The Equalizer (58 page)

McCall ran on another thirty feet and stopped.

The PZL W-3A Czech helicopter was on the ground near the three huge fenced-off cigar-holders. A pilot was sitting in the doorway, smoking. There was no sign of anyone else.

McCall took hold of the fence and climbed toward the top.

It swayed alarmingly, like this section was just going to fall over with his weight.

He stopped climbing, looking over at the helicopter. The pilot had his back to the fence. McCall climbed higher. The fence swayed some more, but held. McCall reached the top, climbed carefully over the coiled barbed wire and down the other side. He jumped lightly to the ground and turned.

The helicopter pilot still had his back to McCall, smoking, staring out at the forlorn, eerily deserted oil pumping station.

Except McCall knew it was no longer deserted.

This
was Kirov and his assassin's final destination.

 

CHAPTER 41

McCall didn't want to kill the helicopter pilot. He might be part of the assassination mission, or he might have just been hired to fly a helicopter to this location, no questions asked.

Besides, McCall might need a ride later.

He headed toward the main pumping building, the one that the big white pipe—if it hadn't been lying in pieces—fed into, also the maze of smaller white and yellow pipes and the three silver coffee-mug containers that reached up twenty feet. At least, McCall guessed that this was the main pumping building.

The first black-suited guard was walking past where the three huge cigar holder-type pipes were fenced off. He was carrying a Skorpion vz 61 submachine gun. McCall recognized him as the man Kirov and his bodyguard had been talking to in the front of the Bone Church, before the bigger man whom McCall had nearly run into had joined them. The guard in front of him was just under six feet, dark curly black hair, his body language a little jumpy. Maybe it had been some time since he'd taken on a job like this.

McCall came up behind him like a wraith, grabbing him, one arm going around his throat, the other twisting the submachine gun from his right hand. The Skorpion vz 61 hit the ground at their feet. McCall twisted and broke the guard's neck. He slumped down into McCall's arms. McCall lowered him to the broken concrete and dragged him behind one of the three squat gray generators. He debated whether to take the submachine gun, decided against it. Too bulky to carry, too constricting. He needed to move more freely. And he was carrying two handguns.

McCall stepped out in the intermittent moonlight and looked toward the parked helicopter. The pilot had climbed back inside. McCall could see the shape of his figure moving briefly and then it was gone. Not a concern. Not yet.

McCall turned back toward the main pumping building. The other guard would be somewhere near it. Maybe on the other side, patrolling the back part of the abandoned facility. McCall moved to where the forest of white and yellow oil pipes snaked up into the building and crouched.

He didn't have long to wait.

The bigger guard, the one who had passed so close to him in the Bone Church, came around the corner, also carrying a Skorpion vz 61 submachine gun. He was more relaxed, therefore more alert. He slowed his pace, turning in a half circle, as if feeling McCall's presence. McCall edged out of the forest of oil pipes before realizing there was a reflection of his body on the shiny gray surface of one of the generators where the guard was standing. He whirled and McCall threw himself across the space, hitting the man at the knees. He went down and the Skorpion sub flew out of his hands. He grabbed McCall's arm and heaved, sending McCall over his shoulder. McCall hit the concrete hard. He scrambled to his feet, fast drawing the Beretta from the holster on his hip.

The Czech guard was faster.

He launched a karate kick at McCall's wrist that was so fast McCall barely saw it. The Beretta was knocked from his hand. It flew ten feet to where two of the trenches had been dug. McCall didn't see it land on the ground. There was no time for more than a split-second look, because a moment later the Czech guard hit him with all he had. McCall fell to the hard cement. Then the Czech guard was on top of him. His right arm went around McCall's throat. He heaved back, strangling McCall, but he was off-balance. McCall used three vicious elbow strikes against the femoral artery at the top of the guard's left leg that weakened his grip. Using his same right elbow, McCall slammed it back into the guard's solar plexus, causing his diaphragm to spasm. His hold on McCall's throat loosened more. McCall jerked free. He head-butted the guard with the back of his head, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and hurled him up over his body. He hit the ground, but dived over to where the fallen Skorpion sub lay. He grabbed it and threw it up and there wouldn't have been anything McCall could have done to get out of the line of fire.

The Skorpion jammed.

McCall kicked it out of the man's hands.

The guard tried to get back to his feet. McCall sent a second kick to the side of his head. He slumped down. McCall was on top of him in an instant. He put his arm around the guard's neck, just as he'd done to McCall, and wrenched it suddenly, snapping the man's neck.

McCall dragged the dead guard behind the generators. He took the small flashlight from his coat and played it over the ground as he ran toward one of the trenches. There was broken shale and glass and some old cigarette butts, but no sign of the Beretta. He stopped at the first trench and shone the flashlight down into it. One big fat white pipe, one narrow gray pipe, running together, disappearing into the earth, some six feet below.

No sign of the Beretta.

McCall ran on to the next trench.

This one was fifteen feet deep.

There was the big fat white pipe, and a narrow gray one beside it, but the gray one was in rusting pieces. McCall ran the small flashlight beam up and down. Even if the Beretta
had
fallen into the trench, and he jumped down to retrieve it, there was no way he could climb out again.

He didn't see it.

McCall unclipped the bianchi holster from his hip and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He reached under his jacket to the small of his back. He still had the compact Ruger .357 Magnum.

He moved through the broken shadows to the front of the main pumping building.

A padlock had been smashed off the doors and lay on the ground. The doors were ajar. McCall pushed inside. He was in darkness. He switched the flashlight back on. It illuminated a narrow corridor that led only to the left. He took out the Ruger .357 Magnum, holding it in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.

He stood very still.

There was no hum of machinery from inside the building. But there were vague movements, a dull clang, followed by another, somewhere below him. He moved down the corridor. There was a steel door at the end of it. Not locked. He pushed it open and entered a huge space. Right in front of him was a big gray pipe that came out of the wall beside panels of intricate wiring and switches, but the end of the pipe was fractured. The room had a low ceiling with a central steel platform and steel steps that led down to lower levels. There was another narrow steel staircase at the far end of the room. There was a work light on in a corner, casting a harsh radiance over some large green pipes that crisscrossed the area.

No shadows jumped in it.

McCall ran to the first set of steel stairs and went down them. There was a clock ticking in his head. He had no idea what was going on in this abandoned pumping station, but there'd been urgency to the whispered conference between Kirov and the killers in the Bone Church, and the drive to the abandoned farm had been taken as fast as the country roads would allow. There was a deadline looming.

McCall was running out of time.

At the bottom was a second level of machinery and more big green pipes. A work light at the back cast the usual harsh shadows. McCall took two steps into the room and instinct kicked in. He dived to the ground as bullets exploded and pinged off the pipes around him. He took aim with the Ruger .357 and blew out the work light. The room was plunged into darkness, but it wasn't total. Light filtered down from the first level. In it, McCall saw Kirov's bodyguard, holding a Skorpion vz 61 submachine gun, running to one of the big pieces of machinery, firing another staccato burst.

McCall rolled behind the green pipe behind him, on his back on the concrete floor and fired twice. Both bullets hit the bodyguard, one in the chest, one in the head. He sprawled into darkness and lay still. McCall got to his feet and more bullets ricocheted off the pipes around him. Very poor shooting. Had to be Kirov, who was not accustomed to using firearms. If it had been Diablo, McCall would have been dead.

McCall twisted around, looking out into the patchwork darkness. A spear of light caught his face, and he stepped out of it. A shadow moved. He didn't fire at it. He needed to go back the way he had come. He needed higher ground.

Kirov's voice boomed across the cavernous room.

“I didn't believe I'd ever see you again, Mr. McCall.”

The echoes seemed to come from all around McCall. He turned toward the second set of steel steps leading back up to the first level. A heavy piece of machinery obscured them from where Kirov's voice had reached him.

McCall moved toward the steps.

“And yet here we are,” he said.

There was another short burst of gunfire. Kirov didn't know how to aim a handgun and fire it with any accuracy. Bullets whined and pinged off the machinery, ricocheting dangerously around the big room. McCall reached the stairs and crouched there, motionless, listening. He heard Kirov moving closer.

“The man you killed was more than a bodyguard. He was a friend.”

McCall didn't respond, moving slowly, crouched low, toward the bottom of the steel steps.

“I'd be interested to know how you found me here.” Kirov's voice echoed and re-echoed. “Perhaps you're a lover of Broadway musicals?
Les Misérables
is your favorite? I wondered who had so graciously returned my cell phone to me. Personally I find musicals trite and devoid of real drama and emotion, but my wife loves them. She's a wonderful woman. Did you see her in the theater lobby?”

He was moving. His voice was closer to the stairs.

McCall didn't answer. Slowly he climbed up the stairs, crouched over and silent, like some huge obscene black spider.

“I have two teenage sons. Think about that, Mr. McCall. Perhaps we can negotiate?”

McCall climbed silently higher.

“How many more of your agents are in the facility?” Kirov asked.

Closer still.

Almost to where McCall had hidden behind the machinery.

“I can't believe your Control would have allowed you to take on this mission alone. Or are you a rogue agent? Operating on your own? I'm not alone. You know that. I have men outside. They'll be coming in here.”

McCall reached the top of the steps and crawled out onto the catwalk there. He looked down on the second equipment room and saw Kirov moving up to the machinery. That's when the Chechen saw the second set of steps. He froze and swung up a Glock 33 .357 pistol.

Too late.

McCall shot him twice. Once in the right arm, to get rid of the Glock 33. It fell to the floor. The second bullet hit Kirov's right shoulder, sending him after it. McCall didn't have time to go back to the stairs and descend them. He leaped over the low iron railing and hit the bottom floor hard. He staggered, but managed to stay on his feet. Kirov lay back against the squat piece of rusting machinery. The Glock 33 lay just a few inches from his right hand.

McCall left it there.

“No one's coming to rescue you, Boris,” he said.

He knelt down beside Kirov.

The Chechen pulled the large ornate penknife from his coat pocket, snapping up the blade. He stabbed it at McCall's face. McCall blocked his arm, twisting the knife from his hand and tossing it into the shadows.

He straightened and aimed the Ruger .357 at Kirov's chest.

“Where's Diablo?”

Kirov's eyes blazed with hatred. “In this building. But you'll never find him. You should have stayed anonymous, Mr. McCall. You'll die here tonight.”

There was a footfall.

Or perhaps just a piece of machinery clicking.

McCall half turned toward it.

Nothing there.

On the periphery of his vision he saw Kirov make his final decision. He let him go with it. Better to think you had one last chance.

Kirov's trembling fingers grabbed the Glock 33.

McCall turned back and shot him through the heart.

Kirov looked surprised, as if that was the last thing he thought would happen. Then the light fled his eyes and his body went slack.

McCall picked up the Glock 33. Kirov had emptied the clip. McCall went through his pockets. He had no more clips of ammo on him. McCall tossed the Glock away and looked for an ID or a wallet, but Kirov had nothing at all on him. Staying anonymous.

McCall ran over to where the bodyguard lay twisted on the ground. He picked up the Skorpion submachine gun, but it was empty. The bodyguard had no more clips. McCall tossed the sub to one side and stood motionless, letting the silence wrap around him, the echoes of the gunshots still ringing in his ears. He looked into the shapes that the pipes and machinery made on the second level.

Diablo could be anywhere in the building. On any level. McCall's instincts were to continue down into the guts of the building. How many levels could there be? Maybe a couple more. But what was he looking for? How could an old, disused oil pumping station be Diablo's final destination?

McCall ran down the next set of steel stairs leading to a third level. The room was much like the first two, rows of gray machinery, interlocking green and gray pipes, control panels on the walls. All of them were covered with a good layer of dust. No one had been down here in years. Not even a maintenance crew.