Adrian Magson - Execution

He squeezed the trigger twice.

The Walther sounded horribly loud, the gunshots echoing all around him and battering the air. He wondered how good the local cops were at responding to late-night gunfire. Not great, he hoped; they needed time to get clear and away.

The Russian was slammed back against the 4X4, dropping his weapon. For a second he hung there, scrabbling with his feet to stay upright. Then the massive shock invaded his system, overpowering his muscles and co-ordination, and he slid sideways and hit the ground.

Harry turned and ran. He wouldn’t get a better chance. Staying on the grass, he used the trees to give himself cover from the street and the driver of the 4X4, who was shouting for backup. Dodging through the bushes, he kept the street within sight, wondering how far away Katya was now. She was young and fit, and would cover the ground quickly. But the men following, if the 4X4 had been full, would split up, reducing her chances of escape in an area that was wide open with few hiding places on the streets, unless she was lucky enough to find an open door.

He hit an open space and saw a junction in the street ahead, and fifty yards further on, a bulky figure trotting along, hugging an apartment block. The man was carrying a gun.

Harry whistled. The man didn’t hear him at first, so he whistled again, and ran for the trees on the far side of the open space. It put him in a shooting gallery, and the man didn’t waste time in responding. He turned and fired twice, then again. But the shots didn’t come near, the man’s aim spoiled by his body twisting.

Harry hit the trees and carried on through. The gunman would no doubt expect him to stay still, using the cover to wait for pursuit and pick off anyone who followed. But that wasn’t the game plan. He angled towards the street and burst out of the trees, and saw the gunman crouched in the angle of the building, waiting to take a shot. But he was looking slightly off, his gun following his line of sight.

Harry fired once, aiming low. He didn’t expect to hit the man, but to scare him. It worked. The man shouted and jumped as the wall beside him erupted into fragments with the force of the bullet, then turned and scurried back in the direction he’d come from.

Katya was running along a wide street, her footsteps echoing off the nearest building, her breathing coming louder as her energy levels diminished. Somehow her instincts had deserted her, and she had made a wrong turn. Now she was in a wide space, almost a boulevard between two large apartment blocks with no obvious cover. If she didn’t get off this street soon, they would catch her. Or simply use her as target practice and shoot her down.

She saw an opening in the building on her right. It looked like an access way for maintenance vehicles to get into the heart of the building, where rubbish was dumped down chutes for collection. But when she turned into it, she saw it was a tunnel running through the building to the other side. Maybe there was a doorway down there, somewhere she could hide until they gave up and moved on.

She ran into the gloom. There were only a couple of dim lights on the wall to show the way, and she slowed her pace to avoid obstacles. At the end of the tunnel she could see a boulevard just like the one she had left. It wasn’t much better than where she had come from, but it was a chance; perhaps the only one she had.

Then, with just twenty yards to go, a man stepped around the corner and into the light.

It was Bronyev.

Katya gave a cry of despair. This wasn’t supposed to end this way! All that training, all the set-piece exercises at the academy, the live firing, all the scenarios they had gone through over and over again to speed up reactions to events like this.

She skidded to a halt, bringing up her gun, her breath catching harshly in her throat as she tried to swallow against the dryness. She felt exhausted, as much by fear as by the running, a counter to the adrenalin rush earlier when she had first seen the men arrive.

She stared at Bronyev, wondering what he was doing here. Deep down, though, she knew there could be only one reason: he knew her better than anyone else, and had been ordered to being her back. She desperately didn’t want to shoot a close colleague, a man who had trained in exactly the same way as her and with the same beliefs; but right now she was faced with no choice. If he tried to stop her, she would have to shoot. There was too much to lose otherwise.

‘Wait!’ Bronyev was holding his hands out from his sides, his voice low and urgent. ‘I’m not here to stop you, Katya.’ He looked, in spite of the situation, relaxed and in control, yet wary. And she realised that he hadn’t got his gun out.

‘Why not?’ she asked, gulping air. The gun felt slippery with sweat in her hand, its slim shape like a toy. ‘It’s your job. You have to do it.’

‘Yours, too. Or had you forgotten?’ He was breathing visibly too, although whether from the chase or nerves, she couldn’t tell.

‘Was,’ she replied, and sagged against the nearest wall. ‘The job changed, you know? Things changed.’ That made her sound idiotic. She couldn’t explain and didn’t have time. He probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. He was infinitely more of a product of the system than she was.

‘Like the English woman?’

Katya felt herself go cold. He knew?

‘What do you mean?’ An automatic form of denial. It was all she could think of to say.

‘Come off it, Katya. Sorry — I suppose I should call you lieutenant. But I’m not a fool. I heard the rumours about your. .’ He paused and waved a vague hand.

‘Indiscretion? It’s all right, you can say it.’ She risked a glance over her shoulder. If the other men showed up now, she was dead.

‘Yes, that. And that’s all they are for the most part — rumours. Not to me, though. I have a sister who’s gay, you see, so I know. But I couldn’t care less. There are some up the ladder who think you’ll get it out of your system one day and. . well, get your focus back. Daft, I know.’ He shrugged and looked embarrassed at the absurdity of it.

Katya nearly laughed. God in heaven, what a bunch of dinosaurs! Could they really be that stupid? Did they think she was possessed of a fever ? Didn’t they know this was the twenty-first century? That there were actually gays in modern Russia, just like the rest of the world?

‘It’s not entirely their fault,’ said Bronyev sympathetically. ‘They actually want to believe we’re all perfect citizens, fitting the world they’ve created for us.’

‘There’s no such thing,’ Katya snapped. ‘Any fool knows that. Don’t they ever look around them?’

‘Outside the FSO, probably not. You’re right. But they want us to be perfect, that’s my point. Makes them look good.’

‘Christ, what are you, Bronyev — a closet sociologist? That’s worse than being gay!’

He smiled. ‘Just trying to make my way, that’s all. And to help you.’

‘So why this chat? Are you telling me you’re sympathetic?’

‘Why not? Like I said, my sister’s gay — and she’d never forgive me if I told her I’d stood in your way or tried to bring you in.’ He cleared his throat, and Katya thought he looked a little sad. ‘I love my sister, you see. I look out for her. I know how tough it is for her every day, everywhere she goes. We live in a very unforgiving place, you know that?’ He looked around, checking the space behind him. ‘Thing is, saying that makes me less than perfect, too, in their eyes. Join the club, huh?’

She stared at him, wondering if he wasn’t simply trying to string her along, to get her to drop her guard. But he merely looked back, waiting. Then she knew he was speaking the truth. And wondered how she’d never realised before. No wonder he had never come onto her, never tried to share down-time with her on assignments when their charges were tucked up safely in their hotels or embassies, or handed over to the care of another team. Not once had he made an improper remark or stepped over the line the way so many other men did, their intentions thinly coated in coarse humour. Somehow she had got used to that, being part of the barrack room system, knowing from early on that to respond in a negative fashion every time would mark her out for ever more ugly treatment as word got around that she could be easily wound up.