by Lee McGeorge
Oh, fuck!
Paul touched the command wire again. Nothing happened. He couldn’t see why, he couldn’t know what his failure was. He couldn’t know that the error was to wire up two blasting caps, that there wasn’t enough juice in the batteries to burn through two fuses in parallel.
He could fight these men, but first he had to climb out of the hole and he couldn’t do that fast enough and not be riddled with bullets.
Oh, fuck… oh, fuck… He leaned back and crouched low, pressing the command wire to the terminals again and this time holding them in place.
Please, no. Not like this. Not in a hole in the ground...
Inside the pressure cooker the blasting caps failed to detonate as normal, but at least whilst he held the terminals to the battery they began to warm up, getting warmer…
Hotter....
HOT.
There was a sudden flash of light as the metal sheet was ripped away in a flash of colour that felt like he was rushing through a rainbow. All the colours of the spectrum washed over his eyes in a heartbeat along with a blast of hurricane force wind that punched into his chest and sucked the air from his lungs. The blast almost lifted him from the hole.
He glanced up, blinking his eyes to see a fireball engulf the top of the inspection trench.
For a few seconds he was too stunned to move. He climbed from the pit into a thick hot fog. Everything was in mist.
Suddenly bullets began flying to his side. Through the fog he could see a man staggering to his feet, shooting a machine gun wildly. Except, he couldn’t see him. He could sense his position, he could see yellow lines of his nervous system as electrical impulses. This was vision beyond the spectrum. The gunman was wiping his eyes with his left hand, swinging the machine gun at the end of his right fist, scrambling and coughing in the grey hot smoke of an explosion.
----- X -----
Cornel was looking at the Mercedes van. There was nothing here except for that van by a deserted aircraft hangar in the middle of nowhere.
Then it came.
The explosion took the roof off and blew many of the metal sheets from the walls. A huge orange flash burst from the open end of the hangar blowing out a blast of grey smoke.
He slammed the brakes and stared at the scene in frozen shock. He was locked in position for a few seconds. He snapped out of it. He checked his pistol. He chambered a round and put the gun on the seat beside him.
This was it.
----- X -----
Miklos rolled onto his back and tilted his head to the side. There was a layer of fresh air against the floor. If he were to sit up he would be in the fog, but here on the floor there was a gap that he could see stretched all the way back out of the hangar.
He lifted his hand. He was still holding the gun. He looked down at his body. He wasn’t wearing any clothes, or at least no trousers. His coat was shredded but still on his shoulders.
The mist cleared a little. He saw something flash past him and aimed his gun in reflex. His training had taught him how to shoot in the position of lying on your back; the technique was to cross the ankles and draw the feet up to the ass and then shoot with the gun aimed between the knees. The position avoided shooting yourself in the foot… It didn’t matter… Miklos didn’t have any feet. He had stumps of bone coming from below the knees.
There was a shrill scream and the sound of a machine gun firing to exhaustion. Ludovik, his finger on the trigger until every bullet was spent and the heavy reverberation of gunfire echoed into nothing.
The mist rose a little higher, the burnt air thinned, the heat rising to be replaced by ice cold air sucked in underneath.
The figure flashed past him again but his reflexes were too sluggish. Agron called out, perhaps words, perhaps just a yell. It was indecipherable.
Miklos kept the gun trained.
He watched as the smoke suddenly billowed out, mother nature sending a gust into the far end of the hangar to clear the confusion. He saw the van. He saw Agron sitting on the floor with his back against it. He was holding his neck, bleeding, arterial blood squirting onto the side panels. Ludovik was nowhere to be seen.
Another gust of wind, as though nature had decided enough was enough, cleared the hangar in the space of a few seconds.
The first thing Miklos saw was Aldo Gjokeja’s lifeless corpse wrapped around the latticework of the ceiling, blown straight up by the bomb under his wheelchair. The next thing he saw was Paul McGovern stepping from behind the van with a hooked blade in his fist.
He fired, he fired again. He unloaded as best he could, his stumped legs crossed under his ass, his two handed aim never quite able to train onto the man… then he ran out of bullets.
McGovern walked in.
Miklos went for the spare ammo in his pocket and found that his coat pockets were nothing more than shreds of fabric. The bullets were lost.
McGovern stood over him. “I know who you are” he said. “You are Miklos Zhega.” Paul grabbed the collar of his coat and dragged him the few paces to the inspection trench. Miklos shrieked and cried out as he fell over the lip, his arms flailing as his broken body fell into the hole.
Paul watched him scrambling with his arms, wincing as he tried to lift the stumps of his stripped shin bones away from the floor. He’d begun to bleed, badly. He could crash out or freeze to death, but there was no way he was getting out of that hole without legs. “This is where you die,” Paul called down to him. “This is what you get for hurting Ildico.”
----- X -----
Cornel powered the car towards the hangar and skidded the back end around as he crossed the entrance. Handbrake turns on ice. The car wheels skidding to find traction.
He looked far into the hangar and saw the Albanian’s white van. He saw… He saw… It was McGovern. No doubt. McGovern was staring back at him.
Cornel felt his whole body freeze over.
The Albanians went into that hangar. It exploded. McGovern was standing there.
Cornel powered the car out of view. Time to go. Time to leave.
What was it Bogdan had said in London? What do you do if you come face to face with a vampire? You run. You turn and run.
He drove past the Mercedes and was hit by a flash of inspiration. He slammed the brakes, the car skidding in the snow. He got out with gun in his fist. He crouched and aimed. The driver’s side front wheel of the Mercedes popped and hissed as the air flushed out. He fired again, shooting the offside driving wheel.
Time.
How long does it take Paul McGovern to cover fifty meters?
Cornel fired six shots in quick succession into the front grille of the van, hoping to hit the radiator, or the battery, or an electrical connection. Anything to disable it swiftly.
He got back in the car, the engine still running. He pushed the accelerator and felt a wave of relief as the car picked up speed heading back to the motorway.
----- X -----
Paul walked to the edge of the hangar. The sun was going down and he had to shield his eyes with his hand to see. That was Latis. He was sure it was Latis. He could see the tail of the car a long way down the track and moments later it disappeared from view.
It felt refreshing to step outside. Despite the hangar being blown through, there was still that hot, cordite atmosphere to burn the throat until he crossed the precipice and once again felt the chill of iced air.
He looked at the Mercedes.
“Oh, you cunt,” he lamented to Latis. “You fucking cunt.” He thought he’d heard gunshots. He was right. The front end of the van was slumped low, fluid was dripping from beneath the engine and there was a smell of petrol. The two flat front tyres made the vehicle look like it was on its knees.
Paul took Aldo Gjokeja’s telephone from his pocket and searched for a number.
----- X -----
Cornel turned back onto the motorway and reached for his telephone. He had to call Lupescu, tell him McGovern was immobile. As he picked up the telephone it began rin
ging in his hand. The screen display read Aldo Gjokeja. Cornel answered it in panic wondering how Aldo could be calling if he’d been kidnapped by…
“Detective Latis…” the voice was gravelled. “Did you just shoot at my car.”
Cornel felt himself turning rigid. He had neither the strength of mind to talk or to end the call. He whispered the name, “Paul?”
“You should have learned, Corneliu Latis, that you shouldn’t play games against me.”
“I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to pl…”
“I’m going to kill you.” McGovern said calmly. “I’m going to come for you and I’m going to kill you for what you did to Ildico.”
“I didn’t do anything to Ildico,” Cornel shouted the words in a high voice. “I tried to protect her. I’ve done everything to protect her.”
There was a slow peal of metallic laughter. “Your pleading won’t help you now, Latis. Gjokeja told me you went to his home on Christmas Eve and set things in motion to hurt Ildico… All to catch me… Your plan has failed and I’ll kill you for what you did to her.”
“It’s not like that, Paul.” Latis said almost screeching. “I knew the Albanians were coming so I had Ildico moved to police protection.”
“And they found her… and they hurt her.”
“That’s right. So I moved her again to protect her. Believe me Paul, I have hidden her so deep there is no way the Albanians or anybody else can find her. I made sure she is safe. She’s in a place so secret it doesn’t even appear on any maps. Believe me when I say it, Paul. I’m the one who has been trying to protect her.”
There was silence for a few moments.
Silence.
“If it’s not on any map… you’re talking about Lucian Noica’s hospital?”
Cornel died inside.
The telephone line went dead.
Cornel couldn’t focus on the road. He couldn’t drive. He eased his foot off the accelerator and let the car coast to a halt by the side of the road. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Oh fuck, fuck, you stupid fucking idiot… Fuck. FUCK!!!” He screamed the words and pounded his palm on the steering wheel.
There was still time.
The telephone. He made the call.
“Ion, it’s Cornel, listen I need to…”
Ion Lupescu interrupted lazily, “What’s the word on the Albanians?”
“Shut up, Ion. Listen, listen closely. McGovern is at that deserted airfield East of Brasov. I immobilised his vehicle, but there is a second vehicle he may be able to use that is fitted with a GPS tracking system. He is there now. Right now. He can either escape on foot, or, if the tracked vehicle is operational he will try and escape in that… are you listening to me?”
“I’m listening,” Lupescu said seriously. “How do we track the vehicle?”
----- X -----
Paul turned the ignition key to the Mercedes van. It chugged and chugged and made the sound of scraping metal. The wheels would have needed changing anyway, one spare in the back and hopefully a wheel from the Albanian’s Volkswagen; but it was moot. The engine wouldn’t turn over.
“Latis, you fucker… I’m gonna do you slowly for this.”
Paul got out and slammed the door. He went back into the hangar. The Volkswagen had taken the blast to the front. There was no glass left in the vehicle, that much was already apparent.
He walked past the body of the tall thin man, he was lying face down with the machine gun by his right hand. Karambit wounds to his back were so deep he’d cut through his spinal cord.
Paul kicked the back wheels of the van. They felt solid. No damage from the flying nails or pressure cooker parts. He walked to the front and checked the wheels there. They were inflated with seemingly no damage. The front of the van however was charred black and had no glass where the windscreen should have been.
He climbed into the cockpit and turned the key. The engine jolted into life.
Paul kissed the steering wheel. “Mmmwa, you beauty. Fuck yeah, German engineering,” he said to himself. “You can blow them up and they still keep on trucking.”
He reversed slowly seeing the stocky bald man fall ahead of the vehicle. He’d had his throat slit and sat down against the van as he waited to die. It was over simply for him. Dead in minutes and relatively pain free.
These Albanian scum deserved it.
As he reversed, Paul looked up to the blackened remains of Aldo Gjokeja, entwined in the metalwork of the ceiling. It made him smile. He whispered David Bowie lyrics, “This is Ground Control to Major Tom.”
He smiled.
He’d won.
These scum had tried to fuck with him not realising what he’d become. Perhaps this was when things changed. Perhaps Latis would tell the story of what he’d done and that story would make him a legend.
The driving would be cold and he’d have to pray no cops stopped him for driving without a windshield, but an hour from now he’d be back at the hovel and this whole crazy adventure would be behind him.
----- X -----
The Jandarmeria were running. They grabbed their Kalashnikovs. They slapped in magazines. Boots fastened. Flak jackets on. Years of training against invisible enemies that never materialised. Years preparing for civil unrest and rioting that hadn’t happened.
Elsewhere in Brasov police station, Ion Lupescu was making calls, passing information.
Paul McGovern was on the move.
Paul McGovern was driving a vehicle equipped with a GPS tracker.
He was heading towards Brasov.
Outside, the helicopter’s turbine engine was picking up speed, the rotors were becoming a blur before take-off.
In the control room, all police officers on patrol were being mobilised and redirected. Cars were being marshalled, a roadblock set up on the outskirts of Brasov. Twenty cars. Forty police officers, twelve militarised Jandarmeria. All unmarked police cars were being herded out of Brasov to pass McGovern and get behind him.
The roadblock would be on the far edge of Calea Bucharest on the outskirts of town. McGovern was approaching from the East. By the time he saw the roadblock they would have unmarked cars behind him, armed police ahead and a helicopter above. Almost sixty men would take him down. It didn’t feel like overkill.
From his office window, Lupescu watched as the Russian made MIL Mi-8 helicopter rose into the air.
In an hour, this would all be over.
----- X -----
Cornel’s telephone rang. It was Ciprian.
“What’s up.”
“It’s McGovern, the whole fucking force is about to go and catch him. Where are you?”
“I’m… heading the other way. Look I found McGovern I’ve seen him and spoke to him by telephone, I know what’s happening… but, I did something stupid. I gave away Ildico Popescu’s location. Well, not quite, he guessed where she was and I was so shocked that my reaction confirmed it to him. I’m going to go over to Noica’s now and make sure she’s safe.”
“Of course she’s safe… McGovern is coming into Brasov, he’s driving in right now.”
“Is he?” Cornel thought on it for a moment. “You’re going to be a hero, Ciprian. He’s driving the Albanians tracked van. You can claim credit for it.”
“So are you coming back to Brasov? He’ll be in custody or dead very soon.”
“No,” Cornel said thinly. “No, I’m going to stay clear. I’m not a policeman anymore. I’ll leave this job to the professionals.”
“Okay, well,” Ciprian said. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
“You will,” Cornel said resolutely. “And Ciprian… don’t take any chances.”
----- X -----
Driving without a windshield was painful on the eyes and fingers. The blinding cold air was magnified by wind chill so fierce that his fingers had turned a shocking pink on the steering wheel. Then a blizzard picked up and blew snow into the cab. He’d pulled his hands inside the sleeves of his jacket and gripped the wheel through the fabric but
there was no protection for his eyes. The only option was to drive slowly, keeping it below forty. It made him think of old pilots in biplanes with their leather caps, fur collars and goggles. Biggles territory. It must have been seriously cold for those guys in ways modern men couldn’t imagine until they’d driven a windowless van through a blizzard at minus fifteen Celsius.
He watched a car turning around in the side mirror. It had passed him and joined a line of cars that had fallen behind. He was driving too slowly and a train of cars had built up behind. The sun was down, the snowflakes were falling heavier and heavier. “Not long,” Paul mumbled to himself. “Get home. Have a nice cup of tea and put this all behind you.”
It wouldn’t take long. He would be home in an hour.
From overhead came the buzzing drone of a helicopter as it passed heading out of the city. Those guys had it easy compared to Biggles.
Brasov loomed ahead. Grey concrete blocks of apartments formed a wall around the citadel. The MacDonald’s golden arches for the drive-through at the end of Calea Bucharest looked tempting. How nice it would be to grab a hot drink and a burger.
He wouldn’t. He would get back. He would get to safety.
The helicopter couldn’t be seen but it could be heard. It should have passed by now.
Paul looked ahead. Police cars on Calea Bucharest.
The helicopter.
Get paranoid.
Stay paranoid.
