"What did she look like?"
Bob Sanders replied,
"Like one vicious man-killing cunt. Tall, sleek. Long black hair. Bony face. Dead eyes. Dressed all in black."
I thought to myself,
“Fucking Svetlana. Had to be. She would have been trying to find me. Is that how she did it? No fucking way. Charlie would never give me up. Not in a million fucking years. He must have died protecting me. Jesus Christ! Well at least that psychotic fucking bitch was dead. I wished now that I'd hurt her more. Inflicted more pain. A lot more. For Charlie's sake.”
I was overwhelmed. My eyes filled with tears. Bob saw this. He moved in to console me, put his arm around me. I stepped back. I don’t like physical contact. He put his arm back down. He said,
"We all loved Charlie mate. He was a good man."
I looked at him forlornly.
"Yeah mate, Thanks mate. He was. He definitely was."
I hesitated for a moment. Then thought to myself. Why not. What difference would it make? I spoke quietly, but harshly.
"Hey Bob, just so you know, yesterday, I killed the cunt that got him. Blew her fucking head off."
He looked back at me. Sizing me up. Thinking about what I'd just said. He replied simply,
"Good. Well done."
I made my way to the Men's Club in Lonsdale Street. It was the only place I could think of. Someone there would know Natasha. Or maybe they had an address. Something. I didn’t get there until well after eleven. I walked most of the way. I couldn’t catch a cab - they would all be being monitored. Public transport was suspect. They had surveillance too. More of a crowd though. Coverage wasn't as tight. Response time was longer. So I took a chance with a short tram ride down part of St Kilda Road. I walked from the corner of Bourke and Lonsdale down to the Club, taking one or two short detours. There were police patrolling everywhere and small groups of them on almost every corner. I didn’t want to get too close. They would all have been shown pictures of me. It’s amazing none of them saw me or recognized me. But I knew my luck wasn't going to hold up indefinitely. If it came down to a shootout I just had the Glock, with a single magazine, already loaded. Fifteen rounds total. Fuck all. It wasn’t going to be much of a fight.
When I got to the Men's Club it hadn't been open for long. They were getting ready for the lunch time crowd. Several girls were already dancing on the tables. Fully nude. They looked bored. A few older guys were seated around the tables staring up at them. God, it wasn’t even mid-day yet. Some people are just so fucking desperate it’s pathetic. I managed to talk to the manager, John Marley. A young bloke. Bit on the nervous side. I gave him the impression I was a cop. He'd obviously been talking to a lot of them. He didn't ask for Identification. He was frustrated. He complained,
"Like I keep telling all of you. I haven't seen her since that night. Don't know her. Don't know where she is. If she comes in I'll call you."
I asked him,
"Got an address?"
He replied impatiently,
"I've given you guys her address a thousand times already."
I started to object. He cut me off.
"Don’t bother. I'll get it."
He went into his office and returned with a card. It had Natasha's home address printed neatly in the middle.
'72 Harlem Street, North Melbourne, Apartment 27A.'
I glanced at it. Looked back up at Marley. He looked so miserable I felt like offering him some encouragement.
"Thanks John. You have a good day."
He mumbled,
"Yeah, yeah, whatever."
Then he turned and walked off.
It took me over half an hour to walk to Natasha's apartment in North Melbourne. I was starting to feel a bit weary. When I got there I saw my car, or I should say the Nissan I'd stolen, parked outside. She couldn't still be there, surely? The boot was partly open. Someone had been in a hurry. I quickly checked it for my weapons. Empty. Not a good sign. I drew my Glock and made my way cautiously up some stairs towards apartment 27A. The door was ajar. I kicked it fully open and burst into the living room, gun drawn. Nothing. No-one there. The place was completely bare. It had obviously been picked clean of any information though - books, records, files, computers - by forensics teams, and any number of investigators and analysts. There was no indication that she'd been back except for my car still parked out front. Maybe they'd caught her. And ... Oh no. I didn't dare think that. I was desperate to find her.
I sat down on one of the chairs, catching my breath, looking around. There was a photo of Natasha on the wall. I was surprised nobody had taken it as well. I stared at it for some time. She was so beautiful. I missed her. I remembered our brief times together. Her perkiness. Her determination. Watching movies together. The sex. Well, yes, the sex was fucking awesome, but not just that. I realized with no small measure of surprise that I just loved being with her. I wanted us to do everything together. We'd had so little time. Above all I wanted her to be happy. It was all that mattered to me. I hadn’t felt like this before. Ever! Then it hit me. Fuck! I was in love with Natasha Brown. Madly. Deeply. God! My timing was fucking terrible.
I didn’t know what to do next. Where to look? Who to call? It occurred to me that I could at least get some more weapons from Uncle Charlie's bunker. I should have thought of that while I was there. Charlie would have wanted me to have them. I had no doubt about that. Breaking in might be a problem, but I'd think of something. I got up, left the apartment and headed across towards Williams Street. I'd have to risk a tram. It was too fucking far to walk. And I was exhausted already.
------------------------------------------------
Boris and Vadim were with John Marley in his office at the Men's Club. Vadim was pointing a gun at him. Boris was holding a picture of Brian. They had been questioning him. Boris barked at him,
"You've seen this man, Brian Samuals? Today? Recently? You gave him your name?"
Marley had no experience with guns or gangsters. He was terrified. He replied,
"Yes. Yes. An hour ago, maybe two."
Vadim waved the gun at him.
"Which is it? One or Two?"
Marley was panicking.
"Um. One. Yes one."
Boris asked,
"What did you tell him?"
Marley replied,
"I gave him Natasha Brown's address."
Boris and Vadim looked at each other and shrugged.
Boris pulled out Natasha's phone and handed it to Marley. He pointed to one of the contacts in the contact list. It read 'Brian'. He said to Marley,
"This is what you're gonna do. Call that number. Tell him your name. He'll recognize it. Tell him Natasha is here. She wants to see him. Can't come to the phone. Then hang up. Got it?"
Marley nodded, uncertainly. He took the phone. He selected dial. After Brian answered, he spoke quickly, nervously,
"Brian Samuals? Yes, this is John Marley at the Men's club. Look, Natasha just came in. She can't talk. But she wants to see you here. As soon as possible."
Boris snatched the phone from him and hung up. Marley saw that Vadim had attached a silencer to his weapon. He started begging,
"Oh no. Please. You can't. No."
Vadim shot him in the head three times. The body fell to the floor. Boris snarled at him, full of derision,
"Good night John."
They were both uptight and angry, and just sick to death of everything. The sooner they could fucking kill Brian Samuals the better. It would provide some small measure of relief, though their own situation would still be hopeless. They went outside on the street, waiting for Brian to arrive.
------------------------------------------------
I was in the Tram going down Swanston Street, just coming up to Flinders Street Station when I got the call. It was from Natasha! It was her phone. But it was John Marley at the Men's Club who spoke to me. He told me that Natasha was there. She'd only just arrived. She couldn't talk. But she wanted me to
come there. Then he hung up. I was so excited and so relieved that it never occurred to me that it might be a trap. I got off at the next stop and started running down Flinders Street. The last few days had taken a toll. I was soon exhausted again, but I kept going. The Men's Club was at the intersection of Lonsdale and King just six blocks to the north. I turned the corner into King Street.
------------------------------------------------
An alert went out on all police operational bands, state and federal.
"All units. All units. Be advised. Suspect Brian Samuals sighted. 10 King Street, Melbourne. Moving north on foot. Suspect is heavily armed and extremely dangerous. SOG units have been dispatched. Approach with extreme caution."
Dozens of police cars came screeching to a halt as they turned and started back towards the CBD, sirens screaming. Dozens more were already on the way, picking up speed, racing towards their target. Fifty officers on foot, around the CBD, started running towards King Street, weapons drawn. Many more officers poured out of Police Complexes at Russel Street, Flinders Street and Spencer Street brandishing rifles and shotguns openly, running furiously towards King Street.
Mr. Cheng was eating noodles at a restaurant in Little Bourke Street, part of what was often called Little China town. The restaurant was full of his men, all eating politely, waiting for orders. He'd lost all the men he took with him to Maffra but now he had the other fifty he’d left behind. Mr. Zhang was with him. Mr. Cheng got a phone call from one of his informants. He jumped up, screaming out at the top of his voice,
"Found the cocksuckerrrrr. King Street. Three blocks from here."
All of Cheng's men rapidly retrieved rifles and shotguns from their bags, and jumped to their feet. Some of the locals joined in, overwhelmed by the sudden ferocity and intent. They grabbed baseball bats and metal pipes from the back room. They all poured out of the restaurant and began running madly down Little Bourke Street. Mr. Cheng was right out in front, manic, bat-shit crazy, waving his rifle around as he ran, screaming out,
"Kill Brian. Kill Brian. Kill Brian."
The Russians were listening in on the police bands. Karpov was now the man in charge locally. He was feeling desperate. He'd talked to Mr. Alexandrovistch only an hour before. He'd been told in no uncertain terms, ‘Kill Brian Samuals, or don't come back to Russia’. He was in Bourke Street with just twenty new men. None of the original group, including Krikov, had survived the fighting in Maffra. The overheard communication was music to his ears. He pointed west. He barked out the order,
"They found him. King Street. Two blocks. That way."
He started running. His men running after him. They were pulling out their weapons from backpacks and shoulder holsters. Mostly Kalashnikovs, a few Uzis. They all had combat knives for close quarter fighting if it came to that. They didn’t care who saw them. They'd all lost comrades because of this bastard. He was going down.
Chuck Miller, the CIA station chief, was at the National Operational Command Centre in Bungajong. He'd lost all his men in the recent fire fight. And all his drones. He was furious. The U.S. President was furious. And he was still deeply anguished and traumatized by that other incident which must never be mentioned or thought of again. He'd received the police alert. He'd been given command authority over two local Apache Attack Choppers by an anxious and obsequious Australian Prime Minister - still deferential and accommodating even after the clusterfuck with the drones in Maffra. The attack choppers were currently patrolling Melbourne airspace, just waiting for an opportunity like this one. He opened a priority command channel.
"Air one, and Air two, this is Firefly."
The reply crackled back,
"Roger. Firefly."
He managed to speak calmly, despite his fury.
"Target sighted. I'm sending coordinates. You are cleared to engage."
The reply came back, calm, professional.
"Roger that."
Chuck Miller was barely able to contain himself. He snapped at them,
"This is a code one, I repeat code one. Acknowledge."
'Code One' was reserved for a national security emergency, something of the order of some asshole packing a small nuke in his backpack, strolling down a city street. It meant destroy instantly and utterly - any level of collateral damage was acceptable. The reply came back,
"Roger that firefly. Code One."
------------------------------------------------
I was running, half stumbling, along the sidewalk - King Street in Melbourne. It was early on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer. It was stinking hot. It had been like that for days. There were commuters everywhere, cars screaming by - the beginning of the Christmas rush. If you listened you could hear the constant all engulfing roar of background sound. Trams screeching, cars roaring, people calling out, arguing, yelling at each other. Other people rushing by. Babies screaming. Dogs barking. Demons howling.
I was desperately searching for Natasha. I needed to see her. I needed to beg her for forgiveness, even if it was the last thing I did. I turned the corner into Lonsdale Street and there they were - two massive thugs in thick grey suits sweating profusely in the summer heat - the two Russian hit men I’d been avoiding so frantically for the last three weeks. The two who had been hunting me down. Them and every other motherfucker on the fucking planet. And beyond for all I knew.
They stared at me, eyes widening in surprise, smugly satisfied sneers beginning to form. They drew their weapons as they advanced towards me. I had a Glock, holstered under my jacket. But Boris had a Beretta already in his hand. Vadim had a Ruger P89. I saw it all instantly. This time they had the drop on me. I knew I was fucked.
Several bystanders had now seen the weapons and were starting to react in shock - panicked faces, arms rising up, bodies moving back. It was all happening in slow motion to me. I stood there like a stunned rabbit caught in the headlights. There was nothing I could do. I stared back at them, not even defiantly just vastly disappointed and sad.
So your life, or part of it, really does flash before your eyes. And it's usually pretty fucking dismal.
I had no idea that every police unit within ten miles was rapidly zeroing in on me. That several squads from the Special Operations Group, armed to the teeth, and ordered to shoot to kill, were already sprinting up King Street towards me. That fifty heavily armed Chinese killers were storming down Little Bourke Street, screaming out their hatred, most of them with rifles and shotguns, a few with baseball bats and metal pipes. That twenty Russian gunmen, just as heavily armed, were pouring down Bourke Street, turning into King Street, just two blocks away. That two Apache assault choppers, armed with Hellfire missiles and 30 mm M230 chain guns, were screaming across the Yarra, dropping in altitude, only seconds away, pre-cleared to fire. That gigantic interstellar battleships were dropping into Earth orbit, spinning up their weapons. That around the globe terrified nations were detecting them and scrambling to respond. DefCon Two. DefCon One. Ballistic Missiles were being launched. Thermonuclear warheads were going hot. All I could see was the two Russian hit men, standing right in front of me, staring at me with malevolent intent. Guns drawn. That was more than enough.
The first shot hit me in the shoulder, cutting and slicing through muscle and cartilage, shattering bone. Oh fuck that hurt! I tried to roll to the side. This can't be happening. Cannot be happening. Not now. The second shot hit me in the middle of the chest. Phhhhfffffff. Red hot sledgehammer pounding, piercing, into me. Knocking me over. I felt woozy, a bit delirious, confused. Blood everywhere. Gushing. I stumbled back onto my feet. I tried to reach for my gun. I could see Boris take another step towards me, taking aim for my head. He looked happy. Oh God! I can't die now. I love Natasha. I have to see her again. I have to. I don’t want to die. I can’t. I just want _______.
-------------------- THE END ------------------
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101 People to Kill Before I Die Page 27
