The Equalizer (76 page)

“Looking for this?” he hissed.

He lunged at McCall with the dagger, right for his throat. McCall twisted to one side and executed a knee strike to Daudov's left leg, causing him to stumble. McCall caught Daudov's right wrist, twisting it, yanking his right arm up and down, trying to break it.

Daudov's left hand swept the heavy glass ashtray from the bookshelf and slammed it against the side of McCall's head. He staggered, but caught Daudov's left hand and smashed it against the edge of the bookshelf. His fingers opened in a spasm and the ashtray dropped to the floor. McCall found the ulna nerve in Daudov's right wrist and pressed in toward the bone and up toward the wrist. He twisted the man's hand viciously at the same time.

The bookmark dagger dropped to the littered floor.

Daudov reached for McCall's throat.

McCall head-butted him.

Daudov staggered back, dazed.

But that was just for appearances.

McCall lunged forward, but Daudov picked up the sculpture of the eel walker and swung it at the side of McCall's head. It connected with a shuddering force. The blow sent McCall to his knees. Pain wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket, his head throbbing fiercely.

He collapsed onto the floor.

He was too far from the chess table to retrieve Daudov's fallen gun.

One thought burned in his mind.

Get into the kitchen!

Daudov brought the heavy sculpture down at the back of McCall's head.

McCall rolled away at the last instant. The naked girl's figure struck the hardwood floor, making a dent in it. Daudov raised the sculpture again. He was tremendously strong. McCall jumped to his feet, aimed a karate kick at Daudov's head. He missed, but his foot connected solidly with the Chechen's arm. He dropped the sculpture. McCall expected the eel to be severed from the girl's grasp, but she held on to it. Daudov slipped on a floor rolling with M&M's and had to grab the side of the couch to stop from falling.

McCall staggered into the kitchen. His ribs felt like they were on fire. He had to force breath down into his lungs. When he'd entered the kitchen earlier he hadn't really looked at the counter. Bad mistake. He always swept a room when he walked into it. Too complacent. All the bad guys taken care of.

Except one.

McCall looked at the knife block beside the toaster.

All of the knives were gone.

He was sure Daudov had also taken the knives out of the kitchen drawers, along with a pair of kitchen scissors and the carving knife set McCall had bought even though there was never a holiday occasion for him to use it.

But McCall was betting Daudov hadn't looked in the microwave.

He hadn't.

McCall pulled open the microwave door and grabbed the Smith & Wesson 500 revolver. It was fully loaded with five .500 S&W cartridges.

He had only half turned with the gun in his hand when Daudov seized him from behind in a bear hug. McCall's arms were pinned at his sides as if they were being held there by steel ties. He tried to maneuver himself so that even though the gun barrel was pointing at the kitchen floor, he could fire a bullet into Daudov's foot.

It was inches too far away.

“You think you're a hero, McCall?” Daudov rasped. “Rescuing Katia and that little cunt of a daughter? They spit on you. They know what you are.
You
know what you are.”

Daudov sent McCall pitching forward into the kitchen cabinet, which had oval sunflower knobs that opened them. The blow reopened the wound above McCall's right eye. Blood spilled down and obscured his eye so he couldn't see out of it.

He didn't have the strength to break Daudov's grip.

Sense-memory
: McCall in the playground of his school when he was fourteen. The football jocks attacking him. Jerry Stiles, the quarterback, standing behind the young McCall, his hands trying to crush his windpipe. McCall had rushed backward with him, slamming him into the steel spar holding up one of the basketball hoops.

McCall ran backward now, propelling Daudov with him, through the kitchen archway into the living room. Daudov's back slammed against the wooden top of the couch. Daudov twisted McCall's hand with a violent jerk and the Smith & Wesson revolver went spinning to the floor, landing a few feet from the ajar bedroom door.

McCall slammed the back of his head into Daudov's forehead. His hold on McCall's arms loosened, but he wouldn't let go. Still half blinded by the blood pooled in his right eye, McCall went down on one knee, at the same time grabbing the lapels of Daudov's leather coat and hurling him forward. Daudov pitched over McCall's body and hit the floor hard.

But he was nearer the Smith & Wesson revolver now than McCall.

McCall lunged toward the floor, wiping the blood out of his right eye.

Daudov kicked McCall's legs out from under him. He grabbed on to the top of the couch to stop from falling.

Daudov lunged for the S&W revolver on the floor.

McCall didn't try to stop him. But he did something Daudov didn't expect. He threw himself over the couch, tumbling down onto the floor beside the overturned coffee table and the debris around it.

Daudov picked up the Smith & Wesson 500 and got to his feet. He took in a shuddering breath and let it out. Plenty of time now. McCall was on his hands and knees in front of the couch with nowhere to go. Daudov's Taurus 740 pistol was not on the floor anywhere near him. He couldn't reach it in time, even if he knew where it was. Daudov checked that the Smith & Wesson revolver was loaded and walked forward.

“In the microwave. Very good.”

McCall grabbed the Peacemaker Cavalry Colt vintage gun. He found one of the 44–40 Winchester cartridges on the floor, snapped open the chamber of the revolver, inserted the cartridge, and snapped the chamber shut. Dauvdov didn't see this. McCall's hands were below his line of sight.

It occurred to McCall in that moment that Moses might have leaded up the barrel. A lot of antique dealers did that with vintage firearms.

Daudov reached the back of the couch, holding the Smith & Wesson aimed directly at McCall. He was breathing heavily, wheezing badly. Emphysema. Too many of those Sobranie Black Russian cigarettes. He stared down at McCall's beaten figure, his face bloodied, and smiled.

“There is no redemption for men like us,” he whispered. “We are killers.”

He raised the Smith & Wesson level with McCall's head.

McCall threw up the Peacemaker Cavalry Colt and fired.

The bullet blew a hole in Daudov's forehead.

He toppled back from the force of it.

McCall stayed sitting on the floor, trying to calm his breathing. He could take a few moments. Daudov wasn't going anywhere. He looked down at the Colt Peacemaker in his hand. Very little kick. Pinpoint accuracy. The firearm still worked like he'd been standing on a Deadwood street in 1880 facing a gunfighter.

McCall pulled himself to his feet. He limped around the couch, holding the Peacemaker Colt out in front of him, but Daudov stared up at the ceiling with sightless eyes. McCall leaned down and took the Smith & Wesson revolver out of Daudov's hand. He walked through the alcove into the kitchen. He returned the revolver to the microwave. He walked into his bedroom and found all of the kitchen knives dumped on his bed along with the kitchen scissors and his carving set. He replaced them in their spots in the kitchen. He walked back into the living room, around the couch, and picked up the coffee table. He picked up the big book of Venice and the yellow lined notepad and put them back in their places. He picked up his laptop, which didn't appear to be damaged and put it back on the low table. He picked up the fallen DVDs. He'd forgotten what he'd been watching. Some Westerns.
Tombstone
was on the top. Kurt Russell and Val Kilmer for McCall, the quintessential Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. The glass bowl hadn't shattered, but the M&M's were everywhere. He'd pick them up later. He heaved up the heavy Mark Newman
Eel Walker
sculpture, miraculously still in one piece, and put it gingerly back onto the table where it had rested. He knelt down beside the chess table, felt behind it, and retrieved Daudov's fallen Taurus 740 pistol. He'd get rid of it later. For now he dropped it onto one of the bookshelves. He'd pick up the defenders of the Alamo and their Mexican opponents when he scooped up the M&M's.

He knelt down and picked up the Peacemaker redwood case and set it onto the coffee table. He put all of the bullets—except for one—back in their slots and the Peacemaker Colt in its place in the velvet and closed the lid.

Then he called his cleaning crew.

*   *   *

McCall met Kostmayer in the upstairs bar of the Dead Rabbit Grocery & Grog in the Financial District, named after the group in Scorsese's
Gangs of New York
. Kostmayer was seated at the end of the bar where the big fearsome eagle was perched. The bar had the feel of an Irish American immigrant's saloon, sawdust on the floor and warm wood everywhere. It was packed. McCall slid onto the bar stool beside Kostmayer. The young Company agent was drinking a Gladstone, a mix of rye, aquavit, parfait amour, absinthe, bitters, and mace tincture. McCall ordered a Glenfiddich 21. There was a flatscreen TV above the bar. The news was playing, low volume.

“You okay?” Kostmayer asked.

“I saw my son play violin tonight. I'm great.”

“Cleanup's done.”

“I took a long walk here. Thanks, Mickey.”

The bartender brought McCall his Scotch and he took a swallow of it. He winced a little and his hand went instinctively to his throat. Kostmayer reached over a tentative hand and pulled back the collar of his shirt, exposing the vivid red line across his throat.

“What was it?”

“Cheese cutter.”

“Nice. Who was he?”

“You remember when we broke into that house on Sutton Place and rescued Natalya.”

“You did the breaking-and-entering. I was just driving the getaway car.”

“Bakar Daudov's house. He was the handler for the girls at Dolls nightclub.”

“Why did he come after you?”

“He was angry that I killed his boss.”

“I can see that.”

“Because
he
wanted that honor for himself.”

“How did he know where you lived?”

“He must've followed me after I paid a visit to Dolls. And kept following me. He was biding his time. Waiting until my guard was down.”

“How did he get in?”

“Jimmied the lock on the apartment door.”

“And you missed that?” Kostmayer clucked his tongue. “Must've been a hell of a fight. I noticed a big dent in the floor.”

“He tried to drop that eel walking sculpture on my head.”

“And it didn't break when he did that?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

McCall gave him a sour look. “What's your next assignment?”

Kostmayer sipped his exotic drink.

“I'm going to North Korea.”

“What's there, or is that need to know?”

“A prison camp. Did you see the
60 Minutes
report last year on one of their prison camps? Camp Fourteen? Brutal. This one is smaller, a ‘reeducation' camp, outside Sinuiji, just over the Chinese border from Dandong. There are twelve thousand prisoners, men, women, and children, entire families. They're slaves, being whipped and tortured, fathers being hanged in front of their sons and daughters for crimes ranging from talking to trying to escape. Mothers, too. The prisoners are also dying of starvation, illness, work accidents, and torture. Most of these people don't know any other kind of life. The kids believe this is what life is. None of them have ever been outside the prison walls.”

“What's the mission objective?”

Kostmayer shrugged. “Get them out.”

“All twelve thousand?”

“Once the gates are open…” He shrugged again. “We'll take as many families in two choppers as we can. Give the others covering fire. The border is two miles from the camp. The Chinese will help us there. Unoffiically. You know the drill, McCall. Leave no one behind.”

“Not even The Company could get a mission like that sanctioned by the joint chiefs.”

“It's not being sanctioned. Control doesn't know anything about it. Private enterprise.”

“You're quitting The Company?”

“No, unlike you, McCall, I don't have demons invading my dreams. I'm just taking a sabbatical.”

“This isn't your idea.”

Kostmayer finished his drink and motioned to the bartender for another round. McCall had just about finished his Glenfiddich 21.

“Granny.”

McCall raised his eyebrows. “He called you?”

“I guess he thinks if I'm good enough to have your back, I'm good enough to have his.”

“How many mercenaries do you have, including yourself and Granny?”

“Six.”

“How many North Korean prison guards?”

“Forty or fifty.”

The bartender came with their drinks and went away again.

“Tough odds,” McCall said.

Kostmayer looked at him and smiled.

“Want to make it seven?”

“I'm going in a different direction.”

Something on the TV screen had caught McCall's attention. Above a female news anchor a legend said breaking news and, behind her, a photograph of a woman in her mid-forties. McCall recognized her immediately as the wife who had been arguing with her husband on Fifth Avenue outside the Setai Hotel that afternoon.

“Police answering a 911 call for domestic violence tonight are now investigating a homicide,” the female anchor said. “Susan Forrester was found beaten to death in her Upper West Side apartment.”

The anchor disappeared off the TV screen, replaced by video footage of a man in his forties being taken into police custody. McCall recognized him as the husband who had slapped his wife and thrown her into the back of the cab while McCall had stood on the other side of Fifth Avenue and watched.