“Hey, what’s up?” Joe asked, putting his feet down for balance and standing as the bike bucked, braking hard, but before she could answer he saw: the blast had taken out the supports for the stairs and a big chunk of the landing, leaving bits of twisted rebar and broken concrete. In essence, it had cracked the top floor of the building in two. One side, where the office had been, was wrecked, with collapsed interior walls and a sagging ceiling. The other, which had the roof access, was messy but intact. And between them was a jagged gap several feet across.
“Now what?” Yelena asked. “I don’t have enough room to jump it. I can’t get the speed.”
Joe looked around. “I have an idea. Take this.”
He gave her the bag and slung his gun over his shoulder, then went to the bombed-out office. The metal door had been blown clean off its hinges, but was otherwise undamaged. He squatted down and began to drag it over to the open gap. Meanwhile, Yelena removed an automatic assault rifle from the pack and focused on the stairs. The top of a head appeared and she fired, dinging the helmet like a bell. The man fell back with a yelp.
“They’re coming,” she called to Joe.
“Give me a minute,” he grunted as he hoisted the door to a standing position against a wall then walked it a foot or so further. Yelena fired a burst, keeping the attackers downstairs. Now Joe had the door standing at the lip of the open gap, and he let it fall, landing with a thud on the other side, and forming a small, precarious bridge. Immediately gunfire erupted from below, as the men in the stairwell saw and heard Joe moving above. Joe jumped back as the bullets shot up, while others ricocheted off the door, causing panic among the shooters below.
“Okay,” he told Yelena. “Take it across. Carefully.”
She handed him her rifle and he took up a stance, watching for movement and firing the occasional burst down the stairs or through the open gap into the dark stairwell, more to hold them back than because he expected to hit anyone. At the same time, as Yelena edged the bike over the door, shots came up from below her, hitting the ceiling above, which showered dust, or ringing against the metal under her wheels. Once she was across, Joe took a deep breath and darted after her. He could see that all the gunfire had weakened the damaged ceiling even more, plaster and bits of ceiling tile were dropping away, so while she drove slowly out the exit onto the roof, he fired up at the ceiling while pushing the edge of the door with his foot. A beam fell, raining metal and concrete into the stairwell, and Joe could hear men shouting as the door clattered into the gap, falling on them. Firing across the now-reopened moat, he backed out onto the roof exit and shut that door behind him.
It was actually a lovely night out. Not that Joe had time to savor it, but the sudden quiet and the cool, dry air, the sleepy town around him and the thick swirl of stars out over the impenetrable dark of the desert made him wish, momentarily, that he was out on a blanket under the sky. Or better yet, home in noisy, stinky, never dark, and practically starless Queens.
Now they were on the roof, and safe for the moment, but where did they go next? Staying on the more stable, undamaged side of the building, Yelena cruised the bike slowly around and Joe ran to the edges. The front and one side faced a street corner, where he saw another truck full of men unloading, and ducked back as one took a quick shot at his head. The rear was the alley they had just fled. The remaining side overlooked a narrow airspace, and then another building, two stories shorter. Beyond that, Joe could see a single-story structure that housed a row of shops during the day.
“Do you think you can make the jump?” he asked Yelena.
She was about to ask him if she had a choice but noticed something and pointed instead. It was a helicopter, cruising above the city and headed for them. “Guess we will find out.”
Joe took his belt off, passing it through the front loops of his pants and then got on the bike behind Yelena and buckled it around her waist. Now they were strapped together. The chopper approached, the sound and wind growing as it lowered itself like a black beetle from the night sky. He adjusted the scope on the rifle. “Let’s go,” he said.
Yelena circled slowly back toward the wrecked part of the building, taking it to the furthest point she could safely bring the bike, giving her the longest runway for takeoff. She cranked the throttle, revving the engine as high as she could while holding the brake. As the helicopter arrived over the roof, it hit them with a spotlight. Yelena released the brake and the bike shot forward.
As they raced toward the edge and the alley below, Joe raised the rifle, bracing the stock against his body and turning up toward the chopper, which blinded him with its glare. He opened fire, blasting into the light, trying to stay centered while the bike carried them across the roof. Now the chopper opened fire too, bullets hitting the roof around them as the gunner in the air found his range. As the chopper shifted, trying to get a better angle of fire, the glare shifted momentarily too, and Joe was able to see the origin of the beam of light, spilling from a lamp attached to the bottom. He fired again. With a pop, the light went out. They were plunged back into the darkness. The gunner kept firing, but he was aiming blindly now, staring into shadow and with the thunderous roar of the chopper hiding any sound from the bike.
Joe grabbed Yelena with his free arm, holding on tightly as they reached the flat edge of the roof and went over, soaring across the alley. Joe held his breath as, for a moment, they were airborne, floating through space. He could feel Yelena’s heart pound under his hand. Then they landed with a thud on the lower roof next door. The bike wobbled, swerving crazily as Yelena fought for control, and Joe put his feet down a couple times to help balance it. More shots rang out as the helicopter came from behind.
“Keep going,” he shouted into her ear. The roar was deafening. As the tires bit, gaining traction on the roof, she cranked the throttle and they took off, crossing the building in seconds and flying over the far edge while bullets shot over their heads.
Now they were on top of the shops. A long gallery with shop fronts facing a square, this roof was more uneven, comprised of plaster and wood, and with covered seating areas, barrels of water, laundry hanging on lines. Ducking low to avoid getting clotheslined, they plowed through some sheets and took cover under a patched-together sheet metal roof that ran along one side of the building. While Yelena idled, Joe unbuckled himself and reloaded the rifle.
“We’re never going to outrun that chopper on open ground,” he told Yelena.
“So we make a stand here,” she said.
He handed her the machine-pistol from his pack. “Here, fire off some rounds to get their attention.”
She nodded and began cruising slowly, staying under the cover of the roof. When she heard the chopper approaching, coming around from the side, she took a few shots in its general direction. Gunfire fell like hail on the metal roof, some bullets zinging away while others punched through weak spots and hit the surface around her as she sped out of range.
Joe ran back to where the roof began, climbed onto a table and slowly peeked over the edge. In the moonlight, he saw the chopper lowering itself like a spider, trying to find a position that would let the gunman, who sat beside the pilot at an open panel, aim under the metal roof and sweep the area with gunfire. Yelena fired another burst from a spot further down and the chopper shifted a bit more to try and reach her. Bullet holes appeared in the roof around her as she zoomed up and down.
Joe, who knew they were facing away from him, trying to see under the shelter, stood and propped himself on the metal sheeting, aiming carefully at the chopper, waiting for his shot, while the pilot adjusted his position.
“No hurry Joe,” Yelena yelled out. “Just relax and take your time.” Moonlight poured in around her as the machine gunner turned her shield into a colander.
Now Joe could see them, the pilot and the gunner, with a few more figures in the seats behind them, all yelling over their headsets as they tried to home in on Yelena. But still he waited, totally still, breathing c
arefully, eye on his scope.
“Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Just a little more.”
“I’m running out of roof here Joe,” Yelena called out. She fired again, one lucky bullet clanging off the rotors, then quickly sped back down the gallery toward him.
The pilot turned too, trying to find the source of Yelena’s fire, and exposed the open panel to Joe. He pulled the trigger.
In a flash, the gunner crumpled, killed instantly as gunfire entered the interior of the chopper. Joe kept firing, sending a stream of lead into the chopper, which swerved away like a fly from a swatter. At this low altitude, just four or five meters off the ground, the chopper quickly lost stability. It spun wildly over the square, stirring up a small storm of dust and paper, scattering the few souls present—mostly taxi drivers, late night café goers, cats and dogs—and then landing with a thud, banging headfirst into a wall. The rotors hit the concrete with a terrible wrenching sound and broken machine parts shot off like shrapnel as the aircraft came to rest.
With a grin, Joe ran over and got on the back of the bike, where he could see Yelena smiling too. “Good shot,” she told him.
“Thanks,” he said, slinging the gun onto his back and grabbing hold of her. “But I think I only killed the gunner. We better go.”
“Next stop, ground floor,” she said, revving up. “Everybody off.”
She hit it and they sped along the roof, picking up speed and, as the edge approached, she yanked the handlebars up, popping the bike into a wheelie that took them over the side. Letting the bike go as they fell, they dropped into the back of a cart that sat parked in a row with others, waiting for a late-night fare. The bike, with greater momentum, overshot the cart, hit the ground hard, and crashed.
For a couple of seconds, Joe, Yelena, and the driver were all completely disoriented, as the fabric awning over the rear of the cart collapsed and they tumbled into the bed of his truck, which contained only two empty side-benches for passengers. Yelena was the first to recover her balance, leaping up with her usual agility and pointing a gun at the stunned driver. Joe freed himself from the fabric and stood, pulling a US hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and showing that to the driver too, as he began to yell at Joe in Dari.
“The gun or the money,” Joe told him, pointing at each. Finally the driver nodded, and reached for the bill. Yelena lowered her gun. “Good. Thank you,” Joe said, repeating it in Dari. “Kheili khoob. Moteshakeram!”
The cart took off, speeding down a side street and into the dark town, while Joe tried to remember the name of his hotel.
9
TOOMEY LIKED THIS GUY Joe. Or he would have, under other circumstances, where they didn’t need to kill him. Like if they’d just been in a bar somewhere, trading stories over a beer. At first, he hadn’t thought much about him. The only reason they even went up in the chopper was to observe: Richards because he liked to play general, sit there and watch his money at work; Nikolai because he had to report back to Moscow; and Toomey because he needed to be sure that everything went off like it should. His mission was too important to leave to amateurs. It was only when he saw them riding that bike across the roof, the girl jumping it expertly, and then Brody taking out the searchlight, doing what he himself would have done, that he began to think he was finally dealing with some pros. Then they pulled some shit that really impressed him.
First they took cover under a metal shed that shielded them from the bullets that their gunner, Tony, a kid who’d done a tour shooting insurgents before he signed on with Wildwater as a merc, was raining down on them indiscriminately. Then, as he deduced later, the Russian woman drew their fire, tricking the pilot, Trey, into exposing their flank, the open panel by Tony. A skilled sniper, Brody must have been lying in wait. He took that kid out like he was winning a teddy bear in an amusement park. Outstanding shot.
His next shot stunned Trey, bouncing off his helmet and ricocheting into the fuselage. Another hit the bulletproof plexi, which was great when Brody had been shooting at them before, but now the bullet struck the plexi from inside and bounced back, grazing old Richards himself in the leg and ruining those nice pants. Richards yowled, Trey took evasive action and rapidly ditched, Nikolai cursed in Russian, and Toomey grinned, bracing himself for the crash.
They went down in a corner of the square. The chopper was totaled of course, but strapped in and helmeted, they were all fine, just a little battered and whiplashed. Except for Richards, moaning and carrying on, never having been shot before. It was nothing, a scratch, but the blood was spreading through his khakis. Toomey used Nikolai’s handkerchief to bind the wound. Trey took off his helmet and let down that ponytail that he insisted on, a trademark gesture that he thought let the world know he was a free man, but that really just showed he was at least a decade out of fashion. Actually, both were true: he was one of Toomey’s best men, a brave and ruthless fighter who, much like Toomey, was more at home in a warzone than in any of the places—Florida, where he grew up, the Marines, where he’d learned his skills, or Colorado, where his one-time fiancée now lived—that might have passed for “home.” As for family, it was his team that mattered. And now, head still ringing, he was cursing and swearing vengeance on Brody for taking out Tony, his pal. Nikolai just shook his head at the mess and lit a cigar. Toomey called for help to come fetch them, patted Trey on the shoulder, and silently congratulated Brody in his head. He’d look forward to crossing paths with him again some time, and to buying him a beer. Or killing him. Or both.
10
JOE AND YELENA RODE back to the hotel in the motor-cart, lounging on the wadded fabric that had once been the roof, watching the night sky flow over them like a river of stars between the buildings.
“Sorry, Joe. All I did tonight was get you in trouble.”
“And get me back out,” he told her. “Anyway, I think I learned something important.”
“Watch out for booby-traps.”
“That there was something there worth booby-trapping. And sending a small army of mercenaries with a chopper to protect. I think you were right all along. Zahir is just a front. And now we know it’s a front for a US corporation. Wildwater.”
“So what will you do?”
“Catch a plane. Why chase the shadow around here? Especially now that they’re onto us. Let’s go back home. Start looking at Wildwater and see what we find.”
She turned to face him. “You say we and let’s. But New York is not my home.”
“And Kandahar is? If you want to retire, fine. Go to Tulum or someplace. If you want to get into trouble and help earn this half million, come back with me.”
She smiled. “Trouble and money are always tempting. But don’t forget, I already made some money today. Not half of a half million, but enough for a nice slow trip around the world.”
The cart came to a stop by the hotel. “Sorry. Mote’as-sefam.” Joe told the driver again as they climbed down. The driver shrugged. A hundred US dollars for a short ride more than covered some repairs. For him at least, it had been a good night. The small hotel was silent and dark. Joe used the key he’d been given, and they went quietly upstairs to where Joe and Hamid had adjoining rooms. A light shone from under Hamid’s door.
“I will think about it tonight,” Yelena whispered. “Meanwhile, we should take turns on watch until we leave for the airport. Tell Hamid to rest first.” She squeezed his hand in the dark. “And we will try not to wake him up.”
Smiling, Joe found the right key and was already saying, “Hamid, you missed a real party,” when he swung the door open and found him, sprawled across the bed, dead eyes staring up at them, blood from his slit throat staining the white sheets red.
Joe and Yelena moved immediately and in silence, automatic responses taking over, drawing their weapons and checking the other room and the bathrooms, which were all empty. There was, sadly, no reason to check Hamid; even a glance at his body, marked with slashes and burns, twisted with breaks and bruises, revealed that
he’d been tortured before he was killed. The rooms had been ransacked, but all that was missing seemed to be Hamid’s phone and laptop, as well as the satchel containing Yelena’s money from the earlier exchange. They packed fast, pausing only for a moment over Hamid.
“I can’t just leave him,” Joe said. “I’m the one who brought him here. I owe his family more than that.”
“You know you can’t bring him,” Yelena said. “The people here are very religious. They will know what to do. They’ll treat him properly, and say the prayers.”
Joe nodded. “That’s more than I can do.” He reached out and closed his eyes. Then they shut off the light and left.
Powell felt like he was in hell. He felt damned. He’d met the devil and he, or in this case, she had just sucked out his soul. And the devil’s name, which we know is Legion, was, surprisingly, Vicky. He didn’t know her last name and didn’t want to. He already knew too much, more than he could ever forget.
After the others rushed out to investigate the break-in and explosion at the local Wildwater office, the only person remaining in the private lounge besides himself was the striking but feral young woman in the torn black jeans and black leather jacket. Powell’s intention had been to say goodnight and retreat to his hotel room, but she had other plans. She stood, set down her hookah, and grabbed her small leather backpack.
“Come along, company man,” she said in a posh British accent, as she led the way out. “I’ve another errand to run for the boys. You can observe and advise me.”
Against the Law Page 5