Tim Stevens - Severance Kill

Calvary went backwards through the window in a sunburst of glass, the fragments fanning and spinning on either side of his field of vision. The force of the kick had been great enough to propel him slightly upwards as well as backwards so that he felt for an instant as though he was hanging motionless, four floors above the courtyard.

Better this way , he thought.

He twisted slightly in midair, because without visual data his chances of survival would drop from minuscule to nonexistent, and craned his neck. Four storeys down, the concrete floor of the courtyard lay like a morgue slab, lit by a sheaf of late-afternoon sun. Clinging to the wall of the building was the wrought-iron creeper of the fire stairs.

Better that he puts up a fight.

Already he was plummeting, the cold beginning to bite, and the pain from the kick. By contracting his stomach muscles he was able to jackknife so that his backwards momentum was offset. He lunged closer to the wall, shot out an arm, felt his fist bounce off hard metal. It meant he was within reach of the fire stairs. His grip clamped round a step. Suddenly, jarringly, he stopped falling.

His legs flailed at the air. His shoulder burned from the shock of the impact. Above him his fingers inched towards the edge of the step, slipping on a slick of sweat. He forced his legs to be still.

Between Calvary’s feet, two storeys down now, the concrete beckoned.

He didn’t try to peer up at the window beyond the fire stairs. There was no point. Either the Songwriter would be coming down the steps already, or he’d have left the flat by the no

By focusing all his attention on the arm gripping the step, so that for an instant he became his arm and nothing else, Calvary launched himself upwards, both hands reaching this time so that he got a solid grip on one of the steps higher up. He swung his legs sideways, for a second letting go his grasp, managing to achieve purchase on the banister above. His palm slid down its smoothness but he caught hold with his other hand.

The Songwriter’s heel slammed down hard on his fingers, grinding them against the steel.

Calvary’s hand spread in agony and dropped away. The movement swung his centre of gravity outwards across the drop once more. His other hand was going to be next and that would be the end, so he braced himself on the arm that was still clinging to the banister and sprung his body upwards as though he was pogoing on an invisible cushion of air. The move didn’t give him quite the momentum he was hoping for but he managed to regain a two-handed grip on the banister. This time he dragged himself over it and up on to the stairs.

The Songwriter’s kick came hard at his face. Calvary jerked his head aside at the last moment. The blow caught him on the taut triangle of muscle between neck and shoulder and he rocked back across the banister and arched, arms wheeling, before regaining his balance.

The Songwriter hadn’t followed up on his attack, but had retreated back up the fire stairs. Calvary watched his legs disappear back through the wrecked frame of the window.

It meant one of two things. Either he’d been quick to understand, from the way Calvary had survived his assaults, that he was likely to come off second best in a hand-to-hand fight, and was making good his escape. Or, he was going for a weapon.

Calvary drove himself up the stairs three at a time, the separate pains in his hands and his shoulder and his chest from the kicks and wrenches ignored for the time being. A knife: that would be nasty, close up, but if he could get on level ground with the Songwriter with enough room to spare between them — perhaps ten, twelve feet — he’d be able to gauge the man’s proficiency with a blade and work out an approach that might succeed. A gun, on the other hand… A distance of ten feet would render him utterly helpless.

Through the ragged window frame he went, vaulting through the tooth-like shards in a ducking motion and hitting the floor at a roll and springing upright in the afternoon gloom. The Songwriter was crammed against the far wall, a weapon in his right hand, his mouth moving.

The weapon was a phone.

Calvary moved in, his weight on blessed solid ground now. His left fist pinned the man’s phone hand against the wall by the wrist, the blow cracking the slender bones and triggering the inevitable reflex that sent the fingers splaying and the handset spinning and skittering across the parquet floor. In almost the same movement he pivoted on his left foot so that his right knee drove into the Songwriter’s flank, hard bone biting into tender kidney.

st ›

The pain of such a blow was so intense that it incapacitated the victim by inducing astonishment almost more than anything else. Calvary knew this, having been on the receiving end more than once. The Songwriter bent on one knee over his damaged forearm, looking crazily like a third-rate lounge singer reaching the high point of his act. Using all the force he could generate from his hip, Calvary pistoned his heel against the bent knee. The man howled and bounced splay-legged off the wall, cracking his head.

Calvary took a step back and stood, arms hanging loose, allowing himself to breathe.

The Songwriter sat against the wall, half sighing, half moaning, lids jerking over flicking eyes. He was tall and slightly built in a modest pale blue suit, a dark Rorschach blot staining the fabric between the stretched thighs. His shoes, the ones that had driven Calvary through the window and stamped on his fingers on the fire escape, were soft leather loafers, not the hobnailed boots they’d felt like at the time.

The Songwriter could hardly have chosen his footwear that morning expecting someone to attack him.

Priorities . Calvary glanced at the phone on the floor a few feet away. The screen was blank, dead. No connection. Either he hadn’t got through to whomever he’d been calling or they’d been cut off. Calvary watched the man, the dropped marionette, slumped against the wall. He watched for signs that the man was bluffing: tension in the upper limbs in preparation for a grab for a hidden gun, perhaps a.22 pistol in the sock, or a honed shiv in a holster up the sleeve.

Nothing. Just a fluttering at the eyes, a creature on the cusp of consciousness. While the ammonia stink of his humiliation rose from his crotch.

*

Calvary picked his way across the detritus of the flat. There was damage, a lot of it. Unnecessary wreckage. He should have heard the man coming. He’d been expecting him and, God knew, he’d had more than enough time to prepare. But the photo had pinned him like a butterfly on a collector’s board, and even if he had registered the footfalls on the stairs he probably wouldn’t have been able to move any more quickly.

He found the photo face down under a smashed coffee table, its glass face splintered. He’d been staring at it when the Songwriter had come through the door with amazing speed and hurled a vase at him, insignificant as a weapon but enough to make Calvary recoil and lose a precious second. The battering of the man’s fists and feet had driven him in surprise towards the window. The spinning kick to the chest had sent him through it.

Stepping back over to the Songwriter he gazed at the photo. The boy and the girl were perhaps ten and seven. Both had their father’s deep black, almost purple hair, his thin face, and probably his tawny skin, though right now his face was the colour of putty.

The Songwriter — whose real name was Abubakar Al-Haroun, and whose real profession was not writing lyrics but recruiting young men and women to build and detonate bombs — tilted his head back so that Calvary saw the bloodshot crescents of his eyes.