No Kiss For The Devil

44

Ray Szulu watched as the firemen attending the ruined van packed up their equipment and got ready to leave. Their leader was hustling them along, shouting about a warehouse fire three miles away. They had expertly put out the small blaze in the engine compartment and had shunted the vehicle into the kerb for someone else to tow away, leaving just a smell of burnt rubber and metal hanging in the air. A police car called to attend had also screeched off as soon as it was clear that no traffic problems existed.

As silence resumed, a squeal of tyres from his right made Szulu duck further into his doorway. A vehicle was approaching at speed. Szulu didn’t know a whole lot about engines, but he’d been around Steadman enough times to know when he heard something race-tuned.

The bulky shape barrelled out of the dark, no lights showing, and skidded to a stop right across the entrance to the car park. It was a black van with sliding side doors. Even before it came to a complete halt, three shapes hit the ground running. The driver stayed where he was, the engine ticking over smoothly.

Szulu felt his mouth go dry. The three men didn’t bother climbing the small brick wall around the car park, they hurdled it like Olympic athletes, their feet making almost no noise. As they flitted under one of the overhead lights, he saw they were dressed in dark clothes and soft boots. And each man was carrying a handgun.

Szulu swore long and hard. This wasn’t good news. More bloody Russians? Had to be. Not police; they’d have had the place surrounded with lights and sirens and a risk-assessment team debating whether it was safe to go in or not.

He stepped out from his doorway, ready to take a run at the building and see what he could do. Maybe he’d find a weapon or something. Maybe he could pretend to be a cleaner arriving late for his shift. Maybe ‘That’s far enough, pal.’

No way! He’d forgotten the driver; taken his eye off the ball and missed the guy climbing out from behind the wheel. The man was dressed like his mates, all in black, and holding a handgun with a two-fisted grip, pointed at Szulu, his feet planted squarely. Shit, thought Szulu, this guy’s not messing. He looked fit and hard, like he knew what he was doing, and the gun looked big, too. Szulu’s legs felt like they were turning to water.

‘You don’t want to play Rambo,’ the man said, almost conversationally. ‘Best get back in your hidey-hole and wait. Your friends’ll be out soon enough.’

Szulu scowled at him, nerves forgotten as indignation asserted itself. ‘Rambo? Who you callin’ names, man?’ He stopped. Wait. The man didn’t sound Russian. And what did he know about who his friends were?

The man chuckled. ‘No offence. Szulu, isn’t it? Believe me, this isn’t the time for heroics.’ He gestured with the gun towards the building. ‘You’d best get out of sight and stay down,’ he advised. ‘If any of the bad guys get out and see you, they might not stop to ask questions.’

He turned and jogged back to the van and climbed in. Quickly reversing it back down the street, he tucked it into the kerb just out of the glow of the nearest street light. Now it was almost invisible; just another van parked up for the night.

Szulu had to admire the slickness of the operation. He swallowed and moved back to his doorway, wondering about something else which was a bit more worrying: how come a complete stranger — a gun-carrying stranger, no less — knew his name?

‘You had her taken and brought here?’ Vasiliyev was ready to burst. He spun round to face Fedorov as they entered the main office, ignoring the gun held to his head by Olek. ‘Are you insane? She is not going to help us — don’t you understand that? This operation is over. What’s the use of pretending? Why not simply put her name on the article and deal with whatever happens afterwards?’

Fedorov’s eyes grew round at this open challenge to his authority. He was not accustomed to his underlings speaking to him like this. Indeed he had killed men for less. He made a chopping motion, cutting off further protest.

‘Enough!’ he hissed, a fleck of spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth. He reached out and stabbed his assistant in the chest with a thin finger. ‘You forget yourself, Radko Vasiliyev.’ He placed a deliberate emphasis on the man’s real name. ‘I brought you here… I can just as easily make you go away!’ He snapped his fingers with contempt, the noise sharp in the sudden silence, and waited for an objection. When none came, he continued, ‘Now, get rid of the woman. And make it final. We are leaving this place as soon as we can and I want no traces to follow us. Do you understand?’

Vasiliyev licked his lips. He was shocked by the strength of Fedorov’s reaction and the gun pointed at his head. His boss rarely demonstrated more than a quiet, contained anger when things didn’t go right; it was what made the man so dangerous, as if he preferred to harbour his thoughts deep inside, using others to give physical vent to his emotions. But this was extreme. And the fact that he was still alive meant little; he was a realist and knew it might not last.

‘But-’

‘But nothing. Where is Pechov?’

Vasiliyev shook his head. He had lost track of Pechov long ago, and it was now clear why: while keeping him out of the way, Fedorov had given the muscle-bound thug other jobs to do — the most significant of which was to take Riley Gavin hostage. And for what? A simple lesson in who held the most power? It was insane.

He tried to think. The other man, a tall, lard-skinned Ukrainian thug named Roychev, was downstairs, keeping an eye on the approaches to the building. ‘Pechov is not answering his phone. Maybe he decided to run.’ It was all he could think of to say. ‘I will find Roychev and get him to check the building.’

Turning away from Fedorov was possibly the hardest thing Vasiliyev had ever done. But he had to move before his boss changed his mind and nodded to Olek to take him out. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling all the way to the door, sure that a bullet was about to follow. He nearly gagged with relief when the door swung to behind him.

He walked down the main stairs, silently wishing that if Pechov had jumped ship, he could have had the courage to do the same thing. He wondered how much longer the other two would stick around. On the other hand, as they all knew, Fedorov’s reach was long — very long. And his memory was extensive and vengeful, as Vasiliyev had witnessed.

Desertion, if that’s what Pechov had actually done, was the worst kind of sin in Fedorov’s book. Almost as bad as failure. It would attract shame and humiliation, and the derision of his peers, to have a man walk away. Few of them would allow Fedorov to forget such a thing, the story following him wherever he went. Give it a few weeks and Pechov would turn up. But he doubted it would be a pretty sight.

He reached the ground floor and found Roychev standing by the entrance, yawning.

‘Where is Pechov?’

Roychev grunted, sneering, bringing thoughts that he must have been alerted by Olek to Vasiliyev’s sudden fall in status. ‘I haven’t seen him since he brought the woman here and took her upstairs.’ He sniggered nastily. ‘He’s probably enjoying himself with her. I hope he leaves some for me.’

‘Pig,’ Vasiliyev swore. ‘Put a finger on her and I’ll cut you into strips.’ The Ukrainian swallowed and stepped back, his already pale skin turning whiter at the realisation that he’d overstepped the mark, change of status or not. He was heavier than Vasiliyev and probably tougher physically, but until he received orders, he knew his place in the order of things.

‘I was only joking,’ he said, and sought to make amends. ‘Maybe he’s downstairs. He said he was going to check the basement doors to make sure they were secure.’ He stifled another yawn and grumbled, ‘I could do with some coffee.’

Vasiliyev ignored him and made his way to the rear stairwell. In one corner was a single door bearing a NO ENTRY sign. He opened it and was met by a wall of warm, stale air and a steady hum from the air-conditioning system feeding the building. He stepped through and descended the single flight of concrete steps, treading carefully. If Pechov were down here, he might easily shoot first without bothering to identify his target. He reached the bottom and stopped. A patter of footsteps echoed overhead. He shook his head. Roychev, probably, stamping his feet to keep himself awake.

He edged along the passageway, eyes piercing the poor light, and wished he had a gun. Then he saw the body, lying in the spread of light from an overhead lamp. He recognised the bulk of Pechov’s shoulders, and the suit. He bent down to check the man’s throat. There was no pulse. He stood up and let out a lengthy sigh, wondering what they had brought down on themselves. He’d have bet almost anything against anyone taking Pechov — the man was a brute, and ferociously strong. Just not strong enough, apparently.

He turned and went back upstairs to the lobby. A feeling of impending disaster was growing in his gut and it wasn’t simply because he had stood up to Fedorov — maybe for the first and last time. Something was seriously wrong here.

Roychev had disappeared.

Then he saw something in the shadows towards the rear of the lobby. He walked over to take a closer look.

It was Roychev. He had been shot once in the head.