The Game (Tom Wood)

SIXTY-FOUR





Victor backed away from the new mill’s side entrance. Fat bullet holes had been torn through it. He had the handgun up and pointed at the door, waiting for Dietrich to storm in after him. But he wasn’t taking the bait. Victor backed further away, giving Dietrich more credit, realising he’d gone for another way in or sent one or more of the Chechens to do so instead.

He entered the corridor that led to the planning room, handgun leading. The corridor ceiling had a sprinkler every three metres and Victor rushed through a continuous shower of icy water that drenched his clothes and plastered his hair to his forehead. He hadn’t seen another way in apart from the great rolling shutter doors at the front of the building, but he knew there would be another entrance in this direction, if only a fire door.

Victor hurried past the planning room and turned a corner into another bare corridor, splashing through puddles and swiping water from his face when it threatened to blind him. He heard only the spray of the sprinklers and the fire alarm’s shriek. He saw an exit sign ahead, took a final right-angle corner and saw the double doors of a fire exit ten metres away at the end of it. They had been forced open from the outside. The fire alarm had drowned out the noise.

A man was kneeling down before it. The spray from the sprinklers disguised his features, blurring the man’s face, but Victor made out easily enough the paramedic’s overalls and the weapon clutched in both hands. One of the Chechens, armed with an AK-47 that he already had aimed Victor’s way, waiting for him to appear.

Victor reacted first, diving to the side before the Chechen could fully depress the rifle’s trigger. Muzzle flashes exploded through the rain of the sprinklers. He heard the sonic snap of bullets flying past him before they took chunks out of the walls and floor. The fire alarm was temporarily muted by the roar of automatic gunfire.

He hit the floor in the adjacent corridor and scrambled to his feet, throwing his back to the wall perpendicular to the corridor where the gunman knelt, right shoulder an inch from the corner.

The shooting stopped. Victor estimated that the Chechen had released a third of his magazine of thirty rounds. It had been the panicked burst of someone surprised and untrained.

He shot again, trying to anticipate Victor’s reappearance. This time the burst was shorter and more controlled. Maybe three or four rounds. It was hard to be sure. Holes blew in the partition walls, which were made of glazed ionised aluminium covered in cheap white wallpaper. The powerful 7.62 mm rounds punched holes through them big enough for Victor to put his thumb inside. The two walls converging to form the corner behind which he hid offered no protection from the gunfire, only concealment.

The Chechen had about half a magazine of bullets left before he had to reload. Victor didn’t know the exact amount, but there were three or four bursts’ worth. If Victor made his move after the gunman had fired three he might find himself facing down the corridor, trying to make a ten-metre headshot in poor visibility against an enemy with enough ammunition left to shred him. Alternatively, if he waited until after the fourth burst that might be too long – he would be attacking against an enemy already reloaded and with thirty more rounds at his disposal.

Withdrawing wasn’t an option. If Dietrich hadn’t already entered the mill through the side entrance he would have done so by the time Victor got back there. Dietrich would have heard the gunfire. He wouldn’t wait any longer. While Victor was engaged against one enemy it would be the perfect time to attack from his flank.

Another burst sent more rounds along the corridor. One round hit the corner, tearing through both aluminium walls and passing within inches of Victor’s shoulder. He had no more time to wait.

He switched the gun to his left hand and with his back still pressed against the wall, reached across his chest and past his shoulder and pointed it around the corner.

He squeezed the trigger rapidly, adjusting his aim with each shot to spread the paths of the bullets throughout the corridor.

Victor thought he heard a scream after his seventh shot. He pivoted on his right foot and swung himself around one hundred and eighty degrees out of cover and into the adjacent corridor, his left arm extending to acquire the target.

A smear of red marked one wall, already turning orange as water from the sprinklers diluted the blood and washed it down towards the floor.

The Chechen lay on his side, right hand clutching his abdomen, the other stretching for the rifle that had dropped from his grasp and slid out of reach. The right shoulder of the paramedic’s overalls was frayed where another bullet had hit and splashed blood on the wall. That was why he’d dropped the gun, but the round to the stomach had dropped him. The fingers of his outstretched left hand wrapped around the stock of the AK and he dragged it closer.

Victor shot him between the eyes.



Dietrich walked down the corridor towards the sound of gunfire. It had stopped thirty seconds ago. He hoped he wasn’t too late. Kooi must have guessed the plan, or more likely tried to flee like the coward he was. Dietrich kept his rifle up and ready, gaze focused along the iron sights. Where he looked, the gun pointed. He breathed slow and steady in an attempt to control his soaring heart rate. He stepped over the corpse lying in the doorway of the planning room. His feet kicked up water. The sprinklers had stopped and the alarm was silent.

He moved at a fast walk. He didn’t want Kooi to get away, but neither did he want to walk into a trap. The caution was unnecessary. Kooi wasn’t inside the mill. The fire escape doors were open and before them lay the Chechen sent by Dietrich to flank Kooi. The back of the corpse’s skull was missing and fragments of bone and chunks of brain were scattered across the floor behind him. All around the body the water was stained red.

There was no evidence Kooi had been hit, but he must have fled from the fire escape. He would be rushing for the vehicles, Dietrich was sure. He turned around and headed back the way he had come. It would take less time than circling the building as his foe would be doing. With a little luck Dietrich might reach the vehicles first, or else he would catch Kooi while he tried to escape with his brood and then gun them all down in a hail of automatic fire. It would be beautiful.

He reached the main mill floor.

The lights went out.

Dietrich didn’t panic. He smiled. Kooi hadn’t looped around the mill to head for the vehicles. He’d looped around and come back in via the side entrance and killed the lights. He was playing dirty. Dietrich respected that, but it wasn’t going to matter. Dietrich had hunted and killed in the dark before. This was nothing he couldn’t handle. He stepped away from the doorway and peered into the darkness. Skylights in the roof let in a little ambient light and metal gleamed where the light touched the great hunks of machinery: presses, conveyor belts, tubes, centrifuges. Metal shelving units protruded at ninety degrees from one wall, and upon them sat pallets of shrink-wrapped bottles, empty ready for filling. Barrels and vats glinted. Convex mirrors were mounted on roof supports and on the ends of the shelving units to aid the driving of the forklift truck.

There were numerous places where no light reached and where the coward could hide. Dietrich knew he would be hiding. Kooi wouldn’t face him head on, like a man. Somewhere in the darkness, Dietrich’s prey waited. He wanted to call out, to mock Kooi, but satisfying as such a thing would be it would also needlessly give away his position. Kooi had killed a couple of the Chechens, but they weren’t experienced operators like Dietrich. Kooi knew that, which was why he was hiding now, waiting for Dietrich to make a mistake and walk into an ambush.

He took one careful step at a time, considering likely points of attack, checking them, evaluating and eliminating, then moving on. He was patient and methodical. Despite his racing heart and aggressive temperament, in combat Dietrich found peace. He felt a calmness that he could never duplicate when he was not close to killing or being killed. He’d tried to explain it once to an army shrink, but the shrink had looked at him like he was crazy. Dietrich knew he wasn’t crazy. He was simply evolved. He moved on through the darkness, all the time narrowing down the potential locations where Kooi could be hiding, all the time getting closer to the kill.

He stayed away from the dim beams of light that filtered through the skylight – to protect his night vision, which was improving with every passing second, as well as to hinder Kooi’s attempts to line up a shot.

Dietrich paused to examine his immediate surroundings. He’d searched approximately half of the main mill area. Nearby, corrugated steel drums were stacked in rows and piles that created a mini labyrinth of blind spots and areas of concealment. A good place to hide. Dietrich waited and searched with his eyes until he saw it.

The dim light coming through the skylight cast a shadow on the floor that did not belong to any manmade object. It blended into those of the drums but the dimensions were wrong. Dietrich studied the shadow and followed it back to its source – which lay behind the corner of a shelving unit stacked with bottles.

Dietrich grinned in the darkness. You’re going to have to do better than that, he thought as he edged forwards. Less than three metres to go before he was in position to strike. Just before he reached the corner, before he exposed himself to Kooi’s position, Dietrich would angle the AK and spray rounds through the pallets of bottles. Maybe he would aim low and try to incapacitate Kooi with bullets in the legs. Then he could have some fun with him. Two metres to go.

Something clattered behind him and Dietrich spun around in the direction of the sound.

His gaze swept from darkness into light focused and magnified by one of the convex mirrors. He grimaced, the light stinging his eyes with their dilated pupils and ruining his night vision. Purple spots blinded him. He pivoted back around, knowing he’d been tricked.

There was an explosion of light and sound.

Dietrich didn’t know he’d been hit at first, but he sucked in a breath and felt warm liquid in his throat. He squeezed the AK’s trigger and nothing happened. His fingers didn’t move. The spots cleared from before his eyes and he realised he was staring up at the night through the mill’s skylights.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel anything. He breathed again and liquid entered his lungs. Then Dietrich understood. He’d been shot in the neck. The bullet had ruptured his spinal cord and severed his jugular.

He lay paralysed from the neck down and drowned in his own blood.



Leeson flinched at the sound of the single gunshot and made his move. He couldn’t wait any longer. He hurried out of the old mill and ran across the open ground to where his limousine was parked, the last Chechen jogging behind him. He should have thought of it before. The moment he knew something had gone wrong he should have got inside the Phantom. The protection it offered was immense. Even the high-powered bullet storm of an AK-47 wouldn’t pierce the armoured sides or windows. Leeson had insisted on that when he had the car outfitted. His enemies were well armed, so he had to be even better protected.

He unlocked the driver’s door and tossed a set of keys to the Chechen, and instructed him to open the gate. Once it was open, Leeson shot him. He didn’t want to have to explain to the man why he wasn’t going to be striking the promised blow against the Russian imperialists he so hated.

Leeson climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut. The heavy thunk it made sounded divine. It meant he was safe. He turned the ignition key to start the engine and noticed the valet key was missing from the ring. Someone had taken it, but it didn’t matter now – Leeson was inside the vehicle. In the rear view monitor he saw Kooi exiting the new mill building. Leeson felt a surge of rage, but there was nothing he could do now to take revenge against the man who had destroyed months of careful planning. But that didn’t mean it was over. Leeson knew everything there was to know about Kooi’s life. He would hire people to deal with him and his family another time.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound behind him. The partition window opened. Panic flooded through him and he twisted in his seat to see Kooi’s wife. She had a gun, pointed through the little window and at his head.

‘We can talk about this,’ Leeson said, swallowing. ‘I can make you a very wealthy woman.’

She said, ‘Put your hands over your ears, Peter, and close your eyes.’