Free Die Trying by Chris Ryan Page B

stockpiles of spare motor parts.
    ‘I mean, those Italian shitheads. They got what they had coming to them. But that Scottish guy was out of his fucking mind. Trying to run at you with a fucking knife, Aleks. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Popov beat his palms against the wheel, shaking his head.
    ‘The Scot used to be an SAS soldier,’ Sotov said. ‘They’re taught never to give up.’
    They parked inside the excavated shell of a factory building. Sotov ordered his two surviving henchmen to leave the vehicle and perform a perimeter search. The Grey Wolf waited by the Lincoln, Popov next to him and staring in the direction of the two men.
    ‘The Englishman this morning,’ Popov said. ‘The one who died in the fire. He was SAS too?’
    Sotov nodded.
    ‘Two SAS soldiers murdered in a single day.’ He laughed, but the sound came out like he was having a seizure.
    A white Ford Transit shuttled into the factory entrance. Sotov watched the van draw up alongside the Lincoln. Two men, big as grizzly bears and equally as dumb, got out. One sported a tacky gold necklace. Bulgarians have no taste, Sotov thought. But at least they come cheap. The man with the necklace opened the Transit’s rear doors. Sotov smiled.
    The bitch was inside.
    ‘In the boot,’ Sotov ordered the Bulgarians.
    ‘Let me go!’ the girl yelled, backing deep inside the van. ‘Please!’
    Sotov watched her the way a visitor might look at a creature in the zoo. He lit a Ziganov, his nostrils venting smoke into the van. ‘Does she have a name?’
    ‘Aimée,’ said Necklace Guy.
    He liked the name. Had a nice ring to it.
    ‘My sweet Aimée, there’s no point blaming me for the situation you find yourself in. We know you were with the English soldier. We know he told you certain things.’
    Her face hardened. The Bulgarians disappeared out the front of the factory.
    ‘I believe,’ Sotov directed his gaze at Aimée, ‘his name was Joe Gardner.’
    He waited for the words to sink in. Aimée paused for a beat.
    ‘He’ll make you pay for this, he’ll—’
    ‘But he’s dead, my dear.’
    Aimée stared blankly back at Sotov. As though she didn’t understand – didn’t
want
to understand – the words coming out of his mouth.
    ‘The fire at your flat this morning. He was trapped inside.’ Sotov suppressed a laugh. It tried to push free at the corners of his lips. ‘Burning is a terrible way to go. The flames take a long time to kill a man. There is much suffering.’
    Tears slipped down Aimée’s cheeks. Her lips trembled.
    ‘You’re lying,’ she said, her voice breaking, weak.
    ‘I’m afraid not. No one is coming to save you, Aimée. It’s just you and me.’ Sotov leaned into the van. He pinched her teary cheek. ‘You and me,’ he whispered, Sotov reeling in his finger. A teardrop plinked on to his fingertip. He tasted it. Salty, and yet somehow sweet.
    ‘Now, the problem with the SAS,’ he went on, ‘with people like Joe Gardner, is that they don’t give up very easy. A Russian man – you beat him once, he runs like a fucking dog. Not the same with the British. Gardner can’t have been operating by himself. There must be other soldiers working with him, yes?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘Come on, my sweet. You slept with Gardner; you fucking stink of sex. And a man will tell a woman anything, even his most closely guarded secrets, to get her into bed. He will have said things to you. Plans, numbers, names.’
    ‘He didn’t, I swear!’
    The cold light of day punctured Aimée’s beauty. She had a bruised eye, a bloodied nose. Some marks on her wrists. As if she’d been trapped in the van with a wild dog. Yet with a bit of work and a few days to let her wounds heal, she could be a model.
    ‘I do hope you’re not claustrophobic, my dear,’ Sotov said. ‘We’re going for a little ride.’
    The Bulgarians had returned. Necklace Guy stashed a silencer pistol into his jacket pocket. Popov