Red Notice

118

Laszlo stared, slack-jawed, at the scarred, bruised and blood-soaked apparition. But only for a moment.

Tom grabbed one of the roof rails with his left hand and pounded the windscreen with his right. Three spider webs had already formed on the glass, and a fourth was on its way. Laszlo accelerated and began to swerve from side to side, bouncing the MPV in and out of the potholes. Legs flailing across the bonnet, left arm stretched to breaking point, Tom still managed somehow to keep pounding with the rock.

Laszlo fish-tailed and lurched, stamping on the brakes, then accelerating again, but Tom kept his hold. As Laszlo spun the wheel in yet another desperate attempt to dislodge him, the Peugeot skidded off the track, into the field, mowing down ranks of sunflowers as it went.

Finally, Tom was thrown into the air and smashed against a wall of vegetation. He collapsed onto the ground as the Peugeot bottomed its suspension. Laszlo spun the wheel wildly from side to side and gunned the engine. The Peugeot’s tyres chewed into the earth and tossed a barrage of crushed sunflower stalks behind them.

Laszlo flung the vehicle into a spin, throwing up more stalks and earth, then lost control completely. The MPV slewed and eventually stalled in the midst of a circle of the flattened crop.

He quickly sparked up the ignition, turned the wheel towards the still prone body of the SAS man and pressed the accelerator pedal to the metal. The tyres spun furiously in the chewed-up soil and the car didn’t move. He tried again in a higher gear, barely touching the accelerator, but the wheels just buried themselves deeper and deeper in the soft ground.

Laszlo threw open the door, leaped out and began running towards his attacker.

At first Tom didn’t see Laszlo coming. But he could hear the desiccated crackle of the sunflower stalks as the South Ossetian forced his way across them.

His wounded leg was now so sore and swollen that he could barely put his weight on it, but he had to stand his ground.

A boot smashed into Tom’s thigh; the searing pain almost made him throw up as he fell back into the damp earth. Targeting the wound, Laszlo kicked Tom’s bandaged leg again and again, relentlessly. Then he moved to the rest of his body. Tom saw the other man’s eyes become totally lifeless. The body at his feet no longer belonged to a human being; it was nothing more than a target to beat into submission.

All Tom could do was fold himself into a tight ball, try to protect himself against the offensive.

When Tom opened his eyes again, he realized that — for the first time — he must have blacked out completely. The kicking had stopped. Laszlo stood above him, breathing heavily, spitting out the excess saliva his efforts had generated. His expression had changed. If Tom hadn’t known better, he might have mistaken it for something like humanity.

‘Tom…’ Laszlo’s chest heaved. ‘Tom, go home. Go home to your new family. You have killed my brother. You have killed many of my men. But this is not your fight…’ Laszlo spat another globule of mucus-tinged saliva onto the dark earth beside him. He took deeper and deeper breaths, trying to calm himself. ‘Go. Just go…’

Tom wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t sure he could, even if he wanted to. His knees were curled into his chest. ‘So you can still try to kill my country?’

‘Just as you would.’ Beads of sweat fell from Laszlo’s face as he leaned forward. He rested his hands on his thighs and inspected the damaged body below him. ‘People like us, we never give up. You know nothing of my past dealings with your countrymen. You see, Tom, they lie, they cheat and they kill. They kill with great brutality, to protect their interests. They feel superior now, of course. They tell the world that I am the evil one. But you will soon discover that these people are out of our league. So, just this one time, give up your fight with me and go home. Please go home.’

‘What people? Who are you talking about?’

Laszlo straightened his back. Tom could read the frustration on his ravaged face. ‘I am trying to save you from yourself. If you knew, they — not I — would kill you. Now go. If you do not take this opportunity to live, you will make me regret a kill for the very first time.’

Tom wasn’t giving anything up. His hands clutched his stomach, but his fingers felt their way to the handle of Sambor’s knife in the front pocket of his jeans.

Laszlo sighed. He scanned the ground nearby, caught sight of a fist-sized rock.

Tom aimed for Laszlo’s leg, the nearest part of his body, hoping to get him down onto the ground any way he could. He moved as fast as he could, but not fast enough. Laszlo blocked the knife thrust and pounded the rock down onto his shoulder. More out of desperation than anything else, Tom wrapped his arms around Laszlo’s ankles in a feeble rugby tackle, then pushed against his shins.

Laszlo lost his balance and went down, arms flailing but failing to break his fall. Tom drew back his right hand, launched himself forward and slammed the knife into Laszlo’s chest. He withdrew the blade and plunged it down again, this time into his stomach.

Laszlo screamed, but there was no fear or anger in his face. He just seemed to accept his fate. He watched, as if from a distance, as Tom used up his last dregs of strength to slam home the blade once more, burying it to the hilt between Laszlo’s third and fourth ribs, then collapsing on top of his suddenly still body.

As Laszlo’s blood began to pool among the sunflower stalks beneath them, Tom rolled over and wrenched himself into a sitting position. He dragged out the old man’s mobile and tapped in a number with numb, blood-soaked, slippery fingers. The unobtainable tone continued to mock him.

The setting sun glinted for a moment on something beneath the dead man’s sleeve. Keeping the phone clamped to his ear, willing Gavin to answer, he reclaimed his Omega from Laszlo’s wrist.