ENEMY -THE-

by WOOD TOM

  He fired and a cobweb of cracks appeared in the elevator’s glass front a second before he lost the angle. He shot anyway, firing at the roof, squeezing the trigger until the gun was empty, knowing a .45 calibre ACP had little chance of penetrating the steel machinery that sat atop the elevator, but he wasn’t going to beat it to the lobby, and however he got there it was going to be too late to intercept Yamout, especially with armed hotel security about. He reloaded and emptied a second magazine in less than four seconds. Useless, but there was no time to do anything else. The elevator was one hundred feet below him.

  Gone.

  The job was over. He’d failed. Now all that mattered was escape. Any problems his failure would create would have to wait.

  He headed to the stairwell, noticing pale green light emanated through an open doorway further along the balcony corridor, leading to the suite next to the Presidential. The source of the light had to be something on battery power, a laptop monitor probably. Victor thought back to the three guys who had charged into the Presidential barely a minute after him. They had to have been stationed in the next suite along to have arrived so fast, but they hadn’t responded to the cries for help from Petrenko and Yamout. Not friends of either, so who were they?

  He didn’t have long to get an answer but he’d been forced to kill three more men than he’d been paid for. Those men had tried to kill him and stopped him fulfilling his contract, a fact that could have fatal consequences. He needed an explanation.

  ‘Don’t move,’ a voice said in Russian from behind Victor. The voice carried the confidence gained from the possession of a firearm. A firearm Victor presumed was aimed directly at his back.

  He stopped. Two feet from the doorway.

  ‘Drop the gun.’

  There was nothing to tell him exactly where the speaker stood, so if Victor tried anything he would be trusting to speed only, relying on the fact he could turn around, raise his gun, acquire the target, and score a fatal hit before the speaker had time to apply a few pounds of pressure on his weapon’s trigger.

  Victor let the USP fall from his fingers and thud quietly on the carpet.

  ‘Now lose the goggles.’

  Victor lowered them to the floor.

  ‘Turn around.’

  Victor did.

  A man stood in front of him, no more than ten feet away, equidistant between Victor and the stairwell. The cupola provided enough light to illuminate the suppressed pistol in the man’s hands and the sheen of sweat on his face. He looked out of breath, having probably sprinted up several flights of stairs. He had a long face, stubble. Victor recognised him even without the brown suede jacket. The watcher.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the watcher asked.

  The words were in Russian but it wasn’t the speaker’s native language. Victor couldn’t place the accent. He didn’t answer. He wanted to ask the same question.

  ‘Kick away the gun,’ the watcher ordered.

  Victor complied, but only hard enough for it to skid a few feet.

  The watcher stepped nearer. He moved at a cautious speed, glanced at the two dead bodyguards outside the door of the Presidential.

  ‘Cops will be here soon,’ Victor said.

  The watcher ignored him and gestured with his pistol. ‘Lose your backup too.’

  Victor reached around to the back of his waist where the P22 was holstered.

  ‘Do it very slowly,’ the watcher prompted.

  Victor drew out the Walther and brought it round to the front.

  ‘This time don’t drop it, toss it away.’

  Victor did – but he threw it forward – at the watcher. Not to inflict injury, just to distract. The watcher’s eyes instinctively glanced at the gun sailing towards him and he flinched to move out of the way. By the time he recovered, Victor was through the open doorway.

  He flung the door shut behind him and saw that the source of green light was a laptop monitor, as he’d expected. It was divided into six windows, five displaying a different image from what had to be hidden night-vision cameras next door in the Presidential Suite.

  He didn’t think any more about it. All his thoughts were centred on the man on the other side of the door, the man who had a gun while he had nothing.

  CHAPTER 24

  Victor crouched in the darkness, balancing on the balls of his feet. The air in the room was warm and stale. He could smell cologne and sweat. His right arm throbbed. The only light entered through thin gaps between the drapes, but there was enough to see the lounge area of the suite around him. It was different from the Presidential in both size and layout, smaller and less opulent. There were two interior doors leading off from the lounge that he guessed led to bedrooms. The bedrooms probably had their own bathrooms, but otherwise there was nowhere else to go. He could steal Yamout’s trick and go through one of the windows and on to the exterior ledge, but that strategy relied on his enemy standing idle and letting him.

  Victor didn’t move. He waited. If the watcher wanted him, he would have to come and get him. The lounge was the largest open space and the easiest to defend himself within. He could see the silhouettes of a large sofa, sideboards along two walls, a coffee table, the desk where the computer sat and two chairs before it. All obstacles for an attacker and potential weapons to be used against one.

  He heard quiet footsteps outside the main door, a few moments before suppressed gunshots sounded and six holes blew through it. Two high, two low, two in between. But all in straight lines. Victor was far enough out of trajectory not to be concerned.

  For a second he thought the watcher might not have a keycard, but the latch clicked and Victor felt the faint pull of a draught as the door opened. There were four clack sounds as the watcher spread rounds across the lounge. Again, Victor didn’t need to move.

  The watcher stepped into the room, slow and controlled because he knew his enemy was unarmed. As expected, the watcher wore the discarded thermal imaging goggles. The dark lounge would appear to him as shades of light grey with Victor as a distinct dark grey shape with a black head and hands. The watcher didn’t see him.

  But Victor saw the watcher.

  The single infrared gathering optic on the goggles protruded several inches from the eyes, greatly limiting peripheral vision at very close range. Victor, standing to one side of the door and no more than twelve inches from the watcher’s flank, was in his blind spot.

  Victor made his move, going for the outstretched gun, but the watcher must have realised the problem with his peripheral vision because he whipped the gun away before Victor could grab it.

  Instead, Victor adjusted his footing and collided with the man, knocking him backwards and into the door hard enough for him to grunt with the impact. Before he could recover, Victor slammed an elbow at his face, coming from below, aiming under the goggles, and felt it connect with cheekbone and drag across the side of the face while his left hand grabbed the watcher’s right wrist and kept it, and the gun, locked against the wall.

  Victor took a fist to his abdomen in response, a short punch, not enough leverage to really damage him but enough power to still hurt. The Kevlar took something out of the blow, but not much. It was followed by several more left hooks. Victor grimaced and responded with elbows that didn’t hit squarely. The watcher’s head was an elusive target, deftly rocking from side to side.

  Victor changed tactic, took a half-step back, let go of the wrist, grabbed the man by the shoulders with both hands, and swung his knee upwards. The watcher moved in time and the knee caught him just above the groin, making him wince but not striking enough nerve endings to take him out of the fight.

  The goggles collided with the side of Victor’s head, delivered on the end of a solid butt. He saw stars and lurched backwards, recovering enough to grab the gun and holding hand before it was in line to fire. The watcher powered forward while Victor was still dazed, throwing his bodyweight at him, forcing him backwards, off balance.

  He stumbled a few steps
before his hips found the back of the sofa and his attacker pushed him over. Victor let go of the gun, tumbled backwards over the sofa and on to the floor, landing on his feet, took two fast steps away into the darkness, dodging to the side before the watcher could squeeze off a hasty shot.

  Victor leapt straight at the watcher, going low, taking the man’s legs out from under him with a takedown that sent them both crashing to the floor.

  The watcher took the brunt of the fall and Victor heard the gun bounce across the carpet. He ignored it, used his weight to pin his enemy down while he tried to get his left arm hooked around the guy’s neck. The watcher fought back, hammering fists and elbows into Victor’s sides and lower back. They were well placed, striking his kidneys and vulnerable ribs. Victor grimaced against the pain but kept on working his left hand under the watcher’s head.

  He forced it around and under the back of the neck so that the crook of his elbow was wedged behind it. He then grabbed his left hand with his right, gripped hard with both, lurched to the right, rolling off the watcher, landing with his back on the floor, side by side with his opponent, Victor’s arms following the movements so that the edge of his right forearm ended up over the watcher’s throat.

  Victor squeezed.

  The pressure immediately closed off both of the watcher’s carotid arteries, stopping blood reaching his brain and depriving it of oxygen. He thrashed wildly in response, throwing elbows into Victor’s tensed stomach, tried to claw at his eyes, but didn’t go for Victor’s arm because the watcher knew he couldn’t escape it in the ten seconds he had before he lost consciousness. His only chance was to force Victor to let go.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Victor maintained the choke for sixty seconds after the watcher went limp to ensure he passed from unconsciousness into brain death.

  He climbed to his feet and stepped away from the corpse, toeing the dropped gun where it lay on the floor. Had he known it was that close, he might have gone for it and saved himself some hassle. Still, good to get a workout. His abdomen and lower back stung from the repeated elbows but there was no real damage. He might have some bruises in the morning but that would be the most of it. His head hurt worse. His wounded arm continued to throb. The fight hadn’t done it any favours, but it hadn’t been significantly worsened.

  He pulled open a curtain so he could see more clearly. There wasn’t time to search the room, but he checked the watcher’s pockets, and took his wallet, the suite keycard, and a spare magazine for the watcher’s gun. The weapon was a SIG Sauer P226. The watcher had fired eleven rounds so Victor knew the magazine had four left. Victor released it and loaded the fresh one.

  For a second he thought about taking the computer with him but it was too big to conceal and would tie him directly to the crime. He put fifteen 9 mms through it to make sure the recordings on its hard drive could never be recovered, and threw the SIG down next to the dead watcher.

  Victor exited the suite, figuring he had two minutes to get out before the first police responders arrived, and hurried back into the Presidential. He tore down a drape for light and saw a slim figure writhing on the floor, a bullet hole beneath his right collarbone. It was bleeding profusely. Blood soaked his clothes. His handgun was on the ground, only a few feet away, but out of the wounded man’s reach. Victor took it. Another SIG.

  He grabbed the man by his shirt, looked him in the eye and asked in Russian, ‘Who are you?’

  No answer, but Victor saw he’d been understood.

  He pressed his free palm over the man’s mouth and hooked his thumb under the man’s jaw to clamp it shut. With his right hand still gripping the SIG, Victor pushed his spare thumb into the bullet hole.

  His left hand stifled the screaming enough for Victor to twist his thumb around inside the wound. The man beneath him thrashed as agony wracked his body. Victor stopped in time to avoid the man fainting and wiped the bloody thumb on the guy’s jacket, keeping the palm pressed hard over the man’s mouth until he’d taken control of himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ Victor said again.

  The man spoke, each word punctuated by heavy breaths. ‘Just. Kill. Me.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  He didn’t answer, but managed to form a something resembling a smile.

  Victor held the guy’s mouth shut and pushed his thumb back into the bullet hole. He twisted and jerked it around.

  Muffled screams followed, louder. The man bucked, eyes wide, veins prominent under the skin of his forehead and temples. Victor counted to seven before removing his thumb. It was another five seconds before the man had calmed down enough for Victor to take away his hand.

  ‘Who?

  ‘Kill … me.’

  The guy was deteriorating fast, his breathing shallow, voice even quieter, the time between words longer.

  Victor leaned closer. ‘Who sent you?’

  The man’s head lolled back, eyes closing. Victor checked the pulse. It was barely there, the heart on its last few hundred beats. He rifled through the dying man’s pockets. A wallet with fake ID inside, but maybe it would still help, some cash, and a set of car keys but no key fob. It had been four minutes since it went loud. If Minsk PD weren’t here already, they would be by the time Victor left. He stripped off the tactical harness, Kevlar vest and holster straps. He hid the gun in the back of his waistband and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve and headed for the stairwell.

  He didn’t know who the four guys with SIGs were, but he knew he had inadvertently stepped into someone’s operation and killed the surveillance team. But these guys were more than just watchers. They knew how to shoot, and how to fight. Someone had sent them. Someone would want to know who had killed them.

  Victor put his shoes back on and descended hurriedly, the pain in his arm worsening as the adrenalin in his system faded. He joined a group of frightened guests on the fourth floor and acted similarly distressed as they rushed down to the lobby. It was packed with people, all scared by the gunshots from high above, security trying to keep control but smart enough not to risk their lives for the company if they didn’t have to. Hotel staff had lit candles to provide some illumination and the light helped Victor quickly find his way out through one of the side entrances.

  Police cars were pulling up outside as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Not long now,’ Abbot said.

  Xavier Callo was in a small apartment in a tower block somewhere in Minsk. He’d arrived with Abbot and Blout several hours before and had spent most of the following time lounging on the sofa watching US sitcoms dubbed into Russian. He had plenty to eat and drink, mostly junk food and soda, but Blout had fetched the groceries and good eating obviously wasn’t something the inexpressive ape understood. Still, food was food and despite being thin Callo had a big appetite. Empty bags of potato chips and candy bar wrappers lay on the floor around his bare feet. He wasn’t allowed to wear shoes.

  Abbot stood by the window and Blout was elsewhere in the apartment. At least one of the two was with Callo at all times. They’d only let him use the john with the door open and Blout standing just outside. Callo had given the prick something to listen to.

  They were waiting for something to happen, that much was as clear as polished diamond. Callo had no idea what his captors were waiting for. He hadn’t been told or given any indication and he wasn’t about to ask.

  He was tired. There were no clocks in the apartment but Callo knew the time and the date by checking the news channel on the TV when no one was looking. He did so several times and felt very proud of his cunning. The apartment consisted of two bedrooms, one bathroom, lounge and dining area, kitchen and hallway. It was neat and clean but the whole thing, furnishings included, probably cost less than Callo’s last trip to Athens. Whoever was running this operation, CIA or otherwise, was obviously a cheapskate. If the powers that be had splashed out for a nicer pad maybe the two ogres guarding him would be able to relax a little. Ca
llo’s eyelids were heavy.

  ‘Can I go to bed?’ he asked, when he could no longer fight the tiredness.

  ‘You’re having a giraffe,’ Abbot said without looking at him.

  ‘Then I’m just going to fall asleep right here.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Abbot said. ‘I’ll wake you when we need you.’

  Immediately Callo felt less tired. What did they need him for? Blout entered the lounge and gestured for Abbot, who followed Blout back into a bedroom, leaving Callo alone for the first time. He contemplated dashing for the door, but the idea was short-lived. He’d be caught before he had it open, and would no doubt get a serious beat down for his actions. Better to just sit tight. They couldn’t keep him indefinitely, after all.

  Callo muted the TV and edged along the sofa so he was closer to where Abbot had disappeared and heard voices speaking Russian, maybe from a radio. They were too quiet for Callo to understand what was being said.

  Abbot re-entered suddenly and Callo leapt back to the middle of the sofa. If Abbot had seen him move, he didn’t show it. Abbot thrust a cell phone into Callo’s hands and then took a piece of paper from a pocket of his jeans. He held it in front of Callo.

  ‘This is what you’re going to do,’ Abbot said, expression intense, a hard edge to his British accent. ‘You’re going to phone Gabir Yamout. You’re going to tell whoever answers what’s on that piece of paper. You speak Arabic, right? You can paraphrase it, put it in your own words, but you’d better say it all.’

  Callo took the paper and quickly read what was written. ‘Yes, I speak it. But I don’t understand. This doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘You don’t have to understand it,’ Abbot said. ‘You just have to say it.’

  ‘But I—’

  Before he could finish, Abbot slapped Callo hard across the face. The phone fell at Callo’s feet. His cheek stung badly. He looked up at Abbot, suddenly afraid. He noticed Blout was back in the room.