A. Zander - Moscow City

They all ducked as the sound of a gunshot burst into the air. Cohen and Russell rounded the corner. The WPC’s body lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the road. They ran forward and Russell knelt down next to the body.

“She’s gone guv.”

“Shit.”

There were several stage doors and a small café dotted along the road. They walked up slowly, keeping flat to the wall. Cohen reached out and pulled at one of the handles. It opened towards him. He looked inside and saw the lock had been forced off its hinges. “He must be in here.”

“Wait,” said Russell. He ran back down towards the main road and came back up with two pistols. He handed one to Cohen and made sure his own was loaded. They crept round the door and moved into the gloomy corridor. Racks of costumes lined the walls. Cohen pushed an elaborate feather jacket out of the way as he moved. Dust from the old clothes filled the air.

They both span round as the door creaked behind them.

Morton raised his hand in apology as he entered the corridor and shut the stage door behind him. The three of them moved further into the theatre until they reached two black doors.

“This must lead upstairs,” said Morton. “I’ll go this way and you two head towards the stage.” He opened the door and disappeared. Cohen motioned to Russell to follow him and they walked through into a changing room. A line of mirrors and desks covered with make-up bottles lined the room. A mannequin with a beehive wig sat in a chair in the middle of the room, naked from the waste down. Russell pointed at an open door leading to the stage and walked towards it, pointing his gun ahead of him. He stopped briefly before walking out next to the curtain. He spotted the shadowy figure of Morton creeping along between the seats in the upper tier. Russell moved towards the centre of the stage, struggling to see ahead of him in the dark. A bang came out of the darkness, magnified by the acoustics and Russell felt a sharp pain in his left knee.

“Turn the fucking light on!” Cohen shouted towards Morton. Morton ran to the booth at the back of the seats and flicked as many switches as he could. A purple light finally soaked the stage and Russell lay in the centre, grasping his leg and wailing in pain. Alpha stood a few metres away with his gun pointed downwards.

“Take the gun off him!” said Cohen, pistol prone.

“You know how long I worked for today?” said Alpha.

“Put the gun down Tremaine.”

“I worked my whole life for today. I gave everything.”

Cohen stepped forward. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“You think you have the country’s best interests at heart.” Alpha took a step forward, still looking down at Russell. “But you’re wrong.”

Cohen tightened his grip on the trigger.

“People like me are necessary. Every country has people like me. It’s just in some places they admit it and in others we are kept in the shadows. But the shadows are where the world is run from. You’ll realise that in time, then you’ll come running to people like me.”

Cohen ran forward as Alpha slid the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. A splatter of purple-tinged liquid shot up towards the lights and scattered around the back of the stage. Alpha’s knees hit the floor and he toppled forward with a thud.

“An ambulance would be nice,” said Russell, clutching his knee.

“I’m on it,” said Pearce, grabbing his phone from his pocket.

Morton came rushing down the aisle from the back of the theatre and jumped up on to the stage. “That’s one person I won’t miss.”

“Me neither,” said Russell. “Wait. Where’s Harper?”

Morton put his finger on Alpha’s pulse. “He bolted straight after the speech. Must have seen something I didn’t.”

“Or someone.”

The front door to St Paul’s Cathedral was ajar as Harper slowed to a walk and approached the entrance. He scanned the square in front of him for Varndon’s lanky gait. A couple of stray tourists and a street sweeper were the only people left after the offices had cleared out. A piece of paper pinned to the wall showed that visiting hours had ended five minutes previously. Harper pulled the heavy door open and stepped inside. The temperature was a few degrees below the street and he felt a chill on his neck. He pulled the door closed behind him and put down the metal bar, locking it from the inside. The evening light shined down from the dome onto the walls below. Harper moved forward, his senses on high alert for noise or movement up ahead. He flinched as a faint moan came from behind the chairs to his left. He looked over and saw a priest’s black shoe jutting out of the gangway. He turned him over and checked his breathing. The pulse was strong, but blood seeped form a nasty looking head wound. Harper sat him up against the wall and waited until he opened his eyes.

“Drink this,” he said, passing him a cup of water from a nearby fountain. The priest took a sip and winced in pain. The sound of metal on stone screeched out from somewhere inside the building and Harper jumped back to his feet. He crept forward, using the pillars as cover. He took his gun out of his belt, crouched down and moved further towards the cathedral’s centre.

“Miiissshhkkaaa.” The sound of Varndon’s voice was faint and echoed off the walls. “That’s the name you try to forget, isn’t it?”

Harper pressed one ear against the stone and tried to work out which end of the cathedral the voice had come from. He dropped on his front and crawled past some candles into one of the aisles. The smell of smoke had crept down to the floor and under the chairs. Thoughts of Northern Ireland rushed around his mind. He squeezed the sides of his temples as the kid’s face stared into the back of his eyes.

“A killer needs to commit to the vocation Harper.” Varndon’s voice echoed less this time and Harper edged towards the sound, his gun out in front of him. “A lack of commitment will cause a killer to put a gun to his own head in the end. Do you understand what I’m saying little Mishka?”

A feeling of motion swept over Harper’s body. He grabbed the nearest chair leg and screwed his eyes closed, battling to convince his mind that he was static. Varndon kept talking, but the words were no longer audible. The bright colours of the church’s décor turned grey and Harper observed himself from above, crouched on the ground with tears in his eyes. His mind hovered above his body and his fingers reached out to himself. After a few seconds, he felt his mind melding itself back to his flesh. He took deep breaths and steeled himself to keep moving. The sound of a door creaking open howled through the building and Harper ran across the centre of the cathedral, pushing his back up against a pillar on the opposite side. The door slammed shut at the end of one of the wings and he ran towards it, his footsteps slapping on the stone. He was blinded for a second as he ran under a ray streaming through the window. He reached the door, pushed it open and crouched down, investigating the room inside with the barrel of his gun. Sweat dripped onto the metal and dropped off the butt onto the floor. The start of a spiral staircase stood in front of him. He kept moving, sticking to the outside of the steps and pointing the pistol skywards. He moved at the sound of footsteps ahead of him and stopped when they ceased.

“You’re weak Mishka. It sickens me to smell your fear.”

He reached the midway point and looked down to the floor to stave off oncoming nausea. A surge of burning liquid hit his throat and he vomited on the stone. He spat a few times and wiped his mouth before continuing up towards the summit. He took two steps at a time as he heard the door to the roof slam up above him. He knew Varndon was only a few metres away from him as he reached the top, somewhere on the outside of the dome. He stepped out into the open air and snapped his head left and right, looking along the narrow path.