Tom Callaghan - A Summer Revenge

I checked my phone again: no message. I keyed in “Here” and waited for a reply. Nothing. It was time to find the ladies’ bathroom and hope that Natasha was safely locked in one of the cubicles. I could hardly ask where it was, so I took a guess that the men’s toilets would be nearby. Eventually, after wandering for several minutes toward the far end of the store, past the coffee shop and endless rows of manga comic books and expensive figures of monsters and Star Wars characters, I spotted the universal symbols for toilets.

I called Natasha’s number, but it went straight to voicemail. There was no help for it: I was going to have to go inside. Over the years I’ve learned the one thing you mustn’t do is to look hesitant; if you look as if you belong there, then people assume that you do. That obviously wasn’t going to work here. I’d just stride in and brazen it out as a simple mistake if it became a problem.

The bathroom was immaculate, as I’d expected: mirrors spotless, surfaces wiped. An Arab woman wearing a hijab stood at one of the sinks, washing her hands. She looked up as I entered, her mouth opening to scream. I put a finger to my lips, holding up my gun to ensure her silence, then turned her face away, to give her as little opportunity to identify me as possible. I knew I only had a few seconds to check the cubicles, so I kicked the doors open, aiming the Makarov at the rear of each stall. The crash of my boot slamming each door open echoed like a gunshot off the tiled walls. Each stall was empty: no sign of Natasha, no hint where she might be. I turned as I heard the door to the bookshop swing open, in time to see the Arab woman disappear. With the clarity that an adrenalin rush brings on, I noticed that she’d forgotten her handbag, one of those festooned with logos, studs and sparkles. Expensive, I thought as I followed her out.

One of the security guards was already on his way toward me, looking suitably tough. I made sure he was unarmed, waited until he was within reach, then hit him between the eyes with the butt of my gun. I didn’t stay to watch the look of surprise on his face morph into unconsciousness, but grabbed him as he fell and propped him against a pile of books labeled CURE YOUR INSOMNIA. Perhaps my method was a little severe.

I walked, not fast but briskly, as if slightly late to meet my wife at one of the expensive shoe stores. I kept hold of my gun but let it hang loosely by my side. Virtually nobody looks at the hands of a passer-by, and if I was lucky, the woman in the bathroom hadn’t seen me for long enough to pick me out in a line-up or on a CCTV tape.

I was making my way through TRUE-LIFE CRIMES when the first shot rang out. The head of a life-size cutout of some famous author exploded into pieces, while the second shot punched its way through a pile of his latest novel, scattering paper confetti into the air.

People started screaming, and there was a stampede toward the exit. I dropped to one knee, crouched and tried to spot the shooter among all the chaos. For a moment I couldn’t see anything, then saw him, maybe ten meters away. It was the young guy who’d put a gun in my back the day I arrived in Dubai. That now felt like months ago. His face was scarlet, running with the sweat of fear, his eyes wide, trying to see me in the stampeding crowd. For a few seconds I felt sorry for him, overburdened with a responsibility he clearly couldn’t handle, out of his depth. Then he fired again, and I saw a woman in Western dress, mid-thirties, stumble and fall, her mouth torn open with pain.

I had no choice. He was only a boy, but a boy with a gun. I took off the top of his head with a single shot, the bullet smacking into his right temple. I watched his eyes go puzzled, as if asked to solve a complicated question of geometry, and then turn blank. His brains spattered out in a thin spray that painted the walls behind him with red ink. He fell back and slithered down the wall, suddenly boneless, a marionette whose strings had all snapped in one instant. All promise unfulfilled, all ambition ended.

I knew that later on, in dreams, I’d see his face, all blood and shattered teeth, mouth open in surprise, accusing me of overreacting. But right then I had other things on my mind; guilt would have to wait.

In the chaos it was easy enough to slip the gun back into my pocket, palm the boy’s wallet and mobile phone, and join the crowd. Once I was outside the bookshop, I looked around, hoping to catch sight of Natasha. Security guards were already running toward the scene, but so far I hadn’t seen any police. It was only a matter of time.

And then I spotted her, being hustled toward the escalators by two burly bearded men. One of them held her by the arm, while the other pressed his hand close against her back. Holding a gun, I assumed.

I pushed my way through the crowd that had gathered to stare at all the commotion, elbowing men aside, ignoring the protests and complaints. By the time I reached the escalators, I could see Natasha one floor below me. There was no way I could push through the people already on the escalator, so I perched myself on the handrail and slid down past them. I did my best to ignore the sheer drop of four floors to my right; if I lost my balance, the marble floor below would take care of all my problems. I didn’t think Tynaliev would bother about having my body brought home.

I half-leaped, half-stumbled off the handrail and turned the corner into trouble. Two more bearded men stood in my way, and unlike the kid lying dead in the bookshop, I could tell these were professional.

I feinted a sidestep to the left of the man nearest to me, then kicked out at his kneecap. The shock of the contact jarred my entire body, but I felt his knee twist in a direction nature had never intended, heard the grunt of pain, watched him stagger back and into the path of his colleague.

A lethal-looking bowie knife with a grooved edge clattered to the floor, metal against marble creating a harsh ringing sound. As the man fell, I took another step forward, kicked the knife away from his grasp, brought my elbow up into his face, felt his face splinter with the blow. Then I was moving forward, relentless, my fingers locked around each other to form a single fist.

I didn’t need to aim; my movement forward and the other man’s momentum brought him straight into a terrible blow that snapped his neck back as if he’d been in a head-on collision. His eyes rolled up, then he was on his back as I jumped over his body and ran toward the next downward escalator.

Move fast enough and you’re past the passers-by around you before they’ve had time to realize what’s going on, let alone react. But I knew I had very little time before extra security and the police would seal off the entire mall. So I pushed and shoved my way down, leaving a string of complaints and cries of pain in my wake.

My fight with the two men, however brief, had given Natasha’s kidnappers extra distance, and they were now out of sight. Their obvious destination was the car park, where they would have a getaway vehicle primed and pointed at the exit.

I knew that I needed to delay any pursuit, so I snapped off a couple of shots at the high-priced stores in front of me. I aimed high, to avoid hitting anyone who thought their platinum credit card made them immortal. The crackle of safety glass windows crumpling into pieces was immediately followed by the sound of people rushing in every direction, closely followed by their screams. I could only hope the added confusion would put time on my side, time I badly needed.

As I reached the car park level, I caught sight of Natasha being pushed into the same black Prado that Saltanat and I had seen earlier. Even before its doors were shut, the car raced toward the exit. My gun was in my hand, but in real life no one has ever managed to blow out a tire of a moving car with a single shot. And I didn’t dare fire into the car for fear of hitting Natasha. I watched the car disappear for the second time that day and knew what my next move should be.