A Hard Woman to Kill (The DCI Hanlon Series)

by Alex Howard

  The three shots shook Huss into action. She watched, tensely, as Grigory ducked back to his position of safety. Hanlon’s bullet had driven a spray of brick dust across his left cheek. Another two centimetres and she’d have blown his head off. He still didn’t realize he was dealing with a single-shot rifle, didn’t realize that he could have walked in with impunity and put his remaining bullets into Hanlon.

  He breathed deeply and looked at Dimitri. ‘Four shots,’ he shouted. He was pretty certain nobody spoke any Russian other than them.

  Myasnikov had meanwhile taken this opportunity to pick himself up and join Dimitri behind the van.

  ‘Any minute now, the Chinaman will be here,’ he said. Dimitri nodded. He didn’t care. He wanted Hanlon dead at his hand and his alone. She had humiliated him and Arkady in the past and now his friend, mentor and protector was dead at her hands. Her life was his to take.

  ‘I think it’s just her in there,’ he said. ‘Her and maybe the other one, and he’s in no state to do much. Georgiy,’ he shouted, victory in his grasp, ‘run across to where Grigory was, to the window.’

  While Georgiy got ready to run, Hanlon reloaded. Or tried to. She blinked in disbelief and horror, and her nimble fingers checked again. There was no mistake.

  In the shed where she’d met Huss she’d taken a few shells and put them in her front pocket. She’d put the box of .22 ammo for the rifle she’d been holding, minus these shells, in the side compartment of the door of her car. Also in that compartment, in a similar-sized box, had been .243 shells that she’d had for Mawson’s rifle. It was these she had in her trouser pocket. The bullets wouldn’t fit. Her rifle was now useless.

  All she could do was sit there and await the inevitable.

  Hanlon rarely swore. ‘Fuck,’ she said.

  40

  Danny ran down the road towards the farm. He’d watched helplessly as the large Mercedes had turned down towards the farm, two men in the front. He quickly ran through the best guesstimate on the odds facing Hanlon and Huss down the track below him.

  Hanlon had guessed that there would be Arkady, Dimitri and at least one, probably two guards to look after Enver. Now they’d been joined by two more men. Six against two. Well, he couldn’t say he didn’t have a choice. Hanlon’s keys were in his pocket and her car was parked in the entrance to a field a couple of hundred metres away. There would be nothing simpler than to hang around here, wait for the inevitable noise to settle down, and, barring a miracle that she would be saved, take her car and drive off.

  It would all be so easy. Nobody would be left alive to blame him. He had done his best, he could see himself now saying that. He would be believed. He thought of the dead bodies he had seen back at Beath Street, what seemed like a lifetime ago. He thought of Hanlon and Huss, their bodies riddled with bullets, decapitated for a Russian crime lord’s amusement. He shook his head, angry with himself. Angry at what he was about to do.

  I’m too nice for my own good, he thought. He started running down the track, the Glock comfortingly heavy in his hand. Time to see if he’d be able to hit anything with it. Huss’s remarks still stung. Bloody woman! he thought. From the distance he could hear the pop of gunshots. He increased his pace.

  Joad watched the action unfolding before his eyes from his vantage place in the ditch by the car. So far, the Mercedes was unscathed, thank God.

  Down below the Russians were closing in for the kill. He guessed that Hanlon was in the kitchen because of the rifle fire. The two blond men were by the kitchen, one under the window sill that overlooked the yard, the other standing by the outside of the door. Where was Huss? Joad wondered. He turned his attention back to the Russians. He could almost feel their tension. Dimitri barked a command and the two men started to move.

  Suddenly an object sailed through the air. It was alight. He could see it burn as it described an arc and hit the ground near the Russians, exploding in a ball of flame, followed by another one that landed near the front of the van. The twin explosions of the petrol bombs were followed by a third explosion of flame as the bucket of diesel that Huss had placed underneath Dimitri’s Harley went up. Diesel was hard to ignite but a petrol bomb exploding on top of it would do the job.

  Under the black canopy of night, the farmyard was lit by the headlights of the Mercedes like a stage set, and the searing light of the sheets of fire, yellow, orange, red, added to the surreal sight. The Harley remained upright momentarily on its stand, its shape silhouetted through a sea of flame, like some motorbike from hell surrounded by blazing curtains of fire, then it collapsed over on its side as the petrol in its tank went up, the force of the explosion knocking it off its stand. The front of the white van was covered with burning petrol and another mini-explosion of fire roared into life as a second bucket of red diesel that Huss had pushed under the nearside wheel arch caught.

  There were hoarse shouts in Russian and the twins ran forward into the centre of the yard, guns held in two-handed grips, looking for a target. Both of them had blackened patches on their white T-shirts where burning fuel had splashed on to them, but they seemed unscathed. Even if they had been injured, it wasn’t enough to slow them down.

  Huss stood up, still in the sheltering darkness of the outhouse, and stepped into the yard, her shotgun firm against her right shoulder. She shot Grigory with the first barrel. He was killed immediately, collapsing backwards on the cobbles of the yard, propelled by the force of the blast, his chest a red mass of bloodied flesh. Huss then turned the other on Georgiy.

  It was now that Dimitri appeared from the rear end of the van. He’d seen the first Molotov cocktail appear and explode, and when the second one had arced towards him he had guessed what was going to happen. He’d pushed Myasnikov over and flung himself on top of him. The shockwave and flame of the explosion from the petrol bomb and the ignited fuel had rolled over them. He shook his head dazedly to clear it. So Hanlon wasn’t alone. He looked backwards in alarm. The van had sunk down at an angle where the tyre had deflated on the nearside and black clouds of noxious-smelling toxic smoke were drifting from the burning rubber. He guessed that soon the oily detritus around the engine would start burning and then the fire would spread back to the gas tank. His Harley too, now fully ablaze, added to the heat and smoke.

  He pulled Myasnikov up and approached the end of the van. It was at that moment Huss strode out and blew Grigory away. Dimitri grinned to himself. Huss was slightly in front and couldn’t see him. He took a step forward, his finger tightening on the trigger for the barrel that held the cartridge with the shot.

  ‘Behind you, Huss!’

  Melinda Huss, pumped so full of adrenaline it would have been off the scale, twisted round and pulled the trigger on the other barrel. But Danny’s shout had alerted not just her but Dimitri. As she fired, he ducked back behind the van and its thick panelled doors and sides, reinforced and thickened for refrigeration, took the force of the blast. Pellets from the shot punched holes in the metal of the van, but Dimitri was unscathed.

  Danny, on the edge of the farmyard, shot at Georgiy and missed him. The Glock in his hand felt good. All of Danny’s previous existential gloom was washed away in the excitement of the here and now. All there was in the world was the gladiatorial conflict between him and the blond man, silhouetted against the now dying flames of the burning van. In the foreground between them lay the bleeding body of Georgiy’s twin brother.

  Georgiy kneeled down as if he were on a range and fired at Danny, two careful shots. He missed. As he fired the second time, Danny shot again and this time the nine mm bullet found its mark. The remaining twin fell over backwards, the red and yellow light of the fire reflected in his dying eyes.

  Huss saw the Russian fall and scrambled to her feet. She took shelter behind the comforting bulk of the tractor, shotgun still in her hand. She glanced over at the silent, dark kitchen. Where the hell was Hanlon?

  41

  Hanlon was scrabbling around on the dirty floor in the blacknes
s of the kitchen, searching frantically for Arkady Belanov’s gun. Outside, God alone knew what was happening. Whatever it was, Hanlon’s respect for Huss, already fairly high, soared. She risked a glance out of the window after she heard the first shotgun blast and saw the dead Russian twin on the ground.

  Belanov lay on his back on the floor of the kitchen. Blood covered his face. It was dark in the kitchen despite the fires burning outside and Hanlon crouched by Belanov’s body, feeling for the handgun with her fingers. It had to be around here somewhere.

  She heard Danny’s voice shout something and then she saw the end of the automatic. Belanov’s fat thigh had fallen across it. She could just see the butt of the handle underneath the white, hairless pudgy flesh. She slid her hand underneath his leg to retrieve it and just then Belanov’s eyes opened, and his immensely strong arms grabbed her and pulled her on top of him in a macabre parody of a lover’s embrace.

  His powerful hands held each of her arms just below her elbows. She tried to pull away, but the sheer bulk and dead weight of Belanov’s body made a secure anchor. The kimono he wore had come undone and she could see the dark shape of the Kevlar vest that he wore as his corset. Now she realized that the bullet that should have entered his chest had done no such thing. She could even see where it had impacted the body armour. It was just the fall backwards against the jutting edge of the sideboard that had knocked him out. Aside from the head wound he was unscathed.

  And he was fearsomely strong. But so was she.

  ‘Hanlon.’ He almost crooned her name. He snapped at her like a dog and gave another heave to pull her head towards his face. Strands of her hair brushed his face and she could see the saliva wetly coating his crooked yellow teeth, some of them replaced with gunmetal- coloured bridgework. She was so close she could see fragments of gateau between the teeth. She could smell the sickly sweetness of his breath from the bottle of coffee liqueur and the cake he’d eaten, overlaid with stale smoke from the joints he’d had. He opened his mouth wider, craning his fat neck upwards, planning obviously to sink his teeth into her face.

  She heard another shotgun blast and redoubled her efforts to escape from Belanov’s grip, to no avail. His fingers were like iron bands. Then she felt a sudden constrictive weight on her left calf muscle. Belanov had lifted his right leg and hooked it over hers. In a second, the other would follow and she’d be irrevocably attached to him like a grim simulacrum of sex. Then her exposed face and his tearing teeth.

  Danny sprinted over to join Huss by the tractor. About twenty yards from there was the bulk of the white van. Most of the flames had died away now and the explosion that Dimitri had feared was no longer likely.

  ‘Where’s Hanlon?’ he gasped. The kitchen was dark. The headlights of the Mercedes still illuminated the farmyard and the bodies of the Yusopov twins.

  ‘In there,’ she said, ‘with Enver.’ She pointed at the van. ‘Dimitri’s behind that van, with Myasnikov.’

  Both Huss and Danny were panting, as if they had run a race and were exhausted. The emotional strain had been incredible and they both shared a sense almost of resentment that they were still, at best, only halfway through all of this. The end was in sight; neither of them wanted to make a mistake now. They didn’t want to die. They looked at each other with almost loving passion, bonded as neither could have thought possible in the terrible events of the last three or four minutes. Blood thundered through their veins; their hearts were beating as they’d never beaten in their lives.

  Huss loaded her shotgun and gave it to Danny. She took the keys to the tractor out of her pocket.

  ‘I’m going to drive this straight at Dimitri,’ she said, patting the side of the Massey Ferguson. ‘Either I’ll run him over or you’ll shoot him. Whichever way, Danny boy, he’s dead meat.’

  Danny grinned at her savagely and Huss stepped lightly up into the tractor, her movements lithe and athletic despite her size.

  Huss settled down in the cab, the controls familiar and comforting. It was a welcome feeling of control in the chaos of the past few minutes. God, she suddenly thought, that’s all it had been in all probability, five or ten minutes, nothing more. She took a deep breath. Come on, Melinda, she thought, you can survive this.

  She looked around her. There was the small computerized control panel for the bale grabber attached to the tractor’s dashboard. The height of the cab gave her a feeling almost of omnipotence. Up here, she was in control. She started the engine and momentarily frowned in thought.

  The silage bale was still attached to the front of the vehicle by the grabber and its controls on the panel, about the same size and shape as a small tablet or large satnav, were similar to ones she was used to, but with minor differences. Now wasn’t the time for subtlety. Her forefinger stabbed down and the powerful hydraulics swung the bale upwards so it was at a sixty-degree angle high in the air. That would do for now. At least it was off the ground and the tractor could move forward. She now saw the icon to disengage the grip; well, that would have to wait. It would only be in the way when she moved forward. She glanced down at Danny, who gave her a thumbs-up.

  She switched on the tractor’s powerful lights, and the van and the section of the farmyard behind were brightly illuminated. The noise of the engine was pleasurably deafening. The skeletal remains of the Harley at the front of the van were smoking gently. She put the vehicle in gear and moved forward gently and slowly.

  Inside the farmhouse, Hanlon heard the tractor start up. It had to be Huss, she thought. She pushed upward against Arkady Belanov’s grip and then slammed her right leg up and forward as she drove her knee into Belanov’s groin. Hanlon regularly squatted with sixty to eighty kilos on the bar across her shoulders. Her thighs, her quads, were like iron. She saw his face contort in agony and kneed him in the balls again with all the strength in her muscular legs. She felt his grip slacken and that was enough for her to break her right arm free. She punched Belanov hard in the face just below his nose and heard a wet crunch as teeth gave way under her knuckles. But Belanov was from a hard school and he gave an almighty roll of his body, hurling Hanlon sideways. Now it was her turn to see stars as her head crashed into the sideboard. Belanov scrambled to his feet. Unlike Hanlon, he had no knowledge of the whereabouts of the gun, even though it was practically at his feet.

  Huss had barely covered a couple of metres when she stopped the tractor and put it into neutral. Something was wrong, and momentarily she wasn’t sure quite what it was. She looked around her.

  Danny was lying face down on the ground, the shotgun next to him. For a second Huss was confused. What was he doing down there? Had he fallen? Then, as if on cue, she noticed the red patch of blood spreading from his back.

  Dimitri stepped out from behind the van in front of the tractor. The pump-action shotgun was cradled in his arms. He had ripped off his T-shirt and the tattoos on his awesomely developed muscles were highlighted in the glare of the Massey Ferguson’s lights. There were the onion domes, the bloodstained dagger, the swastikas, the ornate, bold Cyrillic script, his whole upper body an iridescent, brilliantly inked hymn to crime, death, murder and rape.

  ‘Come on, Huss, come on, you bitch, and die!’ he shouted at her.

  Huss put the tractor into gear and stamped down on the accelerator. The engine roared and she bore down on Dimitri. He lifted the Ruger and aimed, but not at Huss.

  The solid bullet from the twelve bore, a bullet capable of travelling through the engine block of a car, struck the tractor’s radiator grill, and the motor whined and stalled and fell silent. The tractor stopped dead in its tracks.

  Huss sat stock still in the cab, her body a perfect target for Dimitri.

  Hanlon grabbed the automatic from the floor under the table, where it had ended up, when she heard the shotgun blast from the farmyard. Arkady Belanov turned and ran from the kitchen. But not in the direction of the farmyard. He ran down the hall to the front door. Hanlon fumbled with the unfamiliar gun, looking for the safety, fo
und it and fired a shot at Belanov as he threw open the front door. She was lying on the floor and the unfamiliar gun kicked in her hand. The fanlight above the front door exploded into thousands of shards of glass.

  The door banged shut behind him. She could go after him. She could run fast; Belanov couldn’t. She was wearing her army boots; he was in support socks. She was armed; he wasn’t.

  Or she could help Huss.

  Dimitri stared upwards in triumph at Huss and started to lift the gun to his shoulder. Her upper half was clearly visible through the glass of the cab.

  Huss looked down at Dimitri and, almost casually, with her left hand pressed the icon that controlled the grab release.

  High above Dimitri’s head, unheard and unseen by him, the arms of the grab opened a couple of millimetres and a bale of silage, weighing eight hundred kilos and the size of a telephone box, crashed down on top of him. The ground around it shook from the impact.

  Joad saw it happen. The bale didn’t fall in slow motion; it plummeted from the sky at ten metres per second. In the time it took to blink, it had obliterated Dimitri from the land of the living.

  He also saw Myasnikov run from the shadows, obviously intending to pick up the Makarov that lay near the dead Yusopov’s hand. The unarmed Huss was still sitting in the cab; she had turned the tractor off. She was motionless in her seat, staring down at the dead Danny.

  Joad thought, She’ll be in shock, I guess.

  ‘Leave it,’ said a curt voice. Myasnikov stopped in his tracks as Hanlon emerged from the farmhouse kitchen. Her blue T-shirt was covered in dirt and sweat, her slim, muscular arms were scratched and grazed, as was her face. From under her dark, matted hair, her eyes were cold and unblinking. The CZ 85 in her hands was small but menacing.