Caine’s emerald eyes peered out from the darkness. He spotted a dark-skinned African man in a rumpled blue suit, pacing near the entrance of the building. The man checked his watch, then pretended to examine the shoes in the window of the closed store. Caine watched as he moved on. Five minutes later, he crossed the street and circled back. Caine ducked into the shadows as the man walked past the alley.
He crossed to the other side of the street and continued loitering outside the clinic.
No way is this guy NISS, Caine thought. Khairi had mentioned that Dr. Vasani was on a watchlist. But this man was clearly an amateur when it came to surveillance.
Twin high-beam headlights pierced the dusty air and illuminated the storefront. The man hurried off and disappeared down the street. A battered pickup truck swerved around the barricade and pulled over in front of the store. The vehicle was crusted with dried mud. The windows were nearly opaque, covered by a thick film of dirt and grime.
He heard the thunk of the passenger door slamming closed. A slim, petite figure grabbed a pair of duffel bags from the truck bed. He heard a woman’s voice speaking Arabic. There was some shared laughter, the woman and a man, the truck's driver. Then the vehicle pulled away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
A woman dressed in olive-green cargo pants, a khaki shirt, and a floral-patterned hijab stood on the edge of the road. Her face was lit by the screen of her cell phone. Caine could not quite make out her features in the haze-filled air. She turned and walked down an alley next to the clinic.
It’s got to be her, Caine thought. Khairi said she had clinics in the south, she must have just returned. And someone was waiting for her.
As she disappeared into the shadows between the buildings, Caine heard men speaking in the street. They were not speaking Arabic… the dialect sounded East African, possibly Nuer, but he could not be sure. The man in the blue suit reappeared, followed by three more men wearing casual clothes. One of them, a tall, muscular man, wore a dark hoodie that hid his face.
The men walked with a loose, confident gait. They glanced warily around the street as they crossed in front of the store. Then they turned and followed the girl’s path down the alley.
To Caine they felt like hired muscle, possibly militia members from the south. The man in blue had been the advance scout, lying in wait, hiding in plain sight. Now the real predators had come out of the shadows to hunt.
Which meant Nena Vasani was their prey.
Caine stepped out of the alley. He scanned the sparse crowd to make sure there were no other look-outs or attackers in their midst. No one paid any attention to him, or the men who had disappeared behind the clinic.
He turned to his left and jogged over to a small cart parked at the intersection. A robed woman was packing up jars of dried leaves and tea into crates. She was closing shop for the evening.
Caine slipped some bills from his wallet. “Excuse me … aragi?” He smiled at the woman and set the money down on her cart. She glanced up at him and flashed a nervous smile. Her dark eyes darted left and right, looking for any signs of the police.
“No, la asif.” I’m sorry.
Sudan was a Muslim country, under Sharia law. It was illegal to consume or sell alcohol, punishable by forty lashes with a whip. But, as always, prohibition bred demand. Aragi was a local alcoholic spirit, brewed at home by the tea ladies and others looking to make some extra cash. Caine slipped a few more bills onto the pile. “Rajaa, please. I’m in a hurry.”
The woman shot a furtive glance down the dark street, then nodded. She produced a mason jar of thin, cloudy liquid. Caine grabbed the jar.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
The woman said nothing but whisked the money into her robes, then continued to pack up her cart.
Caine opened the jar as he crossed the street. A noxious, chemical smell assaulted his nostrils. The aragi was a potent mash alcohol, made from fermented dates and yeast. Grimacing, Caine poured the foul-smelling liquor over his head. He splashed the remainder on his face and clothes.
He tossed the jar aside and let it shatter on the ground. As he reached the other side of the street, he rubbed the alcohol into his skin and clothes. He slipped the tactical pen out of his shirt pocket and clutched it in his right hand. He gave one last glance behind him to confirm no one was observing his activities. Then he hunched over and staggered down the alley next to the clinic.
The man in the blue suit and one of the other thugs leaned against the walls of an alcove, halfway down the alley. A tiny halogen bulb blazed above them. Its harsh light bathed them in a hazy glow and cast long shadows up and down the narrow brick corridor.
Caine stumbled towards them, imitating a drunken stagger.
“Hey, this the clinic?” he moaned, slurring his words. He fell against the wall, then took a few more tentative steps towards the men in the alcove.
The men stiffened at the sound of his voice. “Go away!” the man in the blue suit shouted. “The clinic is closed. Get out of here or we call the cops!”
Caine shuffled forward. “Woman down there … gave me drink. I feel sick.” He bent over and pretended to retch in the alley.
The other man laughed and turned to his comrade. “Just another pussy expat. Can’t handle his aragi.”
The man in the blue suit shot a disdainful glare down at Caine. He slipped a push-to-talk phone from his pocket. “Yiel said to call if anyone approached.”
Can’t let them call upstairs, Caine thought. Got to end this fast.
The other man stepped towards Caine. “This sod isn’t worth Yiel’s time.” He grabbed Caine’s hair in his fist and yanked him upright. “Eh, I talking to you, foreigner! Don’t you know? Alcohol illegal in Sudan! We should call the cops. Or maybe I teach you a lesson myself.”
Caine was moving before the man finished his words. He drove the blunt end of the heavy pen into the man’s ribs. The hammer-like blow struck with a dull thud, and the man’s eyes bulged open. His hand dropped from Caine’s head to his wounded side.
Caine’s arms shot up and wrapped around the back of the man’s neck. He laced his fingers together and yanked the head down. His forearms pressed tight against his target’s neck.
As he locked the man’s head in a clinch, he stepped backwards. The quick movement forced the head down and opened up the space between them. The man threw a few weak punches, but the distance and position of Caine’s body left him unable to strike a solid blow.
Caine twisted his body sideways. He spun his locked attacker around, slamming him into the man in the blue suit. As the other attacker staggered back into the wall of the alcove, the phone tumbled from his hands. It bounced across the floor of the alley.
Using the clinched opponent as a battering ram, Caine kept his other adversary pinned against the wall. He drove his right knee into the locked man's face three times. The man's grunts of pain turned to a high-pitched squeal as the cartilage in his nose snapped from the punishing onslaught.
Caine released the hold and took a step back. He raised the pen in a hammer grip. His opponent looked up and snorted blood from his crushed nose. His eyes glowered with rage, and his cheeks and jaw were raw from the series of knee strikes. If he saw the tiny weapon in Caine’s hand, he gave no sign of it. Instead, he barreled forward, swinging his fists in front of him. His left arm shot out, followed by a right hook.
Caine stepped back, avoiding the wild blows. He knew instinctively that his attacker had fallen into a typical ‘one-two punch’ pattern of fighting. It was predictable. Familiar.
Careless.
Sure enough, the man attacked again with his left fist. Caine swung up his right forearm, diverting the punch to his left side. He kept his arm rigid and used the minimum amount of force to deflect the blow. When the next attack came from his opponent’s right, he was ready. He made another tight, controlled pivot with his arm, again knocking his target’s blow off the attack line.
Caine wrapped his left hand around his op
ponent’s bicep and clamped his right forearm on his wrist, trapping the arm. He jerked back, pulling the man off balance. Before his target could recover, Caine drew his right arm back and stabbed forward with all his strength. The pointed tip of the rigid metal pen tore into his opponent’s neck.
Hot blood washed over the fingers of his weapon hand. A plume of crimson shot out, splashing across the walls of the alcove. His opponent’s eyes bulged wider. The thug’s hands shot up to cover the gushing wound in his neck as he struggled to staunch the flow of blood.
Caine dragged the pen back, tearing open the puncture wound further. He lunged forward, following up the stabbing attack with an elbow snap to the bleeding man’s face. His target fell backwards and his head cracked against the concrete steps that led up to the second floor.
Caine spun towards the other man in the alcove. The man in the blue suit was reaching for the cellphone on the ground. Caine’s foot lashed out and kicked it aside. The phone clattered along the floor of the alley as Caine slammed his forearm into the man’s throat. Driving him backwards, he shoved him against the wall of the stairwell.
“Make a sound, you die,” he hissed. “Who do you work for?”
Beads of sweat dripped down the man’s face. His panicked eyes darted left and right as he gasped for breath. Caine pressed his arm tighter against his windpipe. “Now is the part where you talk,” he growled.
Before Caine heard a sound, he knew … Something about the way the man clenched his jaw, or the way his eyes stopped their nervous jittering …
The man was going to cry out.
His cheeks puffed with air. “Yiel—”
Caine drove his knee up into the man’s solar plexus. His hoarse cry turned into a sputtering cough as the air was forced from his lungs. Caine yanked him forward by his collar, letting him collapse to the ground.
As he fell to his hands and knees, Caine spun the tactical pen around in his fingers. The blunt end of the cap was a knurled hammer tip, designed to break auto glass.
Caine slammed it down on the back of the man’s skull. A fleshy thud echoed around the tiny alcove. The man stopped struggling and went limp.
Caine struck him again, this time on the side of his temple. He stood up and glanced around the corner. The alley was still empty. At the far end, he saw a couple of late night pedestrians walk past. No one looked down the dark, foreboding corridor.
He looked back at the stairs. The man he had stabbed wasn’t moving. His dark skin had taken on the gray pallor of death, and his clothes were soaked in a growing pool of blood.
Using the pen’s glass breaker, Caine reached up and shattered the light bulb. The alcove was cloaked in darkness. Then he grabbed the man in the blue suit and dragged him partway up the stairs. If anyone cut through the alley, the shadows would hide the two bodies from view.
Two down, two to go …
Caine paused for a moment, letting his night vision adjust. Then he ascended the stairs, disappearing into the pitch-black darkness above.
Chapter Seventeen
The stairs ended at a splintered wooden door. The faded paint on its surface looked like pale, teal green, but it was difficult to tell in the dim light. Caine listened for a moment. The only sounds he heard were the muted traffic outside and distant music from the nightclubs on the busier streets.
He turned the knob. The door opened with a soft creak. Caine stepped into a narrow corridor. Moths and flies fluttered about the dim fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling.
The corridor was empty. Caine could hear muffled voices coming from a door about halfway down the hall. He pressed himself against the wall and took a few steps closer to the door. He stopped in front of a window that looked out over the rear of the building. Below, he saw another empty alley. Laundry hung between the buildings above piles of broken furniture and other debris.
He crept past the windows, stalking closer to the door. A sign on the wall read ‘Eiada’ in red Arabic letters. The English translation, ‘Clinic’ appeared underneath. An arrow pointed to the door. It was cracked open, and Caine could hear the voices clearly now. A man was shouting in an African dialect. He heard the sound of breaking glass. A woman screamed.
Keeping his back against the wall, Caine peered through the cracked door. The lights in the room were dim. Distant street lamps glowed through a pair of windows on the far wall. Medical charts and posters hung from the other walls. Glass and metal cabinets lined the room, filled with cotton swabs, bandages, and various bottles of medication. A wheeled stretcher stood in the middle of the clinic beneath a hanging adjustable light.
One of the men from outside was standing with his back toward Caine, facing another door. The door was closed, and the voices were coming from the room on the other side.
Caine took another step closer. He moved in silence across the tile floor, the muscles in his body coiled and taut. He raised the tactical pen, focusing his gaze on the back of the man’s neck.
Suddenly, the buzz of a tiny engine raced outside the window. The noise echoed off the walls of the alley outside. A motorbike was taking a shortcut between the two buildings. As it sped past the clinic, its headlamp reflected off the walls of the building, filling the window in the room with a beam of light. It was not very bright, but it was just enough to cast a shadow on the opposite wall.
Two shadows.
The guard grunted in surprise as he realized he was not alone in the room. Caine lunged forward, but the man was already spinning around.
The guard blocked Caine’s downward strike with his forearm. He launched a counterattack with his right hand. Caine saw the glint of a blade. The man was armed with a knife of some kind.
Caine leapt back, but the tip of the blade sliced across his side. He heard his shirt tear and felt the burning sting of the blade as it grazed his flesh.
The man swung the blade again and called out, “Yiel, come quick!”
Dammit! The curse of frustration echoed through Caine’s mind, but he paid it no heed. He brought up his hands in a defensive position. He kept his eyes on the man opposite him, watching his arms and shoulders.
The man swung wide, looking to angle the blade towards Caine’s wounded side again. Caine stepped outside the arc of the blow and pivoted his torso. Using his left arm, he knocked the strike aside. Locking the man’s arm in his left hand, he stamped the pointed end of the pen down on the fingers of his attacker’s knife hand.
The man yelped in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. Behind him, the other door exploded open and the fourth man barreled into the room. Caine caught a glimpse of bulging muscles and snarling lips. The man was tall and towered over Caine’s current attacker. The hood of his sweatshirt was pulled back, revealing a painted white skull that covered his face.
He raised a pistol in his giant fists.
Caine moved on instinct, swinging the pen back and slamming the blunt end into his target’s face. The man howled in pain and struggled to pull away, but Caine locked the hold on his arm tighter. He swung the man’s body to the left, using him to block the bigger man’s shot.
The gun roared twice. Orange muzzle fire flashed through the dim room. Caine’s target jerked as the bullets thudded into his body. Tossing the corpse at his new attacker, Caine dipped low and dropped the pen. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of the discarded knife.
He lunged forward as the bigger man shoved his partner’s corpse out of the way. He raised the gun again, but before he could get a clear shot, Caine was upon him.
Caine’s left arm swung out, slamming the gun to the right as the man pulled the trigger. The noise was deafening at such close range, but the shot went wide. The bullet tore into the hanging light fixture. A shower of sparks cascaded into the room.
Caine yanked the barrel down, pointing it at the floor between them as his right hand sliced up with the knife. The bigger man snapped up his left hand and blocked the strike. His meaty fingers curled around Caine’s wrist in a crushing grip.
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br /> Bellowing an angry roar, the hulking brute charged forward. His weight forced Caine back onto the stretcher. The two men crashed onto the rolling platform, their momentum sending them careening across the room.
They slammed into the wall, the thin plaster crumbling from the impact. Caine felt medical equipment tumble and fall from the shelf above them, and winced as it pelted his face and shoulders. A plastic cord curled around his right arm, but he ignored it. His opponent was larger and stronger than him … It would take all his focus to keep the man from regaining control of his pistol.
The big man wore a collection of jingling gold and silver necklaces. A large gold pendant, shaped like the letter Y, hung above his broad chest.
“You must be Yiel,” Caine gasped. Keeping his grip on the barrel of the gun, he slammed a knee into the man’s stomach. The blow seemed to bounce off the hard, smooth muscles of the man’s torso.
The big man smiled. “You die with my name on your lips,” he snarled. He began to force the gun up.
In the dim light of the room, Caine saw a faint red glow illuminating Yiel’s face. He looked up. A plastic box covered with knobs and dials hung from the wall just above his head. The coiled cable that wrapped around his arm led up to the box. A red LED light on the console flashed on and off, next to a black switch.
The gun fired again. A cabinet on the opposite side of the room exploded, sending shards of glass across the floor. Caine struggled to keep the man at bay.
Yiel slammed Caine’s knife arm into the wall, battering his fingers against the crumbling plaster. Caine’s grip on the weapon grew weak. He released the blade, letting it clatter to the floor. The big man relaxed his grip. It was only for a second, but that was all Caine needed.
He twisted his elbow up, striking the side of the man’s face. The blow was weak, but it caused Yiel to flinch. Caine used the momentary distraction to yank his arm from the man’s grip. He reached over his head and pounded the switch on the machine.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 81