Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

Suddenly, silently, the door clicked open, just a few inches. Inside was dark.

Sam’s sopping clothes were clammy against his skin as he stood in the blackness, carefully selecting his next move. Whoever was inside, whoever this Dolohov character was, he clearly didn’t believe that someone had just turned up to deliver him pizza. But the opening of the door was an invitation of some kind. He just didn’t know what to. Edging towards the gap, he held the gun firmly in his right hand, while gently pushing the door further open and peering inside.

It was difficult to make much out in the darkness. There was an entrance hall of sorts, a circular table in the middle and an ornate mirror on the wall, which reflected some kind of ambient light seeping in from a room off to his right. He could see nothing to his left because the door was in the way. The walls were filled with bookshelves.

‘Alexander Dolohov?’ he called.

No reply.

‘I need to speak to you. I’m armed. You might as well show yourself. It’ll stop things getting messy.’

Silence.

Sam stepped inside. His eyes flitted around, but he couldn’t see anyone. He could make a pretty good guess as to where his target was hiding, though: behind the open door. They always chose the most obvious places. Sam momentarily readjusted the gun in his hand and then, in one swift movement, hooked his left foot around the edge of the door, slammed it shut and pointed his weapon into the space that had just been revealed.

No one was there.

It was at that precise moment that he heard the footsteps again. Swifter this time, and behind him. He turned around quickly, just in time to see the silhouette of a man approaching, some kind of cosh held above his head, ready to use. The man was smaller than Sam, smaller and fatter. But fast. Sam just had time to see the thick, square-rimmed glasses that covered his eyes, before the cosh was brought down on his head with a sudden, brutal crack. Dizziness overwhelmed him. He tried to aim his gun again, but he could feel his knees going. Vaguely, he was aware of the cosh being raised once more; he felt it slam against the side of his face.

And then he fell to the ground. He felt sick, but only for a moment as the darkness seemed to close in on him, and he passed out.

When Sam awoke, his head felt crushed and his skin was stinging. A light – a bright one – shone into his face, blinding him and making him squint so hard his eyes were almost shut. How long had he been out? He couldn’t tell, but as he touched his fingers to his cheek and felt the wetness of his own blood he realised it couldn’t have been that long. His clothes were still soggy.

He was sitting on a hard wooden chair at the end of a long table. The lamp was situated at the other end of the table and behind it sat Sam’s attacker. In front of him, lying on the table, was Sam’s gun; in the man’s podgy hand was another weapon – a GSh-18 pistol. Smaller than more modern handguns, but a firm favourite of the Russians. Including the Commie cunt in front of Sam.

‘Dolohov?’ Sam demanded. His voice was little more than a croak and as he spoke a wave of nausea passed through him.

A pause. Sam wished he could see the guy’s face properly.

‘I think it would be wiser,’ Dolohov replied with the elegant precision of man for whom English is not a native language, ‘if we concentrate first on who you are.’

Sam didn’t reply. His mind was working overtime.

‘A few…’ Dolohov sounded like he was searching for the right words. ‘A few ground rules. I haven’t tied you up, but if you move from that seat, I will shoot you without hesitation. I’m sure I don’t need to repeat myself. Do I need to repeat myself?’

‘Your gaff,’ Sam replied, peering harder into the light. ‘You do what you want.’

‘I intend to.’ Dolohov stood up and stepped away from the light, revealing more of his features. He was a small, dumpy little man with a jowly face behind unfashionable spectacles. His thin hair was Brylcreemed and combed into a severe parting. He wore slacks and an open collar under his jumper. The small gun in his hand remained firmly pointed in Sam’s direction.

‘I consider it unlikely,’ Dolohov mused, ‘that a man such as yourself, armed with a weapon such as that, is a mere delivery boy. A common thief perhaps, here to rob me for drug money?’ An unpleasant smile spread across his face as he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Sam refused to let any expression cross his face. ‘A university professor,’ he countered, ‘armed and coshing anyone who turns up at his flat late at night. Doesn’t quite add up.’

Dolohov gave him an icy look. ‘Self-defence,’ he stated.

‘Sure.’ Sam shrugged. ‘But against what?’

‘Against interfering idiots like you.’ Dolohov took a step closer and Sam could sense his anger. ‘I recommend that you tell me who you are and what you want, otherwise our conversation will be very short.’

Dolohov’s glasses were slightly crooked on his face. If he wasn’t carrying a weapon, he’d look faintly ridiculous. He took another step towards Sam, as if to underline his seriousness.

Keep coming , Sam thought to himself. Just keep coming. His face still hurt, but the nausea was passing. ‘I thought we might have a chat,’ he goaded his assailant.

‘About what?’

‘About some e-mails.’

Dolohov’s lips thinned. ‘What e-mails?’

Sam smiled at him, an intentionally arrogant and infuriating smile. He said nothing.

‘ What e-mails? ’ Dolohov straightened his arm and took another stride towards Sam.

That was all he needed.

Sam moved quickly. With one hand he grabbed Dolohov’s podgy wrist in a crunching grip, pulled himself to his feet and circled his other arm tightly round the man’s fat neck. Dolohov fired his gun; the bullet slammed into the back of the chair, knocking it a metre along the floor before it rocked and upturned. Sam squeezed Dolohov’s neck, while firmly gripping his gun hand.

‘Drop the weapon!’ he hissed.

A gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat, but the gun stayed where it was. There was a fireplace to Sam’s right, surrounded by marble and with a shelf above that housed delicate china figurines. Sam twisted Dolohov’s body round, then slammed his wrist against the fireplace. One of the figurines toppled and smashed; the gun, too, fell from Dolohov’s hand as he gasped in pain. Sam continued to squeeze his neck. The flesh bulged and the gasping sound from Dolohov’s throat grew weaker. Sam had to concentrate. Keep the stranglehold for too long and he’d kill the man, but he just wanted him to lose consciousness. It would give Sam a few precious minutes to prepare for what had to happen next.

Dolohov’s body started to go limp. Sam held firm. The struggling ceased, so he relaxed his grip; as the man fell to the ground he manoeuvred his arms under Dolohov’s armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. Two fingers against his neck. A pulse. Sam nodded with satisfaction.

He had to move quickly. Violence like that affected different people in different ways. He could be out for five minutes or thirty seconds. Sam had to restrain his prisoner before he woke.

Running to the entrance of the room he switched the main light on and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the room that he had seen leading off the entrance hallway. It was plush. Next to the fire there was a comfortable, intricately upholstered armchair and on the opposite wall an antique chaise longue. At one end of the room were big windows looking out over a long garden far below and the roofs and towers of London beyond. Thick, corded curtains hung on either side. There was art on the walls, rich rugs on the floor and books seemingly everywhere.