After a last swift glance through the window, and not seeing their tails, Neil tagged after Kane and their contact.
“Follow the alley to the right,” the American agent told them, opening the rear door. “Then take a left on the next street; there’s a cab station a few blocks down. Good luck.”
Kane paused to shake his hand. “Thanks, man.”
“You bet.”
Neil saw no sign of the thugs as he and Kane hurried down the alley, and he thought they had managed to give those guys the slip. After turning left, he discovered they had turned onto a narrow street with little traffic or pedestrians. Not certain he liked this new arrangement, he glanced over his shoulder.
The trio walked swiftly to catch up to them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kane
“We got company,” Neil said from behind Kane.
Kane half-turned. “Shit. Our pal in there didn’t squeal, did he?”
“I haven’t been in the assassination and spy business long enough to know.”
Glancing back up the street, Kane saw the cab stand about four blocks up. “So near and yet so far.” Stopping, he pondered the notion of opening the black canvas bag and pulling out a pair of guns. But if they happen to not be loaded, we’re in trouble.
Meeting Neil’s eyes, he grinned sardonically. “Shall we see what they want?”
“I suppose this place is private enough to have a nice conversation.”
Setting the bag and the packs aside, Kane and Neil faced the young men as they closed the distance. Sizing them up, Kane recognized arrogance and a kind of cold calculation in their dark eyes that told him they had done this before.
“Can we help you guys?” he asked, his voice genial.
“You Americans?” the tall, thin fellow asked, his accent thick enough to cut with a knife.
“What of it?” Neil demanded. “Get lost before you get hurt.”
They appeared to be in their mid-twenties, Kane suspected, agile and strong. They also looked similar, which made him wonder if they were related. Brothers, maybe, or close cousins. The thug behind the leader stood shorter and had a hard look to him. The third flicked his eyes uneasily between Kane and Neil, as though thinking they had made a mistake in their choice of targets to rob.
The one who had spoken eyed his companions, then took another step closer. “Your money. Now.”
“No.” Neil also stepped forward, staring him in the eyes. “Get lost.”
The Arab flicked open a switchblade. As fast as a striking snake, he plunged it toward Neil’s belly. Even faster, Neil seized his wrist and twisted hard. The would-be robber cried out in pain as his bones shattered like twigs. Seizing the knife with his free hand, Neil plunged it to the hilt in the top of the guy’s shoulder.
This time, he screamed.
Galvanized, the other two launched themselves at Neil, their own knives out. Neil kicked his victim to the side and met the attack with his bare hands. At Neil’s side in a flash, Kane lashed out with his boot and connected solidly with the thug’s knee. Faltering, the Arab’s head dropped, as did his arm holding his weapon. Grabbing his wrist, Kane spun him like a top and twisted his body at the same time. The man flipped a complete circle to crash onto his back on the asphalt, his arm broken in two places.
Neil met the hesitant guy’s rush, sidestepping as the knife came at him. Plunging his knee into the Arab’s gut, the air whooshing from his lungs, Neil grabbed the wrist holding the knife. In a move Kane hardly followed with his eyes, the Arab seized the switchblade with his free hand and stabbed Neil in his torso.
“You son of a bitch,” Neil choked.
Grabbing the blade from his own belly, Neil’s hand shot upward and buried the knife in the Arab’s throat. Thrusting the thug from him, Neil stepped aside, his hand covering the blood staining his shirt. “Fuck.”
Kane grabbed his shoulder, barely aware of the Arab who pulled the switchblade from his throat and sought to stem the flow of his life’s blood from the wound. Neil stared down at him, and Kane also turned to watch the guy’s last few breaths as he quickly bled to death.
“How bad?” Kane demanded.
“Bad enough,” Neil replied. “But I’ll live.”
“Let me see.”
Neil lifted his shirt to show the slim wound on the upper part of his stomach. “I don’t think it hit anything vital.”
Taking the dead man’s switchblade, Kane bent to one of the moaning attackers and cut a large swath of his shirt from him. Folding the cloth, he pressed it against Neil’s injury. Then stripping more, he wound it around Neil’s waist to hold it tight.
“Gut injuries can be bad,” he said, worried, “even for us.”
“I’ll be all right.”
Neil glanced down at the men who stared at them with panicked and terrified eyes. “I told you to get lost,” he snapped. “Now, maybe you wish you had.”
“Let’s go.”
Kane lifted the bag with the guns and handed a pack to Neil. Hanging the other over his shoulder, he took Neil’s arm and headed down the narrow street. “Maybe the hotel has a doctor.”
“Let’s just get there first.”
At the stand, Kane hailed a cab and hoped the driver wouldn’t notice the blood on Neil’s shirt. Neil concealed it behind the pack he carried as he sat in the rear seat with Kane. Observing the sweat on Neil’s face, and his pallor, Kane said to the cabbie, “The Burj Khalifa.”
Nodding without speaking, the driver drove toward the main drag a few blocks away. Concerned that the man spoke and understood English, Kane didn’t dare speak of Neil’s wound or ask him how he was. For his part, Neil sat upright, gazing out the window. Yet, the tightness of his jaw and the sweat sliding down his cheeks told Kane how difficult it was for him to maintain the façade.
Time passed far too slowly for Kane. Even when the cab reached the Burj Khalifa, it was forced to wait behind other cabs, limos, and shuttles before it could get to a spot where Kane and Neil could exit. At long last, Kane paid the driver and got out.
“You okay, man?” he asked as Neil moved more slowly, keeping the pack in front of him as a shield.
“Yeah. You might be right about the doctor.”
Entering the massive hotel lobby amid the milling tourists, bellboys, sheiks, women garbed in black with only their eyes showing, Kane approached one of the many consiglieres who attended the thousands of guests and residents of Burj Khalifa.
“Can you send a doctor up?” Kane asked. He gave his and Taylor’s room number, then eyed Neil beside him. “This man is sick.”
The consigliere bowed. “Yes, sir, immediately.”
“Thanks.”
Taking Neil by the arm, Kane headed for an elevator, hardly looking around to know if anyone watched them. Fortunately, they stepped into a car that had no one else in it, permitting Neil to sag against the wall in privacy. He grinned wryly.
“Jordan will pitch a fit.”
Jordan stopped well short of pitching a fit. As Kane and a slowly moving Neil entered the hotel room, she rose from her chair to say, “I guess you weren’t very careful, Neil.”
“Babe, you should see the other guy.”
Kane, with the help of Ronan and Drake, got Neil into the huge bed and laid him down. Jordan stayed by his side, even as everyone gathered in the bedroom to worry and watch. Kane gently peeled Neil’s shirt off, and then removed the bandage.
Jordan covered her mouth at the sight of the wound. “He needs a doctor.”
“One is coming,” Kane assured her, and sat her on the bed beside Neil. “Someone needs to listen for the doc.”
“I will.” Daryl left the bedroom.
“All right,” Drake said quietly. “What went wrong?”
“Everything went fine until we got mugged.” Kane gestured toward the black bag and the packs. “We got the weapons and clothes. Neil and I both saw these Arabs; we tried to ditch them. Two won’t be so quick to target Americans again, and the one
who stabbed Neil is dead.”
“Good,” Jordan snapped, her tone ugly. “Saves me the trouble of hunting him down and killing him.”
“The dead dude got in a lucky move,” Neil added quietly, his hand in Jordan’s. “Used his left hand.”
A few minutes later, Daryl entered with a small Arab in a neat business suit. He carried with him a large satchel, and Kane hoped he had the items needed to carry out a minor surgery.
“Only me and Jordan will stay,” Kane told them, gazing around. “Please wait, okay? Give the doc some room.”
“He’s right,” Ronan said, ushering everyone out. “We need to give him his space to work.”
No one protested as they departed, closing the door behind them.
“I am Dr. Ansar,” the tidy man said, gazing at Neil. “What happened, please?”
“He was stabbed,” Kane replied. “In a mugging.”
Dr. Ansar shook his head as he removed a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff from his satchel. “That has become far too common in our fair city.”
Sitting beside Neil, he listened to Neil’s heart, then took his blood pressure. “Not bad, considering. Now, this may hurt, young man.”
He gently probed Neil’s wound and the surrounding tissue, Neil wincing once or twice, but he made no sound. “This man should be in a hospital,” the doctor said, his tone severe.
“No hospital,” Neil said, his voice strong. “Do what you have to. I heal fast.”
Jordan chuckled. “He certainly does.”
The doctor sighed. “Very well. But I have no general anesthesia. I can, however, give you a local injection. You will feel nothing.”
“That’s fine.”
Organizing needles, syringes, suturing thread, Dr. Ansar filled a syringe from a bottle and injected the site around Neil’s wound. Again, Neil said nothing, but his jaw tightened perceptively. After a few moments, he relaxed and offered Jordan a reassuring grin. Kane watched from the foot of the bed, keeping an eye on the physician as well as Neil.
“Did he lose a lot of blood?” he asked.
“Not a critical amount, no,” Dr. Ansar replied, making repairs to Neil’s inner muscles. “Nor does it appear that the lung was pierced. Very lucky.”
After carefully snipping and suturing, Dr. Ansar checked Neil’s heart and blood pressure one more time. “I prefer hospitals and X-rays,” he commented dryly, “as well as a full blood work panel in these injury cases. Still, he appears quite well in spite of this stabbing. He should recover fully.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ansar,” Jordan said quietly.
“I will send a bellhop around with antibiotics and pain killers,” he went on, standing to return his items to his satchel.
“What do we owe you?” Kane asked.
“Nothing,” Dr. Ansar replied with a small smile. “I am employed by the Burj Khalifa. Please do not hesitate to call for me if his condition worsens.”
With a small bow, he opened the door and left the room.
Neil had fallen asleep as the physician finished and departed. Jordan brushed his tangled hair from his forehead, and then glanced at Kane, then at Drake’s and Jude’s concerned faces in the doorway.
“I suppose I need to join you for a pow-wow.”
“Yeah,” he answered quietly. “We need to distribute guns, radios, and clothes. Come up with a game plan for tomorrow.”
Bending, Jordan kissed Neil’s lips, then covered him with the bedspread. “Okay.”
Kane followed Jordan out and pulled the door partway closed to permit Neil to rest without excess noise. “Find places to sit, boys and girls,” Kane told them. “We’re gonna talk guns.”
As everyone found a place to sit, Kane opened the black canvas bag. He whistled, staring down into it. “Smithfield wasn’t messing around.”
On top of the pile lay a high-powered rifle complete with scope, ammunition, a carrying case, and a silencer. He hefted it, displaying it in front of his friends. “This won’t look like an accident.”
“But we may need it to take out a bodyguard or two,” Jude replied. “Or provide cover for the rest of us.”
Kane gazed around. “Who is the best candidate for this?”
Drake and Jude exchanged a long glance with one another, then with Ronan, who eyed Daryl with speculation. “What about Daryl?”
“No,” Kane said swiftly. “She’s too good with a handgun.” He pulled out a semi-automatic and tossed it to Daryl. She caught it easily, and then the magazines he threw.
“Neil was awful good with a rifle during training,” Taylor commented. “Maybe he should be the one for the rifle.”
“Done.” Kane set that aside with the magazines for it, then distributed more semi-automatic handguns for everyone else. “The guy even included holsters.” He chuckled. “You ladies can hide these under your gowns.”
“And you boys your dresses,” Daryl retorted, accepting hers and examining it with a professional eye.
“And here’s a handgun for Neil.” Kane set that aside with the rifle. “Now, the radios.”
The tiny radios came with clips that could attach them to belts or clothes, and earpieces for concealment. “Let’s hope no one can listen in on our conversations.”
“Should we develop code words for a just in case?” Natalie asked.
“I don’t think we have the time,” Kane replied, regretting their lack of time, as it was a good idea. “However, we will code our targets. Bobrovsky will be Snowman, and Moon will be—”
“Pervert,” Daryl told him brightly.
Kane and the others laughed. “While I like it, Daryl, it hits too close to home. How about simply Nasty?”
“Works for me,” Daryl replied with a grin. “Snowman and Nasty. What about Antonov? Or Kang?”
“Let’s not complicate things,” Kane said. “We’ll just call them Lieutenants One and Two. If they are listening to radio transmissions, we won’t be on the air long enough for them to understand what we’re after. Just keep it simple.”
“Just inform one another what’s what,” Jude went on with a quick nod.
Kane hefted what looked like a very large and cumbersome cellphone. “Here’s the sat phone Smithfield spoke of. Let’s hope we don’t need it to call in the cavalry.”
He tossed it onto a side table, then jerked his chin at the packs. “What about the clothes?”
“Disguises for everyone.” Kane tossed a pack to Drake, and another to Emily. “Take a look.”
“Ladies, remember,” Ronan said with a dark glance at their girlfriends, “when with one of us in costume, you walk a few feet behind us.”
“Are you shitting me?” Daryl demanded. “I ain’t walking like I’m a fucking servant.”
Ronan bent to kiss her lips. “For me, lover?”
Scowling, Daryl kissed him back. “Only for you. And it ends when we leave this shithole.”
“I don’t like it either.” Emily glared at Drake. “My grandmother didn’t go through hell so I can walk behind my man.”
“It’s the custom here, baby.” Drake stroked his hand through her blonde hair, smiling. “You and I both know you’re the big kahuna.”
Emily laughed and snuggled against him. “You bet your ass I am.”
Jordan stood to don a black robe and boshiya, immediately transforming herself into a Muslim female. “These go right over our other clothes,” she continued. “If we had backpacks under them…”
In swift moves, she removed the garments, and within seconds had them concealed in a backpack, transformed into a Caucasian tourist within seconds. Daryl and Emily laughed, applauding.
“Perfect,” Emily crowed. “So, we have packs under them. If the bodyguards see a Muslim woman, then a moment later, an American tourist, they may not be suspicious.”
“Okay, so we have lady Einstein’s among us,” Kane remarked. “Can we boys change just as quickly?”
Jude stood up and donned the Arab male’s robe, setting the agal over the ghutra within
thirty seconds. It took less than fifteen to disrobe, pack the clothes away, and become a tourist again.
Kane shook his head. “Not bad, but that may be too slow. Still, it might work. First order of business tomorrow is backpacks for everyone.”
Passing out fake beards, mustaches, and sunglasses to Drake, Jude, and Ronan, he set aside Neil’s and his own. “Putting the beards on will be harder than taking them off,” he said, speculating. “For tomorrow, we start out as Arabs in the lobby while we wait for Snowman, then follow him to find out his room, and those of his bodyguards. The same for Nasty later in the day.”
“It all begins tomorrow,” Drake commented, gazing around at everyone. “Any thoughts on separating our targets from their bodyguards?”
Kane grinned, and he knew it was not a nice expression. “Oh, yes, my children. When the time comes, it’ll be as easy as cutting steers from the herd.”
Chapter Thirty
Drake
His fake beard itching incessantly, uncomfortably warm in his clothes with the costume of an Arab male over them, Drake hid his discomfort behind his dark glasses. Even indoors, the Arab sheiks wore them as they walked across the lobby to the elevators, or from the elevators to the front doors. He sat in supreme dignity while perusing an Arab newspaper, the weird scribbles making his eyes want to cross.
“Anything?”
Kane’s voice, the volume adjusted accordingly, thrummed in his ear. “Nada,” he replied, gazing over the top of the paper for any sign of the Russian Prime Minister and his entourage. With him, seated with proper submission, were Emily and Daryl. Under their robes were not just American clothes, but semi-automatic Glocks in shoulder holsters. Drake wanted the best marksmen with him, as he was designated to follow Snowman to his room.
That meant riding up to his floor in the elevator with him.
And his eagle-eyed bodyguards.
“He’s late.”
Dragon Fever: Limited Edition Holiday Romance Boxset Page 70