A. Zander - Moscow City

Harper straightened his stance and looked at Ashansky. “I’d be more willing to listen to a lesson in morality from someone without so much blood on his hands.”

“You want to talk about killing? Well, that’s something you know all about little Mishka.” Harper looked towards Ashansky’s man, who was pointing a gun towards his chest.

“What? You want to try something? Go ahead. It will save me the hassle. We can just dump you in this fucking water right now.”

Harper put his hands in his pockets.

“No? I thought not.”

They pushed him back towards the door. Several guns were pointing in his direction when they got back inside.

“Now I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything stupid for the rest of the journey,” said Varndon. “We could do without any nastiness with all these people around.” Harper looked at Vitsin. He was concentrating on the floor and fidgeting with the zip on his jacket. He stayed that way until the ferry began to slow on the approach to Macau. The boat edged sideways into the terminal, coming to a stop next to a raised wooden platform. Ashansky’s men flanked the group as they made their way downstairs and Gershov herded Russell and Cohen alongside Harper.

“Good party,” said Russell. “Thanks for the invite.”

“Care to tell us what the hell’s going on?” said Cohen, stepping out onto the gangplank. Harper ignored them and walked ahead. A line of vans waited in the empty car park with more of Ashansky’s men inside.

“Why don’t you let them go?” said Harper, pointing at Cohen and Russell. “It’s not them you want, it’s me.”

“You know what I want?” said Ashasnky. “I want all my enemies dead. And that includes them.”

“It’s good that you think about your enemies,” said Harper. “Some people can get complacent in that respect. Forget who they’ve wronged.”

“What are you talking about?”

Harper stopped. “Do you remember Northern Ireland Leonid?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Do you ever think what those guns you supplied were used for?”

“Who gives a shit.”

“The IRA gives a shit.”

“Yeah? Fuck the IRA.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you.”

A whistling sound shot through the air followed by a small thud. As the group looked around for the origin, a second bullet hit Gershov’s face and he dropped to his knees and crashed to the floor. A flurry of sniper fire filled the air and Ashansky’s men reached desperately for their guns. Harper grabbed Cohen and Russell and ran back towards the boat, taking cover behind a concrete pillar. They watched as Ashansky’s men dropped to the floor like dominoes. The men in the vans returned fire towards a building on the opposite side of the street, but their potshots bounced back off the brick.

“Get back,” said Harper, grabbing Cohen’s coat and pulling them towards the terminal. “And get your heads down.”

An explosion ripped through the vehicles, sending shards of metal hurtling through the air. Half of one of the vans crashed back down onto the road and scattered flames across the car park. Harper raised his head and saw Ashansky slumped on the floor, crawling towards them, his trousers soaked in blood from a bullet wound to the leg. A man with a shock of blonde hair was approaching him from behind, a pistol with a silencer in his left hand. Ashansky crawled faster, looking towards them, terror in his eyes. He stopped moving as the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple.

“Mishhhkkaaaaaaaa!” The bullet hit his skull and his face hit the concrete. The gunman nodded to Harper and ran back towards the road, jumping into a getaway vehicle and speeding away from the terminal.

“Come on, let’s move,” said Russell.

“Wait,” said Harper. “Where’s Vitsin? Where’s Varndon?”

They looked amongst the carnage. Plumes of heavy, black smoke billowed out from the vans and into the air. Both were gone.

“We have to go,” said Cohen. “Come on.”

“We can’t leave without Vitsin.”

“Forget Vitsin,” shouted Russell. “Let’s get out of here.”

Harper looked across the wreckage, but there was no sign of Vitsin’s slight frame. Cohen grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the road. The three of them ran across the road, jumped a barrier and headed under a small bridge. A security guard shouted at them in Mandarin from a nearby building. They quickened their pace, jogging along a flyover and climbing down some metal steps into a coach park below. The screech of sirens got closer as they listened to hordes of police cars making their way to the terminal.

“So I suppose we played a part in that trap?” said Cohen.

“I needed you there so they’d let their guard down,” said Harper. “I’m sorry, but there was no other way.”

They broke into a sprint as the sirens got louder behind them. Passengers were disembarking their coaches and wandering towards the chaos and hardly noticed the three westerners running in the opposite direction. Harper and Cohen slowed up as Russell started to drop behind. They walked across the road towards the water, trying to act as natural as possible.

“The Irishmen are friends of yours then are they?” said Cohen.

“I wouldn’t say friends,” said Harper. “We had a mutual interest.”

“Shush,” said Russell. “What’s that?” They all stopped walking and looked around.

“What’s what?” said Harper.

“It sounds like a big fan.”

They listened closer, shuffling out into the middle of the empty road. A flash of light lit up the gloom as the helicopter’s spotlight bathed them in a yellow glow. Police cars screeched round the corners from both directions and skidded to a stop beside them.

“Put your hands up,” said Harper.

The urban sprawl of West London appeared as the plane broke through the clouds and descended on Heathrow. Harper twisted his wrists to relieve the chafe from the handcuffs while the Hong Kong detectives sitting either side of him maintained their watch. His mind raced, making it hard to concentrate on any one thing. Cohen and Russell were on the opposite side of the closed-off business class section, flanked by more police. The plane bounced a little as the wheels touched down on the runway, jerking everyone forwards.

“Welcome to London Heathrow. Local time is….”

They sat while the economy passengers exchanged pleasantries with the air stewardesses and filed out. Harper sucked in a deep lungful of chilly London air as they walked out onto the top of the steps. It was good to be home, even with the prospect of a jail cell hanging over him. The other passengers had been herded onto a bus and were heading to the terminal.

“So?” said Harper to the detectives as they stood on the tarmac. They ignored him and looked over towards the main building. Two police cars and an unmarked Ford were making their way towards them. The vehicles parked up next to the plane and Harper recognized the familiar figure of Deputy Commissioner Bailey step out of the first marked car. She spoke briefly with the senior Hong Kong detective and Cohen and Russell were put in the back seats, still in handcuffs. Bailey pointed at Harper and then to the Ford.

“What, no hello?” he shouted towards Bailey. The Deputy Commissioner paused briefly, shook her head and climbed back inside the car. Harper felt a shove in his back. One of the Hong Kong detectives pushed his head down and bundled him into the back seat of the Ford, closing the door behind him. There were three men in the car and two of them were pointing guns at him.

“You move and we shoot,” said the man next to him. “You say anything out of turn and we shoot. You breathe a bit too fucking heavily and we shoot. Got it?”