Mission Critical
“Stay low!”
Court began running across the street, shielded by the white van. In just seconds he was at the driver’s-side window on the right, and he could see two men in the front of the vehicle. The front passenger fired through his window, directly into Terry Cassidy, who went down in a hail of bullets and smoke, but Belyakov’s security men poured from the two vehicles, guns up and out, and they began returning fire.
Court had concealment from the van but little cover; Belyakov’s men’s pistols could tear through the vehicle’s skin with ease and hit him while returning fire at the van.
But Court did not fire on them. Belyakov was on the sidewalk, and if there was a chance the oligarch hadn’t yet been shot, Court sure as hell wasn’t going to shoot him and lose his one link to Zoya.
Instead Court knew he had to end this gun battle as fast as possible. He put the muzzle of the Glock against the driver’s-side window, the driver spun towards the movement, and Court shot him dead between the eyes. A second round went into the back of the neck of the front-seat passenger, and then Court moved around the front of the van, his trigger finger pressing and pressing and the silenced pistol snapping and snapping in his hand. He poured rounds through the windshield at the two men with AKs seated in the back and firing up onto the sidewalk out the side door. He moved backwards in the street as he fired, desperately trying to back away from the ripe target the van made for Belyakov’s bodyguards, and hoping against hope that Belyakov’s men who were still alive would realize he was helping them engage these targets.
He fired a total of fourteen rounds in the middle of the street into the van before he stopped to check for any remaining threats. Seeing no movement through the spiderwebbed and broken windshield, he pulled a fresh magazine from his waistband, dropped the partially depleted mag onto the street, and hammered the new one up and into place.
The van smoked and hissed, but no more gunfire came from it.
Court spun his reloaded weapon towards the sidewalk now. He couldn’t see past the two shot-up Range Rovers, so he moved between them, pistol high, and through his ringing ears he heard screaming, shouting, crying, all from terrified civilians nearby. And he heard sirens approaching from multiple directions.
He came out from between the SUVs and saw Belyakov clearly alive and Cassidy clearly dead. The Russian was on his hands and knees, looking around in a state of shock, and the British solicitor was sprawled on his back in a growing pool of blood, eyes wide and vacant.
Around the sidewalk side of the Rovers, he saw four of the six of Belyakov’s detail on the ground, and the other two slumped dead behind the wheels of the Rovers. Two men on the sidewalk looked like they’d died shielding their protectee, their bodies close together in front of where he now knelt, and the other two were sprawled out on the sidewalk behind the two Rovers, one alive, one dead.
The one guard still living looked to Court like he might have some fight left in him. He lay on his side and bled heavily from his stomach, but he still struggled to move closer to the Russian oligarch.
A rifle fell onto the street outside the van on Court’s left, and then a wounded attacker stumbled out; he fell to the street, as well, then pushed himself up to his hands and knees and reached for the AK. Just as he wrapped his hand on the sling to drag it closer to him, Court spun to him, calmly lined his pistol up on the front of the man’s head, and fired a single round into his brainpan.
The man dropped flat on top of the weapon. Court shot him once more to be sure.
The sounds of sirens grew louder.
Court rushed over to Belyakov, who by now had rolled into a sitting position. He didn’t seem to be hurt, but the surviving bodyguard next to him had been gut-shot, and Court could see intestines between his fingers as the wounded man tried to hold them in. Though horrifically injured, the man saw Court and started to lift his pistol up, but Court just reached down and pulled it away from him. He knelt over the wounded man. “I’m taking your protectee, but I’m not with these killers, and you have bigger problems than losing your job right now.”
The man spoke with a weak voice. “Med kit. Back of both Rovers.”
Court pulled Belyakov to his feet, yanked him out into the street, and threw him into the Mercedes as soon as Fitzroy pulled up. He then opened the rear of the lead Range Rover, pulled out a red backpack with a white cross on it, and threw it to the man on the sidewalk. Court doubted he’d be able to do much for himself, but at least he’d die with some purpose.
Court climbed in after Belyakov and Fitzroy began driving off.
After just a few seconds Court leaned up between the front seats. “Fitz! We aren’t going to church! Step on it!”
The older man accelerated, but not much. Court just rolled his eyes and returned his attention to the dazed Russian next to him.
* * *
• • •
Sir Donald Fitzroy followed Court’s directions back to his safe house in West Kensington, dropped him off, and then, following his former contract employee’s wishes, drove off through the rainy afternoon and tried to forget everything that had just happened. He’d get rid of the Mercedes, he’d stay inside his flat for the next week or more, and he’d have his daughter-in-law and grandkids come and keep him company.
This had definitely been a first for the old man. He’d been in hundreds of operations in his lifetime, but being the wheel man during a shootout on a street in Mayfair was a new experience, and one he had no desire to repeat in any fashion.
* * *
• • •
Court manhandled Belyakov down the stairs to the basement flat, held him there while he unlocked the door, then pushed him into the house and down onto a kitchen chair. He ripped the cord of a floor fan out of the wall, cut it off where it went into the fan body, and used this to lash the Russian’s hands behind him and through the slats of the chairback. The sixty-five-year-old was still in a state of disbelief, looking around him in confusion even now, twenty-five minutes after the shooting stopped.
Court drew a large kitchen knife out of a drawer, then held it as he dragged the chair with a terrified and compliant Russian billionaire in it across the kitchen area and into the small living room. He positioned him in front of the sofa and Court sat down in front of the man, wincing with pain as he did so.
He had suffered no injuries in the shootout, but the effects of yesterday’s one-sided fistfight would remain with him for quite some time.
Holding the knife down between his own knees, he leaned close to the heavy Russian. “Okay, boss, I need you to pay attention here, so I can lay down the ground rules. You with me?”
“Da . . . yes. Who are you?”
“First rule. I ask the questions.”
A slight nod from Belyakov, and then he looked towards the front door.