Chapter Twenty

      Ben had often wondered if you could improvise a silencer out of an empty plastic bottle. He’d never quite got around to experimenting, until now. The litre Pepsi bottle had been left in a waste bin, and he’d used some Sellotape he’d found to fix it to the muzzle of the Steyr. From the doorway of the workshop, he aimed down at the floor and let off a short flurry of muffled shots, sweeping left to right. The two men dropped their weapons and crumpled to the floor, shouting out in agony, clutching their feet.

      Ben ripped the burst remains of the Pepsi bottle from his Steyr as he walked over to them. ‘That’s not bad, is it?’ he said, kicking away their fallen guns. The guy on the right let out a stream of obscenities in Russian. Ben silenced him with a kick to the throat and he went straight down on his back. He clubbed the other over the head with the Steyr, and suddenly the room was quiet again.

      Crouching beside them, he checked them for hidden weapons and then relieved them of their radios. He stood up and swung open the door of the nearest kiln. It was all blackened inside, with metal grille shelves like those in a domestic oven, only much larger. He pulled out the shelves, tossing them aside with a clatter. There was plenty of space for both men in there, as long as they weren’t expecting comfort. He dragged each one inside in turn, kicked their legs out of the way of the door, then clanged it shut and rolled the heavy deadlock into place.

      There was a big red power-on knob and a thermostat control on the bottom panel of the kiln. Of course, he was far too nice a guy to turn it up full blast and roast these bastards like turkeys inside.

      Their lucky day.

      Unless things went badly and they’d harmed more of those people down there. Then, he’d be back and things would be warming up.

      Ben stepped over to the doorway, peered left and right and listened hard for a few seconds, then pressed on, running lightly and silently through the corridor. No sign of the cops yet. Of course. But maybe, just maybe, as long as he could maintain the element of surprise and keep taking down the gunmen two at a time, he could stop this thing.

      That plan fell apart within twenty seconds when Ben rounded a corner and almost ran into another pair of masked thugs. One was a giant mastiff of a man. He was clutching an AR-15 military rifle at hip level, two thirty-round magazines taped back to back the way it used to look cool in mercenary movies. The other was lean and tough as rawhide, with a short black shotgun in his hands.

      For an instant they all stared at one another. The big guy’s eyes were locked on Ben’s, and in that suspended instant of frozen time Ben noticed that his pupils were different colours, the right one dark brown and the left one hazel. It was a minor anomaly that most people would have missed, but Ben was so practised in taking in the physical details of any situation he found himself in that he spotted it right away.

      But he didn’t have time to linger over it, because in the next half second the big guy’s teeth bared in a snarl and his fists tightened around his AR-15. The rifle muzzle lit up with strobing white flame and the deafening roar of automatic gunfire wiped out all thought. By then, Ben was already in mid-air, diving to avoid the high-velocity blast that ripped a snaking trail of devastation just one inch behind him.

      One thing Anatoly Shikov valued was his privacy. He could have just flung the crying girl down on the floor of the art gallery and done her there – but not with Spartak Gourko and the others watching. That would just be barbaric. He dragged his struggling trophy out of the gallery, through the glass walkway and out into the old part of the house, looking for somewhere suitable. Across the hallway, a door lay open and the room beyond looked perfect for what he had in mind. Tightening his grip on the girl’s arm, he hauled her inside.

      The room was a library or reading room. The walls were lined with high shelves of old books, the furniture was plush and the carpet was soft. There was an elegant marble fireplace, and in the corner was a velvet chaise longue. Anatoly dumped the girl on it. She brushed the tangle of blond curls away from her face and gaped up at him as he stood over her and pulled off his mask. Gourko’s knife dangled loosely in his other hand.

      ‘My name’s Anatoly,’ he said in his best Italian. ‘What’s yours?’