Vendetta (34 page)

Mac remained frozen until Popov yelled, like an officer in combat, ‘Do as you’re told.’

Without warning, he leapt forward and snatched the automatic from Mac. Mac jumped forward, but Popov stepped out of reach. Swivelled round and, holding the gun with both hands, pumped the air full of lead as he fired at Reuben’s men. One toppled headlong into the water, while the others broke for cover.

‘Mac, the guns,’ Popov yelled, not turning to him, but keeping his finger pulling back against the trigger.

Mac ran back down to the cabin. Under Popov’s bed was an arsenal of assault rifles – AK47s, M16s, T65s and a deadly accurate-looking Bakalov. Mac grabbed two AKs and as many magazines as he could carry and hit the stairs again. He crouched low as he reached the top, hearing the high-pressure crack and pop of bullets echoing in the air. He kept up his bent position as he ran to Popov, who snatched one of the rifles and threw Mac’s piece away with contempt.

‘Get to the front end of the boat.’ Popov shot out commands like he was back as a soldier on the battlefield. ‘Lie down like me – hug the deck like a lover, keep narrow . . .’

Mac ran, head down, to the bow of the boat, hiding behind the anchor housing. Reuben’s men were keeping up a steady roll of shooting, and parts of the yacht were flying off into the water. The men were shouting insults as they fired. Mac shook as the deck vibrated with the return fire from Popov, who was now shouting insults back. ‘Come on, you sons of whores! There’s only two of us! Why are you hiding like old women?’

Popov let loose another round of bullets while two of the gang, who’d been goaded into the open, fell dead. He cackled with laughter.

Mac was stunned at the transformation of Popov from calm businessman to maniac soldier who obviously didn’t fear death.

Mac kept his rifle trained on the buildings in front of him but could see no one. The silence wasn’t really silence at all; he knew there was something happening, but he just couldn’t hear it. Two heads popped out, Jack-in-the-box-style, from round the corner of a building. Mac took aim. Squeezed the trigger. Shit, nothing happened.

Mac hunted around for the safety catch. Found it. Released it. Two men ran along the shadow of the wall. His body and the boat vibrated as he fired at the enemy. They fell into the dark of the night.

Popov taunted, ‘Come on, girls! Stop wetting your trousers and come out and fight like men!’

In front of him, Mac saw two more men, their heads bobbing over a car bonnet they were sheltering behind. He took aim and sprayed the car. The men fired back, pushing Mac deeper behind the anchor housing. They exchanged fire until one of the men emerged dragging his wounded partner with him. Mac was momentarily distracted by another sound. Sounded like a splash, but he didn’t have time to check out what it was as bullets tore up the deck near him. A bullet went over his head and Mac fell back, slamming flat against the deck. Parts of the mast were splintered by gunfire and lumps of painted wood scattered around him.

‘Mister Bolshoi sends his greetings from Hamburg!!!’

Mac turned round and to his horror saw that Popov was no longer lying down but was standing up on the deck in full view of the enemy, loosing off bursts of fire. ‘My daughter shoots better than these plastic gangsters! Come on, here I am! Where are you?’

Crazy fucking man.
Mac watched in disbelief as Popov walked down the gangplank onto dry land, training his AK on the scene, advancing towards Reuben’s gang. ‘The Afghans were real fighters, but these schoolgirls . . .’

But there was no more shooting. The enemy was dead, wounded or had fled. The scene was silent. Popov fired a volley of shots in the air to mark his victory and then walked back, gripping the handle of his gun and letting it rest on his shoulder like a duke returning from grouse shooting.

Popov puffed his chest out and inhaled through his nose. ‘Don’t you just love a good fight? The music of ammunition playing in the air.’

Definitely nuts
, Mac concluded.

‘Why did you do this?’ a voice interrupted.

They both turned to find a man with soaking clothes coming up the last stairs from the cabin.

Reuben.

And in his hand he held an Uzi, pointed straight at Popov. Mac realised that the splash he’d heard must have been Reuben diving into the water, going under, and bashing his way onto the boat by breaking one of the cabin windows below.

‘Reuben,’ Popov said, and for the first time Mac saw him lose his calm. Shock glazed his face like a coating of unwelcome sweat.

Mac’s finger got ready to jerk back on the trigger, but Reuben sprayed a wave of bullets at his feet and swiftly turned the sub-machine gun back on Popov. ‘Don’t try it, Mac, or you’ll be a dead man – like you should already be.’ He switched his attention to the older man. ‘Why are you shooting at me?’

Popov looked at him for a few moments before answering, ‘Word came through that another gang were here, so I assumed it was them who were shooting at me . . .’

Reuben savagely shook his head. ‘Stop bullshitting me. You’re not even meant to be here. Where’s the delivery?’

Defiance broke into the older man’s eyes. ‘
I’m
the delivery.’

‘What?’ Reuben couldn’t help but take a shocked half-step back. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

‘That’s what always worried me about you, Reuben, you never . . .’

Popov’s hand moved like lightning and he threw a knife straight at Reuben’s gut. He dived to the side as the knife hit and Reuben’s Uzi went off involuntarily in his hand. The bullets sparked like uncontrollable fireworks in the air as the gang leader hit the deck. Mac ran over and threw himself on his knees by Reuben. The Russian’s breathing came in tight, tiny puffs as he stared at Mac.

‘Mil . . . os,’ he croaked. A line of blood oozed out of the corner of his mouth.

‘Where’s Bolshoi?’

‘Bolshoi.’ Reuben’s eyes stared over Mac’s shoulder.

Then Reuben’s whole face exploded like a crushed tomato, spraying flesh and blood over Mac as a single shot was fired from behind.

Mac twisted round to find Popov with the AK in his hand. Suddenly he understood. There was no Popov, only Mister Bolshoi.

seventy-nine

Mac carefully placed his hands around the dead Russian’s shoulders as Mister Bolshoi aimed the gun at him.

‘What kind of training do they give you at the police academy?’ Mister Bolshoi calmly scoffed. ‘It must be pretty poor, because I can’t believe you didn’t figure out who I was.’

Mac’s hands dug into Reuben’s corpse just as the high energy sound of a helicopter appeared overhead, its spotlight beaming down on the boat. Sirens split the air in the distance.

‘You’re a dead man, Bolshoi.’

‘I think that’s my line to you, Mac.’

Bolshoi’s finger hit the trigger as Mac twisted Reuben’s body high and around to shield him. The AK’s bullets tore into the Russian’s body, making it jerk. Suddenly Bolshoi’s gun jammed. Frantically he pressed against the trigger. Nothing.

‘Drop your weapon,’ a voice yelled from the dock.

Mac turned to find the youths who had pestered him on bikes earlier, except this time he realised they were cops. Their hoods were replaced with checked caps and they were wearing armbands indicating who they really were. That meant the cops had been there from the start and must have known the ‘delivery’ was coming in, but they’d let the battle rage. What the fuck was going on?

Mac’s attention switched back to Bolshoi, who threw his gun to the deck and ran for the edge of the boat.

‘Don’t move or we’ll—’

But Mac moved. Bang, a shot tore into the deck, but he carried on, changing the pattern of his run into a zigzag motion, which would make him a harder target to hit. Bolshoi disappeared like a silhouette into the water. Mac dived after him.

eighty

11 p.m.

Liquid black surrounded him. Pulled him down. His mind flashed back.

The water.

Sea.

Stevie floating, his head submerged.

Mac dragging out his body.

Cuddling and crying as he held his son close to his heart . . .

Mac broke the surface. Gasping, he pulled in mammoth blasts of air. Where the fuck was he? Where was Stevie? He was cold, so cold. Then his mind clicked into place. Bolshoi. Mac tore into the water, but soon realised that swimming fully clothed, in the dark, in sub-zero temperatures, was no easy matter. Inside his head he chanted:

One. Roll. Two.

One. Roll. Two.

He kept his body going to this rhythm and was soon chopping his way through the water. He knew Bolshoi would swim to the other side. There was nowhere else for him to go. Gunshots echoed behind him again, but it was unclear if this was a deliberate attempt to kill him and Bolshoi, or merely the frustration of the police as their targets escaped.

It was so cold that Mac felt the water was stripping away his skin. But he kept going, from time to time seeing a head and arms in front of him, at other times nothing. But the murdering bastard was out here somewhere . . . Mac’s gaze froze. Was that a flicker of something going towards the footbridge? No . . . Yes, there it was again, bobbing in the water. He couldn’t be sure . . . He started power-swimming, arms chopping, legs going, the expression on his face filling with rage as it jerked from side to side. He got closer. Yeah, there he was in the black water all right. Bolshoi.

Without warning, a wave of weariness struck Mac. He tried to shrug it off, shake the dizziness smothering his eyes. His body still moved but it was like a weight dropped on top of it was pushing him down. He went under. Let out a soundless gasp as the water swallowed him up.

Come on. Come on. COME ON.

He fought the tiredness. Fought the water.

Come on. Come on. COME ON.

He made it to the surface in time to see Bolshoi reach the opposite side of the dock, slightly further down from the bridge. Mac pulled in a huge lungful of air and an immense feeling of power entered him. He went after Bolshoi like a man possessed. Bolshoi heaved himself up and out of the water. Off to his left.

The iron ladder out of the water was still wet from where Bolshoi had hauled himself out, but when Mac reached the top there was no sign of the Hamburg master criminal. But he couldn’t have gone far. Even for a man as strong as him, that swim would have been an effort. He wouldn’t have run in the direction of the police. Or along the dockside, where any fugitive would be exposed. It must have been straight ahead. Down a street that led away from the docks. Mac, soaking and freezing, began his pursuit.

But he didn’t have to go far. On a side road, he saw two men struggling. One was Bolshoi and the other a man whose phone he was attempting to steal. The phone owner was soon punched to the ground and Bolshoi hurriedly typed in a number on the mobile. Mac reached for his gun but then remembered it had been tossed away on the deck of the yacht. But he still had the flick knife from Club Zee in his soaking pocket. Charged.

Bolshoi swung round but was too late. The knife penetrated the jacket and jammed into the flesh of Bolshoi’s shoulder. But Mac was off balance and the strength in his arms had been drained like a battery. The Russian yelped slightly with pain and shock and pushed his attacker onto the ground, the knife skittering further down the road. Mac crawled over to the weapon. Reached it. Picked it up and stood up in one move. He lunged, but the older man was ready this time. Bolshoi grabbed his wrist, and that’s when Mac saw the tattoo on Bolshoi’s arm.

Red star, yellow border, with writing over and above it.

But Mac didn’t have time to dig into its significance as Bolshoi turned, and then hauled Mac onto his injured shoulder. He threw Mac like a wrestler to the ground.

Mac let out a tiny shrill of pain as he landed on his back. He tried to get up, but his body didn’t react. That same weight of weariness that had plunged him beneath the water was back again. But this time he couldn’t move. Just couldn’t do it.

He saw Bolshoi examine his shoulder wound and shrug as if it didn’t matter. Then he walked over to the flick knife.

Get up. Get up. For pity’s sake, get up.

But Mac’s body was a dead weight with nothing more to give.

Bolshoi picked up the knife. Turned his attention with deadly intent to Mac. He used his foot to roll Mac onto his back and then pressed his foot on his neck.

‘And we were getting on so well, you and I.’

Even talking was a strain now for Mac’s inert body, ‘Kill me now. Because if you don’t, I’ll chase you all over Europe until you’re dead. Who did you get to kill Elena? Reuben? Calum? . . .’

Bolshoi leaned his weight on his foot, digging into Mac’s windpipe. ‘I take it you’re talking about Calum Burns. I use his services from time to time, but not to kill people. That’s not his field . . .’ His voice came to a sudden halt. Started again, but this time the tone was much higher. ‘Kill who? Who did you say has been killed?’

Mac said nothing. Bolshoi raised his foot and stamped once against Mac’s chest. Mac hunched inwards with the startling pain.

‘Kill who?’