Tom Hinshelwood - The Killer

The fire door swung open, banging against the wall as two Russians emerged, both armed with PP-19 Bizon submachine guns.

Victor dropped down behind the wrecked car, his body positioned behind the back wheel on the driver’s side. He felt vibrations through his back as bullets struck the bodywork. He didn’t wait for the firing to stop, dropped onto his stomach, and extended his arms under the car.

He fired twice, one bullet catching the closest Russian in the shin. Both retreated back through the open fire exit, and Victor sprang to his feet, put another round their way, and ran across the lot, weaving between parked cars, heading toward the road, hoping the assassin was similarly distracted.

Asphalt exploded around his feet.

He took cover behind another car, pivoted. Victor returned fire, but the uninjured Russian had ducked back into the cover of the doorway.

Movement on the floor above caught Victor’s eye, and he reacted in time to avoid the bullets that came his way. One smacked into the uneven ground where he’d been kneeling, another blew out a window of the car next to him.

Victor threw himself out of the line of fire, going onto his front. He took a breath, considered his choices quickly. He had two separate attackers at two different firing points, one with the higher ground, and there were more enemies nearby who would join the fight in mere moments. It was a battle he wasn’t going to win. He needed to move. And fast.

Victor slid beneath an SUV, grazing his elbows on the hard ground. He did the same under another. No more bullets were fired. No one knew where he was.

He sprang up, shot at the window where the assassin had been and into the fire exit without waiting to acquire targets. A bullet struck the uninjured Russian as he moved out of cover.

Victor ran, heading straight across the parking lot, away from the hotel, trusting to speed to keep him from being hit. He covered the remaining ground fast, leaped onto the small wall that divided the parking lot from the street beyond. He heard the spit of the suppressed shot and a piece of brickwork disintegrated under his shoe. He lost his footing, fell forward, off balance, landing awkwardly, stumbling into the road to keep his momentum from knocking him over.

A horn blared. Tires screeched. The bumper hit him mid-left thigh, catapulting him up onto the car’s hood. He slammed into the windshield, cracking it, tumbling up and over the roof, bouncing off the trunk before hitting road, instinctively rolling to ease the impact.

The car skidded and lost control, mounted the sidewalk, and continued over the low wall, crashing into a stationary SUV on the other side.

Everything seemed slow and quiet. Victor pulled himself from the hot ground and to his feet, grimacing as he put weight on his left leg. He hurt all over. He tasted blood in his mouth. His vision was blurry. He squinted through the haze, his eyesight returning, shapes coming back into focus. There were maybe four or five people standing openmouthed nearby. He saw the crashed car, steam rising from the hood, the shocked female driver stumbling out. Behind her a man was climbing down a drainpipe on the side of the hotel.

Victor realized the Browning wasn’t in his hands. He frantically looked around.

He saw it lying near the crashed car. He limped hurriedly over to the gun, vaulting awkwardly over the wall, aware that his whole body was moving more slowly than he was telling it to. He scooped the 9 mm up into both hands and spun round to where he had seen the assassin.

Victor fired, his aim terrible, the bullets striking the wall well to the side of his target, who dropped the last couple of yards, disappearing out of sight behind the row of parked cars. He reappeared an instant later, firing and moving, using the vehicles as cover. Victor shot back, taking cover himself behind the crashed car. Bullets thumped into bodywork.

Click.

The Browning was empty.

Victor immediately dived back over the wall behind him, going into a roll to break the fall, coming out of it fluidly into a sprint despite the pain. A four-wheel-drive Jeep with sun-faded paint and dried mud caking the wheels and sides was pulling away from the curb farther down the street. Perfect. Victor jumped up onto the hood, took two steps, dropped down on the other side, taking the drop with his right leg to spare the left. The Jeep stopped sharply. The driver was already fleeing before Victor had the chance to order him out.

A bullet flew past his head.

Victor climbed inside and slammed the door shut. The interior was filthier than the outside, seats split with padding spilling out in several places, instrument panels cracked, upholstery ripped, everything dusty. Victor glanced to his right, saw the assassin hurrying across the hotel parking lot, reloading his pistol on the move.

Victor ducked in the seat, put the Jeep’s stick shift into first, transmission creaking, and accelerated. The passenger door’s window blew out, scattering fragments of glass over his head and back. More bullets came his way, flying through the broken window, slamming into bodywork.

Victor reloaded with one hand as he drove. The last magazine. The Browning held thirteen bullets. Good, Victor thought.

Unlucky for anyone who followed him.

Reed watched the Jeep race out of the Glock’s effective range, lowered his weapon, and scanned the area for a suitable vehicle to chase Tesseract. There were several cars, mostly old sedans with neither the horsepower to catch up with the Jeep nor the four-wheel drive to handle Tanga’s less-than-even roads at speed. Anger threatened to explode through his calm exterior. Tesseract had survived yet again, and once more Reed suffered the indignation that his skills had been found lacking. He needed affirmation that only blood could provide.

He heard Russian voices nearby and glanced in their direction to see several men entering the parking lot from an open fire exit. All were armed with Bizons and looked hungry for blood. One of their comrades lay dead on the ground in front of them.

The Englishman held the Glock out of sight down by his thigh and acted like a shocked bystander as the Russians hurried out into the street. They shouted at locals, but the Tanzanians did not understand them, and in turn the Russians did not understand what was said back.

There were four Russians so similar in appearance and movements they might as well have been military-bred clones of one another. Spetsnaz, Reed assumed. He had much respect for the highly trained and fiercely capable Russian special forces, considering them third only to their British and American counterparts. A fifth man appeared, clearly their CO, but not military, probably GRU or SVR. He was the man Tesseract had thrown at Reed and who Reed, in turn, had shot.

Reed turned his body and head away. He did not want to risk being recognized, unlikely as it was. The officer ordered his soldiers to get to their vehicles and continue the pursuit. He did not follow as his men split into two pairs and rushed off. He leaned against a wall, a hand on his chest. He must have been wearing a vest to have survived Reed’s bullet to the sternum. Most fortunate.

Reed walked quickly until he was out of sight of the Russians before breaking into a run. He dodged around pedestrians, sprinting around the hotel’s exterior until he emerged on its front side. Cars were parked along the half circle of driveway that linked the hotel to the main road. He knew that he did not have time either to hot-wire a car or to find keys for another. But he didn’t need to. A man was closing the door of a well-kept-looking Land Rover.

Reed threw the driver from his seat and climbed in.

He started the engine.

19:26 UST