Grip - 17. Chapter 17

Warehouse District

Mister Cooper drew the sharp knife across the leather of the seat cushion, reaching in to recover his memory card, relieved to finally have it back in his hands once again.

So much trouble over such a small thing. He held it up to the light, the briefcase of money sitting on the roof of the car that was parked in the disused warehouse that he’d ‘borrowed’ years ago. An old Russian Mafia haven that had been forgotten in the clean up after Yeltsin had died. The owner, legally, was in some Siberian Gulag, likely to be freed sometime around 2020, and even he probably didn’t remember he owned the place.

Like so many shadows of the past, the warehouse had stood empty and forgotten, until Mister Cooper had returned.

His escape car, a non-descript black Lada was waiting for him. Ukrainian licence plates on it, ready to whisk him into Eastern Europe with the fake passport he’d secured many years before for just such an escape.

He walked across to the car, dragging out his suitcase and slipping the memory card into his computer, making a back up of it on the laptop that he sat on the roof. Insurance, especially after so easily loosing the memory card in the first place.

“Is that what they’re after?” Mrs. Cooper asked him, standing in the open doorway of the warehouse, the cold chill wind sweeping past her as the gently drifting snow settled on the concrete floor. Beside her, Jae stood with his arms crossed looking furiously indignant.

“How the hell did you find me?” Mister Cooper asked as he straightened up, pulling the memory card out of the computer as it dinged the back up was complete.

“You’re an idiot,” Mrs. Cooper said. “And idiots always think they can get things past their wives.” She glanced around her at the warehouse, “we used this in a job back in the nineties, and you bragged back then about the fact you were the only one that knew about it. And while you’re a little senile these days, my memory works just fine.”

Mister Cooper swallowed, looking back over at the Lamborghini where his coat with the pistol in its pocket was laying across the passenger seat, and the briefcase of money was sitting on the hood.

“Well I see to have underestimated you then,” Mister Cooper stated, licking his lips and trying to think of how he would reach the gun and the case.

Jae spotted his furtive glances and calmly cross the warehouse floor to grab the briefcase, taking a step back as he watched Mister Cooper’s cagey expression.

“You really did it this time,” Mr. Cooper accused. “The FSB Coop? Are you nuts?”

Mister Cooper slipped the memory card into his pocket, reaching up to close the laptop. Trying to decide on his options, he knew he didn’t have many, but what he did have was surprise…

He flung the laptop across the warehouse at Mrs. Cooper, who caught it, jerking her head down to see what it was she was holding as Mister Cooper dived into his Lada, gunning the engine and roaring towards her with a wild look in his eyes the front end of the Lada crashing into the right front end of the Lamborghini, shattering the front and tearing the front bumper off as he crashed through the half open doors, sending Mrs. Cooper flying as she dived out of the way.

She swore as she scrambled to her feet, leaving the laptop on the ground as she looked at the ruined front end of her Lamborghini, fury beginning to well inside her, threatening to overflow and burst.

Jae tried to call to her, as she was already running, swinging up and into the Pajero, the engine blaring as she took off after the fleeing Lada leaving Jae amidst the wreckage, holding the case.

“Crap,” he murmured watching her go, yanking out his cellphone as it began to ring.

“Max?” he called into it after glancing at the Caller ID. “Yeah I need a pick up, things have just gone really badly…”

* * *

Varshavskoye Prospekt

Mister Cooper was oblivious to the imminent danger rocketing through the snow bearing down upon him. Focused as he was on driving through the snowy city streets towards the M-02 Highway that would take him out of the city and as far away from Moscow as he could get. The events of the past few weeks had been entirely too hair-raising for him, and he’d appreciate a change of scenery, besides Kiev was lovely at Christmas time.

His windshield wipers were swishing back and forth against the snow that caked everything in white. The snow was intensifying and becoming a blizzard, and the further he went from the city, the stronger it fell. The Lada battling its was through the deep snow drifts that were forming across the road where the ploughs hadn’t been able to clear.

He coiled his hands around the steering wheel. Wishing that the pathetic heater in the little Lada would actually do something to warm the interior of the car. He regretted leaving his coat in the Lamborghini, along with his gun, but he didn’t have time to dwell on the regrets as he slalomed down the on ramp to the M-02 and shot beyond the MKAD heading out of the city.

* * *

M-02 Highway

Mrs. Cooper’s screams of incoherent rage echoed back into her ears, the sounds twisted and distorted by the inside of the SUV. She let loose a stream of curses and the guttural sounds bounced back as if a chorus of demons had joined in, hissing in their hellish tongue. She slammed her left fist into the dashboard of the SUV and received no pleasure on seeing the glass crack and break from the impact. She turned away and violently shoved the wheel over, cresting up the embankment of the access ramp, the Pajero’s suspension bounded in protest, sending other cars scurrying frantically in their efforts to get out of the way.

Mrs. Cooper’s trusty Pajero was a 4wd monster built for snowy conditions. The galloping 3.8L V6 engine was powering the mighty beast through the drifting snow, thundering down upon its prey ahead of it, like the great Argentinean Jungle Cat that it was named after.

Inside the Pajero the hellish glow of the yellow streetlights whipping past threw swirling, flickering shadows over the interior and her face. Mrs. Cooper was so livid she was shaking; her thoughts boiled under her skin, leaving scars; her lingering hatreds from the last time he’d betrayed her had produced such a strong passion for revenge that it was driving her mad now that it was clashing with the need to protect Jae and Max. She wanted to embrace it, kill him, and forget him all at once—and she hated herself for it. Her hands worked uncontrollably. She wanted to destroy something—no, someone.

“Well hello Mister Cooper,” she snarled, gnashing her teeth. “Fucking Phil mother-fucking Collins!”

Her hand latched onto a flimsy steering wheel; as if she could twist it off under her fingers and throw it aside, imagining it was the Mister Cooper’s throat that was in her hands, so easily mangled.

Mrs. Cooper violently crashed the Pajero back onto the road, blowing through a snow bank as the Pajero slammed back into the asphalt. Her mind a purgatory of self-loathing, a hurricane of fury thundering inside her and her toxic emotions clawing at her guts as she raged against everything that came to mind: Coop’s treachery, her failure to stop him, the meddling FSB and their murdering of her friend, Max’s weakness, Jae’s words, herself—for not taking revenge, Mister Cooper—for making her feel like this, herself, Max, that Jae, Boomer, and that GOD-DAMNNED PHIL COLLINS!

Suddenly, Mrs. Cooper stopped raging. Just stopped. A curious stillness and calm descended over her. “Ah…” she murmured. Before her was the Ukrainian plated black Lada with its crumpled front end, “You fool.” She chuckled a little, then louder. “You fool,” she repeated her mascara streaked eyes going wide. “You fool!”

Mrs. Cooper had gotten beyond her rage, now. She laughed—for no reason she could comprehend—and her laughter got louder and louder until it was the very voice of insanity. In a part of her mind she knew she was hysterical, that her mind was breaking because of emotional stress, that she needed to calm down. But she didn’t want to. She had reason to be hysterical. Hello Dear, she thought, you know we promised till death do we part… let’s speed things up a little.

The back end of the Lada shot up towards her as she accelerated, feeling the wonderful thrill of the collision with his back bumper reverberating through the much heavier vehicle. She rocked back into her seat as she let loose a maniacal laugh of sheer rapturous pleasure.

* * *

In the Lada

“What the Fu-!” Mister Cooper slammed into his steering wheel, nearly loosing control of the car as it slid through the snow, automatically hitting the gas pedal to regain control he looked up into the rear-view mirror, staring right into the face of the insane woman driving the monstrous Pajero up and into his rear fender again.

He hit the hands-free kit on his phone, dialling the cell he knew she’d have attached to her dash board.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, as she picked up.

Her reply was to crash into his rear-end again, forcing him to fight to keep control, the little Lada being a significant disadvantage to the hulking SUV.

Mister Cooper ran; his Lada racing through the snowy pavement and splashed through a slushy puddles that had spread out across the nearly deserted highway. Mrs. Cooper’s Pajero roared; but he had no idea how close or far behind she was.

And at the moment, he was too afraid to look.

The cold autumn air ripped through Mister Cooper’s throat as he gasped for breath. Mrs. Cooper was still behind him. He had tried to lose her by twisting and sliding the car through the icy road, but had only succeeded in nearly running himself off of the road.

And behind him, Mrs. Cooper—damn her!—was adding to his fear for her own amusement; her whispery, harsh voice carried through the hands free kit so clearly that it was as if she was beside him as she hissed out an obscene, chant-like lullaby:

“Soon I’ll lay you down to sleep, I pray that Hell, your soul to keep…”

Ahead of him, Mister Cooper spotted a break in the road where another road crossed it: another road he could run down, a way for him to escape from the nightmarish highway of death that trapped him alone with her. A faint spark of hope rose in his and he accelerated, though his car struggled and strained, topping out far short of the speeds he needed to get far enough away from her. Maybe if—I—can get—ahead, he thought.

Mister Cooper was exhausted; his lungs felt like he was breathing razor blades instead of cold winter air. He spotted a light ahead of his where the road narrowed and curved right. Her heart leapt with the hope that the light was coming from another town, that he could run out there and lose himself among the traffic where Mrs. Cooper wouldn’t follow. He rounded the turn. And slid to a stop.

“Jesus,” he murmured, barely able to speak through his gasping. I am going to die.

It wasn’t a town, but the flickering lights of a train pounding on tracks parallel to the highway. She careened down on him again, and he squealed out again, trying to slip by her as she smashed into his rear end, sending his car spinning out into a fish-tail.

It took all of his strength to wrestle the car back onto the highway. With the train blocking his route of escape there was nowhere left to go. And his fate was somewhere behind his, closing in on him again as he accelerated along the highway.

Mister Cooper wanted to cry and scream with rage at the same time. There was no way, after all he had been through, that it was going to end like this. What would the FSB think when they found what was left of him?

She’s going to kill me, he thought, she’s going to kill me. Oh, God…

The Pajero again rammed into him, and his head bounced off of the windshield, cracking it as he fell back, still clutching the steering wheel. A moment of shock passing through him as he lifted it up, wondering why it was able to do that if it was attached to the steering column. Which, of course, was no longer true.

The Lada slammed against the crash barrier, being pushed by the Pajero as sparks erupted in the snowy night, the front quarter of the Lada crumpling as he frantically pounded on the brakes, trying to stop, praying to stop.

The 3.8 Litre SOHC 24-valve V6 crushed the Lada’s stock brakes, ploughing the car onwards as the front fender of the Pajero locked on the twisted rear fender of the Lada. A death grip of steel that locked both vehicles in a deadly embrace as the Pajero cut to the right, taking the tiny Lada with it, coming off of the highway and up the embankment, both crashing onto the dirt track that ran alongside the train tracks.

* * *

The 4:30 train to Kiev

The 4:30 am train from Moscow’s Kievskya station to Kiev was just over an hour into an eight hour train journey. It was due to arrive in the middle of the day and was a routine fixture on the old soviet-era rail system linking the one time allied countries together.

It was an archaic string of second class and third class sleeping compartments stretched out behind the ancient locomotive that churned its way through the blizzard, the drivers concentrating on a rather noxious concoction of instant coffee mixed with vodka which had the wonderful advantage of keeping the chill out, despite the fact that he was already far too drunk to care.

His eyes caught something in the long mirror that allowed him to see back along the train. A shower of orange sparks fizzleing through the night and snow. He stared at it, gwuffing as they suddenly went out. Shrugging and dismissing it as yet another wonder of post-soviet construction gone awry, he went back to concentrating on his coffee.

* * *

Pajero

They were rocketing down the length of the passenger train, heading for a small country road that crossed the tracks, Mrs. Cooper’s eyes hardening as she tightened her hands on the wheel, staring through her tear streaked mascara as her lip twisted into a vindictive sneer.

She did what she’d been dreaming of doing for years, she cut the wheel sharply to the right, driving the Lada and the Pajero into the side of the train with explosive results…

* * *

Wreckage

Mrs. Cooper approached him leisurely, and Mister Cooper struggled in the ruin of his Lada as he tried to back away from her; she watched him patiently until his back was almost against the twisted door of the car. He sat there looking at her, unable to go any further on his broken legs. The hot air he breathed out turned into little puffs of white fog that dissipated into the night.

The Pajero had been tossed into a field of snow by the train, its red tail lights on, bathing the scene in red as the locomotive was coming to a stop further up the tracks. The drunk driver trying to work out what the hell had hit his train.

Mister Cooper’s eyes locked on his ex-wife as she stalked towards him.

Oh God oh God oh GOD, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut as he pressed his back against the cold, twisted metal frame behind him. A tear trickled from the corner of his eyelids. I don’t want to die like this… Suddenly, he paused; his thoughts were filling her with an overwhelming emotion that he could not name, but it was certainly not despair. I don’t want to die like this, he thought again, seizing that one, desperate thought, that determination to live at all costs. One thought, one purpose entered his mind, spurring him to action: I am NOT going to die like this!

Her eyes flew open. They locked on Mrs. Cooper’s visage of death as she lit a cigarette and sat down in the snow, tucking her knees under her chin.

“W-what?” he choked.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Mrs. Cooper said, her voice a deadly calm. “I’m going to let the FSB get a hold of you.”