I gripped the mobile in my right fist like a dagger. There was no time to answer him, to look up – no time to do anything. Head down, arm bent and solid, I spun around and rammed the top end of it into his gut.
He dropped, but only to his knees. He went for his pistol.
I slid behind him, totally focused on the weapon. I grabbed it and wrenched it downwards.
As it bounced off the tarmac, I lifted his chin with my left hand and jammed the top of the mobile into his throat with my right, just below the Adam’s apple. I pulled back with all my strength, trying to bury the thing in his neck.
His hands reached up to mine, fingers scrabbling, trying to pull them away. I dragged him out of line-of-sight of the entrance to the building and dropped to my knees. He came down with me, his legs splayed out in front of him.
I pressed my chest down on the back of his head, keeping maximum pressure on his throat. I pulled the mobile towards me as if I was trying to thrust it right through his throat and stab myself between the ribs. The more he struggled, the harder I leant against him.
He kicked and bucked like an animal until his windpipe was finally crushed. Snot and saliva frothed at his nose and mouth and his brain started to close down. His hands flapped weakly at my arms.
Hypoxia had him in its grasp. He collapsed, but it wasn’t over yet. I counted off another sixty seconds before I wrenched us both to our feet and starting dragging him towards the Merc.
I dumped him on the back seat and gave his shirt a wipe. There was no blood, but a good few nostrils-ful of snot. I pulled his coat off its hanger, checked its pockets, found what I was looking for and laid it neatly on the front passenger seat.
I jumped in behind the wheel, twisted the key in the ignition and slipped it into drive. I rolled slowly out of the turning circle, then accelerated towards the multi-storey car park.
The car park was as empty as the last time I’d been here. It seemed more like a century ago than a couple of days. I peeled off the ramp at the second floor. I wondered whether Qasim and Adel were up on the roof, not a care in the world, getting their rocks off as another airliner took to the air.
I opened the back door and started to undress Tattoo. He was bigger than me so there’d be no drama getting into his kit. I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulders. His chest and back were covered with tattoos. He’d obviously done some time. The pictures of bears shagging women and rats with numbers above them would tell anyone in the know what detention centres he’d been to, and why.
He had stars tattoo’d onto his kneecaps. In gang language, he was going to kneel for no man.
With Tattoo tucked safely into the boot, and none of his ID in the car, I emptied a couple of bottles of mineral water over my face and hair. I dried myself off with my own shirt before putting on his, brushed as much sand and shit off his trousers as I could, then finally slid on his jacket.
I binned the mobile as I legged it towards the terminal.
It was 06.45.
Inside, it was busier than I’d expected, a lot busier than when I’d flown in. I looked up and scanned the departures board. The Moscow flight stopped off first in Astana. I headed towards the ticket-sales counter. The girl standing behind it looked as though she’d just come off the high-cheekbones-and-perfect-teeth production line.
I took some deep breaths as I went to slow everything down inside my body and my head. I got into the zone. I’d always known that people like Red Ken, Dex and I were lucky to be able to do that. I didn’t know if it was genetic or acquired or a combination of the two, but when everything went to rat shit, thinking clearly just sort of happened. It had nothing to do with being brave or, in Dex’s case, certifiably insane. It had to do with mastering the stress when it would be natural to flap big-time.
Stress improves performance. Your heart-rate is governed by adrenalin levels. That’s all good stuff when you need flight, fight or bluff, but there is an optimum state – when it’s hammering away at between 115 and 145 beats per minute. Anything above that and your body stops being able to control what it’s doing and you get killed because you fuck up. Or in this case it arouses suspicion and encourages the uniformed automaton in the driving seat to check everything about you more closely, starting with your passport.
She finished her call as I reached the counter. She looked up and switched on her brilliant white smile. I tried my best to match it.
‘The seven thirty for Moscow via Astana. I’d like a seat, please.’
She tapped away at her computer keyboard as I flipped Tattoo’s passport out of his jacket pocket and got extra busy looking down and fucking about in my day-sack.
