NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (29 page)

Up to the first
floor. No lights. All doors closed. Silence apart from the faint ticking of something
in the heating system.

Voices were
coming from somewhere overhead, probably a couple of floors up. He continued,
taking the second and third floor flights at a run, ready to duck into the
first available corner. Just ahead was the fourth floor landing. He stopped
short of the top and waited, breathing heavily. There was a dull pain in his
chest, but he ignored it. Time for medical treatment later.

The voices were
louder now, and a faint glow of light came from along the corridor in the
direction of the main office. He could also hear a hum from somewhere to the
rear of the building. He doubted the men would use any of the other floors;
that would be too risky if they were using this place illegally. So where was
Riley?

As he turned
his head to check the layout, he saw a woman’s shoe lying in one corner.

He stepped over
and picked it up. He couldn’t recall what shoes Riley had been wearing, but he
knew it must be hers. He felt a drumming in his chest and bit down on the
impulse to charge right ahead and confront whoever was up here. But getting his
head blown off wasn’t going to do Riley one bit of good. Don’t think the
worst,  he told himself.

He looked
around and considered the logic of the situation. If her shoe was here, then so
was she. Simple. But where had she been taken beyond this point? There weren’t
that many options, simply because most of the layout here was open plan. So
start with the smaller rooms.

He cocked his
head to one side. The humming noise was louder here, insistent and familiar. An
extractor fan. Over in the corner was the door to a women’s washroom.

Taking a firm
grip on the length of pipe, he padded across and nudged the door inwards. A
slight resistance, then the gap widened, and he was hit by a rush of hot,
clammy air and a powerful smell of cleaning fluid.

The first thing
he saw was an empty bleach bottle on the floor, minus the cap, and fragments of
porcelain. A line of sinks – one smashed - stood against one wall, and above
them a row of mirrors. The glass was misted by steam rising into the air. He
pushed the door right back and stopped, the pain in his ribs instantly
forgotten.

Riley was
slumped in a chair by the sinks, bound by strips of what looked like
electrician’s tape. Her face and upper body were soaking wet, as was the floor
around her, and the side of her throat and neck was a mass of blotchy, vivid
red skin.

She was
shivering uncontrollably, but struggling to fight her way out of her bonds and
cursing fluently beneath her breath.

*******

Ray
Szulu watched as the firemen attending the ruined van packed up their equipment
and got ready to leave. Their leader was hustling them along, shouting about a
warehouse fire three miles away. They had expertly put out the small blaze in
the engine compartment and had shunted the vehicle into the kerb for someone
else to tow away, leaving just a smell of burnt rubber and metal hanging in the
air. A police car called to attend had also screeched off as soon as it was
clear that no traffic problems existed.

As silence resumed,
a squeal of tyres from his right made Szulu duck further into his doorway. A
vehicle was approaching at speed. Szulu didn’t know a whole lot about engines,
but he’d been around Steadman enough times to know when he heard something
race-tuned.

The bulky shape
barrelled out of the dark, no lights showing, and skidded to a stop right
across the entrance to the car park. It was a black van with sliding side
doors. Even before it came to a complete halt, three shapes hit the ground
running. The driver stayed where he was, the engine ticking over smoothly.

Szulu felt his
mouth go dry. The three men didn’t bother climbing the small brick wall around
the car park, they hurdled it like Olympic athletes, their feet making almost
no noise. As they flitted under one of the overhead lights, he saw they were
dressed in dark clothes and soft boots. And each man was carrying a handgun.

Szulu swore
long and hard. This wasn’t good news. More bloody Russians? Had to be. Not
police; they’d have had the place surrounded with lights and sirens and a
risk-assessment team debating whether it was safe to go in or not.

He stepped out
from his doorway, ready to take a run at the building and see what he could do.
Maybe he’d find a weapon or something. Maybe he could pretend to be a cleaner
arriving late for his shift. Maybe-

‘That’s far
enough, pal.’

No way! He’d
forgotten the driver; taken his eye off the ball and missed the guy climbing
out from behind the wheel. The man was dressed like his mates, all in black,
and holding a handgun with a two-fisted grip, pointed at Szulu, his feet
planted squarely. Shit, thought Szulu, this guy’s not messing. He looked fit
and hard, like he knew what he was doing, and the gun looked big, too. Szulu’s
legs felt like they were turning to water.

‘You don’t want
to play Rambo,’ the man said, almost conversationally. ‘Best get back in your
hidey-hole and wait. Your friends’ll be out soon enough.’

Szulu scowled
at him, nerves forgotten as indignation asserted itself. ‘Rambo? Who you
callin’ names, man?’ He stopped. Wait. The man didn’t sound Russian. And what
did he know about who his friends were?

The man
chuckled. ‘No offence. Szulu, isn’t it? Believe me, this isn’t the time for
heroics.’ He gestured with the gun towards the building. ‘You’d best get out of
sight and stay down,’ he advised. ‘If any of the bad guys get out and see you,
they might not stop to ask questions.’

He turned and
jogged back to the van and climbed in. Quickly reversing it back down the
street, he tucked it into the kerb just out of the glow of the nearest street
light. Now it was almost invisible; just another van parked up for the night.

Szulu had to
admire the slickness of the operation. He swallowed and moved back to his
doorway, wondering about something else which was a bit more worrying: how come
a complete stranger – a gun-carrying stranger, no less – knew his name?

‘You had her taken
and brought here?’ Vasiliyev was ready to burst. He spun round to face Fedorov
as they entered the main office, ignoring the gun held to his head by Olek.
‘Are you insane? She is not going to help us – don’t you understand that? This
operation is over. What’s the use of pretending? Why not simply put her name on
the article and deal with whatever happens afterwards?’

Fedorov’s eyes
grew round at this open challenge to his authority. He was not accustomed to
his underlings speaking to him like this. Indeed he had killed men for less. He
made a chopping motion, cutting off further protest.

‘Enough!’ he
hissed, a fleck of spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth. He reached out
and stabbed his assistant in the chest with a thin finger. ‘You forget
yourself, Radko Vasiliyev.’ He placed a deliberate emphasis on the man’s real
name. ‘I brought you here… I can just as easily make you go away!’ He snapped
his fingers with contempt, the noise sharp in the sudden silence, and waited
for an objection. When none came, he continued, ‘Now, get rid of the woman. And
make it final. We are leaving this place as soon as we can and I want no traces
to follow us. Do you understand?’

Vasiliyev
licked his lips. He was shocked by the strength of Fedorov’s reaction and the
gun pointed at his head. His boss rarely demonstrated more than a quiet,
contained anger when things didn’t go right; it was what made the man so
dangerous, as if he preferred to harbour his thoughts deep inside, using others
to give physical vent to his emotions. But this was extreme. And the fact that
he was still alive meant little; he was a realist and knew it might not last.

‘But-’

‘But nothing.
Where is Pechov?’

Vasiliyev shook
his head. He had lost track of Pechov long ago, and it was now clear why: while
keeping him out of the way, Fedorov had given the muscle-bound thug other jobs
to do – the most significant of which was to take Riley Gavin hostage. And for
what? A simple lesson in who held the most power? It was insane.

He tried to
think. The other man, a tall, lard-skinned Ukrainian thug named Roychev, was
downstairs, keeping an eye on the approaches to the building. ‘Pechov is not answering
his phone. Maybe he decided to run.’ It was all he could think of to say. ‘I
will find Roychev and get him to check the building.’

Turning away
from Fedorov was possibly the hardest thing Vasiliyev had ever done. But he had
to move before his boss changed his mind and nodded to Olek to take him out. He
felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristling all the way to the door, sure
that a bullet was about to follow. He nearly gagged with relief when the door
swung to behind him.

He walked down
the main stairs, silently wishing that if Pechov had jumped ship, he could have
had the courage to do the same thing. He wondered how much longer the other two
would stick around. On the other hand, as they all knew, Fedorov’s reach was
long – very long. And his memory was extensive and vengeful, as Vasiliyev had
witnessed.

Desertion, if
that’s what Pechov had actually done, was the worst kind of sin in Fedorov’s
book. Almost as bad as failure. It would attract shame and humiliation, and the
derision of his peers, to have a man walk away. Few of them would allow Fedorov
to forget such a thing, the story following him wherever he went. Give it a few
weeks and Pechov would turn up. But he doubted it would be a pretty sight.

He reached the
ground floor and found Roychev standing by the entrance, yawning.

‘Where is
Pechov?’

Roychev
grunted, sneering, bringing thoughts that he must have been alerted by Olek to
Vasiliyev’s sudden fall in status. ‘I haven’t seen him since he brought the
woman here and took her upstairs.’ He sniggered nastily. ‘He’s probably
enjoying himself with her. I hope he leaves some for me.’

‘Pig,’
Vasiliyev swore. ‘Put a finger on her and I’ll cut you into strips.’ The
Ukrainian swallowed and stepped back, his already pale skin turning whiter at
the realisation that he’d overstepped the mark, change of status or not. He was
heavier than Vasiliyev and probably tougher physically, but until he received
orders, he knew his place in the order of things.

‘I was only
joking,’ he said, and sought to make amends. ‘Maybe he’s downstairs. He said he
was going to check the basement doors to make sure they were secure.’ He
stifled another yawn and grumbled, ‘I could do with some coffee.’

Vasiliyev
ignored him and made his way to the rear stairwell. In one corner was a single
door bearing a NO ENTRY sign. He opened it and was met by a wall of warm, stale
air and a steady hum from the air-conditioning system feeding the building. He
stepped through and descended the single flight of concrete steps, treading
carefully. If Pechov were down here, he might easily shoot first without
bothering to identify his target. He reached the bottom and stopped. A patter
of footsteps echoed overhead. He shook his head. Roychev, probably, stamping
his feet to keep himself awake.

He edged along
the passageway, eyes piercing the poor light, and wished he had a gun. Then he
saw the body, lying in the spread of light from an overhead lamp. He recognised
the bulk of Pechov’s shoulders, and the suit. He bent down to check the man’s
throat. There was no pulse. He stood up and let out a lengthy sigh, wondering
what they had brought down on themselves. He’d have bet almost anything against
anyone taking Pechov - the man was a brute, and ferociously strong. Just not
strong enough, apparently.

He turned and
went back upstairs to the lobby. A feeling of impending disaster was growing in
his gut and it wasn’t simply because he had stood up to Fedorov – maybe for the
first and last time. Something was seriously wrong here.

Roychev had
disappeared.

Then he saw
something in the shadows towards the rear of the lobby. He walked over to take
a closer look.

It was Roychev.
He had been shot once in the head.

*********

Riley
heard a sound at the door and struggled frantically. It could only be Fedorov
coming back to continue where he’d left off. The only question was, how long
would it last before he tired of his sadistic game?

‘Hello,
Cinders. Time to go home.’

‘Palmer?’ She
jerked her head up and saw him smiling down at her. He looked rumpled, his clothes
dusted with what looked like grey flour, and he was holding a length of steel
pipe in one hand and one of her shoes in the other. She was puzzled about the
shoe, then memory flooded back and she remembered losing it as Pechov had
bundled her along the corridor and into the washroom.

‘Stone me,’
Palmer muttered, and coughed at the tang of bleach. ‘Did they have you doing
some housework?’

Riley was
choked with overwhelming relief, unable to reply. She felt a tear run down one
cheek and turned her head away. If she broke down like a big girl in front of
him, she’d never forgive herself.

Palmer put down
the pipe and took out a small penknife, gently cutting through the tape and
peeling it away. He wasted no time talking, but concentrated on the job in hand,
his head cocked to one side, listening for the sound of footsteps.

As the final
strip of tape fell away, Riley stood up and shrugged her jacket back into
place, overcome by the sense of freedom. But she promptly cried out as the
material brushed against the burns on her neck, sending her nerve-ends
jangling, and her legs wobbled, the muscles unwilling as circulation was
restored.