Deathlist

by Chris Ryan

  ‘They’re here,’ said Devereaux. ‘Let’s go.’

  They slipped on their black ski masks. Sprang open their side doors and debussed from the Transit. Glanced up and down the street. All clear. The hookers were five or six metres away. Strutting towards the entrance to the apartment block. They moved slowly. They had to. Wearing heels that high, moving fast wasn’t an option. Petite was rooting around in her clutch purse. Legs was fiddling with her mini-skirt, hitching it even higher.

  Neither of them saw the two masked men in dark clothes pacing towards them.

  Not until it was too late.

  ‘Hey,’ Devereaux called out.

  Legs turned to face him. An instinctive reaction. Someone calls out to you, you stop and turn to see who it is. Devereaux stepped forward and flattened his right hand into a solid palm. He thrust out with his arm as his front foot hit the deck, pushing through and throwing his body weight into his palm strike. He aimed for the hooker’s solar plexus, at the top of the abs and just below the sternum. Devereaux kept his arm muscles relaxed. He didn’t need to hit her very hard. A solar plexus strike isn’t flashy, but the best attacks never are. Devereaux had once seen a guy knock a Muay Thai fighter out cold with a single well-aimed palm strike.

  The blow stunned Legs. Devereaux’s palm struck her just below the breastbone with a jarring blow, causing her diaphragm to spasm. She formed an ‘O’ with her mouth and doubled over. Coles struck out at Petite before she could let out a scream. She folded at the waist and dropped to her knees, retching and gasping. Devereaux grabbed Legs by the arm. Yanked open the side door on the Transit and shoved her roughly inside. Legs didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. She was too busy trying to breathe. Coles hauled Petite to her feet and bundled her into the back of the Transit alongside Legs. Then the two operators climbed in after the hookers and pulled the side door shut. They bound the whores’ wrists and ankles with zip wire. Stuffed rags in their mouths and pulled blindfolds over their eyes. Legs started to scream through her gag, kicking out at the Transit’s back door. Devereaux knelt beside her.

  ‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said calmly. ‘If you stay quiet, you’ll be free in a couple of hours. You have my word. But if you make trouble, you won’t leave us any choice. Nod if you understand.’

  Legs stilled. Then she nodded. It made sense. A Romanian hooker in her thirties working in Valletta. She’d probably been threatened on multiple occasions. By boyfriends. By pimps. Probably by some of her clients too. Probably had a gun pointed at her before. She’d made it this far in life. Therefore she was a survivor. Therefore she wouldn’t do anything to upset her captors. She would cling to the promise of freedom and concentrate all her energies on surviving through to that moment. Petite took her lead from Legs and stopped struggling as well.

  Devereaux climbed back out of the side of the Transit. Left Coles to watch over the two hookers. Then he hopped into the front cab, fired up the engine and bulleted west down St Paul’s Street. If the girls were going to struggle it would be in the first few minutes after they’d been snatched. Devereaux would do a couple of loops of the old town, so that their cries would be drowned out by the Transit.

  The first part of the operation was complete.

  2002 hours.

  Forty metres to the east, Porter and Bald watched the Transit pushing west down St Paul’s.

  They had moved into position twelve minutes earlier. The two operators sat up front in the Alfa Romeo, with the two spies in the rear passenger seats. They’d parked on the crossroads of St Paul’s and Triq L’Arcisqof, next to a retro British sweet shop called Bertie’s and a tacky jewellers called Kaufmann & Co. Both men were packing their Beretta 92s, strapped to shoulder holsters concealed beneath their sherpa-lined denim jackets.

  Porter nodded at Ophelia and Evelyn in the rear-view.

  ‘We’re on,’ he said. ‘Get moving.’

  The spies grabbed their clutch purses and stepped out of the Alfa. Then they crossed the street and beat a brisk path towards the apartment block. Bald got an eyeful as they approached the entrance. The pair of them had cracking arses. The birds were stern and posh and sexy all in the same breath. They weren’t normally his kind of woman, but Bald could swear that the one in the leather boots had been giving him the eye back at the apartment. He whistled.

  ‘Fuck me. Those lasses look the part all right.’

  Porter grunted. ‘Let’s hope those Serbs have got a solid lead on the 2i/c. Because if they don’t, we’ve hit a fucking dead end.’

  Bald grunted. ‘They’ll know. If those Serbs fought under Brozovic back in the day, they’ll have a handle on where the lieutenant’s hiding.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  Bald shrugged. ‘Then we’ll slot the fuckers anyway.’

  There was a hardness to his voice that told Porter he meant every word. Porter still wasn’t sure what to make of Bald. He respected the Jock’s abilities as an operator. But the more he thought about what Bald had said in Puerto Banus, the more he was convinced that the guy had lied to him.

  There was no way that blonde in the Piano Bar was a solicitor. She didn’t look the type. Even if she was, why would Bald meet her in the bar of a posh London hotel and outside the safe house, instead of her own office? No. Something else was going on with Bald. Porter was certain of it. Maybe there were drugs in the envelope? Dirty money? He couldn’t know for sure. But he’d heard the rumours doing the rounds at Hereford. The ones that said Bald had his fingers in more pies than Mary Berry. He wasn’t to be trusted, the other lads said. He’s dodgy.

  Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. There’s only one way to know for sure.

  Keep a close eye on him.

  Sooner or later he’ll slip up.

  Porter looked back to the apartment building. The spies had reached the main entrance. Ophelia paused by the panel next to the entrance and thumbed the buzzer. For a few seconds nothing happened.

  Then the door opened, and the two spies stepped inside.

  2006 hours.

  Kavlak answered the door with a sly grin. His grin widened as he laid eyes on the two blondes standing in the hallway, pouting and looking tarty as hell. The hookers they’d been ordering had been decent quality. Young, good racks, and they weren’t bad to look at. But these two were way off the chart. They belonged in a damn Britney Spears video.

  Ophelia smiled teasingly back at the Serb. ‘You going to just stand there, sweetheart? Or are you going to show us in?’

  Kavlak rediscovered the power of speech. ‘Yes. This way. Please. In.’

  Ophelia and Evelyn swaggered inside the penthouse, the Serb’s greedy eyes following them every step of the way. The place was big and airy and had a minimalist feel to it. The walls were all exposed brick. There was a large black sofa in the living room with a cold white coffee table in front of it and a TV in the far corner. A ceiling fan whirred lazily above their heads. Weak shafts of light crawled in through the gaps in the blinds pulled across the windows. There were empty vodka bottles all over the place, and a stack of dirty plates and glasses next to the sink. Ophelia noticed several half-eaten takeaway portions on the coffee table, along with a dozen empty cans of Cisk Extra Strength lager and a glass ashtray pile high with cigarette butts. Casino was playing on the TV. A couple of guys were beating the shit out of Joe Pesci with baseball bats.

  ‘Nice place,’ said Ophelia. Hoping she sounded sincere.

  The younger Serb was sitting on the sofa with his legs spread wide. He had a mohawk haircut and more gold jewellery than a Hatton Garden safe. Petrovich glanced over at the hallway. Kind of nodded at Ophelia and Evelyn and grunted. Ophelia didn’t like the look of the kid. He was moody and quiet. Disengaged. He didn’t seem interested in the hookers. He didn’t seem interested in anything at all.

  Kavlak was still wearing a grin wide as the Brooklyn Bridge so Ophelia decided to make the introductions. ‘I’m Sapphire,’ she said, before gesturing to Evelyn. ‘And this is Charity.’ />
  She was putting on her best French accent. Both spies were fluent French speakers. That was part of their cover. Most of the high-class escorts in Malta were Russian, or Romanian, or French. There were a few Spanish girls, and one or two Portuguese. But absolutely no English. If they’d walked in with their natural Thames estuary accents, that would have been an instant red flag to the targets. Their French accents weren’t perfect. But they were passable. Good enough to fool a couple of Serbs who’d probably never set foot in Paris.

  Petrovich narrowed his eyes at Ophelia. ‘You’re French?’

  ‘Oui. From Lille.’

  ‘We asked for two Romanian girls.’

  Ophelia wore a blank expression and shrugged indifferently. ‘There must have been some mistake at the agency or something.’

  ‘They would have called.’ Petrovich looked to Kavlak. ‘They would have said something, uncle. Surely?’

  Kavlak hesitated. Ophelia moved towards him. Reached down with her hand and stroked his balls. ‘Relax, honey. We’re much better than those Romanian girls. I’m sure we could teach you big boys a thing or two.’

  Kavlak’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ve never fucked a French woman.’

  ‘Then you’re in for a treat tonight.’

  Kavlak smiled. He managed to tear his gaze away from the women and looked back at Petrovich. ‘Dejan. Show some fucking manners and make these ladies a drink, eh?’

  Ophelia and Evelyn planted themselves down on the sofa while Petrovich rooted around in the kitchen cupboards. The kid returned a few moments later with a bottle of Russian Standard Gold vodka and four smeared tumblers. He set down the tumblers on the coffee table and poured a generous measure into each one. Kavlak scooped up his glass and nodded at the hookers, still grinning.

  ‘First we drink. Then we fuck. Zivio Ziveli, as we say in Belgrade.’

  He tipped half the drink down his gullet and ahhhed. Ophelia and Evelyn sipped their drinks, not wanting to blow their cover but trying to stay as sober as possible. Then Petrovich set down his glass and stood up.

  Kavlak looked up at him and said, ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going?’

  Petrovich said, ‘Need to take a piss, uncle.’

  ‘Make it quick, eh? Don’t keep these ladies waiting. They’re on the clock.’

  The kid trudged down the hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom at the far end of the penthouse. Ophelia watched him slip inside the toilet. Then she looked carefully at Evelyn and indicated Kavlak with her eyes. Evelyn understood immediately. She took another swig of her vodka then manoeuvred around the coffee table, swinging her hips and smiling teasingly as she took Kavlak by the hand.

  ‘Come on, big boy. I want to dance.’

  Kavlak let Evelyn guide him to the space between the sofas and the hallway. There was a hi-fi on the wall and she hit Play. Eurodance music started pumping out of the speakers. Ophelia recognised the tune. 2 Unlimited. ‘No Limit’. Evelyn started grinding up against the Serb, running her hand down to his groin and fondling his crotch. Kavlak’s face was one big grin. He grabbed Evelyn’s arse and buried his head in her tits. He had his back turned to the sofa.

  Now, thought Ophelia.

  She reached for her clutch purse and quietly popped it open. Her heart beat faster as she retrieved the two vials from her bag. Each vial was filled with a couple of grams of GHB. The dosage was hard to get right, but one or two grams would be enough to put the Serbs into a dizzying spiral of nausea and violent convulsions and loss of motor function. By the time they realised their drinks had been spiked, it would be too late for them to do anything. They would be out cold.

  Ophelia glanced up quickly at Evelyn, making sure she was keeping the older Serb distracted. She took the first vial and unscrewed the cap, carefully tapping the powder into Kavlak’s half-finished drink. Then she took the second vial and tipped it into Petrovich’s glass.

  Ophelia was almost done emptying the vials when she heard a voice at her three o’clock.

  ‘What the fuck . . .?’

  She froze. Looked up. Saw a figure standing in the hallway, staring at her.

  Petrovich.

  THIRTY

  2019 hours.

  A cold beat passed between the spies and the Serbs. 2 Unlimited kept playing. Singing about how there’s no limit. Over and over. Kavlak let go of Evelyn’s arse. He looked inquiringly at his nephew. Then he turned towards Ophelia. Saw the empty vial in her hand. Blinked. Ophelia could almost see the gears grinding behind his dim, small eyes. His face contorted with sheer rage. The muscles on his neck bunched. His veins looked like bulges in a couple of water hoses. He breathed heavily through his flared nostrils, his shovel-like hands closing up into fists the size of kettle bells.

  ‘The fuck is this? You trying to drug us, bitches?’ Kavlak swung his gaze towards Evelyn, stepped towards her. ‘That’s your fucking plan, eh? Knock us out and steal our shit?’

  Evelyn tried to back away. Before she could move out of range Kavlak took a swing at her, driving his balled fist into her stomach. Evelyn jackknifed and let out a pained gasp as the air rushed out of her lungs. She staggered backwards, clutching her tummy. Kavlak took a half-step towards her and dropped his right shoulder, slamming his fist into the spy’s face. Evelyn groaned. Her head snapped back, her jawbone crashing into the roof of her skull. Her legs buckled and she fell backwards, crashing into the hi-fi unit.

  Ophelia reacted in an instant, reaching for her purse. In the same blur of motion Petrovich pounded across the hallway and flew at her with his fists. He was on Ophelia in a flash, knocking her away from the coffee table before she could grab the transponder. A sharp pain exploded down her spine as she crash-landed on her back on the hardwood floor. Petrovich rushed forward before Ophelia could scrape herself off the floor and kicked her in the ribs, screaming at the top of his voice.

  ‘Fucking bitch! Lying whore!’

  Petrovich swung his foot at Ophelia again. This time she read the move and kicked out at him, driving her heel up into his balls. Petrovich whimpered in agony and folded at the waist, hissing between his clenched teeth as his face shaded red with pain. Now Ophelia scrabbled to her feet and grabbed one of the glasses from the table, smashing it against the side of the Serb’s head. The tumbler shattered into tiny fragments. Petrovich stumbled backwards, the blood pouring out of the wound to his temple in a hot red gush. The Serb clamped a hand to his head to stop the bleeding. Ophelia knew she had a second to activate the transponder. Maybe less. She grabbed her purse while Petrovich hissed with pain, swearing under his breath as he shook his head clear. Ophelia’s hands were shaking as she fumbled inside for the transponder. She found it. Clamped her hand around the button.

  She activated the transponder a split second before Petrovich shoved her to the ground.

  This time Ophelia couldn’t fight back. Petrovich stamped on her guts then clasped a huge hand around her wrist, yanking her roughly to her feet. The blood was still trickling down his face. His ugly, thin features were screwed up into a look of twisted rage. He gripped Ophelia tightly and nodded at Kavlak. The older Serb had Evelyn pinned against the wall, a hand clamped around her throat. She was struggling to breathe.

  ‘What should we do with these bitches, uncle?’ Petrovich asked.

  Kavlak eased his grip a little on Evelyn’s throat. ‘Tie them up and take them into the bedroom.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll teach these whores not to fuck with us. We’ll teach them good.’

  2021 hours.

  Forty metres away, Porter saw the transponder light flashing red.

  For a second he didn’t move.

  Shit, he thought.

  ‘Shit,’ said Bald.

  The blinking light could only mean one thing. The spies were in deep shit. The op had gone south. They needed to move, and fast.

  ‘Fucking go!’ Porter shouted.

  The two operators scrambled out of the Alfa and pounded across the street towards the apartment block. From the team’s previo
us recces of the surrounding area Porter knew there was a fire escape located at the rear of the building, down an alley that ran between St Paul’s and Triq Il-Merkanti. They could use the staircase to climb up to the rooftop and drop down to the balcony outside the penthouse.

  Porter bolted around the side of the apartment block and hung a right, moving at a fast pace towards the alley. He could feel his heart beating furiously inside his chest. He hit the alley in a dozen quick strides and ducked into it a few steps ahead of Bald, sweeping past the dumpsters overflowing with rubbish and the brownish puddles. There was no lighting down the alley and he could barely make out the ladder at the bottom of the fire escape fifteen metres away. Porter broke into a run towards it. Thinking, Thirty seconds since the spies sounded the alarm.

  The Serbs wouldn’t fuck about, he knew. Not once they realised that Ophelia and Evelyn had been trying to dope them. They’d start beating the spies senseless, demanding answers. It wouldn’t be long before the wigs came off. Once that happened, the Serbs would realise they’d been deliberately targeted. They would show no mercy to their victims then. They’d put the drop on the pair of them.

  Porter raced towards the ladder, the stench of rubbish choking the mild evening air. There was a bricked-up window on the ground floor of the building, just below the fire escape ladder, with a small ledge jutting out at the bottom. Porter boosted himself up onto the window ledge and then reached up with both arms, grabbing the overhanging ladder rail and planting his feet firmly on the bottom rung. Then he started clambering up the ladder towards the lowest horizontal platform on the escape.