by Tom Wood
Guerrero stepped into the lounge and gestured for Victor to back up. He did, until he was equidistant between them. He glanced around at the Spartan furnishings. There was nothing he could use as an improvised weapon or even as a distraction.
‘I’d like my badge back,’ Wallinger said.
Victor tossed it to him. He caught it in his left hand as effortlessly as Victor had.
‘Who are you?’ Guerrero asked. ‘And why do you look like shit?’
‘You know who I am,’ Victor said.
‘Sure we do.’
Wallinger said, ‘I’d like to see your ID again.’
‘I lost it.’
‘Sure you did,’ Guerrero said. ‘What happened to your clothes?’
‘I traded them.’
‘With who, a bum?’ Guerrero asked.
‘I’m a humanitarian.’
Wallinger said, ‘Quit with the bullshit, pal. You’re fooling no one.’
Victor remained silent. He didn’t know what they knew. He didn’t know who they were. He didn’t know what they wanted. Until he did, he couldn’t afford to tell them anything.
‘You want to find Angelica Margolis, yes?’
He didn’t answer.
Wallinger said, ‘We know you do. You told us so. You’re in her apartment for the second time in one day. There’s no use choosing to play dumb with us now. One way or another you’re gonna talk.’
Guerrero added, ‘We know you’re not really a debt collector. Why don’t you tell us what Miss Margolis has done to you and we can help each other out?’
He looked at both of them in turn, still not knowing whether they were who they claimed to be.
She continued: ‘Do you know that’s not her real name? Do you know she’s an enemy of state? She’s a terrorist. Do you know what that means? She’s way more dangerous than you could possibly know. You may think you’re something of a badass enforcer, but you’re punching way above your weight with this one. Whatever she’s done to you or whoever you work for, you want to back out. We can help you do that. Trust us.’
Trust…
‘How?’ he asked.
Guerrero glanced at Wallinger. They thought they were making progress. Guerrero even lowered her gun to make herself seem less threatening; more trustworthy.
‘Do you know where she is?’ Wallinger asked.
‘No,’ Victor said.
Wallinger said, ‘But you know where she’s going to be, don’t you? She’s coming back here, isn’t she? That’s why you’re here.’
Victor nodded and pretended not to see the glimmer in Wallinger’s eye.
‘When?’ he asked.
‘Thirty minutes,’ Victor answered. ‘Give or take. Probably closer to an hour, given the blackout.’
Guerrero said, ‘And you know this how?’
‘I have my sources.’
Wallinger took out his phone and tried to make a call. He growled in frustration and looked at Guerrero. ‘We’re on our own here.’
She shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘What has Raven done?’ Victor asked.
Guerrero’s head couldn’t twist his way fast enough. Wallinger didn’t blink.
‘How do you know that code name?’ Guerrero asked.
‘Code name?’ Victor said with eyebrows raised. ‘I thought it was merely a nickname.’
Guerrero relaxed. ‘You don’t need to know the full details. She’s a very bad person. That’s all you need to remember. Be grateful you haven’t actually found her yet.’
Victor glanced at Wallinger. He hadn’t moved a muscle since Victor had said the word Raven.
Tension in Wallinger’s forehead pushed his eyebrows close together and created two creases that followed the vertical lines of his nose, making it appear longer and sharper. His skin was thin and seemed older than the thirty-four years his ID stated he’d been alive. Fine lines spread out from the eyes and corners of the mouth. Veins in his temples were prominent beneath the skin.
Wallinger said, ‘Who are you, really? Agency, right?’
Victor remained silent.
Wallinger said, ‘You’d better not be. You know you CIA guys aren’t allowed to operate on US soil. That’s our job.’
‘I didn’t say I was CIA.’
‘Freelance operator then. Same thing.’
Victor ignored him and said to Guerrero, ‘Mind if I clean up?’
‘Forget it,’ Wallinger said. ‘You’re coming with us.’
‘Happy to,’ Victor replied. ‘But let me clean up first. Unless you want your car to stink like me for a week.’
The two agents looked at one another, communicating without words, then Guerrero said, ‘Fine, go de-stink.’
‘But you’re still coming with us as soon as you have,’ Wallinger answered. ‘We have a lot of questions for you.’
‘Which I’ll be more than happy to answer.’
Guerrero pursed her lips, then said, ‘You know there’s no fire escape in reach of the bathroom window, don’t you?’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, Agent Guerrero. I’m scared of heights.’
FORTY-FIVE
Victor stepped inside the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The hinges made a quiet squeal of resistance. Twilight filtered through the blinds covering a small window on the wall to his right, perpendicular to the door, and illuminated a space just long enough to fit a bath along the wall opposite the window, and a pedestal washbasin and toilet opposite the light switch. A bare bulb coated with dust hung from the ceiling was useless in the blackout. The walls were about the same size as each other, but were not at exact right angles, creating a skewed cube twice as tall as it was wide. The wall tiles were white, but dulled with neglect. Black mould had sprung up along the silicone sealant where the bath met the wall. Dusty cobwebs hung above the window, their creators long since departed or deceased. A faded circular mat lay in the approximate centre of the room. Maybe it had once been white. The air felt moist and smelled unpleasant – stagnant water and mould.
On the wall across from Victor, a mirror smeared with water marks hung above the sink. Victor’s reflection looked back at him, his features hardened by the twilight and deep shadows.
He turned a brass catch to lock the door. He gripped it hard and turned it harder. The noise it made was loud and distinctive. Clunk.
A cheap plastic shower curtain was suspended above the bathtub by plastic hooks. The curtain’s swirling pattern was obscured in places by mildew. The hooks rattled as Victor drew the curtain back; a long, flexible stainless-steel pipe was attached to the back of the taps and the showerhead supported high above it.
He turned the shower dial, rotating it all the way to the hottest setting. The pelting of water on the cast-iron bathtub was loud enough so that when Victor eased the catch to unlock the door the clunk sound was almost inaudible.
He raised the closed toilet lid, then removed the homeless guy’s jacket and hat and dropped them across the toilet bowl. He stood with his back against the wall to the side of the door next to the handle, thinking. Waiting.
The water coming out of the shower was hot because the boiler had heated it before the blackout had cut the electricity supply. The air inside the bathroom grew warm and humid. Steam began to darken the mirror above the small sink. Victor watched his reflection fade away.
Forty seconds, he decided. Maybe fifty. If he was wrong he lost nothing. If he was right…
He raised his left forearm so it was horizontal before his face, palm facing inwards. When his count reached forty-seven, bullets punched through the door.
Wood splinters, paint flakes and dust burst out into the air. The steaming mirror above the taps cracked. Glass shards rained down into the sink. Wall tiles shattered, exploding fragments of ceramic around the bathroom. Victor’s forearm shielded his eyes from the storm cloud of debris.
Bullet holes appeared in the wall either side of the destroyed mirror as the shooter on the other side of the
bathroom door spread out the rounds, then walked them to Victor’s left, aiming at the shower. Bullets sliced through the plastic shower curtain. He heard tiles shattering and the curtain rippled and swayed as it was peppered by shrapnel.
He counted eleven shots from a single shooter by the time the firing ceased. The 9mm SIGs carried by Wallinger and Guerrero held fifteen rounds in the magazine.
Victor waited a second and then stretched out a foot to toe the toilet lid and seat. They fell together, banging shut against the toilet bowl. Nothing like the sound of a dead or dying man falling over, but muted and made more organic by the homeless guy’s jacket enough to convince the shooter to kick the door open and charge into the bathroom.
The door flew open with a bang, crashing into the wall on the other side from where Victor stood, and the shooter stumbled forward, off balance. Stumbling because the door had been kicked hard enough to break the lock that they heard engaged but not disengaged.
The remaining glass of the small mirror was steamed over, preventing the agent from seeing Victor’s reflection, and reacting he slammed a forearm against the extended right wrist to knock the suppressed SIG from the agent’s grasp. It clattered on the floor and was knocked into a corner as the agent twisted round to respond.
It was Guerrero, not Wallinger as Victor had expected.
There was no time to consider how he’d been wrong, because the bathroom was small. There was nowhere to move to; no room to dodge; no space to manoeuvre; no opportunity to create range or openings. Tactics meant nothing here. Ferocity meant everything.
Guerrero was small but knew how to fight. She parried Victor’s next attack and they exchanged blows – short punches and elbow strikes. Some were blocked. Others scored glancing hits. One elbow caught him on the jaw and he tasted blood. He was a lot bigger and stronger, but she was quicker and her shorter arms were better suited to the close confines. She hammered his ribs with hooks and elbows he wasn’t fast enough to defend.
He feinted a similar body blow to lower her defences and struck Guerrero with a palm heel to the side of the face. She collapsed into the sink then rebounded away and to the floor as Victor swept out her load-bearing leg.
She knocked the door shut again as she went down, before scrambling for the gun in the corner, but Victor kicked her in the ribs and she let out a gasp of ejected air. He went to kick again – this time to the face – but she grabbed the mat he was standing on and tugged it out from under him.
With only one foot planted for balance, Victor fell backwards into the bath, tearing the shower curtain from the hooks as he did and passing through the shower spray.
The middle of his back took the force of the impact on the curved shelf of the bath, but spared his skull smacking against the wall tiles. Hot shower water rained down on to him.
He blinked to clear his eyes and struggled to shrug away the shower curtain that fell over him and gain purchase enough to stand, while Guerrero grabbed her disarmed SIG from the corner and stood.
Victor snatched the flexible shower pipe in his left hand, and with a hard pull, wrenched the shower head free from its perch. It fell and he caught it in the same hand, then launched it as she turned to shoot.
The showerhead struck Guerrero in the chest and sent her reeling backwards, slipping and losing balance on the now-slick floor tiles. The unsecured showerhead fell and hung over the side of the bath, pipe snaking back and forth, and spraying water throughout the small room.
Victor ripped the shower curtain aside and threw himself up and into Guerrero as she recovered her balance.
They collided into the closest wall, Guerrero taking the brunt of the impact against her face, dropping the gun once more, and not having the strength to stop Victor grabbing her jacket and pulling her away from the wall and throwing her down to the floor.
She hit the wet tiles with force, but on her hands and knees. She tried to push herself upright, but Victor grabbed the showerhead and looped the flexible metal pipe around her neck. Water sprayed everywhere.
As soon as the metal touched the skin of her throat Guerrero went wild, reacting fast, and flipping over on to her back to face Victor before he could get a secure hold.
She wedged four fingers between the cord and her neck before the noose was complete, preventing Victor from strangling her, but sacrificing one of her hands in the process.
Victor grabbed Guerrero’s free wrist in his own free hand as she went to strike, rendering her defenceless.
But Victor still had one hand to employ, holding the showerhead.
He used it as a club to batter against the side of Guerrero’s head as she turned to protect her face. Two hits was enough to stun her but also half-wreck the showerhead so Victor pressed it against Guerrero’s face, pinning her head against the side of the bath and sending the pressurised spray of water into her mouth and up her nose. She gurgled and thrashed as the showerhead forced hot water down her throat faster than she could gag it away, until her stomach filled with water, and then when her stomach was full the water entered her lungs. She tried to fight with her free hand but Victor had his arm locked out so no matter how fierce her attempts, her strength was negated.
She coughed and retched and vomited but Victor kept the showerhead in place until Guerrero had stopped moving and the bathroom floor was flooded under an inch of water, pink with swirling blood and dark with an oil-slick of spreading vomit.
FORTY-SIX
Victor released the showerhead when he was sure Guerrero was not going to get up again, and recovered the SIG and shook the water from it as best he could. He wasn’t sure if it would fire or not with water in the barrel and chamber and magazine, but it would dry out soon enough.
He stepped out of the bathroom, fast and smooth, gun up, but saw that Wallinger was not going to bother him so he tucked the weapon into his waistband and reached past Guerrero’s corpse to twist the taps and turn off the shower. He was soaked. There was no towel in the bathroom so he had to make do with swiping the excess water from his hair and face.
He swallowed the blood that had drained into his mouth from the cut on the inside of his cheek. The instinct was to spit it out, but that would leave his DNA and blood type behind. Swallowing blood wasn’t pleasant, but it was better than spending the rest of his life behind bars. He wiped the smear of blood from his lips with the back of a hand and pushed his cheek against his upper jaw to apply pressure to the cut.
He went through pockets, taking Guerrero’s wallet and identification and car keys and smartphone and spare magazines.
Victor left the bathroom and approached Wallinger, who was stationary in the lounge, slumped against a wall, his white dress shirt stained with blood where he had been stabbed multiple times in the abdomen and chest – a surprise attack, swift and savage. The knife that killed him was still buried in his chest, pinning his blue tie in place, an inch of bare blade protruding perpendicular from the dead man’s breastbone. It looked as if Guerrero had tried to remove it but the blade had stuck in the sternum. The fight in the bathroom might have had a different outcome had she been able to pull the weapon free and employ it after Victor had disarmed her of the SIG.
Had their roles been reversed, Victor would have had the knife to use in the bathroom because he would never stab a man through the solid bone of the sternum, and only in the chest with the blade on the same horizontal plane as the ribs, so it would slide between the bones and not become stuck. The corpse in the bathroom had never learned to do this or had been too rushed or sloppy to employ her knowledge.
Victor went through Wallinger’s pockets and compared his credentials to Guerrero’s. They looked as official and genuine as each other.
Wallinger was a little shorter than Victor and a little broader. Regardless, the suit jacket, trousers, socks and shoes fitted well enough for his needs. He was not going to turn heads dressed in another-sized man’s clothes, but that was fine by Victor. He left on his own shirt, given that it was not soaked all over an
d was less attention-drawing than a shirt marked with holes and bloodstains. Victor bundled his wet clothes and shoes into a plastic bag he found under the kitchen sink. He used a dishcloth to soak up some of the water from his hair and used his fingers to comb it until it looked respectable again.
When Victor went back into the lounge area, Raven was waiting for him.
He pointed Guerrero’s SIG at her face and said, ‘I want answers.’
Raven sat on the folding camp chair opposite Wallinger’s corpse. The red wig was gone and her own black hair was held back by a band. Her clothes were different too: jeans and a sweater replaced the suit. She looked relaxed and comfortable, but he saw from her pose she had not let her guard down. She was sitting on the edge of the chair, feet planted and square with her knees, and her head was over her hips. If required, she could launch up with speed. However casual she acted around Victor, she did not put herself at needless risk. He paid her the same compliment by keeping his distance and never letting her out of his peripheral vision.
‘Such a mess,’ she said and frowned at the body between them. Then she looked up at him and said, ‘Do you always leave a trail of corpses wherever you go?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s not uncommon. But two separate entities have tried to end my life on the same day. Even for me, that’s a little on the high side. So start talking.’
‘Killing everyone who gets in your way is hardly the best way of staying unnoticed, is it?’
‘Something tells me these two aren’t going to notice me again.’
She smirked. ‘Surely better for them to not notice you in the first place than leave corpses behind for others of their ilk to notice?’
‘It’s a vicious circle,’ he admitted.
She looked at the gun in his hand, still aimed at her. ‘If you’re not going to shoot me, could you point that thing somewhere else?’
He tucked it into his waistband.
‘Thank you. Did you have to steal his clothes? Are you really struggling for cash that badly?’
