Danger Nights- Chapter Nine
Danger Nights
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Alexei Holmes, original male and female characters Summary: Mycroft Holmes is losing one of Britain's most crucial resources: his mind. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade struggle to find a solution, the past comes back to haunt everyone. Sequel to Promise to the Living and The Devil in Devon.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight
Astrid didn’t get far. Sherlock caught up to her easily and snatched her jumper hood. When she spun around to kick him, she lost her balance and fell onto all fours.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “I’m under eighteen! I’ll sue you if you touch me!”
Sherlock, unfazed, yanked her upright just as Lestrade and a few of the kids hurried up.
“Easy, Sherlock,” Lestrade pleaded. To Astrid he said, “There’s no need to run. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know what you saw.”
“Yeah? Tell this ponce to let go then.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Sherlock growled.
The blond youth raised both hands. “Astrid, it’s cool. It really is. Whatever shit you saw at the hospital, Sherlock can protect you. He knows some important people.”
“And I know even more people who think they’re important but are merely reasonably competent,” Sherlock added, staring pointedly at Lestrade. The former DI glared back before taking out his phone and composing a text to Anthea. After providing their location, he added, I think this girl definitely saw something.
“I don’t want any part of it,” Astrid insisted. “I should never have opened my bloody mouth.”
“Really? I’m rather glad you did.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Out with it. What’s this about bodies?”
She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you go jump off a building- again?”
“Astrid!” a boy with multiple nose rings gasped. “Jesus Christ!”
Sherlock -to everyone’s amazement- didn’t throw her into an overflowing bin. He actually smiled, but his lips were pulled back so tightly that he resembled a snarling wolf.
“So you read the tabloids and are capable of a weak put-down. Congratulations. You’ve just outed yourself as a pathetic specimen of humanity.”
“Makes two of us then.”
Lestrade took out his badge. Actually, it was one of the many badges that Sherlock had stolen from him over the years. Being retired he was technically no longer allowed to use it, but this situation called for unorthodox measures.
“I’m with the police,” he said. “And I’m warning you that you’re withholding information in an important investigation.”
Astrid arched an eyebrow. “I’m fourteen. You can’t talk to me unless a parent or guardian is present.”
Lestrade’s phone emitted a text alert. The message was from Anthea.
En route. Mr. Holmes informed of developments. He says to bring the girl to the house for additional questioning. I will assist with transfer. A.
Lestrade had no idea how Anthea intended to get this baby tiger into a car in front of witnesses. The street kids probably wouldn’t say or do anything for Sherlock’s sake, but a handful of people were waiting at a bus stop two blocks away, and any shouts or screams would draw their attention fast.
As he put the phone away, he said uneasily, “You really want your parents involved, Astrid?”
“Is that a problem?” Everything about the girl- her stance, her unblinking stare- radiated defiance. Unable to run, she was clearly determined to make things as difficult as possible.
“You’re not calling anyone until you tell us what we want to know,” Sherlock hissed. His grey eyes glittered in mounting anger: even the street kids now regarded him nervously. Lestrade understood his anxiety: the surly Astrid might have unwittingly seen John and Alexei being taken from the hospital, and every second that she did a human stonewall act represented precious time lost. But Lestrade knew something that Sherlock was too agitated to appreciate: threatening a minor on a public street would create more problems than it solved.
“Look,” the former DI said to Astrid, who looked as if she was trying to decide whether to scratch Sherlock’s eyes out or kick him in the balls. “I’m going to lay it out for you. You may have witnessed an abduction that we’re investigating. Two people are missing, and we need to know what you saw, because frankly, Miss, we’ve got nothing to go on. Please. Help us.”
She scanned his face, expression slowly changing from hostile to wary. Once again Lestrade felt that he’d seen her before or, at the very least, she reminded him of someone. The daughter of a criminal he’d arrested in the past, perhaps? Or maybe he’d noticed her being brought in by one of the juvenile bureau officers while he was still with the Met.
“I don’t want to appear in court or have my picture published anywhere,” she finally said.
She probably had a juvenile record, Lestrade decided. That had to be why she looked familiar. That wasn’t his problem any longer, so he said, “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Okay then.” She glowered at Sherlock. “Let go of me first.”
When the detective hesitated, Lestrade snapped, “For God’s sake, do it.”
Sherlock reluctantly complied but kept his gloved hand inches from her elbow. Astrid made a big show out of rearranging her jumper before speaking.
“I did go to St. Thomas this morning. Reckon it wasn’t long after noon. I went round to the bins to see if there was anything with street value. Expired prescriptions, stuff like that.” She smirked. “I saw three blokes and a nurse bringing a laundry cart outside, so I hid and waited for them to leave. They pushed the cart up to a laundry truck-”
“How do you know it was a laundry truck?” Sherlock demanded.
Astrid huffed. “It was white, and when a bloke inside opened the back door, I saw other carts inside. And don’t ask me if I saw a license plate, because I didn’t. I was just waiting for them to piss off so I could get on with my treasure hunt.”
“Go on,” Lestrade encouraged, shooting Sherlock a warning look.
“They took two bodies out of the cart and put them in the back of the truck. They were wrapped in sheets but I know they were bodies because I saw a head.” She touched her scalp. “Short blond hair, think it was a man.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed.
“What direction did they leave in?” Lestrade asked, trying -and failing- to keep the excitement out of his voice.
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I didn’t watch them go. Just waited until I couldn’t hear the motor anymore and then carried on.” Eying Lestrade warily, she added, “Didn’t find anything worth selling, so no point nicking me.”
“Not this time anyway,” he bluffed as he desperately willed Anthea’s car to appear. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in grabbing Astrid and interrogating her further: her story had been detailed and she had no discernible reason for withholding anything. It was more urgent that they retrieve and review camera footage for the streets surrounding St. Thomas. Although all surveillance within one block of the hospital had mysteriously malfunctioned during Mycroft’s visit, the white truck should be easy to spot and track in the outlying areas.
As if on cue, a dark government sedan careened around the corner at such a high speed that it nearly hit the streetlight. When it halted a short distance from the small group, Anthea threw the front passenger door open and stepped halfway out. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide.
“Alexei managed to get a hold of someone’s mobile and texted Mr. Holmes a few minutes ago!” she exclaimed. “We’re tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates right now!”
“Oh, thank Christ,” Lestrade gasped as he and Sherlock bolted for the car. Before sliding onto the back seat, he turned his head, intending to shout a quick thank-you to Astrid. He frowned in confusion when he saw that she was staring at Anthea, mouth open and face livid with anger.
Like she wanted to kill the figurative messenger.
Lestrade called to her, but she turned abruptly and hurried down the street, pressing a pink-cased phone to her ear and punching the air like it was Sherlock’s face.
******
While Sherlock and Lestrade were tangling with a stubborn teenaged girl, John was being woken out of a heavy sleep by shrill screams.
Coming from Alexei.
He threw the heavy bed curtains aside. A few lamps were still on, so he immediately saw the boy huddled next to the fireplace, clutching his bloody nose.
“My nose” he wailed. “I think it’s broken.”
John sprang off the mattress and rushed over to him. “Did you fall?” he exclaimed. He was still weak from the earlier migraine, but adrenaline gave him necessary energy.
“Y-yes. I must have been sleepwalking.”
“Lower your hands. Let me see.”
Alexei obeyed. John saw with relief that the blood flow was actually very light, and there was no sign of damage to the boy’s nose. He was about to reassure him when the door opened and the two minders hurried into the room.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Gary bellowed.
“He’s hurt himself,” John retorted. “Get me a first aid kit.”
The Scotsman hesitated. When he saw the blood on Alexei’s face and fingers, he swore and turned to his Russian cohort. “Yuri, get a kit from the kitchen. Ask the cook where it is.”
The Russian- Yuri- disappeared into the hall. As soon as he was gone, the teenager leaped to his feet.
“I can’t take this anymore! I’m getting out of here!” he shouted with such atypical hysteria that John’s alarm escalated. He bolted for the open door, but Gary seized him around the middle.
“I don’t think so, you little fucker!” the guard grunted.
Alexei pulled his bloody lips back from his teeth and snarled like a wild animal. He hammered at Gary’s chest and tried to knee him in the groin, but to no avail. The big Scotsman dragged him over to the bed and threw him onto it.
“That’s enough!” John was between them in an instant, fists clenched. “Don’t you touch him!”
“If he runs for the door again, I’ll do more than touch him.”
Alexei scrambled off the bed, but didn’t make another break for freedom. Instead, he ran into the toilet and slammed the door shut.
“Good. He can stay in there and beat the shit out of the walls.” Gary pushed his hair out of his eyes and tucked his shirt back into his jeans. “I knew that kid was a freak.”
John could barely contain his anger. “You like pushing boys around, yeah?”
Gary’s grin was nasty. “No. Failed soldiers are usually more fun.”
John wanted to punch him in the teeth. But he still felt unsteady, and suspected that Mayberry would not be too bothered if the big Scotsman beat him senseless. Alexei was their captor’s real concern: John was merely collateral to ensure the boy’s cooperation.
John was about to settle for telling Gary to go fuck himself, but the sound of rushing tap water interrupted him. “Alexei?” he called, pushing past the glowering guard with such force that the man grunted and stumbled back. He knocked on the toilet door once before turning the knob. “Alexei, I’m coming in.”
When he opened the door the teenager was at the sink, cleaning the blood off his face.
“I’m all right now,” Alexei said, sounding a little breathless but otherwise normal. “I apologise for the hysterics.”
“Let me see your face,” John ordered, picking up a flannel. He had the feeling that this was no sleepwalking mishap, but refrained from asking questions while the hostile Scotsman was in earshot. He touched the cloth gently to Alexei’s nose, noting some redness and slight bruising around the nostrils. “The bleeding’s stopped, which is good.”
Just then Yuri returned with the first aid kit. When Gary turned toward him, Alexei put his mouth to John’s ear.
“I’m all right. Really. No time to explain, but we’re going to be rescued very soon.”
John’s heart leaped, but the minders were approaching, so he cleared his throat and said for their benefit, “Your nose doesn’t look broken, thank God.”
“It’s not,” the teenager whispered. “I didn’t hit myself too hard.”
Gary loomed in the doorway. “Out here. Both of you. Watson, you do anything but wipe his nose and you’ll be needing treatment next.”
Alexei rolled his eyes. “Oh, we’re both terrified.”
“Shut up and go sit on the bed.”
Alexei obeyed. John, trying to maintain a surface calm, took the first aid kit that Yuri held out and laid it on the coffee table. The young Russian was about to close the room’s door when John Mayberry and four large, granite-faced men appeared. The skeletal Mayberry spoke calmly enough, but his parchment-like skin was flushed with anger.
“Well, young man,” he said to Alexei, “it appears that I underestimated your resourcefulness.”
“What are you talking about?” John demanded. “He hurt himself.”
“I have it on good authority that he also managed to get access to a mobile just now and send a text to Mycroft Holmes.”
Alexei paled. “That’s rubbish.”
“I don’t think so. This particular source never lies.” Mayberry approached. “Where’s the mobile, Alexei? And more importantly, whose is it?”
John saw it all then. Alexei had bloodied his own nose to create a scene and bring the guards into the room. During his pre-planned struggle with the Scotsman, he’d grabbed the man’s phone and sent a text after running into the toilet. Tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates would be a piece of cake for Mycroft’s people.
But Mayberry had found out somehow. Which meant that Alexei had taken that huge risk in vain. Unless they were just outside London- which didn’t seem likely- they would be moved long before Mycroft arrived.
Alexei crossed his arms, his defiant expression offset by a sheet-white pallor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mayberry took a deep breath. “I really don’t have time for this. We have to relocate immediately. But first, I have to investigate this flagrant breach of security.” He paused. “Gary, Yuri, give me your mobiles, please.”
Yuri produced an iPhone from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Gary reached into his own pocket, and froze.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed. Staring at Alexei with shock and terror, he shouted, “You little bastard!”
That was all he managed to blurt before a bullet from Mayberry’s gun crashed into his chest.
Part Ten
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some violence
Character(s): John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Alexei Holmes, original male and female characters Summary: Mycroft Holmes is losing one of Britain's most crucial resources: his mind. As John, Sherlock, and Lestrade struggle to find a solution, the past comes back to haunt everyone. Sequel to Promise to the Living and The Devil in Devon.
Status: WIP
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight
Astrid didn’t get far. Sherlock caught up to her easily and snatched her jumper hood. When she spun around to kick him, she lost her balance and fell onto all fours.
“Let me go!” she yelled. “I’m under eighteen! I’ll sue you if you touch me!”
Sherlock, unfazed, yanked her upright just as Lestrade and a few of the kids hurried up.
“Easy, Sherlock,” Lestrade pleaded. To Astrid he said, “There’s no need to run. We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to know what you saw.”
“Yeah? Tell this ponce to let go then.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Sherlock growled.
The blond youth raised both hands. “Astrid, it’s cool. It really is. Whatever shit you saw at the hospital, Sherlock can protect you. He knows some important people.”
“And I know even more people who think they’re important but are merely reasonably competent,” Sherlock added, staring pointedly at Lestrade. The former DI glared back before taking out his phone and composing a text to Anthea. After providing their location, he added, I think this girl definitely saw something.
“I don’t want any part of it,” Astrid insisted. “I should never have opened my bloody mouth.”
“Really? I’m rather glad you did.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Out with it. What’s this about bodies?”
She crossed her arms. “Why don’t you go jump off a building- again?”
“Astrid!” a boy with multiple nose rings gasped. “Jesus Christ!”
Sherlock -to everyone’s amazement- didn’t throw her into an overflowing bin. He actually smiled, but his lips were pulled back so tightly that he resembled a snarling wolf.
“So you read the tabloids and are capable of a weak put-down. Congratulations. You’ve just outed yourself as a pathetic specimen of humanity.”
“Makes two of us then.”
Lestrade took out his badge. Actually, it was one of the many badges that Sherlock had stolen from him over the years. Being retired he was technically no longer allowed to use it, but this situation called for unorthodox measures.
“I’m with the police,” he said. “And I’m warning you that you’re withholding information in an important investigation.”
Astrid arched an eyebrow. “I’m fourteen. You can’t talk to me unless a parent or guardian is present.”
Lestrade’s phone emitted a text alert. The message was from Anthea.
En route. Mr. Holmes informed of developments. He says to bring the girl to the house for additional questioning. I will assist with transfer. A.
Lestrade had no idea how Anthea intended to get this baby tiger into a car in front of witnesses. The street kids probably wouldn’t say or do anything for Sherlock’s sake, but a handful of people were waiting at a bus stop two blocks away, and any shouts or screams would draw their attention fast.
As he put the phone away, he said uneasily, “You really want your parents involved, Astrid?”
“Is that a problem?” Everything about the girl- her stance, her unblinking stare- radiated defiance. Unable to run, she was clearly determined to make things as difficult as possible.
“You’re not calling anyone until you tell us what we want to know,” Sherlock hissed. His grey eyes glittered in mounting anger: even the street kids now regarded him nervously. Lestrade understood his anxiety: the surly Astrid might have unwittingly seen John and Alexei being taken from the hospital, and every second that she did a human stonewall act represented precious time lost. But Lestrade knew something that Sherlock was too agitated to appreciate: threatening a minor on a public street would create more problems than it solved.
“Look,” the former DI said to Astrid, who looked as if she was trying to decide whether to scratch Sherlock’s eyes out or kick him in the balls. “I’m going to lay it out for you. You may have witnessed an abduction that we’re investigating. Two people are missing, and we need to know what you saw, because frankly, Miss, we’ve got nothing to go on. Please. Help us.”
She scanned his face, expression slowly changing from hostile to wary. Once again Lestrade felt that he’d seen her before or, at the very least, she reminded him of someone. The daughter of a criminal he’d arrested in the past, perhaps? Or maybe he’d noticed her being brought in by one of the juvenile bureau officers while he was still with the Met.
“I don’t want to appear in court or have my picture published anywhere,” she finally said.
She probably had a juvenile record, Lestrade decided. That had to be why she looked familiar. That wasn’t his problem any longer, so he said, “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Okay then.” She glowered at Sherlock. “Let go of me first.”
When the detective hesitated, Lestrade snapped, “For God’s sake, do it.”
Sherlock reluctantly complied but kept his gloved hand inches from her elbow. Astrid made a big show out of rearranging her jumper before speaking.
“I did go to St. Thomas this morning. Reckon it wasn’t long after noon. I went round to the bins to see if there was anything with street value. Expired prescriptions, stuff like that.” She smirked. “I saw three blokes and a nurse bringing a laundry cart outside, so I hid and waited for them to leave. They pushed the cart up to a laundry truck-”
“How do you know it was a laundry truck?” Sherlock demanded.
Astrid huffed. “It was white, and when a bloke inside opened the back door, I saw other carts inside. And don’t ask me if I saw a license plate, because I didn’t. I was just waiting for them to piss off so I could get on with my treasure hunt.”
“Go on,” Lestrade encouraged, shooting Sherlock a warning look.
“They took two bodies out of the cart and put them in the back of the truck. They were wrapped in sheets but I know they were bodies because I saw a head.” She touched her scalp. “Short blond hair, think it was a man.”
“John,” Sherlock breathed.
“What direction did they leave in?” Lestrade asked, trying -and failing- to keep the excitement out of his voice.
She shrugged. “Don’t know. I didn’t watch them go. Just waited until I couldn’t hear the motor anymore and then carried on.” Eying Lestrade warily, she added, “Didn’t find anything worth selling, so no point nicking me.”
“Not this time anyway,” he bluffed as he desperately willed Anthea’s car to appear. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in grabbing Astrid and interrogating her further: her story had been detailed and she had no discernible reason for withholding anything. It was more urgent that they retrieve and review camera footage for the streets surrounding St. Thomas. Although all surveillance within one block of the hospital had mysteriously malfunctioned during Mycroft’s visit, the white truck should be easy to spot and track in the outlying areas.
As if on cue, a dark government sedan careened around the corner at such a high speed that it nearly hit the streetlight. When it halted a short distance from the small group, Anthea threw the front passenger door open and stepped halfway out. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide.
“Alexei managed to get a hold of someone’s mobile and texted Mr. Holmes a few minutes ago!” she exclaimed. “We’re tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates right now!”
“Oh, thank Christ,” Lestrade gasped as he and Sherlock bolted for the car. Before sliding onto the back seat, he turned his head, intending to shout a quick thank-you to Astrid. He frowned in confusion when he saw that she was staring at Anthea, mouth open and face livid with anger.
Like she wanted to kill the figurative messenger.
Lestrade called to her, but she turned abruptly and hurried down the street, pressing a pink-cased phone to her ear and punching the air like it was Sherlock’s face.
******
While Sherlock and Lestrade were tangling with a stubborn teenaged girl, John was being woken out of a heavy sleep by shrill screams.
Coming from Alexei.
He threw the heavy bed curtains aside. A few lamps were still on, so he immediately saw the boy huddled next to the fireplace, clutching his bloody nose.
“My nose” he wailed. “I think it’s broken.”
John sprang off the mattress and rushed over to him. “Did you fall?” he exclaimed. He was still weak from the earlier migraine, but adrenaline gave him necessary energy.
“Y-yes. I must have been sleepwalking.”
“Lower your hands. Let me see.”
Alexei obeyed. John saw with relief that the blood flow was actually very light, and there was no sign of damage to the boy’s nose. He was about to reassure him when the door opened and the two minders hurried into the room.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Gary bellowed.
“He’s hurt himself,” John retorted. “Get me a first aid kit.”
The Scotsman hesitated. When he saw the blood on Alexei’s face and fingers, he swore and turned to his Russian cohort. “Yuri, get a kit from the kitchen. Ask the cook where it is.”
The Russian- Yuri- disappeared into the hall. As soon as he was gone, the teenager leaped to his feet.
“I can’t take this anymore! I’m getting out of here!” he shouted with such atypical hysteria that John’s alarm escalated. He bolted for the open door, but Gary seized him around the middle.
“I don’t think so, you little fucker!” the guard grunted.
Alexei pulled his bloody lips back from his teeth and snarled like a wild animal. He hammered at Gary’s chest and tried to knee him in the groin, but to no avail. The big Scotsman dragged him over to the bed and threw him onto it.
“That’s enough!” John was between them in an instant, fists clenched. “Don’t you touch him!”
“If he runs for the door again, I’ll do more than touch him.”
Alexei scrambled off the bed, but didn’t make another break for freedom. Instead, he ran into the toilet and slammed the door shut.
“Good. He can stay in there and beat the shit out of the walls.” Gary pushed his hair out of his eyes and tucked his shirt back into his jeans. “I knew that kid was a freak.”
John could barely contain his anger. “You like pushing boys around, yeah?”
Gary’s grin was nasty. “No. Failed soldiers are usually more fun.”
John wanted to punch him in the teeth. But he still felt unsteady, and suspected that Mayberry would not be too bothered if the big Scotsman beat him senseless. Alexei was their captor’s real concern: John was merely collateral to ensure the boy’s cooperation.
John was about to settle for telling Gary to go fuck himself, but the sound of rushing tap water interrupted him. “Alexei?” he called, pushing past the glowering guard with such force that the man grunted and stumbled back. He knocked on the toilet door once before turning the knob. “Alexei, I’m coming in.”
When he opened the door the teenager was at the sink, cleaning the blood off his face.
“I’m all right now,” Alexei said, sounding a little breathless but otherwise normal. “I apologise for the hysterics.”
“Let me see your face,” John ordered, picking up a flannel. He had the feeling that this was no sleepwalking mishap, but refrained from asking questions while the hostile Scotsman was in earshot. He touched the cloth gently to Alexei’s nose, noting some redness and slight bruising around the nostrils. “The bleeding’s stopped, which is good.”
Just then Yuri returned with the first aid kit. When Gary turned toward him, Alexei put his mouth to John’s ear.
“I’m all right. Really. No time to explain, but we’re going to be rescued very soon.”
John’s heart leaped, but the minders were approaching, so he cleared his throat and said for their benefit, “Your nose doesn’t look broken, thank God.”
“It’s not,” the teenager whispered. “I didn’t hit myself too hard.”
Gary loomed in the doorway. “Out here. Both of you. Watson, you do anything but wipe his nose and you’ll be needing treatment next.”
Alexei rolled his eyes. “Oh, we’re both terrified.”
“Shut up and go sit on the bed.”
Alexei obeyed. John, trying to maintain a surface calm, took the first aid kit that Yuri held out and laid it on the coffee table. The young Russian was about to close the room’s door when John Mayberry and four large, granite-faced men appeared. The skeletal Mayberry spoke calmly enough, but his parchment-like skin was flushed with anger.
“Well, young man,” he said to Alexei, “it appears that I underestimated your resourcefulness.”
“What are you talking about?” John demanded. “He hurt himself.”
“I have it on good authority that he also managed to get access to a mobile just now and send a text to Mycroft Holmes.”
Alexei paled. “That’s rubbish.”
“I don’t think so. This particular source never lies.” Mayberry approached. “Where’s the mobile, Alexei? And more importantly, whose is it?”
John saw it all then. Alexei had bloodied his own nose to create a scene and bring the guards into the room. During his pre-planned struggle with the Scotsman, he’d grabbed the man’s phone and sent a text after running into the toilet. Tracing the phone’s GPS coordinates would be a piece of cake for Mycroft’s people.
But Mayberry had found out somehow. Which meant that Alexei had taken that huge risk in vain. Unless they were just outside London- which didn’t seem likely- they would be moved long before Mycroft arrived.
Alexei crossed his arms, his defiant expression offset by a sheet-white pallor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Mayberry took a deep breath. “I really don’t have time for this. We have to relocate immediately. But first, I have to investigate this flagrant breach of security.” He paused. “Gary, Yuri, give me your mobiles, please.”
Yuri produced an iPhone from his jacket pocket and handed it over. Gary reached into his own pocket, and froze.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed. Staring at Alexei with shock and terror, he shouted, “You little bastard!”
That was all he managed to blurt before a bullet from Mayberry’s gun crashed into his chest.
Part Ten