Tim Stevens - Severance Kill

A limited education , Tamarkin’s research had told him. Wasn’t that the truth.

‘You heard. It’s the least you can do for me, given what I’m about to hand you. Plus, if he gets the better of you and you’re all massacred, at least I know where to find Gaines. Oh, and don’t lie to me. I’ll check it out, and if you’ve lied to me that will be the end of our association. Permanently.’

‘You’re a real little asshole. Ending contact with you will be a pleasure.’ Tamarkin heard the man pulling on clothes.

‘Do you want to know what I’ve got for you or not?’

Blazek told him the address. Tamarkin got him to repeat it, spell it.

‘All right.’

He gave Blazek what he had, including Calvary’s name and the fact he was British. He also told him about the Fiat parked round the front and its registration number.

Afterwards he sat, watching the car park entrance, itching to go in and scout around but knowing it was out of the question. The woman had emerged and returned to the Fiat, where she sat watching. The young man had disappeared round the back. Of Calvary and the other man there was no sign.

At six forty Tamarkin saw a familiar figure appear round a corner and lope towards the car park entrance, hesitating at the barriers and peering upwards. It was Janos.

Now that was interesting.

Tamarkin had called Blazek only fifteen minutes earlier, and would have preferred to wait until the man arrived before making a move of his own. But Janos’s presence here intrigued him. Blazek couldn’t have sent him on his own, so the boy must be here for a different reason.

Tamarkin had the Makarov with him still, as well as a spare ammunition clip. In the footwell, his hands out of sight of the window, he stripped and reassembled the gun.

As he was about to climb out of the car, wondering how he might get to the parkhouse without the woman in the Fiat spotting him, he heard the explosion of gunfire from within.

The woman emerged from the Fiat, stood frozen in fear and uncertainty for a moment, and then began running towards the entrance.

*

Calvary wasn’t afraid of the shotgun. The man wouldn’t riskouln›‹ it, given how the shot would scatter and take Janos with it. The other man’s pistol was a different matter.

He was advancing in slow, relentless steps, the shotgun man lagging close at his shoulder. They cleared half the distance between the door to the roof and the wall where Calvary and Janos stood.

For emphasis, Calvary recocked the Browning.

‘Janos,’ he said. ‘Tell your men to back down. Or I will kill you. Have no doubt about that.’

It all depended on how confident the man was with his pistol. If he was any good, he could conceivably achieve a head shot before Calvary could pull the trigger. It was a gamble, but it might be one he was prepared to make.

Janos said nothing, had started to gibber quietly again. It would probably make no difference if he said anything.

Beyond the two men, at the top of the stairs, there was movement.

Calvary deliberately didn’t look, kept his gaze alternately on each man’s face.

Between their heads, out of focus, a woman appeared at the door.

Nikola.

He wanted to stare straight at her, yell at her to get back, but that was the last thing he could do.

To cover any noise Nikola might make, Calvary kicked at the back of Janos’s injured foot, making him yell. The men had slowed their advance. The one with the pistol said something in Czech. Janos hissed back.

‘What was that?’ Calvary murmured.

‘He ask me move my head out the way. I tell him forget it.’

‘Good advice.’

Beyond the men, Nikola was edging to one side, the Glock raised awkwardly in her hand. If she’d been a professional she would have taken the man with the shotgun down first: he was the more likely to do damage with a wild shot. But she wasn’t a professional, and if she put a foot wrong she was going to get herself — and Calvary, and Janos — killed.

What the hell was she doing up here on her own? Where was Jakub?

A noise, then, back at the door, someone else coming through, and the man with the shotgun jerked his head round.

Probably out of fright, Nikola pulled the trigger of the Glock. The gun bucked in her fist. The man with the shotgun was flung, his upper body twisting, to sprawl near Calvary’s feet. He’d been hit in the belly and he moaned, hand clamped across the wound.

The man with the pistol didn’t flinch, kept it trained on Calvary’s face. Didn’t even turn round. He could have had an army behind him and he wouldn’t have known or, apparently, cared. He had nerve, Calvary had to give him that.

Calvary knew the man was going to risk a shot.

In the middle distance Nikola had the Glock trained on the mannedlvary ’s head. A visible tremor had started up in her arm.

Behind her stood another man, the one who’d made the noise coming through the door. Young, fair haired, pleasant faced. One of the Russians Calvary had seen after he’d ditched the bug in the alley. In his clasped hands, pointed at the ground, he too had a pistol.

Slowly the Russian raised his gun, levelling it at Nikola’s back.

Calvary didn’t know if this qualified as a Mexican standoff, didn’t care. The man aiming the pistol at him expected him to fire, would be anticipating the tightening of his index finger inside the Browning’s trigger guard. So Calvary did the unexpected.

Using his chest he shoved Janos forward as hard as he could. The pistol man was six feet away and Janos stumbled on his injured foot and caromed into the man. At the same time Calvary dived sideways, over the shotgun man who lay jerking and mewling by the wall in a spreading pool. He landed hard on his side and had the Browning up and fitted the shot just past Nikola’s shape, catching the Russian in the lower leg and throwing him spinning into the air. Still on the ground, Calvary pivoted at his waist and fired at the pistol man who had stepped back from Janos’s staggering figure. Calvary’s shot went wide. The man hesitated because shots were coming from over at the stairs and Calvary realised the Russian was shooting, his aim thrown by the fall he’d taken and the agony of his leg wound.

Calvary took aim again and put two bullets into the pistol man’s chest, dropping him. He stood and dived for Janos, who’d found his feet and was limping about, bewildered. Calvary got the Browning up against his head again and yelled, ‘Out the way, out the way,’ to Nikola.

The Russian had hauled himself into a sitting position and was taking aim. Nikola turned and aimed the Glock at him, but the Russian ignored her. Too late, Calvary saw the Russian was aiming not at Nikola or him, but at Janos.

The Russian squeezed off three shots, one going wild, the others punching into Janos’s torso so hard that Calvary felt the man’s body rock. An exit wound sprayed blood across the arm of Calvary’s jacket. He drew a bead and fired, watched the Russian slam back, the gun spinning away across the concrete.

Calvary lowered Janos to the ground. One shot through the abdomen, the other in the chest. No exit wound. He was dead, there was no question about it.

He took stock. The pistol man, dead nearby. The Russian supine at the stairs. Against the wall, the shotgun man had crawled onto his belly with his legs drawn up beneath him, like a sleeping baby. He wasn’t moving, and his eyes were open.

In the centre of the rooftop stood Nikola, gun lowered, uncomprehending.

‘Give me a hand here,’ said Calvary. He snapped his fingers when she didn’t move. ‘Quickly. We’ve no time.’

Nikola hurried over. Calvary lifted Janos under his arms.

‘Grab his feet.’