Jeff Abbott - The Last Minute

An awful silence, not even Zviman calling. Then he shrieks, ‘I’m upstairs help me, help me, grab this bitch! She’s stealing my money!’

I run halfway down the stairs and in the den I see a man, thick-necked, cheap-suited, holding an assault rifle, hurrying toward Nelly… who lies in a crimson spread on the imported Italian tile, holding the gun I gave her.

The thick neck looks up at me. He fires and the stairs erupt around me and I flee.

‘She doesn’t have a gun,’ Zviman screams, ‘shoot her.’

The thick neck thinks he has all the advantage now. So he charges into the hall. I’m in a doorway, the telescoping baton firm in my hand, and I slash it down at the gun. The baton cracks his wrist but he keeps a grip on the rifle. I whip the baton across his face, breaking his nose. He staggers back.

I drop the baton and grab the gun. We struggle for it. But I have not had fingers and wrists whipped five seconds earlier.

I work a finger on the trigger and slam the hot barrel into his chest, kicking him against the wall.

The gun shreds him. Loudly, redly, and before he’s dropping dead I’m running down the staircase.

I kneel by my sister.

Gone. Gone. I took my eyes off her for only a few minutes and I failed her. If I hadn’t bothered with stealing his money, ruining his business, exacting my revenge, if we just got out…

Slowly, I don’t know how much time passes, but I walk back upstairs.

Zviman is gone. A heavy smear of blood mars the wall and sill of one window. He’s gone out onto the roof. I go to the window and the roof and the street and the yard are all empty. I pick up my knife and put it back in my boot.

I find Mercedes car keys in Zviman’s abandoned pants and I gather my sister in my arms and I drive the Mercedes from the house, the empty grand home built on human suffering.

Nelly. I failed you. Tu mori.

Lesson learned, Sam: saving matters more than destroying.

Sydney, Australia

Sydney is a nice city. It has an endlessly beautiful harbor and excellent restaurants and the Australians are an astonishingly friendly nation. I go for long walks along the Rocks, the ancient – by Sydney standards – stretch of bayline where the convict ships dropped both anchor and prisoners, a miserable human cargo.

I am a miserable human cargo.

The breeze off the harbor is a near constant presence and I feel, standing still but leaning into the wind, as if I am running.

I am free, yet I am a prisoner.

I stop on my morning walk and across the stretch of water I watch tourists snap photos of the iconic Opera House. In a moment I have to go back to the house. Aunt and Uncle grow concerned if I am gone too long. Neither has good English and I slowly teach them. They are learning by watching Aussie soap operas, which are even juicier than their Romanian counterparts. I do not want to risk hiring an instructor. People talk. And I know there is the possibility that Zviman, with his dicedsliced penis, is looking for me and my family.

A well-dressed man, a bit younger than me, stands a meter away. He has dark, moussed hair, a quiet, composed face, gray slacks, a bright orange shirt that looks expensive. Not a businessman type, not exactly. More like a young man who wants to be an actor. He has a wry smile on his face.

‘A cool million,’ he says, as if speaking to the wind. His accent is British, educated.

I think he must be on a hands-free phone, or he is trying to impress me by randomly announcing a large sum of money. He looks like any of the men who approach me on the nights when I wander to the nicer bars to escape the prattle of Aunt and Uncle.

So I pay no attention to him.

‘A cool million’s the price on your head. It’s a rather hefty incentive to find you. Just how you found Nelly. Usually such fees are reserved for heads of state, or particularly annoying warlords in backwater lands.’

Now I jerk a glance at him, fear a hot lump in my throat.

‘Did you know,’ he blows out a plume of Dunhill smoke, ‘I’ve seen pictures of Zviman’s, um, tattered sausage. Most difficult to get. Did you know he didn’t dare go to a hospital to have your delightful mousetrap removed? Went to a very dodgy private clinic in Strasbourg, France, on a friend’s private plane. I’m sure it was the longest flight of his life. I had to pay quite a horribly sizable bribe to said clinic for a singularly unappealing photo.’ The young man gave a delicate shudder.

I don’t walk around Sydney with a gun but I still carry the telescoping baton in my jacket pocket. ‘You have me confused with someone else.’

‘No, Mila, I don’t.’ He smiles. Not mocking. Friendly.

A million on my head. So I say: ‘I didn’t steal all his money, then.’

The young man clears his throat. ‘Zviman did more than sex slavery, love. He was, well, still is, one of the biggest smugglers in the Mediterranean. Ordnance, drugs, military surplus. Even flowers and fish. You bloodied his nose and of course you bloodied his privates, and smartly done, that, but he’s still operating. He runs with a dangerous crowd. You broke him, though, with the theft. It takes money to run smuggling routes. So he’s gone under the radar, as they say. I’ve heard now he’s trying to get into blackmail on a whole new scale, using computers to gather nasties about people. Blackmail’s all about information and we live in an information age, don’t we?’

‘He sent you?’ If they can find me here, they can find me anywhere.

‘Ah, no. If his Tattered Dicklessness had sent me you’d be dead days ago and murking up the harbor, my sweet.’

‘I’m not your sweet.’

‘No, but a lad can dream.’ He gives me a handsome smile.

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you. I want you to do something constructive with all that grief and anger.’

‘I failed. My sister… ’

‘Mila.’

‘I failed.’

‘Mila. You are a schoolteacher from a little slice of nowhere, and you destroyed a major trafficking operation. You killed them and you stole a huge chunk of their money. Do you know how rare honest daring has become in our overcautious world? I want to toss diamonds at your feet, woman. You are incredible.’

I stare at him as though I would like to slap him. ‘My sister is dead. Your praise is smoke to me.’ Then I look at the cold steel of the harbor.

‘What you did-’

‘What I did failed.’ I watch him. ‘All I got was money. Is that why you’re here? You want money for your silence?’

‘No. Not everyone would have sent Rolling Stone magazine that database of trafficked girls, who their buyers were, and a bank account where Zviman’s illicit money was. You created quite a little tempest from the shadows there, love. Dictating that the cash go to the women who could be found. Very generous. But you don’t need to buy my silence, Mila. I mean you no harm. All I want is to buy you the best lunch in Sydney.’

‘And a drink,’ I say. I can use a drink, I think.

‘Yes, love, what would you like to drink?’

‘I don’t have a favorite.’

‘You look like a Glenfiddich girl to me.’

‘That is what?’

‘Whisky.’

I cross my arms. ‘I have never tried it.’

‘And after I have introduced you to the delights of a fine whisky, then I want to offer you a job.’

‘I am in Australia under a false name, I don’t have a work permit, nice man. Sorry.’

‘You don’t need a work permit. If I could find you, so can Zviman. And with a million dollars on that lovely pixie head of yours, it’s only a matter of time.’ He leans forward. ‘We can hide your aunt and uncle better than you ever could. We can hide you. But I think you might go mad sitting around and reflecting about what happened to Nelly. You saved so many lives, Mila. You did good. You could do a lot more good. Or you can sit around with your aunt and uncle, watching Aussie TV to teach them English, and knowing that the man who destroyed your sister is still out there and is hunting you down.’ He risks a smile. ‘If you keep moving you’ll be much harder to find.’