The Darkest Day

THIRTY-SIX

There was no time left to question her further because the four-man team was approaching. She backed away from him, turned, and walked away. He watched her go. It would have been simple enough to shoot her in the back and finish what he came here to do, but he had a bad feeling she was telling the truth.

That isn’t my safe house.

In seconds she had rounded a corner and was out of sight. He tucked the handgun she had given him into the front of his waistband, where it would be hidden by his suit jacket, and stepped out of cover.

The four men saw him and stopped. They had the look of professionals: serious expressions but no attempt to intimidate. All four wore suits that gave them an air of respectability and authority. Their ties were clip-ons, impossible to distinguish from the real thing except for the fact a true professional expecting trouble would never wear a ready-made noose around his neck.

None of the men were taller than Victor and none had broader shoulders or thicker arms. They were lean and fit and dangerous. They knew speed and stamina were more often more valuable than strength and bulk.

Raven was right: these were no mere watchers.

The guy in the blue suit said, ‘Where is she?’

‘Who?’ Victor said.

‘You were seen with her.’

Victor remained silent.

Several seconds passed as they looked at one another, evaluating and seeking strengths as well as weaknesses. Neither showed any fear or made any rash movements.

‘You’re coming with us,’ the guy in the blue suit said.

‘I really don’t think so.’

They were spread out, but had stopped because he had. They didn’t know his intentions, but now he knew theirs. You’re coming with us. They wanted to take him — maybe they wanted to interrogate him about Raven; maybe they wanted to kill him somewhere without witnesses or CCTV.

The guy in the blue suit stared at Victor. He seemed experienced enough to come to accurate conclusions about him as Victor was about them. But the guy in the blue suit was smiling because Victor had his chin pointed down in a tell of submission and therefore fear. He knew they would pick up on such subtle clues and their evaluation of him would be inaccurate.

Then the guy in the blue suit gestured and the three others began to move closer. They converged on him well, not heading to where he was now, but where he would head to if he made a break for it. He glanced at each in turn to identify the weak link, but found none. All three looked tough and fast, confident in their ability to take him.

He saw what they were doing while the opportunity to act was still there, but they were smart to come at him several metres apart so the three trapped him in a triangle formation. To act against one would mean leaving his back facing the other two.

Good operators. Pros.

When he sidestepped between two cars, the one ahead of him moved to the open space at the end of the row, cutting him off. Victor slowed as if to give himself time to determine the man’s intentions, which gave the two behind him time to catch up while his attention was elsewhere.

They were already committed to making their move, so he had nothing to gain by pretending he wasn’t going to make one himself.

He continued for the exit and the one blocking it. He pictured snapping out a jab, fingers extended for the eyes, to blind or at least distract, buying him a split second to close that last distance, breaking the nearest knee with a stomp kick or the nose with an elbow that would become a lock, then choke; turning the man round and shoving him at the two others.

The two behind increased their pace, sensing he was intending to fight his way through.

The man blocking the exit put his left foot forward, turning side on and bringing up his hands in a fighting stance, reacting as Victor strode towards him, violence in his eyes.

The two behind him could not see Victor’s eyes, but they could see the man’s reaction. Victor heard their pace increase again, breaking into a jog. He pictured them rushing closer between the parked vehicles and then coming out into the open, converging on him.

Which was what he wanted them to do.

Victor stopped, spun round to face them, now no longer two points of a wide-based triangle, but close to one another.

He exploded into action, leaping at the first, swinging a roundhouse kick that connected his shin with the side of the man’s knee.

It folded inward with a crack and the man dropped, wailing.

The other man reacted fast, drawing a suppressed Ruger pistol that was batted from his hand, and then attacking with an open-handed strike. Victor blocked it on a forearm, grabbed the wrist before it could recoil and the triceps for an arm bar, but the man’s reactions were too quick and he curled his arm to prevent the arm bar, so Victor went with the man’s movements and instead locked the arm behind the man’s back.

He twisted him round one hundred and eighty degrees, so he took the pistol-whip meant for the back of Victor’s head, thrown by the third man.

Teeth and blood splattered on a nearby windscreen.

Victor shoved his captive into the third man. They both collapsed, the closest concussed from the pistol-strike to the face and trapping the other guy beneath him.

The one in the blue suit had his own weapon drawn and was lining up a shot while speaking into a wrist mike.

Victor read We need backup now on the guy’s lips before dashing into the cover of parked cars.

He drew Raven’s handgun and kept low and out of sight and snaked his way between vehicles, trying to put as much distance between him and the guys in suits. He’d disabled two, but that still left two, with backup arriving at any second.

A suppressed shot sounded, loud and close by, but it was impossible to pinpoint its source in the echoing underground parking garage. He dropped low, out of sight behind a wheel, while more shots came his way. Bullets punched neat holes in the bodywork of surrounding vehicles and took chunks from nearby support columns.

He stayed down and waited until he heard footsteps, hurrying closer, nowhere near as loud and echoing and easier to determine the origin as a result.

He popped up to fire in the direction of the footsteps, spotting the approaching shooter — a man in his thirties, tall and wearing a leather jacket with the collar up and cream scarf tucked inside, but the tall man — ready, aiming — shot first.

The incoming rounds distracting Victor from acquiring the target and lining up the pistol’s iron sights. The gunman’s bullets pinged close by. Victor’s missed.

The tall man in the leather jacket shot again, this time striking even closer, bullet cracking windscreen glass as Victor shuffled along the car to get a better angle for his own.

The gunman, seeing he was exposed, sidestepped as he shot twice more, seeking cover while putting rounds Victor’s way. Victor crouched low behind the protection of the car and returned fire, tracking the guy as he sidestepped, aiming not at him, but ahead, because even a bullet travelling at six hundred miles per hour took a thirtieth of a second to cover the ten-metre distance. The man, sidestepping at four miles per hour, moved forty-six centimetres in that same time. A shot aimed at his head would miss every single time.

So Victor aimed ahead and for centre mass for the best chance of hitting and the second squeeze of the trigger resulted in a round striking the man high up on the right shoulder.

He twisted and cried out, losing his grip on the gun, which flew from his hand. He threw himself down into cover before the third shot could finish him off.

Victor moved closer. He was cautious, staying close to cover in case the man had a backup and could still shoot.

The echo of squealing tyres and revving engines alerted him to new threats, coming fast.