similarly sized sedan. The driver of that car had been wearing his seat belt and Victor saw him rubbing the back of his neck.
Around Victor large warehouses and factories lined the four-lane highway. Other vehicles had stopped as far as he could see, behind him and ahead. A van had crashed through a chain-link fence. A few people were getting out of their cars. All eyes were on Victor.
Someone from a nearby Ford opened his door and headed Victor’s way. Victor ignored him and everyone else, spotted the blue Peugeot stopping fifty yards further back along the road. The Renault must have overtaken it in the chaos of the struggle.
Victor dropped to one knee, used his left hand to support the right as best as he could, lined up the Beretta’s iron sights over the glass of the windshield.
Cracks spread through the windshield as Victor fired at the Peugeot. He couldn’t see if he’d hit any of the Kidon, but he continued to shoot regardless. The Samaritan near to Victor fell over backwards in shock and fear. He scrambled away.
Four Israelis from the Peugeot — the big guy, two other men and the short woman with boyish hair — rushed out from the car and adopted firing positions of their own, but Victor was already running. He wasn’t going to win a four-on-one gunfight with Mossad assassins even if his hands weren’t bound together.
He sprinted in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER 64
Victor ran, cuffed wrists hovering before his chest, Beretta in both hands. He veered off the highway, across the parking space in front of a row of workshops, down an alleyway between buildings. It was narrow, dark, long, not much more than five feet wide from wall to wall, sheltered from the rain. He dodged around boxes and rubbish, eyes scanning for anything that could cut the strap between his wrists. He could barely see. He tripped on something metal, stumbled, grazing his arm against the rough brick as he kept himself upright.
The alleyway opened out to a wide expanse of asphalt, behind it a stretch of wasteland. He saw moonlight shining off a chain-link fence between the two. He was at the back of the row of workshops, all closed for the night. The only way to go was over the fence and across the wasteland beyond, but he wouldn’t make it over the fence if the Israelis from the Peugeot followed him.
He turned and positioned himself so his left shoulder was against the wall to the left of the alley’s opening. Six seconds passed before he heard the sound of a pursuer entering the alley. Victor gave it two seconds, enough time for someone to get far enough down the alley to trap themselves.
With his hands bound, he couldn’t just hold his gun arm around the corner and squeeze, so he twisted to the left as he stepped out to the right, realising his mistake as the moonlight cast his shadow on to the far wall of the alley ahead of him.
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
