The Midnight Palace - Carlos Ruiz Zafon [5]
Hiding behind a column of empty crates in the depths of the warehouse, Peake watched the silhouettes of the three men as they entered the building. Although he couldn’t see him from where he stood, he was certain that their master was waiting on the other side of the wall; he could sense his presence. Peake pulled out his revolver and rotated the cylinder until one of the two bullets was aligned with the barrel, muffling the sound under his tunic. He was no longer running away from death, but he was determined not to travel this road alone.
The adrenalin coursing through his veins had eased the pain in his knee until it was just a dull, distant throb. Surprised at how calm he felt, Peake smiled again and remained motionless in his hiding place. He watched the slow advance of the three men through the passage until his executioners came to a halt about ten metres away. One of the men lifted a hand to stop the others and pointed at some stains on the ground. Peake raised his weapon to his chest, cocked the hammer, and took aim.
At a new signal, the three men separated. Two of them went sideways while the third made straight for the pile of crates, and Peake. The lieutenant counted to five, then suddenly pushed the column of boxes forward. The crates crashed down on top of his attacker while Peake ran towards the opening through which they had entered the warehouse.
One of the killers surprised him at a junction in the corridor, wielding his knife close to the lieutenant’s face. But before the thug could even blink, the barrel of Peake’s revolver was thrust under his chin.
‘Drop the knife,’ spat the lieutenant.
Seeing the ice in the lieutenant’s eyes, the man did as he was told. Peake grabbed him by his hair and, without removing his weapon, turned to the assassin’s allies, shielding his body with that of his hostage. The other two thugs moved menacingly towards Peake.
‘Lieutenant, spare us the drama and hand over what we’re looking for,’ a familiar voice murmured behind him. ‘These are honest men. With families.’
Peake turned to see the hooded man leering at him in the dark, just a few metres from where he stood.
‘I’m going to blow this man’s head off, Jawahal,’ Peake snarled.
His hostage closed his eyes, trembling.
The hooded man crossed his arms patiently and gave out a small sigh of annoyance.
‘Do so if it pleases you, Lieutenant. But that won’t get you out of here.’
‘I’m serious,’ Peake replied.
‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ said Jawahal in a conciliatory tone. ‘Shoot if you have the courage required to kill a man in cold blood and without His Majesty’s permission. Otherwise, drop the weapon, and that way we’ll be able to reach an agreement that is satisfactory to both parties.’
The two armed henchmen were standing nearby, ready to jump on Peake at the first signal from the hooded man.
‘Very well,’ Peake said at last. ‘What do you think of this agreement?’
He pushed his hostage onto the floor and, raising his revolver, turned towards the hooded man. The first shot echoed through the warehouse. Jawahal’s gloved hand emerged from the cloud of gunpowder, his palm outstretched. Peake thought he could see the crushed bullet shining in the dark, then melting slowly into a thread of liquid metal that slid through Jawahal’s fingers like a fistful of sand.
‘Bad shot, Lieutenant. Try again, only this time come closer.’
Without giving him time to move, the hooded man leaned forward and grasped the hand with which Peake was holding his weapon. He then pulled the end of the gun towards his own face until it rested between his eyes.
‘Didn’t they teach you to do it like this at the academy?’ he whispered.
‘There was a time when we were friends,’ said Peake.
Jawahal smiled with contempt.
‘That time, Lieutenant, has passed.’
‘May God forgive me,’ muttered Peake, pulling the trigger again.
In an instant that seemed endless, Peake watched as the bullet pierced Jawahal’s skull, tearing the hood off his head. For a few seconds light passed through the wound but gradually the smoking hole closed