Tim Stevens - Ratcatcher

Near his ear, one of the men yelled an oath involving somebody’s mother. Purkiss felt hands grip his shoulders. He let the spasms ebb as the men, two of them, he thought, shouted in Russian that they needed to get him on the floor. The cords around his torso slackened and were unwound. He risked a glance and saw one of the men punch Fallon in the face, one-two, rocking his head to either side in turn. The man holding Purkiss tried to control his descent, but Purkiss let himself be dead weight and slipped through the man’s grasp. He hit the floor, his head cracking audibly against the concrete. The man snarled at his companion to leave the bastard alone and come and help him. Purkiss lay twitching on the floor, listening to the rising panic in the men’s voices. He was wondering whether to void his bladder for added realism when one of the men said, ‘Get him upstairs,’ catching him under the arms while the other man took his feet. Only his wrists were fastened behind him now, no hood this time.

As they lugged him up the steps, the slumped Fallon and the basement receding through the doorway, Purkiss made his move.

The hangar echoed with the clang and scrape of tools, the footfalls of the men. They moved about, checking fluid levels, the pressure of the oxygen system, all things that had already been investigated but needed reviewing now that the move from the farm had taken place, in case there had been any changes in transit. Dobrynin with his technical knowledge took charge.

Venedikt walked slowly round the Black Hawk, keeping out of the men’s way, gazing at the low-slung structure in something approaching rapture.

He hadn’t pressed the arms dealer, the man of obscure nationality and ethnicity, on the detail of where he had procured the helicopter. It was none of Venedikt’s concern. But the man had at one point spoken of a contact in Turkey, and Venedikt knew the Turkish Army was one of the international clients to whom the Sikorsky company exported its most famous chopper. Dobrynin had confirmed it was a basic UH-60A model, with the crucial modification of wing stubs.

Venedikt had examined the helicopter already, had twice seen it in flight when Leok, his pilot as well as driver, had taken it from the site of purchase to the farmhouse and again when he had taken off from the farmhouse en route to the current backup location. Now, with no pressing problems to distract him, Venedikt was able for the first time fully to appreciate its beauty, the terrible power that seemed contained in its silent length and beneath the canopy of its rotor like a demon trapped in an amulet, awaiting release.

The Black Hawk was far and away the more expensive of the two purchases he had made from the dealer, but if anything it was less important, less of a catch, than the other.

Leok, seated in the cockpit, conferred with Dobrynin, who stood alongside. Squatting and examining the front wheel was Lyuba. She’d been a helicopter pilot and mechanic in the unit, and had come recommended to Venedikt on this basis. She had, he acknowledged, delivered them the prize of Fallon, even if inadvertently. She was to be afforded the honour of being included in the final leg of the operation. The mission . The word was better, gave a sense of the purpose driving their plans.

There had been those among his men — and he counted Lyuba as one of his men — who’d wanted Fallon and Purkiss despatched with a bullet each. It was their bodies that were necessary, they’d argued. But bullet wounds would raise suspicions. Far better to allow the two men to perish in the conflagration that was to follow. Venedikt had prevailed, of course. None of the arguments had been meant as serious challenges to his authority. But he understood the fury of his men. Purkiss had reduced their numbers to the current rump of a dozen. It was natural that vengeance should be sought.

Vengeance would be theirs, he’d assured them. All they could do themselves was kill the man, but far worse was the fate that history would inflict upon Purkiss: the death of his very name under the curses of a thousand million spitting tongues, day after day, for ever.

Purkiss waited until the man at his legs paused to adjust his grip, then flexed his knees and his hips, the sudden movement pulling his shins free from the man’s arms. He pistoned his legs so that both his feet caught the man full in the abdomen just below the ribcage, the force of the kick driving the man backwards and upwards. His head cracked against the frame at the top of the low doorway hard enough that flakes of plaster broke adrift. The impact against the man’s torso had pushed Purkiss back against the man holding him under the arms. The man stumbled back against the steps. Purkiss landed on him and jerked his head backwards, trying to connect his skull with the man’s face, but missed. The man recovered quickly, writhing out from underneath. Purkiss twisted his head round and got his teeth into the man’s right ankle above his low-topped boot. He clamped his jaws tight around a mouthful of choking sock and yielding flesh.

The man yelled and jerked his leg loose, the movement making him lose his balance. Still on his back, Purkiss braced his feet on one of the steps and heaved back and up, launching his head into the man’s exposed groin. With a shriek the man fell on his backside. Purkiss turned and found his feet. The man was already trying to stand but Purkiss brought a knee up under his chin and heard teeth gnash and shatter. The man sprawled and slid down a step before coming to rest.

Wrists still fastened behind his back, Purkiss squatted beside the man. With the fingers of his right hand he grabbed the grip of the pistol protruding from the man’s belt and prised the gun out. As the man he’d kicked down the steps rose in the doorway below, weaving, his own pistol out and aimed, Purkiss turned side-on and fired twice.

The first shot went wide and the ricochet whined off the door jamb, making him half-duck. The second took the man in the chest, sending him back once more through the doorway. From below, he heard Fallon hiss, but there was no time to go back, they’d agreed on that. Purkiss crouched again and searched the pockets of the man sprawled on the steps, duckwalking awkwardly around him until his trussed hands found what they were looking for inside his jacket. A mobile phone.

Purkiss straightened and pushed the phone in his back pocket. He took the remaining stairs at a run, horribly aware that he had no sense of spatial orientation and had no idea what he would find at the top or which way he should head once there. Another door stood closed at the top in the left-hand wall. He pushed it open with his knee, didn’t pause because there’d be no point, but charged through. He found himself in a narrow corridor, impersonally painted and uncarpeted — he was in some kind of office building — with no lighting of its own, but faint illumination coming from each end, a doorway limned in light to his left. To his right, a window looked out onto the exterior, swatches of rain flicking against the glass.

He ran at the window. Behind him came noise as the door opened and the shouting began. The window looked double glazed and wouldn’t therefore yield in time. He glanced back over his shoulder where two figures were crowding into the corridor. He aimed backwards and fired a salvo, one of the men howling and twisting away. The other crouched and wastaking aim and Purkiss fired again, dropping and rolling as the shots sang by and chipped into the wall. One of them hit the window and it starred and shattered. From the ground, Purkiss fired back, a low and sweeping volley. The man at the other end danced to keep his legs out of the way, ducked back inside the door. Purkiss was up and tucking his head as tightly as he could into his chest.