Tom Hinshelwood - The Killer

Victor dodged round the tables and chairs, making his way to the far end of the long room. He heard a Russian chasing after him, not as agile as he-knocking into tables, spilling drinks-but still fast.

Victor pushed open a service door at the far end of the bar and ran down the corridor on the other side. He headed for the kitchen, charging into the swing door, knocking it aside.

The kitchen was even busier than before, full of noise, steam, heat. The narrow walkways between work surfaces were blocked with people.

Victor backtracked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to force his way through before the Russians caught up and filled the kitchen with lead. Either that or he would give them the time to head him off.

He emerged back into the corridor to see the pursuing Russian sprinting toward him. Victor’s sudden appearance surprised him, and for a split second he hesitated. Victor didn’t.

He dashed forward, timing his attack so that the heel of his shoe connected with the running man’s stomach at the apex of the kick’s force.

The Russian gasped, doubled over. Victor grabbed him by the shoulders and sent his head crashing into the closest wall. There was a dull crack of plaster, and the Russian’s head bounced backward. He stumbled, arms flailing.

Victor leaped at him while he was dazed, driving his elbow into the Russian’s face, and the man collapsed silently.

He heard a noise, wasn’t sure where it originated, but drew the Browning and fired two shots at the door leading to the bar. Victor didn’t wait to see if he’d been right and started for an adjoining corridor.

Automatic fire tore through the bar door. Victor was already jumping out of the trajectory as bullets struck the walls and floor, blowing wood, plaster, and dust into the air.

He scrambled back to his feet, and a second later he was racing up the same stairwell he’d ascended earlier. Going up when he needed to get out was a bad idea, but his first two avenues of escape had been cut off and he needed another.

He moved fast but cautiously, gun held out straight before him, always in sync with where he looked. The Russians were below him, and the assassin above.

Trapped.

Sykes stood in the center of his hotel room completely still, gaze locked on the door, the SIG clutched tightly in one sweaty hand. The sound of gunshots echoed around the room. He’d never been more afraid in his life.

One minute he’d been on his way to the bar to get a drink and the next he was staring at a seriously mean-looking guy with a gun. Wiechman, like an idiot, had charged out, gun in hand, to see what was happening. Then there had been the sound of silenced shots and the definite thump of a heavy man-sized object hitting the deck.

After that, there had been no more noise for what seemed liked minutes. Sykes wasn’t sure how long. He stood staring at the door, waiting for the guy with the gun to come and kill him.

Something crazy was going on, and Sykes was caught right in the middle.

A horrible realization started to take shape in Sykes’s mind. The man with the gun had recognized him.

No, it couldn’t be.

Dalweg burst into the room, and in his panic Sykes almost shot him. Dalweg’s face was twisted with anger.

“Jack’s dead,” he spat. “What the fuck is going down in this place?”

Sykes was about to say he didn’t know, but then more shooting started.

Reed heard the commotion in the lobby seconds after the moment when he judged Tesseract should have reached the street outside. Reed lowered his arm, turned, and headed away from the window and down the corridor. The sound of unsuppressed automatic fire echoed from below. A submachine gun by the high cyclic rate. Bizon probably.

The Englishman did a quick evaluation of the circumstances. The man Tesseract had been assaulting in the elevator clearly had friends, and those friends were armed and now after Tesseract. Reed remembered the foreigners in the bar. Russians. Why they were here in Tanzania Reed did not know, and neither did he have any interest in knowing. What did interest him was that they were trying to kill Tesseract and were interfering in his own attempt to do so. If they continued to, which was likely, they would find themselves between Reed’s gun sights. Reed would allow nothing to get between him and his prey, and he would allow no one but himself to make the kill. Reed was the best. He had to prove that. If someone else killed Tesseract before Reed, his own life would continue on as a mere shadow of its former existence.

The Russians had prevented Tesseract from leaving through the main entrance. The only logical avenue of escape from the lobby would therefore be the hotel bar. That would lead him to the kitchen and the service stairwell.

Reed hurried. His prey was close.

19:24 UST

Victor reached the second floor and rushed down the corridor, Browning gripped in both hands, arms extended and bent slightly at the elbow, gaze looking directly along the 9 mm’s iron sights. The fire alarm started blaring. He could hear people screaming. He couldn’t be sure what they were screaming at, but the voices sounded more scared or horrified than pained.

He turned a corner, found a door in the right location, kicked it open, entered fast, completed a quick sweep of the room. A single, neatly made bed, no personal effects. Unoccupied. Empty. Victor headed straight for the window, grabbed a chair, hurled it.

The glass shattered. He stepped forward, leaned briefly through the open space. Below him was a row of neatly parked cars glittering with shards of glass, behind them the chair, smashed. The parking lot extended for maybe twenty yards. A low wall marked the edge of the hotel compound. No Russians. No assassin.

The drop was too far to risk, even with the cars to break the fall, but next to the window was a drainpipe. Victor slipped the Browning into his waistband, climbed up onto the windowsill, balancing on the balls of his feet, using his hands on the frame for support. He swiveled round so he was facing into the room, reached for the drainpipe.

A shadow appeared on the wall through the open doorway. The shadow of a man with a gun.

Victor immediately let go, lurched backward, seeing the assassin appear and the brief muzzle flash off the handgun as it fired.

The bullet snapped through the air above him and for a serene split second Victor fell, the broken window rushing away from him. He landed on a parked sedan, crumpling the roof with the force of his impact. Side windows exploded, the windshield cracked, air was forced from his lungs.

He sucked in a breath, ignoring the pain, and pulled the Browning from his waistband, limbs aching but still working, so no bones broken.

He squeezed the trigger the instant Reed showed himself, but he was still shaken, his posture awkward. He missed. Victor shot again twice more, missing but forcing his enemy back into the room before he could return fire.

Victor rolled off the car roof, landing on his feet. He spun around, gun trained on the window, crouching to steady his aim. Adrenaline surged through him. He breathed steadily in a futile attempt to control its effects. If he was injured he felt no pain. Five seconds past. Ten.

No. The assassin had withdrawn, moving to another position. Victor scanned the other windows on the same floor overlooking the parking lot. The next attack could come from any of them. There was no way he could watch them all. Wherever he looked created a blind spot from which the assassin would receive a perfect shot.

His gaze searched for a way to escape. The parking lot was too empty, running through it would leave him too exposed. There was a door, but too far to risk making a break for. A fire exit was closer, but closed.