Terror's Reach (32 page)

He was still too dazed to avoid the kick, but he managed to roll onto
his back and twist at the hips, shifting his upper body away from where
Yuri expected it to be. But instead of retreating he moved closer,
reducing the distance of travel, and threw up both hands to grab Yuri’s
foot midway through its arc.
It was a partial success. There was too much power in the kick to
stop it completely but Joe got enough of a grip to divert its path. Yuri’s
boot thudded into his shoulder and the Ukrainian wobbled, off balance.
Reading Joe’s next move, Yuri leaned forward, intending to stamp
down on Joe’s arm, but Joe wrenched Yuri’s foot sideways, bending
the ankle as much as he could. As Yuri’s legs splayed out, Joe curled
up tight and swung his foot into the air, aiming for his opponent’s
solar plexus.
He missed his target but landed a kick in Yuri’s groin instead. The
Ukrainian let out a whoosh of air and staggered backwards. Joe used
that space to get to his feet, helped a little by the springiness of the
court floor.
He blinked several times, and was relieved to find that he could
still focus. He had the start of a pounding headache, and a lot of
bruising down his right side, but the adrenalin was pumping now,
numbing the pain.
With Joe in a defensive stance, prepared for the next assault, Yuri
grew cautious. For a few seconds the two men circled each other,
searching for a weakness to exploit. A couple of times Yuri dropped
his guard, taunting Joe, but it was a bluff. Yuri wanted him to lunge
forward, to commit himself totally, on the basis that he would be no
match for Yuri’s brute strength. But Joe stood a much better chance
on the counter-attack – and they both knew it.
There were jeers from above. 'Get on with it.’
Joe ignored the order, and for another full minute there was no
contact. Felton thumped the balustrade in frustration.
'Maybe we’ll see how well you fight with your legs shot to pieces.’
The guard trained his MP 5 on the court. Joe saw it but reasoned
that he had no particular incentive to obey, since he’d already assumed
that Felton couldn’t be trusted. For Yuri it was different. He couldn’t
afford to disregard a direct order from his boss.
He barrelled forward, a mass of fury and muscle, charging Joe with
all the strength and subtlety of a wild boar. In a larger room Joe could
easily have sidestepped him, but within the confines of the court there
was far less scope for evasive action. He had about five feet of clear
space to his left, and no more than three feet to his right.
He waited until Yuri was about to strike him, feinted left, then
dodged to the right. It meant that he crashed into the front wall, but
it sent Yuri stumbling the wrong way, his big hands snatching at fresh
air.
Before the Ukrainian could turn, Joe laced his fingers together and
clubbed Yuri on the back of the head. He put all his strength into it,
enough force to have knocked most people cold, but Yuri only juddered
a little, like a man being jostled on a busy commuter train. Then he
spun with astonishing speed and threw a punch. It sideswiped Joe’s
chin but still nearly lifted him off his feet. He heard a crack from his
jaw; tasted blood in his mouth.
There was another punch coming in, this one to the body. Joe had
no choice but to absorb it, letting its force drive him backwards, while
at the same time he was able to land a punch of his own: a good
right-hander that hit Yuri on the cheek, just below the eye, and raked
his nose as the Ukrainian reared away.
Probably the hardest punch he’d ever thrown, Joe thought, judging
by the screaming pain in his knuckles. He was pleased to see Yuri
falter, blood on his face and confusion in his eyes. Maybe this isn’t
going to be as easy as he’d expected. . .
But Joe was still reeling from the blow to his jaw. He knew there
was no way they could go on trading punches for long. A few more
like that and his hands would be useless.
Yuri must have come to the same conclusion. With the agility of
a man half his age, he launched a flying drop kick that caught Joe
completely unprepared. He managed to turn slightly, but that was all.
Not enough.
Joe was dimly aware of a whoop of disbelieving laughter from Felton,
then Yuri’s feet struck his hip and thigh and slammed him against the
wall. His head fell forwards and then whiplashed back, and his last
conscious thought was: It’s over.

Fifty-Three

What next? That question had been running ceaselessly through Angela
Weaver’s mind. It was now nearly forty minutes since the garage had
been invaded and she was no closer to an answer.
The man guarding them had stonewalled their pleas for information
and help. In Angela’s estimation, forty minutes seemed ample
time to have located and subdued Liam’s band of thieves. Surely by
now they should have released the innocent prisoners and summoned
the police?
But that hadn’t happened, which suggested that the new regime headed
by Robert Felton, if Joe’s assumptions were correct – didn’t
necessarily have their best interests at heart.
As the time wore on Angela found herself becoming increasingly
downhearted. Four hours of captivity had left her exhausted, emotionally
drained, and at times quite faint. Added to that, she was hot and
grimy and very, very thirsty.
While the dehydration helped in some respects, she was terrified
that eventually she would lose control of her bladder in front of Terry
Fox. It seemed a ludicrous preoccupation, compared with the day’s
other ordeals, but perhaps that was why it gripped her so fiercely: a
distraction from the far greater horrors that lay beyond her influence.
Angela was hardly surprised when Priya started coughing. There
was a terrible stench in the garage, and because of the gag Priya was
being forced to breathe through her nose. She was sitting next to the
bodies of Travers and Eldon, with a huge slick of blood only inches
from her feet. Until now, Angela had done her best not to look in
that direction. Eldon’s corpse was particularly distressing. He had been
shot several times in quick succession, and one of the bullets had
struck him full in the face.
Whilst Angela couldn’t help feeling a tinge of pity for Eldon, she
felt no such compassion for Turner, who had sustained a serious leg
wound, or for Priya, who had glared at her a couple of times, angry
and unrepentant.
But now the Asian woman appeared to be in trouble. After pausing
to take some long, wheezing breaths through her nostrils, she erupted
with another burst of intense coughing. The noise was muffled by the
tape over her mouth but still made Angela wince. It sounded as though
Priya’s lungs were being shredded.
Angela turned to the guard. 'Shouldn’t you see if she’s all right?’
Terry Fox muttered, 'We should let her choke.’
Angela shook her head. 'Then we’re just as bad as they are.’
As the second bout of coughing subsided, Priya slumped against
the wall. Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling at an unnatural
rate. Her mouth worked uselessly, twisting and writhing against
the tape. Suddenly her cheeks bulged, and her eyes widened in shock.
'She’s been sick,’ Angela cried. She made another appeal to the
guard, At least take off the gag. Otherwise she’ll suffocate.’
The man grumbled to himself, but strode across the garage for a
closer look. Priya was throwing her head from side to side, making a
frantic keening noise in her throat. For a moment her gaze settled on
Angela and her expression seemed to soften. Gratitude, or something
else?
'Okay, okay.’ The guard slowed as he reached the pool of blood.
He made a detour to avoid it and took a couple of awkward, mincing
steps to bring himself alongside Priya.
She twisted her body towards him, but didn’t think to lift her head.
The guard couldn’t kneel, because of the blood, so he had to bend
over, crouching awkwardly while he reached one hand towards her
face.
Then he hesitated. 'Don’t try and bite me.’
Priya gave him a meek, reassuring nod. The guard tried to prise
away a corner of the tape, his gloved fingers struggling to get it loose.
Angela watched, bracing herself for the unpleasant sight of Priya
expelling the vomit that filled her mouth. But as the tape finally tore
loose there was a blur of movement, and then an outpouring of
something very different.
Blood.

Priya had never given up hope. Even when her plan took much longer
than she expected. Even when the pain almost made her vomit for real.
She went on, undaunted, twisting and pulling until she had eased
her hands apart by half an inch. Not far, but enough to get a better
angle for her fingers to pluck at the tape. Her nails had been filed down
so she could wear the latex gloves, but as Priya dug them into the tape
they started to split, creating sharp edges that she could use to dig further.
It took her twenty minutes of constant surreptitious activity. By the
time the tape came apart her wrists were slick with blood. She wiped
her hands against the back of her boiler suit, then rested, easing her
arms apart a fraction to release some of the tension in her shoulders.
The guard had done her a favour by retreating to the far side of
the garage. Every now and then his attention wandered for a moment.
Priya waited for her chance, then carefully retrieved the knife that she
carried in the back pocket of her suit.
During the assault on the garage the guard had patted her down
while simultaneously cutting off her utility belt. With so many weapons
on the belt he hadn’t given much attention to the body search. The
knife he’d missed was a push dagger, a broad three-inch blade on a
T-shaped handle. It was designed to be gripped in the fist, with the
blade protruding between the second and third fingers.
Once Priya had it ready, it was simple enough to fake a choking
fit to lure the guard over. The pool of Eldon’s blood meant he couldn’t
approach her directly: instead he was forced to stoop alongside her,
in a posture that hindered the use of his MP5.
He was on her right-hand side, fumbling with the tape. Priya readied
herself, looking up at him with big pleading eyes, and as the gag was
ripped from her face she swung her left arm round and punched the
knife into his inner thigh, aiming for the femoral artery.
A jet of blood told her that she’d hit the target. One of the prisoners
screamed. The guard didn’t make a sound. He was staring dumbfounded
at the spurting blood.
Priya pulled the dagger free and stabbed him again, this time in
the groin. He let out a howl and stumbled backwards, desperate to
get away. Priya moved with him, clutching his injured leg with her
right hand, and as he overbalanced she clambered on top of him,
stabbing him in the abdomen. The MP5 hit the floor, and her heart
missed a beat as she waited for a burst of accidental gunfire.
Then the moment passed and she was grabbing the tiny microphone
at his throat. Ripping it free, she hurled it across the garage,
pushed herself up and reached for the MP5.
Leaving the guard to bleed out, she shuffled backwards, ignoring
the smears of blood over her legs. She used the dagger to cut the tape
from her ankles, and then she was on her feet.
She took a couple of deep breaths, studying the mess she’d made
with her wrists. There was a lot of skin scraped off, and her fingernails
were broken and bloody, but it was superficial. It generated
the kind of pain she welcomed. The kind that told her: I’m alive. The
kind that told her: Never give up.
The guard was dead. Priya smiled. Angela and the other prisoners
were staring at her, transfixed. But it wasn’t their reaction that interested
her.
It was Turner’s.
The flash of the blade didn’t make sense until the blood started to
flow. Then Angela understood many things at once: Priya wasn’t
choking. She hadn’t been sick. Somehow she’d freed herself.
She had a knife and she was attacking the guard with a ferocity
unlike anything Angela had ever seen. It was a savage, inhuman assault;
in some ways more shocking to witness even than Donald’s murder
for its sheer brutality.
And she, Angela, had made it possible. An unbearable truth: she
had been suckered into helping Priya kill a man.
Angela thought she would pass out. She heard herself groan and
felt the room tilt and spin. Then Terry was bumping against her, whispering
her name, doing his best to comfort her.
When it was done, Priya got to her feet, panting from the exertion
but otherwise unruffled. Her boiler suit was plastered in blood.
It was in her hair and on her face, but she seemed not to know or
to care.

She glanced at the prisoners, and now Angela deciphered the look
she’d seen a few moments ago.
Not gratitude, but contempt.
You used me.’
Priya snorted, as if to say: Of course. Angela drew in a breath to
speak again, but Terry hissed: 'Leave it.’
He was right, of course, though it took a while for Angela to accept
that. He was only expressing what the other prisoners were thinking: Don’t antagonise her.
But for now Priya showed no interest in them. Her focus was upon
Turner. Angela could only see her face in profile, but it seemed calm,
composed.
Turner, on the other hand, was petrified. He stared at Priya as
though she was all his nightmares come to life. When she leaned
towards him he shrank back and made a high-pitched pleading noise
beneath his gag.

Priya tore the tape from his mouth so roughly that everyone winced.
Blood oozed from his lip and into his mouth. He spat it out, and said:

'Jesus! Thanks.’
The gratitude seemed heartfelt, as did his relief, but Angela felt it
was misplaced. Priya straightened up, her body language still wary,

hostile.
Turner wriggled away from the wall, trying to give Priya access to
his bound hands. 'These are killing me. How d’you manage to get

free?’
Without responding, Priya lifted the MP5 to chest height and examined
it carefully. There was some sort of switch on the side of the
gun, and she idly flicked it back and forth a couple of times while
Turner made another desperate pitch.
'That was a fucking good move. Always thought you had hidden
talents.’ A brief snigger, cut short when he registered her blank expression.
'Come on, then. Are you gonna untie me?’
'Why would I do that?’
'Wha—?’ Turner looked incredulous. 'Because it’s one against Christ
knows how many. With two of us, we’ve got a real chance.’
'So we abandon Liam? And Valentin?’
'They’re probably dead anyway.’
'But if they’re still alive?’
Turner gave a dismissive shrug, as if he thought it unlikely. 'Why
not? Just you and me. We deserve it, after all this shit they put us
through.’
Priya tipped her head to one side, as if deep in thought. Then she
said, 'I don’t think so.’
She hefted the gun into a firing stance. Turner looked from side
to side, then back at Priya. He was close to tears. Angela felt Terry
nudge her, another warning, but this time it wasn’t necessary. She had
no intention of getting involved.
Turner changed tack: tried exasperation. 'Think about this, eh? You
want to get out of here, don’t you? Because I’ll tell you something,
love, you won’t get far on your own, even with that big fucking gun.’
'Really? You must have forgotten what you said to me earlier.’
At first Turner was confused. 'What?’ Then he remembered. 'Hey,
come on. I didn’t mean — '