by A P Bateman
5
The weapons were all Russian ex-military stock. Perhaps over egging the pudding, now that even the Russian mafia had realised the best quality weapons and most effective calibres were manufactured in the West, but it told a story and the story they wanted to tell was that Romanovitch’s organisation was behind this.
Each man carried a Makarov pistol in 9x18mm. Flymo was driving, so he carried his without a suppressor in a shoulder holster under his lightweight jacket. The other men all had a bulbous suppressor attached to the muzzle of their weapons. Not as quiet as the fantastical, near-silent Hollywood ‘silencers’, but a hell of a lot quieter than without, nonetheless. Mac carried the hatchet, and he’d worked on the blade with a whetstone to give it a razor’s edge. Both Goldie and Philosopher carried AKS-74U machine carbines. Short, powerful, and capable of a fearsome rate of fire. They could also be concealed under their jackets.
The car they had chosen was an Audi S8. Near supercar performance, four-wheel drive, a powerful V8 engine and plenty of room inside. To the south of their location, approximately one mile distant, they had parked a BMW 3 series estate with the keys stored on the driver’s side front suspension spring. A mile to the east, a Ford C-Max was parked in a side street with the keys stored similarly. Neither vehicle was involved in Plan A, but it gave them options if it all went south. Inside both gloveboxes was a loaded pistol and a burner phone with the numbers of each of the men stored on it. Each man had this phone’s number in their own personal burner, so contact could be made with whomever got to the vehicle first, and pickups could be arranged. There was also an envelope containing two-thousand Euros emergency funds, and an extensive gunshot-trauma first aid kit, bottled water and a change of clothes for each of them was stored in a sports bag in the boot. They hoped they would never need either vehicle, but if they did it would mean they would certainly be glad of the precaution.
Rashid had taken up position outside the post office. He was browsing a city map with a ‘you are here’ arrow. He had a comms unit attached to his belt and a wrist mic and earpiece threaded through the sleeve of his jacket.
“Target on route, three minutes…” Mac said, his harsh Glaswegian accent grating in Rashid’s ear.
“Have that,” Rashid replied quietly.
“Two CP’s in a grey Skoda Superb,” Goldie announced. “Should be with you in thirty seconds…”
Rashid waited, counting down in his head. Sure enough, the two close protection operatives drove into view and parked the Skoda under the shade of a cypress tree near the square. Rashid did not look at them, but he could already see Philosopher ambling towards them. He was pretending to talk on the phone, but he checked in on the comms.
“On them in thirty…”
“Second CP unit heading in from the south. Three men. Two up front and one in the back seat,” said Flymo. “With you in thirty…”
“Third team passing me now. Two men,” Goldie said. “Behind the target.”
Rashid watched the black Mercedes E Class sweep in and park on the opposite side of the road to the first close protection team. The third team drove on past and parked at the western edge of the square.
“If the next bodyguards to the party park on the eastern edge, we can keep our arcs of fire pointing outwards, no chance of blue on blue.”
“You wish,” Flymo scoffed, then added, “Fuck me, we’re on. They’re holding back right beside me.”
“You’ll have to go live,” Rashid told him.
“I’m the driver!”
“It’s too good an opportunity to miss.”
“My weapon isn’t silenced, and I’ll never engage three hostiles without getting shot! I’m a fucking pilot!”
“On route to Flymo!” Mac shouted breathily. “ETA two minutes!”
“Not enough time!” Rashid snapped. “The target has debussed and is on foot. I’m moving now…”
Rashid reached across and gripped the butt of the Makarov under his jacket. He turned slowly and started across the cobbled square. He could see Goldie and Philosopher doing the same. Mac ran past the second close protection team and Rashid could see the two men stiffen in their seats, then visibly relax as the red-headed Scotsman shot past as if late for a bus. It worked to Philosopher’s advantage, because the two men were momentarily off guard. Rashid turned his attention to the target, it was up to the others to control their vectors.
“And three… two… one… Go! Go! Go!” Rashid said into his mic and drew his weapon. He aimed the Makarov at the target and fired three shots. Two in the heart and one in the head. With the target down and the others engaging, he scanned to see where he was needed most. He was positioned centrally and could see that each of his men had swerved into the road or the square and had engaged from the inside out, keeping their arcs of fire away from each other, and of the other’s targets. Textbook. Except he could see that Philosopher had taken a knee and was frantically clearing his weapon of a stoppage. Rashid took a knee, too. Making himself a smaller target and enabling a steadier aim. He aimed at the vehicle in front of Philosopher and fired five rounds in quick succession. It was enough to keep the Albanian’s heads down and Philosopher was already springing to his feet and darting behind the car, where he emptied the new magazine through the rear window. The men in the front seats didn’t stand a chance and Rashid saw the windscreen splash red from the inside. Rashid changed over to a new magazine, remained low and surveyed the scene around him.
Behind Rashid, Flymo had taken on the third team with his pistol, but he was taking fire from an automatic weapon and sprinting for a rubbish bin for cover. Mac had arrived and ignored his silenced pistol and gone straight to the Kalashnikov concealed under his jacket. He fired short bursts through the rear windows, and it was over in less than a few seconds. Goldie was already heading in Flymo’s direction, having taken out both of his targets in two double taps with no return fire. He’d be bragging about that one for the duration of the mission.
Rashid turned back to the primary target and looked at the titanium handcuff and chain attaching his arm to the case. Mac had volunteered, and he wasn’t going to argue. He passed Mac as he headed for the car. “Hurry up, we need to get out of here,” he said. Mac said nothing and ran past him, already taking the hatchet out from his belt. He didn’t envy the task, but then again, nobody envied what Rashid had agreed to do next.
Flymo was back inside the Audi and both Philosopher and Goldie had arrived and were taking up positions nearby. Reloaded and watching for more Albanian gang members, ‘have a go heroes’ or the police. Flymo looked up as Rashid neared and popped the boot open. Rashid nodded as he jogged past. He rounded the vehicle and grabbed hold of the man inside, heaving him out.
Igor Yahontov was one of Romanovitch’s most recognised enforcers. He had acted as a go between with the Albanians many times and had gone missing one week previously. He had a predilection for underage girls and satiated his appetite for them in Bulgaria on the Black Sea coast where a casino and hotel used as a front by Romanovitch’s wing of the Russian mafia facilitated such perversions. It was the one factor that had enabled Rashid to cope with the thought of killing an unarmed man. When they had snatched him in the dead of night, Igor Yahontov and two other Russian gang members had been with a twelve-year-old girl and had raped her repeatedly, tying her to the bed and forcing her to do unspeakable things. Bleeding and traumatised, Philosopher had taken her to a nearby hospital and Rashid had made a call to the Georgian embassy, where they would send someone to take care of one of their nationals. Igor Yahontov was vital to their plan and so were the other two, but only by the conspicuousness of their absence. Igor Yahontov had spent a week in the cellar, but the other two men had met their fate soon afterwards, and a shallow grave. Whether it was the heat of the moment, or the fact that Mac had teenage daughters, he had seen to both men and spoken no more about it.
Goldie slashed the tape around the man’s knees and ankles and handed Rashid a captured Glock 19
from one of the Albanian bodyguards, while he set about slicing at the tape around Igor Yahontov’s wrists.
Igor Yahontov was unsteady on his feet. He swayed, blinking as Rashid removed the hood. Rashid said nothing but pushed the man towards the square and raised the pistol. He looked the man in the eye, the image of the young girl coming to him as he fired two shots into the centre of his chest. No head shots. They wanted an easy identification later. Igor Yahontov dropped to the ground and twitched wildly. Rashid could see there was no coming back from the injuries and a merciful shot now would only screw with the forensics. He picked up the two ejected shell casings and walked over to the shot-up Skoda, pressed the pistol into one of the body’s hands and dropped the empty brass cases on the ground. He stood back to see Mac sprinting back with the titanium case in one hand and the axe in the other.
“Right, let’s get out of here,” Rashid said, eyes everywhere, as the rest of the team got into the Audi. He looked back at the body on the ground. It had stopped moving and the first of the brave public were appearing from doorways and sidings, peering out tentatively.
Rashid leaned back in the seat as Flymo accelerated the Audi S8 wildly. He breathed a deep sigh. It was done. They had kicked down the gates of hell and taunted the devil.
Now they needed the devil to reply.
6
The Ural Mountains, Russia
The house was a former palace to the Tsar. It had escaped the uprising of the Bolsheviks and the years of communist rule, chiefly because the communist leaders all enjoyed a little luxury of their own, and partly because of its location and strategic advantages. It had been requisitioned and used as a party meeting place, and then the KGB had used it as a training facility and place to debrief its spies and execute the spies of their enemy. There was rumoured to be over a hundred unmarked graves in the grounds, but Ivan Romanovitch could testify to a great many more. Now that he had made the property his own, part of the hostile takeover the former KGB turned mafia had instigated after the first decade of capitalism to follow the break-up of the Soviet Union, he now used the property as his headquarters, and the security arrangements in place would shame many governments and world leaders.
They had taken lunch on the terrace. Below them, three bikini-clad women swam and frolicked in the pool. They were happy and playful. Cocaine did that to young women. That and the promise of money, a lifestyle otherwise beyond both their peasant means and dreams, and of more cocaine to come. Romanovitch watched them as a pretty service girl brought the silver tray of caviar and blinis to go with the chilled vodka and champagne. They had already eaten slices of homecooked bread, which Romanovitch had sliced off with a serrated bread knife and served with slithers of salted pork fat and grated garlic. He looked up and caught Vasyli leering at her. As the girl left, the man who ran his drugs operation and acted as his chief enforcer watched her walk away, her hips swaying gently.
“What have I told you about the staff?”
“Don’t fuck them,” Vasyli replied.
“A good housemaid or cook is hard to find,” he said, sweeping a hand towards the girls in the pool. “Fuck one of them, if you have to.”
Vasyli grinned. “Any of them?”
Romanovitch shrugged. “The blondes are enjoyable enough, but the brunette doesn’t quite make you believe in her.” He paused. “Try her. If she does not please you, then she can go to one of the whorehouses and I’ll have her replaced. If she does please you, well then, she’s yours.” He smiled. “To do with as you please.”
“But Ivan, it is not my birthday!” the man smiled. He looked past Romanovitch, his smile fading. “They are here…”
“Ah, good.” The gang boss turned and watched two men walking towards them. They were hemmed in by six of Romanovitch’s security. Each of them ex-Spetsnaz – Russia’s toughest soldiers and the world’s largest special forces unit. “I want you to watch this,” he said. “I want you to understand the situation.”
“Boss,” Vasyli nodded, but the frown told Romanovitch the man was none the wiser.
The two men stopped short of the terrace and five of the security men filed off, and the one remaining led the two men to the table. Romanovitch greeted them warmly and asked them to join them. He poured four glasses of vodka and passed the glasses around.
“Na Zdorovie!” he said and downed the shot of vodka in one. The other men did the same and Romanovitch poured four more glasses. “Na Zdorovie!” he said again and downed his measure. The other men did so more slowly, and he laughed.
Romanovitch watched the housemaid walk across the well-manicured lawn and asked her to pour the champagne. He watched her, as did the other men. She was a beautiful young woman of twenty-five and from the Ukraine. He had instructed every one of his men that she was out of bounds. He had enough women around the place. So many that his wife did not bother to visit anymore, preferring their Majorcan retreat in the summer months, and splitting her time between London, Switzerland and their St. Petersburg mansion in the winter.
“Ivan, we are here, we have toasted each other’s health, and now we have business to discuss,” said the larger of the two men.
He was tall and bald and heavily tattooed. He was number two in the Albanian Brotherhood of Kontroll, which did exactly what it promised. It controlled Albanian organised crime. Or as much of it that could be without Russian interference. By contrast, his brother was shorter and more rounded and had a good head of hair. Perhaps their mother had been indiscreet. But whether or not one of them was a bastard, the two men were as close as brothers could get, and he was number three in the brotherhood, and seated beside him, with his eyes on the bottle of chilled vodka.
“Do you care for more of my vodka, Yosef?”
The shorter, more rounded man nodded. “Please…”
Romanovitch waved the girl away as she reached for the bottle to pour. “No, my dear, I have no further use for you today.” He smiled as she nodded and walked away. His gaze lingered for a moment, certainly long enough for the other men around the table to notice. He seemed to realise and shrugged at them, then poured the bottle for Yosef and smiled. “Potato vodka from Kyiv. Double distilled. You like?”
“Very much, thank you.”
“Then you shall have a case when you leave.”
“Thank you, I will toast your health each time I drink it.”
The taller man leaned forward. “As I said, we have much to discuss,” he prompted irritably.
“You dare to interrupt me at my home?” Romanovitch asked, staring at him.
“No, I…”
“You ripped me off!” Romanovitch cut him off. “You failed to deliver on two instalments.”
“Your men stole from us!”
“Four million, five-hundred thousand Euros,” Romanovitch said quietly.
“Exactly!”
Romanovitch smiled at him, but his expression mocked both his surprise and indignation. “You have brought this to me today, with interest? I expect no less than five million.”
“I have come to tell you we will not tolerate…”
“Enough!” Romanovitch slammed his fist on the table. He looked up at both men and said quietly, calmly, “You have not delivered two payments. You take my chemicals, my aluminium filings, so you can make your crystal meth, but you have not delivered what was agreed.”
“Ivan, with respect, your man Igor Yahontov was found dead at the scene of the first attack on our men. Less than an hour later, we were hit again.” He paused. “Igor Yahontov stole your money, not us!”
“And how was Igor able to hit you again, when he was found dead at the scene of the first hit?”
“Because he was a part of it! Because more of your men have turned against you!”
“Igor Yahontov went missing last week, along with two more of my men.”
“Exactly! And the filthy pigs took your money!”
Romanovitch shrugged and nodded, but was quiet for a moment before asking, “Igor Yahontov, do
you have my money?” He cupped his ear and frowned mockingly when there was no answer. “You have no reply.” He shrugged, then pointed at the pair of them in turn. “But you are here, and Igor Yahontov is not.”
“Then we are at a stalemate.”
Romanovitch leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Indeed.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and smiled.
Each of the security guards moved simultaneously. Yosef found two pistols jammed into him, one each side of his neck, while three men subdued his brother and dragged him out of his chair. He struggled at first but stopped struggling when a fourth man pressed the muzzle of his pistol into the nape of his neck.
“I think we are in need of a visual aid here,” said Romanovitch, getting out of his chair. He poured himself a measure of vodka and downed it in one gulp, before picking up the bread knife. The tall, thin man was pressed down onto the lawn and Romanovitch cut the man’s throat, both wrists, then with the help of the three men, turned him over and sliced across the meat of the backs of his thighs until both femoral arteries were severed. The fountain of blood that had spouted from the carotid artery slowed as the other arteries were cut, like turning off a hose.
Romanovitch stepped away from the man and casually took a linen napkin off the table and wiped his hands. Yosef was struggling, but as he watched his brother dying on the grass, he struggled less until the fight drained from him altogether. He got the message. If Romanovitch was going to kill him, then he would have done it by now. And Romanovitch wouldn’t have bothered making a show of cutting across six of the man’s arteries. The Russian had wanted to make a statement. There was no going back, no chance of survival and no negotiating for his brother’s life. From the first cut, his fate had been sealed. The rest of the cuts drove the point home to the surviving brother.
