The Eden Legacy

TWENTY-THREE
I

Boris dropped the Heckler amp; Koch and raised his hands as he turned around. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said. ‘I’ll pay you whatever you want.’

‘That’s right,’ agreed the tall man. ‘You will.’

Boris belatedly realised why the man had made him uneasy. His jitteriness wasn’t that of someone involved in a risky transaction, but of an addict needing his next fix. ‘My friends will be angry with you,’ he said. ‘They’ll send more people.’

‘Sure they will,’ scoffed the man. ‘Now let’s have your money.’

‘I left it in the trees,’ said Boris. ‘I’ll go get it for you.’

The tall man said something in Malagasy; the tomato nodded and approached Boris carefully, making sure not to block his comrade’s line of fire. He patted him down with his left hand, felt the wad of banknotes in Boris’s back pocket, pulled it out and held it up in triumph.

There was only one question on Boris’s mind: what plans did these two have for him now? If this was just a heist, no problem. He’d get Sandro to wire more money, start over. But that wasn’t the impression he was getting. When he’d threatened them with his friends, they’d found it funny. Petr had put this deal together, and Petr was his successor as Sandro’s head of security. What if he was worried that Boris might be after his old job? What if he’d put these vermin up to this, and more? Could he take that risk?

It was getting dark, just enough to give him some cover. He stepped abruptly to his side, putting the tomato between himself and the tall man, grabbing his knife from beneath his shirt as he did so, stabbing upwards. The Raging Bull erupted, a blaze of light and noise. The round caught the side of the tomato’s head, splattered it, spun him around. Boris grabbed the Beretta from him as he went down, fired blind twice, not to hit anything, merely to buy himself time. The Raging Bull erupted again. Boris threw himself sideways, rolled on to his back, took a moment to steady himself and then aimed at the tall man’s torso and pulled the trigger three times. The man twisted as he fell, landing upon his front, the Raging Bull erupting a final time beneath him, lifting his body a little into the air like a comic-book hero diving upon a grenade.

Boris held the Beretta out carefully as he went to look, but there was no need. He spat out a curse. The sound of that damned cannon was bound to bring attention; he needed to get clear. He wiped his prints from the Beretta, put it in the tomato’s hand. With luck, the police would assume an argument that had got out of control. He put away his knife, cash and the Heckler amp; Koch, went to the boot for a couple of boxes of shells, pocketing a pack of flexi-cuffs while he was at it, and hurried for his bike.