Red Notice

47

Laszlo and his cadre in the service tunnel also heard the noise. But for them it was louder, and they knew what it was: they had been waiting for it. He smiled as the noise turned into a clearly identifiable engine note and they saw the glow of lights approaching. ‘Right on time.’

His brother was in command of the fighting men and Laszlo would never usurp him. He stood to one side. At Sambor’s instruction, they all faded into the shadows, fanning out along one wall of the tunnel.

Sambor himself remained at its centre, facing the approaching French fire truck. Caught in the glare of their headlights, he raised his hands, miming the appropriate degree of panic-stricken gratitude. The leading appliance screeched to a halt and the two behind soon followed suit.

Sambor headed for the front wagon, babbling in Russian, trying to explain what had happened. The brigade commander could only reply in French. ‘Where is the fire? What has happened?’

The rest of the crews clambered out and began to unload their equipment.

Sambor got within two paces of the commander, stopped, legs apart to ensure stability as he pulled aside his leather jacket with his left hand, exposing the suppressed pistol tucked into his belt. He drew the weapon down with his right hand. There was a faint thud as the round left the barrel. It made contact with the skin immediately beneath the fireman’s nostrils and took out his brain stem a fraction of a second before it emerged from the back of his skull, taking fragments of yellow helmet with it, and shattered against the appliance’s bodywork.

There was a faint movement in the shadows and more South Ossetians stepped into view. Their weapons made barely a sound as the working parts moved to eject the empty case, reload a fresh round, and propel it from the barrel. They mowed the firemen down, one by one, with double taps into the centre of their body mass. Tufts of fibre from their uniforms puffed outwards like thistledown as they crashed to the ground.