No Tomorrow Page 27

  A pause before she replied, “Is that why you’re speaking to me now, to gloat? That would be a mistake.”

  “I don’t make mistakes.”

  “Is that so?” the woman said back. “Except for the fact you’re now involved in something that doesn’t—shouldn’t—concern you. That is a monumental mistake on your part.”

  The voice was becoming more distorted. They were traveling farther away from him and Gisele.

  He said, “Would you like to have a wager on that?”

  She chuckled. “Sure, why not? I’ll humor you. What exactly are we betting with?”

  “Your life,” Victor said, and smashed the radio beneath his heel.

  Chapter 59

  Victor pulled over on a high street in the north of the city where bright signs advertised a multitude of fast-food outlets. There were other shops in between, but all closed at this hour. The street was empty of people.

  “Wait here.”

  Gisele nodded.

  He’d left the engine running because hot-wiring was temperamental and he didn’t want to risk it not working again, especially if they had to move out in a hurry. He scanned for threats as he walked until he found a rental agent. He examined the properties listed in the window display. He checked the photographs and read through the details. He memorized the two that best matched his criteria: houses, unfurnished, quiet neighborhood, available immediately.

  Gisele was sitting very still when he climbed back into the car. He didn’t ask if she was okay because no civilian would be in the circumstances.

  The display hadn’t listed the precise addresses of the properties, but they didn’t take long to find with the details provided. Both had signs out front, but the first house—despite its immediate availability—was occupied. The second was empty.

  It was an end-of-row terrace, slim-fronted but long. The front garden was overgrown with weeds. The window frames were cracked and warped. The front door was sun bleached. Victor parked the Peugeot half a mile away and led Gisele on foot. Having the car closer would be useful if they had to make a fast getaway, but it was stolen and therefore had more chance of leading enemies to them than saving them if they were otherwise found.

  Victor walked ahead to scout for threats. Gisele followed a little behind, as he’d told her to. She needed to stay close to him so he could protect her, but with enough distance to give him time to clear an area before she entered it. He led her down the alleyway that ran behind the row of terraces and separated its back garden from those of the houses behind. Fences rose tall on either side of their shoulders. When he came to the right spot he stood with his back to the fence and linked his fingers in front of him.

  “Here,” he said. “Climb over.”

  She stared up at the high fence. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Put your foot on my hands and use it as a step. I’ll lift you.”

  “And I’ll break my neck falling down the other side.”

  “No, you won’t. The garden will be higher than we are now. The drop will be a short one.”

  “Says you.”

  “Come on,” he said. “We have to be fast.”

  She made a big deal of sighing, placed her hands on his shoulders, then raised her right foot and set it down on his upturned palms.

  “After three?” she asked, sarcastic.

  “Three,” he said, and lifted.

  She grunted and pushed herself up, grabbing the top of the fence and then hooking an elbow. He hoisted her higher and she struggled up and over. He heard her drop down onto the other side.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  There was no answer.

  “Gisele, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  There was anger directed at him in her tone. It was not an unexpected response to the trauma she had been through in the past few hours. From an operational perspective he would have preferred her to remain quiet and passive, but for her sake it was better to be angry than scared.

  He turned, leaped vertically, took hold of the cold wood, and heaved himself up. He dropped down next to her.

  “What now?” she asked.

  There was no alarm. The house was unfurnished. The landlord had no need of one because it didn’t affect him if the tenants were burgled. Victor picked the lock of the back door and ushered Gisele inside. He checked every room, every door, every window. He made sure all the exterior doors and windows were closed and locked and the interior doors were all open so sound would travel through the house easier.

  She said, “You’ve made a draft.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “There’s no furniture.”

  “We don’t need any.”

  “Whose place is this?”

  “No one’s. It doesn’t matter. We’ll stay for a few hours until it’s light and move on. Get some sleep.”

  He turned around and went to perform checks of the house. He again checked every room and window. Nothing had changed in the past ten minutes and nothing was likely to, but he needed the alone time. The house had been neglected in the way rented properties often were. The tenants were not going to put any time or expense into maintenance when they didn’t own it. The landlord didn’t live there, so he cared only about the bottom line.

  Victor saw its potential. Given two weeks he could reverse the neglect. Given a month he could transform it. But he could never live in the house. It didn’t meet his specifications on defense. There were too many neighbors. He would end up getting to know them and they would know more of him in return than he wanted anyone to know. Alternatively, he would have to make a determined effort to keep out of their way and they would talk about him and begin to wonder why he was so antisocial. He ripped off a peeling segment of wallpaper to stop the tear from getting any larger.

  • • •

  He was standing in an empty bedroom, staring out through the sliver of space between curtain and wall. Foxes were scavenging in the night. He couldn’t see them. But he heard their keening on occasion. Red flashed in his mind.

  He heard a scrape.

  Any hint of fatigue evaporated, replaced by focus. He stood silent and listened. It had originated outside the house. Faint and quiet among the other sounds, but close. A shoe on asphalt, maybe. It was hard to be sure. He peered into the night. He saw nothing. He heard a car passing on the street outside the house’s front. He heard an airliner flying overhead. He heard the wind shaking fences and branches and rushing over every surface. Ten minutes passed without another notable sound reaching his ears. He remained poised, listening and watching. If it had been the sound of a killer moving into position, Victor would be ready. If it was nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was ready or not.

  But it mattered to him. He had to be ready every time, just in case. He had to hear every sound. Not only his own life depended on it, but Gisele’s too. He didn’t want her to die. He didn’t want to let her mother down.

  After twelve minutes he decided the noise had been nothing. He would have liked the neighboring house to have a dog that barked whenever anyone came near its territory. But no barking had ensued when Victor and Gisele had climbed over the back fence. Any canines nearby stayed indoors with their owners and any territorialism would wait until the morning. In another life he pictured himself with a dog. He liked dogs. They seemed to like him too. They always wanted to play-fight with him. But owning a dog meant having a home, and he couldn’t foresee himself ever having one again. He had to keep moving, whether he was working or not. Trouble would inevitably find him if he stayed in one place too long. A moving target was always harder to hit than a stationary one, as he had told Gisele.

  He’d been standing there for two hours when he heard Gisele climbing the stairs. Each step creaked. It would drive most occupiers crazy, but Victor liked it. A silent staircase was a killer
’s best friend. He willed Gisele to turn around and go back down. He wanted her to rest. He wanted to be left alone. He kept his thoughts to himself.

  “I fell asleep,” she said from behind him. He knew she was standing in the doorway because her steps did not disturb the room’s floorboards.

  “That’s good,” Victor said. “But you should go back to sleep.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “If they come, they’ll come through the backyard. Like we did.”

  “They won’t find us here, will they?”

  “Act as though you’re always vulnerable and you’ll have more chance of surviving when you are.”

  “If you say so.” She hugged her arms. “It’s cold.”

  She was right. It was cold. The outside temperature was below ten degrees Celsius with the wind chill. Inside it wasn’t much warmer. The winter air found its way under doors and through cracks. He hadn’t noticed until now because the cold wasn’t going to kill him in the time he would be here. Comfort meant little to him when survival was at stake. But he understood she was nothing like him. She was a civilian. And young. What hardship meant to him and her could not be more different.

  “I know,” he said. “There’s electricity but the gas must have been disconnected. You can have my jacket if you like.”

  “No,” she said, sharpness in her voice despite the tiredness. “I mean, no, thank you. It’s okay. I’ll survive. There’s no food in the fridge or the cupboards. I woke up starving.”

  He knew he should have picked up some proper food for her before they arrived. He hadn’t thought to at the time because food wasn’t a priority. A few high-calorie snacks had been more than enough for him. The body could function at near maximum capacity for days without food, eating itself to stay fueled. But it couldn’t survive long pierced by bullets.

  “We’ll get you something when we move out.”

  “I’m not sure I can wait that long without eating.”

  “You can. You just haven’t had to before.”

  “Right.” She sighed. “I know I could stand to lose a kilo or two. Might as well start now. It’s not as if I have anything better to do.”

  “You don’t need to lose any weight.”

  She shot him a look, as if he were about to follow the comment with some sarcasm. When he didn’t, she smiled. “Thanks.”

  “There’s nothing to thank me for. It’s a statement of fact.”

  “Then thank you for stating the fact.” A pause, then: “Is there anything I can do to help? I found a stack of party cups left in the kitchen cabinet. I could get you some water if you’re thirsty.”

  He was. But he wanted her to rest more. “I’m okay. Get some more sleep if you can. We need to move on soon.”

  Chapter 60

  Daylight came. Slowly, because Victor watched every second of it. The rear bedroom window faced east and he saw the steady lightening of the sky above the distant rooftops, haloed in blue, then yellow and white. Birdsong accompanied the change of colors, then the rumble of engines starting up and working hard, left idling while heaters fought back the cold and frost. When he could see the outline of every paving slab in the backyard, he stepped away from the window. No one would attack now. Their enemies would wait for darkness or the perfect opportunity. This was neither.

  They had survived the night. He lay on the floor. There was no carpet, only bare floorboards, but he was asleep in seconds.

  When he woke he sat immediately upright, ears collecting sound, subconscious failing to pick out the noise of attack but detecting nothing that concerned him. He descended the stairs. He’d been asleep for just over an hour—the first rest he’d had in two days. The guilt he felt at leaving her undefended twisted his stomach.

  She was asleep, curled up into a ball in a corner of the empty lounge. She looked peaceful.

  He left and cleaned himself in the downstairs bathroom using only water because there were no toiletries of any kind. He stood at the sink, cupping water in his hands under the running tap, then scrubbing it under his armpits, over his chest and shoulders, along his arms and over his stomach and shoulder blades. He finished by doing the same with his face and hair. The water was so cold it made his hands turn red and brought up goose bumps over every inch of skin it touched. His lower body would have to wait for now. There were no towels and not even a roll of tissue, so he let the winter air slowly dry him.

  • • •

  Gisele awoke, groaning and squinting. Usually, she was up at six a.m. and out the front door just after seven. She was never at the law firm for less than ten hours a day. Often it was twelve. A few times a month it was more like fourteen. Everyone hated lawyers, but in Gisele’s opinion they didn’t get enough credit for how long and hard they had to work.

  Taking the week off after the incident on the street had given Gisele a lot of free time she wasn’t used to and the best way to make use of it seemed to be by sleeping. She wasn’t sure whether this was working off the sleep debt of many late nights and early mornings or because of the stress of the incident. Now getting up early for work seemed like a luxury she might never experience again. She didn’t need to get up but sleeping in had lost its appeal. She was anxious and too awake to be able to snooze.

  She padded on the balls of her feet to reduce the exposure to the cold floor and grimaced at the sight that greeted her in the mirror above the fireplace.

  Gisele heard the sound of running water and for a horrible moment thought the worst, before realizing it only meant her companion was in the downstairs bathroom. She tensed. She didn’t like the idea of the man being awake and nearby while she lay asleep and vulnerable.

  • • •

  Gisele let out a cry from the other side of the house.

  Victor was out of the bathroom, through the hallway and into the front room within four seconds, gun in hand, safety off, slide jacked and ready to fire.

  She was grimacing and standing on one leg while rubbing the sole of her left foot. “Splinter,” she hissed, not looking up. “People who don’t have carpets should be beaten, I swear. I can’t get it out. My nails are too short.”

  He lowered the weapon and eased the safety back on with his thumb.

  “Shit,” she said, her eyes widening as she glanced up at him. “Did you fall into a wood chipper or something?”

  He didn’t comment. She was referring to the numerous scars that marked his torso and arms. Some were from minor injuries that he’d had to suture himself and appeared worse than they might otherwise. Others though looked as good as it was possible for a scar to look after being stabbed or shot. Most had occurred when he was much younger, when he knew less about how to avoid being injured and when his body could more easily repair itself. He was more careful these days. He had to be. Scar tissue had only eighty percent of the strength of healthy skin. Some wounds still caused him pain in the quiet moments when his mind had nothing else to focus on.

  “I have to say,” Gisele continued. “It doesn’t make me feel very protected when you’re a walking manual of how not to stay safe.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Yes, well. I’m finding a little humor helps me forget about being hunted and all the dead people.”

  He tucked the gun back into his waistband. “Try not to make any noise unless it’s unavoidable.”

  “I impaled my foot on a monster splinter. What else was I supposed to do? Pain is what I’d call a cause of unavoidable noise.” She tried to pry the splinter from her foot, hissing in pain and failing to get hold of it between her nails.

  “I’ll be back in a minute to pull that splinter free. I know a good trick for getting them out.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, grimacing. “I’ve got it. I can do some things by myself.”

  • • •

  When he returned he was fully dressed. He carried two d
isposable cups of water. He handed her one. She sat cross-legged on the floor in the lounge, back to the wall and the coat draped across her knees.

  “Drink this. You have to stay hydrated.”

  She took the cup and sipped from it. He stood nearby, drinking from his own, reacting to every sound of cars or people passing in the street outside.

  “I’ve been thinking . . .” Gisele said.

  “Go on.”

  “Whoever this woman is, I’ve never met her. So I can’t have done anything to her to warrant all this.”

  “Directly, at least.”

  She nodded to accept the point. “Therefore it has to be something I know or can do. Information I have that’s a threat, perhaps.”

  “Could be. But what?”

  “That I don’t know. If it’s information that I have, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I know.”

  “We need to figure it out, though.”

  “Now, that I do know.” She sipped her water. “It can’t be anything to do with Alek’s business because I’ve never had anything to do with it. I’ve been in the UK for years. They must know that. So it has to be because of my job. I don’t have enough of a life outside of work to have done anything to make me a target.”

  “You said you’re not even qualified.”

  “I’m not. That’s why this doesn’t make sense. I haven’t even taken my first case yet. I can’t have crossed the wrong people, because I haven’t dealt with any.”

  “They must know that too.”

  “Then this is all a big mistake. This woman thinks I have some knowledge I don’t and wants to kill me for it. That can’t be right, can it?”

  She looked at him for an answer—an explanation—and with it a way out of a situation that would have seemed ludicrous a day ago. People wanting Victor dead was a common enough occurrence that the why wasn’t always essential. But to the twenty-two-year-old woman before him, the why was everything. She needed to comprehend this for her sanity.

  He said, “Maybe you read a document you weren’t meant to or saw something you shouldn’t have.”