No Tomorrow (26 page)

T
hey converged on them from two sides—one twenty meters to Victor's left, the other twenty-five to his right—weaving their way between parked vehicles with fast, confident movement. The closest man had a tall, bulky frame but was faster than the other man, who was small and lithe.

Gisele was already shuffling lower in her seat before Victor could say, “Stay down.”

He put the car into reverse and backed out of the parking space, swinging the wheel clockwise to put him facing in the direction of the nearest exit while he cranked down what remained of the driver's window.

The big guy, now sixteen meters away, reached under his sports jacket. The smaller man continued to sprint their way.

Victor changed into first gear, keeping hold of the wheel in his left hand while he drew out the SIG with his right. The tires squealed and smoked. He extended his arm out of the open window next to him and fired twice.

Both bullets struck the door panel of a large SUV
inches from the big guy, who startled at the impact, momentarily slowing him as he pulled out an MP5K from under his jacket. Victor would have shot at him again but he had already accelerated out of the line of sight.

Automatic gunfire roared in response.

Holes puckered the safety glass of the rear windshield and blew out the window of the backseat behind Victor. Gisele covered her head with her arms and hands.

The road brought them closer to the second man, who had braced himself into a firing position, crouching and leaning on the hood of a small car.

Victor didn't hear the pistol shots over the noise of the MP5K but he felt the reverberations of bullets thumping into the car's bodywork. The side-mirror glass exploded and showered Victor with tiny shards that struck his arm, shoulder, and face. He flinched and squinted to protect his eyes, lurching in his seat away from the spray of glass, involuntarily turning the steering wheel.

He recovered in time to stop the car from crashing, but dented a wheel well against a parked minivan. Metal screeched against metal.

Victor ducked down in his seat, returning fire as he passed the closest gunman. Rounds continued to strike the Renault. In his rearview mirror he saw the big guy with the MP5K rush out into the road fifteen meters behind him and flames spit out of the weapon's muzzle.

Holes blew through both windshields, spreading cracks across the safety glass, impeding Victor's view. He felt a tire blow.

“Brace yourself.”

He waited a few seconds until he had put some distance between the Renault and the two gunmen, then
slammed on the brakes and pulled the hand brake, and was jumping out of the car before it had stopped moving.

He kept low and ushered Gisele to follow him out of the same door because it was farther away from the gunmen than her own. She crawled over the seats and Victor pulled her out.

“Go.”

He fired off a couple of shots while Gisele ran as fast as she could for the count of five; then he ran after her, heading for the exit, counting off seconds in his head, picturing the smaller gunman giving chase. Then he stopped, spun around, and dropped to one knee as he extended the SIG and brought his left hand up for stability, the iron sights of the gun lining up over the pursuing mercenary, who had moved out of cover to give chase.

The man's momentum carried him forward as bullets hit him in the chest, shoulder, and finally face. He dropped to the ground, leaving blood, brains, and chunks of skull sliding down windshield glass.

Victor moved to intercept the guy with the submachine gun, but he wasn't there.

Instead there was nothing but rows and rows of vehicles.

He stopped and signaled for Gisele to do the same. He motioned for her to get down between vehicles and he dropped into a push-up position, lying on his front to peer beneath the cars. The asphalt was cold and hard and wet under his palms. He saw no feet or legs, but his line of sight was interrupted by numerous wheels.

If he couldn't see his attacker, then the reverse must also be true.

He stayed down for a moment, thinking. The big guy
wasn't stalking closer, keeping low and hidden until he initiated his attack, because that would work only if Victor was stationary. Once he ran, he would quickly get out of range with his enemy too low to see him. So the gunman wasn't trying to get closer for an ambush. He was trying to stay alive.

No point dying for a paycheck that couldn't be cashed. Victor lived by the same principle. But the merc would still want his fee, which meant he was calling for backup.

Victor hurried over to where Gisele waited.

“Are you okay?”

Gisele nodded. “I'm fine.”

He stood and looked around. Still no sign of the gunman but he saw a man frantically trying to unlock the door of an old MG convertible, but he was too scared by the recent gunfire to get the key in the lock. Victor dashed over, coming up behind the man and relieving him of his keys. The man stood trembling with fear. Victor put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to the ground.

“Hide,” Victor told him.

It was advice that could save the man's life. A fair trade for his car, Victor thought. He waved Gisele over, but it was too late, because he saw a black Range Rover pull into the parking lot.

T
hey ran, heading south, away from the Range Rover, turning to the side to get between cars until they were clear of the parking lot and facing a dock where the vehicle wouldn't be able to pursue. Either those inside would be forced to jump out and chase on foot, or the four-by-four would turn around and try to get ahead of them—or both. Any of the scenarios worked for Victor, because it would mean a divided force.

He followed the waterline to the east, Gisele at his side, passing the hotel again but out of sight of the crowds and potential onlookers. They crossed the dock on a footbridge that ran alongside the road bridge, ending up on an empty strip of concrete that continued along the elevated road to his right but finished at a dead end of steel fences and vegetation. A foot tunnel led east under the road.

Victor glanced back to see a figure running along the far side of the dock, heading to the footbridge. Muzzle flashes glared bright in the darkness but the range was too great for accurate shots.

“Through the tunnel,” he said to Gisele. “Hurry.”

•   •   •

The pursuing mercenary made it up to the bridge in time to see the killer disappear. He immediately thumbed his mike. He reported as he ran.

“Targets are on the south side of the dock, entering a tunnel under the bridge. They're going to come out on the east side of the road. Repeat: the east side.”

Anderton's voice replied: “Copy that. Stay in pursuit. We'll head them off.”

The mercenary kept running. He was fast and fit and had crossed the footbridge in less than fifteen seconds. He cut across the strip of concrete and into the tunnel, gun up and ready for an ambush.

Predictably, the tunnel stank of piss. When he saw it was empty of people he sprinted along it, slowing before he reached the far end, wary of a potential ambush, then moved out fast, gun leading. Directly in front of him was the tall chain-link fence marking the boundary of London City Airport. A footpath beside it extended to the north and south. He swept left as he emerged from the tunnel—no one—then right, seeing the girl running, twenty or so meters ahead.

He aimed, but didn't fire as he saw movement in the corner of his right eye, not from the empty tunnel but from above.

•   •   •

Victor leaped down from the elevated road, crashing into the mercenary, taking him to the ground under his body weight, feeling him slacken from the impact. He ripped the gun from the man's hand, reversed his grip, and
hammered the pistol's muzzle down into his eye until it became wedged in the socket and the struggling ceased.

He tore free the dead man's radio, switched it off, and shouted, “Come on.”

Victor and Gisele dashed back through the tunnel, then headed north, onto the footbridge.

“Down,” Victor said, because he heard the roar of a powerful V8 engine on the nearby bridge.

They went into low crouches and he saw a Range Rover pass, heading south in the opposite direction. A few seconds later a second Range Rover did the same. It wouldn't take them long to work out that Victor and Gisele had doubled back.

“Run,”
Victor said.

They sprinted across the bridge and headed north onto a narrow road that fed the hotel's parking lot. He left Gisele on the pavement and dashed into the road, straight into the coming traffic, arms waving, dodging a minivan that wasn't going to slow down in time, then moving in front of a small Peugeot that did, tires squealing on the damp asphalt.

The driver shouted, “What the fuck are you doing?” as Victor circled the hood.

The door opened before Victor could reach for the handle. The driver—a big Polish man—was climbing out to confront him, eyes wide with rage.

Victor dropped him to his knees with an uppercut to the solar plexus. He left the man wheezing and gasping and grabbed hold of Gisele's wrist to drag her around to the passenger's door. He opened it and bundled her into the seat, slammed the door, and rushed back around to the driver's side, shoving the kneeling Pole to one side.

The door fell shut as Victor accelerated away. He put his left palm on the top of Gisele's head and forced her down in the seat because she was too upright.

“Stay down,” he said. “Keep your head lower than the windows.”

She didn't respond but she didn't fight or argue. Either she was happy to do as he told her or she was too scared to resist. It didn't matter as long as she was breathing.

In the rearview, the Polish man was climbing to his feet and staggering along the road after them. Victor respected his single-mindedness, but he wasn't about to return the vehicle. He hoped it would still be in one piece by the time the police released it back to the man, but the odds were against it. He cut through the parking lot and then joined the road that ran between the hotels, heading west.

•   •   •

Wade kept his eyes on the road and the traffic, slowing as they came to a traffic island. Anderton and Sinclair were looking to their left—east—expecting to see the girl and the assassin running alongside the road, having come out of the foot tunnel as reported by Cole, and then heading south because there was no escape north or east.

“Where are they?” Sinclair spat.

Anderton said, “Take the first exit left. That's the only way they could have gone.”

“No,” Sinclair said, shaking his head. “We should have seen them.”

She radioed Cole, who had been pursuing on foot: “We can't see them. Report.”

No reply.

“Cole, answer me. We—”

“He's dead,” Sinclair said. “They doubled back. They're on the opposite side of the dock by now.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that's what I'd have done,” Sinclair answered.

Anderton sighed. “Then we've lost them.”

•   •   •

Victor pushed the Peugeot as hard as it could take. The engine was weak and the handling nonexistent but the car was small and the tires had decent grip. He weaved it through the traffic, ignoring the blaring of horns and minor collisions he left behind. He knew he was risking attracting the attention of the police—whether via an unmarked vehicle or from a call made by a civilian—but better to be chased by cops than killers. Whoever these guys were, he couldn't see them shooting through the police to get to him and Gisele. If they had any sense they would back down the moment the police became involved. He wasn't going to rely on that, however.

Gisele kept low in the seat as he instructed, swaying and sliding as he swerved and braked and accelerated again. When he saw no pursuers he slowed down and took the next turn so he could join the traffic like a regular driver and disappear into the crawl of inner-city vehicles.

Victor glanced at Gisele. “Are you okay? Are you injured?”

“What?” she whispered, eyes open and blankly staring at a point beyond the dashboard.

She was having a panic attack. Her automated nervous system was crashing. Her lizard brain was caught between fight and flight. The result was paralysis.

“Just breathe,” he said, “but slowly. Draw in one
lungful of air and hold it in the bottom of your chest for as long as you can. Then let it out nice and slow.”

She did. He could feel the fear radiating from her like a tangible energy. He wasn't sure what to say. Nothing was going to make it vanish. Fear was nature's purest form of advice. It couldn't be mastered. To control it took years. He had no advice that could free her from it now.

He put a hand on her arm. The skin trembled beneath his touch. “It's going to be okay,” he said, because it wasn't okay and it was the truth that scared her, not lies.

She nodded. Maybe she believed him. Maybe she didn't. She still shook. She had to work through the fear in her own time.

He said, “Are you hurt?”

In his peripheral vision he saw her shake her head, so he concentrated on the road in front of them and his mirrors. There were no men with guns or black Range Rovers. “I think I'm going to be sick,” she said.

“I can't stop yet. You'll have to do it into the foot well.”

Gisele shuffled in the seat, leaning forward, knees parted. She stayed like that for a couple of minutes but didn't vomit. She asked, “What do we do now?”

“For now we keep moving,” Victor said. “After that, I have no idea.”

“You won't think less of me if I start crying, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay, good,” she said, voice breaking. “Because I can't hold it back any longer.”

He drove in silence as next to him she cried and cried.