Fifty-Six
“
Enough
,” the man barked.
Tom and Savelle looked toward the voice.
But Savelle’s driver kept his eyes on Tom and the muzzle of his Glock pressed against Tom’s temple.
Tom watched as Kadyrov emerged from the farthest and darkest corner.
Still limping, and flanked by four bodyguards.
Men identical in almost every way to the man to Tom’s right.
“We’re wasting time,” Kadyrov said. “He will not cooperate. Kill him now and be done with it before Cahill gets here.”
“That’s not the plan,” Savelle protested.
“It is now,” Kadyrov said.
“I can fix this. Let me fix this.”
Tom could see that Savelle was unraveling.
“You’ve had your shot, Alexa,” Kadyrov said. “But right now I need you to follow my orders.”
“Just let me fix this.”
Kadyrov came to a stop a good twenty feet from Tom, his bodyguards behind him like a wake.
“No. Kill this man with his own weapon. Now. I will see that the others are taken care of later.”
Savelle hesitated, but only briefly.
Retrieving one of the mags from her pocket, she slapped it into the Colt’s grip and racked the slide, chambering a round.
She looked at Tom but didn’t raise the pistol.
Kadyrov asked if there was a problem.
Tom glanced at the driver’s hand grasping his right wrist.
Savelle began to raise the pistol and Tom was about to make his move when a noise came from above.
It was the echoing clang of elevator doors opening.
Savelle stopped.
Everyone froze.
Kadyrov said, “I thought you had men posted upstairs.”
“I do. I replaced Raveis’s men with two of ours. They were supposed to call when Cahill arrived.”
Savelle looked fast at the emergency phone mounted by the fire exit.
Tom fixed his peripheral vision on the man beside him, waiting for the first indication that his attention was wavering.
Then there was more clanging as the elevator doors closed.
This was followed by the rapid whir of an electric motor as the elevator began to descend.
Savelle’s driver spoke to her in broken English.
“I kill him?”
“It’s too late,” Kadyrov snapped.
Shots fired now would alert Cahill to the trap awaiting him.
Kadyrov ordered Savelle and her driver to get out of the way.
The driver did as commanded, releasing Tom’s wrist and backing up, his Glock still aimed at Tom’s head.
Savelle, though, hesitated.
Her eyes flashed with defiance.
And determination.
Releasing the mag from the Colt, she gripped the weapon by the barrel with her left hand and handed it grip-first to Tom.
There was one round in the chamber.
Tom noted that the safety was set.
“Kill Cahill,” Savelle said, “and Stella won’t burn. You’ll die quickly, and when her time comes, she’ll die quickly, too. I promise, Tom. Okay? Just do this. Forget everything else. The best either of you can hope for now is not to suffer. So just do it, okay? One shot, right in the head. Don’t do it, and the men standing by outside Stella’s hotel act. Do you understand? I make just one phone call and Stella burns. Tonight.”
Savelle took two steps back and stopped.
Cahill would initially see what he expected to see when the doors opened.
Tom and Savelle, waiting for him in Raveis’s secured area.
Savelle’s driver, to the right of the elevator and just out of the sight of its occupant, stood ready to execute Tom, his Glock now in a two-handed grip.
In anticipation, Kadyrov’s bodyguards broke from their formation. Two of them took position in front of him, the other two stood close beside him.
The two in front had their hands on their holstered weapons, ready to draw.
The two beside stood ready to grab Kadyrov and shield him as they rushed him away.
Tom faced the elevator, the 1911 in his grip.
His hand was hanging at his side, the safety still engaged.
“Just kill him, Tom,” Savelle urged. “For Stella’s sake. Kill him and this will all be over.”
There was panic in Savelle’s voice.
A woman on the verge of losing everything for which she had worked.
Everything for which she had already killed and would continue to kill, if necessary.
The whirring of the electric motor ceased as the elevator reached the bottom of the shaft.
Less than a second later, the doors began to part.
Tom still didn’t raise his weapon.
As the doors opened fully, he stood facing the last thing he was expecting.
An empty elevator car.
Savelle, facing it, too, froze in confusion.
Tom’s eyes went to the disk-shaped, convex security mirror mounted high in the right-hand corner of the ceiling.
He saw movement in that mirror.
The reflection of the fire exit behind Tom opening.
And a figure stepping through it.
Fast, efficient, silent.
Despite the distorting aspects of the mirror, and the distance between it and the fire exit, Tom recognized the figure right away.
It was Cahill.
And he was armed.
The sound of the swinging door was the only indication of his sudden presence.
It was enough, though, to catch the attention of Savelle’s driver.
And Tom finally saw the break in concentration for which he’d been waiting.
The moment when he would make his move.
The only move left for him to make.
Tom clicked the thumb safety off and instantly dropped into a deep crouch, raising the 1911 as he did.
At such close range, there was no need to pause to take careful aim.
He simply extended his arm till his weapon was in line with the hulking driver’s head, then eased the trigger back and fired his one shot.
Fifty-Seven
The retort of the plus-P round—of the bullet leaving the muzzle of the 1911 at close to two thousand feet per second—was as loud as a thunderclap in the enclosed garage.
The compression wave emanating from the weapon in Tom’s hand blew his jacket open like a sudden gust of hot wind.
Before his body even hit the pavement, Savelle’s driver was dead from a round that struck the bridge of his nose and penetrated his skull.
But Tom knew this was only the start of the work ahead.
He dropped flat onto his back, Kadyrov’s men sighted squarely between his feet as he reached down for the magazine hidden in his right boot.
The two men taking point had already drawn their weapons, while the other two had grabbed Kadyrov and were ushering him back toward the shadowed corner from which he had emerged.
Where, no doubt, some unseen means of escape waited.
The first of Kadyrov’s bodyguards was taking aim at Tom—a relatively small target, now that he was lying on his back.
The second was zeroing in on Cahill, who was approaching both men steadily, a compact pistol held in both hands.
Tom had little time, was pulling the mag from his boot when the first bodyguard found his target.
But Tom still had to bring the mag to his weapon, insert it, and release the locked-back slide before he could even think about taking aim.
There was, he knew, no way he could accomplish all that in time, felt his heart pounding and adrenaline spilling down his limbs and was looking down the barrel of the man’s weapon when a shot was fired, quickly followed by another.
The bodyguard suddenly dropped.
Tom quickly surmised that Cahill had chosen the man who had drawn a bead on Tom as his first target, taking him out with a double tap.
Tom didn’t flinch, knew that the second bodyguard would have a line on Cahill by now, so he scrambled to complete the loading of the Colt, then took aim at the second bodyguard and fired. He felt the heavy recoil of the .45 and waited for the full second it took for the muzzle to lower into place again before firing once more.
Both shots struck the man in the chest.
He, too, fell fast.
Cahill instantly turned his attention past Tom, his pistol aimed in the direction of the elevator.
Tom understood that Cahill was targeting Savelle.
Still on his back, Tom rolled onto his left side and aimed toward the elevator as well but was too late.
The doors were closing automatically.
And Savelle had already moved through them and taken cover by the control panel.
Before Tom knew it, Cahill was crouched at his side, putting himself between Tom and the dark corner into which Kadyrov and his two remaining bodyguards had disappeared.
Facing in that direction, his compact 1911 raised and ready, he asked Tom if he was okay.
Tom replied that he was.
“Good,” Cahill said. “Now get up and follow me.”
Scrambling to his feet, Tom did a quick search of the spot where Savelle had been standing before the firefight had begun.
He saw what he was hoping to see.
She had dropped the mag she’d been holding to the pavement.
Tom hurried to it and grabbed it, checking the bottom and seeing the Colt logo stamped into its metal floor plate.
This was the original mag, the seven-rounder, which meant the 1911 was currently loaded with one of the two eight-round McCormicks.
A single shot had been fired from the Colt mag, so it now contained six.
Two had been fired from the McCormick, leaving only six in that one as well.
Twelve rounds total, then.
Tom slipped the spare mag into his back pocket as he followed Cahill to the fire exit.
Moving in a two-man-team formation, they cleared the stairwell as they made their way to the next floor.
Tom assumed there was another fire exit in the dark corner below, and that Kadyrov and his men had made their way to it and were ascending as well.
The heavy chain at the top of the ramp would prevent any vehicle from either entering or exiting that lower level.
But all Tom cared about was Savelle in the elevator, rising closer to where her cell would get a signal.
Allowing her to make the call she had threatened to make.
Reaching the doorway—double doors, identical to the ones below—Cahill paused on one side, Tom on the other.
After a brief pause, Cahill leaned forward and quickly peered through the small window inset in the doors.
He announced, “Clear,” and leaned back, grabbing the door handle and pulling his door open.
Tom was the first through, crouching low. Cahill was right behind him and upright. Each man scanned the area ahead of him, weapons raised and ready.
They moved in that way through the garage, heading for the other fire exit, checking corners, keeping their formation tight, pausing only to quickly clear potential ambush points.
They had to reach the concrete columns at the center of the structure and round them before either could even see the other fire exit.
It was as they were making their way around the massive columns that Tom recognized the hornet’s nest they had walked into.
No sign of Kadyrov or his two bodyguards.
But there were three other men.
Two armed with handguns, one with a semiautomatic rifle, standing shoulder to shoulder.
While Tom and Cahill were surprised by the sudden appearance of the men, Tom got the sense that they were just as surprised to see him and Cahill.
And by their lack of formation—running abreast instead of moving in a tight single file—Tom knew they were untrained street thugs.
The panic in their faces told him that they were in over their heads.
There was no time for Tom to retreat or take cover, so he dropped down to one knee and took aim at the center man.
At the same instant, Cahill swung around Tom, away from the column and out into the open, drawing the attention of the man armed with the rifle, firing as he moved.
An application of overwhelming force.
Cahill’s two fast head shots took the rifleman down.
Tom knew not to bother with body shots—thugs or not, there was the chance that these men were wearing protective vests—so he raised the 1911 till the front sight all but obscured the center man’s face.
His first shot was dead on, his follow-up merely a safeguard.
That man went down as well.
Cahill continued moving in his wide arc, the one remaining man mistaking him for the greater threat and firing wildly at him.
This allowed Tom time to shift his aim a few inches to the left and fire another controlled pair, killing that man on the spot.
Four shots fired, two remaining.
One in the chamber, one in the mag.
Tom released the near-empty mag and replaced it with the original Colt mag.
Counting the round in the chamber, he now had seven rounds ready and a single round left in the McCormick mag, which he had shoved into his back pocket.
Without ear protection, Tom’s ears were ringing badly, but he could still make out Cahill’s commands.
“Take right!”
Splitting up now, keeping a good twenty feet between them, Tom and Cahill moved forward once more.
Tom took the right, Cahill the left.
The distance between them would prevent another head-on collision with any other men they might encounter and would also set them up for a possible pincer movement once they caught up with Kadyrov.
Finally rounding the center column, they spotted the fire exit.
Reaching it, Tom held back slightly as Cahill approached the doors, quick-checked the window, then pulled one door open.
Tom entered the stairwell, Cahill right behind him.
Tom covered the stairs leading down, Cahill the stairs leading up.
Each man as much listening as looking.
It was just a few quick seconds after that that they heard the sound of a door closing above.
Taking off, they moved up the stairs as fast as caution would allow, then reached the doors to the next floor, pausing again on both sides.
As before, Cahill took a breath, then leaned forward and checked the window.
He peered through, then pulled his head back reflexively, doing so just as Tom heard gunshots.
He had barely gotten his head out of the way before the window’s glass shattered.
Cahill crouched and took cover against the cement wall, and Tom saw blood on his face.
But before Tom could say anything, Cahill wiped away the blood with the back of his hand and shook his head, as if to say, “It’s nothing. I’m okay.”
Rising, Cahill shoved his compact .45 through the broken window and fired one shot after another, laying down suppressing fire. Tom pulled the other door open and, crouching low, moved through.
This parking area was full, and Tom found cover by the nose of the nearest vehicle.
Scanning over the hood and through the vehicle’s windows, he saw no shooter, only other cars.
Each one offered some degree of cover.
Tom knew what Cahill would do next, so he waited, ready.
Pulling the door open, Cahill appeared in it for a second, then darted out of sight again.
Shots were fired, rounds hitting the closing door.
Rising, Tom spotted the shooter.
One of Kadyrov’s two bodyguards, covering Kadyrov’s retreat, firing from behind a sedan parked directly across from the exit.
Extending his 1911, Tom fired twice.
The first shot only grazed the man’s head, but the second went through his eye.
Cahill cleared the door and was on his way to join Tom by the nose of the nearest vehicle when something seemed to catch his eye, causing him to deviate from his path and take off running.
Tom followed Cahill’s line of vision and saw a sedan backing out of a parking spot.
In it were Kadyrov and his last remaining bodyguard.
As he ran, Cahill did a mag switch, dropping the empty one to the pavement.
His compact now fully loaded, he ran at an all-out sprint, closing in on the sedan as its driver paused to shift from reverse to drive.
Tom took off, too, was maybe twenty feet behind Cahill, who was still fifty feet from the sedan.
The front wheels squealed as the driver hit the gas. The sedan lurched forward, gunning for the ramp that led up to the exit.
Cahill stopped running, assumed a shooter’s stance, and began to unload on the sedan’s rear window.
The bullet-resistant glass cracked but did not shatter.
The sedan continued forward, and Cahill continued to fire.
One round, another, and another.
Each bullet landing in a tight group in the center of the window.
The glass, though now opaque, remained intact.
Cahill was still firing when Tom reached his side.
The sedan was closing on the ramp, which exited to the city street.
Taking careful aim at the impact point left by Cahill’s shots, Tom fired.
He hit dead center, but the glass remained.
Five rounds left.
He fired again, hit his mark. Nothing. He fired a third time.
This time the distressed glass finally shattered, its shards dropping like rain and leaving a clear view of the heads of both the driver and occupant.
Tom knew which target to take and which target to leave for Cahill.
He knew, too, that he was down to three rounds.
He fired at the driver, missed him, but struck the windshield, shattering it.
His second shot found its target.
Much of the man’s head was gone.
And the slide of Tom’s 1911 locked open on the empty mag.
Cahill got a shot off as well—the shorter barrel of the compact .45 required more care when aiming at a distant target—but he did so just as the speeding vehicle veered.
As it crashed into a cement wall, the sedan came to an instant stop.
Cahill ran, Tom following, dropping the empty mag from the Colt and grabbing the one from his back pocket.
The only mag he had left—containing a single cartridge.
He released the slide, chambering that last round.
Cahill reached the sedan and moved along its right side, stopping at the rear passenger door, his weapon aimed at the window.
He pulled open the door with his left hand, then just stood there, the firearm in his right aimed at the occupant inside the vehicle.
As Tom reached Cahill’s side, he got a look at Kadyrov.
The man’s left ear had been torn off by Cahill’s shot.
The Slav was covered in his own blood.
Visibly stunned by the sight of it, as well as the force of the crash, Kadyrov looked at Cahill.
Looked, but said nothing.
Cahill kept his weapon aimed at Kadyrov’s head, his index finger on the trigger, his face blank.
“There are other caches,” Tom said. “He knows where they are.”
This obviously didn’t matter to Cahill.
He simply shook his head, continuing to stare at Kadyrov.
Tom understood the significance of this.
Of Cahill standing outside a vehicle in which Kadyrov sat.
Helpless, trapped.
Just a few nights ago, Erica DiSalvo had been seated in Cahill’s Jeep while Kadyrov stood outside the vehicle.
It was clear what Cahill was thinking right now.
The only thing on his mind.
Tom knew it would have been the only thing on his, too.
Cahill lowered his aim from Kadyrov’s head and fired into his chest.
The wound was not immediately fatal, as was sometimes the case with chest wounds. Nor was it intended to be so.
Cahill watched as Kadyrov bore the initial agony of flesh and bone being torn and shattered.
Then, still conscious, the Slav began to gasp as his punctured lung struggled to inflate.
A lung quickly filling with blood.
Each autonomic function causing more and more tissue to tear against the jagged edges of a mushroomed hollow-point bullet.
Cahill allowed this struggle to go on for a time. Five seconds, then ten, never taking his eyes off Kadyrov’s face.
Finally, though, he raised his pistol once more and aimed it at Kadyrov’s temple.