Tim Stevens - Severance Kill

Or, perhaps Janos was a lot sharper than he’d realised, and had taken up position out of sight around the parking lot with his men, waiting for Calvary to give up on him and emerge into the street where he’d be an easy target.

He’d kept the phone switched on, half expecting a call from Janos to plead for more time. There’d been nothing.

On his other phone, Max’s text message buzzed. Middle-aged couple just walked past. Otherwise, zip.

A moment later the phone rang: Nikola. ‘It is him. Janos. He is alone, walking towards the entrance.’

Calvary cut her off and speed-dialled Max’s number. ‘Max. Nikola’s seen Janos. Anyone else round the back?’

‘Hold on.’ Max said. ‘Yeah. Four guys. Look like hoods. They’re waiting by the wall at the rear.’

Calvary said, ‘What are they wearing?’

‘Huh? Long coats. Why’s it matter?’

‘They’re packing serious firepower. Concealing it.’

Nikola’s call came through. ‘He has gone in.’

From his position behind the car Calvary could hear the echo of footsteps. It sounded as though they were coming from the stairwell.

Janos had been instructed to come alone, so he had to ensure his backup men hung back. On the other hand, they had to be close by enough that they could respond if he was attacked. Calvary listened to the footsteps pause, then resume, then pause once more. As if somebody, presumably Janos, was climbing the stairs and stopping cautiously at each floor to glance into the open space. Calvary had told him to go up to the roof but Janos would naturally suspect that he might be ambushed on the way up.

The footsteps approached and stopped. From behind the car Calvary could hear slow breathing. He waited until he could no longer sense the human presence a few feet away from him and crept forward, peering round the end of the car.

Janos was starting to climb the steps leading up to the roof.

Calvary moved fast, running at a soft-footed crouch towards the doorway and reaching the first step before Janos half turned, his mouth ope {hist, ning in surprise.

The phone went, then, Calvary’s, and although it was a tiny buzz he allowed it to distract him for a split-second too long. Janos scrambled backwards, bringing up his own phone which he already had in his hand and yelling a single word into it.

Calvary dived for the man’s legs and caught them and sent him sprawling on the steps as the shouting began below, several floors down. He got to his feet first and hauled Janos up by the collar of his jacket, pressing the muzzle of the Browning against his forehead.

The first shots came, then, a volley of three or four followed by another three from a gun with a different sound, the hollow interior of the parkhouse amplifying the noise so that the concrete seemed to shake beneath Calvary’s feet. He heard a scream and another shot but there was no time to dwell on what it meant, because he needed to get Janos up on the roof.

He half-dragged, half-shoved the younger man towards the perimeter wall, also chest-high as it was on the lower floors. On the way he kept the Browning pressed into Janos’s back, letting go his collar for a moment to reach into his waistband and pull out the gun he found there and toss it spinning away across the concrete.

‘Get on the wall.’

‘What?’

‘You heard.’ Calvary motioned with the barrel of the Browning. ‘Up.’

Janos clambered on to the ledge. It was perhaps two feet across. He stood facing Calvary, terror stark in his face. He rocked in the wind.

Calvary stepped back and sideways, so that the stairwell they’d come up was on the periphery of his vision.

‘First off, you lied to me. You said there was no backup outside.’

‘There isn’t.’

‘What do you call that shooting downstairs, then? Unfortunately for you, it means I’m going to have to rush things.’ Calvary cocked the hammer. ‘The first shot goes into your foot. You should just about be able to keep your balance. But it’ll make it harder to stay standing.’

Janos shuffled his feet as though that would protect them. ‘You cannot — ’

‘I can, and I will.’ Calvary gripped the pistol two handed. ‘Unless you tell me where you’re keeping Gaines.’

‘I do not know.’ The answer came quickly, almost shouted out.

‘Wrong answer.’

Calvary fired, the sound of the shot ringing off into the morning air. He’d aimed at the very tip of Janos’s expensive-looking loafer. Janos shrieked, his leg jerking up, and toppled back, arms pinwheeling. Calvary was prepared for it and his hand flashed out, gripping Janos by the forearm, hauling him back so that he dropped into a sitting position on the wall. He clutched his foot, staring down at the bloody leather, whimpering.

‘Up on your feet.’

This time Janos didn’t del { diis ay. He staggered, wincing, keeping the weight on his good foot.

‘I’ll ask once more. Where’s Gaines?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know. I am not lying.’ The words were gabbled, sobbed. ‘My father would not tell me.’

Calvary almost wanted to laugh.

‘So you’ve fouled up so badly your dad doesn’t trust you any more.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Well, in that case you’re of no use to me, are you?’

‘Wait.’ The leg Janos was balancing on had started to shake. In his eyes was a pathetic eagerness. ‘There is something. My father has a contact. A Russian intelligence agent.’

Calvary thought he saw movement at the door, but there was nothing there. He nodded at Janos.

‘Go on.’

‘This agent told him about Gaines. Said he was of great importance to the Russians. My father arranged to take Gaines down. He had a man phone him and invite him to a meeting, said it was to discuss something in his past.’ He swallowed stickily, having to raise his voice against the wind. ‘We were waiting for Gaines at the meeting point. Gaines was on his way to the meeting when this agent, my father’s contact, said he was on a tram and that there were other Russians, the agent’s colleagues, on his trial. We decided to hit the tram rather than wait, in case the Russians moved in first.’

Calvary showed nothing on his face, but he thought: yes, it makes sense .

He said, ‘What’s this Russian’s name?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never met him. My father calls him the Worm. Pays him. He probably knows where Gaines is being held.’

Calvary saw movement from the corner of his eye, at the stairwell. He got janos by the collar again and hauled him forwards off the ledge, swinging him across and bringing the gun up to the side of his head.

From the stairwell two men had emerged, both dressed in the long leather coats Max had mentioned. One levelled his shotgun at waist height. The other sighted down the length of a pistol.

They stepped forward.

Tamarkin made his decision after Calvary and his people had been inside the car park fifteen minutes.

He dialled. Blazek answered on the third ring, clearly groping up from the depths of sleep. Tamarkin had a brief image in his mind of the Kodiak, hairy paunch corseted in a string vest. It was only marginally less unpleasant than the idea of him in congress with that trophy wife of his, his crass bulk bellowing away on top of her.

‘I can give you the man you’re looking for. I’m sitting outside a multi-storey car park, and he’s in there.’

‘Hold on.’ D ~tting outsown the line came sounds of exertion, fumblings for bedside lamps and the like. ‘Yeah, go on.’

‘A little quid pro quo first, Bartos.’

‘What?’

‘Insurance for me. I want you to tell me where you’re keeping Gaines.’

‘What?’