Maksim’s bullets were leaving no more than a scratch on the surface of the Lexus. Inside, Kapembwa looked up and smiled at him condescendingly. Maksim threw the weapon down in disgust, its mag empty. Steve felt his pulse racing. There were newer types of one-way bullet-resistant glass, now regularly fitted to the armoured vehicles that carried banknotes. You couldn’t fire into them, but they allowed the guards inside the vehicle to fire out at their opponents. That glass was made of two layers: one brittle, one flexible. When a bullet was fired from the outside, the first layers of glass shattered, absorbing and spreading most of the kinetic energy from the round, so that it bounced harmlessly off the inner layer. But when a bullet was fired from the inside, it penetrated the flexible layer of glass with ease, then punched its way through the brittle layer. The results could be lethal. You launched an attack on a vehicle, but your gunfire made no difference, whilst a man inside could pick you off with ease. If that type of glass had been fitted to the driver’s window, then . . .
Steve could see the driver drawing a pistol.
‘Get the fuck down!’ he bawled at Maksim.
The driver had already twisted around, and put a bullet straight through the window. It would have hit Maksim in the throat, but he was already halfway to the ground by time the bullet was fired. The shot punched a clean hole an inch wide in the window. It was swiftly followed by another shot, then another. They too sailed harmlessly into the air.
‘Recognise that gun, Maksie?’ Steve asked breathlessly. Both men were crouched down below the side of the Lexus. There was smoke billowing across the street and the racket of gunfire filled the air as Ollie and his unit traded shots with the troops across the Avenue.
‘Of course. It’s a Skyph.’
The Skyph, or MP 448, was a Russian handgun designed in the early 1990s to replace the legendary Makarov PM Pistol. A semiautomatic gun, like its predecessor it fired 9x18mm calibre ammo, far punchier than standard, and was capable of inflicting far more damage.
‘You sure?’
‘In the Spetsnaz we study all the Russian guns.’
‘How many rounds in a clip?’
‘Twelve.’
‘OK, he’s got nine rounds left . . .’
Maksim knew at once what Steve was thinking. He threw a fist in the air next to the window. The driver fired, but Maksim had already flashed his fist away.
Eight rounds left.
Maksim repeated the trick, again and again, grabbing a rock to make it more effective. At his side, Steve was counting down the rounds. Three, two, one . . .
He’d have another clip, of course, Steve told himself. But even the most skilled operative needs a couple of seconds to switch magazine.
Maksim rolled his fist into the window, then flashed it away. A shot. In the same instant, Steve leaped to his feet. Pushing the barrel of the Uzi into the hole broken in the window by the driver firing outwards, he loosened off two rounds straight into the man’s head. The driver slumped forwards, already dead.
At Steve’s side, Maksim had ripped off half his sweatshirt, and wrapped it like a bandage around his right fist. With a savage punch, he smashed his hand right into the hole in the window, breaking the glass, then flung the door open.
Kapembwa leaned forwards. For the first time, there was a look of real fear etched into the granite lines on his face. He was not a young man, but Steve could see in his eyes that he wasn’t ready to die. It had never occurred to him that his tyrannical reign might end like this, and, in the wild terror of the moment, he couldn’t make any kind of peace with it.
Well, it was too late now, Steve reflected bitterly. The evil bastard had just run out of time.
‘Time to meet your Maker, you son of a bitch,’ Maksim informed him.
Taking the Skyph from the driver’s hand, he slotted the fresh clip he’d grabbed from the man’s lap into place, and slammed his finger on the trigger. One, two, three bullets, all delivered with lethal accuracy, flew straight to the head.
Kapembwa slumped forwards.
The three bullet wounds were arranged in a neat row just above the eyebrows. The man’s eyes had closed. At his side, the bodyguard in the dark suit was sitting in terrified silence.
‘Start brushing up your CV, mate,’ said Steve tersely. ‘I think you’ll be looking for a new job.’
And then he started to run, Maksim following in his wake. His boots were beating against the tarmac, sweat pouring off his face, as he lunged towards the waiting truck. Some of the civilians flooding the Avenue had noticed that the Presidential limo had been attacked, and were starting to swarm towards it, creating a heaving chaotic mass of people. Across the road, a pair of soldiers had broken away from the main column and were running fast towards the car, loosening off some rounds from their AK-47s to help clear the way. Two civilians fell wounded to the ground, only increasing the chaos all around them. The screams of the crowd mixed with the rattle of gunfire to create a hellish haze of noise that only the steeliest of soldiers could fight their way through. And in that chaos, as it had done since the attack started, lay their opportunity of escape.