by Jay Stringer
August Nash.
August Nash?
What was he—?
No time.
She pushed off from the wall and aimed a fist of her own at him. He swerved it and hit her hard in the gut, knocking her back against the house a second time. Now she had no wind and no brain. Nash laughed and stepped in fast, grabbing Chase’s throat with both hands, squeezing as he lifted her. Chase’s feet came free of the ground. She kicked out, but without a solid footing beneath her, she didn’t have any strength in the kick. Chase coughed, fighting for air.
Nash tightened his grip.
Chase started to feel a little distant. A voice was telling her, No, don’t black out, you’re dead if you do. But another part of her was focusing on the way the pain in her head was drifting away and thinking, Hey, this doesn’t seem to hurt too bad…
She saw Eades hesitating. She was halfway down the yard, had been running away from the fight, but now she turned back. Chase wanted to say, Keep going. She’d let Eades down so much already, caused so much trouble. The least she could do was help her get away. Keep her safe. Hadn’t that been her plan all along?
Chase stopped fighting back against Nash to wave Eades away.
Go.
* * *
Hass held on to the smaller guy’s gun hand. They were both trying to control the direction. It was rare for Hass to find someone who could match him for strength. He’d beat this guy in the long run, but for right now he was packing a lot of power into his small frame. He was dressed the same way as the library attackers, but with a tactical belt and gloves. Hass could tell he was a level above the others. There had been the whiff of amateurism off them. But this guy looked and moved like someone who’d been trained. Likely ex-military.
Hass thought of what Eades had shouted the second before the window smashed.
That’s him.
This was the man she’d seen coming out of her apartment building. This was Bobby’s killer. Lothar Caliburn. The man Conte wanted.
Caliburn went limp, throwing Hass off-balance, making him lose his grip. Caliburn pushed away and kicked at Hass, putting enough distance between them to bring up the gun.
Hass had always wondered how he would face this moment.
He didn’t close his eyes.
* * *
Nash knew he’d made a mistake. He knew as he was making it, but sometimes you just gotta roll with the wrong idea. His chance to get Chase had clouded his thoughts. She wasn’t the mission. Ashley Eades was. And she had been the first one out the door. It would’ve been the easiest thing in the world to grab her, shoot whoever followed, and run. He had his modified gun, with the tranq bullets. He hadn’t shared that trick with Danny. He hadn’t even shared bullets with Danny. That gun was empty.
Nash had given him strict orders. No firing. It was his old-school CIA training for operations in a built-up area like this. One bang you could get away with. If someone heard one shot, one small muffled explosion, they would tell themselves it was a firecracker or a car backfiring. Maybe a tire blowout. And in the early hours of the morning, you had the buffer of sleep. The first loud noise would wake people up, but they wouldn’t know why they were awake. But a second loud noise became a problem.
The flashbang had used up their allowance.
And if Danny couldn’t follow that one simple instruction, he deserved to have an unloaded gun. So grab Eades, tranq Chase, then run. Maybe shoot Chase twice; there was always a chance a double dose could be fatal. But then he’d seen Chase, and his focus had shifted. He’d lost perspective. She’d screwed him over so many times. Denied what was his. She was the one who’d made this personal, not him. But he was the one who would finish it.
And so, he’d made the mistake.
With his hands around Chase’s throat, all he needed to do was stand there for a little longer, keep that grip, and she’d be gone. And he could tell she knew it, too. She even stopped fighting. Letting her hands fall to—wave?
Part of Nash knew what the problem was there, but it wasn’t the part that was in control. His anger, his pride, they were running the show. His brain? His brain knew what was about to—
Smash.
Something hard and heavy hit Nash in the back of the head. For a few seconds he was suddenly very aware of his teeth. He watched his hands let go of Chase but didn’t feel himself doing it. Then it came again. Something hard, this time to his temple. That bitch, Eades, was hitting him with something. His vision blurred, and he fell forward. As the world started to go black, he had time to think that the advantage of being hit in the head was that he didn’t feel the kick to the balls Chase had just delivered.
* * *
Click.
Click.
Click. Click.
Caliburn’s face flooded with anger and confusion. Clearly, he hadn’t known the gun wasn’t loaded. Hass didn’t pause to find out what he’d do next. He’d been given a second chance, and he was taking it.
He punched Caliburn, grabbed again at the gun to make sure it couldn’t be used as a blunt object. Too late, he wondered if there was a second weapon.
Caliburn plunged a blade into Hass’s side with his spare hand.
Hass screamed, pulled himself back, instinctively grabbing the hand that held the knife and pulling it back with him, keeping the blade inside. Caliburn hadn’t expected this, handing the momentum to Hass. Hass head-butted the smaller man. Once. Twice. The little guy fell backward, letting go of the blade. Hass pulled the knife out with a quieter, more controlled scream.
Hass always tried not to kill, and there had been times in the field when that hesitation had cost him. On his last real job, when Nash had set him up, Hass had always known it was his own fault, really. He’d held back in doubt at a crucial moment, given his enemy the edge.
He couldn’t make that mistake now. He was injured. Losing blood. If he gave his attacker even a moment, it could all be over. Live or die, fight or fly. He breathed in, said a silent prayer for forgiveness, and sank the blade into the smaller man’s chest.
Again.
Again.
A frenzy that came from knowing if he paused for even a moment, he could be giving his opponent the chance to kill him.
Again. Again.
He stopped only when Caliburn stopped moving and slumped to the floor, his eyes glassy but not quite dead, his chest rising and falling slowly.
Hass touched his own wound. The burning sensation around the edges was a good sign. The area hadn’t gone numb. Blood wasn’t pumping out, so nothing major had been hit. It was going to hurt like hell and he needed medical attention, but he had some time. He pulled out his cell and loaded Talaria, scrolling through the contacts until he found Conte.
When Conte answered, Hass didn’t even wait for a greeting. “I have the man who killed Bobby.”
“Is he alive?”
Hass looked down at Caliburn. His breathing was growing faint. The battery was running down. “Momentarily.”
“I would like to talk to him.”
Hass squatted down, muffling a cry as his wound twisted. He turned the phone’s screen to face Caliburn and pressed it closer to the dying man.
“I must be honest,” Conte said. “I pictured someone else. Someone fearsome. Dangerous. I’m getting old, I suppose, but in my head, I went to someone like Dolph Lundgren. Huge. Strong. Now I find out my Bobby was killed by… you.”
Caliburn’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Whatever his last words were going to be, they were lost in his throat.
Conte continued. “Bobby was a good boy. He wanted to be a hero. He’s in a good place now, and I’ll never see him again. But people like us, you and I, we know where we’re going. And I’ll see you again. And you won’t enjoy that meeting.”
Caliburn was gone. Hass waited a few seconds before turning the cell back to face him. Conte’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he was in control, showing his trademark restraint.
“Thank you, Hassan. And Chase helped?�
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“She did.” Hass thought of Chase and Eades, somewhere out back, dealing with whoever had been waiting out there. “She led me here.”
Conte nodded. His shoulder moved, indicating he’d just pressed a command on the keyboard. Hass felt his cell buzz.
“I have sent you the location of the Ark,” Conte said. “I will wait sixty minutes before sending it on to Chase. And again, thank you.”
He ended the call.
Hass smiled. Even now, in his moment of grief, Conte couldn’t help playing the game. He’d given Hass the chance to betray Chase and go after the prize himself.
Hass looked down at the dead man. He touched his forehead and said a prayer for his soul, then climbed to his feet slowly. He breathed in and said another prayer, this time of gratitude.
* * *
Eades hit Nash with the spade for a third time on his way down. Chase leaned against the house, drawing in deep, ragged breaths. She nodded a thank-you.
The garden looked new. A small path of paving slabs ran between freshly laid turf and patches of soil that hadn’t had time to settle. Newly planted trees lined the walkway. Eades had been here long enough now to literally set down roots and start showing pride in having a garden. Chase knew Eades had come from a safe, relaxed family on the south coast, growing up with gardens as part of the normal background. Then she’d moved to the big city, in a variety of flat-shares and overpriced apartment buildings, and having a garden had become a distant dream. Now here she was, making a fresh life, in fresh soil, and Chase had turned up a second time to wreck it.
“We need to move,” Chase said, her voice hoarse. She stepped over the unconscious Nash.
“Thanks,” Eades said, her own voice withering. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Eades walked to the back of the garden, where her own land met the ancient brick wall of the Necropolis. She pulled a ladder from behind a potted Christmas tree. From a large ceramic pot, she pulled a second messenger bag, bulging like the one in the living room. A second go-bag. A backup plan. Chase had lived long enough with a packed bag by the door to recognize an escape route when she saw one. Eades had scoped this out in advance. She’d been living for so long with the fear, or the certainty that something was coming, that she had needed several ways out. Eades put the ladder to the wall, slipped the bag over her shoulder, and started to climb. Chase held the ladder steady for Eades before following her up.
At the top they pulled the ladder up after them. Chase paused to look back, giving Hass a few seconds to appear in the doorway, but Eades wasn’t going to wait. She slid the ladder down the other side, testing that it was firmly planted before starting to descend. Chase hesitated again. She could see Nash was already stirring. Should she go back? Finish him off? He’d been fine with doing the same to her, so why would she even hesitate at the idea?
She turned to see Eades already striding off into the darkness. No time to wait. She descended the ladder, dropped it in the grass—it wouldn’t stop anyone from following, but it might give her and Eades some time—and followed quickly after Eades through the gravestones. They were an eclectic mix. Large and small. Huge, ostentatious monuments, of crosses and angels, a few obelisks, scattered among subtle markers, small stones, plaques. Chase caught up with Eades as they crossed a concrete path to step back onto grass on the other side, moving parallel with the large football stadium that loomed over them on the left. This side of Celtic Park had been built with a cantilever, so the structure hung over the Necropolis wall and the graves nearest it were in permanent shadow. Chase hoped those people had been Celtic fans.
“Where are we going?”
Eades didn’t turn to look at her. “Away.”
Her mood had changed visibly. Back at the house, she’d been opening up, talking, even admitting to her own fears and mistakes. Now her shoulders were set, her head was down. She was huddling in against herself. Siege mentality.
Chase thought back to what Eades had shouted: That’s him.
Bobby’s killer. More than anything else, that explained her mood change. Seeing Chase had been one thing, a manageable wound, but seeing the face of Bobby’s killer was a different level of trauma. The realization only made Chase feel worse.
They moved deeper into the darkness, between two large angel statues, and passed a mausoleum. There were no streetlights, and they were beyond the stadium lights now. Chase felt her old fears bubble up. She’d almost wondered where they’d gotten to, that old irrational part of her that was scared of the dark. She had tricks for dealing with it. Focus on the physical world around you, block out the nonexistent threat. Focus on the air you’re breathing. The sounds of traffic beyond the walls. The ground under your feet. She felt damp earth and splashed through a puddle, hoping it was mud.
“What’s the pl—?”
Her question was interrupted as she tripped over something hard, landing face-first into something wet.
Please be mud.
Please be mud.
Electronic light filled the space around them. Eades’s face was lit from below, and Chase saw the illumination was coming from a cell phone.
“I’ve got a bike over there,” Eades said. “But only one.”
Chase wiped a hand across her face, coming away with mud. She got up into a crouching position, waiting to see if Eades would help her up.
“Scouted this all out a while back,” Eades said. “Hoped I wouldn’t need it, but I should’ve known you’d be back.”
Anger flashed up from somewhere deep. Chase jumped to her feet. “How is this all about me?” She jabbed a finger at Eades. “What about everything you said back there, you using people?”
Eades met heat with heat. “You brought them here.”
Chase bit back on her response. Breathe. Calm down. Think this through. She’s having a worse day than you. Her life is falling apart for the second time. Her worst nightmare has just come true.
But Chase was only there because she’d dropped everything to fly across the Atlantic to make sure Eades was safe. How dare—
“I’m only here because of you.” Her voice exploded out around them. “We are only here because of you. We came here to help you. It’s not my fault you got mixed up with Nazis, not my fault you jumped into bed with them, not my fault they killed…”
Her words died off. A line had been crossed. She didn’t have the words to apologize.
“That was him.” Eades’s words sounded small. Hurt. “The man in the window. That’s who killed Bobby.”
“Yeah.” Chase’s voice was equally muted. “I’m sorry.”
An engine roared. Car lights in the distance, moving inside the cemetery.
“How’d that get in?” Chase asked.
Eades turned to look. Frightened, she withdrew, making herself small. “They keep the gates open.”
Nash was here.
The lights swept around as the car drove along the twisting concrete path. Chase squatted down, pulling Eades with her. The headlights stopped moving. The car was a hundred yards away, around a bend, facing toward the football stadium. In the reflected light she could make out details. Metallic blue. A Toyota RAV, with a roof rack. More of a family vacation vehicle than a Nazi killing machine.
And speaking of which, why was Nash working for them?
She’d always known his moral compass was a bit off, but even he, she thought, wouldn’t stoop to taking Nazi blood money. Maybe he didn’t know? Was it worth talking to him?
Not now. Survive first, think later.
She remembered what Eades had said a few moments before. “Where’s your bike?”
Eades crawled to a bush in the corner, at the base of the large wall. She ducked into the bush, and Chase heard the sound of tarpaulins being pulled back. She pulled a bicycle out and wheeled it to where Chase was crouching.
“That was your plan?”
Chase heard the sarcasm in her own voice and realized it wasn’t helping. She focused on the car instead. There was ligh
t coming from inside. The door’s open. Nash had gotten out while she had been looking at the bike.
She looked around, peering through the murky shadows to find a good defensive position. Should they fight? Eades wouldn’t stand a chance of getting away on the bike in a race against Nash’s car. But he was on foot now. Maybe if Chase could cause a distraction…
She pulled Eades in close and whispered, “Stay here. Be ready to go on your bike.”
“When?”
“You’ll know.”
Chase stood up and ran toward the car, between the gravestones. When she was within fifty yards, she dropped down out of sight. If he’d spotted the movement, she wanted to disorient him, change direction. She crawled between two large stone crosses, getting close to the car, then stood and ran toward the stadium.
Something off to her left. A shape resolving itself in the dark. Nash. He was moving fast, but she had the speed advantage. If she could stay ahead of him—
A compressed gunshot.
Something grazed her shoulder, almost ripping her leather jacket. She dropped to the ground and kept still. Let him think he got you. Draw him in.
Footsteps now. A splash, a boot going through a puddle. She coiled, ready to move. He stepped between the two nearest gravestones, almost over her now. Chase leapt up, fist first, driving it up into his chin. Her knuckles burned, but he fell back, staggering before going down to one knee. She swung a kick at his head, connecting hard. He was down on both knees now, but not out. She’d used up the element of surprise. She turned and ran again, back in the direction of Eades’s house.
Follow me.
* * *
Light flashed across Nash’s vision. He felt like his brain was splashing from side to side inside his skull. Chase had landed two good blows. If she was closer to him in size, they would have been enough to take him down. And now she was running again. She was faster than him, built more for speed than punching. She was fighting clever.