The Evolution of Fear (Claymore Straker #2) - Paul E. Hardisty Page 0,116

end over end, the flaming rag spinning out black smoke. He followed it as it arced up, reached its apex. The bottle seemed to hang there, waiting for Earth to pull it back down. Total time to impact: twice the initial velocity multiplied by the sine of the angle of trajectory divided by 9.81 metres per second squared (gravity). The calculations flashed in Clay’s head. Three seconds to impact. Clay counted it out, watched the thing hurtle in, held his breath.

A man standing ten metres away disappeared in a flowerburst of orange flame. Glass scythed through the crowd. People fell screaming, bleeding. Others stumbled back, pushed up against the press of the crowd trying to move forward. Stones rained down, clattering off balconies, smashing roof tiles. Clay saw a woman go down, blood gushing from her forehead, a man crouch to tend her. Everywhere was panic. Unable to retreat, the crowd surged towards the stage, trampling the barrier, streaming into the alleyway, sweeping aside the security men. Chrisostomedes held his ground, the podium now surrounded with people, an island in a raging river. He was pointing towards the Turkish side, screaming into the microphone. Clay was almost at the podium now. Another Molotov cocktail sailed in. Clay watched it start its descent. It was coming straight for him. He dropped as the bottle crashed into the base of the podium, engulfing the platform in flame. One of the security guards stumbled, burning, stood waving his arms, then fell, disappearing under the crowd. The rush had become a stampede. Chrisostomedes was still on the stage, gesticulating madly as the flames climbed around him, smoke swirling thick and heavy now in the narrow street.

Clay moved closer to the podium, held his ground against the surge of panicking bodies. Chrisostomedes looked down, the microphone still glued to his mouth, his jaw still working, the sound system still pumping out his words. He was looking right at Clay now, eyes flashing. Clay pushed forward to the edge of the stage, reached up through the flames, grabbed Chrisostomedes by the leg and pulled hard. Chrisostomedes crashed down onto the platform, bounced and hit his head on the plywood edge as Clay dragged him to the ground. The flat of his back hit the pavement with a thud, then his head.

People streamed past, oblivious, blinded by thick smoke. Another volley of stones ripped into the crowd, clattered to the ground. The security men were gone, swallowed up. Clay jammed his knee into Chrisostomedes’ solar plexus and applied weight. Chrisostomedes opened his eyes, blood pooling around the back of his head.

‘Where is she?’ asked Clay

Chrisostomedes winced. ‘You.’

‘Answer me.’

‘I don’t know.’

Clay leant into him. ‘Bullshit. She’s your house guest, remember?’

Chrisostomedes grunted as the air left his lungs. ‘Whoever you are, you’re here illegally. You won’t get far.’

Smoke swirled around them thick and blue. Clay pulled out the Beretta, pushed the barrel hard into Chrisostomedes’ forehead so he could feel the muzzle cutting into his skin.

‘You want to talk about illegal? You kidnapped and murdered Rania’s aunt. Let’s start there.’

‘You can’t prove that.’

Clay pushed harder on the Beretta, brought his face up close. ‘Still want to be President?’

Chrisostomedes’ eyes wavered. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he coughed.

‘How sure are you?’

A drop of blood trickled across Chrisostomedes’ forehead. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t have her.’

Another petrol bomb whooshed nearby. More screaming, more bodies flooding past, shadows in the smoke, voices raised now, shouting, Chrisostomedes’ entourage calling out to him, to each other. Clay was out of time.

‘Bullshit.’ Clay pulled back the Beretta, pushed the muzzle into Chrisostomedes’ left calf and fired. Chrisostomedes’ body jerked as the bullet blew through the muscle. He howled in pain, his voice lost in the stampede, just one more scream among hundreds.

Clay pointed the smoking barrel at Chrisostomedes’ face. ‘Next time is the last time.’

‘I don’t have her,’ Chrisostomedes choked through the pain, terror in his eyes. ‘I … I sold her.’

Clay pushed the gun into Chrisostomedes’ forehead again, felt his finger twitch on the trigger. ‘What the fuck does that mean, you arrogant son of a bitch?’

‘I traded her,’ he gasped. ‘To Regina Medved. For the reward money.’

Clay sprang back to his feet, the implications of this staggering like a drunk through his brain. Of course. Now that Chrisostomedes no longer needed Rania to write his version of events, he’d cashed her in. It had been his plan all along, probably conceived and facilitated by Zdravko Todorov, each one thinking that they were using the