The people from the embassy would probably take care of the abandoned vehicles. Their priority was to get away from here now that the equipment and pizza boys were safely on their way. Their only problem was that they had a little bonus me.
It looked like the Wasp and another woman were taking on that responsibility. The vehicles were now leaving, but they were still on their feet, the woman with a set of jumper cables dragging along the floor as she moved out of the way of the holiday makers. They were leaving nothing to chance.
Red brake lights lined up as they took it in turn to exit and hang left. Snow was still falling. I could see it clearly now as full beams shone out into the darkness.
Soon there was just one car left stationary, its engine running and its lights blazing. The Wasp was sitting sideways in the driver's seat with his feet on the concrete, the glow of a cigarette intensifying as he sucked on it. The interior light was on and I could make out thick curly hair on a very large head.
The jumper cables were thrown into the rear seat and the woman disappeared into the darkness.
At last I'd finished the other half of the can. The blood from my fingers felt cold as it was soaked up by my touch gloves. It was a good sign. Feeling had returned to my hands.
It was quiet for a few moments, with just the engine ticking over, and then chains started rattling, and the shutter closed. The woman emerged from the shadows once again and bent toward the glowing cigarette. I couldn't make out any of her features because her hair covered her face.
They talked for a moment, then he turned back into the car to stub his cigarette in the ashtray. He was clearly too professional even to leave DNA evidence on the floor. By then she was round the back, pulling open the trunk.
The Wasp started walking in my direction, his long legs silhouetted by the vehicle's headlamps. There was a flicker of bright white light, then the florescent unit in his left hand burst into life. I could see that he'd just finished pulling his ski mask back on. I watched his right hand go under his coat and come out again holding a multi barreled P7, which went into his coat pocket.
My body banged into shock. He was coming to kill me. I made myself calm down. Of course he wasn't coming to kill me. Why would they have gone to the trouble of bringing me here? And why the hood to hide his identity? He was taking precautions in case I'd pulled my hood off.
The car edged forward with the trunk open as he got within about thirty feet of the door, the light still swaying in his left hand. It was time to get in gear, otherwise I'd soon be given a dose of the medicine I'd forced Val to take last week.
I got to my feet and moved to the right of the door, away from the toilets, stressing at the prospect of taking on a guy of his size. All that stuff about the bigger they are, the harder they fall, it's a myth. The bigger they are, the harder they hit you back.
I wasn't sure how long the hallway was, but I soon found out. I'd only taken four steps when I banged into the end wall. Turning back, I faced the door, fumbling in my pocket for the other half-can, breathing deeply to oxygenate myself in preparation.
The door swung open with a metallic screech of its hinges, momentarily flooding the area with bright white light. I could hear the car whining in reverse. He had turned right, his massive back to me now as he took the first few steps toward my toilet stall.
I moved quickly as the door closed; not exactly running, because I didn't want to trip, but taking long, fast steps to get some speed and momentum, with my right arm raised. With the main door closed and car engine running, there was no way she was going to hear this.
He did, though, and when I was still a couple of feet away he started to turn.
I focused on the shape of his head as I leaped up and at him. Landing with my left foot forward, I swung my whole body to the left, my right arm crooked and the palm held open. Sometimes a really firm, heavy slap to the face can be more effective than a punch, and that's absolutely guaranteed if you're wielding a sawed off soda can with razor-sharp edges.
It hit his head hard. I didn't care where the can connected, just so long as it did. There was a loud groan. I didn't feel the can digging in, just the pressure of my arm being stopped mid swing as the rest of my body carried on swiveling.
The light danced as the florescent unit in his hand clattered to the concrete, and he started to follow it. I swung to the right with my left arm slightly bent, still focusing on his head. I hit the mark; I could feel the softness of his cheek under the left half of the can, then felt it scrape around the contour of his jaw as he fell. He moaned again, this time louder and with more anguish. By now he was on his knees.
As I brought my right hand down hard onto the top of his head, the metal edges dug deep, then hit bone, stripping back the skin as he fell. I gouged a thick furrow from his scalp; the can held for a couple more inches and then broke free.
He slumped to the ground, hands scrabbling to protect his head. For a few more frenzied seconds I continued to slash at his hands and head, then his hands fell away and he lay very still. He wasn't feigning unconsciousness: he wouldn't have risked dropping his hands and exposing himself to further attack. He had gone into shock, but he was still breathing; He wasn't dead. He was never going to get a job modeling for Gillette, but he'd live. There had been no other way out. If you're going to stop somebody, you have to do it as quickly and violently as you can.
The florescent unit threw a pool of light across the floor and onto his ski mask. The wool still looked remarkably intact, as it does when a sweater rips and the tear seems to knit itself together, unless you look at it close up. Blood was seeping through the material.
Dropping the cans, I rolled him over onto his back and, putting my knee into his face just to make things worse, I pulled out the P7 and a cell phone that was also in there. That went into my pocket.
My breathing was now very fast and shallow and just slightly louder than the engine ticking over immediately beyond the swing door. I could see the red glow from the tail lights under the door gap, and my nose was filling with exhaust fumes.
Getting to my feet, I got hold of the top of his ski mask and pulled it off. At last I saw the extent of the damage. He had some severe gouges where the can had gone right through his cheeks and flaps of skin hung across his mouth. In places I could see bone through the blood-soaked, hairy mess of his skull.
I pulled the mask over my head, trying to cut down on the chances of being recognized later. It was wet and warm. I checked his body for a radio as he whined weakly to himself. There was nothing; he'd have been planning to be sterile like the rest of them. He'd had to hang onto the P7 to sort me out.
I turned toward the door. It was the woman's turn next.
Pushing through, I moved into a cloud of red fumes and brake lights.
The vehicle was no more than three feet away, engine idling, trunk still open and waiting for me. I moved straight to the left hand side as the passenger door banged shut behind me. Bringing the pistol up into the aim, I pointed it at the woman's face, the muzzle a foot from the glass. If she opened the door, she couldn't knock the pistol out of line quickly enough to do anything about it; if she tried to drive forward, she would die first round.
She stared wide-eyed at the barrel from under her multicolored ski hat.
In the glow from the instrument panel I could see her trying to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. It wouldn't take her long; my blood-soaked touch gloves and the Wasp's mask would soon give her a clue.
With my left hand I motioned for her to get out. I was supposed to be Russian; I wasn't going to open my mouth unless I had to.
She kept staring, transfixed. She was bluffing; she'd drop me at the first opportunity.
Moving further back as the door inched open, I decided to put on a heavy Slavic accent. Well, what I thought sounded like one. 'Gun, gun!'
She stared up at me with frightened eyes and said in a little-girl voice, 'Please don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me.'
Then she opened her legs to show me a P7 nestled between her jeaned thighs. They were definitely traveling sterile, otherwise they would have had conventional weapons for this phase.
I motioned for her to drop it in the foot well She moved her hand very slowly downward to comply.
The moment she'd dropped it I moved in, grabbing her by her shoulder-length, dark-brown hair and heaving her out of the car and onto all fours. With the P7 jammed into her neck I felt for a cell phone. It seemed I had the only one. Moving back three paces, I pointed at the far wall, where the car had originally been parked, and she got up and started walking. I didn't care what she did now that she was disarmed. All their radios would have been
