by Tom Wood
The closest man took a burst to the torso, shielding Halleck and the other man, who both backed off in surprise, seeking cover as Victor stalked forward, shooting in short, controlled bursts of two or three rounds. He moved in a crouch, half-squatting for stability and to reduce his height and silhouette.
He was reaching to change the magazine before he had squeezed the trigger for the last time, having counted bursts. Within four seconds he was shooting again.
They returned fire from doorways, but without accuracy because they were on the defensive. He squeezed off shots at each target, not expecting to hit any of them while they were buried in hard cover, but aiming to buy himself time to move while his enemies ducked and flinched and kept their heads down.
The response to fire went against every instinct evolution had instilled into Victor. He approached the danger, increasing the risk of death or dismemberment with each step, but in doing so he fought his enemies’ will as he fought their physicality. They outnumbered him. They were in the position of strength. For Victor to attack instead of retreating disrupted their psychological narrative. He thought of Sun Tzu: When strong, appear weak; when weak, appear strong.
It worked.
The continuous fire and advancement made his enemies doubt their strength. They backed off and retreated. The wrong thing to do. The gunman fell amid the storm of gunfire. Halleck managed to scramble away, losing his gun in the process, but kicking open a doorway and charging into safety as Victor’s last round buried itself in the doorframe.
He released the empty magazine and went to reload but a door burst open behind him and the fourth gunman appeared.
SIXTY-FIVE
He had come from the control tower, flanking Victor by climbing up while he had sought to flank the men by climbing down. Victor charged into him, releasing his own empty sub-machine gun to grab the gunman’s UMP and drive it and the gunman against a wall. He grunted from the impact and Victor wrenched the weapon closer, pulling the man off balance and into an elbow.
His grip on the weapon loosened and Victor tore it from his grasp and swung it like a club at the guy’s head.
The fourth man ducked to avoid it and caught the gun by the barrel. They wrestled for control of the weapon, strength versus strength, Victor winning but only continuing the struggle to focus his opponent’s attention on fighting back instead of what Victor’s legs were doing.
He kicked the guy, missing the side of the knee and striking him on the thigh. The force was enough to make him grimace and pull the leg back, transferring all of his weight to the other leg.
Victor swept the load-bearing ankle and the guy dropped.
Victor put a burst of rounds through the man’s face.
Before he could turn round, a thick forearm snaked in front of Victor’s neck, going for a choke hold.
At that moment he couldn’t know whether Halleck intended to apply a blood choke or an air choke, but Victor’s reaction was the same. Before Halleck could get into either position, Victor tensed his neck to harden the muscles and flare the strong tendons. At the same time he released the UMP and shrugged his right shoulder to raise Halleck’s arm and create room to manoeuvre. Then he turned his head away to the left, so the attacking arm applied pressure to the muscle and tendons at the side of his neck.
Any delay in response would have decreased his chances of survival to almost zero. Halleck’s years in the military had taught him how to fight and kill, but he was not fast enough to apply the more difficult blood choke in time. He went for the air choke, locking his hands off in a gable grip, the bony part of the forearm applying the pressure. He pulled Victor tight against him and put the side of his head against Victor’s back, both to increase the pressure of the choke and to keep his eyes away from Victor’s reach.
The flared neck, raised shoulder and turned head combined to give him extra time to fight back. Attacking eyes was problematic at the best of times in Victor’s experience, let alone while suffocating, so he concentrated on Halleck’s arm.
He grabbed at the forearm in both hands. An attacker didn’t have to be strong to be able to resist an attempt to pull the arm away, but Halleck had dense arms, packed with powerful muscle, so as Victor wrenched downwards he also lifted his feet to drop his weight.
Halleck was strong, but not strong enough to resist now.
The forearm edged away from Victor’s neck.
Not far, but far enough to dispel the agony and let Victor draw in a big lungful of air, giving him more time and space to twist his body so that he was at a ninety-degree angle from his attacker. The choke was now a headlock. Halleck still held on, his grip tight and secure, but the danger of suffocation had gone.
With his left hand, Victor grabbed a handful of Halleck’s jacket and the love handle beneath it and squeezed. The pinching effect caused significant pain, but also secured Halleck in place. Otherwise, if he opted to move, Victor would have no choice but to be dragged along with him. Now, with a firm hold on Halleck, Victor kept him where he wanted.
He slammed his right palm up between Halleck’s legs for a groin strike.
Halleck grunted but his grip stayed secure. His pain tolerance was Herculean, but could not withstand a second palm strike.
His hold weakened and Victor lifted him off his feet and slammed him on the floor, scrambling on top of Halleck and pinning him in place, the blade of his forearm compressing the man’s Adam’s apple. He wheezed, breathless, strength fading. Victor smashed Halleck in the face with his free elbow again and again until he stopped fighting back and Victor’s sleeve was soaked in blood and frayed where it had ripped on broken bone.
Victor took a few seconds to get his breath back then reloaded his weapon and exited the building. In the distance, flames licked the sky from the burning truck and helicopter wreckage.
The aluminium case was no longer by the door.
He peered into the distance for a sign of Raven, but there was only darkness.
SIXTY-SIX
One month later
The hotel bar was about thirty metres square. The thick grey carpet in the centre of the floor was ringed with limestone tiles. Leather chairs, sofas and stools surrounded glass tables. Against one wall sat a woman playing an ornate sandalwood harp. Her hair was red and straight, and so long it hung past her waist. The graceful, dextrous movements of her fingers impressed Victor as much as the music soothed him. She never opened her eyes, lost in the concentrated rhythm, and Victor fought to remember the last time he had chosen to impede his own sight in public and found pleasure in the experience. No memory came to him.
Behind her, the wall was covered in glass, behind which blue lights cast her in a soft, almost metallic glow. Waitresses wearing red dresses drifted around the room, taking table orders or delivering drinks and snacks. Their movements were as effortless as the harpist’s. Bartenders wearing waistcoats and bow ties mixed cocktails, their faces etched with focus. They looked like men who would refuse to pour Scotch over ice or mix bourbon with soft drinks.
‘Woodford Reserve,’ Victor said to one, who looked old before his time.
The bartender poured a double measure of the bourbon into a tumbler as he said, ‘Singles are for daylight only.’
Victor took a seat at the bar and ignored the noise of chatter and merriment to listen to the harpist.
He had fled Floyd Bennett Field long before the first responders had shown up and sealed off the area. Using the chaos of the blackout, he had slipped out of the city and headed across the border into Canada.
After lying low in Nova Scotia for a week, he had contacted Muir. She had heard nothing of the incident at the airfield, despite rumours of gunfire and an explosion. The Consensus at work, Victor assumed. He was still a wanted man, but as an assassin, not a terrorist. No terrorist attack had been committed. Halleck’s death had been recorded as a suicide. He was suspected of killing Guerrero.
Victor had neither seen nor heard anything from Raven until she appeared alon
gside him at the bar.
‘Ten thousand hours,’ she said, looking at the harpist. ‘That’s how long they say it takes to master a skill like that.’
Victor sipped the whisky. ‘I’ve heard the same.’
‘Sounds about right to me,’ Raven said. ‘Do you play any instruments?’
‘Like that? No.’ Victor gestured to the harpist. ‘But I know my way around the piano. Well, used to.’
‘Why the past tense?’
‘A piano needs a home.’
She turned to face him, leaning one elbow on the bar. ‘And you’re homeless? Poor baby.’
‘I prefer to think of myself as a nomad.’
The old-before-his-time barman approached. ‘What can I get for you, ma’am?’
She pointed at Victor’s glass. ‘What’s he drinking?’
The barman said, ‘Woodford.’
‘Bourbon?’ She frowned at Victor, then looked back to the barman. ‘No, no, no. Scotch, please. An Islay. Caol Ila, if you have it.’
The barman nodded. ‘We do.’
‘But don’t even think about putting ice in that glass.’
The barman smiled and looked young again. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Victor asked.
‘Maybe I just wanted to see you.’
Victor raised an eyebrow.
‘What?’ Raven said. ‘Why is that so impossible to believe?’
‘Because you deserted me at the airfield,’ Victor said.
She shrugged. ‘Don’t forget you’re the one who said we weren’t a team.’ She smiled. ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’
‘I haven’t had too many friends,’ Victor began, ‘but I’m pretty sure trying to kill one’s friends is the antithesis of friendship.’
‘Ah, but that was then. That was before. Now that’s all out of the way, we can be friends.’
‘Can it ever truly be out of the way for people like us?’
She regarded him, acting as if she was only thinking about it now in this moment, but he knew she must have thought about it countless times. As he had.
The barman returned with Raven’s drink and placed it down before her. She smiled at him and looked at Victor.
‘Aren’t you going to offer to buy it for me?’
Victor held her gaze and allowed her to play her game with him.
He nodded to the barman. ‘Please put the lady’s drink on my tab.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Raven beamed. ‘You called me a lady. How nice of you, Jonathan.’
‘My name isn’t Jonathan.’
She lifted her glass to smell the whisky. ‘It will be unless I know your real name.’
‘Then I guess I’m Jonathan.’
She winked. ‘I knew you would see it my way. What shall we drink to?’
‘World peace.’
She laughed. ‘Then we’ll both be out of business.’
‘Would that be so bad? Retirement sounds like fun from where I’m sitting.’
‘Now I know you’re joking. You’re never going to retire, Jonathan. You’ll be the world’s only ninety-year-old hitman.’
He frowned. ‘I really don’t like that word.’
She grinned. ‘I really don’t care. Don’t be a bore, Jonathan. Come on, clinky clink.’
They touched glasses and sipped their drinks. Raven closed her eyes to savour hers.
When she opened them, she said, ‘Try some. You’ll never go back to that junk again.’
She held out her drink. He looked at the smudge of lipstick on the glass.
‘I’ll stick with this, thanks.’
She saw that he had looked and sighed. ‘That offends me. We’re past all that. As I said, we’re friends now.’
‘If we’re friends then you won’t be offended accommodating my precautionary nature.’
Her eyes narrowed, but she smiled. ‘Slippery. But I like it.’
They held each other’s gaze.
‘So,’ she said, using her chin to gesture at Victor’s drink. ‘How many of those do you need inside you before you invite me up to your room?’
SIXTY-SEVEN
He used his keycard to unlock the door and said, ‘After you.’
She smiled and pushed it open and stepped into his suite. ‘Oh, very nice. I see you’re treating yourself well.’
He followed her inside. ‘Someone has to,’ Victor said. ‘What did you do with the case?’
‘I left it in the office of the non-proliferation department of the United Nations.’
‘You’re kidding,’ Victor said.
‘Probably.’ She winked and walked around the suite. ‘Well, I guess you deserve all this after you helped prevent a dirty bomb going off in the middle of New York City. You are something of a hero, even if that is only a byproduct of looking after yourself.’
Victor remained silent.
‘Showing some emotion won’t kill you, you know?’
‘I’ve stayed alive this long, so I must be doing something right.’
She raised her hand, as if holding a glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ She turned, looking. ‘Talking of which…’
She approached the sideboard where a bottle of dessert wine sat. ‘Shall we?’
He didn’t answer, but she didn’t wait for one. She tore off the seal and used her knife as a makeshift corkscrew. Not the easiest thing to do without corking the wine, but she did so with speed and deftness. Once again he was impressed with her dexterity. He watched the whole process because she did so facing him. He knew this was not arbitrary. She wanted him to see she wasn’t tampering with it and that she hadn’t already.
With the knife embedded within the cork, she set it down on the sideboard along with the wine bottle and fetched a couple of glasses from the kitchen. He was still standing in the same place when she returned. She smiled at him, friend to friend, and poured into each glass. Even from across the room, he could see she hadn’t corked the wine.
She took a glass in each hand and stepped towards him, still smiling. ‘Here.’
His hands remained by his hips.
He knew it had taken her but a second to understand, but she ignored it and persisted, the smile on her face warm and inviting.
When he made no further move to take a glass, she said, ‘Don’t be foolish.’
‘Foolish would be accepting a drink from a professional assassin who has tried to kill me once already.’
‘You saw me uncork the bottle. You saw me pour it.’
‘You allowed me to.’
Her eyebrows arched. ‘So you would have no need to worry.’
‘I never worry.’
‘Then drink the wine.’
He remained silent.
‘Is it because I fetched the glasses? You can pick whichever one you want.’
His lips stayed closed. He felt no awkwardness or pressure. He was good at waiting. If it came to it, he could wait until he collapsed from dehydration.
‘Fine,’ she breathed and drank a mouthful from one glass, and then a mouthful from the other.
She made a big play of swallowing and opened her mouth afterwards so he could see it was empty. Her teeth were white and perfect, her tongue smooth and pink.
‘Happy now?’
‘Deliriously so.’
She held out the glass in her left hand, so he took the one from her right. She laughed.
‘For a robot, you’re really quite fun.’
‘I know,’ he said and raised the glass.
‘Make sure we maintain eye contact or it’s seven years’ bad luck. Or is it seven years bad sex?’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
She smiled, her eyes mischievous, and for a moment he thought of someone else.
Raven said, ‘Salut.’
‘Cheers.’
They clinked glasses, holding eye contact, and sipped.
‘God, that’s delicious,’ Raven said, taking another, longer swallow.
‘I didn’t expect you to have such good taste.’
She swallowed another mouthful. Smiled at him. Victor took another sip. She returned to the bottle to top up her glass. ‘Another one?’
Victor brought the glass to his lips and let the wine he had been holding in his mouth flow back into the glass.
Raven’s dark eyes widened.
She looked at him, at the glass, at her own. He could almost feel her pulse spike from the adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream. He could almost hear the thump of her heart, as if his subconscious could detect the reverberations through the air.
Fear was the strongest of all the emotions.
All she could say was, ‘Why?’
He set the glass down. ‘I told you before, I only kill for two reasons. And no one hired me to kill you.’
‘I’m no threat to you.’
‘That’s right, because you’re going to die. You were never going to walk away from this and leave me out there. You’re like me. You don’t want a weak link in your armour any more than I do. Maybe you would have done it before we parted ways, or you would have tracked me down at some other point. But that whole show with the bottle was to make me trust you so I would leave myself vulnerable later. That’s when I knew for certain you still wanted to kill me. I’m guessing you would take me to bed and kill me when I’m at my most defenceless. You tried too hard to make me trust you. You should have listened when I said I don’t trust anyone.’
She looked at the knife on the sideboard, and again he felt as if he could sense the workings of her mind. She wanted to kill him in that most base of needs: revenge. For a beat he thought she would grab it and attack. But she looked away.
Like him, she was a survivor, first and before anything else. If she killed him now, she would die. While she lived, she still had a chance, so she looked away from the knife and said:
