Code Shield (27 page)

Michael had jumped onto Karpov's back. The huge Russian fell repeatedly against the wall, trying to dislodge his rider. Annette clung to Karpov, wrapping her arms tightly around the man's leg. The big Russian kicked but the young girl screamed and clung to his leg like an iron ball.

In the next room, Tara saw Kashin repeatedly banging the Chinese woman's head to the wall. She did not utter a sound, fought silently.

Tara took aim with the Beretta but quickly changed her mind. She was too far, the people too close to one another.

Grabbing her duffel bag on the run, she bolted down the staircase, clearing three steps with every leap. She turned the corner and cleared the last flight of stairs, her elbows sliding down the staircase rails and delivering her to the foot of the staircase.

Blocking her path was the stunned building caretaker, his eyes vacuous. He held a long pole in his hands, ready to swing. Having heard the noises, he had armed himself, apparently suspecting a burglary or worse.

“
Politsii
!” shouted Tara.

The man dithered, held the pole in both hands with a nervous shake.

Tara pushed him against the wall and ran past; the man's oaths slammed shut by the door.

It would take her about two minutes to reach the fourth floor apartment. She was not sure whether Michael and the women could hold on until then. She placed her hand on the bonnet of a parked car and leapt fluidly over it, landed on one foot and continued to sprint without breaking her stride.

She hoped that Michael had left open the door leading up the short staircase. Otherwise, she would be too late trying to shoot the locks through. Every second counted.

The roller shutter remained off the ground as she remembered it. Tara dived to the ground and rolled inside. Springing to her feet, she bolted up the staircase, all in one seamless movement.

“Damn!”

She heard the shrill wavering sounds of fast approaching police sirens.

A few minutes earlier, Michael had pulled his sleeve back and checked the time. He leaned back on his seat, his eyes just above the dashboard, peering into the hazy night.

He saw the headlights of the by now familiar minibus. Following behind was Kashin's red Porsche.

The minibus turned off the street, bounced up the short steep embankment and stopped before the roller shutter to the basement. Kashin pulled up nose-to-tail behind.

Michael peered past the driver, his heart pounded until he saw a figure in bright yellow jacket, seated next to Kashin. Though he could not see her face, he was sure that it was his daughter.

Michael knew that Annette would have seen his message taped to the cistern in the women's toilet and would be expecting him. With some luck the three of them, including the Chinese national, would overpower the two Russians.

He wondered whether the man in the embassy had relayed his message to Tara and cursed silently that he had not called the embassy again nor got hold of the man's name. Tara had not called him. He felt his bladder full as fear grabbed him.

He would have preferred to wait another day, but Annette's message sounded desperate, convinced that the mobsters would relocate to a new apartment the following day. There was no surety that he would be able to gain access to the new place or even whether there would be time. Annette had also mentioned that the Russians might have concluded a sale. He simply could not wait another day. He had to get his daughter out tonight.

Getting out of his white Fiat, he pulled his collars around his ears, clasped the paper cutter in his coat pocket and walked briskly across the road.

There was a soft popping sound and flash of light above his head behind him. He turned to look and thought he saw a light go out in one of the windows. Yellow lights blotted a few curtained windows, but otherwise the apartment building behind lay bathed in darkness.

He bolted across the wet street. The metal rod he had wedged earlier that morning still held the roller shutter off the ground. The tenants had not bothered to report it and as he had hoped, the landlady probably had not wandered to the car park that day.

Slipping under the gap, he hurried around the minibus and Porsche. Using a tiny valve wrench, he released the air from all the tires.

His plan was simple – let himself into the apartment with the key he had stolen from the landlady, slash the Russians with the cutter and as they reeled from the shock, grab Annette and run to his car and make an escape.

Michael went up the short flight of stairs and, as planned, let himself through the door into the narrow passage leading to the reception. He hesitated and listened for the heavy snores of the huge woman. Hearing nothing, he crept up the narrow carpeted staircase to the fourth floor.

The entire place was in semi darkness, illuminated by a single light at each floor landing. It was quiet, not even the sound of television. But at almost three in the morning, Michael put down the ghostly silence as normal.

Halting outside apartment unit 04-02, he sucked in deep breaths of air and inserted the master key into the lock, with his other hand holding the unsheathed paper cutter.

He realised too late that he ought to have purchased something more vicious, like a chopper or a carver or at least a flick knife. However, he could not find a shop selling any of these and had falsely assumed that he could
borrow
a knife from his motel pantry. But in his excitement and hurry, he had simply forgotten to look for a knife before leaving his motel that night.

He could have waited until the men had gone to bed. However, Annette had told him that at bedtime, the Russians usually chained the women to the bedposts and knocked them out with doses of heroin. He needed Annette to be lucid and free of chains to make a quick exit.

Michael inserted the key and prayed that Annette had remembered his instructions to keep the locks inside unlatched. He saw the line of light under the door and pressed his ear to the door.

He pushed the door open, revealing a narrow gap. A waft of stale liquor and strong tobacco caught his nostrils.

Taking a deep breath, his body tightened as he braced himself and pushed the door open. He stepped inside.

Annette stood facing him; her fingers curled to her lips, “Pa.”

“Shhh!” Michael placed a finger to his lips, caught her fearful eyes looking to her right. He followed her look and saw the opened refrigerator door. Thick fingers wrapped over the top of the door.

Michael knew that anytime now the man squatting behind the open door would stand back to close the refrigerator door.

Kashin lay on his back with his eyes closed, savouring Ying's tongue gliding over his stiff member. He had the evening all planned. As soon as she satisfied and exhausted him, he would jab her with heroin, chain her to the bedpost and roll over to sleep.

This would be the last night for the women, as they had planned the exchange – cash for the women – in the afternoon. Kashin needed the sleep, as he had to be alert. It is usually during the final transactions when things might go awry and guns pulled.

The shouts in the living room jerked him awake.

When Ying heard Chinese voices in the living room, she understood what was happening as Annette had alerted her that evening.

She immediately clamped down hard on Kashin's penis, with all the might that she could muster in her jaws.

Kashin jack-knifed upright, stunned for a moment, before the pain and terror seared his brain. His face contorted in agony and horror, and he howled, kicking out violently.

In the living room, moments earlier, Michael had rushed to the open refrigerator door and slashed at the fingers with all his strength just as Karpov turned to look at him. The Russian looked much bigger and more intimidating than in the photographs.

With a loud roar and curse, Karpov snatched his hand away, leaving a large bloodstain on the white door that swung shut. His right pinkie, severed, dangled on a thin sliver of skin.

The Russian backpedalled and Michael advanced, violently slashing left and right. Karpov held up his left arm and Michael's blade rent opened the veins on the Russian's forearm.

Michael swung the blade in a wide sweep, slashing across the Russian's broad chest. The man's thick woollen pullover shielded him from most of the injury but the blade did find flesh.

Karpov jumped back with both arms spread open. He looked down at his chest and saw the torn pullover. A dark brown stain formed across his torso and his face mottled with fury.

Michael shouted to Annette in Chinese to get out, run to the basement and out. Annette froze with open-mouthed horror. Her father shouted again but Annette hesitated.

With a guttural curse, the Russian lunged forward. He bulldozed into Michael and the momentum carried them both crashing to the wall with a heavy thud. Picture frames fell from the wall and smashed on the floor.

Michael brought the blade up and slashed Karpov's face, plunging the blade deep into the left cheek and ripping the man's mouth open. The thin blade wedged in the Russian's teeth and snapped.

Blood spurted onto Michael's face. He panicked at the sight of the Russian, whose cheek flesh hung out like a peeled-open banana skin.

Karpov brought his knee up and into Michael's stomach, sending the smaller man crumpling to the floor. Spitting blood and grunting incoherently, the big Russian reached down with his good hand and

grabbed Michael's hair, intending to yank him up.

With a cry, Annette hopped onto the Russian's back, wrapping her arms around the man's thick neck. The Russian's neck was wet and slippery with blood and he twisted his torso to shake her loose. She lost her grip and slipped off his back.

Karpov wheeled on the girl, pulled back a foot to let fly a kick. Michael now jumped on the Russian's back and both men staggered backwards.

The Russian pulled his arm up and swung back sharply, digging his elbow into Michael's stomach.

Michael heard his ribs crack with a sickening crunch. With an anguished cry, he loosened his hold and fell heavily. Instinctively he curled into a foetal position with his hands wrapping his head protectively.

Sputtering and cursing, Karpov stumbled back to the wall. With his left hand, he pulled out a gun from his belt and pointed the muzzle at Michael's head.

A sharp pop filled the room and Annette shrieked in terror.

In the room, Ying will not let go, she shut her eyes tight and bit down even harder to more howls and screams. She felt the bitter iron taste of blood and wrenched her head from side to side, like a shark tearing its prey.

Kashin screamed and kicked but weakened by the second. His eyes rolled up and exposed the whites as he writhed. He punched her head but his blows were feeble.

Grabbing her head, his thumbs dug viciously into her eyes with a sickening pop.

With a sharp shriek, Ying released her hold and fell back, her chest covered in fresh bright blood. She cupped her face with both hands and howled in pain.

Kashin looked down at his privates; he would never be a porn star ever again. Heaving and gasping, his terror gave vent to black ugly rage.

He lunged at Ying but fell back in revulsion.

Ying stared at him, one eyeball dangling down her cheek at the end of bloody gristle; the other eye red and bloody.

Recovering, the Russian lunged at her again and tightened his hands around her neck

Karpov stopped, looked at his chest, now a welter of soft tissue, cracked bone and blood. He sank heavily to his knees and slowly toppled forward, dying even before his face landed at Michael's feet.

Tara stood at the door, a thin wisp of smoke twisted free from the silencer of her Beretta.

She bent quickly over Michael with a, “Are you all right?”

A shrill keening emanated from the bedroom and Tara swung towards the bedroom door.

Cursing and laughing hysterically, Kashin had appeared naked, at the door of the bedroom. His groin was soaked dark, the blood flowing to his feet, leaving ugly footprints in his wake. He slipped on his own blood and fell. He pushed his back to the doorframe and stared contemptuously into the black eye of Tara's Beretta.

His eyes met Tara's steady gaze and moved slowly to the Grach held weakly in his hand.

“Go for it arsehole,” Tara challenged.

Kashin, in hideous pain, again broke into a hoarse laughter, “You bitch!” The Russian struggled to his feet but again stumbled and fell.

“Lost your balls?” Tara goaded him.

Bracing himself against the wall, Kashin stood shakily to his feet, his strength bleeding with his blood. He heaved and panted, tears streamed down the corners of his eyes.

Tara slowly and deliberately pointed her Beretta at his forehead.

They heard sirens and the screeching of brakes, followed by car doors slamming and raised voices.

Without warning, Kashin let himself slip. The Grach in his hand jerked up as he fired and fell heavily.

A millisecond before Kashin made his move Tara had seen his eyes dilate. She ducked to her side, the bullet whizzing past her, clipping a strand of hair near her ear.

In reply, a shot spewed from her semi-automatic and found its mark in a muffled thud. The soft bullet tore into Kashin's face, his head a sputtering watermelon of disintegrating bone, blood, teeth and brain.

Michael coughed, attracting Annette's attention.

“Pa,” exclaimed Annette as she bent to cradle her father's head. Michael pressed his hand to his side and groaned.

Tara stepped over Kashin's body and quickly surveyed the bedroom. Ying's nude body lay twisted awkwardly on the blood-covered floor, her thick purple tongue protruded from her mouth.

They heard footsteps hurrying up the carpeted staircase.

The next moment, policemen barged in shouting. The men held machine pistols at the ready and gesticulated to Michael and Annette to raise their arms.

Slipping her Beretta into her holster under her leather jacket, Tara walked out of the room, holding up her diplomatic pass and shouting in Russian.