by Tom Wood
She did look. ‘You don’t know what I want.’
‘I know exactly what you want,’ he said. ‘You want to see the blue sky above your head. You want to buy yourself a cup of coffee.’
She fought, but couldn’t stop her eyes moistening.
The German said, ‘I think the man I’m after knows that too. I think he offered you what I’m offering, but he has not delivered. What is he waiting for? Did he really have to make you wait so long?’
She had a deal with the other man, but that deal rested on him killing Rados. That rested on him surviving Zoca. The German offered the same, but for information only. Her throat was still sore.
She placed her palm on top of the German’s own.
‘You’ve made the right choice,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve concluded my business we can go for that coffee.’
He laid his other hand on top of hers, like a bizarre handshake to seal her betrayal. Her stomach knotted, but she met the German’s gaze without blinking.
‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Rados owns a warehouse at the docks and a salvage yard, does he not?’
‘I don’t know anything about a warehouse. I swear I don’t.’
‘I believe you. But you know about the salvage yard?’
She nodded. ‘I do. I’ve been there. It’s a horrible place. When I was first brought here they put us in shipping containers overnight.’
‘How awful for you,’ he said. ‘And when you were there, who was in charge?’
‘Zoca was.’
The German smiled. ‘That’s precisely what I was hoping to hear.’
SIXTY-ONE
The Land Rover pulled to a stop outside the office cabin at the centre of the scrap yard, near to the three shipping containers. Zoca and the Varangian in the passenger seat climbed out first and drew their weapons. They weren’t professionals, but they weren’t stupid. They didn’t know who Victor was, but they knew he was dangerous. The two either side of him in the back followed and did the same with their guns.
No one ordered him out so he sat there, unmoving.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Zoca asked.
‘A pretty please, naturally.’
Zoca gestured with his pistol. ‘This isn’t my car, so I don’t mind making a mess over the interior.’
Victor didn’t move until Zoca drew back the hammer, then he shuffled out of the vehicle, his expression neutral but pleased to have caused frustration. Any emotional response affected rational thought, and with it Victor gained a small advantage. While Zoca was annoyed with Victor, he would forget to be scared of him.
‘Belgrade might belong to Rados,’ Zoca said, ‘but this is my own kingdom.’
Victor glanced around at the mountains of scrap metal, dirty and rusted. ‘It suits you.’
‘Here you are nothing,’ Zoca continued. ‘Here, you are at my mercy.’
‘You’re not a fan of understatement, are you?’
Zoca’s jaw flexed and he motioned to one of his men, who struck Victor in the abdomen with the butt of his rifle.
Victor dropped to his knees, coughing. He had seen it coming – had wanted it – and had been doubling over before the impact. It hurt, but there was no real damage, and the man who hit him wasn’t about to tell Zoca he thought he hadn’t done a good enough job even if he had noticed.
‘Rados may value your tongue,’ Zoca hissed, ‘but I might have to remove it.’
Victor stayed on his knees in the cold mud until he was heaved standing again. He made himself a deadweight so the man who lifted him up had to work at it. Victor carried no excess, but he was still one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and bone and the guy was red-faced and rubbing his lower back afterwards. He didn’t complain, of course. He didn’t want to be seen as weak.
But now he was a little weakened.
One unlocked the office cabin and pushed open the door. Zoca pointed at the opening with his gun. Victor didn’t move.
‘Get inside,’ Zoca growled.
Victor took his time, climbing the short steps and entering through the doorway. The interior lights were off and the blinds were drawn. No one had gone inside before him because they had no idea who they were dealing with.
They filed in behind him, jostling for room because he had stopped near the door. He turned. Zoca closed the door and glared at him.
‘Sit yourself down or I’ll break your legs right now.’
Victor reached for an office chair, took the back in two hands, and swung it like a bat at the closest Varangian’s head. There wasn’t enough room for the five of them, let alone for the man to dodge the chair rushing at him.
It was cheap plastic, not wood or metal, but it did the job, striking the guy in the face and sending him reeling back into the others before he fell to the floor, dazed and bleeding. Just as there was no room to dodge, there was no room to aim long rifles – too many friendlies in the way, too much risk of hitting the wrong person.
One imitated Victor, using his AK like a club. Victor used the chair to parry the attack with enough force to knock the gun out of the man’s hands.
Victor heard it clatter against a wall, out of sight, and then strike the floor. He didn’t see where. Turning to look would only leave himself exposed.
He released the chair when the man grabbed at it, expecting to have to wrestle for control, and Victor took advantage of the man’s surprise and inability to defend himself to throw punches and elbows, driving him back, overwhelmed and bleeding.
Another of Zoca’s men attacked and Victor caught the looping punches on forearms and shoulders, feeling the heavy sting of each blow, but where the only effect was pain, not unconsciousness.
Fighting more than one at a time meant he didn’t see the elbow that sent him stumbling backwards, hitting the cabin wall and window, rattling and flattening the aluminium venetian blinds. He had his guard up to protect against the following blows. None found their way through.
Frustrated, the Serb grabbed Victor’s jacket to pull him closer, to grapple, but in doing so gave Victor a stationary target: the man’s hand.
He grabbed it across the knuckle line, rotating clockwise to twist the man’s wrist into a lock, with his arm straight out to break at the upturned elbow, which Victor did, slamming his free forearm down against the joint.
The crack was lost in the Serb’s wail.
Victor released the arm and struck up with an open palm at the next man’s face, catching him on the nose, and breaking it.
The man grunted, blood gushing from his nostrils, and stumbled forward against the window, tearing down the blinds in a clatter of plastic and aluminium. Glass smashed and clattered to the floor.
Bright daylight spilled into the dark cabin, shining into Zoca’s eyes as he tried to line up a shot. He flinched and squinted, shooting but missing, bullet punching a neat hole in the wall.
Victor grabbed a shard of broken window glass and hurled it Zoca’s way.
It shattered against Zoca’s face. He screamed, dropping the gun to clutch at his wounds.
The one with the broken nose grabbed another shard and went to stab Victor, who took control of the attacking wrist and the man’s collar and turned him on the spot, taking away his balance, and shoved him backwards against the wall and broken window. More glass smashed. This opponent was strong and determined and hung on to the shard despite the pressure Victor applied to his wrist, so Victor drove the man’s fist through a jutting fragment of windowpane.
He howled as his hand was shredded. Victor dragged it downwards, smashing more glass and cutting and tearing the hand until it was too slippery with blood for the man to keep hold of the shard.
Victor drew him closer, put a head-butt into his already-broken nose and then, while the man was still dazed, grabbed him by the head and slammed his neck down on to the jagged shards of glass protruding from the window frame.
The one with the broken arm lay on the floor, writhing and moaning. Victor stamped on his throat to finish him o
ff and faced Zoca and the remaining Varangian.
Zoca’s face was slick with blood where the glass had struck him, but he could still see. He held a hunting knife with an ice-pick grip, blade protruding from the bottom of his fist. It wasn’t Victor’s preferred way of holding the weapon – it limited range and available attacks – but some knife fighters fought that way. They held the weapon low at hip to bring up in arcs that sought out arteries in the thighs, groin, neck and under the arms.
The Varangian on the right had no weapon and adopted a fighting stance – left foot forward, angled in ten degrees and hands up at head height. Those fists were not tight for punching, but loose to grab.
They didn’t rush Victor like the others had. They weren’t going to make that mistake.
Zoca was wounded but the cuts were superficial. Victor had seen his speed and ferocity, and knew he was dangerous. The other man looked like a competent fighter. Neither man displayed the signs of an adrenaline overload. They were cautious, but they weren’t scared. They had known combat before, and were still here. But had they fought alongside one another before? If not, then Victor had an advantage. He had no one to get in his way.
No was the answer, because Zoca stepped forward first, moving between Victor and the other man. That was his first mistake. He had helped Victor that way. The second man could not engage him at the same time. His line of sight was blocked and he had a man-sized obstacle in the way.
You should have come at me from either side, Victor didn’t say. You should have flanked me.
Zoca bounced forward, left arm out for protection as the right whipped up in the predicted arc, aiming for Victor’s neck.
He dodged back a step, moving out of range, and the knife sliced through the air before his face. He made no move to catch the attacking wrist. Before he’d had no idea of Zoca’s skill with a blade. Now Victor knew everything about him that he needed to know.
Zoca attacked again, this time to the groin, and, when Victor dodged, he pushed forward and brought the knife back in a backhanded slash at Victor’s abdomen, looking to split him open in a horizontal line across the navel, spilling out a tangle of intestines.
Victor danced away, and, as the knife recoiled, he timed his move and leapt forward into the empty space with his wrists crossed, palms facing inward to protect his arteries, and hammered the crossed arms against Zoca’s inner wrist as he tried to counter-attack.
The force of Victor’s two arms beat Zoca’s one, and he grimaced in pain – hard bone striking tendons protected only by a thin layer of soft flesh – then yelled as Victor adjusted his hands to grab wrist and triceps, twisting and pulling the arm tight against his chest for an arm bar. Victor wrenched downwards, seeking to snap it at the elbow, but Zoca was quick enough to drop low at the same time to ease the pressure.
Victor slammed him with a knee to the abdomen and tore the knife from his grip as he dropped.
The second attacker was already coming forward, and by the time he realised Victor now had the knife, it was too late.
Victor stabbed him in the chest, between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side of the sternum.
The man stayed standing, but Victor released the knife and turned away from him because he would be dead in moments, as soon as the brain worked out there were several inches of steel piercing the heart.
Zoca had recovered enough from the knee in his guts to begin to rise and face Victor, but seeing he was now the only one left, tried to flee. He tripped in the tangle of corpses covering the floor and fell.
The guy with the knife in his chest tumbled on top of Zoca before he could scramble to his feet.
Victor squatted next to where Zoca lay, now whimpering in terror because he was pinned in place. He was only brave when he was in control.
‘Please,’ Zoca wailed. ‘I’ll do anything.’
‘I only need one thing from you,’ Victor said as he reached towards Zoca’s throat.
SIXTY-TWO
Victor took a moment to get his breath back, then pushed open the door to the office cabin and stepped outside into the cooling rain.
He had an instant’s warning before the shot came because he saw mountains of scrap and the crane opposite the office cabin across the empty space – shapes he knew well enough to notice the irregular contour on top of the crane’s cab; a man lying prone – Krieger.
Victor threw himself backwards through the doorway as the muzzle flashed.
It was only a hundred metres away, but it still took the bullet a tenth of a second to cover the distance and Victor’s head was already out of its path.
The bullet punctured an office desk and went through the floor.
There was no snap because the round was subsonic, but the rifle’s suppressor could not contain the escaping superheated gases to eliminate the telltale crack of a gunshot that arrived an instant later.
Victor scrambled further into the cabin, over the corpses, keeping as low as possible because the door was wide open and his enemy had a clear view inside from up on the crane.
Another shot. This one buried itself in Zoca. The corpse trembled. Blood misted.
Victor grabbed one of the AKs and returned fire from the floor, using the corpses as cover. He had no scope to help his aim, but he had automatic fire and his enemy had no cover.
He saw the sparks of rounds hitting the crane, and Krieger slid backwards until the crane cab’s solid steel structure impeded line of sight. Victor could no longer see him, but could no longer be seen in return.
Victor jumped to his feet and pulled the body from where it hung from the window, dragging away most of the broken glass in the process, and dropped the AK through before squeezing out himself.
He dropped down into the mud outside the office cabin, grabbed the rifle, and sprinted across the open space.
Bullets raked the mud ahead of him, but he made it into the cover of an impenetrable mountain of scrap metal. He had the AK, but there had been no spare magazines to grab. He’d put four three-round bursts at the crane, so there were eighteen remaining.
He crouched low, mud caking his trousers, rain soaking his jacket, judging angles and lines of sight and coming to the conclusion his enemy wouldn’t be able to see him from any perch on the crane. He would have to descend, else risk losing Victor altogether, who could use all the piles of metal to his advantage, staying in cover the whole time while he made his escape from the scrap yard.
If the assassin wanted to finish his job, he would have to engage Victor on the ground.
Krieger had come to the same conclusion, beginning his descent as soon as he realised his target would make it into cover. The crane was metal and slippery in the rain, but he was strong and sure of foot. He reached the bottom and removed the scope from his Armalite assault rifle. He preferred the iron sights for a close-range engagement.
He removed his coat too, not wanting to be restricted against so fast an opponent. What he had wanted was to execute his target with a 5.56 × 45 mm projectile to the brain, but the man’s instincts were razor-sharp. He was moving by the time Krieger squeezed the rifle’s trigger.
Like on the train, another not-quite-good-enough attempt. Krieger recognised an unfair hand when he was dealt one.
Instead, he would make his own luck.
Victor moved at a slow pace, staying near cover, only increasing his speed when he had to cross open ground. He wasn’t one to rush for the exit and hope the assassin had failed to reach it in time to intercept. He couldn’t move fast anyway, because the rain was turning the ground into a sodden mire that sucked and squelched underfoot. He had to tug his shoes free from its grasp with every step.
He blinked water from his eyes, breathing more often as the cold seeped into him and his body fought to stay warm. The air was icy and full of moisture. Clouds of steam ascended with every exhale. He pushed on towards the exit. He wasn’t prepared to scale the fence that surrounded the scrap yard. If he tried to climb it at speed the noise of it rattling w
as sure to bring Krieger into range; if he climbed with an attempt at stealth he would only give his enemy even more time to come across him defenceless.
It was the main exit or nothing.
Krieger knew this too. He was approaching it as he pictured his target doing likewise. Krieger had begun from a closer position, and so would arrive first and could lie in wait to ambush the troublesome quarry. No wonder the bounty offered on his head was so high. Krieger could rationalise the meddlesome hand of the universe involving itself in the encounter on the train – robbing him of his rightful success as Zeus and Hades denied ancient heroes of victories they deserved – but to lose out twice seemed beyond malicious.
The rain was coming down hard and fast. It glowed and sparkled in the twilight. Krieger’s hair and clothes were soaked in the relentless ice-cold barrage. Goose pimples rose across his skin. His breathing quickened and he shivered as his body fought to maintain its core temperature. The rain restricted visibility and the barrage of raindrops pelting the thousand tons of scrap metal around him drowned out other sounds.
Through the haze of rain and shadows he saw a shape move. Krieger stayed low, stepping without need to lessen the noise of his footsteps because the rain did that for him. He stopped when he reached the edge of a scrap mound, his left shoulder pressed against a rusting air conditioning unit, and waited for the shape to reappear.
It did, and Krieger opened fire.
Victor was sprinting, staying clear of the open spaces between mounds of scrap metal. He ran as fast as the sucking mud let him, weaving left and right, trying to make himself a harder target as the rounds hissed and snapped through the air. Incoming shots pinged and thunked into scrap metal. The zigzagging increased the chances of a slip, but though he lost his footing more than once, he did not fall. Falling meant being stationary, however briefly. A stationary target was a dead one.
