Frameshift

Marchenko narrowed the distance between them. He was still holding the phone in his left hand, but swung out with his right. His fist hit Pierre on the shoulder, but it wasn’t hard enough to really hurt. Marchenko apparently realized that; his right hand dug into his hip pocket and came out with a set of keys, which he proceeded to intertwine between his skeletal fingers — just as Pierre had done more than two years before when Marchenko’s henchman, Chuck Hanratty, had tried to kill him.

They were now about three meters from the elevator house. Pierre thought he heard another gunshot coming from the still-open door to the stairs. The OSI men were apparently being held at bay by security guards on one of the upper levels. Still, Avi would have doubtless called for reinforcements by now.

Pierre got his back against the elevator house’s wall. He lifted his cane high and smashed it down as hard as he could. He’d been aiming for the top of Marchenko’s head, but his arm had shaken coming down and the impact had been on Marchenko’s right shoulder instead. There was a loud cracking sound. Pierre hoped it was Marchenko’s scapula, but it turned out to be the cane. As Pierre pulled it back, he saw that it was partially broken in the middle, at the point that had taken the brunt of his weight during his earlier tumble down the stairs. Still, the impact had knocked the cellular phone from Marchenko’s gnarled hand. It hit the concrete and its black battery pack popped loose.

More gunshots in the background. Pierre looked beyond Marchenko and now saw a helicopter on the horizon, but it was impossible to tell if it was coming toward them. Marchenko started to back away. He was unaware of the copter, but apparently realized he was putting himself at a disadvantage by letting Pierre have both hands free.

“Come on, you piece of shit,” taunted Marchenko in his reedy, accented voice. “Come and get me, you fucking piece of shit.” He swiped his hand out, the keys glinting in the sunlight. “Come on, you—”

“Morceau de merde,” supplied Pierre, pushing off the elevator house’s wall with his left hand and leaning on his damaged cane, hoping it would continue to support him as long as he only put pressure straight down on it.

Marchenko was dancing backward now, baiting Pierre closer to — to the toolshed, it looked like, where the old man could probably find a better weapon than a set of keys. Pierre hoped Marchenko would trip as he walked backward. Pierre might not be able to club him into submission, but he still outweighed the geriatric by at least ten kilos. Just sitting on him might be enough to subdue him.

Marchenko looked behind him to make sure the way was clear, and saw the helicopter, now only a couple of kilometers away. Pierre stole a glance behind himself, too, but there was no sign of anyone emerging from the stairwell.

They continued creeping across the roof, wind slapping them like invisible hands. Finally, gathering all his strength, Pierre jumped forward.

It wasn’t much of a jump, but he did succeed in slamming into Marchenko’s chest, and the old man tumbled backward onto the hard concrete. Pierre straddled Marchenko. The hand with the keys lashed out, and Pierre felt them biting into his cheek. He arched his back and tried a roundhouse punch aimed at Marchenko’s face. It connected, and there was a cracking sound. Marchenko’s mouth opened to yowl in pain, and Pierre saw that his top teeth were all off-kilter — Pierre’s punch had knocked his upper denture loose.

Pierre tried to swing again, but this time he missed and the movement threw him off-balance, allowing Marchenko to push him off and struggle to his feet. Pierre could see that the back of Marchenko’s bald head was scraped raw from where it had hit the concrete.

Marchenko hobbled to the toolshed. It had a padlock on its door, but one of the now bloody keys in his hand unlocked it. Pierre, lying on his back, fought to catch his breath and struggled to bring his legs, which were dancing wildly, under control. Marchenko ducked into the shed and emerged a moment later holding a long black crowbar, presumably used to open crates shipped by helicopter. He came over to stand above Pierre.

“Before you die,” said Marchenko, as he raised the crowbar above his head, “I have to know. Are you a Jew?”

Pierre shook his head slightly.

Marchenko sounded sad. “Too bad. It would have made this perfect.”

He swung the crowbar down. Pierre rolled aside just in time, the crowbar’s splayed end taking a divot out of the roof.

The sound of the helicopter was now quite clear above the wind. Pierre glanced at it. It wasn’t the same yellow-and-black chopper he’d seen all those months ago. No, this seemed to be a private, civilian bird, all silver and white. Marchenko had probably called for one of his Millennial Reich cronies to come rescue him.