by Ray Christie
Bought with cash at a car auction earlier and left with the keys under the carpet moments ago the ten-year-old Vauxhall Astra will get them where they want to go. Sam checks the car over while Jack heads to the back and looks at the requested equipment.
Checking through the bag Jack picks out the Kestrel 5700, a small device which looks more like an old-style Nokia phone with a fan built on the top.
Sam walks around the back to Jack and settles his curiosity, “That little piece of kit will help in the calculations of wind speed, direction, temperature, humidity and altitude, an all-round friend for the sniper work.”
“That’s just lazy, what is it with you guys and your gadgets, what the hell is this shit thing?” Removing a black bag Jack holds it into the light to get a better look.
“Another Gucci piece, the KN two hundred, that’s the image intensifier, turns night into day, you will love it, you spent too much time behind the desk I’m glad to look after you,” jokingly Sam gives Jack a back rub.
Laughing wildly Jack shakes his head and closes the car door, “Oh well, nice to have a babysitter, damn ugly one though.”
Satisfied with the car the two men jump in and set off towards London, Jack behind the wheel while Sam uses his phone. He gives thanks to his contact, who had them under surveillance from Hounslow Central Station, watching their backs and for organising everything at short notice.
He then removes his firearm from his waistband and rechecks the mag. “Done, we haven’t been followed here, now the game commences, reckon you will always dye your grey hair now? You look quite cute,” Teasing Jack once again the two men laugh at their heads despite their situation. Feeling charged up and ready to hunt, Sam navigates and provides all-round counter-surveillance so the two men can get to and arrange a meeting. In their world, it is God that judges their enemies, and as Jack always says, ‘We only arrange the meeting.’
***
Volodenka, Radoslav and Wolfgang arrive in London, flying into Gatwick on their Gulfstream. Wolfgang, the German ex-special forces operator now turned mercenary, has one job, to finish Kolmogorov. Kolmogorov was lucky in Moscow, now in London, Volodenka and Radoslav are calculating he will drop his guard. Nonetheless, they are running out of time, they figure he is planning to drop off the grid, with no time to lose Volodenka must kill the wayward spy. He is responsible. The men from the Kremlin will shadow Wolfgang, directing him to his prey. The German grim reaper, the Gevatter Tod, is known by the Russian underworld as the solution. A hard man to find, ruthless, sickening, cold and deceitful, for this reason, the money offered by the Russians to take on this job was also backed up with an insurance policy. The kidnapping of his thirteen-year-old daughter the previous morning in Munich.
Volodenka did not put the hit on Kolmogorov in Russia, he needed him to kill Mikhail first, despite this, he knows Kolmogorov will not trust anyone, he like Volodenka, has built up too many enemies. Confidence, intelligence, and strong nerves are the only way he can approach this now complicated matter, with an IQ of one hundred forty-nine, Volodenka believes he is equipped to manage.
He dialled the number and waited for him to pick up, “Kolmogorov, what the hell happened? Our car was booby-trapped, I almost lost my legs, we delivered the body of my driver to his family, you brought this shit to us,” Volodenka growled down the phone, furious and spitting his words, enough anger to dispel guilt.
“This wasn’t my doing, and you know that Volodenka,” retorts Kolmogorov. Kolmogorov was standing in the middle of a garage in Gravesend, rented through an alias. Full of old agriculture accessories, engine parts and electrical sensors, piles of cash in vacuumed sealed bags stacked at his feet. The last thing he wanted was to talk to a Kremlin spy whilst in the middle of preparing to ship stolen money to the United States for his new life. Money acquired through the committee, stolen indirectly from the Kremlin itself, money that would have him killed.
“Чушь собачья, you expect me to believe that shit, I know it wasn’t you trying to wipe us out, but you have screwed up somewhere and you come back to Russia, had a sit down with us without having your shit squared away and almost get us blown away,” Volodenka still spitting with rage, although he drops his tone slightly, like a master trying to lean heavily on his recruit, yet leaving him with an underlying warning. Kolmogorov knows only too well if you bring the heat to others it can result in your own involuntary disappearance. Many of his comrades had been dragged off to the Black Dolphin, the worst prison one could imagine on the border of Kazakhstan, filled with rapists, cannibals, and serial killers. Death was preferable.
Kolmogorov moves over and leans his back on the wall, sealing him off from the cold wind and rain hammering against the steel rolling shutter. The London rain has not stopped all day, water, cigarette butts and leaf litter have made its way in under the door. He tries to peak out the edges of the shutter for any signs of a threat, impossible to get a view to the street outside. The garage roller door is the only way in and out, it has a small wicket gate built into the roller shutter allowing access without opening up the whole garage front exposing the contents inside to the street. He is trapped, keeping Volodenka talking he inserts his earbud; connects the Bluetooth and slips the mobile into his jacket pocket, grabbing his Glock 19 from the bench he moves silently to the gate.
Switching off the light he speaks again to Volodenka, “Well if we were both meant to be hit what are you going to do? What’s your intel? care to share?”
“The shooters on the bikes were Kazakhs, unsure who hired them, could be the Arabs, Albanians or even our own, that’s why I am in London, I want to figure out who was running them.”
Kolmogorov notices Volodenka is speaking much faster, no difference in breathing but faster nonetheless, which is unusual as Volodenka works in his own time. Kolmogorov raises his firearm towards the gate and slowly releases the double cylinder deadlock, the well-oiled lock slides out slowly. With a flick of the wrist, Kolmogorov swings the door out and sweeps from right to left with his Glock. A quick survey of the footpath and street shows no immediate signs of threats. He steps through the gatekeeping his firearm tight to his body, the small alley has little traffic, no one would be mad enough to be out walking in this weather, hopes Kolmogorov.
“Let me know if you find anything,” with that Kolmogorov hangs up, he has no time to be playing games. He knows Volodenka is here to close the account, this calls for immediate attention. Walking briskly up Royal Pier Road he pulls the battery out of the phone and drops it in the gutter, with his thumb he slides out the SIM and flicks it’s over a garden wall, the mobile is dropped by his side and kicked under a car. Pulling his tweed cap slightly lower on his forehead, the wind is forcing the rain onto his thick eyebrows and into his eyes. He needs his vision spot-on; he can feel eyes on him. Looking for a tail he doubles back and checks the cars on his way past. Turning right into a large hotel he walks straight throughout into the back carpark, from there he scales a wall and heads down an alley on The Terrace. Due to the heavy rain, a running man would not attract much attention, merely a man unprepared, without an umbrella. But Kolmogorov is not running away, he needs to draw this man out, kill him and save his fortune back in the garage. His life in Vermont looks further away each hour, he needs to make it quick. He finds what he is looking for, a dead-end leading to a disused area, full of scrap cars and high walls of run-down shops. Heading in he knows it is a perfect place to trap someone, that is what he would do. Thinking like a killer allows him to provide the perfect opportunity, ‘Come and get me you prick, let us do this.’
Walking around the waste ground he heads to the northernmost corner, shrubs, and old burnt remains of small bonfires. A place where junkies would shoot up after collecting their poison. Careful of discarded needles he takes a quick step to his left and spins around dropping to his knee Glock raised aiming straight down the entrance to the alley.
‘There you are, you are one dumb shit,’ Kolmogorov had relaxed his d
iaphragm, the air was expelled from his lungs and he was about to take his shot. Through the pounding rain bouncing off his Glock, making a dancing effect down its short barrel, his target was just hovering on the limits of his effective range.
About eighty meters from his position the hitman just stood there, calm, emotionless, in control and observing his prey. By now he was fired up and wanted this man to draw out his weapon so he could be sure, then Kolmogorov would happily sink some rounds in him, ID his ass and get on with his own extraction.
Kneeling in the filthy junkie puddles Kolmogorov had had enough.
“Let’s have it you prick,” he roared through the rain and wind.
The Russian was just about to squeeze the trigger to finish this, the heavy rain would dull the sound of the gunshot and somewhat reduce the echo. This may buy him a few extra seconds before the specialist firearms command would descend on the wasteland responding to possible gunfire. When they see a dead hitman, he would be trapped like a fox, ‘Speed is my friend.’
‘What the hell’! Kolmogorov could not believe it.
Calmly and slowly the thickly bearded hitman simply removed from his huge hands a beefy cigar and proceeded to light it. Blowing thick smoke out from under his mariner’s cap, standing there like someone watching a sunset over the ocean.
Almost teasing Kolmogorov to have a shot, checking if he is game enough to try and get a headshot at this distance.
‘Is this man alone, better skilled, what’s he carrying? He’s playing with me, testing me.’
Kolmogorov’s head was spinning, he severely underestimated this guy. He felt torn between two thoughts, one was to fire a few rounds out of frustration, but he also had a strong sense of curiosity, his gut reaction obliged him to wait, he could do no more than to hold his position for this man’s next move.
Through the rain he tried desperately to get an ID, his face was in a shadow from his cap, ‘Definitely not Russian, Russians do not play games, they kill and move on. Not this guy.’
Kolmogorov slowly stood up; his knee numbed from kneeling in the wet cold concrete, his Glock remained fixed on the target. The man never flinched, another puff on his cigar, then he purposefully pulled the collar up on his parka jacket to shield himself from the downpour. With that done he turned on his heel and walked back around the corner into Queen street, gone.
Kolmogorov realises if this man wanted him dead, he would have been dead by now. He was simply delivering a message, a message that has not yet been made clear to him. A shiver went through his spine, not from the cold, but from the possibilities of new players in his life. A headache brewing, numbed knee, his cold and wet hand gripping the Glock and the smell of burnt oil from a kebab shop out on the street sums up a shit day. The sound of police sirens in the distance snaps him into action. Walking out of the waste ground and onto Queen street he is sure he will not be taken out, yet he keeps his jacket undone, holding it closed with his hands. This allows quick access to his Glock. The cold rain and heavy wind long washed away the scents of the cigar, despite Kolmogorov sucking in the big ones through his nose he could not get a position on the hitman. Weaving his way back to the garage he thought about making counter-surveillance moves.
‘Waste of bloody time, I don’t need this shit,’ muttered Kolmogorov to himself. Instead, he takes the most direct route, walking into a gym he passes the treadmills then the free weights area.
“Hey, are you a member?” calls one of the instructors from the back office.
Kolmogorov ignores him and heads for the emergency exit. Before renting the garage from a fellow Russian he scouted out the area. He knew all the back roads and alternative routes through the buildings, in the event of something wrong he could easily evade capture, this was one of those times. Having more than two million pounds and euros sitting on the floor of his garage, pulled out from the bolted safe earlier, was playing heavily in his mind. He needs to get back and secure the cash to a safe area, never to return to Gravesend.
Pushing the emergency bar on the back door he knew the carpark leads onto a back alleyway, ever closer to his garage. As he marched out the door, he felt a heavy hand grab his right arm between the shoulder and his bicep. His shooter's hand. Kolmogorov dropped his body weight and spun around, the bald-headed muscular and heavily tattooed gym owner lost his grip. Kolmogorov twisted his lead foot pointing at the threat then snapped a powerful jab into his kidney, the force of which may have ruptured it causing excruciating pain. Kolmogorov opens his hand like a blade and slams the edge into the side of the tattooed man’s neck. Targeting the vagus nerve resulting in an unconscious heap of muscle on the hard-concrete ground. Shaking his head at his predicament he heads off through the carpark. Kolmogorov challenges other witnesses who had just arrived and parked their cars to interrupt him, such was his anger, people backed away as the heavy and angry Russian passed by.
Closing in on his garage nothing was amiss. A quick glance up and down the alley proved no strange cars, all appeared as normal as it can get. He checked the position of his Glock as he slid the key into the Yale lock on the wicket gate. Opening the gate with a burst he removed his firearm and held it close to his front, the light from outside illuminated the garage somewhat but he needed to get inside and flick the power on. Stepping in Kolmogorov wishes he could have lobbed in a can of tear gas, the o-chlorobenzylidene malononitrile gas would flush out any intruders. Taking a risk to grab his cash, he steps into the garage with purpose and determination, sweeping his weapon across the small area there are no movements, sounds or unusual smells. Flicking on the fluorescent light he maintains silence, listening for the slightest scratch or ruffle of clothing. As the starter completes the circuit the fluorescent tube shines brightly bringing the room into complete view. Kolmogorov’s heart misses a beat at the sight before him, trying to compose himself quickly his breathing intensifies. Laying on the ground, not three feet from him is the slumped body of a man, a piece of wire around his throat, wide-open bulging eyes and blood coming out of his ears. Unbelievably the cash is still scattered, intact, nothing else out of place. Sliding his firearm inside his jacket he grabs a jerry can and sets it at the door. A yellow rucksack is opened up and Kolmogorov frantically stuffs it with the vacuum-sealed bags of cash. As he fills the bag he glances over at the dead man, he notices a bulge on his hip, uncaring about what he may be carrying he keeps packing. The bag is almost full, Kolmogorov then checks the weight, heaving it up by the straps he drops it heavily and fits the remaining bundles inside. The heavy mountaineering rucksack had handled the fifty kilograms of banknotes from a previous safe house, the garage was the last port of call before shipping to Vermont. Now Kolmogorov needs a new transport location. The last bundle in and the zips are closed tightly. Straps adjusted and ready for hoisting to his strong shoulders. Before he does so Kolmogorov searches the dead, looking for a clue as to who is after him, and why one hitman killed what he thinks is another hitman. A bewildering circumstance and one he is immersed in is even more baffling when he finds a German driver’s licence on this man. ‘What the hell do the Germans want from me? this isn’t their style.’ Evermore confused the powerful Russian finds nothing else, so he picks up the man by the scruff of his neck and drags him to the rear of the garage, dropping the limp body onto a couple of old worn-out tyres. His headache is beginning to affect his pace. He grabs his North Face rucksack and secures it over his shoulder and back, tightening the straps so it fits snugly, he has one more task to complete. The jerry can is opened, and the liquid is poured over the dead hitman, the other machinery is soaked, then the can is left on its side pouring the leftover liquid over the garage floor. Checking his Glock is safely in position he moves to the garage door, peering out into the wet London street once again he steps out. From his pocket he removes a polished chrome zippo lighter, flicks the wheel until a large flame is produced. Throwing this onto the garage floor he slams the wicker gate shut and turns away. He could hear the fuel igniting; the garage wil
l be like a furnace inside. Pounding down the street with the heavy weight on his back Kolmogorov wants to make as much distance between the garage and himself.
Lucky his Range Rover is parked not that far away, he never parks any of his two vehicles near the garage. He ensures his primary one, the Range, is at an easy distance but being a man of caution, he has an older car on standby. One that is unappealing to the car thieves and located much closer in the event he needs to make a quicker exit. Considering himself in the clear he heads off to the Range. Parked neatly in the quiet street he walks to his family-friendly ride, all the time feeling the reassuring presence of his Glock against his frame. Turning onto Milton road he is keeping a good pace, above the rain he hears a fire truck in the distance. Only a few hundred meters and he will be in his vehicle. Walking past the ESSO petrol station he used the reflection of the windows to look for followers. He made a mental note of cars passing and doubled back on Milton before turning into Wellington, trying to catch followers, none spotted. Kolmogorov walked down Wellington street with a feeling of satisfaction, things did not go to plan, but a weird turn of events allowed him to understand the severity of the situation. Never before has he been so sure his time to leave behind his old life is the right decision.
As he comes up to his Range Rover, he takes a glance behind him, nothing, the wet road is clear, no traffic no walkers. He checks briefly under the car and the wheel arches before pressing the remote unlocking the doors. Throwing the heavy and unsuitably conspicuous bag across the back seats he jumps in the front and ignites the engine. Not wanting to be pulled over by traffic branch for something trivial he clips his seatbelt into its holder. As he turns his head he freezes immediately. Staring down the barrel of a silencer his heart thumps against his ribs, a quick glance at the owner. The beard. Bang, Kolmogorov receives the first round through his opened mouth. The man calmly opens the driver’s door.
