Читать книгу 88° North - J.F. Kirwan - Страница 15

Chapter Five

Nadia was led outside by Blue Fan, where four armed men awaited her, which seemed a trifle excessive. The road was quiet, except for the night breeze rustling the trees. Salamander and Jake were gone. The hazy lights of a beach – Repulse Bay, she reckoned, the only true beach on the island – beckoned far below.

Blue Fan walked up to her, close. ‘If you make it to the beach, you live.’

‘Bullshit,’ Nadia said. ‘It will look better for the headlines if I’m shot in the back fleeing the crime scene.’

‘You make it to the beach, you live. Our code, remember?’

‘Salamander doesn’t live by a code. He twists the rules any way that suits him.’

Blue Fan seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I am not my grandfather. You will have a five second head start.’

Nadia scanned the bushes and trees descending at a thirty-degree angle to the beach, five hundred metres below. Dense vegetation. Almost no light. There would be roads crossing her path every now and again. It was a chance, a slim one. And there was one good reason to try.

Jake.

She turned back to the four men. Three of them looked eager for the hunt, removing their jackets, revealing heavily-tattooed torsos and arms. The fourth one stood back. At his feet was a long holdall. A sniper rifle. Just in case. There was an open, flat stretch of land between the tree line and Repulse Bay. He’d have a clear shot.

She spoke to Blue Fan. ‘If we meet again, just bear in mind that for me, there are no rules.’

‘Everyone follows rules. Most are not aware of the rules they follow. Now, run, Nadia Laksheva. Run for your life. One.’

Nadia sprinted across the tarmac into thick bush, ducking just in time beneath a low hanging branch. In her head, she counted. Two. She tripped over a root, and tried to roll in the soft earth and leaves, but ended up sliding on her front. Three. She got up and start running again. Four. Taking large, loping strides, each one threatening to twist her ankle on treacherous undergrowth, she thought about alternative tactics: lying low, climbing a tree, breaking off to the left or right. No. The quickest route to life was a straight line. Five. She heard the thrashing of the three men entering the bushes behind her, their footfalls thumping the ground. They probably knew this terrain, and would spread out in case she was stupid enough to hide.

The headlamps of a car rounding a bend lit up the foliage below, and a clearer passage emerged to the left. She bolted for it. Darkness flooded in again, but the route was etched on her retinas, and she ran as fast as she could. Suddenly she spilled onto asphalt, an empty road, her knees buckling as she hit solid terrain. No cars, just the men closing on her. A high-pitched pfft sound to her right announced a bullet from a silenced weapon. She dashed for the other side of the road and dived into the bushes.

She rolled the way she’d been taught, knowing that at this speed, if she hit a tree trunk, she’d be stunned long enough for them to catch her. But she came up on her feet and continued, arms in front of her in a crude triangle, hands in front of her head. A thick branch whacked her ribs, making her spin around, but she kept her balance. She kept her arms up. Protect the head, always. That’s what the Chef had taught her. She heard the whine of a motorcycle, maybe a local on his way home on the road she’d just crossed. But Salamander’s men were already charging through the bushes behind her. She had maybe another four hundred metres to go. She wasn’t going to make it. Not even close.

She kept running.

A second pfft told her they were trying to down her in the woods before she reached the next road, so that became her goal. Just make it to the road. A branch exploded to her left, so she began zigging and zagging. Maybe if she was lucky, she’d hit the road just as the motorbike was coming along it, and maybe … Too many maybe’s.

Just fucking run!

She spotted the white lines of the road through a gap in the trees, and pushed off for one final sprint, but the next bullet found her left shoulder and sent her sprawling forward. Her hands instinctively went down to brace against the fall, and a branch struck her in the face. It felt like she’d been punched on the nose, and she tumbled out of the woods, her head smacking onto the warm tarmac.

Through ringing ears, she heard the motorbike’s engine, the driver braking, crunching through the gears. She crawled towards the white line, her final goal. She touched it. If she was killed here, bleeding, wounded, at least somebody might ask why a kill shot had been necessary. A seed of doubt before the investigation was closed. She imagined the headline. Russian assassin-bitch gets what she deserves.

Shoes skidded to a halt in the dirt. The men didn’t venture onto the road. Of course, three men chasing an unarmed, wounded woman would look suspicious. They’d either have to leave her, or kill the motorcyclist if he stopped. She heard the crackle of static followed by a low, urgent voice. One of the men was asking Blue Fan what to do.

The motorbike was slowing. She regretted it. An innocent passer-by was going to be killed.

The men stepped out into the road, fanning around her. She looked up into the glare of the headlamp, unable to see the rider, the motorbike’s engine humming calmly.

Three quick silenced shots. Tap-tap-tap. Three pairs of legs around her buckled as the men slumped to the ground. Neck shots, all of them, cutting the spine. A shot like that gave the soon-to-be-dead person a few seconds to get over the shock and make peace with their maker. Only one person she knew preferred this tricky target.

The Chef stuck the bike in first and drove closer, then leant over and scooped her up off the ground as if she weighed nothing. He swung her around behind him on the bike, and they sped off. She held on as best she could. Then she remembered the sniper. He’d not been able to get a fix on her or the Chef while they were under tree cover, but as soon as they took the corner, they’d have to slow down, and he’d take the shot. They approached the bend, and the Chef again braked down through the gears. She tried to shout Sniper! but she had no voice.

He braked further, and she guessed this was it. But the Chef didn’t take the turn. He ploughed straight into the forest. Despite being whipped by leaves and small branches, and nearly being knocked off several times, Nadia wished she could see Blue Fan’s face right now.

But she was losing blood, and the wound burned like hell. Each bump was like a screwdriver jabbing at her shoulder. She was growing cold, going into shock, unconsciousness not too far away. She buried her head into the Chef’s back, and listened to the rhythmic whine of the engine as he shifted through the gears. She slipped, caught herself, and he pulled up a ramp. The bike skidded to a halt, and she felt something like a belt tighten around her lower back, securing her to him.

They sped off again, into a tunnel, where the engine’s whine became a throaty drone reverberating off the tall arched walls, headlamps flashing past her, the Chef weaving in and out of traffic. She tried to stay awake. Even with the belt she could still fall off, or upset the bike and get them both killed. Suddenly they were out of the tunnel, and she saw banks of floodlights up above, which meant they were near Happy Valley stadium, not far from Wan Chai, Blue Fan’s territory. What was the Chef thinking?

Suddenly men and women in white coats were all around her. She was on a gurney. What had happened? She must have blacked out. Where was the Chef? Had she fallen off, caused an accident? She couldn’t remember, could barely feel anything. People in pale blue masks, smocks and hats were animated above her, the ceiling lights moving fast. They were running, shouting. A bespectacled face appeared, asked something urgently, she had no idea what. What would he need to know? Of course. Blood type. She told him, in English. He barked something to somebody she couldn’t see.

The gurney stopped. Rough hands grabbed her all at the same time, lifted her in a practised way, and her bare back met cold metal. Where were her clothes? What had happened? Was the Chef still alive?

And then she remembered the video. By now they’d have spliced it together, released it on the net. A clear scene of her smacking Hanbury in the face, then executing him. Jake would see it. Everyone would see it. She’d be on the most-wanted list everywhere. The first sniper bullet back at Hanbury’s apartment had been Russian. There was going to be hell to pay. The Brits and the Russians – those most obsessed with finding Salamander – would be at each other’s throats. A smokescreen, allowing Salamander to get on with whatever he was planning. The bastard was several steps ahead, as usual. But then she wondered. Why had he really taken Jake? She didn’t buy this ‘live by a code’ bullshit, not from him. He had something else in mind.

The bespectacled doctor held up a syringe, transparent liquid squirting out of its silver needle. No … no sedatives … need to stay awake … She tried to sit up, but firm hands held her fast to the metal, and a pricking in her upper arm told her it was too late. Her arm became desperately cold, as if her blood was being replaced by ice, then it spread to the rest of her body. It reached her head and her thoughts grew sluggish. In her mind’s eye she dropped into a pit of cloying, glutinous quicksand, Hanbury nearby. He was struggling, clawing at the air, almost submerged. She reached for him, screamed for him to take her hand, but he didn’t hear her, and then he was gone.