The Spear of Atlantis (Wilde/Chase 14)

by Andy McDermott

  The waiter reached a set of swinging doors to the kitchen and asked someone inside a question. ‘Karim will meet you soon,’ he said on the reply. ‘Please, come.’

  He led her up a flight of stairs. Most of the next floor was a large and busy dining area, an open door leading to a balcony overlooking the city and the sea beyond. The waiter showed her to an empty table near a corner. ‘Please, sit,’ he said, pulling out a chair.

  She took her seat. ‘Where is Mr Taysir?’

  ‘He will be here soon,’ the waiter assured her, scurrying off.

  Ana watched him depart with growing wariness. He seemed nervous, but she doubted he was a threat. The same could not be said of the other diners. All appeared to be locals rather than tourists, some giving her the same lascivious glances as those downstairs. This time, she treated each in turn to a stare of cold disdain. They looked away.

  She belatedly registered that just as downstairs, they were all men. Another frown. Morocco wasn’t a country that demanded separation of the sexes—

  Hard metal pushed into her back. ‘Ay up. Nice of you to drop by.’

  Eddie had been waiting in a storage cupboard, silently emerging behind the Brazilian. ‘Take out your gun, slowly,’ he ordered.

  ‘I don’t have a gun,’ said Ana.

  ‘Well I do. And I’ll use it if you don’t give me yours.’

  ‘You won’t kill me in front of all these people.’

  ‘You’d be surprised what I’d do when someone threatens my family.’

  Hesitation . . . then Ana reluctantly reached inside her jacket. Eddie pushed harder against her spine. She flinched, and carefully withdrew a pistol, passing it back to him.

  Eddie took the weapon. A stubby Taurus Millennium Pro, fully loaded with a round in the chamber. The safety had been on; he flicked it off. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said with sudden cheer, rounding the table. ‘Worst this’d do to you is make you sneeze.’ He held up his other hand to reveal he had been holding nothing more deadly than a pepper mill.

  Ana’s eyes widened in anger. ‘That’s all you had?’

  ‘All I needed.’ He put it down between a flickering oil lamp and a bowl of flowers, then sat opposite, the gun covering her beneath the heavy-topped table. ‘I figured you were probably briefed on me – and that you knew I was in the SAS, so I tend not to fuck about.’

  ‘I know you’ve killed a lot of people,’ she said icily. ‘I didn’t want to be one of them. What do you want?’

  His expression hardened. ‘Nina, obviously. Without every cop in Spain chasing after her. You set her up – you can get her back.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Your boss does, though. So who hired you?’

  Ana leaned back, folding her arms. ‘I’m not going to say.’

  ‘Words come out, or bullet goes in.’

  ‘I can’t talk if I’m dead.’

  ‘You’ll only be dead when I let you die,’ Eddie growled. But he could tell from Ana’s unyielding stare that she was going to call his bluff. ‘Look,’ he said, trying a different tack, ‘your boss must have known I was in Tangier, but he didn’t bother warning you, did he? That means he doesn’t give a shit what happens to you now you’ve done your job. I’m assuming that since you’re not leaving Tangier until tonight, you haven’t got your money yet. You tell me what I need to know, then you can collect it and fuck off home, while I deal with whoever’s paying you.’

  Her look of determination began to waver, but she still refused to give in. ‘I know you’re in the same business as me. We work for hire, we are both professionals.’

  ‘Worked for hire,’ Eddie corrected forcefully. ‘Gave that up a long time ago.’

  ‘But you are still in the security business. Yes, I did read your file. You still sometimes work as a consultant. And would you give up the trust of one of your clients so easily?’

  ‘We’re not talking about me. This is about saving Nina. You remember, the nice woman with the cute little girl who’s really, really worried about her mum? Why did you frame her for stealing that thing?’

  Again she seemed to be weakening, but before he could push her any further, Karim bustled up the stairs and hurried to their table. ‘Ah, Eddie, Eddie, my most marvellous friend!’ he said exuberantly – a bit too exuberantly, the Yorkshireman thought. ‘Wonderful to see you again, lovely jubbly.’

  ‘You’re in a good mood, Karim,’ Eddie replied.

  ‘Of course I am! It is your birthday, after all. I will make you something special to celebrate.’ Above his rictus grin, his eyes became almost pleading.

  ‘It’s not my birth . . .’ Eddie trailed off. Karim knew full well it was months away.

  He slowly turned to regard the other diners. He hadn’t paid them much attention earlier, assuming his friend had done as promised and drummed up some reliable people to fill the restaurant. But now he realised that the men – and they were all men – were uniformly young, shabby and rough-edged . . . and ignoring their meals, instead paying far too much attention to the people at the corner table.

  ‘What’s going on, Karim?’ he muttered.

  ‘I am sorry,’ the Moroccan replied in an anguished whisper. ‘But they have my family! They said they would kill them if I did not do what they said. I know some of these men – they are bad people, bad.’

  ‘You need to change your door policy,’ Eddie said as he stood.

  The men also rose, moving to block the way to the exits. The Englishman advanced a few steps and brought up the gun, which prompted a few nervous retreats. ‘All right. Everyone fuck off out of my way, or—’

  A hard metallic click from one side. He froze, knowing what it was – a pistol’s hammer being thumbed back. An Arabic man with a scarred cheek was aiming an automatic unwaveringly at him. ‘Put the gun down,’ he ordered.

  Ana stared at him, surprised. ‘Musad? Why are you here?’ He ignored her.

  Eddie sized up the situation. There was no way he could bring his own weapon around fast enough to take out the scarred man before being shot, and even if he fired into the crowd while trying to break and run, sheer weight of numbers would quickly overpower him. He needed more room to manoeuvre . . . but there wasn’t any.

  No choice. He slowly placed the gun between the plates on a table beside him. ‘Friends of yours?’ he asked Ana sarcastically.

  But her worried expression told him she too had been caught by surprise. ‘No,’ she replied, standing – and drawing herself into a ready stance for some form of martial arts. She was as prepared to fight as he was.

  But it seemed unlikely they would get the chance. Musad gestured for Eddie to step back to his table, then pocketed the Taurus. ‘You, go,’ he told Karim. ‘Remember, call the police and your wife and children die.’

  Karim hesitated. ‘It’s okay,’ Eddie told him. The Moroccan gave him a look of despairing apology, then hurried towards the stairs. The crowd parted to let him through before closing again.

  ‘Now you come with us,’ Musad told Eddie and Ana.

  ‘You’re not going to just kill us here?’ the Yorkshireman replied.

  ‘If you prefer.’

  ‘Actually, no.’ Eddie searched for any way to tip the situation in his favour. There were items he could use, but going for them would get him killed as long as the gun was aimed at him.

  A glance at Ana told him she shared his thoughts. They would have to become allies to survive, however unwillingly . . .

  ‘Move,’ ordered Musad. His men started to form a cordon around the prisoners. Eddie knew that once he was surrounded, escape would be impossible.

  Ana realised it too. Another look passed between them: ready.

  Eddie stepped forward. The gun tracked him—

  Ana flipped the flower bowl at the Arab’s face.

  He flinched back, free hand snapping up to intercept it. The gun jerked away from Eddie, just for a moment—

  It was all the Yorkshireman needed.

&nbs
p; He threw something else from the table at the scarred man: the oil lamp. It hit his chest, flammable liquid splashing over him and igniting as it hit the flaming wick.

  Musad reeled back with a yell as flames lashed at his face. His men gawped at him in stunned surprise . . .

  And Eddie and Ana burst into motion.

  12

  Eddie grabbed the nearest table and hurled it at two men in front of him, knocking them down. At the same moment, Ana somersaulted over a chair, landing inverted on one hand and spinning her entire body to deliver a savage kick to another Moroccan’s face before completing the roll and landing on both feet.

  Eddie had just enough time to recognise the move as capoeira – a Brazilian form of martial arts – before a goon lunged at him—

  He grabbed a kebab skewer and stabbed it up under the man’s chin. The sharp metal spike punched through skin and flesh and tongue to pierce his upper palate, meat juice and fresh blood squirting over his neck. The thug screamed as best he could with his mouth pinned shut before a punch from the Yorkshireman knocked him to the tiled floor.

  More men charged to take his place. Eddie dropped and rolled under a table, sweeping his legs across to scythe one man’s feet out from beneath him. He hit the floor hard. The Englishman sprang back up, seizing a chair and whirling to crack it against another goon’s head.

  Ana was no less brutal, though more refined in her attacks. She swept one arm over a man’s outstretched hands to deliver a fearsome chop to his larynx. His eyes bugged wide as he choked. She ducked and twisted beneath him before springing up to hoist him off his feet and propel him into the man behind him.

  Another thug rushed at Eddie. The Yorkshireman punched him in the face, flattening his nose with a wet crunch. He looked for another target as the man collapsed – only to take a blow to his own jaw that sent him crashing against a table. Plates smashed on the floor in an explosion of rice and sauce.

  His attacker ran at him—

  Eddie threw another plate at his feet. It shattered, splattering wet food over the tiles – and the running man slipped, face-planting on the floor. A kick to his skull ensured he would stay down.

  Another look around, and the Englishman saw that Musad, the scar-faced leader, had batted out the flames.

  The gun whipped towards him—

  Eddie made a diving roll across a table, grabbing its edge and pulling it over after him. Musad squeezed the trigger, only for one of his own men to take the bullet in his hip as Ana kicked him across the line of fire.

  The Dhajani was undeterred by the wounded man’s shriek, sending a hail of rounds after the Yorkshireman. They smacked into the table’s underside, but the thick wood stopped them from fully penetrating. Eddie hunched down, then grabbed a chair and lobbed it over the table. A satisfying thud of impact was followed by a pained grunt as the scarred man fell – and the clatter of metal as his gun spun away across the floor.

  He was down, but not out. It would only take him seconds to recover the weapon . . .

  Ana cried out as two men tackled her simultaneously, piling on top of her. ‘Chase!’ she gasped as one of her attackers pounded an elbow into her back.

  Eddie jumped up. He glanced at Musad, who was scrambling after his gun, then charged to help Ana. A jaw-breaking punch to a man who tried to intercept him, then he snatched up a large knife from a table and jabbed it into the stomach of another before ducking under a sweeping haymaker to dive at Ana’s captors – and stabbing the blade downwards through one man’s hand.

  It hit so hard that the tile beneath the Moroccan’s splayed palm cracked, the point driving into the planks below and pinning him like a butterfly. The man screamed and tried to pull away, but his hand was trapped. Eddie twisted to smack Ana’s other captor in the mouth with his boot heel. Broken teeth spun across the dining room.

  Ana was free. Eddie smashed the haymaking thug’s kneecap with a second heel strike, then dragged her up. ‘We’ve got to get outside!’ he shouted.

  She was winded, but still nodded. Then they darted in opposite directions as more men charged at them.

  The Brazilian jinked to avoid her new attacker’s sweeping fist, responding by slamming the heel of her hand up against his nose. There was a hideous splat of collapsing cartilage. The man staggered back, blinded by his own sprayed blood.

  Eddie, meanwhile, faced not only a much larger opponent, but one who was armed. A six-inch switchblade slashed at his throat. ‘Whoa, fuck!’ he gasped as he jerked away, the knife’s tip slicing through his leather jacket’s collar. ‘That’s brand new, you twat!’

  The man took another swing. The Yorkshireman dodged again, but he was being backed into a corner.

  Metal glinted on a table. A tray—

  He snatched it up and raised it like a shield as the Moroccan lunged. Metal struck metal with a clang.

  Eddie drew back, fending off more attacks, clang, clang – but was almost out of space to retreat—

  The knife thrust again, but this time he didn’t deflect it, instead leaping back squarely against the wall. The big man hadn’t expected the move, his strike falling short and leaving him unbalanced . . .

  Eddie’s boot buried its steel toecap in his groin.

  The big man dropped with a squeal. Eddie jumped over him to re-enter the fray.

  Ana didn’t need his help this time, the Brazilian woman delivering a spinning capoeira kick to a thug’s stomach. He flew back against a pillar with such force that tiles shattered. ‘Get to the stairs!’ she called to Eddie.

  They had thinned the crowd enough that the way to the exit was almost clear. She chopped another man’s neck and sent him tumbling over a chair, then ran to the staircase. Eddie snatched up two plates, smashing one into the face of someone trying to block him and hurling the other across the room to explode against the back of Musad’s head just before he reached his gun, before following her.

  Alarm flashed across Ana’s face. More men were thundering up the stairs.

  She jumped and delivered a two-footed Shatner kick to the leading goon’s chest. He back-flipped into the two men behind him, the trio bowling painfully down the steps. But within seconds, another wave trampled over the fallen.

  Eddie lifted another table, swinging to crack a man’s sternum with its corner before running to the stairs. ‘Back!’ he shouted to Ana. She rolled clear. He jumped down the top few steps with the table held ahead of him like a snowplough, wood banging loudly against the skulls of the men heading the charge.

  The table was large enough to block the staircase. Eddie wedged it in place, then hurried to rejoin Ana.

  She was trading blows with someone, but still shouted a warning to the Englishman—

  Too late.

  Another Moroccan rushed him and slammed him into a pillar. He dropped to the floor, dizzied. The man drew a knife – a nasty serrated blade, a reddish-brown residue against the hilt suggesting it had been used in many other fights.

  Ana crouched to avoid a punch, rolling back and using her legs to sweep her attacker’s feet out from under him. He thumped to the floor beside her. She twisted and pounded his face into the tiles with her elbow, then leapt to her feet—

  A chair smashed against her back. The man wielding it threw aside the broken remnants and charged at the reeling woman like a bull, body-slamming her against a wall.

  The knifeman advanced on Eddie as he rose. The man’s mouth curled into a sadistic smile – then he thrust the knife—

  Eddie twisted away. The blade caught his left biceps, ripping his sleeve and slicing a searing line into his skin but he was still able to bend his arm to trap his attacker’s outstretched wrist in the crook of his elbow.

  His right hand whipped up. The Moroccan’s own elbow popped from its joint with an appalling crunch as Eddie’s blow from beneath bent it the wrong way. He screamed.

  Eddie didn’t relent. He whirled the howling man around and drove him backwards into a window. Glass smashed, the frame breaking from its hi
nges, and the man hit the metal bars outside with such force that the whole grille was almost wrenched from the wall. The broken-armed thug crumpled to the floor, the knife clattering from his hand.

  Eddie snatched it up and hurled it at Ana’s attacker.

  The blade thunked into the man’s back just before he could kick her in the face. He screeched, desperately clawing over his shoulder to pull it out.

  Ana leapt up and delivered a kick. He crashed into a chair, demolishing it. To his great fortune, he landed face-down, the knife still protruding from his back.

  There was now only one Moroccan left standing. ‘Seriously?’ Eddie gasped as the man rushed at him, still fancying his chances despite his comrades’ fates. The Yorkshireman jinked to take the impact, grabbing his attacker’s arm to throw him over his shoulder – just as Musad recovered his gun.

  Eddie instantly switched tactics to use the man as a human shield. A gunshot echoed through the room, the Moroccan convulsing as the bullet ripped a chunk of flesh from his buttock. The scar-faced man snarled and pulled the trigger again—

  Snick. The magazine was empty.

  ‘Let’s go, go!’ Eddie shouted, dropping the wailing man and running for the stairs.

  The table blocking the lower flight jolted as men below pounded against it. ‘We can’t go down there!’ Ana protested.

  ‘Not down – up!’ he shouted as he passed her.

  ‘What’s up there?’

  ‘Not more bad guys!’

  Musad fumbled for a replacement mag, then remembered he had a second weapon – Ana’s Millennium Pro. ‘Come on!’ Eddie urged.

  Ana hesitated, but then saw Musad draw her automatic. She ran after the Yorkshireman. Behind her, the obstructing table was finally barged aside.

  Eddie hared up the stairs. He knew from a past visit to Karim’s restaurant that a neighbouring building looked close enough to reach from the top floor’s balcony—

  A large vase smashed over his head.

  He fell. He had been wrong: there were more bad guys upstairs, a handful of men ready for just such an escape attempt . . .