A. Zander - Moscow City

Lonaghan took his hat off and walked up to Alpha’s desk, looking down into the old man’s eyes. “Just remember that the bodies that are littering the path on your climb to the summit of this organisation may come back to haunt you if you forget who your friends are.”

“I didn’t think threats were your style Tom.”

“They’re not.”

Harper waited for Nikolaev to disappear before emerging from behind the banner. An eclectic mix of religious statues and oriental ornaments packed the shop. He looked around and his eyes settled on the far wall, where a selection of Japanese weapons adorned the shelves. Harper picked up a miniature Tanto sword and pulled the weapon from its sheath. He ran his finger along the blade and felt it cut into his skin.

“How much?” he said to the shop owner, who looked up from reading a magazine.

Harper gave him some cash and slipped the blade into his inside jacket pocket. The smell of apple tobacco filled the air. He walked over and looked into the front of the cafe, but the place was deserted. He opened the door and locked it behind him, pulling down the small blind. A white and grey canary twittered behind the counter, hopping along its metal bar. The cage stood in front of a small archway on the back wall, which was covered by a thick curtain. There were no others exits or entrances. Harper stepped lightly as he walked over towards it. He listened first and then pulled the curtain back just enough to see through. There were more tables and chairs, but the room was a lot smaller. He pulled the curtain back a little more and saw the back of one of the Russians, standing at the top of a flight of stairs.

He put his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out the blade.

Japanese symbols stretched along the length of the metal. A small drop of Harper’s blood had dribbled down and stained the silver. He looked through the curtain again. The Russian stood with his hands behind his back, looking to the bottom of the stairs. Harper clamped the knife firmly in his hand. He opened the curtain a bit more, pushing the blade through first. The Russian was only a couple of metres away from him, back straight and feet shoulder-width apart in a military style. As Harper moved forward, the canary launched itself at the side of its cage. The Russian spun around at the sound of feathers banging against the wire and reached for his gun. Harper lunged at him, grabbing the front of his shirt and driving the knife up through the bottom of his jaw and into his skull. The Russian’s body tensed and his eyelids flickered as Harper held him up, waiting for the life to drip out of him. He squeezed Harper’s shoulders and collapsed forward. Harper dragged the body to the side and crouched down in the corner. He heard footsteps and a second Russian came flying out of the stairwell with his gun drawn. Harper ran at him and lodged the knife in between two of the vertebrae in his lower back. The man’s legs went limp and he squealed in pain. The sound evaporated as the knife ran across his throat. Harper took the pistol from the agent’s hand and knelt down, pointing the gun at the top of the stairs.

“Hey policeman,” said a voice in English from the bottom of the stairwell. Harper recognised it as the FSB man from the Katusev house. “Mr British policeman. Come down here. I want to talk with you.”

Harper edged closer to the top of the stairs and looked down. There was a brick wall at the bottom and a room to the left. He kept the gun pointing straight ahead as he descended. He could hear Russian voices muttering in the basement and stopped just short of the bottom.

“Your men are dead,” said Harper. “Give me Vitsin and you won’t go the same way.”

The sound of Nikolaev laughing boomed around the small room and up the stairs. Harper heard a door open and a small canister rolled in front him, spitting grey smoke into the air. He recognized it as CS gas and ran forward with his forearm over his mouth. Professor Ruminenko was slumped in a corner with a bullet in his chest. He was dead. Cooking facilities and a large pile of books sat next to a dirty mattress. A fire exit straight in front of him was ajar. He pushed it open as the CS seeped into his nostrils. Harper bounded up the metal stairs, three at a time and emerged onto the road where he had entered the market. He scoped the area and spotted Nikolaev and one of his agents bundling Vitsin into a black Land Rover. As they sped off, Harper saw Ruminenko’s Renault. He ran back down the stairs, holding his breath, and fished the keys out of the dead professor’s pocket.

“Sorry about this professor.”

He sprinted back to the street in time to see Nikolaev’s car disappear round a corner. He started up the Renault and put his foot down, the car straining to gain speed. His nose started to stream as the gas entered his system. He saw the Land Rover up ahead going through some traffic lights and pushed the gear stick into fourth. The lights started to change so he slammed it into fifth and put his foot flat to the floor. A chorus of horns blared as he careened round the vehicles coming from his left and right. Harper followed them onto the highway and dodged around the other vehicles as best he could in a bid to keep up. He looked up at the signs overhead. They were heading into mainland China.

“Come on you piece of shit,” Harper shouted at the car as Nikolaev edged further into the distance.

He looked up at the sound of a horn blaring up ahead. The Land Rover came back into view as it swerved around behind a large lorry just ahead of a tunnel. The HGV sat stubbornly in the middle of the road as they probed around the edges for a way forward. A sudden crash shattered the windscreen as a bullet hit the Renault. Harper ducked and punched a hole in the broken glass. He peered through the small opening and saw the Land Rover shoot up the inside of the truck. He slammed his foot back on the accelerator and headed for the gap, scraping the side of the car as he emerged into the tunnel. Another bullet hit the windscreen, spraying shards of glass over the seats and into his face. As he looked up, he saw Nikolaev’s agent slide himself out of the back window and fix his aim. Harper turned left and right to shake him, but the barrel stayed trained on him.

“Come on. Take a fucking shot then you wanker.”

His vision was blurred as tears rolled down his face from the CS. The Land Rover slowed down and the agent smiled as he prepared to pull the trigger. Harper closed his eyes as he heard the shot, but the bullet ricocheted off the road. The Land Rover started to shake from left to right and the agent disappeared back inside. Through the back windscreen, Harper saw Vitsin with his arms around Nikolaev’s neck. The Land Rover suddenly crashed into the side of the tunnel and flipped onto its side, sliding down the road until it came to a stop.

Harper pulled up alongside the wreckage. The lorry behind them had stopped and traffic started to back up behind it. The agent with the gun was hanging out the smashed back window, impaled on a shard of glass. Harper mounted the vehicle and pulled open the passenger door. Vitsin’s small frame was crumpled in a heap. Harper stuck a hand in and pulled him out. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and his lip was split. They climbed off the car and Vitsin sat down on the road.

“Are you hurt?” said Harper

“I’m okay,” he replied, wiping the blood from his face.

A group of motorists had gathered near the lorry. Harper pulled out his gun and climbed back onto the car. He opened the driver’s door. Nikolaev was trapped between the steering wheel and his seat. Harper pressed two fingers to the pulse on his neck. As he touched the skin, the Russian snapped awake and went for the gun sitting in his belt. Harper tried to restrain him, but he wrestled himself free and grabbed the weapon from his holster. Harper pushed his own pistol into Nikolaev’s head as the Russian lifted the gun.