The Game (Tom Wood)

THREE





Kooi stopped, half a metre from Victor, the tip of the knife centimetres from his ribcage. It was a small weapon, painted black, with a triangular point and a recurve blade. A fine weapon – better than Victor’s own – folded high-carbon steel, wickedly sharp, strong enough to be capable of breaking bone without compromising the blade, but harmless while piercing only air.

He was only a little older than Victor but far more fatigued from the chase. Kooi was about the same height and similarly proportioned, with long limbs, athletic and muscular but compact and lean. Sweat glistened on the Dutchman’s face and arms from the heat and the chase, and darkened the front of his undershirt. Kooi stumbled, but didn’t move any further forward. His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. His eyes stared at Victor, but focused on a point somewhere behind him.

Then he exhaled and wheezed. The black knife fell from his trembling fingers and clattered on the paving stones near Victor’s feet.

The Dutchman blinked, his eyes watery, and placed both hands on Victor’s right arm to steady himself while he looked down at his abdomen, to where the knuckles of Victor’s right thumb and index finger pressed against Kooi’s white undershirt.

The white shirt became red around Victor’s hand.

‘No,’ Kooi said, as if defiance could remove the blade from his stomach and repair the hole it would leave behind.

Victor let go of the folding knife’s grip. It protruded at a downward angle from just below the base of Kooi’s sternum, the short blade buried up behind the breastbone, the tip puncturing the bottom of the Dutchman’s heart. He coughed and struggled to breathe as blood drained from the ruptured left ventricle and slowly filled the chest cavity, impeding his lungs’ ability to inflate and deflate. Victor eased Kooi to the ground as the stability left his legs.

‘No,’ Kooi said again, but quieter.

He slumped against the alleyway wall, his legs splayed on the paving stones before him, his arms limp at his sides. He didn’t try to take the knife from his flesh. He had to know there was no point even if he’d had the strength left to tug it free of the vacuum’s pull. Such an action would only quicken his demise. Victor considered what he would do if their places had been reversed – whether it was better to live those extra few seconds in pain and fear or to hurry to the boatman.

Victor patted along Kooi’s thighs and around his waist to make sure there were no hidden weapons that might be employed with the last of Kooi’s strength. He knew better than most that when faced with death, people could find a way to stay alive or take their vengeance, because he had done both.

There was a wallet and room key in one of Kooi’s hip pockets and the statuette in the thigh pocket, but nothing else. Victor examined the statuette. It was about six inches in height and lacquered black. Victor didn’t understand what it was supposed to be. It looked like a reptilian man, somewhat comical and juvenile. Kooi had strange tastes.

Victor slipped the wallet into one of his own pockets. He didn’t need to check the contents because anything inside the wallet was of no interest to him. He would dispose of it later. Taking it was merely to give the police a story. He unclasped Kooi’s wristwatch and ripped a pendant from his neck for the same reasons. There was no phone to take, but Victor rarely carried one himself.

Kooi, his face pale while he sat dying, stared at Victor as he was robbed.

‘Who sent you?’ Kooi asked in a whisper.

Even if paramedics showed up that second, Kooi couldn’t be saved, so Victor answered, ‘CIA.’

‘Are you…?’

Victor shook his head. ‘Independent contractor. Like you.’

The Dutchman blinked and swallowed while he gathered the energy to speak again. ‘For the American?’

Victor nodded.

A weak smile. ‘I knew I should… have said no… to that job.’ He coughed at the effort of saying so many words in succession. He fought to keep his head upright and his eyelids open.

‘Greed kills us all eventually,’ Victor said.

‘But me first.’ Another weak smile. Another cough. Blood glistened on his lips. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Ask me again when I join you.’

He nodded, accepting the response. ‘Would you do something… for me?’ He paused and wheezed. ‘A favour. It’s important…’ His eyelids fluttered. Blood dripped from his chin. He tried to lift his hand. ‘Please…’

‘Maybe.’ Victor said. ‘What is it?’

Kooi never answered.