Recoil

3

Stefan was pouring whisky from his decanter into a heavy cut-glass tumbler. His back was turned; he raised his glass and gazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the lake shimmering in the distance. The room smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. Empty glasses lay next to an overflowing ashtray on the coffee-table. Spread all across it were maps of DRC.

I carried on towards him with my left hand extended. The right stayed by my side.

‘What do you want here?’

I brought the pliers up, locked them on to his right earlobe and twisted. His glass of thirty-year-old malt fell to the ground and smashed.

I pulled him towards the sofas. He didn’t fight it, just squealed like a pig. Everyone does.

‘Two things.’ I spun him round to the front of the sofa and pulled him down on to the sumptuous red and gold cushions. Still keeping a firm grip, I moved behind him and pulled so he pressed himself firmly against the backrest. I had his undivided attention. ‘First – where’s

Standish?’

‘I’m here.’

The dividing doors burst open. Standish faced me square on. In his hands, aimed at my head, was a baby Glock 9mm.

I got the message and released the pliers.

Stefan backed away to the windows. ‘I don’t want any mess! I don’t want any of this piece of shit left in this house. Besides . . .’ He grabbed one of the golden ropes that held back the big red velvet curtains and headed towards me. ‘I’m going to kill him myself.’

He got to within a couple of paces, pulled back his arm and hit me hard across the face with a big open hand.

Stars burst in my head as I crashed on to the coffee-table. I crumpled on to the floor and crawled towards the dividing doors to get away from him.

The two of them started shouting. Standish wanted it done here and now. I glanced up. He was breathing hard. His face was full of scratches, lumps and bumps.

My head was clearing. I focused on the baby Glock. What the fuck was I going to do next?

Standish was fuming. ‘I told you to be careful, didn’t I? I told you there could be trouble. Why haven’t you got a weapon? And some security?’

Stefan made a couple of turns in the rope and looked down at me with a smile that suggested he’d done this sort of thing before and enjoyed it.

Fuck this. If I was going to die, I was going down fighting.

I kept focused on the baby Glock, everything else burned out.

I swung a foot to catch Standish in the leg. It was the only thing I could hit.

He took a step to one side, which threw him a little bit off-balance.

I jumped up and grabbed the weapon in both hands, forcing it upwards, trying to twist it out of his hands.

It didn’t happen.

I pushed harder and he fell backwards. I ended up on my knees.

The rope went round my neck from behind and tightened.

I had to keep my hands on the Glock. I clenched my neck muscles, still trying to twist the weapon out of his hands and into his face.

I couldn’t move forward into Standish any more. The rope was pulling me back.

Stefan heaved some more. I kept a grip on the weapon, brought my elbows in, held it as tight as I could, trying to keep the fucking thing pointing upwards.

My head started to swell, my vision to narrow.

I was still gripping the weapon as Standish fell forwards and head-butted me. It landed on my cheek. He did it again, and got me just above the nose. I saw more starbursts.

And then the rope pulled deeper into my neck and I knew it was all over. I got pulled away from the Glock. My hands slipped off it.

I was only vaguely aware of the echo of footsteps on marble and the two bodies that screamed into the room from the corridor.