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  The next gunman was stumbling and trying to turn. Their eyes met and he swung his own Beretta up but Akulov’s Glock found him first. Two rounds obliterated his skull. Akulov continued to advance, catching the two remaining gunmen whilst they tried to react. The third fired. A snatched shot, at point-blank range but the handgun was out of position. Akulov felt the disturbance in the air as the suppressed round passed within millimetres of his right ear. He dispatched the gunman with another devastating double tap. The large corpse sprawled backwards against the last gunman, tipping him onto the large hotel bed. The final gunman sprawled on the bed, his large stomach exposed. He gripped his Beretta with a rigid hand, but his left hand was raised in the universal sign for “don’t shoot me”.

  ‘Never mistake a Werewolf for a dog,’ Akulov said, and shot him once, in the forehead.

  The whole room was filled with the familiar stench of gunpowder and his ears rang with a tinnitus silence. Akulov popped his head around the door and glanced up and down the hall. He couldn’t see any cameras and the ten other doors were closed, but behind them he imagined numerous phones, making numerous 911 calls. He glanced around at the dead men. Had these been the only men Angel could get at short notice or was this the general standard of the cartel soldiers?

  He sighed. He’d used six rounds to shoot four men. The drawback of the sub-compact Glock 33 was its standard nine-round magazine. He had three rounds left. He needed more ammo. He took each man’s handgun, awkwardly stuffing them into the various pockets of his jeans.

  He stepped over to the fire alarm on the wall opposite, smashed the glass and set it off. Darting back into his room he put the handguns into his bag, grabbed it with his left hand and took the stairs down. In the stairwell he was instantly jostled by those from the floors above and below. He joined a surge of disorientated hotel guests in varied states of dress in the foyer and, keeping his head down, let himself be carried out onto the pavement.

  His eyes darted left and right and he looked for further threats. A team of four would have come in a van or a couple of cars, and their transport and wheelmen would be waiting for them.

  To his left, a figure stood under a broken streetlight, his face illuminated by his cell phone as he gesticulated wildly. And directly across the street there was another man, a tall thin guy in a suit. He was leaning against a dark-coloured, domestic sedan with his arms folded. Akulov had a feeling that he was a cop.

  One of the watchers he could safely take out, without further consequences, but the other would be more problematic. Akulov turned left and headed for the guy on the phone, who was now facing the other way and talking hurriedly in Spanish.

  Akulov increased his pace. He was still shielded by other guests moving in all directions. He got to within five paces of the guy on the phone and saw the nose of a minivan poking out from the corner behind him. The guy turned as Akulov raised his Glock and dug it hard into his gut.

  ‘Don’t think about it.’

  The phone dropped out of his hand, hit the sidewalk and fell apart. ‘No … no comprendo.’

  Akulov stamped on the phone, crushing it into the sidewalk, to make sure the guy couldn’t be called back or tracked, and switched to Spanish, ‘Just get in the van nice and slowly.’

  ‘OK … OK.’

  Akulov pushed him again with the Glock and the guy took the two steps to the van. He blipped the locks and the lights flashed. Akulov cursed silently. ‘No, get in. Don’t do anything stupid or I’ll shoot. Got that?’

  ‘Sí.’

  The guy opened the door and climbed in. By the time he was sitting Akulov was already through the door on the other side. ‘Let’s go.’

  Pedestrians hurried past the front of the van and then one swung around the side. ‘Don’t move!’

  The regulation Glock 22 pointed squarely at Akulov’s face through the open window, and the badge in his left hand removed any doubt that the thin man, in the suit, was a police officer.

  ‘Drop the key in the footwell,’ he ordered the driver.

  As the driver complied, Akulov assessed his options. He wasn’t going to shoot a police officer, the man was just doing his job, but he also wasn’t going to allow himself to be taken in.

  The thin man backed away from the van. ‘Open the door. And you, driver, you stay where you are!’

  Akulov did as he was ordered but left the Glock in the shadow of his bag.

  ‘Now get out and raise your arms above your head.’

  Again Akulov complied. In the dim light Akulov locked eyes with the police officer. It was the eyes that always gave away emotion, intention and movement.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’

  ‘Good God, you’ve got that Boston accent down like a native,’ the thin man said, with a languorous Texan drawl. His left eye twitched as a strand of his long hair fell forward. ‘The Kremlin must be very proud of you.’

  The police officer knew who he was, which meant he worked for the cartel, which meant he was fair game. A mistake on the thin man’s behalf but an error that decided Akulov’s course of action. He let a smile crease his own face and jerked his right hand down a fraction. The thin man’s eyes darted to the movement and at the same time Akulov took a step and shot his right foot up into the police officer’s groin. The thin man doubled up, his shoulder-length hair falling over his face like the head of a mop. Akulov twisted and slammed a blunt right elbow into the side of his head. The thin man dropped. This was the second man he’d rendered unconscious in an alley in as many days.

  Akulov frisked him, grabbed his wallet and phone, then darted back to the van where, wide-eyed, the driver was feeling frantically in the dark footwell for the keys. Akulov retook his seat, picked up his Glock and pointed it again at the driver.

  ‘Give me the key.’

  ‘Please, don’t shoot me.’

  ‘Give me the key.’

  ‘Here.’ The driver handed it over.

  ‘Put him in the back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do it.’

  Akulov kept the pistol on the smaller, younger man, as he dragged the detective to the doors and manhandled him inside. By the way the policeman’s head and arms flopped it was clear that he was still unconscious, especially when his head fell against the floor. The driver shut the door.

  ‘Get back in.’ Akulov waited until the driver had retaken his seat behind the wheel before he sat again and gave the keys back.

  ‘Drive.’

  ‘W … which way?’ asked the driver.

  ‘Left.’

  The driver straightened up, turned his retrieved keys in the ignition and the minivan lurched away from the side of the hotel and onto the road, heading out of the city. Vehicles with sirens flashed past them on the other side of the road. Akulov saw a mall up ahead, its large parking lot empty at this time of night. ‘Take us in there, drive to the far end and then kill the engine.’

  ‘W … why?’

  ‘I don’t want to waste gas.’

  The driver said nothing more as they entered the parking lot and then came to a halt in the shadows, facing the exterior wall of the neighbouring retail building. The cabin fell silent save for the ticking of the engine as it cooled and the ragged breaths of the driver.

  Akulov now looked at his face. Latino, late twenties, not some young kid but not high up the chain either. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Pedro.’

  ‘Listen up, Pedro. I need you to get in the back and tie up the cop. I presume you’ve got stuff back there that you can use?’

  ‘Yeah, I got a bag of cable ties and duct tape.’

  ‘What a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Go. Tie him up.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Make sure he can breathe – you would not want to be a cop killer.’

  When he’d finished, Akulov ordered him back into the driver’s seat. ‘Pedro, I know who sent you, but I need to know where they are.’

  ‘
I don’t know nothing, man.’

  ‘You drove a team of four cartel soldiers with silenced pistols to my hotel to kill or capture me.’ He dug the Glock into Pedro’s side. ‘And this Glock killed them, and now I’ve captured you.’

  ‘Pl … please don’t shoot me, man!’

  ‘Do you know who this Glock belonged to?’

  ‘N … no?’

  ‘Don Caesar, and I killed him too.’

  ‘I … I don’t know anything. I’m just the driver.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Sí, it’s true. I’m not lying to you, man.’

  ‘So there’s nothing you can help me with? Nothing you can tell me?’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I swear on my mother’s life!’

  ‘That is OK. I had to ask,’ Akulov said, his voice sounding reasonable. ‘So in that case, if you cannot tell me anything and if you know nothing, you are no use to me.’ Akulov moved the Glock higher, placing it against Pedro’s temple.

  ‘No … please … don’t!’

  ‘But you told me you don’t know anything?’

  ‘I do! I do!’

  ‘You were lying to me, Pedro?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Last chance. Where is the man who sent you?’

  ‘He’s at River Oaks.’

  ‘Don Angel is at River Oaks?’

  ‘No, man, I mean yes, but the Giant sent me not Don Angel.’

  ‘The Giant,’ Akulov said to himself; so he hadn’t killed him. Which was probably an error. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘What plan, man?’

  Akulov knew that severe stress made people forget and stumble over words and in some cases could diminish cognition enough so that simple questions and commands had to be repeated to be understood. ‘What was your plan after the sicarios got to me?’

  ‘The plan was to bring you back, you know – dead or alive – to the Giant’s house, where you’d be kept until Don Angel could get there.’

  ‘Where is Don Angel?’

  ‘He’s at home, but he says he’s not leaving till he knows we’ve got you. The Russian advised him.’

  Akulov felt his pulse quicken only now. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Vetrov told him not to move.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘And the men I killed – who were they? Don Angel’s security detail?’

  ‘Detail?’

  ‘Bodyguard team.’

  ‘No, they kinda float around the street.’

  ‘So the street has less security?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pedro closed his eyes as if realising his mistake. ‘Oh, man, Don Angel is gonna kill me.’

  ‘Doubtful.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He may not get the chance.’

  ‘C’mon, man. I told you everything!’

  ‘Did you?’ Akulov dug again with the Glock.

  ‘He’s got four men in the house with him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Don Angel. There’s him, the four guys and Vetrov.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yeah, but they’re good. Came from Mexico with him. He calls them his “presidential guard”.’

  ‘What about the Giant? How many men does he have?’

  ‘You kidding me? None – he don’t need any. He’s a one-man gang.’

  Akulov processed what he’d learnt. The cartel had used valuable resources to attempt to snatch him, but not men who mattered.

  ‘So, the plan was that you would just drive the van up onto the Giant’s property, and ring the bell?’

  ‘No I was gonna call him first.’

  ‘With the phone you dropped?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Who were you on the phone to?’

  ‘My girl.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s mad at me for not being with her tonight.’

  ‘You called your girl at three in the morning?’

  ‘She works nights.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Delores.’

  ‘Have you got a photo?’

  ‘On my phone. And in my billfold. It’s in the glove box.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Akulov retracted the Glock, let Pedro lean forward. The light came on in the glove box. Akulov saw a billfold, but he also saw an Uzi.

  ‘Don’t even think about it!’

  ‘Hey, man, I didn’t know that was there!’

  ‘You are the world’s worst liar – you know that?’

  ‘Sorry. Please … please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Hand me the Uzi, slowly, keep your finger away from the trigger.’

  Pedro handed him the Israeli machine pistol. Akulov placed it on the seat to his right. If he collected any more guns, he could start a store, or a war. ‘Now show me your billfold.’

  Pedro held up the cracked leather pouch. ‘Hey, man, you what, gonna rob me too?’

  ‘Just show me her photo.’

  Pedro pulled out a passport booth photo of a blonde woman with a large smile on her face. It momentarily reminded Akulov of someone he used to know, someone he saw die a year before. He snapped out of it. ‘Nice.’

  ‘What, you thought coz I’m a Mexican I had to date a Mexican mamacita? That’s racist, man.’

  ‘Do you live together?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Give me your driving licence.’

  ‘Here.’

  Keeping one eye on Pedro, Akulov quickly scanned the address. ‘OK, have it back.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Ecstatic. Do you want to see Delores again?’

  Pedro nodded.

  ‘Then don’t mess me about.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Who was the cop?’

  ‘His name’s Vinyl; he works vice.’

  ‘And he’s on the cartel payroll?’

  ‘I dunno, man.’

  ‘I’m getting bored.’ Akulov pressed the Glock harder against Pedro’s skull. ‘Is he on the payroll?’

  ‘Hey, man! That hurts!’

  ‘Not as much as a bullet. Answer my question.’

  ‘Yeah. He runs interference. He made sure the cops never had your face.’

  Akulov furrowed his brow. ‘My face?’

  ‘When you shot Don Caesar, the cops never got no tapes of that.’

  ‘Who’s his contact at the cartel?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Who does he call?’

  ‘It was Caesar, now it’s Bravo and Angel.’

  ‘So he was watching tonight. He would have called them both?’

  ‘I can’t be sure, man.’ Pedro swallowed. ‘I’ve told you all I know. You gonna let me go now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I need a lift. Take me to River Oaks, take me to Del Monte Drive.’

  ‘But the Giant will kill me!’

  ‘Not if he’s dead.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just start this thing up again and take me to the Giant.’

  Engine running again, the minivan swung back onto the arterial road and Pedro drove them, in silence, towards River Oaks. They passed still-sleeping streets, shops and parks, until they entered the wider, private drives and roads of the exclusive residential area. Seeing the place on Google Earth and scouting it in reality were two different things and Akulov had to rely on Pedro’s sense of self-preservation to get them to the right place. The van turned the last corner and Akulov knew that Bravo’s house was two ahead on the right.

  ‘OK, stop here.’

  ‘But the house, it’s just—’

  ‘Listen to me, Pedro, if you want to live to see Delores again.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I am going to get in the back, with my bag and my guns. You are going to drive onto Mr Giant’s property and ring on his bell. Tell him I killed the team but you shot me when I tried to escape. Tell him I’m alive and you put me in the back of the van and lastly tell him yo
u lost your phone.’

  ‘He won’t believe any of that,’ Pedro protested.

  ‘He will if you give him this.’ Akulov took Bravo’s heavy Colt Python out of his bag and pushed it into the driver’s chest. ‘You took this from me.’

  ‘You stole his gun? You da man, man.’

  ‘I try.’ Akulov nodded. ‘We need to go. Remember what you have to say. I’ll be pointing the Uzi at your back and remember your girl.’

  Pedro swallowed hard. When he tried to speak his voice was barely a whisper. ‘OK.’

  ‘Drive.’

  Akulov clambered over the seat and into the back of the minivan. He checked Vinyl. The guy was still out cold, which was and wasn’t surprising at the same time. He removed the detective’s jacket, in an attempt to make him look less like a cop, and arranged him so that he lay face down on the floor, with his back to the door. Akulov then readied himself, to the right of the door, out of direct view of anyone opening it. In the dim light thrown by the passing street lamps, he exchanged his Glock for one of the silenced Berettas and took one of the autoinjectors from the bag. He knew he would definitely have to shoot the Giant with one of the two.

  He felt the minivan slow and then turn as it crawled onto the drive heading up the side of Bravo’s house. Akulov knew that from here even in daylight they would be hidden from prying eyes by the tall, full trees.

  Pedro stopped the minivan and stayed in his seat. Almost instantaneously, as though they had been expected, a door opened and an angry male voice addressed him. Akulov took a deep breath to oxygenate his muscles and to make him relax. Beretta ready he flipped off the protective cap of the autoinjector. Footsteps approached.

  ‘You didn’t call!’ the voice said in Spanish.

  Akulov listened to Pedro give his story. If he deviated or attempted to warn the Giant, Akulov would simply shoot blind through the thin steel of the van. The Giant listened to the explanation in silence and then Akulov heard him approach. His whole body tense, Akulov crouched, ready to strike. There was a long pause before the sliding door started to open, slowly, cautiously. Light fell on the unconscious body lying face down on the floor.

  ‘You got him! You got the Russian puta!’ the giant growled as he put his gun away.

  Akulov had forgotten just how huge the Giant was. Bravo ducked down and leant into the space, his arms reaching forward to grab the immobile form lying in front of him. Then he froze, half in and half out of the van, like a bear caught red-handed stealing a picnic from a group of tourists. His mouth moved, but no words escaped his lips. Using his left hand, Akulov pushed the Beretta hard into the side of the gigantic head and a fraction of a second later stabbed him in the right bicep with the autoinjector. At point-blank range there was nothing at all Bravo could do. If Akulov squeezed the trigger, a 9mm round would kill him instantly.