No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  He continued, “You see Nadia, I’m not going to sell it to anyone. I’m going to activate it myself. I will then control every financial system on the planet. People will have to use my cryptocurrency if they want to do anything.” He slipped the USB drive back into his jacket.

  Then three things happened at once. The first was a subtle mechanical click behind Nadia and the door swung open. Nadia didn’t turn, she just slid to her left, giving Ratchford a clear view of the man who was now standing in the doorway, a frown on his face, wondering why two people were in the freight car and why was one pointing a gun at him.

  Ratchford shot the train guard twice in the chest, rapid, precise, deadly. The man collapsed. It was enough of a distraction for Nadia. She squeezed off two shots of her own. But Ratchford was lightning fast, anticipating Nadia’s movement he ducked and pivoted at the same time. One of Nadia’s rounds slammed into the wall, the other just grazed Ratchford’s shoulder, spinning him around and behind a tall stack of crates. He recovered, whipped out a switchblade and slashed the fastenings on the crates then pushed them on top of Nadia who had ducked down behind them on the other side.

  The top crate came crashing down on Nadia, then a second crate tumbled, pinning her arm and leg. Ratchford came at her, clambering over the pile of crates, some broken, some intact with Nadia trapped underneath. She kicked out and pushed one crate off just as Ratchford slid on top of her, bringing his gun up, aiming at her head.

  She grabbed his gun hand at the wrist and slammed it hard into the sharp corner of a crate. Once, twice, three times, each impact leaving a larger bloody stain on the splintered wood. Ratchford let out a snarl and the gun dropped. Nadia brought her gun to bear. Ratchford clamped her hand with his other hand and twisted her wrist back, almost breaking it. Out of reflex to avoid pain, Nadia’s fingers loosened and her gun tumbled to the floor.

  Ratchford drew his shoulder and arm back, balled his fist and drove it straight into Nadia’s face. Nadia’s head exploded in a crescendo of pain and white light.

  Ratchford stumbled to his feet, grabbed the collar of her jacket with both hands and hauled her up. “I’m not going to shoot you Nadia. That would be too easy.” He twisted and flung Nadia against the far wall.

  She hit the bulkhead hard and collapsed to the floor, dazed, her eye already swollen from the brutal punch.

  Ratchford lumbered after her. “No, I am going to squeeze the life out of you.” From his pocket he took out a length of thin wire, wooden handles at each end. He grabbed Nadia by the hair, slid behind her and pulled the wire over her head.

  Instinctually Nadia brought a gloved hand up against her neck under the loop of the wire, blocking the wire from her throat. The wire cut into fabric of the glove, the nylon material offering little protection.

  “You little bitch,” Ratchford hissed into her ear, his attempts to strangle her quickly and efficiently thwarted. He began sawing the wire back and forth, the razor-thin wire making quick work of the fabric of her glove.

  Nadia reached behind with her free hand, trying desperately to dig her fingernails into Ratchford’s face and eyes. He grunted with effort, pulling harder on the garrote, pushing himself further behind Nadia, avoiding her fingers, then wrapping his legs around her waist and locking his ankles together.

  Nadia dropped her hand and began to fumble with her jacket pocket.

  The wire finally sliced through the glove, searing pain shot across the blade of Nadia’s hand, drawing a trickle of blood, thick and sticky.

  Finally her fingers found the zipper of her jacket pocket. She pulled out a short stiletto knife, and reversed it inwards.

  “Pizda!” she swore as she plunged the knife into the side of one of Ratchford’s thighs that was wrapped around her waist.

  Ratchford screamed. The leg she had stabbed came away from her waist, but the garrote remained tight cutting deeper into her hand, the trickle of blood now a stream.

  Nadia tried to wriggle free but Ratchford hooked his other foot under Nadia’s knee in a classic Jiu-Jitsu move. She bucked violently with her hips, pushed with her feet against the floor and twisted her torso. They toppled sideways against the wall.

  Above her head on the wall was a panel with a large push button, just out of reach. She swung her free leg up and sideways slamming the button with the outside of her ankle.

  There was a loud mechanical groan as the double access doors of the freight car began to slide apart. A blast of cold air and a swirl of snow billowed inside.

  Nadia threw her head back, smashing Ratchford’s nose with the back of her head.

  The garrote loosened.

  She screamed with effort as she rolled her hips sideway towards the opening, dragging Ratchford with her, one leg still clamped around her waist and under her knee like a python.

  They teetered on the edge of the opening, a torrent of howling wind tearing at their clothing, a blizzard of stinging ice pelting faces, the roar of the steel wheels racing over the tracks below them.

  Then locked together as one, they tumbled out of the opening into the darkness beyond.

  8

  The Bridge

  They hit the ground hard in a tumble of arms and legs, wrapped in a flurry of snow, ice and dirt before finally coming to rest twenty feet from the tracks.

  Ratchford kicked away the prone body of Nadia and got to his feet first, his face a bloody mess of broken cartilage. Instantly pain shot up one leg, the knife driven deep into his thigh by the fall.

  Ratchford cursed as he pulled out the knife and threw it away. He looked around him, his breath ragged and fogged in white.

  They were at the bottom of a slight embankment, the rear lights of the last carriage of the train fading into the darkness along the track. Seconds later the train clanked across a tall bridge over a wide, deep canyon, the sound echoing off the steel support beams and girders of the bridge before bouncing off the canyon walls on each side. If they had come off the train a few seconds later, they would have not met solid ground, instead plunging hundreds of feet into nothingness and certain death.

  A line of tall pines, their branches crusted with snow, ran along each side of the tracks. Ratchford felt his pocket. The USB flash drive was still inside. He needed to get to the other side of the bridge. Innsbruck couldn’t be more than a few miles. He had set-up a safe house there. He could regroup, patch himself up, go to ground for a while and plan his next move.

  He took off at a hobble towards the tracks, clutching at his thigh, trying to stem the flow of blood, self-preservation his only focus.

  Nadia came to her feet a moment later just in time to see the stumbling shape of Ratchford heading towards the rail bridge. Ignoring the pain of her hand, she took off at a sprint after him, kicking up tufts of snow in her wake.

  Looking over his shoulder Ratchford could see the shape of Nadia looming towards him, instantly regretting not killing her with her own knife she had stabbed him with.

  He tried to move faster over the tracks but his entire leg burned in pain. Nadia was slowly overhauling him. She was faster, younger, fitter and had the benefit of two functioning legs.

  He could see the bridge ahead, a dark expanse of spans and arches in the muted moonlight. He gritted his teeth and pressed on, ignoring the pain, one good leg almost dragging the other, his mind willing himself to move faster.

  But it was no use. In a straight-line race across the ground she would reach him by the time he was only halfway across the bridge.

  He needed to change tact so he angled off to the side, down off the tracks and towards the underside of the bridge. He knew Nadia’s hand was badly cut from where the garrote had sliced into it. He had two perfectly functioning arms and hands and at the moment he needed to capitalize on that fact. He could climb better than he could run.

  9

  The Fall

  More than a thousand feet below, the river flowed icy cold. It churned and frothed its way over large ironstone boulders, smaller rocks and splin
tered ice, jagged and sharp as broken glass. A permanent fog of mist hung above the rocks and ice and the endless sound of crashing water floated up to where Nadia was perched on one of the steel spans that arched across the darkened void.

  The night sky was clear with the spread of a billion stars, the moon a huge yellow orb that painted the underside framework of the bridge and the rugged terrain below in a ghostly wash of grays and blacks.

  Below and to her left she could see the determined shape of Ratchford. In precise mechanical movements he was making his way down the spans and beams towards the opposite side of the canyon. Where he was going she had no idea. All she knew was that she had to catch him.

  She tore off the tattered glove, scooped up a handful of snow that had settled on a steel beam and pressed it against the deep gash on her hand. Thankfully the crushed snow numbed the pain for a moment, stemming the flow of blood. She removed one of her socks and knotted it tight around her hand like a compression bandage. Her hand still throbbed but she still had the use of the fingers.

  Nadia pushed off, climbing down the lattice of girders, beams and cross-braces, the steel surfaces slick with moisture and ice, her fingers gripping edges and large rivet heads as best she could, shins and knees feeling for footholds as she followed Ratchford across and downwards.

  Rust was a blessing, its gritty flakiness provided better grip for Nadia as she climbed. Ratchford was angling away from her on the diagonal, heading towards the lower main arch. From there it would be a simple descent to the main steel supports that were fixed to the sides of the canyon walls by massive concrete columns. Once on the ground on the other side of the canyon, Ratchford would be lost amongst the labyrinth of trees and she would never find him.

  Ratchford looked up and saw the silhouette of Nadia above him, crawling towards him, a distortion in the shadows amongst steel framework.

  She was gaining on him.

  “Fuck!” Did the woman ever give up?

  She was moving like she had eight arms and legs, no pause, no hesitation, just smooth ripples of movement, no hindrance from her injured hand.

  Ever the master tactician, and always thinking several moves ahead, Ratchford assessed the situation as the game of cat and mouse unfolded. In his mind the underside framework of the bridge was like a chess board. As he adjusted, she countered. As he switched direction, so did she. She was anticipating his every move, better and faster than he could if the roles were reversed.

  So he did something Nadia wasn’t expecting. He stopped his descent, pivoted around and began climbing back up the framework, towards her

  Nadia squinted in the gloom. Something was different about the movement of Ratchford below her. He was rapidly growing in size too fast, moving into her foreground quicker than she expected. Then she realized he had reversed direction and was now climbing back up towards her not away from her.

  Ratchford swooped up from below, menace in his eyes, ignoring the pain of his leg, the glint of his own blade held in his teeth. He came at Nadia, soundlessly, no grunt, groan or scream. Just several years of practiced killing concentrated into one final act.

  They came together on a cross brace, between two massive girders. Ratchford swung both legs upwards, his hands gripping the brace, and aimed both feet at Nadia’s head.

  Nadia ducked as his feet arched over her head. She pivoted counter-clockwise, swinging her legs and body out over the void, around and behind Ratchford. The instep of her foot struck Ratchford hard against the back of his head.

  He let out a grunt then twisted around and stood upright, both of them exchanging positions with each other. Nadia ducked and weaved between the cross brace, stepping back and forth as Ratchford slashed the blade at her. She lost her footing and slid downwards along a diagonal beam, coming to rest at the next cross brace below.

  Ratchford scrambled down after her, keeping the weight off his injured leg, the blade poised in his hand, his face twisted with determination.

  They came together in a frenzy of punches, blocks, counters, wrists, forearms, fists, all blending together, engaging then disengaging, neither giving ground to the other, close-quarter hand-to-hand combat in its purist form, beautiful biomechanics, two opponents the mirror image of the other.

  Ratchford was stronger, but Nadia was quicker. He lunged between a cross brace again, determined to bury the blade of his knife into her eye. But instead of leaning back, Nadia pivoted then twisted forward, catching his wrist. The blade slashed across her palm and the skin parted in a bloody gash. Nadia ignored the searing pain and latched her fingers onto his wrist, twisting it up and back, dislocating it with a sickening pop. The blade tumbled away into the darkness below.

  Ratchford growled like a rabid dog, pulled back his other hand into a balled fist. With his knees hugging a girder, keeping him balanced he drove his fist into Nadia face, hitting her cheekbone with a crunching smack.

  Nadia fells backwards, pulling him with her, almost entirely through the cross brace, her cut hand holding tight around his wrist. Blood snaked down her wrist and forearm. She tried to scramble with her feet to find a foothold but there were none. She was dangling over the edge, her feet kicking wildy in the air.

  Ratchford, his lower body held firm behind the neck of the cross brace, leaned his upper torso out and into the void. Nadia was still holding onto his dislocated wrist, dangling like a fish on a line.

  He smiled at her, an evil and malicious smile. Slowly with his other hand he began to peel back her fingers away from his wrist.

  Nadia kicked her legs harder, trying to find a ledge or a beam, anything to stop her from falling.

  Two of her fingers were already peeled away. She was just hanging on with only three fingers now. She would never beg for her life. Never. She would rather die trying than beg for mercy.

  Ratchford paused, enjoying the moment. “You see Nadia, every fight I have ever had I’ve already fought, in my mind, or in my reality.” He began again prizing off another of Nadia’s fingers. “You present me with nothing new that I haven’t seen before or prepared for.”

  Nadia grimaced as he pulled back another finger, the acid-taste of bile in her mouth.

  “I will die one day,” he said, his face a twisted smile. “But not today.”

  Two fingers remained.

  Every muscle in Nadia’s arm strained as she held on, her thumb and index finger wrapped around his wrist, slippery with her own blood.

  She needed to do something, anything or die.

  Nadia swung her legs like a pendulum then brought them both up, high and over the span, locking her thighs around Ratchford’s neck as he bent down. She squeezed her thighs together with all the strength she had left. The choke-hold around his neck was solid, airtight, crushing his windpipe. Slowly his face darkened. He lashed out with his fists trying to strike Nadia in the face, but she easily bobbed left and right. She curled her torso up and grabbed the back of his head with both hands, pulling it downwards, compressing his neck even more.

  She stared into his bulging eyes and hissed, “Now, what does it feel like to be slowly strangled?” She let go of one hand, reached further forward and unzipped the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the USB flash drive.

  Ratchford struggled desperately, his fists thumping against her thighs, but his efforts were slowly fading. He was dying. His lungs seared with pain, his head throbbed, his brain starved of oxygen. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness.

  He had no choice and made the decision.

  He leant towards Nadia, lifted his center of gravity up and over the neck of the cross brace and pushed himself forward towards the void.

  Nadia flinched in panic.

  Wrapped together like two lovers they shunted forward. The combined mass of their bodies tilted and the laws of physics took over, pulling them both downwards to the rocks and ice below.

  10

  An Angry Woman

  Occasionally you would see the woman in the village. She would make
the short trip to the mainland from the small craggy island that was known as Craven Rock. Perched on the windward side of Craven Rock, overlooking the expanse that was the North Sea, sat a lighthouse that the woman leased.

  The lighthouse had long since been operational, having been replaced by a fully automated, and much smaller navigational beacon that warned shipping to stay away from the treacherous rocks and submerged reefs that surrounded the desolate wind swept island.

  The lease of the lighthouse and island came with a small boat with an outboard engine. It was a short, pleasant ten-minute trip across the sheltered channel to the boat harbor, where the woman also kept a dark-gray Land Rover Defender in a shed she rented from one of the many local fishermen.

  Some people said the woman was a musician, that she played the violin. Tom McGovern, who ran the local postal service in the village gave birth to this rumor. It was Tom who not so innocently, who intercepted a small parcel one day from Italy addressed to a L. Turner, C/O Craven Rock, Whitby, North Yorkshire, UK. Curiosity got the better part of Tom, and inside the parcel he found a packet labeled Evah Pirazzi violin strings.

  Soon more rumors spread like wildfire throughout the seaside village. Some said the woman must be a world-renowned concert violinist who was seeking the solitude and isolation of Craven Rock. Mrs. Fowler, the village gossip said the woman was a big Hollywood celebrity who was going through a messy divorce and had fled the vulture-like paparazzi of her home country.

  But whoever the woman was, she kept to herself whenever she shopped in the village, choosing to cover her face with dark sunglasses, a woollen cap pulled down tight over her dark hair and a thick scarf obscuring her face. Some locals had tried to strike up a conversation with her, but had failed miserably. The woman skillfully avoided idle banter by offering just a quick smile or side-stepping anyone who remotely looked like they were about to approach her.