Adrian Magson - No Kiss For The Devil

‘Where are the others?’ Szulu grunted, getting to his feet, one hand clutching his groin.

‘What others?’ Riley was confused. ‘There’s only Palmer.’

‘Three guys with guns. They went in earlier. You must’ve seen them.’

‘No, I-’

‘Never mind. Come on!’ Szulu grabbed her arm. ‘I ain’t built for this hero shit. I want to live.’ He dragged her back into the darkness as fast as he could, and she stumbled after him, too tired to argue.

Frank Palmer heard a door slam below, followed by the heavy lumber of footsteps receding down the emergency stairs. He hesitated. Someone had gone after Riley. Probably the last security guard… or Varley. He hadn’t seen the man anywhere, but he must have been here all the time. He briefly considered following, to try and head him off, but he knew he would never make it in time. Given the lead she had, Riley should be safe enough.

He walked along the corridor and stepped through the door into the main office.

Grigori Fedorov was alone. He was standing at the desk in the middle of the floor, stabbing impatiently at a mobile. He stopped when the door closed with a muffled thump, and turned. His face registered a brief flicker of irritation and puzzlement, but it was gone just as quickly.

‘What ho, Grigori,’ Palmer said softly, advancing into the room. ‘There’s good news and there’s bad news. The good news is, all your goons are down and out. The bad news is, all your goons are…well, I suppose you can guess the rest. It probably doesn’t translate well into Russian, anyway.’

‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Fedorov’s voice was surprisingly calm, as if he had been interrupted in the middle of some boring but necessary paperwork rather than at a crucial stage of his operations to ruin a competitor’s reputation and kill off anyone who got in his way.

‘I want you, chum.’ Palmer’s voice had lost any hint of humour. He stopped at arm’s length from the man who had ordered the death of Annaliese Kellin, of Helen Bellamy and probably Goricz, the building supervisor, and his family. ‘I want you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You are nothing.’ Fedorov’s tone was dismissive. He continued pressing buttons on his phone as if Palmer was a minor interruption who could be swatted away like a fly. He swore and tried another number, apparently without success.

‘You can try ‘em all,’ Palmer told him, ‘but they won’t answer.’ He reached out and took Fedorov’s phone and tossed it away across the floor. ‘Varley or Vasiliyev… whatever you call him… the two tall guys — I don’t know their names — Pechov… now I know he’s not going to sit up anytime soon… they’re all out of the game.’ He jabbed stiff fingers into Fedorov’s midriff, sending the man sprawling backwards, coughing with pain and shock. He thought he heard a sound on the landing behind him, and hoped he wasn’t about to be proven horribly wrong about the diminution of Fedorov’s forces.

‘You are insane!’ Fedorov snapped, struggling to stand upright. ‘You cannot touch me! I have diplomatic protection. I can have you arrested for this!’

Palmer stared at him, amazed by the man’s arrogance. Or maybe it was something deeper than that. Perhaps in his own twisted world, he really believed he had done nothing wrong; that he could bully his way out of trouble; that he possessed some kind of diplomatic immunity. Maybe he was simply insane, having flipped over the edge into a realm where reality no longer mattered.

‘Good try. But no peanuts.’ Palmer lifted his hand and studied the gun he’d taken off Pechov. It would be an irony for this man to die by the same weapon used by one of his men. He stared into Fedorov’s cold little eyes, and saw something reflected in them; a flicker of something in the Russian’s face which cut through the arrogance and self-belief.

It was probably a look Fedorov himself had seen in the face of his victims.

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ Fedorov’s voice wasn’t so certain anymore. His eyes were flickering back and forth, looking for a way out. But deep inside, Palmer recognised the thin borderline that hovers between hope and fear — and Fedorov was slipping inexorably from one to the other.

‘Annaliese Kellin,’ said Palmer softly. ‘Helen Bellamy. And nearly Riley Gavin.’

Fedorov remained silent, his eyes burning with defiance.

‘What you were going to do in the washroom,’ Palmer continued, his voice like cold silk, ‘with bleach and boiling water. She’d have been blinded at the very least.’ He checked the load in the magazine and flicked off the safety catch. He raised the gun, his arm straight out, body turned slightly to one side, the barrel centred on the other man’s forehead

Fedorov flinched visibly, and his mouth trembled.

Palmer felt no pleasure at seeing his fear. He was almost calm at the idea of what he was about to do. It wasn’t legal and it was undoubtedly something that might follow him into the still dark hours of the night, when thoughts of deeds done began to intrude. But the alternative was to allow this monster to go free, to continue his lethal trade. And that was something he couldn’t allow.

As his finger tightened on the trigger, Fedorov’s eyes flickered away from the gun barrel and settled on the doorway.

Palmer relaxed the pressure on the trigger and slowly turned his head. Three man were standing just inside the room. They were dressed in dark, casual clothing and baseball caps, their eyes hidden beneath the shadows of the brims. Each man wore a slimline comms headset. The two on either side were solid and young. They looked like men who worked out regularly and trained hard. The man in the middle was taller and older, but with the lean toughness of someone who has lost none of the edge gained from years of experience.

Palmer hadn’t heard them come in, and felt mildly annoyed at his carelessness. On the other hand, he knew instinctively who they were.

‘Koenig,’ the older man announced, reading his mind, and stepped forward. He was holding a handgun down by his side, as were the other two. They had come prepared.

‘About time you pitched in,’ said Palmer dryly. ‘I was just having a chat with this piece of rubbish.’

‘So I see.’ Koenig motioned to his men, who moved past Palmer and took hold of Fedorov, one on each arm. Koenig glanced at the gun in Palmer’s hand, still trained unwaveringly on the Russian. ‘We’re not going to have any trouble, are we?’

‘That depends what you’re going to do.’ Palmer glanced at Fedorov, who was looking even more agitated in the grip of the two men. He guessed it had finally occurred to him who Koenig and his companions worked for.

‘We’re taking him with us.’

‘To do what?’

‘You don’t need to know that. Sorry. I know what he did to your girlfriend. And the German girl.’ He seemed genuinely regretful. ‘I’d love to leave him in your care, believe me, but I’m afraid we have orders to assume prior rights on this one.’ He gestured at Fedorov as if the man were not human but simply a package, an object to be dealt with and delivered. ‘The boss has a tendency to go ape-shit if we don’t deliver.’ He smiled genially enough but neither he nor his men looked prepared to back down.

Palmer sighed. He knew his limitations. There was no point in trying to fight these men; they were motivated and professional, and he had neither the resources nor even the desire to prevent them taking Fedorov away. If he tried, he knew he might hurt one or more of them, but in the end he would lose. The fact that they were here right now meant one thing: that Koenig’s boss, Al-Bashir, was taking steps to dispose of the threat to his commercial bid and to his wife’s reputation.