A gun fired first, a snapshot before Victor had fully revealed himself, the bullet blowing a chunk from the brickwork.
Victor lurched to the side, squeezing off a shot of his own, knowing it had missed without needing to look. He hurried along the wall, away from the alley, walking backwards, gun up, but doubting the assassin would continue forward. He or she would backtrack and find another way around the buildings. The others could already be doing the same as the one in the alley. If Victor let them flank him, it was over.
He put two rounds into the very corner of the alley mouth to make sure his attacker did double back. Then he sprinted for the fence, running awkwardly, unable to pump with his arms, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. Reaching the fence, Victor tossed the gun over while he was still running, leapt, grabbed hold of the metal links halfway up, pushing with his feet. He climbed the last few feet, one hand clutching on to the links while the fingers of the other hand stretched to take hold a few links up. He repeated the process rapidly, urgently, scrambling all the time with his feet.
Razor wire topped the fence but he had no choice. Holding on to the top links, he swung his right elbow up and hooked it over the wire. Edges of metal sliced through his clothes and skin. Victor ignored the pain, pushed up with his legs, got his left elbow over too and hauled the rest of his body up and over the fence.
He let go and dropped down to the other side. The razor wire shredded the sleeves of his jacket and shirt and the skin beneath. His feet hit the ground and he immediately went into a roll to disperse the impact. The earth was rocky and wet from the rain.
His fingers were slick with rainwater and blood. He couldn’t feel them. He located the gun, scooped it up into both hands, turned and rose to one knee. On the other side of the fence, the row of workshops stood seventy yards away. Moonlight sparkled off thousands of falling raindrops. Victor saw no one.
He heard a faint muffled shot and saw the sparks as the bullet clipped a fence post, but couldn’t see the shooter. There was too much cover, too many shadows. The assassin could be anywhere, approaching in the darkness to take a shot at closer range, while the others did the same. He heard another shot, but from a different origin, and heard the bullet strike the ground nearby.
Victor jumped to his feet and ran, hoping that the two shooters were the sum total of his pursuers, but knowing a third was probably circling around some other way to intercept him, leaving the remaining assassin to check the Renault for survivors, manage evidence, call for backup. Maybe Victor had been lucky and scored a hit with his shots at the Peugeot, leaving one of his enemies injured. Maybe, but Victor didn’t believe in luck.
There was enough light to see the ground but not the many shallow ruts and rocks that littered it. He stumbled and staggered, unable to use his arms for balance, knowing any Israelis following him would cover the distance faster than he could.
He saw a factory up ahead. No lights. As he neared, he could make out gaping holes in its sloped corrugated roof. Abandoned. Derelict. No chance of finding a car to steal, but more chance of locating something sharp to cut the plasticuffs.
He sprinted on. The rain soaked his clothes, hair and skin. The wasteland crested and then sloped down before it gave way to a flat area of asphalt set around the factory itself. Grass grew through cracks in the ground. The factory was several hundred feet long and thirty high to the start of a sloping roof that rose and peaked after another twenty. The walls were made of brick, set all the way along with huge rectangular windows comprised of dozens of smaller panes, many broken.
Victor ran up to the factory and rushed along the edge of the building, crouching low, looking for a way inside. Outside, the Israeli’s numerical superiority would win without question. Inside, he might be able to avoid them, or hide long enough to force a withdrawal. If he could get his hands free. The windows were no good as an entry point. He would have to smash more to create a big enough gap, and with bound wrists, wouldn’t be able to pull himself up to get through them. All the time, the Kidon assassins were closing.
He found a set of double doors. He checked the padlock. Stainless steel and sturdy. Even if he fired all four of his precious remaining bullets he wouldn’t get through it. He moved on.
He dared to glance back, but couldn’t see his pursuers. They wouldn’t be able to see him either, but they would have heard him kicking the door. After a few more seconds, he found another door, this time a single. It had been reinforced with a padlock too, but some enterprising person had smashed in the lower half of the door. Victor silently thanked delinquents everywhere and got on his hands and knees. He crawled through the gap. Splinters of wood snagged his jacket.
It was cold inside. It might have been cold outside but he hadn’t noticed. He was in a huge expanse of almost empty space that had once served as the main factory floor. Rain fell through gaping holes in a sloping corrugated roof supported by huge metal pillars. Large puddles spread across the floor beneath and bounced back the moonlight.
Some grass and plant life grew where light and rain regularly reached. Metal pipes, pieces of wood and sheets of plastic were scattered around. Visibility was good for an interior at night, but some areas in deep shadow were utterly black.
Victor hurried away from the door. He heard glass smash and knew one of the huge windows was being used as an entry point. Another assassin would be following directly behind Victor, and in seconds, crawl under the door. He could wait to ambush his pursuer, but that would keep Victor occupied long enough for the second or third Israeli to kill him from behind. No time to find something to saw through the straps. There were several exits leading deeper into the factory. Victor lurched through the closest.
He strained to see in the darkness; the further he went the less light there was. He didn’t know where the corridor led, but he had to keep moving. Water dripped on him from somewhere above. He passed an interior door, tried it, found it locked, and carried on. He turned a corner, pressed his back against the wall for a moment, breathing heavily.
Victor forced himself to carry on. The light increased as the corridor opened up into a courtyard, overlooked on all sides by tall factory walls. There was only one way out, on the far side of the courtyard. A metal door streaked with rust. It was padlocked. Impenetrable. The walls were too tall and sheer to climb. No way out.
He turned around, rushed back down the corridor. He found the interior door again, kicked it open. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of a moving form before he dashed through the doorway.
On the other side, moonlight shining through the decaying roof illuminated the large space. He made out the shapes of machinery, crates, tools, shelving, a conveyor belt, barrels. There were huge empty metal shelves along one wall, an abandoned forklift set before them. Victor backed off into the darkness.
He needed to find a way out. The Israelis would know that, and one of their number would be sprinting around the exterior of the factory to cover the far side from which Victor had entered. Were all three to follow him inside, and he managed to get back outside, he would be home free. They wouldn’t make that mistake.
He stayed away from the dim beams of light filtering through the roof, to protect his night vision as well as to stay hidden. On the end of each row of shelves was a circular mirror to aid driving the forklift. Most were smashed.
Large crates were stacked in several rows and piles. Victor squatted down behind them, breathing hard, and used a jacket sleeve to wipe some sweat and rain from his face. He felt along the floor, hoping to find something sharp to cut the plasticuffs, but there was nothing.