by Tom Wood
He threw himself behind the cover provided by the stacks of disused and dismantled firearms, rolling and sliding in the mud, coming to his feet fast and controlled, utilising the cover to return fire.
The AK barked in his hand, muzzle lifting with each expulsion of white-hot gas. Brass splashed into the mud around him as his gaze fought to keep track of his enemy through the rain.
The shooting stopped.
Victor maintained his position. He’d not been able to see where the bullets had struck. The cessation in incoming fire could have come from a kill shot or a scratch on the ear. Victor wasn’t going to leave cover to find out.
A cry through the rain did nothing to convince him either way. He continued to wait, peering along the AK’s iron sights.
The target wasn’t buying Krieger’s play-acting. Not surprising, but it would have made things easier for the target to come to him instead of the other way around. Pretending had never been one of Krieger’s strengths.
He rose to re-engage but grimaced.
Chance was on his target’s side because a round had grazed Krieger’s flank.
Krieger used a finger to taste his blood for the second time in memory.
Sudden shock and pain interrupted his balance and he had to steady himself on one knee. He stayed behind cover to check the wound. The skin over his left oblique was split and torn in a short horizontal line, but the muscle beneath was uninjured. Blood seeped from the wound.
There was no danger from the wound itself. At this rate blood loss would take hours to kill him, and the blood would clot long before then. He could ignore it for now. It wasn’t bleeding enough to leave a trail for his target to follow.
It wasn’t the first time this foe had wounded him and he knew it wouldn’t be the last, so he bit through the pain and rose to fire.
The target was waiting for him to do just that and bullets pinged near his head. Krieger squeezed off a shot of his own and ducked low to load a fresh magazine.
A cluster of rounds clattered on nearby metal – a blind shot, wasting rounds, the target rolling the dice in the hopes of a miracle hit. This time he wasn’t so lucky.
Krieger popped up to return fire, not waiting long enough to aim or to be aimed at in return before he dropped back down.
He achieved the effect he wanted as another volley of bullets passed by, the target fooled into thinking Krieger was going to engage. It was a fair trade of wasted rounds – his one for the shooter’s burst of three or four.
Krieger, who was well prepared with backup magazines on his tactical harness, had not seen the target fleeing from the office cabin with any spares of his own.
Chance favoured the prepared mind.
Victor was low on ammunition. He couldn’t hope to win a sustained gun battle with fewer than half a dozen rounds, even if he only needed one decent hit to end it. He had to move.
He risked leaving cover and hurried toward the exit. Two paths lay ahead, forking either side of a mound of washing machines and tumble-dryers, dishwashers and microwaves. Victor took the left path, keeping low, staying close to the scrap metal.
He rushed through the rain and mud, weaving left, then right, picturing the assassin behind him rising from cover and spotting him.
The first shot sounded earlier than he had anticipated – the German was fearless – but Victor kept moving, not seeking cover because he would only find himself pinned once more. Speed and distance were his defences. Rounds pinged and clanged behind him.
He struggled to stay on his feet, shoes sinking deeper into the mud as the rain continued to soak into the ground.
The path branched into two again, and he selected the longer route, seeking the protection of the corner ahead, which would offer both cover and a firing position that overlooked the exit and the open space before it.
The target had given up the fight and fled, but so would Krieger if he had been so outmatched. He pursued, hurrying because his target was fleeing for his life. He let off shots when he could – he had ammo to burn – but he couldn’t risk pausing to aim and further the target’s lead. The paths through the scrap yard were too twisting; there was too much hard cover impeding line of sight.
He reloaded on the move, then rounded a mountain of piled cars, expecting to see him in the distance, making for the exit, but instead the target had stopped and turned and was waiting to shoot Krieger as he appeared.
A trap.
It didn’t work, because Krieger slipped in the mud, moving too fast and with too much eagerness.
The target missed with his burst of automatic fire, and as Krieger fell down into the mud, his own weapon escaping his grasp, he prepared himself for death, but the shooting stopped and he saw the target was out of rounds because he was tossing the AK aside and sprinting straight at Krieger.
SIXTY-THREE
The distance was short, but covering it felt like an eternity. Victor fought the mud and the freezing rain as he watched Krieger recovering from the fall, climbing fast to his knees, then regaining his footing, and turning, whipping out a back-up handgun, small and compact –
– which Victor grabbed as it swung his way, catching it by the barrel in his left hand and wrenching it up in a sharp circle that twisted Krieger’s hand back the wrong way.
The enormous pressure on his wrist joint forced Krieger to release the weapon, but rapid strikes to the abdomen and face caught Victor defenceless before he could turn it around to fire. A backhand blow sent the gun out of his grip.
He heard it splash into the mud.
Victor backed away to shake off the effects of the strikes, guard up and ready to block more. Krieger didn’t follow. He welcomed the pause to strip away his tactical harness. He didn’t want to give Victor any handholds.
They faced each other across a few metres of mud.
‘We’ve been in this situation before,’ Victor said.
Krieger nodded. ‘I was thinking the same thing. History, as we are bearing witness, has a tendency to repeat itself.’
‘And those who do not heed its lessons are doomed to repeat the same mistakes.’
‘I know the saying.’
Victor said, ‘So let’s change that record.’
‘This would be a lot less painful for both of us had you allowed those Serbs to kill you.’
‘I will not go gentle into that good night.’
Krieger smiled, edging forward. ‘I too know the value of persistence.’
Now in range, he threw himself at Victor, body-slamming him and sending them both over the bonnet of a rusting car.
They hit the mud at the same time, Victor underneath, but he used the slick ground to slip out from under Krieger before he could capitalise on his position. Both men were on their feet in seconds, Krieger attacking first with a jabbing punch that Victor was quick enough to catch on his left forearm.
It was a feint to distract him for a stomp kick that Victor didn’t see coming, but the German missed his knee and struck his thigh, near the site of the knife wound, not yet healed. The jolting agony made him retreat a step.
Krieger charged again. Victor was ready for him, sidestepping to divert his attacker’s momentum past him and into a wall of metal.
A smear of blood appeared on galvanised steel before the relentless rain washed it clean again.
The German spun around, a jagged gash across his scalp that stained his hair red. His eyes were a little glassy – dazed from the impact – but the pain in Victor’s thigh kept him from rushing in to take advantage. He knew he had lost some speed.
‘You don’t give up, do you?’ Victor said.
‘It’s not about giving up. It’s about self-belief.’
‘Am I really worth all this?’
Krieger touched his head wound. ‘This is nothing. This is a workout.’
They approached one another, circling, attacking with more caution, more attentive of defence and not overexposing themselves. Victor was shivering in the downpour despite the adrenaline
surging through him. Krieger’s skin had paled almost to white. Both men sent clouds of moisture skyward with every heavy breath.
Victor said, ‘We don’t have to do this.’
‘It’s what we’re paid for.’
‘You’ll only get paid if you kill me,’ Victor said. ‘I get nothing for going through this.’
Krieger said, ‘This is the price you must pay for getting paid all those times before. This is the inevitable conclusion to the life you have led. It was always going to end like this.’
‘I’ve known that for a long time,’ he admitted. ‘And you must know it’s the same for you.’
Krieger’s chin lowered in a small nod of agreement. ‘We are paid in gold, but we pay it back in blood.’
‘Doesn’t sound like such a good deal when you put it like that, does it?’
‘Alas, we don’t get to renegotiate our terms once we’ve signed our lives away.’
He heard Abigail’s voice in his head: We can always negotiate.
Krieger gestured for Victor to come at him, so Victor grabbed a rock from the mud and hurled it at Krieger, which was dodged easily enough, but Victor used the moment of distraction to attack with a storm of strikes – throwing punches at Krieger’s body; elbows at his head.
One slipped through the German’s guard.
Blood fell to the ground with the rain, but Krieger was as tough as he was strong and threw his arms around Victor’s hips, forcing him back and tipping him backwards.
He stumbled, feet working fast to keep from falling, but he had no purchase and Krieger roared, determined and powerful, taking Victor off his feet.
The ground was sodden mud, absorbing the impact and taking away the brunt of its energy that would have stunned him otherwise. Victor wrapped his legs around Krieger’s waist and began working the man’s right arm into an elbow bar.
Krieger was skilled enough to slip out of it and tried to stand, but Victor’s legs were so tight around him that he had to lift their combined weight.
His face reddened from the exertion, the mud robbing any hope of secure footing. Victor exploited that by grabbing Krieger at the back of the neck and wrenching downwards, pulling him off balance. Again Victor’s back hit the mud, but the momentum carried Krieger over his head.
The German flipped over, and he too landed on his back in the mud.
His mistake was moving on to his front to push himself upright, giving his opponent his back, because Victor was already rising and was standing over Krieger before he could too.
With both hands, Victor pushed Krieger’s head down, using all the muscles of his back and shoulders to force the German’s face deep into the mud.
Krieger tried to force himself upwards. He was stronger than Victor, but his knees were trapped beneath him and his head was too far away from his hips to maximise that strength. Victor fought him with his superior position, his own strength keeping his enemy’s nose and mouth in the mud, denying him air and making him weaker with every passing second.
He felt the German’s strength fading – then fading too fast when he stopped resisting with one arm. Krieger’s face sank deeper into the mud and Victor had to catch himself not to lose his balance with the sudden loss of resistance. He glanced left and right at the ground for anything Krieger could be reaching for as he had with the knife on the train, but there was nothing.
He maintained his position, all his energy focused on pushing downwards and suffocating his enemy, only realising what Krieger was doing when he felt fingers on his thigh.
Krieger’s thumb found where the knife had pierced Victor, pressed against it, and then when the wound burst open from the pressure, pushed inside Victor’s flesh.
He roared, even stronger waves of agony crashing through him than when the knife had first stabbed him.
Instinct made him grab Krieger’s exposed hand and wrench it clear, breaking the wrist before he threw himself back, overcome by pain.
He lost his footing as he swayed against the dizziness and approaching unconsciousness.
Victor fell, blackness encroaching on the periphery of his vision. Passing out meant an end to the pain, to sweet bliss, but he would never awake again. He fought it away.
Through his hazy vision he saw Krieger stand, but he didn’t come after Victor. Instead, he stumbled for where his Armalite lay in the mud.
Victor headed for the pistol.
They reached the weapons at the same time, and turned to face each other.
SIXTY-FOUR
Dark rain clouds blocked out the last of the sun. The gloom was enough for Victor to see Krieger’s eyes, half-closed but unblinking. The German was a wreck, injured and bloody, soaked with rain and sweat and filthy with mud. His greying hair was flattened against his skull. His stubble was caked with filth. His clothes were soaked, stained and torn. Only his eyes were untouched. They had the same relentless intensity Victor had seen on the train, when Victor had Krieger pinned beneath him – about to die before stabbing Victor with a blunt knife. When faced with certain death the German had found a way to survive.
He had done so again a moment ago. The pain made Victor want to vomit.
The German held the rifle one-handed, because his left arm was useless and hung down by his side, fist coated in bright blood that dripped in a steady rhythm to the ground because the broken wrist bone had pierced through his skin. The relentless rain washed the mud from his face, leaving it streaked and dark. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. The gun-holding hand was steady, though, and the arm extended to support it was strong and unwavering.
His expression was neutral – no anger; fighting back the pain – but his eyes were calculating.
Krieger said, ‘You should know the Armenian woman helped me find you.’
‘Good for her,’ Victor said back. ‘She’s a survivor. She took the better deal.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way, but whatever your arrangement you shouldn’t have made her wait so long. That was unnecessary. That was cruel.’
‘Maybe,’ Victor said. ‘But I’m going to get her out of there as soon as I leave here.’
‘If,’ Krieger corrected. ‘You haven’t squeezed that trigger yet for a reason.’
‘What reason would that be?’
Victor kept his own weapon stable, muzzle aimed for centre mass because even at this short range the small-barrelled gun he was holding would group at about two inches. Like Krieger, he was fatigued and hurt. He couldn’t rely on his aim being perfect. If Victor went for a head shot, a two-inch displacement plus his own inaccuracy was as likely to send a round straight past Krieger’s ear as hit its mark.
Victor said, ‘And you haven’t fired because you can’t hope to shoot a rifle accurately with one hand.’
The German nodded. ‘Each of us needs a perfect shot to brain or spine in order to ensure the other man will not return fire.’
Victor nodded too. His weapon weighed less than two pounds even with a full magazine. Krieger’s weapon was far heavier. Victor noticed it was starting to tremble. Ever so slightly, but it was there. Krieger had only one hand to hold more than three times the weight Victor held with two.
‘I know statistics,’ the German said. ‘Two out of three gunshot victims survive.’
‘Exactly,’ Victor said.
‘But perhaps most shooters are scared or else are not very able with their weapon. I, however, am an excellent shot.’
‘So am I.’
Krieger said, ‘I’m not scared.’
Victor said, ‘Neither am I.’
‘You’re injured,’ the German said.
‘So are you,’ Victor said back.
They were silent for a moment.
‘Yes, we’re both skilled marksmen, both tired and hurt,’ Krieger said. ‘We’re a little out of point-blank range. It’s getting darker by the second. The chances of scoring a one-shot drop are negligible. In all likelihood, once one of us begins shooting we will kill each other.’
Victor watched the trembling gun in his enemy’s hand. ‘Like you said a moment ago: we both understand how this works. But we don’t have to do this. There’s another way.’
‘What do you propose?’ Krieger said, echoing what he had said on the train to St Petersburg.
‘Easy,’ Victor replied. ‘We lower our guns.’
Krieger said, ‘Then what?’
‘Then we walk away, but for good this time. We both leave Belgrade tonight. You don’t try and complete the contract again and I won’t come after you to eliminate the threat. I think we both know by now that these encounters are bad for our health.’
Krieger shrugged and smirked. He couldn’t argue with that.
Victor said, ‘I want to live. I’m sure you do too. This is just a job, after all. It’s not worth dying for, is it? I have nothing to gain by killing you and everything to lose by trying to. You’re in a better position than me. You actually have something to gain, but whatever price is on my head is not worth rolling the dice for – not when it could cost you your life.’
Krieger’s gun was trembling more now, but even Victor’s arms were feeling the strain of maintaining his aim while he fought the constant pain in his thigh.
The German nodded. ‘You negotiate well, but there is no need to convince me. I told myself after our first tryst on the train that I would try again, but only once more. I learn my lessons. I know when to quit. Like you said: this is only a job. We are both professionals. It is only amateurs that are willing to die in pursuit of a paycheque. But more than professionals we are gentlemen, as we showed in Russia. What do they say? Work to live, not live to work. This is business. This is not personal. We are killers, but that’s not all we are. We can show the other some humanity, can’t we?’
‘Yes,’ Victor said, ‘we can.’
Victor lowered his weapon, inch by inch, slow and deliberate – gaze focused not on Krieger’s eyes or the gun, but the German’s index finger wrapped around the trigger – until it was down by his thigh and pointed at the cold mud.
