Close Quarters

FIFTY-EIGHT

The track led into a stretch of trees ahead of us, the tops curving inwards to form an arch, lending the area a soft atmosphere. I couldn’t hear them but I was betting that birds were singing. At any other time and place it would have been scenic, serene, a place of tranquillity.

But not now.

A Mercedes four-wheel drive was standing in our way.

Two figures were next to it, one carrying a rifle. The other had a splash of white on one leg. They looked as if they’d known we were coming.

I pulled to a halt. We were less than a thousand yards from the border. From safety. Three hundred from the Mercedes.

I opened my door, motioning for Travis to do the same. ‘When you get out, leave the door open.’ If we needed to get back in it would have to be fast. I picked up the Grach.

‘Watchman, we have you on screen. Why have you stopped?’

‘We’ve got company and they’re in the way.’ The Mercedes looked like a G-Class 4WD, big and boxy and new. A big man’s status symbol. A gangster ride.

A short silence, then: ‘Copy that. Your lift is inbound on the other side, but they cannot cross. Will you be able to proceed?’

‘I’ll let you know. Stand by.’

I checked the map in case there was an alternative route. There wasn’t. A river formed part of the boundary between Ukraine and Moldova for about two miles, after which lay a small town, no doubt with official patrols and customs posts. If we didn’t cross here, we’d be forced to go back, and that simply wasn’t an option. What we needed now was another Su-27 fighter and a pilot with some attitude.

I used the binoculars and took a look at the man with the rifle. There was something familiar about the bulky figure and I think I’d known who it was from the first sighting.

Ivkanoy.

I swung left a fraction and checked out the person on the other side. Smaller, neater, leaning against the side of the Mercedes. The splash of white was a plaster cast on one ankle.

Olena Prokyeva. The woman sniper.

She was sporting two black eyes and the swelling across her nose must have made breathing difficult. But she was clearly mobile and still with Ivkanoy, although she didn’t appear to be armed. Maybe he’d brought her along to show her how killing me should be done.

Ivkanoy shouted something towards us but his words were carried away on the breeze. I doubted it was a warm welcome. In fact he looked mad enough to spit and threw the rifle up to his shoulder.

‘Out, now!’ I said, and we both jumped out and moved to the rear of the Land Cruiser.

If the birds had been singing before, they’d now gone very quiet.

Ivkanoy’s first shot went wide. The second ploughed into the ground thirty feet in front of the Land Cruiser. The third went over our heads by several feet. He followed them up with several more shots and a lot of animated yelling in between.

You really shouldn’t try sharp-shooting when you’re crazy mad with the target.

‘What do we do now?’ Travis asked. He was crouched behind the Land Cruiser, now wide awake and jittery, and I wasn’t surprised. The threat of shooting is one thing; facing live incoming rounds is something else altogether.

‘We fight back,’ I said, and leaned into the rear of the car. I pulled out the OSV-96 and checked the scope for dust, then made sure the magazine was good to go. I didn’t want to start a shooting war right here so close to the border, but Ivkanoy didn’t look like he was giving up. In fact, he’d only just got started. There was a sudden burst of automatic fire and the snap-snap of rounds going by were too close for comfort.

When I looked round the side of the Land Cruiser I saw where the automatic fire had come from. Ivkanoy had been joined by another man. This one was holding what looked like an AK-47. He raised it and fired two short bursts, and the Land Cruiser jumped as it took several hits.

This guy knew what he was doing.

Fortunately, his boss was an idiot. He walked over and snatched the AK away and tried to hose us down gangland-style. But he’d only got a few rounds left and they disappeared into the trees around us. He swore and shouted at his colleague, who handed him another magazine.

‘Get down,’ I warned Travis, and grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into dead ground at the side of the track. Even Ivkanoy couldn’t miss every time with a thirty-round magazine. As we stopped rolling, the best part of the load came whipping by overhead and snapping into the foliage on the far side of the track.

This was getting silly. As lousy a shot as Ivkanoy was, he’d got us pinned down and unable to move. If we stayed right here he’d eventually come down the track to get us. If we tried to run past him, he’d have open season on us — him and his pal. Travis evidently thought so, too.

‘Can’t you shoot the crazy bastard?’ he yelled. He looked almost guilty as the words came out, and looked away.

‘You’re the boss,’ I said, and rolled out from cover and positioned myself alongside the Land Cruiser. I hugged the OSV into my shoulder and got comfortable. It was a heavy weapon but nicely balanced. I got Ivkanoy in the cross hairs. He was struggling with the AK’s magazine, and I guessed it must have jammed through over-heating.

I swung left to check out the other man, focussing on his face. Well, damn me. Wheels within wheels. I didn’t know Ukrainian criminal society was so small.

It was Voloshyn, the thug from the Tipol hotel. He was now holding a pistol and looked pissed, and I guessed it was because Ivkanoy had used all the ammunition for his rifle and had now screwed up the AK.

I swung further left and found Olena. She had hopped away from the car and was shaking her head. She knew I could see her and knew what I was holding. She didn’t want anything to do with the damage I could inflict with it. Sensible woman.

I put my hand over my head and flicked a finger sideways, motioning for her to get into the side of the road. She caught on immediately and dived left. I wasn’t being gallant; she was unarmed and I saw no reason to add a defenceless woman to my score sheet, even one whose trade was death.

I checked Ivkanoy again. He’d given up fighting with the AK and tossed it back to Voloshyn, who dropped the pistol and snatched the AK out of the air as if it were a twig. In a fluid movement he had the old magazine out and was snapping a fresh one in place and turning ready to fire.

My first shot sounded like a canon. The round whipped by his leg so close it must have burned. It hit the four-wheel drive, the impact blowing out the windshield and sending a shower of glass fragments, plastic and metal trim high in the air. The next one took out the front tyre, dropping the vehicle like a wounded buffalo. The third round drilled through the rear panel and whatever it hit caused the far side window to explode.

When I looked at Voloshyn through the scope, he was standing very still. Even from this distance I could see he looked sick. He turned his head and said something to Ivkanoy, whose voice came back sounding snappy.

They didn’t look a happy crew.

Ivkanoy walked across and picked up Voloshyn’s pistol. He said something and pointed down the track towards us. Voloshyn shook his head.

Ivkanoy repeated his instruction, louder and snappier. This time Voloshyn shook his head and walked away. He’d had enough. If Ivkanoy wanted to walk down here into the muzzle of a big gun, he could go ahead.

Ivkanoy lifted the gun and shot him in the back of the head.

Then he turned towards Olena, who was backing away with nowhere to go.

I put a round over his head as a warning. The crack must have made his ears buzz, but there was no reaction. He’d gone beyond reason, beyond instinct or sanity.

Olena stumbled and went down, and rolled on to her back, kicking with the heel of her good foot to get away. Ivkanoy walked over to her and pointed the gun at her head. It wasn’t a threat; I knew by his stance that he was going to pull the trigger.

He wouldn’t have heard my next shot; he was dead before he hit the ground.

I got back in the car and turned the key. In spite of the hits it had taken, the engine started first time. Some build. Go Toyota.

‘Let’s go home,’ I told Travis, and we rolled forward down the track.

Olena stood up as we reached the four-wheel drive, hopping to keep her balance and holding her hands out to the sides to show they were empty. The mess of her face wasn’t just because of the damage I’d done to it; she had splashes of blood and other stuff on her and looked about ready to throw up. Tough as she was, she avoided looking at the crumpled mess of her late boss. Some things I guess you never get used to close up.

She raised a hand in mute thanks. I didn’t stop, but gave her a nod. Once I was sure she wasn’t a threat I eased the safety back on the Grach and placed it on the floor. What she did now was up to her. If she had any sense, she’d get in what was left of the Mercedes and get the hell away from here and find a new profession.

As I drove round the other vehicle and on down the track, I saw in the distance ahead of us the dark silhouette of a helicopter curving towards us on the Moldova side of the border. It was black and carried no markings.

‘Watchman, we have you on screen, you have clear access and your lift is waiting. Have a safe journey home.’