Tom Hinshelwood: The Killer

He unbuckled his seat belt, dropped onto the ceiling-now the floor-going underwater and then scrambling out of the smashed driver’s window. Glass sliced his arms and legs. The river was slow moving, shallow, two feet deep. He struggled to his feet, staggered a step away from the upturned Jeep, soaking-wet clothes clinging to him. He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the sun.

Victor felt a sharp pain on the top of his head as he squinted. He reached up and pulled a long sliver of metal from his scalp. Blood mixed with water and ran down the side of his face. He leaned against the Jeep while he tried to get back his bearings. He felt shaky, senses all over the place. He breathed heavily. His left leg especially was in pain where the car had hit him, and in response he kept his weight on his right foot. The many minor knocks and scrapes didn’t seem to hurt that badly; the adrenaline surging through him was a perfect inhibitor. If he survived until the morning, he knew he was going to feel terrible. He looked forward to that feeling.

Looking around, he saw the far bank of the river was maybe twenty yards away, the near side less than half that. Victor could see crushed shrubs and small bent-over trees, the path where the Jeep had smashed through the foliage before shooting off a high section of bank. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

He couldn’t see where the assassin had crashed, and maybe he was dead, but if Victor had survived, then so could his enemy. He had to be sure. He needed to see the body. After a few moments of rest, he pushed himself off the Jeep and headed for the near riverbank, wading through the knee-deep water. It was thick and dark with soil, growing shallower the closer he made it to the shore. He felt naked without a gun.

He’d taken two steps up the muddy bank when he saw a Russian emerge from the tree line, half-crouched, movements confident, Bizon in hand.

No 9 mm bullets ripped through Victor, so he stopped and waited. The Russian smiled at Victor and gestured for him to come forward. They were five yards apart.

The Russian said, “You’re lucky he wants you alive. For now.”

Victor said nothing.

There had been two Russians in each pickup. Where was the second? Victor approached slowly, shuffling, acting more injured than he was. He glanced around. He couldn’t see the road through the trees and vegetation, but he knew it was there, maybe a hundred yards farther back at the top of the slope. Despite the sun it was dark beneath the canopy. Three yards.

The Russian motioned for Victor to come closer still, and he continued to walk forward, grimacing with every step as though he could barely stand. He needed to be close to try anything, but as soon as he was within range he knew the butt of the submachine gun would slam against his skull. He didn’t control his breathing, letting the adrenaline increase, heightening his senses, supercharging his muscles. Two yards.

Another step and Victor would charge, trusting the Russian had bought the pretense of weakness-a slim chance, but his only one.

From behind the Russian a chill voice said, “No one kills him but me.”

Suppressed gunshots. Two. A double tap.

The Russian splayed forward, his features contorted into shock, fear, and pain for a single second before his body went limp and he collapsed face-first into the mud, directly in front of Victor. Two holes side by side in his spine so close together they touched.

No more than ten yards away Reed stood motionless in the undergrowth behind the body. He was holding the Glock in a two-handed combat grip, aiming straight at Victor’s chest. Reed didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.

Victor took a breath, realizing he was a dead man. Killing the Russian might just have been possible, but this enemy didn’t want to take him alive. At such close range Victor wouldn’t miss, even injured, and he knew the assassin wasn’t going to either. The only cover to run to meant heading closer still in order to get into the tree line. Even without a leg he could just about walk on, he wouldn’t get close. Moving back into the river to try and reach the Jeep would be even more hopeless. Even if he could somehow make it to the vehicle without getting shot, what would he do next?

Nothing was the answer. There was nothing Victor could do to stay alive.

He supposed there was something fitting to be killed by one of his own kind. Norimov had told him for someone so careful to stay alive he lived as though he had a death wish. If he did have such a wish, it was about to come true.

Victor stepped forward and stood up straight, showing his enemy he wasn’t going to cower or beg. It wasn’t much, but it was all Victor had left as he waited for the bullet to the heart or brain. He didn’t have to wait long.

Reed fired.

19:37 UST

But he didn’t fire at Victor.

There was a sound, the crackling of vegetation. Reed spun instantly to its source, ninety degrees to his left. He shot once into the darkness beneath the canopy, dropped to one knee, reducing the size of his body while at the same time providing a more stable firing position. Shot again. Suppressed automatic fire came back at him, mud flying up as bullets raked the ground around his position.

Victor didn’t hesitate, moved while Reed was distracted by what had to be the second Russian from the pickup. He sprinted toward Reed, toward the dead Russian, toward the Bizon still clutched in the Russian’s hand.

Reed fired again at the unseen gunman, and a cry emanated from the trees. Victor covered the ground quickly, but Reed was already spinning back toward him. Victor tensed, anticipating the bullet’s impact, but then he saw the slide was back on the Glock in Reed’s hand.

Empty.

Victor reached the Bizon and scooped it up into his hands. He leveled it to fire, but Reed was already on him, pushing the gun’s barrel to one side before he had it in line. A hand grabbed Victor’s shirt a split second before a foot looped around his leg.

He crashed to the ground, on his back, right arm extended, hand still gripping the submachine gun. Reed landed on top of Victor, his weight knocking the air from Victor’s lungs.

Flames spat from the muzzle of the Bizon. Ejected brass cases struck the mud. The recoil made Victor’s arm shake and flail about wildly. Reed forced Victor’s index finger down on the trigger. The magazine was empty in just over three seconds, the last bullet escaping the gun into nearby vegetation.

Victor reached for Reed’s hair, found it too short to grab hold of, went for his eyes instead, but Reed was already rolling. He came to his feet a few yards away and Victor likewise rose.

For a moment the two stared into each other’s eyes. Victor assessed his opponent while he knew he was likewise being assessed. The assassin before him had a compact frame, but Victor could tell that every pound was honed for strength and speed. He wore his hair short and with no care for fashion or style, no more than a centimeter or two in length all over. Too short for an enemy to grip in his fingers, as Victor had found out.

Blood ran from the assassin’s right ear. Superficial wounds on his torso and arms, Victor assumed from the crash, were visible where his shirt was red. His face was damp with sweat, chillingly empty of expression, conveying no anger or excitement or even determination. It was as if no thought or feeling existed behind his eyes.

With a slow, casual motion, Reed reached his right thumb and forefinger up his left shirt sleeve. He drew out a knife from a wrist sheath and smoothly opened the folded blade.

It had a four-inch, partially serrated kriss blade with a gladiator point. It was matte black, precision crafted ceramic, strong as folded steel but much lighter and sharper, invisible to metal detectors. Victor had never seen the model before. Custom made, then, for an expert.