by Andy Remic
Holding the front brake, Cal screwed the bike around in a circle leaving an arc of molten rubber slick against concrete; squeals bounced around the underground chamber.
What now? he thought in raw panic. What now?
There were six men accompanying Vladimir. Seven, including the Big Guy himself. And the Romanian was quite obviously, and to all intents and purposes, Not Fucking Around. Callaghan reminded himself to breathe. He glanced down at the bike’s tank; the knife had gone, lost during Cal’s manic acceleration.
The men fanned out, forming a line. There’s only one way through, Callaghan realised bitterly. Charge them.
All seven held guns; loose, but intimate. Cal shook his head in disbelief, hoping to God he’d wake up soon. His breathing was ragged, loud and abrasive inside his helmet.
Can’t do it, he realised. Just can’t do it! I’ll die...
Callaghan clamped his teeth tight. Muscles bulged along his jaw. He dipped his head, eyes slitted, watching the men through treacle. They came to a halt and lifted weapons as Cal opened the throttle full red–lining the bike with an 18,000 rev scream shrill like murder through the underground chamber and dumped the clutch... the bike leapt forward, scorpion–stung, and smashed at a million miles an hour towards the line of gangsters who opened fire dark–eye barrels ejaculating blossoms of flame...
Bullets whined. Callaghan hung on for his life.
A bullet skimmed his helmet, another his shoulder, a third the Suzuki’s tank, a fourth ricocheting from the swing–arm. A fifth clipped exhaust in a shower of sparks then flattened and cut sideways like a razor into the concrete wall. A sixth bullet chewed his back tyre peeling the alloy rim outwards and allowing air to explode. There was a bang. The bike wobbled and slammed sideways low–siding and dumping Callaghan to the concrete to slide away in a shower of sparks and bangs and crunches of folding plastic and alloy... Callaghan slid past the men and bumped to a halt against the foot of the ramp. He groaned. His jeans were torn. His left leg was raw and skinned from the slide. The fingers of his left hand were grated and hung loose with strips of flesh. He'd nearly made it. He'd nearly fucking made it! So close! His head moved slowly. Then glanced up, into –
The barrel of a shotgun.
Vladimir smiled like a reptile. ‘Take off your helmet.’
Slowly, Callaghan reached up. Wincing, he tugged free the lid and allowed it to roll away with a rattle. He breathed deep, pain raw, stripped flesh a sulphur furnace. He rolled onto his back, groaning, and stared up at Vladimir.
‘So you wanted a few words?’ he croaked.
‘Ha! Ever the comedian, Mr Callaghan.’ Vlad took a step forward. The shotgun’s single barrel touched Callaghan’s lips. It was cold and incredibly hard.
This is it! thought Callaghan through tear–filled eyes. I fucked his wife. Now he’s gonna fuck me! I suppose it's a form of poetic justice, right? But do I deserve to die? Here? Now? Like this?
Self pity pulsed in waves through his system.
‘I think, Mr Callaghan,’ Vlad smiled a teeth smile, nodding to himself, ‘that it’s time I saw you bleed.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
LIBERATION DAY
THE NOISE ACCELERATED like a turbine, a heavy thumping rhythm, a hammer pounding a steel anvil. The noise peaked, drumming an ululation which reverberated from concrete walls and Callaghan’s head moved lazily, eyes shifting from Vladimir and the levelled shotgun – to the motionless, framed opening at the top of the entry ramp. Something appeared in an explosion of movement, long and sleek, matt black, roaring... it was the most aggressive machine Callaghan had ever seen.
The motorbike slammed through the maw, front wheel lifted slightly off the ground, and the black clad rider –
Let go.
His fingers released, and he stepped back from the roaring bike to land in a crouch...
The bike shot like a bullet, started to turn, flipped and low–sided in a shower of sparks. It hurtled like a scythe at the gunmen. They tried urgently to get out of the way, turning to run and clashing with one another – but it happened so fast the bike slammed them with impact crunches and a screech of firework shavings. Four men went down like skittles in an instant blood mash, the bike’s back wheel digging and cutting and spinning a shower of crimson, chain tearing flesh, engine–fins gouging muscle and snapping bones like brittle firewood. The bike flipped over in its spinning trajectory, leaping up and then rolling end over end over end as it took to the air, bouncing, slapped the wall and spun off to finally come to rest, ticking and creaking and hissing.
Callaghan’s eyes, fixed on the bike, came up...
Around.
Volos was already moving.
The blade was almost invisible in his hand, a crescent of the night. A gun barked, bullet whining, as the cut–throat razor slammed flesh. The gunman hit the ground screaming. Callaghan watched Volos in awe as the killer moved like a dancer, graceful, seemingly in slow-motion, a description of elegance ending in... violence. Volos landed, spun, the remaining gunman tracking him as the cut–throat blade left Volos’s outstretched fingers and opened a gouge across the man’s throat. He dropped his gun, hands coming up to grapple at his second crimson mouth. Blood flushed down his suit like a flood. Volos landed with a hiss. His head snapped round; a quick, insect movement.
Vladimir, teeth a snarl, levelled the shotgun. There was a boom but Volos was moving, leaping forward in great powerful strides, bounding from one foot to the other as his pale, taloned fingers grasped the end of the shotgun’s barrel and thrust it high in the air.
‘Volos!’ snarled Vladimir, eyes gleaming.
‘Time to dance, my friend.’ Volos wrenched the shotgun away from Vladimir’s grip as he spoke, swung, slammed the stock against Vlad’s head. The large Romanian rolled with the heavy blow, leaping backwards as Volos followed, swinging the shotgun in exaggerated arcs by its barrel. The stock swept the air, hissing, as lethal as any club.
Callaghan scrambled away from the machine–mangled men, crawling through pools of blood and bits of torn flesh until he reached the wall. His hand lifted, steadied himself against the coarse surface which was chilled but real and solid under his fingers. He licked salt lips. Watched Vladimir block the shotgun against his forearm, twist it, wrenching the weapon sideways where it fell and clattered across the ground.
The two men squared off. Callaghan’s eyes narrowed. Shit. They know each other, he realised. It was there, in their body language. In their dance. In their speech. Vladimir didn’t just know Volos; they were old acquaintances. What the hell was going on?
Vlad threw a right straight, right hook, left uppercut. Volos blocked the combination, stepping in close and smashing his forehead to Vlad’s face. The Romanian stumbled back, blood streaming from his nose. Volos leapt but Vlad’s fist clubbed the killer’s temple with a crunch, and a second blow drove Volos down on one knee, worn leather coat gathering like a cloak, pale face down as a third blow hammered his cheek. Vlad stepped back, kicked out, but Volos caught his leg and upended the large man to the concrete.
Vlad stared up through strings of bloody saliva. ‘That was a dirty trick with the bike.’
‘No worse than what you did in Prague.’
Volos was moving, walking slowly around Vladimir as if seeking an opening. He leapt forward, but Vlad’s boot slammed out, connecting with Volos’s knees and dropping him. Both men rolled away, stood, and faced off. Vlad raised his fists like a practised pugilist; Volos waited patiently with arms by his side.
During this exchange, Callaghan worked his way slowly along the wall. Before him was one of Vladimir’s gunmen, nursing a slashed arm which glistened with deep pools of cradled blood. He looked up. ‘Help me,’ he whispered.
Callaghan remembered the guns. Remembered slamming into the ground with the Suzuki shot from beneath him. He grimaced, and kicked the Romanian gangster in the face.
‘Prague was an accident,’ Vladimir said.
They surged together, blows s
mashing into one another in a blur of sudden violence. They spun away, Volos’s coat swirling, and Vlad now sported two long slices of curled flesh glistening along his jaw. He touched a hand to the wounded flesh, looked at his fingers as they came away, stained in his blood.
‘I hope you’ve had your fucking vaccinations, boy.’
Volos smiled, piranha teeth glinting.
Vlad glanced over then; his eyes locked for the briefest of moments on Callaghan and their connection was intimate. The photographer froze. You are not forgotten, that look said. We have unfinished business, you and I. When this man is dead, you are next on the hit–list...
Volos attacked, two blows knocking Vladimir backwards, off his feet. Callaghan sprinted, limping, for his lock–up, dragged on a jacket and another helmet with shaking, grated fingers, and fired the BMW GS into life. The bike howled from the entrance, around the mangled car and the bullet peppered carcass of the Suzuki Thou. Spinning tyres in a cloud of rubber, Callaghan powered the bike in a barely controlled skid, losing traction for a moment in flesh and blood... then howled up the ramp with a roar and burst out into the night. Saved, came his unbidden thought. You were saved by Volos...
The BMW screamed through the darkness. He passed a police car travelling in the opposite direction which attempted a brief pursuit, but Cal was moving way too fast, chilled air and the odd flake of snow slamming down the throat of his jacket. Inside his helmet, his mouth gulped for air like a beach-stranded goldfish.
You’re alive, he thought. You’re fucking alive! He laughed then. Laughed like a maniac, and pushed the BMW to over a hundred mph through the ice and snow as he cackled behind the darkened visor and slammed through the deserted streets of London.
Avoid the motorways, he said to himself. Keep to unlit roads...
And you might just survive this shit.
Volos and Vladimir watched the BMW roar away. Suddenly, outside and distant, police sirens wailed. Vlad turned back – into Volos’s fist, knocking him down with blood in his eyes. As he blinked it free, his own fists coming up, he focused into –
Volos’s boots. Volos landed lightly in a crouch as Vlad’s unconscious body slapped the concrete. He scanned the carnage. The police sirens were louder now; more urgent. Moving quickly, economically, Volos retrieved his cut–throat and lifted his battered black bike and fired the engine. It started instantly, running rich then settling to a throaty idle. Volos pocketed his razor, gave a quick glance back to Vladimir... battered and bleeding. I should kill him, he thought. Blue lights flickered stroboscopic against the arctic blocking the exit. Volos looked back to the ramp. Shit. Time was of the essence... and he’d wanted to make Vladimir’s death so sweet! He wanted to make it last a lifetime! ‘Another time, Romanian,’ he growled.
Volos screwed the bike through a puddle of blood, up the ramp, and away into ink.
Mia pulled the trigger. For a moment there was incredible resistance – as if maybe she’d left the safety catch on and she cursed at her naivety. Then she felt it pull, and her eyes closed tight, teeth clenched in anticipation of the blast...
Click. Nothing.
Mia’s eyes opened – into a fist.
Stunned, head spinning, she tasted blood. She felt herself hauled from the boot by somebody with incredible strength. Tape was wound around her eyes, then her mouth and it became entangled painfully with her hair, biting her. Mia’s hands were bound more tightly this time. She tried to cry out from behind the tape gag, but couldn’t force a scream.
Bastard, she thought. You bastard.
And then the journey began. Still stunned from the blow, and from her recent chloroforming or drugging or whatever the hell it had been, Mia was dragged to her feet and forced to walk. Her captor walked to one side, the rifle nudging her occasionally as she moved along a flat, concrete walkway.
Where are we going? she thought.
What does he want?
Rape? Murder? What the hell does he want?
She started to shiver in fear. A bad taste lingered in her mouth and her mind. She walked, occasionally stumbling and falling to her knees where she grazed raw flesh. Forced to her feet, she was prodded on blindly and without a word from her captor. She moved in a shuffle, frightened of what she might bump into... or where she might fall.
Maybe he’s marching you to the edge of a cliff? her paranoia would taunt. Maybe he’s going to walk you right over? Throw you onto the rocks like a sacrificial lamb!
She tried to test each footstep ahead, but the rifle continually prodded her in the back, the ribs, the hip, giving her no time for the luxury of the blind. How long? she wondered. How bloody long? Before somebody realises I’m missing...
And that’s the problem, she realised with a painful scowl behind duct tape. I’m erratic. Unpredictable. I do what the hell I want, when I want, and to hell with everybody’s agenda! Yeah, girl power, feminist strength, a new modern woman all right! Only...
Only – now nobody expected her to be anywhere. She was even erratic in Wonderland; Paulo only tolerated her because she was the sexiest damned dancer he employed, and drew in more punters alone than most of the other girls combined. He had his limits, though, and Mia never pushed her egocentric randomisation too much. Just enough to cement her mark with the moniker of the unpredictable.
And so – it would take considerable time – if ever – for her disappearance, her kidnapping, to be recognised. Hell, Callaghan probably wouldn’t even start looking for another few months. And even then wouldn’t he just assume she’d packed her stuff and cleared out – and off? Like the time she’d disappeared to Los Angeles for six weeks? Callaghan had been crawling the walls with worry. On her return, she’d simply fixed him with that dark Latino stare, tossed back her curls and said, ‘You know how I am, baby. You know the things I like. You know the things I do. If you want me to go, then I’ll go; if you want me to fuck, then I’ll fuck. But stop whining about a few weeks away. I’m a liberated woman, after all. I’ll go where I please.’
And yes, he’d fucked her. Fucked her all day. Their sex had been a passionate animal primal thing, a gentle loving embrace, a wild erotic journey. And all the time Mia was in control. All the time Mia empowered domination. Only now... now her lifestyle was about to bite her viciously on the arse.
She stumbled again, grazing both knees, muffling a cry of pain from behind the tape. She didn’t catch herself this time, and pitched forward, head thumping concrete. Stars spun.
‘Get up.’ The voice was gruff; unimpressed.
Mia rolled to her back, head spinning, a whole world of blood red and stars whirling about her. She could feel blood trickle like sweat from her temple. She was distantly aware of her captor coming close to help, and as her senses cleared she kicked out as hard as she could, boots connecting with something solid... then she dragged herself, swaying, to her feet –
The punch rocked her.
She dropped to her knees, panting through her nose with hisses of exhaust. Strong hands hauled her back up and she felt somebody pressing in close; like a lover.
‘Try that again, my dove, and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking spinal column.’
Mia deflated. Because – there it was, the thing she didn’t want to believe possible. A very real and inherent promise of extermination. A little part of her believed they wanted her – no, needed her! – and had refrained from hurting her through necessity. Now, it was stark and open. Like a smashed coffin showing a degraded corpse.
Who’s voice? Was it Vladimir? Did she recognise him? It definitely sounded male. And it had sounded like him... but then, she was dazed, head spinning, confusion a rattled snow–globe in her mind and thoughts. Could it be anybody else? Some pervert from the club? An old boyfriend spurned? A jealous ex–lover? An angry brother?
She was forced forward, splashing through puddles which soaked her boots and jeans. Every limb ached, every joint throbbed, every muscle felt stretched and torn to a terrible breaking point. Mia wanted to cry, but it
would achieve nothing. She wanted to scream her frustration, but it would only earn her a savage beating – or worse. She wanted to murder her captor in cold blood, then flee and be free! But she knew that would never happen; she was in a position of weakness. He was in a position of ultimate strength.
They moved onwards, Mia growing weaker and weaker with every footstep. Thirst raged through her. And fear. Fear was high on her agenda of spinning emotions.
‘Stop.’ That same, gruff voice.
The blow was unexpected, and even more earth shattering for its suddenness. It was delivered by something hard, flat, and wooden; it slammed her head and she went down without a sound. She wasn’t sure if she lost consciousness. For a while she lay still, just floating on a pool of cool liquid calm. She felt herself lifted, manoeuvred, arranged, her arms thrust above her head and somehow fixed in place. She could hear a strange, metallic rattling.
Mia’s head lolled to one side, and tape was ripped from her face. It snagged her hair, tearing free a clump. She cried out then, lips bleeding, and sucked in great lungfuls of air as if fearful her oxygen time was limited.
‘You bastard,’ she snarled.
Laughter. A deep, gravelled laughter.
