The Killer

FIFTY

21:13 CET

Two stood to one side of the door ready to go in, a third and fourth waited on the other side, the commander had a pump-action shotgun in hand, ready to blow the hinges off the door with Hatton rounds. The ram had been abandoned.

The shotgun-armed commander held up five fingers, then four, three, two…

Something rolled into the corridor from the apartment they’d just left. Something metal.

Through the grainy-green night vision it took the commander a second to realize what it was. When he did he inhaled to scream a warning. It was too late.

The stun grenade exploded with an excruciatingly loud bang and an incredible flash of light.

The gunmen started yelling, blinded, disorientated, senses overloaded. One dropped his gun, another stumbled backward down the corridor, bumping into walls, trying to get away. The commander screamed for his men to hold their positions, but his ears were ringing so much he couldn’t even hear his own voice.

Amid the chaos Victor stormed out of the broker’s apartment and into the corridor, emerging through the stun grenade’s smoke, MP5 raised, set to three-round burst. He squeezed the trigger ten quick times, the MP5 making a series of rapid clicks, his aim shifting as targets fell. He aimed for faces and guts, where the heavy body armor offered least protection. The gunmen appeared out of the darkness with each shot, illuminated for an instant by the strobelike flickers from the MP5’s muzzle flash. Bodies flailed and contorted. Blood misted in the air.

Within three seconds the breach on Victor’s MP5 had blown back for the last time, and all four gunmen lay slumped in the corridor. The smell of cordite and blood filled his nostrils. Smoking shell casings crunched underfoot.

No one was moving, so he reloaded and slung the MP5 over his shoulder. He grabbed the commander’s shotgun and used it to blow the lock off the door to the apartment next to the broker’s rental.

Victor threw the shotgun away and kicked open the door. He ignored a terrified Algerian woman huddled with two children in a corner and moved through into the kitchen. He opened the balcony door and grabbed the broker by the arm. She screamed for a moment until she realized it was him.

“Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

Victor dragged her back into the kitchen and out into the corridor. She took a sharp intake of breath, stumbling over the bodies of the four gunmen.

“Oh Christ.”

“Hold it together; there’ll be more of them. Stay directly behind me.”

Victor had the MP5 back in hand and the broker’s gun in the front of his waistband. He led her through the corpses and down the corridor toward the elevator. He hit the button and the door opened. Stepping inside, he pressed for the ground floor and stepped back out. The broker was left standing in the elevator.

“Out,” Victor ordered.

“What?”

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back into the corridor. The doors closed behind her. Victor headed back toward the stairwell, moving quickly, staying to the right, his shoulder brushing the wall.

“The elevator…” the broker said.

Victor ignored her, led her quickly to the stairs. He pushed her against the wall next to the stairwell door.

“Stay here.”

He squatted down in front of the door, gun ready in his right hand. He reached up and opened the door with his left, peering in. The stairwell was empty.

“Come on.”

He rushed down the stairs, gun up, pausing at each floor to stop, listen. The broker followed him closely. Victor stopped on the first floor, opened the door into the corridor, and guided her through.

The broker looked back. “This isn’t the bottom.”

“I know.” Victor didn’t slow down. “Stop talking.”

He could hear heavy footsteps rushing up the stairwell below. Victor pulled the pin from another stun grenade but kept the striker lever pressed down. He wedged the grenade behind the door handle so that the lever was held in place. At least until the door was opened.

Victor hurried along the corridor to a window at the opposite end of the building. He smashed it with the butt of the submachine gun and knocked out the shards of glass left. He climbed through, dropped.

He landed in an alley ten feet below, in a crouch, immediately going into a roll, absorbing the impact through his whole body. The soles of his feet stung, but there was no injury. He came to his feet, turned, looked up. The broker was leaning out the window.

He gestured. “Let’s go.”

“I-I can’t; it’s too far.”

“Don’t jump out, just drop. When you hit the ground, roll. Do it.”

“I can’t.”

Victor turned around, opened a Dumpster, grabbed half a dozen refuse sacks, and threw them underneath the window.

“Come on.”

She took a breath. “I’ll break my legs.”

“In five seconds I’m gone. Now do it.”

She did, landing awkwardly, feet first, falling backward. The trash bags burst but slowed her fall. She groaned, tried to stand, failing and fell backward. Victor extended a hand over her and she took it. He heaved her onto her feet.

“I think I’ve sprained my ankles.”

“You can stand so you haven’t. Move.”

A small explosion made the broker startle.

She looked up toward the window. Victor didn’t react, moved to the mouth of the alley, and pressed his back to the wall, listening. The noises of any street: cars and pedestrians. He pulled out his wallet, taking out a matte-black metal tube with a small spherical mirror attached to the end. He extended it out, held it up and looked in the reflection.

There were several vehicles outside the front of the building, two assault-team vans, four marked police cars, three unmarked. There were around a dozen figures, some suits, some uniformed officers.

He grabbed her by the wrist and hurried to the opposite end of the alleyway. He used the mirror again to look round the corner. One marked car. Two officers. Much better.

“Listen.” He pulled the broker closer. “They’re outside. As soon as we leave this alley they’re going to see us.”

“What are we going to do?”

“You have a car?”

“I rented one, but it’s a block away at least.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ll go out first and get their attention. They’ll come after me. Thirty seconds later you get to the car and get out of here.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll think of something. Here.” He took out a newly purchased phone and gave it to her. “Get out of central Paris. Keep the phone on. I’ll call you.”

“We shouldn’t split up.”

“This is the only way.”

“There must be something else we can do.”

“If you have a better plan, now’s the time to tell me.”

She shook her head meekly.

He grabbed her by the shoulder. “You understand what you’re doing?”

She nodded.

“Then say so.”

“I understand.”

He dropped the MP5SD. It was a shame to be parted from it, but his objective was to get away, not have a running gun battle. And walking around with an 800 rounds-per-minute submachine gun wasn’t the best way to go unnoticed.

Victor gave the broker her gun back. “Just in case.” He still had the knife, a 9 mm SIG P-228 with a full mag and a single stun grenade. Not much if he ran into more guys in body armor with submachine guns, but it would have to do.

“Thirty seconds after I’ve gone, you go. Count the seconds.”

He stepped out of the alley and ran.

He heard the first shout as he reached the middle of the road, heard the shot when he was on the opposite side of the street. A chunk of brickwork blew out of a nearby wall.

Across the road, Victor ran straight for a side street too narrow for the cars to drive down. They would have to chase him on foot. He ran down the alleyway, dodging around trash cans, boxes. He hurried around a corner, took another immediately, finding himself in a wide back alley that ran between a line of stores. He headed straight down its center, veered off as soon as another way appeared.

On a main street he slowed to a jog to avoid attracting too much attention. One of the best ways to find someone trying to run away was to follow the trail of confused pedestrians looking over their shoulders. He made his way around the block, doubling back to the broker’s street. If anything they would expect him to run farther away. The last thing they would expect him to do was head back.

On the same side of the road as the broker’s apartment he headed down a side street, cut across a main road, dodging around the slow-moving traffic. On the other side he took another alley, emerging from it into a casual walk across the next road.

Four blocks later he found a late-night café full of noisy patrons and sat down at a table with a good view of the window. As he waited he kept his eye on the alley he’d come out of, but no one came that way. No one he recognized passed on the street outside. He’d lost them. By the time a waitress arrived at his side his pulse and breathing had returned to normal.

“Ice tea,” he said, when he was asked for his order. “With lime if you have it.”