the road. He pulled open the rear door and bundled Gisele inside. He climbed in after her.

  ‘Oi,’ the driver said. ‘Bookings only, fella. You’ll have to sling your hook.’

  ‘Drive us a mile south and I’ll pay you for a day.’

  The driver thought about it for a moment. ‘No bullshit?’

  Victor put his hand on the door handle. ‘If we don’t get going this instant then the deal’s off.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said as he released the handbrake. ‘Just don’t tell the guv’nor.’

  The car pulled away from the kerb. Victor scanned the area. In the rear-view mirror he saw a black Range Rover turn on to the street.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Gisele sat behind the driver. Victor sat close to her so he could use the rear-view mirror with an unobstructed view. He grimaced against the pain of many wounds while he watched the reflection of the Range Rover. It accelerated until it reached the law firm, then came to an abrupt halt outside, near to the abandoned Audi. They thought he was inside.

  He noticed the driver looking at him in the rear-view – looking at his battered face and the blood on his clothes.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Gisele asked, breathing hard. ‘How did they know?’

  ‘The plan didn’t work. It’s my fault. I underestimated her. I’m sorry, I should never have left you alone.’

  ‘It was my choice as much as yours.’

  He kept his gaze on the mirror, seeing doors open on the Range Rover and two men rush out and up the steps to the building. He must have looked for a second too long because Gisele saw him and her head began turning.

  ‘Don’t,’ he told. ‘Keep looking forward.’

  She did, her face tense and her lips locked. He saw her palms rest on her thighs.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said to her, even though it was not.

  She nodded. She didn’t believe him. She trusted her own instincts more than his words even if no one had ever wanted her dead until a week ago. Victor couldn’t remember such a time.

  The driver noticed the tension. ‘Is everything okay back there?’

  Victor said, ‘We’re fine.’

  He saw in the mirror as the driver’s gaze flicked to Gisele and lingered a moment.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’

  Victor reached out a hand to rest on hers, to tell her what to do, but she’d already said, ‘I get travel sickness.’

  The driver said, ‘Don’t worry, darlin’. I’ll take it nice and smooth.’

  Sinclair listened to Wade’s spluttering excuses as he strode outside the law firm. The black Audi had been abandoned on the street, driver’s door open and engine left running. No other door was open. Wade was still providing useless updates as Sinclair stepped forward to the edge of the steps, looking left and right along the street, seeing vehicles and pedestrians.

  At the east end of the street, a minicab was indicating. Two human shapes sat in the back. At this range, no details were discernible.

  I see you.

  Sinclair shoved Wade aside and drew his pistol. He adopted a shooting position, one eye closed while the other peered along the weapon’s iron sights, focusing on the smaller of the two shapes, ignoring the blur of colours and shapes that surrounded it. His brow was creased in concentration. His lips were closed and his jaw set, nostrils expanding and contracting with each deep, regular breath. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. He slowed his breathing and with it his heart rate. He timed the beats, index finger compressing on the trigger – two pounds of pressure, then four, six, and holding the tension there, ready to
squeeze a little harder; just another half-pound of force to trip the trigger and activate the firing mechanism.

  The world around him ceased to exist.

  I was born to do this, Sinclair said to himself. Never miss. Never fail.

  The recoil kicked and he felt the reverberations flow all the way to his shoulder. He loved that feeling. The mechanical caress, dull and strong. As a child, it had hurt. Now, he missed the pain.

  Life is pain.

  The pistol’s suppressor caught the escaping superheated gases as they exploded from the muzzle, deadening the sound but not killing it. The rumble of city life did that, wrapping up and smothering the weapon’s bark in a blanket of car exhausts, voices and footsteps.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  In the mirror, Victor saw the South African on the steps outside of the law firm’s building, lit by streetlights, haloing the rain around him. He had a handgun drawn. They were out of conceivable range – an impossible shot, almost – but the man adopted a shooting stance. For a second, Victor didn’t believe he would take it.

  He grabbed the back of Gisele’s head and forced it down.

  The rear windscreen cracked around a small hole.

  The minicab driver contorted in his seat, dead the instant the round punctured his skull and penetrated his brain. The mess was absolute. The deformed and tumbling bullet blew out the front of his forehead, the pressure wave following it exploding the skull, spraying bone, brain and blood in a wide arc, splattering over the windscreen and the car’s interior.

  The bullet continued its trajectory, leaving a fist-sized hole in the cab’s front windscreen. Another followed it, tearing through the passenger seat and dashboard and burying itself somewhere in the engine block.

  Victor, keeping low, forced himself between the front seats and grabbed hold of the steering wheel. He heard horns and saw flashes of headlights and swerving cars. He felt the reverberations of more rounds striking the rear of the car. The wing mirror shattered.

  Metal screeched against metal as the right side wheel arch scraped along the door of a parked BMW. Shocked passers-by stared as Victor fought to control the cab. The low whine of the engine and the wail of the BMW’s intruder alarm filled his ears. Next to him, Gisele made herself small in the seat. She was scared, but she didn’t scream or panic or distract him with questions.

  No more bullets hit the car as he pulled himself between the seats. They were now out of reach of even the gunman’s exceptional skills. Victor reached down to activate the driver’s seat adjuster to slide it back the full distance before climbing on top of the dead driver. He forced himself into a driving position, and accelerated.

  He kept as low as he could, which wasn’t much, but the driver’s body would provide some protection from further shots.

  He took the first turning he saw, swerving left and into a side street, clipping the bumper of a parked car, the roar of the revving engine echoed by the narrow distance between tall buildings. A guy in a suit went to cross the street ahead, but darted back when he saw the speeding cab.

  Something was wrong with the vehicle’s handling – bullet damage to a tyre, maybe – and Victor struggled to keep it straight.

  ‘Seat belt,’ he said to Gisele.

  The wheel shed the peeling tyre and it flipped and cartwheeled into the air. The raw wheel struck asphalt and sparked. Victor lost control on the slick surface, fought the erratic swerves, jolting in his seat as the car side-swiped a bus, catching a flash of panicked faces through the glass before rebounding away, smelling the acrid stench of burnt steel from the grinding wheel.

  He fought to keep control as the nose of the cab exited the side street. He couldn’t stop it careering into the lane of oncoming traffic. A horn sounded and the vehicle spun as another bus collided with a rear-wheel arch. Tyres screeched and left burnt rubber on the tarmac. Glass pebbles from a broken window scattered across the road.

  Stunned pedestrians stopped and watched as the car spun into a row of parked vehicles, denting bodywork and breaking more windows. Alarms sounded.

  The bumper clipped the rear of a taxi, knocking that vehicle on and further distorting the erratic path Victor was taking. The tyreless wheel collided with a kerb at an angle and jumped it. He worked the wheel and punched the horn when he saw he couldn’t prevent the cab crashing into a bus stop. The two men waiting for the next bus ran clear.

  Headlights glowed and flared through the raindrops, leaving smears of red and light as the wipers, still working, swept them away. The front crumple zone had done its job and absorbed the majority of the impact, turning the cab into an unrecognisable misshapen heap of metal, but one that kept Victor alive, if not unscathed.

  He heaved open the warped driver’s door and stumbled out of the wreckage, bloody and disorientated. Gisele climbed out too and he ushered her forward, shielding her with his body as he staggered away, heading for the cover of parked cars and storefronts, reaching for the gun in his waistband but grasping only air, realising too late that he’d had it in his lap while driving and in the crash it must have ended up in the footwell or under a seat. He couldn’t go back for it.

  They had to keep moving. Their pursuers were close but their line of sight was impeded by the bus that had hit the cab and now blocked the junction. The other people on the street didn’t realise what had caused the crash, but backed away from him anyway because he was covered in the cab driver’s blood and walking with determination instead of staggering like someone scared or in pain and in need of help. The blood dispelled any chance of slipping away unnoticed, but the dispersing effect it had on other people meant he could walk faster through the crowd.

  Wade managed to manoeuvre the Range Rover around the bus by going up on to the pavement. Ahead, the crashed minicab sat, damaged and dented vehicles near it, glass glittering on the road. A crowd had gathered, watching from a short distance away as a few compassionate or ghoulish individuals edged closer, peering into the cab.

  Beautiful chaos, Sinclair thought, savouring the scene before him, revelling in the panic and aroused by the sight of destruction.

  He breathed in air both sweet and terrible.

  ‘Ease up,’ Sinclair said, gun clutched in both hands but held out of sight, ready to be snapped up and put into action.

  Wade lessened the pressure on the accelerator pedal, slowing the vehicle as they passed the wreckage. No one inside.

  ‘There,’ Sinclair said, pointing to a crowd of people in the distance, a man and woman pushing their way through. He gestured to the two mercenaries in the back. ‘Pursue on foot. We’ll head them off.’

  Gisele hurried. Her legs weren’t moving as fast as she compelled them – shock taking hold. Victor took her by the arm and pulled her along, limping on his injured ankle.

  A man in front of them stumbled and fell. The echo of the shot arrived a split-second later. Victor just about made it out over the background noise. The man on the ground wasn’t dead, but the round had gone through a shoulder blade and exited through his arm. Blood quickly pooled under him. Another man screamed in shock and horror. Someone shouted for an ambulance.

  Victor kept moving, accelerating into a jog and pushing through the crowd with one hand while the other held Gisele close to him. More shots sounded but no one was hit in front of him. Behind, he couldn’t be sure with the screaming and panic.

  He exited the street at the first available opportunity, heading right into an alleyway.

  Gisele said, ‘I’m hit. I’m bleeding.’

  He stopped and looked at her, pushing her back up against the wall of the alley so he could examine her. She touched her head. There was blood on her fingers and in her hair. He turned her head and separated her hair.

  ‘You’re okay,’ he assured her. ‘ It’s a scratch. From before.’

  At the end of the alleyway, Victor slowed to a walk and took Gisele’s right hand in his left. He relaxed his face and they stepped out together, side by side.

  ‘Try to smil
e,’ he said.

  He didn’t look to see if she was. He kept his eyes moving – gaze sweeping the street, the cars, the pedestrians, the buildings – looking for threats. Traffic was heavy and slow, as were the crowds of walkers. London at any time of the year; overcrowded and congested. He liked that. Gisele slowed him down, and the packed street offered good cover. The shootings one block away were irrelevant here. No one knew what had taken place.

  Victor led Gisele across the road, dodging through the traffic, and down a covered precinct. The street beyond was quiet – few passing cars; few scattered pedestrians. He looked both ways along it, looking for the Range Rover or any other vehicle that could be a threat. Nothing. He listened for the sound of pursuers. No rushing footsteps echoing. Yet.

  The further they walked, the denser the crowds became. Tourists were everywhere, identifiable by their casual pace at odds with and offensive to the harried Londoners.

  Sirens wailed. Victor caught a glimpse of a police car passing across a junction up ahead, heading to the site of the crash and shooting. More would be coming. Good. The more cops in the area, the fewer opportunities their pursuers would have and the fewer risks they would be willing to take.

  He took her into an adjoining side street. He wasn’t sure where it would lead. He knew London well – as he knew any city where he had ever operated – but not every route.

  The street exited on to a road lined with boutiques and coffee shops. Men and women sat at outside tables, sipping steaming drinks and smiling and chatting. Victor led Gisele to the other side of the street, walking fast to slip through the traffic, ignoring the scorn of motorists who never got used to Londoners darting in front of them. A cyclist rang a bell in annoyance after swerving to miss them.

  A woman in a woollen hat spotted the blood on Victor’s clothes and trickling down Gisele’s face. The woman nudged her partner and Victor read Look at those two on her lips. Her partner tilted up his reading glasses to get a better view. Victor reversed direction, heading north, away from the couple.