Dead Centre - Andy McNab [23]
‘Where are you going? We’ll take you. It’s fucking freezing out there.’
‘Nah, it’s all right – I need the exercise.’
I turned through a set of fancy iron gates. The Range Rover’s engine revved behind me, but instead of driving away it turned into the park. The wagon swept past and pulled up about three metres ahead of me. Even the number plate spelt drama. The back door swung open. Mitchell, in a big black Puffa, beckoned me inside. But he wasn’t smiling. ‘Come on, my friend. It’s a lot warmer in here.’
The driver’s window was still powered down, and I could see that Webb wasn’t smiling either.
I was about to turn back towards the main when Mitchell stepped out, weapon up. He’d obviously decided not to follow my advice. ‘In – the – fucking – vehicle – now.’
9
I SWUNG BACK towards him, hands now out of my pockets and up by my chest. Head down, I focused on the weapon. I could smell the exhaust fumes billowing from the cold engine. I got to within a couple of paces of the open door. I could smell the rich leather interior as I leant closer, and feel the warmth of the heater.
I punched out with my left hand and grabbed the top of Mitchell’s Glock. I pushed down, gripping it so I was outside his arc of fire, and jabbed at his face with my right. Short, sharp jabs, three or four in quick succession. Not caring where they hit, just that they did.
As his head jerked back, I took my chance. I found the trigger of the weapon and pushed down and round until the barrel pointed towards him.
The Glock jumped in my hand as a shot kicked out and the guy went down. I let go, turned and legged it as fast as I could, back through the gates. I screamed across the road, slipping on ice the other side and going down hard. I got up, legs flailing, and turned immediately right, out of their line of sight and fire. I kept running, not looking back – not that I could have with my hood up – and took another right.
I found myself in a service road. Steam spewed from heating vents set into the back wall of an industrial unit and engulfed a line of huge industrial wheelie-bins. I dodged between two of them, three-quarters of the way down, and fought to recover my breath.
Webb would have had to wait until Mitchell was back in the wagon before coming after me. Even if he didn’t give a shit about him, he couldn’t just leave the boy bleeding into the Victory Avenue snow. The police would soon be asking why.
I leant against the wall, heart pounding. Now that I was still, the cold began to eat its way into my feet. But at least they were dry; that was all that mattered right now.
I kept looking left and right to cover both exits of the service road. It wasn’t long before Webb drove past the end I’d come in from. There wasn’t much exhaust vapour now his engine 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