She spoke with her British accent. She probably had been British, originally. Victor held up his bound wrists.
She smirked. ‘That won’t stop you.’
Victor reached behind his left shoulder and pulled the belt across his chest and fastened it. He did so as awkwardly as he could. When it clicked in place, the woman in the passenger seat turned away. She said something in Hebrew to the driver. None of the three Israelis in the car had on their belts to ensure speed of movement while he in turn was locked in place.
The Renault pulled away, following close to the Peugeot. Rehearsed moves. The driver kept the car a little above the speed limit, like anyone else who didn’t want a ticket and who had nothing to hide. They drove through the narrow streets of Sofia, staying directly behind the lead car at all times. The passenger periodically looked back to check on Victor. The Israeli on the back seat didn’t look away once.
Victor felt the adrenalin in his system speed up his heart rate. His pulse thundered in his ears. He looked up, staring through the window to his left. He saw the twinkling of lights in the night sky from an ascending plane and watched until those lights had disappeared into the darkness.
CHAPTER 63
The pain in Victor’s wrists continued to build. His wrists were locked together, skin to skin. The tingling sensation in his hands worsened. He could make fists with his hands but precious few other movements. Soon they would be too numb to move.
They took a right turn then two lefts, bringing the car out of the backstreets and on to a wide avenue. Traffic lights glowed up ahead. Red glimmered through the raindrops on the windshield.
The Renault slowed down and stopped. Victor could reach the door handle and be rolling on to the road before anyone could react, but a Kidon team was too professional to leave the child lock disengaged. He could try anyway — on the minute chance the lock was malfunctioning — but Victor didn’t want to make them even more alert by trying something destined to fail. Instead, he sat passive, defeated. His only chance was for them to underestimate him.
His knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat. He was a tall, the other fake tourist, and had the seat back to compensate for his long legs. There was little room for Victor to manoeuvre. He looked to his right, at the guy with the gun. The Israeli had a slim build and pale face beneath dark curly hair. He wore jeans and a nylon jacket. He was calm if not relaxed. The muzzle of the Beretta was slightly inclined, angled at Victor’s centre mass. The guy looked like he very much wanted to squeeze the trigger, but his orders would be to only shoot if absolutely necessary. A dead man couldn’t talk, after all.
The light changed and the Renault pulled away, one car length behind the Peugeot, maintaining formation, but without looking like it. They drove in silence. The radio was off. No one spoke. The woman in the passenger seat turned to look at Victor again, this time smiling to herself, and looked away. It was becoming difficult to move his fingers.
He couldn’t see his watch, but he was good keeping track of time without one. Nine minutes had passed since he’d been captured. The scene outside his window changed as they left central Sofia. He saw factories and warehouses, open-air car showrooms, apartment blocks, areas of wasteland. Wherever they were taking him, he sensed it was close. When he reached it his chances of escape would drastically reduce.
The Israeli in the nylon jacket on the back seat continued to stare. He blinked regularly, keeping his eyes moist, removing the need to involuntarily blink at the wrong moment. Even if Victor could somehow get close enough to avoid the gun, he couldn’t disarm the man while his hands were tied and the seat belt locked him in place. And that was before the woman in the passenger seat got involved. Similarly, Victor couldn’t attack the driver while under the watchful gaze of the guy on the back seat. Maybe when the car stopped at their destination he would have a window of opportunity. The problem with that was the second car full of Kidon assassins that would have stopped too.
He took a deep breath, running multiple scenarios through his head. They all ended the same way.
The Renault continued its relentless drive. They joined a highway. The weather worsened. Rain pelted the car. Streams of water ran down the windows. Windshield wipers swung rhythmically back and forth. The pain in Victor’s wrists intensified to a throbbing agony. The Israeli to his right continued to stare.
The woman in the passenger seat turned her head to look at him again.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘thank you for the photograph. It’ll make a great souvenir. I look really good in it.’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘And they say the camera never lies.’
She smirked.
The driver said a word in Hebrew and the woman quickly turned back. She stiffened in her seat and said something. The driver nodded in response. Victor saw headlights approaching fast on the opposite lane. He immediately saw why it had caused a reaction. A police cruiser, lights flashing, siren’s wail beating back the sound of the weather, responding to a call.
The woman said something else, probably intended to calm herself as well as the two men. Victor inhaled and rocked his head from side to side to crack his neck. Ready.
He watched the woman’s head turn to the right to follow the car as it sped past. It was habit, human nature. Everyone looked when a cop car rolled by. Especially when there was something to hide.
The Israeli on the back seat looked too. Human nature. His gaze left Victor. Just for a second.
A second too long.
Victor leaned forward, raised his hands, hooked them over the driver’s head, and tugged them sharply back. The hard edge of the plastic strap dug into the bridge of the Israeli’s nose. Victor’s wrists covered his eyes.
The driver cried out in pain, surprise, and panic as he lost his vision. The Renault swerved as he took one hand off the wheel and pulled at Victor’s wrist. But Victor had two arms against one, leverage and the will to survive. He sawed the plastic strap deeper into the driver’s nose. Blood ran down his face.
The guy in the back and the woman in the passenger seat both yelled at Victor to let the driver go as they fought against the force of the swerving car. Victor, knees pressing into the seat and his wrists locked around the driver’s face, kept himself steady. They weren’t wearing seat belts either. He was.
Victor pulled backward harder, the plastic strap cutting deeper into the driver’s nose. The man yelled in pain and fear as his head was forced against the headrest. The Israeli in the back tried to keep the Beretta trained on Victor, but he wasn’t firing. Killing Victor was the last resort. He didn’t want to have to explain to his masters why their investigation had permanently ended, and with the car swerving, it wouldn’t take much to throw a shot off far enough to hit the driver instead.
The passenger turned in her seat. She had her own gun out and pointed at Victor. She had a better angle on him, but the swerving car was having more of an effect on her. She couldn’t keep still or her aim steady.
‘ Let go of him,’ she shouted. ‘ RIGHT NOW.’
Victor’s gaze flicked between her and the guy in the back. He felt the car slowing. Nails drew blood from his skin but he didn’t let go. The driver screamed in Hebrew. Horns sounded from other cars on the highway. They were nearing an exit. If the driver took it, they could stop the car. Then it was over. The driver couldn’t see, but one of the other two could call out instructions.
Victor wrenched his hands downward, shearing skin from the driver’s nose, hooking the plastic strap under his chin, and pulled them against his neck. Victor’s wrists pressed into the flesh either side of the driver’s throat. He choked.
The car swerved again. Harder. The woman fell across the stick shift. The guy in the back tilted Victor’s way, completely off balance. The Israeli reached out with his left hand, pressing his palm into the centre back seat to halt his fall before he got too close to Victor. Too late.