The Game (Tom Wood)

NINE





Victor knew she’d spotted him leave the strip joint. She couldn’t fail to. She stood in a good position, at a good angle. No one could enter or exit the club without her knowledge. He knew she was watching him as he stepped off the kerb and onto the road. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She stood pretending to browse the goods displayed through the window of the antique store. She didn’t yet know he had slipped his shadows. She had to maintain her cover. If she reacted in any way she might needlessly identify herself. She was hoping there was something she didn’t understand; that walking in her direction was coincidental; that whatever he was doing, wherever he was going, it didn’t involve her. She was still hoping when he was three metres away.

He hurried across the road to avoid the steady flow of traffic, the increased speed of his walk expected and entirely innocent. Except it wasn’t.

When he hadn’t changed direction at two metres, she must have known he was coming for her. By that point she still had time to react, and began to turn so that her back was not presented to him, but she hesitated because she was distracted by the shadows in the club yelling updates into their throat mikes.

The loud voices in her ear served to distract her for only a second, but by the time she had shaken off her surprise Victor was less than a metre behind her and it was far too late.

He put his open left hand on the small of her back, stepped around to face her as she swivelled in his direction, and thrust the tips of his locked fingers against her abdomen, an inch below her sternum.

She was underweight, with a wafer-thin layer of body fat on her stomach, which would have made it easier for Victor to find the spot with his fingertips had he not known exactly where to apply pressure. She gasped at the sudden and intense pain and instinctively tensed her stomach against the attack, but it did no good. Victor’s fingertips pushed against the linea alba – the narrow strip of connective tissue that ran vertically down the centre of the wall of abdominal muscle. Protecting her intestines from the pressure of Victor’s attack was just a few millimetres of soft flesh.

He used his left hand to push her face into his shoulder, as though they were embracing, to muffle her cry as he pushed harder, knowing from experience how debilitating the resulting waves of agony and nausea could be. Her hands gripped his arms but the pain weakened her and she didn’t have the strength to push him away or fight. He closed his eyes and smiled for the benefit of anyone who should happen to look their way.

Her legs trembled and Victor felt her begin to fall, so he eased the pressure on her stomach to prevent her collapsing, and held her upright. He led her away, walking fast and pulling her along with him, knowing that the two shadows would be rushing for the club’s exit but when they did there would be a huge doorman to get past first.

‘No, wait…’

Victor led her to the mouth of an alleyway between two storefronts, stabbing his fingertips hard against her stomach when he felt her tense and try to slow. He could hear the muffled sound of commotion emanating through the woman’s earpiece. One of the watchers had left his radio on send. He couldn’t discern the exact nature of the sounds, but it seemed that they were tangling with the doorman.

The alley was wide, and empty of garbage or bins or anything else that would stop a delivery car or van backing into it. When they had gone three metres into it, Victor reached into the woman’s patent leather handbag, having felt nothing hard against his torso as he’d held her close and her clothing offering no other room for a hiding place. He felt a document folder against the back of his hand as his fingers closed around the grip of a handgun. He knew it was a Glock 19 before he withdrew it from the bag.

He only had to give her a light shove to create distance, as she was too weak to resist. She was weaker than he thought because she stumbled a few steps, wildly off balance, and couldn’t stop herself crashing to the ground.

But she was smart and resourceful and well trained, because she immediately rolled over to face him regardless of any shock or pain of impact, showing her palms as he pointed the muzzle of the Glock at her forehead.

‘Wait,’ she gasped, eyes wide behind black-framed glasses that were skewed from the fall.

Panic warped her features. She looked about thirty. Her face was thin and drawn.

‘Wait,’ she said again, ‘I’m no threat to you.’

‘Your entire team is no threat to me. So now you’re unarmed and prone, what does that make you?’

Her breaths were quick and short. White showed all around her eyes. ‘Put the gun down, please. You don’t need it. Please.’

‘Anyone who has seen my face up close, heard my voice and knows enough about me to lead a surveillance op is a problem I can do without,’ Victor said. ‘So I would recommend thinking very carefully before you speak again, because the next thing out of your mouth will determine whether I walk from this alleyway or run.’

There was no hesitation. She said, ‘My name is Janice Muir. I’m CIA. Roland Procter sent me.’

‘Then,’ Victor said as he heard a horn blare and tyres screech on the road behind him, ‘you had better tell your team to back off, because two of them are about to get killed.’

He pointed the Glock at the mouth of the alleyway.

Muir took a split second to process the situation, then thumbed her throat mike and yelled, ‘STAND DOWN, STAND DOWN.’