CHAPTER 40. THURSDAY OCTOBER 8, 03:00.
Caramarin rolled away back towards the Stairs. Didn't want to fire again until he had a better target. He fetched up against the low white wall. Took a big risk and vaulted over it back onto the Stairs. A longer burst chased him over.
Laying flat, face pressed tight against the larger stone landing separating the flights of steps. Breathing heavily. Caramarin knew that, due to the optical illusion of the Stairs, those at the bottom couldn't see him. But anyone left in the park to the side would be on him any time now. He belly crawled along the landing working his way along to the other side where the cable car tracks lay.
Carefully, he avoided dislodging a cola can. He fetched up against the wall separating the tracks. Sitting up, he glanced behind him. Nothing yet. With the glow of the lamps, he couldn't his get true night vision. Saw movement in the bushes over the way. Raised his Kalash and sent a short burst over that way.
Now his position was compromised, he hurled himself over the low wall and onto the cable car tracks. Immediately picking himself up, Caramarin moved in a low crouch downhill. Behind him, he heard someone walking down the Stairs.
Some man, no-one he knew, weaving his way downstairs, well dressed. Holding onto the wall for support. Some drunk businessman, maybe making his way down to the Hotel Odessa. Couldn't believe it. How had the man not heard the fire fight going on around him?
"Fuck off, go back," shouted Caramarin. "Go back up!"
The man looked around owlishly. Looked like he was going to sit down for a rest.
"Go! Go now!" screamed Caramarin. He fired one shot into the air. That caught the fool's attention. He turned and lurched at top speed back up the Stairs shouting incoherently. Like most drunks, when he needed to, the man had a remarkable turn of speed.
Fucking hell. What next? The way this was going, he half expected to see a woman pushing a baby in a pram down the Stairs. Wouldn't be a big surprise. In the relative quiet, now the drunk was half way back up to the Duc de Richelieu, Caramarin heard the distant wail of sirens against the background noise of the city. Not much time left.
Caramarin crouched and picked his way down the cable car tracks. Eyes everywhere, searching every scrap of cover, every dark shadow which could hide a man. Sirens wailing louder now; sounded like more coming along Primorskaya Street below. Not much time left. Caramarin picked up the pace.
Vaulting over the low wall from the park, now on the Steps themselves. Dmytro Litovchenko. Holding another folding stock Kalash. Caramarin grinned, a terrible grin which would have frightened those he was trying to save. Placid raced in a low crouch across the expanse of the Stairs, eyes fixed on the other side. He reached the opposite low wall behind which Caramarin hunkered.
Caramarin stood with his Kalash at his shoulder.
"Hey, Cunt," he shouted.
Placid stopped. A horror of recognition on his face wiping out his steroid rage.
A seven point eight gramme round fired from a Kalashnikov's barrel leaves with a muzzle velocity of over seven hundred metres a second. Its muzzle energy is over two thousand joules.
At a range of a few metres, the bullet disintegrated the top of Litovchenko's head. One instant his skull was whole, the next there was just red oblivion. One instant the man was alive. The next he was burning in the fires of Hell. Or so Caramarin hoped.
The body crashed to the stone Stairs, sprawled half over one of the larger landings. No other shots coming at him. Caramarin stepped over the wall and kicked Placid's body. It rolled down several steps before coming to rest again.
Had to hurry. The sirens were definitely louder now. Keeping to the shadow of the low wall, Caramarin worked his way down the last few flights of the Stairs. No one fired at him or challenged him. At the foot of the Potemkin Stairs, he saw a couple of cars. Recognised Maiorescu's Mercedes and BMW X5 SUV.
No one about, Where the fuck was Maiorescu or any more of his hoods? Where was Valeriya? Caramarin peered into the Merc but couldn't see in because of the tinted windows. Heard some sort of noise coming from the back seat. Aware time running out quickly now, he tried the door handle. Locked. No surprise there.
Lifting his Kalash, he smashed its butt against the window. The window shattered into a thousand tiny squares. He smashed it again, harder, and this time the window glass fell into the car letting in some light. Saw Valeriya and Vladimir on the back seat, huddled together. Raised the lock then flung the door open.
Valeriya's face was bloody from her nose. Her eyes were swollen shut and her blouse had been ripped down, exposing her breasts. Blood spotted her blouse and breasts. Caramarin saw the grey gleam of duct tape over her mouth. She was struggling to draw breath into her lungs.
This side of her, Vladimir looked unharmed. But he also had been gagged and the poor boy looked terrified, his eyes staring in the dark interior. Both were sitting with their arms behind them.
Caramarin pulled his Swiss army knife from his pocket, opened it and knelt on the back seat. Vladimir backed away, pressing himself against his mother. With difficulty, Caramarin leaned over Vladimir then cut the cable tie binding Valeriya's hands. The cruelly tightened plastic dug deep into her wrists.
Cold metal pressed against the back of his neck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Out you wife-shagging piece of shit."
Caramarin gradually backed out of the Mercedes and stepped away from it. Slowly raising his hands, he turned around.
Maiorescu's face was a mask of anger. Worse, he was holding a Makarov pistol with the barrel jittering in his hands. Less than a half kilo of pressure on the trigger and Caramarin reckoned he'd be joining Litovchenko in hell.
The sirens' howl much closer now. Endgame. Whatever happened now it would be quick.
Maiorescu shouted a word. Not what Caramarin expected at all.
"Natalya!"
The BMW SUV's passenger door opened and in the interior light, Natalya stepped out. She was wearing skin tight black jeans, designer no doubt, and a light-coloured jacket against the evening chill. Her blonde hair was done up in a high pony. Her mouth a tight slash of lipstick. Even under these circumstances, she looked good. Natalya took a few steps towards them.
Caramarin glanced to his side. Valeriya had left the Mercedes and stood by his side. She was rubbing her wrists where the cable ties had bitten into her flesh.
"Listen, your problem is only with me. Let Valeriya and her boy go, please."
"Shut your whining, shit head." His senses on full alert, Caramarin saw a bandage poking out from under Maiorescu's short sleeved white shirt.
"They've done you no harm. They're innocent. Only me, okay." Caramarin spread his arms wide. Tried to brace himself for the pain and then black oblivion.
Valeriya slipped her arm around Caramarin's waist. Felt her warmth against his side. Her head only came up to his shoulder but thought the woman had more courage in her little body than he had in his.
Maiorescu handed his Makarov pistol to Natalya.
"Prove what you said earlier. Shoot the fucking bastard," he said.
Natalya looked at her husband, her mouth down-turned. The pistol wavered in her hands.
"Don't make me! I can't," Natalya cried out. Natalya took a step to the side away from both Caramarin and Maiorescu. Looked like she was now covering both men with the pistol. Her eyes filled with water, tears streamed down her cheeks.
Round the curve of Primorskaya Street, Caramarin saw blue and red lights strobing off the buildings. The Militsia.
"Hurry up," barked Maiorescu. "The fucking Militsia'll be here any second now."
As if called by his words, the first squad car hurtled round the corner. The siren's howl now louder and more insistent. The car driving fast towards the group.
The gun was still wobbling between the two men. She swung it from one to the other. Her face was a crumpled wreck of turmoil. Natalya's trigger finger tightened. Valeriya threw herself forward at Natalya, knocking the pistol to one side. The gun fired, a blaze from the muzzle, the crack blasting above the siren's sound.
Maiorescu fell back, coughed, covered his chest with his hand, looked at the blood trickling out from under his palm. He coughed again, or made a choking sound, then fell to his knees. His eyes looking up, puzzled and disbelieving. The man collapsed face first to the floor. His body twitched.
"I was going to shoot him anyway. I just couldn't do it," pleaded Natalya. "It's you I love, Nicolae."
"I know. Now come on. Quickly." He grabbed her arm and pushed her towards the BMW SUV.
"Start it up," he told her.
Valeriya plucked Vladimir out of the Mercedes and held him tight whilst Caramarin scooped up the Kalash from the pavement. The couple raced to the BMW and dived in moments before the squad car drew up to the Stairs.
"Floor it," said Caramarin.
THE END.