The Darkest Day (5 page)

Victor was moving before the assassin appeared, knowing he was exposed and vulnerable to multiple points of entry. He threw himself to the floor as a shape moved in his peripheral vision, silhouetted by ambient light shining through the high windows. Average height, but slim and lithe and female.

He had no time to consider this uncommonality because suppressed automatic fire echoed as the shape swept a sub-machine gun his way.

A spray of bullets cracked masonry and pinged off steel pillars. The burst was short and controlled – a snapshot at his diving form, halted as soon as he had made it into cover.

He waited a beat to test the assassin’s intentions and to take a sample of her resolve. Would she hurry to catch him out while he was prone, or wait until he showed himself again?

The second option proved to be correct as he heard no footsteps. This enemy was patient – not one to act in haste and leave herself vulnerable.

In the darkness he had seen little other than her outline, but it had been enough to note she wore no thermal-imaging goggles.

He edged towards where she had appeared, creeping on his stomach. The floor was uneven. The concrete was cold. He detected the quiet crackle of plastic, his own exhales and the rustle of his clothes and scrape of his shoes on the floor. So close to the floor the near darkness hid him well but limited his line of sight. Victor rose on to one knee so he could see beyond the clusters of pipes and pillars and hanging wires to view the assassin’s previous firing point. Had she moved too or remained in cover? If she was good, she would have moved. She would know no position to be perfect, to be impregnable.

Victor swept with the gun, seeking a route the assassin might have taken to another firing position. He saw a wall of vertical pipes, and a scatter of sacks and crates that would have provided spots of cover between there and the original position. Victor would have taken that route, settling behind the pipes and finding a gap through which to fire.

He dropped just as rounds burned through the air above him.

He raised his gun to fire blind – not to hit, because he did not believe any measure of chance could direct a blind shot across twenty metres and send it between dense pipes capable of causing ricochets, but to convince the shooter he had such delusions.

In his head, Victor kept track of the rounds fired – one, then three, five – fourteen remaining in the magazine, with one in the chamber. Losing track meant running out of ammunition at the worst possible moment. People died that way. Victor knew this because he had made sure they did.

Then, after he had used up half the FN’s magazine to cement the deception, he leapt up, sprinted, dodged around the pillars, heading left, then right, taking a short zigzag until he had covered the empty ground, his heart rate soaring to send blood to his pumping limbs. Rounds chased him, slicing off wood and cutting through low-hanging cables as he ducked below them, but the pillars and darkness combined for near-perfect cover.

Victor turned and braced against the pillar, eyes fixed along the FN’s sights at the area to which the assassin had withdrawn. If she retreated Victor would spot her, but if she edged sideways, she could remain unseen in the crowd of crates and pipes and other obstacles. The pillars there provided a great deal of protection. Victor’s gaze turned to every swirling cloud of dust or echoing noise.

Rounds pinged off the pillar before him. He fought the instinct to duck or back away, eyes searching the darkness for the light or rippling gases from the suppressor.

Plastic sheeting shredded next to Victor’s arm. He twisted and backed away, responding to the distant muzzle flashes with shots of his own. A round sparked off a pillar and ricocheted through the shoulder pad of his jacket. He dropped low behind an unfinished wall to reload the pistol with his second magazine.

He rose up a fraction, still squatting low, and tried to locate his attacker. She wore black attire, which meant she was almost indistinguishable from the darkness behind her. Utilising the protection of the low wall, he fired a spread of rounds, spent cartridges bouncing and clinking off the wall, and dropped back behind its cover. The figure in black fired in return, the sub-machine gun’s suppressor reducing its sound and flash. Rounds sliced the air above Victor’s shoulder. He popped up to fire back, not risking staying up to get a good aim, but the missed shots struck near enough to persuade the assassin to retreat into better cover herself.

She fired as she moved, the burst of rounds hitting the unfinished wall protecting Victor. He used an arm to shield his eyes as dust swirled above his head and fragments of concrete rained down over him.

Another burst followed, and another, continuing the destruction, disintegrating concrete in a relentless barrage. When it stopped, Victor was covered in a layer of dust and rubble. He held his breath, unwilling to breathe – then the inevitable cough or sneeze would follow and give away his exact position.

He swept dust from his face and inched along the floor, on his back, moving in a straight line to maintain the concealment for as long as possible.

His body responded to danger like anyone else’s. Hormones were released. Instincts kicked in. Ancient man only needed to run away or stand his ground. Physiological responses prepared him for this. For Victor it was more complicated than that.

He breathed, deep and slow, filling his lungs with air between each deliberate exhale. The controlled breathing fought the autonomic nervous system, counteracting the adrenaline in his blood that sought to boost his heart rate to better supply his muscles with the oxygen and energy needed for effective fight or flight. The problem with the system was a high heart rate meant a reduction in fine motor skills. Ancient man didn’t need those to flee from a sabre-toothed tiger or pummel a rival. Ancient man had no cars to hotwire or locks to pick and guns to aim.

A round punched a hole in a nearby barrel and diesel trickled out. Victor cupped his hand beneath the flow. He smeared it over his face and arms and any area of exposed pale skin. It darkened him, but only a little, and the slick coating caught the light and made him more visible – at least until he gathered up handfuls of ash and dust to throw over the diesel. It was far from perfect camouflage, but it might take his enemy a second longer to spot him and that was all the time he would need.

He backed off until he reached one of the exterior walls and headed down the connecting corridor, intending to circle around and flank the woman. The corridor was narrow with awkward obstacles of rubble and an uneven cement floor covered in a layer of dirt and junk before it opened into a large room. Gleaming galvanised steel pillars supported the ceiling above Victor. Crates and pallets of building materials were piled in neat stacks or strewn in equal proportion. Spilled oil shone in the dim light, bright on sections of piping and uneven surfaces. He stalked, fast but controlled, rounding the obstacles and ducking low-hanging wires bowed by their own weight.

When he reached the previous area, he crept forward into the darkness and the shafts of ambient city light bisecting it. Dust and mould spores swirled through the light, not drifting in lazy patterns as they would if they had not been recently disturbed by a passing figure interrupting the flow of air.

His enemy was near.

He glimpsed a ripple of black in the darkness and lowered himself to one knee, waiting and listening. The ripple became a blur and he tracked ahead of it with the gun’s iron sights, but not squeezing the trigger, unwilling to give away his position on a shot that had only a small chance of hitting its mark.

He moved, fast and low, while the assassin ducked back into cover. When she reappeared, she had moved too and they exchanged fire, gunshots loud and echoing despite the suppressors, bullets clanging and clattering off metal and thumping into masonry. A ricochet made Victor back off. He turned side-on to reduce the width of his profile and reloaded the FN, slipping the three-quarters-empty mag into a pocket, not wanting to discard the few remaining rounds any more than he wanted his enemy to hear the magazine clattering on the ground.

The assassin had no such qualms. It was the second time Victor had heard her reload. He doubted the woman had brought more than three magazines. Ninety rounds was a lot of ammunition to carry just to kill one man. Would the pressure of knowing she had used up two-thirds of her ammunition coerce her into doing something rash?

It did.

She left the cover of some crates and darted closer to a wall of pipes between them. Victor squeezed off a shot, but the woman was weaving fast and slid the last few metres.

Less distance and fewer obstacles meant a better chance of a hit for both of them, but the assassin’s fully automatic capabilities gave her the advantage.

She waited until Victor appeared again and let loose with a burst that rattled the metal around him. Sparks and bullet shrapnel struck his arm and shoulder. He dropped down again, no time to target a shot without risking a skull full of lead, but he saw enough of the assassin’s position to plan his next move.

Victor shuffled along until he was at the edge of a tall pile of sacks of cement, creeping around them to come at the woman’s flank. He popped out of cover and squeezed off a couple of fast shots that missed, but gained his enemy’s attention.

She didn’t return fire now the angle was tight – eager not to waste her remaining rounds – but Victor knew the angle could be lessened by the shooter moving parallel along the wall of pipes.

He waited, picturing the assassin doing what he would do. This time when Victor edged out of cover he did so in a crouch, because the protection provided to the assassin by the pipes did not extend to her shins and feet at this end.

She realised her exposure and was moving away an instant before Victor opened fire.

He jumped up to track her, but she had already made it into cover and was turning his way. She was as good at predicting his actions as he was hers.

He had lost the element of surprise and given himself away at the same time to a better-armed opponent.

Now he was exposed and vulnerable and if he failed to out-manoeuvre her he was as good as dead because he was never going to outshoot her. He ducked back into cover and backed off. When he had moved what he judged to be far enough, he rolled on to his front and rose on to one knee, head low.

And exploded into a sprint.

Automatic gunfire echoed through the building as he dashed between pillars, metal sparking behind him, the air hot with lead as he swerved and ran, fast and unpredictable, difficult to hit, half-unseen due to the darkness, shielded by the pillars.

When he had reached the end of their line, Victor threw himself to the ground and slid on the cement for the final metres, tearing his suit, grazing his elbows and knees, but reaching a doorway and, beyond it, the city.

But he didn’t escape.

Instead, he waited a second, rose, and using the doorframe as cover, adopted a firing position. His pursuer was a phantom – blurring darkness against darkness – swift and noiseless, but was lured into believing Victor was fleeing and she was pursuing; the attacker, in control.

He shot her with his last two rounds, the bullets striking her in the chest for a double tap.

She contorted and dropped, the gun falling from her hand. It clattered on the hard floor.

He approached. Cautious, despite what had to be fatal wounds, but without delay. He wanted answers before she died. She lay on her back, her head, arms and torso still and unmoving while her legs writhed. He could hear pained breaths that were machine-gun rapid. Her right hand was pressed over the twin holes in her chest.

‘Who are you working for?’

She didn’t answer. She groaned and tried to angle her head to see him. He saw the tears glistening in her eyes. The bone structure of her face was prominent – defined jawline and cheekbones – without looking unhealthy. He wasn’t sure of her ethnicity from appearances alone. Her skin was only a little darker than his, and he was pale, but he detected a hint of Persian in her facial features: arching eyebrows, full lips and large eyes. Those eyes were as dark as his, and her hair even darker.

‘Caglayan?’ he asked. ‘The prince?’

She had an athlete’s body, slim but strong. She had been raised well. The good nutrition showed in her height and shoulders.

Victor said, ‘If you don’t tell me, I’ll make the pain worse.’

She didn’t speak. Her rapid breathing grew louder as he neared.

‘A lot worse,’ he added. ‘At this moment you might think that’s impossible, but you should believe me when I say there can always be more. If you tell me everything I want to know then instead I can make it all go away. No more pain. No more suffering.’

‘Okay,’ she spat between breaths and he stopped. ‘I’ll tell you.’

‘I’m waiting.’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘I’m just a shooter.’

‘Trust me when I say that you don’t want me to become impatient.’

Victor took another step, now close enough to see there was no blood seeping out between the fingers of her right hand.

He couldn’t see the other hand.

He was moving before that hand snapped up, the dim light catching the hard lines of a small backup pistol.

She shot at him as he ran, the barks of each unsuppressed shot loud and echoing, the muzzle flashes illuminating his surroundings in a strobe of bright yellow light.

He made it into cover and the shooting stopped. He heard her climb to her feet, now recovered from the winding impact of blunt force trauma caused by his two bullets striking an armoured vest.

It had been a stupid mistake to have fallen for the same trick he had used on her, lured into believing he had been in control. Underestimating an opponent was something he should never do. He withdrew a folding knife and opened the blade. Not much use against a gun, but it was better than nothing at all.

He heard her approaching footsteps.

‘You’re out,’ she called. ‘I saw the bare metal of the gun barrel. The slide was back. You would have reloaded if you could.’

He didn’t respond. He concentrated on plotting his escape route and the odds of her hitting a fast-moving target in the dark with an inaccurate backup weapon.

Then he dismissed running for it because he heard the scrape of metal as she retrieved her primary weapon from the floor. She may be low on rounds but all she would need was a single burst.

‘You’re lucky that cab went by when it did,’ the assassin said. ‘Otherwise you would have taken a seven-six-two in the back.’

Victor said, ‘There’s no such thing as luck.’

‘Regardless, you’re out of it,’ she said. ‘Now, we’re going to switch roles. You’re going to answer my questions.’

Victor was a little surprised because he thought she only wanted to kill him. If she wanted to interrogate him, that gave him options.

‘So let’s go grab a coffee and talk. I could use an espresso.’

She laughed. It echoed. ‘It’s a bit late for caffeine. Besides, I don’t think I want to date you.’

‘Your loss,’ he said. ‘I’m a riot.’

‘I like that you can keep your sense of humour at a time like this, but I’m afraid to say it’s not going to change the fact that I’m the only one who will be walking out of here.’

He heard the sound of metal on metal as she reloaded her primary weapon, followed by her approaching footsteps. He pictured her sidestepping to get a line of sight because those footsteps scraped a little. It was no surprise that she was keeping her distance and wouldn’t round the corner close enough for him to attack. She had already proved herself a good operator. Better than him so far, because she had two guns and he had none.

But then he saw he didn’t need one, because for her to get a line of sight on him she would have to pass by the taped-off piles of building waste.

He rolled the knife around in his palm so the blade was facing up and then darted forward, covering the short amount of open space and flicking out the blade, slicing through the thick tape with an upward motion.

He kept moving because he knew he had exposed himself and heard the dull whip-crack sound of a suppressed shot as he sprinted away.

The round punched a hole in a nearby wall, but no others followed it because without the tape to hold the pile of waste in place the weight of brick and concrete shifted and slipped and became an avalanche of collapsing material that fell into the assassin as she rushed to follow him.

He heard the echoing rumble of the collapse and her cry of surprise and alarm, but didn’t look back – he wasn’t going to be fooled by her play-acting twice – and dashed through the rest of the basement level. The collapsing building waste would only injure her at best, and might have done nothing more than distract her. He wasn’t going to risk investigating either way. She was still armed and he was not.

A kick knocked fire doors open.

It wasn’t often Victor thought himself fortunate to be alive, but cold night air hadn’t felt so good in a long time.

He ran out into the street and kept running.