London
Ellard was hammering, with greater than usual levels of plastic-shattering ferocity, on the keyboard of his computer. Greere scowled in his direction then leaned forwards, closer to the microphone. “Fecske Street?” he asked his machine.
“Yes,” the computer’s tinny speakers were struggling with the deep rumbling voice. “Between Déri Miksa and Bérkocsis.”
“You’re ready?”
“Yes.”
Greere frowned, “And your plan?”
“Kill him.”
The frown deepened, “Exit? Egress? Tactics?”
“We’re on it. Tin is working up the details. Right now.”
Greere felt his bubbling apoplexy subside slightly, “Hmmm, I suppose that’s reasonable given the amount of notice.” Ellard glanced over at him, seemingly unimpressed. He ignored his subordinate.
“Tin thinks he will move again. Soon. Possibly without the pack.”
“Understood, Mercury. Now get back to Tin, work up your detailed strike plan and standby. Do not move without formal approval. Do you understand? Do not move without approval.”
“Understood. Out.”
Greere’s screen dimmed as the video image disappeared.
“Sikand is a pro,” Ellard observed agitatedly, still punching at keys. “I consider him the most dangerous of all of them. That’s why I allocated him to Tin in the first place. Nagpal is also a pro but Sikand is the worse. If they don’t catch him by surprise, it’ll be carnage.”
Greere nodded to himself. “Which is why I’m going to let Sentinel make the call,” he said calmly. “And also why you’re going to tootle off over there, straight away.” He could see Ellard’s expression hardening over the top of the monitor. The sight made him smile. “Tin and Mercury are both expendable but I want you out there and ready to tidy up.”
Ellard grunted and kept bashing at his keyboard.
“I think their assessment is correct though,” Greere continued. “This is a good opportunity. Better to try to take Sikand in isolation. While the group is separated. While we have the advantage.”
“And afterward,” said Ellard. “What then?”
“Whether or not the mission is successful, the survivors will run. Most likely together. We still have the other tags,” Greere snatched up his encrypted cellphone and prepared to dial Sentinel. “You’d better get moving, Deuce. Next plane. Pronto.”
~~~~~
Budapest
Sikand grabbed his jacket. “I can’t eat this shit,” he snarled.
The Hungarians sat in mute silence around a large table covered in takeaway boxes. They watched him nervously as he walked around them. He liked that.
“If you touch my pack,” he growled, “I’ll know.”
He reached the apartment’s doorway and pulled it open.
“I’ll know,” he repeated. “And I will kill you for it.”
The door slammed closed behind him.
~~~~~
Jack had just taken a large swig of his Americano when the bald pate of Sikand appeared, stepping carefully out onto the streetlamp-lit pavement. Jack almost choked on the hot liquid.
Sikand turned toward him.
“Shit,” Jack muttered quietly to himself.
If Sikand was heading for the car he could be going anywhere and, importantly, Jack couldn’t see any sign of the backpack.
“Bollocks,” he whispered under his breath, whilst gently easing himself out of sight behind the cafe’s large window frame.
Sikand reached the junction.
Where was he going?
The tall tan-skinned man stopped for a second, then turned right and proceeded along the opposite pavement, straight past the cafe where Jack was sitting, and then down Déri Miksa Street.
‘Thank f*ck for that,’ Jack thought to himself, and watched carefully as his target continued to the end of the road. ‘Going into town, Big Man?’ He smiled to himself. ‘See you when you get back...’
~~~~~
London
Ellard was gone. Heading for Heathrow and a seat on the last flight out to Budapest’s Ferenc Liszt International Airport.
“Prepare a précis mission summary. Keep it vague,” said his boss’s voice over the speakerphone.
“Not much trouble with that, sir,” Greere replied. Sentinel had been in a meeting somewhere when he had originally called him, so he’d had to wait until now for him to call back.
“Deuce is en route?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. If things go south again then make sure you’re ready to sever all linkages.”
“Already on it, sir.”
“Excellent. It would be better if we had more time to verify the operatives’ plans, but on the other hand maybe it’s best we know so little? Either way, given my experiences, this sort of action is almost always subject to very short notice. I suspect we need to grab the opportunity.”
“Exactly, sir.” Greere waited patiently for a few seconds, then continued carefully, “So are we ‘go’, sir?”
“Go,” said Sentinel.
~~~~~
Budapest
We walk casually along the road toward the tenement block. Jack’s description was accurate. It’s a scruffy looking place. I should be feeling nervous but I’m not.
I felt a short spike of adrenalin-fuelled excitement, back in the cafe, when Jack showed me the simple text message – ‘GO’ – but since then, I’ve been keeping my thoughts focussed firmly on you and Lizzie and my fiery memories of Victoria Station. This worthless lump of flesh stole my world. It’s time for me to take something back.
Jack nods upwards. The top floor windows look dark. Jack thinks this flat is a prearranged rendezvous point and, with Sikand currently out of the building, we’re planning to sneak in and wait for him. “We’ll let the target come to us,” he had explained.
With a final glance up and down the street, we head toward the entrance.
Its doors remain wedged wide open and we head inside.
A staircase leads up from the small, rubbish-riddled atrium. Jack moves to a position beneath it, and peers upwards between the flights of stairs as they wind backwards and forwards above him. There’s a hum of muted television noise coming from the door next to me, and more from upstairs. Jack notices it too and pulls a suppressor from one of his side pockets. I mirror his actions, draw my weapon, and screw my own lightly oiled silencer smoothly onto its barrel.
He checks I’m ready, then makes a hand signal: two twists upwards.
I nod.
~~~~~
Sikand shovelled the last of his meal into his mouth and reached for the almost-empty bottle of red wine. The wine round here was very good.
For the first time in months he was enjoying himself. It had been a long time since he’d had a comfortable meal. Maybe he should find himself a hooker too? Something to distract him. Something disposable, to keep him entertained through the night.
As he sipped at his wine, he wondered how much his Hungarian hosts would appreciate it if he left them a parting gift of an incriminating cadaver or two?
It was the least he could do.
He smiled viciously to himself.
~~~~~
Jack pauses on the second landing.
My earlier calm and icy intent is being disturbed by rising feelings of self-doubt, inner-conflict and anxiety. I suppose this is only natural. I am not some battle-hardened operative, I’m just an ordinary person who has been thrust by circumstance onto an extraordinarily different life-journey. The bitter realities of my situation, of where I find myself, have suddenly become all too clear to me, and Jack can see it in my eyes.
“Relax,” he whispers. “It’s going to be fine. Focus on the mission. The most important thing, in circumstances like this, is that we have the upper hand; the element of surprise is on our side. He has no idea we are onto him. This is perfect.” He jerks his head upwards. “The flat is empty. We’ll get inside, set up a clean field of fire and wait. I’m going to take the shot. I need you to be positioned to cover the exit for me. I’m hoping we can conceal you, just inside, so you’re behind him when I strike. It will be quick. You only need to fire if it looks like he’s going to get away.” He puffs himself up, but I sense his bravado is a playact for my benefit. “Remember, I’ve done this lots of times. We’ll keep things simple and professional. It’s a walk in the park.” His bravado vanishes and a momentary glimmer of sadness drifts across his eyes.
“Thought of something?” I ask quietly.
He shakes his head quickly, “Nah... It just feels a bit clinical. A bit too one-sided. I prefer a fairer fight.”
“Like the fair fight he orchestrated in London?” I murmur angrily, as a bubble of fresh hatred pops, surprisingly pleasantly, into my stomach.
He smiles at my words. “You’re back,” he observes. “Good. Let’s get going.”
Jack heads on up the stairs, moving in front of me like a shadow drifting silently over the ground. I follow. My breathing on its own seems louder than Jack’s carefully placed footfalls, and I’m painfully aware of every creak and bump from the staircase, but the surrounding building remains quiet other than for the gradually receding sounds of televisions from the lower floors.
Reaching the final landing, Jack pauses again, and signals for me to stay quiet.
It’s a small landing. One door – fitted with an old, heavily scratched Yale lock – faces us.
There’s also a small ladder, leading to a boarded loft entrance, fixed to the far wall. I move and check it. It doesn’t look too sturdy and the loft door has been painted closed. Several times. No-one has been up this for a long time.
I turn and shake my head to Jack – there is no risk of this being used for exit or, perhaps, to get above us – and he nods then leans gently against the door, listening carefully for any sound from within.
After a few seconds he stands and gestures for me to approach. “Not a sound from in there,” he breathes into my offered ear. “And there’s no light at all.” I look to where he’s pointing and can see that it is dark all around the frame of the door. “I had a view of the entrance from the cafe. There’s been very little movement in or out of the building. Just a couple of old people who must live downstairs.” I nod and he plunges one hand into his jacket to pull out a small, thin, leather pouch. “Hold this,” he whispers, passing the pouch to me after fishing out a couple of strangely shaped thin metal lock picks. He turns to the Yale lock. “Thirty-seconds and we’ll be inside – you just watch me...”
~~~~~
A pile of half-empty takeaway boxes were roughly stacked on one side of the apartment’s spartan dining table, along with an associated collection of dirty cutlery. The three men remained seated, between their rubbish, playing cards. Over in the far corner the muted television was tuned to the BBC News channel. From time to time, they would all, individually, glance over at it.
“How long do you think he will stay for?” one of the men asked, in Hungarian, as he fed another handful of prawn-crackers into his flabby mouth. This mouth matched his flabby waistline, and his waistline matched the fat arms protruding from the arms of his crumpled tee-shirt.
“Dunno,” the smallest man of the trio studied his cards carefully. “Probably not long. The rest of the group must be waiting for him somewhere.”
The last man at the table was tallest of them all. Strong and muscular, he was the only one of the group that you might consider dangerous if you were to see him out on the streets. “As long as they don’t come here too,” he said angrily. “I don’t give a whore’s-ass about their cause. They’re being hunted. The British won’t have forgotten about them. We had no idea they’d pull a mad stunt, like that bombing, when we agreed to this. We’re all going to end up in the gulag if we’re not careful.”
The short man moved a card around carefully in his hand. “We took their money easily enough, and then used it to set this place up for ourselves,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll ever see them again after Sikand leaves. He only came here to see if the boy had turned up. They’ve been compromised somehow. That’s why they didn’t show up weeks ago. We should be pleased that they’re heading elsewhere, and there are three of us, and one of him. He’s no real threat to us, unless we do something stupid to get him riled.”
The fat man glanced nervously at the rucksack propped up against the far wall. “What do you think’s inside it?” he asked through another mouthful of crackers.
“Probably his gay magazines,” muttered the tall thug: triggering a fit of badly swallowed snack-induced choking from his overweight colleague.
“Or a bomb,” muttered the short guy grimly, as he picked up a two hundred forint note and tossed it into the pile in the centre of the table.
~~~~~
Thirty-seconds have been, and are now long gone. We’re still on the landing...
I edge over to the stairs and peer down over the bannisters. I can’t see all the way down to the lobby because the staircase to this top floor comes up in a single flight, whereas on the lower floors it rises back and forth on itself, zigzagging through the centre of the building. This flat must be different to those below. It must take up the whole width of the upper floor.
That would also explain why there’s only one door up here.
“Come on,” Jack breathes in frustration to his clicking lock picks.
I edge closer, and lean around him so I can see the solitary door handle. It’s hanging, to my eyes, loosely beneath the Yale.
“Careful,” he hisses into my ear.
I press gently down on the handle and the door pops open.
It wasn’t locked.
“Shit,” I hear him mutter behind me, and he quickly grabs the handle from my hand. “Get the light,” he instructs quietly.
There’s a switch on the wall next to the door, so I throw it, and we’re plunged into darkness.
~~~~~
“Did you hear something?” The fat man turned anxiously away from the table, and stared over at the steel-framed, black door which led to the outer corridor and stairway.
The other two looked at him scornfully.
“Maybe he’s back?” he offered lamely. “Hello...? Anybody there...?”
The tall thug shook his head. “It’s soundproofed, you moron,” he observed, and returned his attention to his cards.
“Sikand will buzz the intercom when he gets back,” muttered the smaller man. “Stop trying to delay the inevitable. Make your bet, so I can take your money.”
~~~~~
Jack carefully opens the door. He’s already pulled a tiny LED torch, from another of the many pockets in his jacket, and he flickers it quickly around the small hallway. There are two further doors. One directly in front of us. One on the left hand wall. The one in front of us looks new, even in the short glimpse I got. “There’s another door inside,” Jack observes, somewhat unnecessarily. “That’s why this one is open.”
I grunt and follow him carefully inside.
The left hand door is ajar. It’s a normal, internal, wooden door and Jack pokes his head around it to peer into the darkened space beyond. I can see his torchlight flickering around for a second or two then he pulls back out.
“Looks like an old bedroom. Not being used. Could be perfect for you to hide in.”
I nod.
He moves forward to the newer door. “F*ck,” he mutters. “These locks are precision grade.”
“More than thirty-seconds?” I grumble, earning myself a harsh glare.
~~~~~
“I’m sure I heard something,” the fat guy whined pitifully.
The thug slammed his cards down onto the table, “Go and have a f*cking look then!” he shouted. “Do what you have to, just stop with your constant whimpering, because it’s starting to make me jittery too!”
The fat man dejectedly pushed his bulk back from the table and stood himself up.
~~~~~
“Did you hear that?” I hiss to Jack, but he’s turned away from me and is facing the door.
“Sounded like voices,” he mutters as I move to one side of him. “Can’t tell if they’re from the floor below though? I wonder...”
~~~~~
The fat man navigated his teetering bulk to the door and, looking round at the other two for reassurance, pulled it open.
~~~~~
I’m not sure who looks most surprised: Jack, the enormously overweight blob of a man suddenly facing him, or the two guys sat holding playing cards at the table beyond.
“Shit!” yells Jack, dropping his flashlight, and starting to raise his gun.
“Kap őket!” yells the tallest, brutish looking, man from the table as he leaps to his feet, playing cards scattering around him.
The fat bloke roars incoherently and charges, crashing into Jack and driving the two of them backwards past me. Somehow my partner manages to steer himself through the left hand door, and they disappear together in a brawling mass, vanishing into the side bedroom. “Get the other two!” I hear him yell.
Spinning forwards I press into the room, raising my Browning in front of me and thumbing at the safety, but the brute is already on the move and he throws a turning-kick at the end of the silencer-clad barrel. He’s pretty quick, but not very skilled, as his leg swirls forwards. Nonetheless, his kick does land a glancing blow on the tip of the unnaturally lengthened pistol and this pushes my unbalanced arms away to one side.
He charges straight at me, but I read his direct assault and step lithely to my left, crabbing along the adjacent wall to make more space, and lifting my weapon a second time.
Wild crashing noises from behind me announce that the old bedroom, where Jack and the fat man are fighting, must extend behind this wall. Then I hear the muted coughing of a silenced Browning – once – twice – and suddenly plaster is erupting around me, and something has just smashed the television in the corner.
The brute dives for cover, as do I, and as does the shorter man behind the table: who so far has done little other than stand up and stare open mouthed at the scene in front of him. Bullets are ripping through the thin walls into this larger living area. Another shot suddenly bursts from somewhere around head height, and slams into a sofa in the corner making feathers and sponge burst from it like some strange fountain. If I’d fought the reflex and stayed standing, then that bullet would have been perfect for me, but it would have been wrong to abandon my partner in the middle of all of this and, besides, this is a good opportunity for me to vent my fury at the people responsible for my pain.
Not least, Mr. Sikand.
First though, I need to deal with these two hoodlums.
The crashing noises intensify from the other room, which I take as an encouraging sign that Jack must still be mobile, and the wall itself shudders for a second as something heavy slams into it from the other side. The shooting seems to have stopped, so I thrust myself up from where I’m lying prone on the floor. Unfortunately it appears that the brute has reacted slightly faster than me. He’s grabbed a standard lamp from somewhere and swings it round, this time catching the muzzle of the gun more solidly, and I watch frustratedly as my weapon is ripped from my grasp and flies off into a distant corner.
The brute charges straight at me, so I sidestep and block. He is quick. Maybe I’ve underestimated him? His reverse elbow catches me by surprise and it catches me under my ribcage, winding me slightly, and punting me backwards so that I crash, unbalanced, into the table. My hands send a mass of discarded takeaway boxes and cutlery clattering onto the surrounding hard wooden floor as I push myself upright again.
He’s behind me.
I lean forward over the table, tense my stomach muscles, and drive my leg backwards; imagining a contact point an inch or two behind his approaching midriff.
Impact is satisfying. Satisfying and soft, and met with a deep grunt of forcefully expelled air, as my boot sinks into unprepared stomach tissue.
His turn to fly backwards...
~~~~~
Jack crashed into the wall; which was painful enough without the follow-up impact of what felt like nearly two hundred kilos of fat and muscle mashing down onto him as the fat bloke threw himself forwards like some huge, human, battering ram. The wall behind him shuddered under the force of the blow, and he felt the wind being squashed violently out of him. His pistol sprang out of his hand.
Darkness and speed.
He needed to use these if he was going to survive.
The weight of his assailant vanished as the man stood back, presumably to strike at him. He could see the other man’s huge lumbering shadow amongst the flash of stars in his eyes.
Fat arms, like thick tree trunks, were rising to deliver their death blows.
He watched them, mesmerised, as they drew back.
“BAZD ÖN!” shouted the blob and started to throw his double punch.
“No mate, f*ck YOU,” he shouted back at the shadow, thrusting his head forward, and feeling a sickening crunch as his forehead smashed into the unprotected face of his attacker.
The fat man moaned and stumbled backwards away from him, arms clutched to his face.
Jack wondered at the explosion of ringing in his ears, swayed slightly, and collapsed into a heap onto the floor...
~~~~~
I’m having fun. It’s like sparring at the gym, but with the added frisson of being full contact. I bounce around on the balls of my feet in fighting stance, easily blocking the thug’s swinging haymakers, and darting in to stab quick punches onto his already flattened, bleeding and increasingly furious face.
The short guy has stood up again from behind the table, and is assisting by yelling encouragement in unintelligible Hungarian, or whatever it is. I get the feeling that my fighting partner would prefer it if his ringside manager could find his balls and jump in to assist him but, from what I can tell from my quick glances, the observer’s terrified mannerisms betray that there’s not much risk of that. I’ll deal with him, after I put this clown down.
The brute lunges in again, as if to swing another pointless punch in my direction but, at the last moment, he drops his shoulder and charges at me.
I wasn’t expecting that.
This isn’t the gym.
Anything goes.
The shoulder barge catches me unaware, and despite the stability of my standing position, I’m jolted to one side. With a surprising turn of speed, probably fuelled by utter desperation and the risk of defeat, the thug springs around in front of me, grabs my shoulders, pulls hard and swings his knee up violently into my groin. The force of the blow knocks me up, backwards, and momentarily but terminally out of balance, so I’m forced to tumble enthusiastically to the ground to buy myself time and space to recover my feet. Plus, I needed to avoid going headfirst into the corner of the dining table – which would have been funny – me doing what my aggressors have systematically failed to do: knocking myself out – but I’m not in the mood for a laugh at the moment.
“Megvan a fattyú!” the thug yells triumphantly down at my foetal figure, as I roll around theatrically on the floor feeling grateful for my remarkable lack of sensation, and watching from the corner of my eye as he strides toward me and prepares himself to inflict a vicious kick at my ribs...
~~~~~
“You want f*ck-f*ck?” the scantily dressed prostitute peered up at him through wide, distant looking, brown eyes. She had positioned herself directly in his path. “Very cheaply. Good f*ck-f*ck.”
‘Probably drugged up,’ thought Sikand.
As nice as it would be to have her, and then torture her, he couldn’t be bothered with the distraction. Besides, the numb-nut Hungarians would most likely freak out, and would possibly even sell him out to the authorities.
Too risky.
Time to get back to the apartment and to rest up.
He had a long drive in the morning.
~~~~~