The Take(112)

“Tell the pilot to fire up the engines,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Just then he felt something strike his leg. Something sharp and fleeting. A wasp sting on his thigh. Inexplicably, he fell to the ground. His vision blurred. His head spun. It all happened so fast.

Only then did Vassily Borodin hear the gunshot.



Slowing as he neared the gated entry to the aerodrome, Simon made out the unmistakable snap-crackle-and-pop of fireworks. Not fireworks. Gunshots. The crack of high-caliber rifles and the frenetic patter of automatic weapons. A man ran toward him, hands waving.

“Turn around,” the gate attendant blurted, pausing for the shortest of moments at Simon’s window. “It’s a war. Get out now.”

With the engine idling, Simon could hear more clearly. The pops and bangs were coming fast and furious.

Simon accelerated and crashed through the pole barrier. He rounded the main building and immediately spotted a Brink’s truck at the far side of the field. Coluzzi. Not far from the truck, a private jet was parked, taxi lights flashing, front door open, stairs extended. Enter Vassily Borodin. Dusk was falling. Against the violet hues of fading day, the muzzle flash of machine-gun fire popped like fireflies.

He braked hard and skidded to a halt.

It was a pitched battle. He counted two men down on the tarmac near the jet. Another two fired automatic weapons from the protection of the jet’s landing gear. Return fire came from a helicopter parked a distance to the right and several small propeller planes.

Who were they? Friends of Coluzzi? Or was it Neill?

A man broke from the cover of the jet—one of Borodin’s?—unleashing a spray of gunfire while shouting exhortations to an unseen comrade. One of the men lying on the tarmac rose to his feet and limped toward the plane. A second man broke from the landing gear and ran to help, shooting from the hip, throwing the limping man’s arm over his shoulder.

Amid this, the Brink’s truck had begun to move, slowly at first but now gathering speed, executing a violent U-turn and barreling down the runway.

Heading directly at Simon.



He was getting away.

Alexei Ren had abandoned the safety of his helicopter to be with his men. He took cover behind the struts of a large Pilatus turboprop and watched as Borodin struggled to his feet. “Get him,” he shouted. Three of his men were dead and the other two pinned down by fire. He wasn’t sure what the tally was on the other side, but they’d lost a few of their own, too, and he was damned happy about it.

Several bullets struck the engine cowling above him, pinging madly. The shooting had been going on for an eternity, though it was probably no more than a minute. Already he was growing accustomed to the gunfire. It was easy to forget how loud and frightening an automatic weapon could be.

On the landing strip, one of Borodin’s men dashed to his side. The two made an easy target, but suddenly the gunfire had stopped. The air was still. Ren craned his neck but could no longer see his men. Were they dead? All of them?

A tall thin man appeared in the doorway of the jet, then ran down the stairs and hurried to Borodin.

Ren looked on, seized by a spasm of injustice. No, he protested impotently. He can’t get away. He can’t.

He remembered the time he’d spent in Siberia, the countless humiliations, the endless discomfort, the constant beatings, the unimaginable filth, the cold, oh yes, the cold. And, of course, the loss of his money, stolen by the government. Stolen by Borodin. The loss of precious years of his life. Stolen by Borodin.

His eye fell to his forearm and the daggers tattooed there. He’d killed three men in prison. And now? Who was he? A businessman? A yachtsman? A husband? The words sickened him. He’d allowed time and money and the easy life to soften him. To shelter him from his true self.

Enough.

Ren raised his submachine gun to his shoulder and charged. “Borodin!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, running toward the jet.

One of Borodin’s men lifted his rifle and fired.

Ren thrust out his arm and fired back, one-handed.

The man threw up his arms and fell.

“Borodin!” Ren shouted again, still running. He could see the weasel now, his face turned toward him, whiter than white, a death mask.

Here I am, he said to himself. You put me through hell and now I’m returning the favor.

Ren raised the weapon, the barrel pointing at the man he despised more than any other. Twenty meters separated them. He squeezed the trigger joyously, wildly happy. He had him!

A blow struck his chest. His breath left him, and he stopped at once, wondering who had shot him. Borodin was fleeing, climbing the stairs to the plane. His men were closing ranks behind him. Who?

Ren collapsed onto the tarmac. He could not move. His hands refused his commands, as did his feet. He wanted to blink but he could not even manage that. He felt the life running out of him as water spirals down a drain, circling ever faster. He saw Borodin’s pale face leering at him. Not for a moment did he regret his actions. He only wished that he’d fired more quickly. He’d wanted very badly to stand over his foe and spit in his face.

Ren stared into the sky. The light was fading so quickly. Impossible. The sun had only just gone down. He saw no stars. Only darkness as death wrapped him in its cold grip and carried him away.



He’ll never do it.

Simon gunned the Dino down the center of the landing strip, the painted white stripes disappearing beneath the hood as one long blur. He had the accelerator to the floor. He kept extra weight upon it, in case it might go a little bit further. The needle on the speedometer edged close to its limit. The Dino, though it looked like a million bucks, wasn’t built to run at high speed. Everything in the car rattled and jumped as if the screws were loose. He had the absurd and fleeting thought that the owner needed to bring it into his shop for a once-over.