Red Notice

60

Tom had thrown himself and the children to one side, shielding them with his body as a flurry of rounds peppered the concrete. Now he dragged them well away from the danger zone and planted them both behind one of the steel wheels.

‘Stay there,’ he whispered. ‘Not a sound!’

They went rigid, but Rose managed a nod.

He moved to the other side of the train, to what was left of the door. He still had to reach Delphine, and then try to get them all out of this shit. That was all he needed to think about. What might happen later wasn’t important right now.

He got there just as Delphine’s guard cannoned across the threshold. He misjudged the grapple as the man landed, but the fighter was taken by surprise. Both their weapons clattered to the ground. He felt a blinding pain as his opponent’s head glanced off his own, then another as the guard recovered enough to butt him full-on and hurl him backwards onto the ground. He lay there for a moment, stunned and winded, as the man landed on top of him.

Tom scrabbled for his weapon but was pinioned in a vice-like bear-hug around his chest and beneath his armpits. He tried to kick and buck, then head butt. The guard was doing exactly the same.

The man’s breath was hot against his cheek. It stank of cigarettes and decay. He had a week’s bristle on him, rough against Tom’s face and neck. He squeezed, his eyes closed, snorting. All Tom could do was keep trying to butt him, keep trying to make contact wherever he could.

Tom somehow managed to get his legs around the Russian’s gut and fought to link his feet. The fighter’s head jerked back — Tom’s opportunity to reach his eyes. Blood and snot glistened on the man’s face in the dim glow from the carriage. He fought to breathe through gritted teeth and did everything he could to keep Tom’s fingers away from his eyes. He tightened his grip around Tom’s chest and shook his head as Tom began to get a grip on his face and dig deeper with his thumbs. He tried to bite Tom’s fingers. Tom moved his right hand so he had a flat palm underneath his chin, then switched his left to just below the crown of the man’s head and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

He finally managed to interlock his boots. At last he could squeeze and push down with his legs, at the same time twisting up with his arms. His opponent’s neck suddenly gave way, with a barely audible crack. His body didn’t even jerk. It just went still. Tom rolled over and kicked him off.

He wiped the blood, snot and saliva off his hands on the dead man’s coat, and picked up the nearest weapon. He checked that the magazine was on tight, and that he still had a round in the chamber, then started to move back to the carriage door to get what he’d come for.