had warmed up.
I had to assume they knew where I lived. And that meant the only thing I could do was face them up. I had to find out who the fuck they were and why they wanted me.
It looked as if Dostoevsky would have to wait. There was no way I could risk heading back to the flat or the range – or to any other known location – until I’d sorted this shit out.
And if the Range Rover’s number plate was anything to go by, there was plenty of shit to sort.
10
IN MOSCOW, REAL people’s cars have white plates with black letters. The Range Rover had red ones with white numbers. Diplomatic plates. That could have meant jack-shit. You could buy them on the black market: they let you travel in the government-designated fast lanes and beat the Moscow jams.
Lads with red plates were never stopped. About a month ago, the police had a clamp-down on their illegal use. They pulled over a genuine red-plated wagon: the diplomat’s BGs jumped out and overpowered them, spread the officers on the ground, weapons confiscated. How were they to know the police were genuine?
But even if they were black-market gear, I still had to worry. These things cost at least twenty-five thousand dollars – more if you threw in the blue flashing lights. Which meant that whoever was after me had money as well as Glocks – and that wasn’t good news.
Fuck it. Running away would only make me die short of breath. And then I’d never know what this was all about.
I started to retrace my steps. They’d be back along that street sooner or later. They’d hit all known locations: Gunslingers, maybe the flat. Then they’d cruise around for a while longer. But not indefinitely. Mitchell was going to need medical attention, unless Webb was going to let him bleed to death. So I needed them to find me before they made that drop.
I got back on the main, hood still up, but enough of my face sticking out to be able to spot the nearest mini-mart. These places were even more prolific than Starbucks. They sold everything the man who had nothing could possibly want: cigarettes, alcohol, sulphuric acid to keep your crumbling piping clear, paraffin to keep you warm and your windows frozen.
I dodged and wove my way through the traffic and went into Apricot Garden. There wasn’t a piece of fruit in sight; they all had names like that. Milky Way, Cowboy’s Stable, you name it.
The Russian version of X Factor blared from a TV mounted above the counter. An old woman who looked as though she’d been sitting by the checkout since before the Cold War puffed a cigarette and watched Simon Cowellski put the local hopefuls through their paces.
I scanned the aisles, then grabbed a hammer and some overpriced paraffin in the kind of plastic five-litre container we’d use for ready-mixed screen-wash.
I arrived at the counter as Simon gave his verdict and the singer burst into tears. A dozen or so brands of cigarette were on display, from Lucky Strike and Marlboro to Leningrad and CCCP in bold, no-nonsense Soviet-style packaging for those who still missed the old ways. I was interested in the lighters alongside them.
I grunted and pointed. She hoovered up my roubles without taking her eyes off the screen.
I headed back to the bins, put down my newly purchased gear and unclipped the wheel retainers on the last one in the line. I unscrewed the top of the paraffin container and pressed my thumb into the seal until it broke, then left it on the ground.
I retraced my steps to the corner and looked around uncertainly, as if I was waiting for a pickup. I checked once more behind me. They’d be able to get their wagon down the service road, no problem.
11
I DIDN’T HAVE long to wait. The Range Rover was moving a lot faster now. Webb was still at the wheel. He spotted me and his mouth moved in double-time behind the windscreen.
He hit the brakes just past the service road and the wheels spun in the slush. Mitchell was forced up and forward from where he was lying in the
I had to assume they knew where I lived. And that meant the only thing I could do was face them up. I had to find out who the fuck they were and why they wanted me.
It looked as if Dostoevsky would have to wait. There was no way I could risk heading back to the flat or the range – or to any other known location – until I’d sorted this shit out.
And if the Range Rover’s number plate was anything to go by, there was plenty of shit to sort.
10
IN MOSCOW, REAL people’s cars have white plates with black letters. The Range Rover had red ones with white numbers. Diplomatic plates. That could have meant jack-shit. You could buy them on the black market: they let you travel in the government-designated fast lanes and beat the Moscow jams.
Lads with red plates were never stopped. About a month ago, the police had a clamp-down on their illegal use. They pulled over a genuine red-plated wagon: the diplomat’s BGs jumped out and overpowered them, spread the officers on the ground, weapons confiscated. How were they to know the police were genuine?
But even if they were black-market gear, I still had to worry. These things cost at least twenty-five thousand dollars – more if you threw in the blue flashing lights. Which meant that whoever was after me had money as well as Glocks – and that wasn’t good news.
Fuck it. Running away would only make me die short of breath. And then I’d never know what this was all about.
I started to retrace my steps. They’d be back along that street sooner or later. They’d hit all known locations: Gunslingers, maybe the flat. Then they’d cruise around for a while longer. But not indefinitely. Mitchell was going to need medical attention, unless Webb was going to let him bleed to death. So I needed them to find me before they made that drop.
I got back on the main, hood still up, but enough of my face sticking out to be able to spot the nearest mini-mart. These places were even more prolific than Starbucks. They sold everything the man who had nothing could possibly want: cigarettes, alcohol, sulphuric acid to keep your crumbling piping clear, paraffin to keep you warm and your windows frozen.
I dodged and wove my way through the traffic and went into Apricot Garden. There wasn’t a piece of fruit in sight; they all had names like that. Milky Way, Cowboy’s Stable, you name it.
The Russian version of X Factor blared from a TV mounted above the counter. An old woman who looked as though she’d been sitting by the checkout since before the Cold War puffed a cigarette and watched Simon Cowellski put the local hopefuls through their paces.
I scanned the aisles, then grabbed a hammer and some overpriced paraffin in the kind of plastic five-litre container we’d use for ready-mixed screen-wash.
I arrived at the counter as Simon gave his verdict and the singer burst into tears. A dozen or so brands of cigarette were on display, from Lucky Strike and Marlboro to Leningrad and CCCP in bold, no-nonsense Soviet-style packaging for those who still missed the old ways. I was interested in the lighters alongside them.
I grunted and pointed. She hoovered up my roubles without taking her eyes off the screen.
I headed back to the bins, put down my newly purchased gear and unclipped the wheel retainers on the last one in the line. I unscrewed the top of the paraffin container and pressed my thumb into the seal until it broke, then left it on the ground.
I retraced my steps to the corner and looked around uncertainly, as if I was waiting for a pickup. I checked once more behind me. They’d be able to get their wagon down the service road, no problem.
11
I DIDN’T HAVE long to wait. The Range Rover was moving a lot faster now. Webb was still at the wheel. He spotted me and his mouth moved in double-time behind the windscreen.
He hit the brakes just past the service road and the wheels spun in the slush. Mitchell was forced up and forward from where he was lying in the
Similar Books
