McCall turned back toward the main pumping building. The other guard would be somewhere near it. Maybe on the other side, patrolling the back part of the abandoned facility. McCall moved to where the forest of white and yellow oil pipes snaked up into the building and crouched.
He didn’t have long to wait.
The bigger guard, the one who had passed so close to him in the Bone Church, came around the corner, also carrying a Skorpion vz 61 submachine gun. He was more relaxed, therefore more alert. He slowed his pace, turning in a half circle, as if feeling McCall’s presence. McCall edged out of the forest of oil pipes before realizing there was a reflection of his body on the shiny gray surface of one of the generators where the guard was standing. He whirled and McCall threw himself across the space, hitting the man at the knees. He went down and the Skorpion sub flew out of his hands. He grabbed McCall’s arm and heaved, sending McCall over his shoulder. McCall hit the concrete hard. He scrambled to his feet, fast drawing the Beretta from the holster on his hip.
The Czech guard was faster.
He launched a karate kick at McCall’s wrist that was so fast McCall barely saw it. The Beretta was knocked from his hand. It flew ten feet to where two of the trenches had been dug. McCall didn’t see it land on the ground. There was no time for more than a split-second look, because a moment later the Czech guard hit him with all he had. McCall fell to the hard cement. Then the Czech guard was on top of him. His right arm went around McCall’s throat. He heaved back, strangling McCall, but he was off-balance. McCall used three vicious elbow strikes against the femoral artery at the top of the guard’s left leg that weakened his grip. Using his same right elbow, McCall slammed it back into the guard’s solar plexus, causing his diaphragm to spasm. His hold on McCall’s throat loosened more. McCall jerked free. He head-butted the guard with the back of his head, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and hurled him up over his body. He hit the ground, but dived over to where the fallen Skorpion sub lay. He grabbed it and threw it up and there wouldn’t have been anything McCall could have done to get out of the line of fire.
The Skorpion jammed.
McCall kicked it out of the man’s hands.
The guard tried to get back to his feet. McCall sent a second kick to the side of his head. He slumped down. McCall was on top of him in an instant. He put his arm around the guard’s neck, just as he’d done to McCall, and wrenched it suddenly, snapping the man’s neck.
McCall dragged the dead guard behind the generators. He took the small flashlight from his coat and played it over the ground as he ran toward one of the trenches. There was broken shale and glass and some old cigarette butts, but no sign of the Beretta. He stopped at the first trench and shone the flashlight down into it. One big fat white pipe, one narrow gray pipe, running together, disappearing into the earth, some six feet below.
No sign of the Beretta.
McCall ran on to the next trench.
This one was fifteen feet deep.
There was the big fat white pipe, and a narrow gray one beside it, but the gray one was in rusting pieces. McCall ran the small flashlight beam up and down. Even if the Beretta had fallen into the trench, and he jumped down to retrieve it, there was no way he could climb out again.
He didn’t see it.
McCall unclipped the bianchi holster from his hip and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He reached under his jacket to the small of his back. He still had the compact Ruger .357 Magnum.
He moved through the broken shadows to the front of the main pumping building.
A padlock had been smashed off the doors and lay on the ground. The doors were ajar. McCall pushed inside. He was in darkness. He switched the flashlight back on. It illuminated a narrow corridor that led only to the left. He took out the Ruger .357 Magnum, holding it in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.
He stood very still.
There was no hum of machinery from inside the building. But there were vague movements, a dull clang, followed by another, somewhere below him. He moved down the corridor. There was a steel door at the end of it. Not locked. He pushed it open and entered a huge space. Right in front of him was a big gray pipe that came out of the wall beside panels of intricate wiring and switches, but the end of the pipe was fractured. The room had a low ceiling with a central steel platform and steel steps that led down to lower levels. There was another narrow steel staircase at the far end of the room. There was a work light on in a corner, casting a harsh radiance over some large green pipes that crisscrossed the area.
No shadows jumped in it.
McCall ran to the first set of steel stairs and went down them. There was a clock ticking in his head. He had no idea what was going on in this abandoned pumping station, but there’d been urgency to the whispered conference between Kirov and the killers in the Bone Church, and the drive to the abandoned farm had been taken as fast as the country roads would allow. There was a deadline looming.
McCall was running out of time.
At the bottom was a second level of machinery and more big green pipes. A work light at the back cast the usual harsh shadows. McCall took two steps into the room and instinct kicked in. He dived to the ground as bullets exploded and pinged off the pipes around him. He took aim with the Ruger .357 and blew out the work light. The room was plunged into darkness, but it wasn’t total. Light filtered down from the first level. In it, McCall saw Kirov’s bodyguard, holding a Skorpion vz 61 submachine gun, running to one of the big pieces of machinery, firing another staccato burst.
McCall rolled behind the green pipe behind him, on his back on the concrete floor and fired twice. Both bullets hit the bodyguard, one in the chest, one in the head. He sprawled into darkness and lay still. McCall got to his feet and more bullets ricocheted off the pipes around him. Very poor shooting. Had to be Kirov, who was not accustomed to using firearms. If it had been Diablo, McCall would have been dead.
McCall twisted around, looking out into the patchwork darkness. A spear of light caught his face, and he stepped out of it. A shadow moved. He didn’t fire at it. He needed to go back the way he had come. He needed higher ground.
Kirov’s voice boomed across the cavernous room.
“I didn’t believe I’d ever see you again, Mr. McCall.”
The echoes seemed to come from all around McCall. He turned toward the second set of steel steps leading back up to the first level. A heavy piece of machinery obscured them from where Kirov’s voice had reached him.
McCall moved toward the steps.
“And yet here we are,” he said.
There was another short burst of gunfire. Kirov didn’t know how to aim a handgun and fire it with any accuracy. Bullets whined and pinged off the machinery, ricocheting dangerously around the big room. McCall reached the stairs and crouched there, motionless, listening. He heard Kirov moving closer.
“The man you killed was more than a bodyguard. He was a friend.”
McCall didn’t respond, moving slowly, crouched low, toward the bottom of the steel steps.
“I’d be interested to know how you found me here.” Kirov’s voice echoed and re-echoed. “Perhaps you’re a lover of Broadway musicals? Les Misérables is your favorite? I wondered who had so graciously returned my cell phone to me. Personally I find musicals trite and devoid of real drama and emotion, but my wife loves them. She’s a wonderful woman. Did you see her in the theater lobby?”
He was moving. His voice was closer to the stairs.
McCall didn’t answer. Slowly he climbed up the stairs, crouched over and silent, like some huge obscene black spider.
“I have two teenage sons. Think about that, Mr. McCall. Perhaps we can negotiate?”
McCall climbed silently higher.
“How many more of your agents are in the facility?” Kirov asked.
Closer still.
Almost to where McCall had hidden behind the machinery.
“I can’t believe your Control would have allowed you to take on th
is mission alone. Or are you a rogue agent? Operating on your own? I’m not alone. You know that. I have men outside. They’ll be coming in here.”
McCall reached the top of the steps and crawled out onto the catwalk there. He looked down on the second equipment room and saw Kirov moving up to the machinery. That’s when the Chechen saw the second set of steps. He froze and swung up a Glock 33 .357 pistol.
Too late.
McCall shot him twice. Once in the right arm, to get rid of the Glock 33. It fell to the floor. The second bullet hit Kirov’s right shoulder, sending him after it. McCall didn’t have time to go back to the stairs and descend them. He leaped over the low iron railing and hit the bottom floor hard. He staggered, but managed to stay on his feet. Kirov lay back against the squat piece of rusting machinery. The Glock 33 lay just a few inches from his right hand.
McCall left it there.
“No one’s coming to rescue you, Boris,” he said.
He knelt down beside Kirov.
The Chechen pulled the large ornate penknife from his coat pocket, snapping up the blade. He stabbed it at McCall’s face. McCall blocked his arm, twisting the knife from his hand and tossing it into the shadows.
He straightened and aimed the Ruger .357 at Kirov’s chest.
“Where’s Diablo?”
Kirov’s eyes blazed with hatred. “In this building. But you’ll never find him. You should have stayed anonymous, Mr. McCall. You’ll die here tonight.”
There was a footfall.
Or perhaps just a piece of machinery clicking.
McCall half turned toward it.
Nothing there.
On the periphery of his vision he saw Kirov make his final decision. He let him go with it. Better to think you had one last chance.
Kirov’s trembling fingers grabbed the Glock 33.
McCall turned back and shot him through the heart.
Kirov looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he thought would happen. Then the light fled his eyes and his body went slack.
McCall picked up the Glock 33. Kirov had emptied the clip. McCall went through his pockets. He had no more clips of ammo on him. McCall tossed the Glock away and looked for an ID or a wallet, but Kirov had nothing at all on him. Staying anonymous.
McCall ran over to where the bodyguard lay twisted on the ground. He picked up the Skorpion submachine gun, but it was empty. The bodyguard had no more clips. McCall tossed the sub to one side and stood motionless, letting the silence wrap around him, the echoes of the gunshots still ringing in his ears. He looked into the shapes that the pipes and machinery made on the second level.
Diablo could be anywhere in the building. On any level. McCall’s instincts were to continue down into the guts of the building. How many levels could there be? Maybe a couple more. But what was he looking for? How could an old, disused oil pumping station be Diablo’s final destination?
McCall ran down the next set of steel stairs leading to a third level. The room was much like the first two, rows of gray machinery, interlocking green and gray pipes, control panels on the walls. All of them were covered with a good layer of dust. No one had been down here in years. Not even a maintenance crew.
McCall moved through the overlapping shadows, the Ruger in his hand. He stopped beside a faded poster on one of the walls. It was a diagram between two Czech pumping stations. Lines denoting oil pipes crisscrossed between them. Directions McCall didn’t understand: TEMPORARY PIG-TRAP—NONCONFORMING PIPES, GROUP 1, GROUP 2. In the lower right-hand side it read: DECONTAMINATED—EMPTIED AT THE BEGINNING OF SHUTDOWN. Below the diagram it read: FLOW OF CRUDE OIL and DIRECTION OF EMPTYING with arrows pointing left—DIRECTION OF CONTAMINATION with an arrow pointing right. There were Section Valve squares and pipes with DN 400 and DN 850 written along them. Below the diagram was a blueprint of myriad fat lines, crisscrossing one another. None of it helped McCall in the slightest.
He walked on two steps, then turned and walked back to the chart again.
He stared at the blueprint of lines.
Oil pipes.
Leading out of this pumping station, but none of them carrying oil any longer.
McCall unclipped the iPhone from his belt and took a picture of the blueprint. Then he punched the small silver buttons until he found the program he wanted and accessed it. The blueprint of what Elena Petrov had stolen from Alexei Berezovsky—that he’d put into his cell phone from the flash drive Control had given him—flashed up onto the screen.
A series of what looked like tunnels.
Only they weren’t tunnels.
They were oil pipes.
McCall punched more buttons, the way Brahms had taught him, and slid Elena’s blueprint over the blueprint he had just taken on the pump station wall.
The stolen blueprint matched up exactly with some of the pipes on the pumping house blueprint. The highlighted pipes led from the pump house, and a couple of long pipes, also highlighted, stretched to the edge of the frame.
McCall jogged down a long concrete tunnel. There was an elevator at the end of it. It was running. It was not up at this floor. Diablo had used it to descend. There were more steel stairs beside it. McCall took them. He didn’t want to take the elevator and alert the assassin that he was coming. Although he suspected the killer was long gone from the building.
McCall descended silently down another level until he came to where the elevator cage stood open. There were work lights that illuminated all of the levels, probably from a backup generator. McCall ran down another echoing corridor and came out into a big room, concrete walls with more panels of switches on them. There were three large horizontal pipes in the room, fourteen feet high, each of them with a door. McCall looked at the blueprint on the LED screen of his iPhone. The right-hand tunnel was illuminated from Elena’s blueprint.
McCall opened the rusted door. He stepped into a round pipe down which he could have driven, if not a truck, certainly a golf cart. In fact, there was a golf cart left discarded by the door. McCall walked past it. Only the light from the room filtered in through the open door. The pipe stretched ahead of him into darkness. McCall put the Ruger back into the waistband of his jeans in the small of his back. He took out the flashlight, holding it in one hand and his iPhone in the other.
He ran down the large pipe.
Stagnant water pooled in places beneath his feet. The pipe stank of oil. McCall didn’t think it had been used for oil. He thought it was probably a connecting tunnel. But he still had the terrible feeling that oil would suddenly come gushing down the pipe and overwhelm him. He kept running, glancing continuously at the LED screen in his hand. He couldn’t tell how long the pipe was from the blueprint Elena had stolen. He wasn’t sure he was even in the right pipe, but he was following the highlighted snakes on the blueprint.
In ten minutes he came out of the pipe. It just ended, as if it had been cut off with a huge circular saw. He ran out into a vast workroom with more charts on the walls, with smaller pipes and equipment. Another bare-bulb work light illuminated it. There was access to another tunnel like the one he had just come out of, but it was not highlighted on Elena’s blueprint. McCall moved past it. The blueprint had a thinner, therefore narrower, pipe highlighted, leading out of the room.
He almost didn’t see it. It was blocked by more fat gray pipes, leading up and into the ceiling. There was a door into the pipe. It was hermetically sealed. There was a keypad beside the door. So oil must have once gushed through this pipe—or it was meant to, if the pumping station had ever got up and running. McCall had the feeling the station had been abandoned before any oil had come flowing down the Druzhba pipeline. They had probably tested the pipes, sending oil through some of them, but for whatever reason the facility had been abandoned. The main lines must have been rerouted, leaving this station as a derelict reminder of waste and over-spending.
McCall checked the LED screen on the iPhone to make certain this was the pipe that was highlighted. It didn’t seem to go very
far, but it was almost at the end of the blueprint.
McCall had no idea what code to use on the keypad.
So he just yanked on the door.
It opened, which meant it had already been opened by someone who had the code to the keypad beside it. McCall stepped into the pipe and switched back on the flashlight. This one was tall enough for him to walk if he stooped down, but very narrow. His shoulders almost scraped the sides. It also stank of oil.
McCall ran down the pipe, his footfalls echoing in the confined space.
He had no idea how far he had traveled from the pumping station. But he’d been below ground for almost forty minutes. In the wavering beam of the flashlight he noted the pipe was fractured in many places, especially overhead. It would have to have been repaired before any oil could have flowed through it.
He kept his pace as fast as he could, half crouched down. His ears strained for sound. He knew Diablo was somewhere ahead of him. He could be waiting for him in this pipe. He could have his sniper rifle trained right down the pipe, with an infrared magnified sight lighting it up like it was day. Even a green scope would have picked out McCall’s milky figure coming at him.
One bullet in the head and it would all be over.
McCall’s breathing filled his enclosed world. The claustrophobia of the pipe pressed in on him from both sides. It was like a long, narrow tomb that had no ending.
He would just run and run and run.
Then McCall saw a trickle of light ahead of him. He slowed down as he approached it. Finally the shape of a door took place in the metallic gloom. He clipped the iPhone to his belt and took out the Ruger again, switched hands, so that the gun was in his right and the flashlight in his left.
The door came up fast.
It was slightly ajar.
McCall stepped out into a shadowy area with concrete walls on four sides. He turned in four directions, the gun held out and steady. The area was deserted. In front of him three new pipes had been laid. One was boarded up. McCall flashed his light into the mouth of the second pipe. It ended in a rock wall after about fifty feet.
The Equalizer Page 45
