He did as he was instructed. It was a tight fit. The pipe was uncomfortably hot against the inside of his wrists, and he guessed it carried oil or water. He worked his hands further down so his jacket sleeve acted as a barrier. This wasn’t good. With his hands trapped like this, he was too vulnerable.
Even as the thought occurred to him, Pechov suddenly dipped one shoulder and delivered a short, brutal punch to Palmer’s mid-section with his free hand. Palmer felt as if he’d been hit by a runaway truck. He gasped and sagged against the wall, all the air driven from his lungs, his back rubbing painfully against the pipes and cables.
‘What you want here, huh?’ the Russian demanded. He prodded Palmer in the chest with the gun barrel. Hard. ‘What you do here?’ Without warning, he threw another vicious punch and more pain blossomed in Palmer’s belly. The man laughed. He obviously enjoyed inflicting pain.
As Palmer fought for breath, he saw Pechov reach up to touch his earpiece. He was going to call someone.
‘Wait.’ Palmer could barely get the word out. If he didn’t do something quickly, this moron was either going to summon help or beat him to death. Probably both. At the very least he was here to stop anyone intruding, and he clearly didn’t care how he went about it, or how permanent his actions might be. Right now, Palmer didn’t think his internal organs could take another punch.
Pechov leaned in close, breathing sweet air into Palmer’s face. He followed it with a vicious prod of the gun. ‘Yes?’
Palmer nodded and coughed, then cleared his throat and spat wetly to one side. He allowed an agonised groan to escape from his chest and shook his head as a dribble of saliva ran down his chin. The man pulled a face and stepped back. Too far, thought Palmer. He had to draw him back in.
‘I’ve got… got something for Fedorov,’ he croaked in between breaths. ‘You have to… to see it.’
At the mention of his boss’s name, Pechov leaned close. ‘What is?’
Palmer wriggled his left hand, and felt the briefcase strap uncoil and swing free. The buckle glinted as it moved.
Pechov saw it at once. ‘What?’ He reached down and grasped the strap, lifting up the free end and staring at it, turning over the buckle to better study it in the poor light. Then he smiled in recognition. ‘Of course. Pretty lady. Very pretty. But not any more.’ He sniggered obscenely, his tongue pink and worm-like between thick lips. He peered at Palmer from piggy eyes and dropped his end of the strap with a gesture of contempt. ‘Your friend, perhaps?’ he said softly, taunting, and made an obscene gesture with a stubby finger. ‘She good. Like lady upstairs.’
Palmer felt a cold rage begin to eat into him like acid. The pain, the discomfort, even the presence of the gun, all slid away into the background as his focus centred on the man before him. Anger, he had always been taught, was a weakness. Anger can make you lose control. Anger can make you reckless. It can even get you killed.
But what Palmer was feeling went far beyond the brief red mist of mindless violence in a pub fight on a Saturday night, or the impulsive desire to hit back at a thoughtless insult. This was more like running towards an enemy when all good sense told you to stay back.
‘It’s a bogoff,’ he grunted, and braced himself. Pechov was closer, but he had to get him to come in just a little more.
Pechov frowned, his mouth opening a fraction. ‘Not understand.’
‘A bogoff,’ Palmer repeated. It was no good, he was still out of range. He sagged weakly against the wall and dropped his head, coughing, the reaction not entirely feigned. He began to think something might be broken and wondered if he had sufficient strength left to do this.
Pechov muttered impatiently and moved a step closer, his gun hand dropping to one side.
Thank you, God, Palmer prayed, and gripped the pipe in his right hand, ignoring the heat. Pulling his left hand out from behind the pipe, he flicked the strap away into the gloom. Pechov’s eyes followed instinctively, drawn by the movement. It was all the opportunity Palmer was going to get.
Jamming his hand back behind the pipe for maximum purchase, he surged upright and swung his right leg out and up, using the full torque of his upper body to gain momentum. The pain was intense, but he drove through it, gritting his teeth.
He would not get another chance.
In the dim light of the tunnel, and with his head turned away, Pechov missed the movement. By the time he actually sensed something was happening, it was too late. Palmer’s leg, straight as a board, whipped round in a vicious crescent kick, bringing with it all the desperation, anger and hatred he could muster, all the desire for answers and the shock of finally knowing where Helen had spent her last few minutes.
And most importantly, who had been here with her.
The edge of his foot slammed into the side of the Russian’s head, mashing the brittle plastic of the headset deep into his ear cavity. The pain must have been immense, for Pechov squealed like a pig and fell sideways. Fragments of the earpiece went flying through the air, and his gun hit the bare concrete and skittered away. He planted a meaty hand on the ground, trying desperately to remain upright and scrabbling to retrieve the weapon at the same time. His other hand went to his ear and came away covered in blood.
‘Bogoff,’ explained Palmer with chilling calm, ‘means you buy one…’ He swung his foot again, this time high in the air, and brought it down as hard as he could in an axe kick, the sharp back edge of his heel aimed at a point a couple of inches below the man’s unprotected neck. ‘… you get one free.’
There was a sickening crunch as tissue and bone gave way, the vicious downward force on such a concentrated point too great even for Pechov’s bunched muscles.
The killer grunted and lay still.
43
Ray Szulu huddled down in a doorway across from Pantile House. This time he was positioned near the rear of the building, where he could get a better view of the entrance and the car park. He was wondering what to do next.
After running down the street in the wake of the van blowing up, he’d found himself in the rare position of actually slowing down and then returning to a scene of a wrongdoing. This was entirely new to Szulu from another perspective: he was actually feeling the instinct to not run away, but to stay and help Riley and Palmer.
He hugged himself in indecision, eyes darting backwards and forwards, waiting to see if he was being watched or if the police had arrived. So far he hadn’t seen any blue lights, but he could hear a siren getting closer and knew that if it was a fire appliance, a patrol car wouldn’t be far behind.
He ignored the burning van, still spewing its cargo of black smoke, and concentrated on the building. Palmer was in there somewhere. And Riley Gavin, if she was still alive. He knew a thing or two about people being lifted; he’d seen the way men like Ragga Pearl, a south London gang leader and general nutcase psychopath dealt with those who displeased them. Taking a hostage was usually only a preliminary to something far worse, and served as a terrifying warning to anyone else not to fall out of line.
Instinct told him these Russians were no different. If they’d taken Riley, it certainly wasn’t just so they could have a nice chat over a glass of vodka and send her home again.
Palmer scooped up Pechov’s gun and took a moment to regain his breath. His heart was pounding and the pain from his ribs was intense. There was no time to stop now, but emerging from the basement panting like a marathon runner would be sure to draw attention, and he needed all the edge he could get. Before moving on, he felt Pechov’s neck for a pulse. There was nothing.
He checked the weapon in his hand. It was compact and light, with a four-inch barrel, but no discernible markings. It was small calibre, probably. 22, he guessed from somewhere in Eastern Europe. A close-proximity weapon; a killer’s gun. He wondered if it was the one used to shoot the cat. If so, it nailed Pechov as the shooter. He remembered how Mr Grobowski had described him to Riley, as a buhaj — a bull.