Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller!

by James Silvester

  “If you let me go I’ll kill her!” The figure spat his words at Peter. “Do what you have to do!”

  Peter screamed back at his foe, incoherent rage blinding him, preventing him from seeing clearly the two paths in front of him.

  The man spoke again against the pressure of Peter’s arm. “Don’t show me any mercy,” he hissed, “because if you let go I will show none to her”.

  With the last vestiges of effort, and fighting the chaos in his mind as much as the man on the floor, Peter succeeded in forcing his forearm completely under his opponent’s chin and, with his back against the wall, he began pressing his throat tightly, violently twisting the squirming gunman’s arm up his back with his other hand while he did so. The desperate kicking of the man began to rejuvenate Peter and he felt himself growing stronger again, life seeping back into his body as it leaked from his prey. He knew what would happen, he expected it to happen, he wanted it to happen….. He pressed down, tighter and tighter and…

  Phut.

  The man beneath his grip went limp in an instant and Peter felt a warm trickle caress his forearm, still lodged beneath the attackers chin. The unmistakeable scent of gun smoke began to tease at Peter’s nostrils, and all at once, he began to weep; a howl of despair crying forth from deep, deep within him. His forearm, the trickle dripping from it and onto the carpet, still pressed tightly against the un-resistant neck, and as he howled, Peter continued to press it tighter and tighter, for that was all he knew to do. Over the sound of his wailing, Peter was dimly aware of Mirushka’s voice calling his name, imploring him to come to her, but he could only shake his head, squeezing his fallen foe even more tightly to him as the death grip became a fearful embrace. Releasing his enemy’s arm from behind his back, Peter reached up and cupped the dead man’s face, turning his face toward his own. An incoherent apology pushing its way through his despair, Peter leaned his head in close and kissed the rapidly cooling brow, before resting his own against it as the tears continued to fall.

  The warmth of his attacker diminished, Peter once more began to hear Mirushka’s velvet voice calling to him through the confusion in his mind.

  Dropping the corpse to the floor Peter remained crouched, his adrenaline addled mind trying to make sense of the situation. Looking up, he saw the thin trail of smoky vapour issuing from Rado’s muffled gun; the young Slovak still standing frozen in the moment of shooting.

  His animal rage boiling over once more, Peter sprang up from the floor and grabbed his colleague by the suit jacket, slamming him against the wall.

  “Bastard!” Peter shouted in his face. “He was mine! He should have been mine!!”

  Rado was a far stronger opponent than the dead man and easily broke Peter’s grip on him, pinning him back against the wall.

  “Stand down!” Rado’s voice was stern, in command, yet oddly calm. “It’s over!”

  Peter responded by vainly pushing his spent muscles once more and, unable to break the young Slovak’s grip, letting out a scream of rage. Rado stood firm and looked directly into Peter’s eyes.

  “Stand! Down!”

  Peter’s scream became a sob and as the resistance in his aging muscles finally gave out, he collapsed in a heap at Rado’s feet and felt consciousness slipping away from him while Mirushka’s soft voice echoed fearfully in his ears.

  CHAPTER 18

  MIRUSHKA HAD INSISTED ON STAYING with him that night; through his confusion he knew that much. He remembered hovering on the edge of consciousness, sightless, the hairs of the carpet irritating the still fresh scars on his back, threatening but not quite managing to bring him to, and hearing her soft, wise tones countering Rado’s impassioned pleas. He was unpredictable, Rado was saying, unstable, a danger to her and the election. For Mirushka to allow herself to be alone with him in this condition, was, in Rado’s view, an unacceptable risk.

  Peter had tried to answer, to reassure them both he was fine, but his words wouldn’t come, and he found himself unable to translate theirs anymore, as they faded again into the blackness that enveloped him, replaced in his mind by the thousand voices that had permeated his sleep for the bulk of these past weeks. Only this time, instead of the echoing recital of vitriol, the voices simply said his name, over and over again, some shouting, some whispering. And this time there was a new voice, a gentler voice, spoken with a soft, delicate French accent which spoke yearningly, as though desperately awaiting response.

  “Remy?” Peter replied as the French voice grew louder, punctuated by the clashing volumes of the other voices. He strained in the blackness to see his friend, the other voices serving to confuse him when he thought he was close. “Remy?” he shouted again, the Frenchman’s voice repeating Peter’s own name back at him, louder and louder until it seemed as though he were right behind Peter. Peter spun around in the black, the echoing voices a thunderstorm around him now, hoping against hope to see Remy, to thank him. A shape brushed him and Peter grabbed it, pulling it close to him, an excited joy filling his chest at having found the object of his search, only to turn instantly cold when the face of the shape he held came out of the darkness before him; for Remy Deprez it was not, and Peter found himself once more staring into the deathly pale face of Herbert Biely. Peter stepped back in dread, hoping for the face to rescind into to the darkness, but it remained resolutely with him, stare unbroken, features gentle and reassuring, yet filling Peter only with terror. Slowly the dead mouth creaked open, as if to join the eternal crescendo of voices calling his name, and Peter clamped his eyes closed in pure, unadulterated panic.

  “Peter.” The voice came, but it was not Herbert’s. “Peter,” it said again, as fear kept his eyelids from relaxing. It was a trick, Peter thought, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Herbert would be there, accusing him, willing him to join him in death. Shaking, Peter retracted as a soft hand stroked again his stubble lined face, accompanied by the softly spoken word, “Miláčku.”

  Waking with a jolt, Peter sat up and looked around quickly, taking in his surroundings and relaxing only when he could focus properly on Mirushka’s eyes and be sure of the softness of her skin and the sincerity of the grip of her hand.

  “You slept all day,” she smiled, the worry not far from her voice. “Welcome to the land of the living.”

  “Kajúcnost’.” Mirushka said, a short time later as they looked out over Prague, the city relaxing comfortably into the descending gloom of dusk as though it were a favoured blanket.

  “What?” Peter asked, his mind’s search of his languages drawing a blank.

  “Kajúcnost’,” she said again. “Contrition; you spoke of your friend’s contrition last night. I didn’t understand your word at first, but we call it kajúcnos; the moment when regret for our past evils is truly sincere and repentance is possible.”

  Peter smiled. “Work that out for yourself did you?” he joked, receiving a small laugh for his trouble.

  “Never underestimate the power of the internet.” She grinned in return, gripping his fingers more tightly in her own. “How do you feel, láska moja?”

  “Peter breathed the cold air deeply into his lungs and slowly exhaled. “Better,” he said, “not brilliant, but definitely better.” He returned the squeeze of her hand and broke his gaze away from the view before him, to look down at his lover, who kept her own stare hovering over the city.

  “What happened to the body?” he asked, wanting to ensure business was attended to first.

  “It turns out Rado possessed the necessary skill set after all,” she replied, “just as you suspected.”

  “Ah, Rado,” Peter’s mind drifted to the half heard, barely translated words of the previous night. “I expect he’s not too happy about all this.”

  “Rado is loyal. He’ll respect my wishes.”

  Slipping his hand from hers to lean on the stone balcony rail, Peter took a slow, long breath.

  “Why do you stay with me?” he asked, gently.

  Mirushka’s eyes dropped, for the b
riefest of flickers, from their maternal guard before she steadied herself and continued to look straight ahead.

  “You mean aside from the sacrifice you offered me? You took care of me in my moment of pain, what kind of person would I be not to offer you the same? You are my láska and you were hurting.”

  “I was dangerous,” Peter responded, his voice serious. “I didn’t think I’d break down like that, and if it happened once it can happen again. You should have let Rado sort me out, you’re too important, I could hurt you.”

  “I won’t leave you to torment yourself Miláčku,” was her defiant response.

  He delicately touched her face, turning it towards him so he could meet the beautiful, sparkling eyes. She relaxed into his touch and turned her body into his, accepting his embrace and linking her arms around his neck.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m expendable, you aren’t. Everything depends on you. If I get like that again, for whatever reason, there’s no telling what I might do, I could…”

  She pressed her lips against his, cutting off his warning, and kept them there until she felt him return the kiss and the tension leave his body. Their lips parted and he rested his head against hers, his eyes closed in introspection.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “I’m not.” Mirushka responded. “Remember when you asked me how I could be with you, knowing the things you’d done? And how I acted towards you when Adrianna was killed?”

  Peter nodded.

  “I am old enough to know that everyone has a past, those in this business even more so. And even though I cannot even bear to think on some of the things you have done, I know that you are as sick of them as I, and that you are sorry.”

  A tear danced in the corner of Peter’s eye before slipping from the lashes and falling down his cheek as Mirushka continued.

  “I knew that night when you opened your heart to me that your sorrow was genuine, but ever since then, despite your best efforts, you had been falling deeper and deeper into the pit of guilt and last night you hit the bottom. But, maybe thanks to Rado, maybe not, you avoided returning to what you used to be; you broke through the bottom of the pit and entered into kajúcnost’.”

  Peter felt the loving brush of her thumbs against his cheeks, drying them of intrusive tears as her soft voice continued.

  “I think that Remy was not the only one to have had a contrite heart last night, and I love you all the more for it. For where there is contrition, redemption can grow.”

  “The trouble is,” Peter answered, “I don’t know how else to save you. Avoiding them isn’t enough anymore; they’re coming for you.”

  “More assassins?”

  He laughed sardonically. “Calling us ‘assassins’ affords us a glamour we don’t deserve. We don’t drive around in gadget laden cars, sipping expensive champagne; I don’t even own a tux.”

  “Pity,” she smiled. He responded in kind though his words retained their severity.

  “I wasn’t an assassin…I’m…I was…a murderer. At the end of the day that’s what all of us in the ‘profession’ are; murderers and people who arrange murder. There are no ‘goodies and baddies’, there never were. I read Ivan Klíma once; he was one of yours wasn’t he? He reckoned there was no grand battle between good and evil anymore, just two different evils fighting to control the world, and maybe he was right. I can’t claim to have fought for Queen and Country, or some grandiose philosophy, I was never interested in saving the world, I just did my job and that was that. I killed people because I was good at it; man, woman, black, white, gay, straight, whatever, I was an equal opportunities murderer. I never asked if they deserved it, I just got on with the job and if my conscience piped up I’d drink it quiet again. All of us are evil in some way, except for you and Herb; the only difference is some pretend to be good guys. But even then they make friends with the bad guys when there’s money to be made then go back to bombing them when the headlines get dodgy.”

  Mirushka pulled Peter around to face her and put her finger softly over his lips. “You’re not a bad guy any more.” She whispered into his ear before moving her lips down to his neck.

  He eagerly returned the embrace, overjoyed but terrified that the best words he had could not dissuade her from her loyalty to him.

  “I have to leave early,” she whispered as she led him, shuffling, away from the balcony and back into the bedroom, still wrapped in their clumsy, mutual embrace. “I think you should stay here, get more rest.”

  “No problem,” Peter agreed, pushing her backwards onto the magnificent bed. “There’s someone I need to talk to anyway.”

  It wasn’t too early the next morning that Peter took a sip from his hot coffee, without once taking his eyes from the spectral figures that stared at him from across the road; silent, unmoving, at once accusatory and earnest as they stood forever frozen at the base of Petrin Hill. The small, dark café where Peter and his companion sat was always open, yet never quite bustling; its unique and peculiar ambience, born from its unsettling observers, never quite leaving its patrons completely at ease. Peter scolded himself for his discomfort. It was just one more memorial, in a city of memorials, but each time he sat here, his eyes were drawn to them, as though they were silently demanding he join them in their eternal vigil.

  “How far?”

  The question snapped Peter back to reality like overstretched elastic, a muffled, “What?” his only response.

  “How far will you go for her?”

  Across the table, McShade, his jacket, tie and trousers as black as the shadows under his eyes, gave a short exhale of frustration and he repeated his question with elaboration.

  “I presume the reason for our meeting like this is to talk about Ms Svobodova? Either that or you’re labouring under the vain misapprehension that I owe you some form of apology; in which case you will be gravely disappointed as none shall be forthcoming.”

  Peter did not doubt that the man’s stubborn reticence was genuine and he cracked a large smile. “Yes, I want to talk about Mirushka,” he said, “and I’m not looking for apologies. Although if you feel any pangs of remorse we can always go to a pub instead while you clear your conscience?”

  To his astonishment, Peter’s attempt at humour succeeded in warming, slightly, the ice in the other man’s expression, and he saw the faintest trace of a smile appear at the corners of his mouth.

  “So again,” McShade said, more softly this time, “how far are you prepared to go for the redoubtable Ms Svobodova?”

  “As far as it takes,” Peter responded.

  “How far is that?” McShade lifted his own coffee to his lips, his eyes ever burrowing into Peter’s own.

  Though he knew what McShade was driving at, Peter tried to shake off the dogged question with bluster.

  “How far do you think?” he said, “I’ve been practically holding her hand every second of the day, for the past few weeks. I’ve been protecting her from every threat that comes her way and I’ve made myself a target by doing it. I’ve put my life at risk to protect her; maybe you wouldn’t know what it means to be prepared to lay down your life for someone.”

  The words were sincere but laboured, as though Peter knew deep down, that this was one of several losing battles he was fighting.

  The diplomat returned his cup to its saucer with a clink, his stare still unbroken; his visage unmoved by Peter’s exhortations.

  “All risk is quantifiable,” he said calmly, “your efforts are all very well but ultimately count for nothing unless you are genuinely prepared to make that ultimate sacrifice.”

  Peter felt resentment twist his face. “What do you mean?” he hissed.

  His stare still un-cowed, McShade dabbed the corners of his mouth with the paper napkin by his hand. “I’m beginning to wonder which of us has had the career in politics,” he said. “If someone asked me how far I would go for someone I loved, my response would be instant and emphatic. I have now asked you four times and you
continue to dodge the question.”

  He placed his forearms on the table and lowered his voice; the remnants of his faint smile now wiped away with the vestiges of his coffee. “Are you truly prepared to die for her?”

  The question hung there, unanswered for several moments. Though he loathed himself to admit it, and though he had assumed that he was, when the question was pressed, Peter hesitated to answer.

  “Yes,” Peter said.

  “Well that was far from convincing. Come on man, are you or aren’t you?” McShade’s voice was loud again, invested with all the authority of years at dispatch boxes and podiums; the tone pressing, demanding, the question never relenting as McShade re-asked it again and again until Peter thought his head would explode.

  “Yes but I don’t want to! It feels like I’ve crawled through hell, only there’s no ‘happily ever after’ on the other side.”

  The few others in the dank café turned in surprise at the volume of Peter’s exclamation, several openly tutting at the uncouth foreigner before returning to the solitude of their beverages. Peter, embarrassed, looked apologetically back to the few that would make eye contact with him and turned hesitantly back to his companion, whose own body language in contrast to Peter’s, had noticeably softened. “So,” Peter half whispered, looking down in shame at his coffee, “now you’ve another reason to despise me.”

  “Not at all.”

  Peter looked up to find that the ferocity of McShade’s stare had finally subsided and he had relaxed against the back of his chair, his chin resting on his hand. It had been the tone of McShade’s voice rather than his words which had raised Peter’s eyes; a softness in the inflection which Peter couldn’t recall having heard from the man before. He raised an eyebrow at McShade’s response.

  “Now at least I know you’re not just suicidal.”

  Peter gave a laugh at McShade’s crude psychology.

  “Anyone can jump in front of a bullet Mr Lowe, but if that person doesn’t care one way or another whether or not he lives or dies then all his action equates to is glorified suicide. The rational mind desires its own preservation; I’m glad not to be dealing with a psychotic nurturing a death wish. Besides, The Child is unconcerned by the grand futility of such gestures and there’s no reason to believe he would cease his pursuit of Svobodova merely because of your death.”