The Hunter

CHAPTER 78

17:38 EAT

Victor’s eyes opened, and for a few seconds he couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything was wrong. Colours and sounds didn’t make sense. The world was brown, blurry, strange. His head hurt. He took a breath but breathed in only water through his nose.

He leaned up, coughing, raising his eyes and nose out of the river. He hung upside down for a moment, gasping. He didn’t know for how long he had been unconscious, but he guessed it could only have been a few minutes. He did a quick assessment of his body, flexing his hands, arms, legs, toes and moving his head, feeling stabs of pain as he did, but his limbs performed as he had commanded. No major injuries.

He unbuckled his seat belt, dropped onto the ceiling — now the floor — going underwater and then scrambling out of the smashed driver’s window. Glass sliced his arms and legs. The river was slow moving, shallow, two feet deep. He struggled to his feet, staggered a step away from the upturned Jeep, soaking-wet clothes clinging to him. He held his arm up to shield his eyes from the low sun.

Victor felt a sharp pain on the top of his head as he squinted. He reached up and pulled a long sliver of metal from his scalp. Blood mixed with water and ran down the side of his face. He leaned against the Jeep while he tried to get back his bearings. He felt shaky, senses all over the place. He breathed heavily. His left leg especially was in pain where the car had hit him, and in response he kept his weight on his right foot. The many minor knocks and scrapes didn’t seem to hurt that badly; the adrenaline surging through him was a perfect inhibitor. If he survived until the morning, he knew he was going to feel terrible. He looked forward to that feeling.

Looking around, he saw the far bank of the river was maybe twenty yards away, the near side less than half that. Victor could see crushed shrubs and small bent-over trees, the path where the Jeep had smashed through the foliage before shooting off a high section of bank. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

He couldn’t see where the assassin had crashed, and maybe he was dead, but if Victor had survived, then so could his enemy. He had to be sure. He needed to see the body. After a few moments of rest, he pushed himself off the Jeep and headed for the near riverbank, wading through the knee-deep water. It was thick and dark with soil, growing shallower the closer he made it to the shore. He felt naked without a gun.

He’d taken two steps up the muddy bank when he saw a Russian emerge from the tree line, half-crouched, movements confident, Bizon in hand.

№ 9 mm bullets ripped through Victor, so he stopped and waited. The Russian smiled at Victor and gestured for him to come forward. They were five yards apart.

The Russian said, ‘You’re lucky he wants you alive. For now.’

Victor said nothing.

There had been two Russians in each pick-up. Where was the second? Victor approached slowly, shuffling, acting more injured than he was. He glanced around. He couldn’t see the road through the trees and vegetation, but he knew it was there, maybe a hundred yards farther back at the top of the slope. Despite the sun it was dark beneath the canopy. Three yards.

The Russian motioned for Victor to come closer still, and he continued to walk forward, grimacing with every step as though he could barely stand. He needed to be close to try anything, but as soon as he was within range he knew the butt of the submachine gun would slam against his skull. He didn’t control his breathing, letting the adrenaline surge, heightening his senses, supercharging his muscles. Two yards.

Another step and Victor would charge, trusting the Russian had bought the pretence of weakness — a slim chance, but his only one.

From behind the Russian a chill voice said, ‘No one kills him but me.’

Suppressed gunshots. Two. A double tap.

The Russian splayed forward, his features contorted into shock, fear, and pain for a single second before his body went limp and he collapsed face-first into the mud, directly in front of Victor. Two holes side by side in his spine so close together they touched.

No more than ten yards away Reed stood motionless in the undergrowth behind the body. He was holding the Glock in a two-handed combat grip, aiming straight at Victor’s chest. Reed didn’t speak. He didn’t blink.

Victor took a breath, realizing he was a dead man. Killing the Russian might just have been possible, but this enemy didn’t want to take him alive. At such close range Victor wouldn’t miss, even injured, and he knew the assassin wasn’t going to either. The only cover to run to meant heading closer still in order to get into the tree line. Even without a leg he could just about walk on, he wouldn’t get close. Moving back into the river to try and reach the Jeep would be even more hopeless. Even if he could somehow make it to the vehicle without getting shot, what would he do next?

Nothing was the answer. There was nothing Victor could do to stay alive.

He supposed there was something fitting to be killed by one of his own kind. Norimov had told him for someone so careful to stay alive he lived as though he had a death wish. If he did have such a wish, it was about to come true.

Victor stepped forward and stood up straight, showing his enemy he wasn’t going to cower or beg. It wasn’t much, but it was all Victor had left as he waited for the bullet to the heart or brain. He didn’t have to wait long.

Reed fired.