by Alex Shaw
Chang lay in the grass, not far from where Tate had before, and did his best to blend into the darkness. There was still no movement outside the hangars. Where was Jack? Chang decided that even though Tate had told him to stay put and stay safe, he was doing no good hiding in the long grass. What kind of law enforcement officer was he? Chang had to find Tate; he had to help him. He rose to his feet. In his left jacket pocket, he had Akulov’s silenced Beretta and his hands held out his personal Glock 19. He started to move forward towards the hole in the fence when he saw a figure, one of the commandos, dart out of the nearest hangar.
Chang threw himself down onto the damp grass. He lay flat, just raising his head enough to look ahead. He saw the commando tactically moving and sweeping the terrain with an assault rifle. He abruptly halted and aimed his rifle in Chang’s direction, at the hole in the fence. The commando started to walk across the grass, then bent down and inspected it before turning back towards the two hangars. Chang followed him with his eyes as he walked in the opposite direction of the open hangar door and disappeared into the dark shadows.
Chang got to his feet, and jogged across the grass. On hitting the tarmac he quickly scuttled into the shadow at the side of the hangar. He stealthily edged nearer to the open door, and when he had taken a large breath to calm his nerves, peeped in. Inside but still far away, due to the hangar’s voluminous construction, he saw Tate. One commando stood behind him, and another was talking to an older man. That had to be Oleniuk. As he watched, one of the commandos walked away to the other side of the hangar and momentarily disappeared behind a two-metre-high wall. He could hear the faint murmur of words being exchanged between Tate and the older man but nothing more. The commando returned pushing a blonde woman and a dark-haired man, Simon Hunter.
Chang considered his actions. He had shot and killed three men thus far today, so he wasn’t afraid of using his sidearm; however, that had been at close range, in daylight and the men had not been armed with assault rifles as the two commandos were. Chang didn’t know much about weapons, it had never really been his bag, but what he did know was that the rate of fire from an assault rifle was much higher than his Glock or Beretta. If he was going to attempt a rescue he would have to get nearer and surprise them.
He took a deep calming breath and started to move nearer. Then he heard an engine. He cocked his head. It was a rumbling, roaring V8. High-powered lights exploded from around the other side of the hangar as a large, dark shape appeared. It was another black Chevrolet Tahoe and Chang had no idea who was inside it. He ducked back into the shadows.
*
Oleniuk exchanged looks with his two remaining Spetsnaz commandos. He gestured to the one on Tate’s right. ‘Check that out, it could be Tate’s accomplice returned or perhaps it’s Grisha and Akulov.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The commando jogged out of the hangar, weapon up for the second time.
Oleniuk once more raised his Beretta. ‘Do not get any ideas, gentlemen. I may not be a crack shot but at this range I cannot fail to at least hit one of you, perhaps even the lady.’
‘You harm her and I’ll kill you!’ Hunter said, with venom in his voice.
‘Ha. That is right, you would not want to be responsible for the death of another woman!’ Oleniuk switched his focus to Tate on seeing his expression darken. ‘Correct, Jack. I know all about Sofia Antonova.’
‘You have no right to say her name!’ Hunter said, his voice now wavering.
‘I have the most right in the world to say her name!’ Oleniuk, pointed the handgun at Hunter and hoped that Tate was thinking about making a move.
‘Sir.’ A voice called as three men entered the hangar.
‘Ah, you have returned.’ Oleniuk felt relief and a surge of energy from within at the sight of the commando returning with Grisha and Akulov. He took in the assassin’s appearance. The Werewolf’s face was pale but he was standing unsupported, yet what Oleniuk noticed most of all was that his gaze was focused on the woman. ‘Hunter, Tate. This is the end – you can see that you have lost.’ Tate frowned and this made Oleniuk smile. ‘What, chaps, no jolly quips? Tatiana, what about you?’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’ The woman Oleniuk knew as Tatiana, and Hunter knew as Terri replied.
‘Nothing to say?’ Oleniuk demanded, then switched to Russian to emphasise her true identity. ‘Nichevo?’ Nothing.
‘Nichevo,’ Tatiana replied, with a Muscovite accent.
Hunter’s mouth fell open. His shoulders slumped. ‘Terri?’
‘Grisha, go to the jet and tell the pilots to prepare for take-off.’
‘Understood.’
Grisha exited through the connecting door to the second hangar. Oleniuk smiled ruefully at Hunter. ‘I do not blame you at all for falling for her, Simon. She is exceedingly beautiful and from past reports, a real tiger in the bedroom!’ Hunter’s face was pale. ‘It is funny, don’t you think, that once she opened her legs for you, and now you will open your mouth for us? She is a swallow and you’ll become a parrot! You will be highly helpful to Blackline.’
Hunter was shaking. ‘Terri … I don’t understand … why …’
‘Did you love her, Simon? More than you loved Sofia Antonova?’
Tate took a half-step forward. Intuitively Oleniuk opened fire. Two rounds kicking up the concrete millimetres in front of his feet. ‘Do not move.’
Grisha rushed in, weapon raised.
‘Stand down. All is OK.’
‘Understood.’ Grisha stood again next to Akulov.
Oleniuk looked at his assembled audience. He was writing and directing this Greek tragedy, and it was time to end the last act. His eyes flicked between them, Grisha his bodyguard, Akulov his Werewolf, the seemingly indestructible Jack Tate, Simon Hunter the snivelling excuse of an intelligence officer, Tatiana his “swallow” and finally, slightly away from the others, his two remaining Spetsnaz commandos.
‘Simon, I’m in love with you.’ It was Tatiana who spoke. ‘I really love you, you must believe me! I never knew any of this would happen, what he would do, what he had planned. I was just meant to give him information.’ Tears started to form in her eyes and she struggled to speak. ‘But then I fell in love with you!’
‘How touching.’ Without warning, Oleniuk jerked the Beretta, pulled the trigger twice and sent two rounds into Tatiana. Both shots hit her in the chest, shredding her heart and catapulting her backwards. She was dead before she hit the floor.
Tate started to move but so did the Beretta. He stopped. Hunter collapsed to his knees. Akulov’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched.
‘Simon, did you love her? Did you really love her more than you loved,’ Oleniuk screamed the last two words, ‘MY DAUGHTER!’
Hunter looked up and blinked.
‘Sofia Antonova was your daughter?’ Tate asked, his voice low.
Oleniuk, eyes wide, moist, nodded. ‘Yes.’
There was a yell from outside followed by a single shot. It hit Grisha in the centre of his forehead, instantly flooring him. Akulov dropped into cover. Tate dived on top of his brother, to shield him. Oleniuk darted to his left, and further away from the open doors; the two Spetsnaz men followed, one facing him and the second facing back the way they had come.
*
Tate was light-headed, struggling to concentrate. He saw the man Oleniuk had called Akulov was already by a locker in the corner. Akulov was retrieving a weapon, an HK416. He met Tate’s eyes. ‘Stay down, and I will not shoot you.’
‘Why?’ Tate was confused, by both the man’s words and his accent. He sounded American.
‘You saw what Oleniuk did? He killed one of his own, one of us. He murdered Tatiana like she was nothing! And if she is nothing then I am nothing,’ Akulov spat, his disgust evident. ‘He has broken the code. Our code.’
Tate’s head was spinning and he could think of nothing more eloquent to say than: ‘Yeah.’
Akulov disappeared through the door to the next hangar.
‘Jack, you’re losing blood!’ Hunter struggled away from his brother.
‘I’m OK.’
‘No you are not. Give me your belt.’
Tate understood what Hunter wanted to do but did not have the energy to reply verbally. He undid his belt and Hunter helped him pull it off, and then tightened it around his thigh, above his bloody leg wound.
‘Simon, Jack!’ Chang slowly advanced into the hangar, his arms extended and weapon up in a textbook two-handed Weaver stance.
‘That was you who fired?’ Hunter asked.
‘I saw Oleniuk shoot her, he was too fast … I tried to hit him but I missed and got the other one.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I should have been faster.’
The booming whine of jet engines started from the neighbouring hangar, followed by an exchange of gunfire.
‘Help me up,’ Tate said.
Chang eased him to his feet.
Tate slapped his own face and roared, ‘C’mon!’
Hunter knelt by Terri’s body. He touched her face. His shoulders shook as he closed his dead girlfriend’s eyes. ‘The man is evil, evil! A deranged … We have to stop him!’
‘We will.’ Tate looked around for his HK, couldn’t see it. He hobbled over to the same locker Akulov had been in. There was an array of 9mm handguns, and one more HK416. He picked up a Beretta, stepped back to Hunter and held out the weapon. ‘Simon, take this.’
‘I’m not a shooter.’
‘That’s why you’re not coming with me. Jon, where’s the Tahoe?’
‘By the trees with the taxi.’
‘Take my brother, lock yourselves inside then drive it back here.’
‘No. I’m coming with you!’ Hunter said.
‘No. You’re the brains, remember? Go!’
There was more gunfire and Tate made for the door. He advanced, stiff-legged, into the second hangar and immediately tracked to his left and ducked down behind a stack of wooden crates as a round pinged off the doorframe behind him. Adrenalin once more flooded his system, pushing the pain and fatigue away. To his right and behind another stack was Akulov. The man met Tate’s gaze, and nodded slowly. Each man now seeing the other for the cold-blooded killer they had become. Could Tate trust the Russian? All he knew was that they now both sought the same enemy and he was in front of them trying to escape.
Tate cautiously peered around the top crate. One of the commandos was on the floor, behind his rifle, inside the open door of the Gulfstream. The second commando had crawled behind the airstairs, but had left a bloody trail across the concrete. Tate saw a shadow move past one of the jet’s large oval portholes, halfway along the length of the jet. Akulov sent a burst of rounds at the shadow; several hit the porthole and pinged off. He fired again and hit the next porthole, but neither shattered. Akulov whistled to Tate. Tate looked over. Akulov made hand signals and pointed at the open door. Tate nodded, slowly – it hurt and his head was still heavy – but he understood. Oleniuk must not get away.
He rose to his haunches, but before he could advance there was a flash to his right as Akulov sprinted towards the Gulfstream. The commando behind the airstairs swung into view. He and Akulov exchanged fire; the commando went down, twisting, his finger still on the trigger spraying rounds in an erratic arc as he did. Akulov reached the bottom of the airstairs and powered his way upwards. Tate trained his HK on the open door. Both he and the last commando fired at the same time. Both weapons found their targets. The commando’s head dropped, and his rifle fell out of the jet, but he had not been aiming at Tate, his target was Akulov.
Akulov carried on forward as his legs gave way. He had been travelling too fast to stop and pitched over the edge of the handrail. He fell, landing heavily on his back.
On his feet now, Tate shifted as fast as his fatigued and injured body would allow. He grabbed the handrail with his left hand and hauled himself up. Ahead he saw a darkening in the doorway as a figure tried to close it, but the dead man was in the way. One-handed, arm straining with the weight and torque of the HK, Tate send a wild shot into the empty space and the figure ducked away. And then the dead commando was shoved out of the jet and onto the airstairs. The body tumbled forward, a deadweight knocking Tate in the process. Tate’s HK was ripped out of his hand and crashed to the hangar floor. Tate was pushed against the same rail that Akulov had fallen over. Looking down, Tate’s eyes met the Russian assassin’s, who lay on his back – a trail of blood seeping from his mouth.
‘Davai! Davai!’ Go, go – Akulov mouthed above the roaring engines.
Tate, ignoring the wet, white pain in his leg, the pressure in his chest and the hammering of his head, half dragged, half climbed up the three last steps. The door had started to close, Tate sprung off the railing and barged it with his right shoulder. He fell inside the executive jet. The door slammed shut behind him and he saw one pilot secure it as the other scrabbled away from him into the cockpit.
‘Oleniuk!’ Tate roared, and hauled himself to his feet by a leather chair back. The cabin had been configured to carry fourteen passengers with wide spaces between the seats and a pair of tables midway down the cabin. It was a sea of cream leather and walnut wood.
At the far end of the cabin Oleniuk stood, in front of a bar, pointing his Beretta. ‘Here.’
Tate knew it was stupid, he knew it was senseless but he had no other choice. He started to run towards the remorseless Russian. Stars flashed before his eyes and his vision dimmed. Oleniuk kept the Beretta aimed in his right hand and beckoned Tate forward with his left. The Gulfstream was not the smallest of planes, still nowhere near commercial size, but what should have been a five-second sprint turned to ten as Tate found it harder to make his legs move.
His vision started to turn grey at the edges and then he blacked out. His head hit a padded, executive seat sending a hot white spear of pain down his spine. His eyes snapped open and he found himself lying sideways in the aisle, with the tables directly ahead of him. He blinked trying to make sense of what was happening as the noises around him had changed. One was the roar of the Gulfstream’s jets as it started to taxi and the other was Oleniuk as he laughed a huge guttural laugh.
He spoke in Russian now. ‘Look at you, Jack Tate, you are dying. Lying there on that bespoke carpet bleeding out. You haven’t got long to live. So I am going to drink this very fine bottle of Russian vodka and smoke this exquisite Cuban cigar and watch you drift away into the kingdom of Hades.’
Tate could hear the runway rushing beneath him, and then a slight lightness as the Gulfstream attempted to become airborne. Tate grabbed at the chair, clawed at the table in an attempt to get back to his feet, but his arms seemed to belong to someone else.
‘And now I will take my seat. Don’t die before we level out – that would be extremely impolite.’ Oleniuk sat, in a deeply padded seat, facing Tate from the far end of the cabin.
*
Akulov knew he needed medical attention but he could wait. He had to get away. He stumbled back into the first hangar as icy daggers seemingly stabbed him in the chest and neck, a sure sign of internal injuries. The space was empty. Dizzy but determined, Akulov padded towards a pair of lockers. The first one hung open. It was the one containing the weapons. This time he opened the second and retrieved his bag, the bag that insured his financial future. He winced as he lifted it, the weight was reassuring, but it was also almost too much for him to carry in his weakened state. Akulov swapped his HK for a fresh Beretta from the other locker.
He looked over at the broken body of Tatiana as an emptiness filled his injured chest. There was nothing more he could do here.
*
Outside the Gulfstream was still moving away from them down the runway.
‘We have to stop it!’ Hunter said.
‘It has to turn,’ replied Chang. ‘We’ll stop it then.’
‘How?’
‘You ever play chicken?’
‘No?’ Hunter shrugged. ‘Is that wise?’
‘This is
an armour-plated full-size SUV,’ Chang replied. ‘South of a tank I think it’s the best bet.’
Hunter screwed up his eyes, then opened them. ‘Do it, ram the bastard!’
*
Oleniuk settled himself in the plump leather seat, and swigged vodka directly from the bottle. He had no time for delicate crystal – he was a warrior not a woman. The Gulfstream abruptly jerked to a stop, making him slip forward in his seat. He cursed in Russian, ‘Suka! What is going on?’
Seconds later, the door to the cockpit opened; the co-pilot appeared. ‘There is an SUV on the runway, coming toward us.’
Oleniuk sighed and waved his Beretta. ‘Take off, you idiot!’
‘But, sir—’
‘TAKE OFF NOW!’ Oleniuk roared.
*
‘It’s moving again,’ Chang noted. ‘This is going to be fun.’
‘What if it explodes?’ Hunter asked.
‘You’ve seen too many bad movies. How many times do planes or cars explode in real life?’ Chang said.
‘I see your point,’ Hunter conceded.
The Tahoe’s V8 growled and it leapt toward the Gulfstream. This was the second time today Chang had played chicken; this, however, was the biggest game of his life. The jet grew larger, both vehicles accelerating, their closing speeds dangerously increasing.
‘This is going to hurt!’ Chang stated.
‘We only need to clip the end of the wing. They’ll move – they’ll have to.’ Hunter did not sound convinced.
The Gulfstream’s tyres started to rise, as it left the ground then crashed down again. It was still coming straight for them and then the Tahoe started to shake.
‘Shit,’ Chang said.
‘What?’ Hunter asked, but had a feeling he knew.
‘We’re out of gas!’ Chang uselessly jabbed his right foot at the pedal as the Tahoe slowed.
‘No.’ Hunter slammed the dashboard with his fist. The fuel light was on.
‘Simon, it’s still coming!’
Hunter’s eyes went wide and he suddenly realised what was happening. ‘Get out! GET OUT NOW!’
‘What?’
‘JUMP!’
