The Game

FIFTY-ONE

Victor drove the Rolls-Royce out of the barn, killed the engine, and climbed out. The sun was setting and a light was on in the kitchen, so Victor could see through the window to where Hart, Leeson, Dietrich, Jaeger, Coughlin and Francesca stood. Victor couldn’t see Leeson’s lips, but he was gesticulating to emphasise whatever points he was making to the others, who all stood still as they listened. Those faces Victor could see were blank with concentration. Whatever Leeson was telling them was important. Victor thought more about Leeson’s decision to send him out to the barn.

He approached the closed kitchen door — quieter than a relaxed man walking, but not as quiet as a man trying to be quiet. The gravel driveway betrayed him, as he knew it would, before he got close enough to hear what was being said, but as he neared and his angle to the window changed he didn’t pause to read Leeson’s lips, because Hart looked his way.

Hinges quietly squealed as Victor pushed the door open. The conversation had already stopped before he stepped inside. All eyes focused his way. Eight of those eyes belonged to trained and experienced killers. Two belonged to a man armed with a gun, who employed those killers. The final two were the only pair Victor felt the need to look away from. He tossed Leeson the car keys before he could be asked for them and made his way to the sink, unconcerned about his back being to the room because there was no logical reason the crew would turn on him now when they had not done so earlier.

He helped himself to some water and as he drank it down individual conversations broke out behind him: Leeson talking to Hart and Francesca, Dietrich with Coughlin. Jaeger spoke to no one. His reflection in the window glass stared at Victor’s and nodded just once.

No one saw it but Victor. He turned around and examined the room. Jaeger was on the opposite side of the room. Hart, Francesca and Leeson formed a small triangle close to the door, to Victor’s left. Dietrich and Coughlin stood near the stove, to Victor’s right.

Victor circled around the table, moving past Coughlin and Dietrich. He bumped his shoulder into Dietrich’s — the shoulder that he had stabbed.

Dietrich grimaced. ‘Watch it, prick.’

‘Don’t tell me that little cut hurts a strong man like you?’

‘Not as much as it will hurt you when I cut your tongue from your mouth.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Leeson said. ‘Let’s not have a repeat of earlier.’

‘There won’t be,’ Victor said as he continued to stare at Dietrich. ‘He hasn’t got his knife.’

Dietrich smiled but anger raged in his eyes. Victor saw Jaeger’s reflection shift across the window as he neared Leeson. Hart saw Victor look.

‘Back off from each other,’ Leeson said. ‘Now, if you please.’

‘I thought you were a real tough guy, Dietrich,’ Victor said. ‘But you’re just a coward. Everyone in this room knows it. Without the knife, you’re nothing.’

Dietrich swung at him wildly. It was a powerful right hook that would have fractured Victor’s eye socket had he not slipped the punch. Victor caught Dietrich’s hand and wrist and twisted it into a lock. Dietrich responded with a left-handed uppercut to Victor’s stomach, but Victor knew it was coming and turned away, making Dietrich follow him in a semicircle to avoid his arm breaking. He roared — anger rather than pain.

‘That’s it,’ Leeson said and drew his SIG.

Jaeger went for it.

He got his hands on the weapon and wrenched it easily from Leeson’s grip.

It was a small gun and Jaeger’s hands were huge, and it took him a second of fumbling to get his finger into the small trigger guard. In that second Hart grabbed a mug from the table and threw it at Jaeger — a fast underarm toss aimed at the head, that wouldn’t induce unconsciousness or inflict major damage but would hurt.

Jaeger flinched. He lurched backwards and to his left, away from the incoming mug, which Hart had thrown at Jaeger from his right, herding him away from Leeson and into the open space.

Hart charged.

Jaeger was huge but he was fast for his size, and he recovered quickly enough to be ready before Hart reached him. The SIG was in his hand and he brought his arm up to point at Hart. Victor saw that though it would take a few more seconds to reach its conclusion, the attempt was already over.

In the same way Jaeger was fast for his size, so was Hart. But Hart was around one hundred pounds lighter. As the gun came up, Hart went low, below the muzzle, and Jaeger couldn’t react in time to stop Hart wrapping his arms around Jaeger’s thighs — thighs that were too close together because Jaeger’s feet were too squared.

Jaeger was huge and heavy but Hart was strong. He didn’t need to lift him high off the ground for his forward momentum to tip Jaeger backwards far enough for gravity to pull him crashing down to the floor.

Victor released Dietrich and Dietrich didn’t attack. He, like everyone else in the room, watched Hart and Jaeger.

Jaeger was on his back and his arms had gone up over his head. He’d kept hold of the gun despite the impact, but being thrown to the floor had momentarily stunned him. Hart used that brief window to go for the gun, standing up to do so, and Jaeger rolled his head backwards to keep him in view as he tried to angle the weapon.

Well played, Victor thought, because he saw what Hart had done. He didn’t go for the SIG, but stamped down with his heel on Jaeger’s now-exposed throat.

Then Hart stood back, because there was nothing else he needed to do.

Jaeger’s whole body seemed to tense. He sat up and whipped the gun around to track Hart, but let it fall from his fingers. Because he was trying to breathe.

Panic warped Jaeger’s face.

He grasped at his throat, eyes wide and staring at a point far beyond the kitchen. He opened his mouth and shoved fingers into it, but Victor knew he had no chance of getting them far enough into his throat to push open his windpipe, which had been crushed by Hart’s heel. Jaeger wheezed and wretched and spluttered, his face reddening with every second that passed.

Everyone just watched.

After thirty seconds of fruitlessly trying to open up his windpipe with his fingers Jaeger barged across the kitchen, knocking aside anyone not quick enough to get out of his path. He wrenched open a drawer, then another because he didn’t find what he was looking for in the first.

Jaeger grabbed a pair of scissors, but dropped them because his heart rate was so high his fine motor skills were almost nonexistent. He fell to his knees to grab the scissors from the floor. He didn’t stand again — having been without oxygen for almost a minute, he had neither the strength to stand nor the time.

He directed his gaze at the ceiling by tilting his head back and with the fingers of his left hand found the groove at the top of his ribcage, where the clavicles met and only a thin layer of skin covered the oesophagus.

‘Look away,’ Victor said to Francesca.

She didn’t. At first Victor thought she was shocked and terrified and confused by his words and Jaeger’s actions, but he saw that she was none of those. She watched because she was curious. She watched as Jaeger used the scissors to stab himself in the throat.

The scissors were an ordinary kitchen utensil, not a surgical scalpel, and the tip of each blade was blunted for safety. Jaeger’s first stab drew blood and a breathless grunt but failed to pierce the cartilage.

Victor had no doubt Jaeger could have driven the scissors through a man’s skull in other circumstances, but he was weak and dying and with such an awkward manoeuvre could only employ a fraction of his depleted strength. Jaeger tried again, then again, stabbing at his throat with increasingly wild and inaccurate blows as oxygen deprivation escalated. Blood soaked his hand and cascaded over his shirt. Torn skin hung in strips from his neck.

He slumped from his knees onto his left side, his face swollen and blue, eyes bulging and red. He made a slow, weak stab at his neck, then stopped.

No one spoke for a long moment. Hart picked up Leeson’s gun and handed it back.

‘Would it have worked?’ Coughlin asked, eventually. He looked around, not certain who would know.

‘Yes,’ Victor said. ‘He could have opened the scissors a little to create a breathing hole.’

Hart nodded. ‘He never gave up. I respect that.’

Francesca said, ‘You’re an animal.’ It didn’t sound like an insult.

Hart nodded again. ‘I’m human.’

‘He paid the price for turning on me — for turning on us all,’ Leeson said. ‘He deserved everything that he received. He could have left here a rich man. Now, he’ll never leave.’

‘He believed you were going to betray him,’ Victor said. Everyone looked at him. ‘He believed after the job was complete you would have Hart kill him — and the rest of us — to ensure there was no comeback.’

‘And how would you know what he believed?’

‘Because he told me.’

‘Then he had an overactive imagination.’

‘He thought Hart would kill him,’ Victor said, gesturing to where Jaeger lay unmoving on the floor, scissors still clutched in hand, blood pooling on the floor around his head. ‘Hart killed him.’

Leeson smiled a little. ‘Jaeger’s paranoia became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I think there’s a lesson in there for each and every one of us. But, fortunately, we are able to continue without him. He’s already fulfilled his part.’

Victor thought about Jaeger working in the barn and the ceramic dust. ‘You said you’d tell us about the job after dinner.’

‘I did. So let’s go.’

‘Go where?’

‘Outside,’ Leeson said. ‘Jaeger’s corpse can stay here for now. Mr Dietrich will drive my limousine. Everyone else in the minivan. It’s time you knew what you were hired for.’