Spartak dropped like a gaudy stone, unconscious.
Drake winced. “Bet he’s never hit anything that thick before.”
Dahl spun. “Where did Mano go?”
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Mano Kinimaka leapt from the edge of the stage, staggered a few feet, and caught himself on a rail. It held. Kovalenko and the black-haired woman were halfway up the aisle above him, taking the steps three at a time. Kinimaka gave chase, sparing a last glance back to check on the fortunes of Drake, Dahl and the others.
The Yorkshireman and the Swede were entangled with Spartak on the stage. There was no sign of anyone else. Kinimaka had left Hayden back in the last room, fighting two enemies but with Molokai at her side. Mano figured there was no better substitute for his own presence there.
So he left Hayden’s side for the first time that he could remember.
Kovalenko was his goal. He had to get close. He’d kept the Blood King at his side throughout this entire journey for a very good reason. Mano didn’t want to believe it was real . . . he hoped with all his heart that his enemy was bluffing.
There had been no proof. Not yet. Kovalenko kept promising it would come.
Kinimaka was on tenterhooks, gut churning with worry. Earlier today, through whispered snatches of conversation, the Blood King had told Mano that he was holding Kono, his pregnant sister and Han, her husband, at gunpoint somewhere in DC. Kovalenko had told Mano that he would require his services just once that day.
Then they would be freed.
Now, Mano pounded up the steps as fast as he could, smashing already broken and askew chairs to left and right with his great bulk, heart pounding so hard it threatened to burst through his chest, but determined to catch up to the Blood King.
At the top of the steps, he did.
“Hey!”
The black-haired woman was prepared for him, whirling with knives raised, but Kovalenko stopped her with a word.
“Wait! This is our pet soldier. We have his sister and her husband. He will do everything I ask.”
The black-haired woman lowered her knives with a grimace.
Kinimaka pointed at Kovalenko. “This is your last chance. I’ve seen no proof, just the ramblings of a frantic man. If you hurt her—”
Kovalenko glanced behind Kinimaka—not an easy task—then indicated the black-haired woman.
“We have time,” he said. “Whilst Spartak keeps your friends busy. Watch him closely. Oh, Mano Kinimaka meet Shawnasee Smart. Don’t fuck with this girl, Mano. She’s all killer, pure Red Indian slayer from that rude ponytail to those fancy boots. You’ve been warned.”
Kinimaka eyed the Native American girl. She wore a gray shirt, black leather jacket and tight jeans. Her boots were black with gold tips and lavish filigree. She stood poised, muscles corded where he could see, balanced on the tips of her toes. Kinimaka had no wish to test the Blood King’s boast.
Kovalenko dug a phone out of his pocket. “I couldn’t prove my claim before because I didn’t have a phone,” he said. “But Spartak always obliges.”
Kinimaka glared at Shawnasee. “And her?”
The Blood King gave him a frosty smile. Shawnasee closed her eyes for half a second, but Mano saw pain there. He saw anxiety. He had a few seconds to ponder the meaning before Kovalenko’s call was answered on speakerphone.
“Dah?”
“It’s me. You have the bitch?”
“Dah. She’s here.”
“And the husband?”
“Him too. He can’t speak.”
Snarling laughter filled the air. Kovalenko grinned at Mano. “What is your sister’s name?”
“As if you don’t know. She is named Kono.”
“Put Kono on the phone,” Kovalenko told his man.
A moment later, Mano’s heart fell through the floor. His gut wrenched as he heard his sister’s voice on the other end of the line.
“Mano? Mano? Help me.”
“Kono? Are you okay? Have they hurt you? Have they hurt . . . hurt . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t even imagine it.
“Ah, the baby,” Kovalenko finished. “Kono is pregnant of course.”
Mano’s eyes were fixed on Shawnasee at that moment and he saw her face crease with sorrow. Just because she ran with the Blood King, didn’t mean she worked for him.
“Mano, I am okay. The baby is okay. But these men are . . . animals. They’re happy hurting Han, beating him in front of me. They’re beating him slowly to death, Mano. Please . . .”
Kinimaka’s fists clenched hard. “If you kill him—”
“What?” Kovalenko was suddenly in Mano’s face, right up against him. “You’ll do what?” The Blood King hit Mano in the chest and in the face, slapping him so that his head whipped to the side and back again. “What are you gonna do, Mano?”
The last sentence was spoken in a sarcastic voice, dripping with contempt and hatred. As long as they had Kono, Mano knew he could do nothing. He couldn’t even threaten this crazy megalomaniac.
“I thought as much.” Kovalenko glanced behind Mano, assessed the situation, then turned back to the phone.
“Keep her in one piece for now. Hurt the husband as much as you like.”
Mano wasn’t watching the Blood King. He was watching Shawnasee. Her face didn’t alter, but Mano swore a compassionate light came into her eyes. Still, she stayed ready, poised to put a knife through him.
“Mano!” a shout went up through the auditorium. “Hold him there!”
It was Dahl. Kinimaka turned to see both Drake and Dahl leaving an unconscious Spartak behind and racing for the edge of the stage.
Kovalenko grinned at him. “What’s it to be, big guy?”
Kinimaka snarled and pushed Kovalenko before him. “Run,” he said. “Run, you mad, murdering fuck. I can’t help you if you stand there like a fucking robot.”
Grinning, Kovalenko lingered another few seconds before turning to Shawnasee. “Lead the way.”
She turned, breaking for the nearest exit door. Kinimaka pushed the Blood King hard as shouts rang out at his back, the rest of the team unable to comprehend what was happening.
First Dahl’s voice and then Luther’s came at him. As Kinimaka left the auditorium he heard Alicia and then Hayden. Nobody could understand what was happening. What the hell was he doing? He wasn’t entirely sure himself.
But Kono . . . he couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to his sister.
Kinimaka didn’t have time to explain. He rushed after the Blood King, following a dilapidated corridor toward a far set of double doors. The doors were chained on the inside, the glass intact and robust. Whoever had shut down the theatre, had closed this entrance off, either not thinking or not worried that malefactors might infiltrate through adjacent establishments and their basements.
“You’ve got no way out,” Kinimaka said. “They’re coming for you and, this time, you won’t escape.”
Kovalenko shot him a shrewd grin. “Did it ever occur to any of you that I might be exactly where I want to be?”
Kinimaka grimaced. “Yeah, actually, it did.”
“Then you’re more perceptive than I gave you credit for. And Coburn . . . what did the President say?”
“You really have a hard-on for him, don’t you? But you prefer not to see that it was your own actions, and your father’s actions, that put you both in the firing line and got him killed. Why can’t you see that?”
On the run, Shawnasee plucked a .45 from the back of her jeans and shot the padlock off the door.
Kovalenko slowed. “Clearly, you don’t understand. My father and I—we don’t answer to law enforcement. We do as we like, when we like, and with who we like. If you interfere, we will never forget. If you harm us, we will have our vengeance. And if you kill us, we will wipe you and your families out of existence. Because we can. Because we write our own rules. Because . . . we own you.”
Kinimaka saw the warped sense of it. The Blood King
had given him an insight into the way his mind worked and Kinimaka felt sick. It was twisted, bent out of shape, but formed an unbearable, atrocious logic.
“Hurry,” Shawnasee said. “They are coming.”
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Kinimaka dashed once more out into the street in pursuit of the Blood King, only this time he was guarding the man’s back. Shawnasee led the way, knives twirling in both hands, braided ponytail slapping her shoulders from side to side. Sleet flew at them from a forty-five-degree angle. Once more, the clouds had lowered, bringing an incongruous, premature darkness to the city. Shadows stretched in every direction, and it was toward these that Shawnasee led the Blood King.
Kinimaka flung the doors closed behind them, hearing glass smash in his wake. They pounded down the slick sidewalk, pushing civilians out of the way. One man stood up to Shawnasee and was thrown through a window as Kovalenko laughed. Mano kept his eyes flitting in all directions. Kovalenko was exposed now, worse than he’d ever been, with just two bodyguards. If the old Russians found him now, they were in serious trouble.
As if he’d jinxed it, there was a shout from the other side of the street. They’d been seen. Kinimaka had known it was inevitable. There were so many street-eyes seeking them, from cab drivers to doormen and from shopkeepers to security guards. This was not a city where they could hide or escape.
At first, he spied two men, but then more appeared around the corner of a junction ahead. Kovalenko produced a gun, no doubt given to him by Spartak, and then so did Shawnasee.
Kinimaka cringed as Kovalenko and the Russians exchanged fire across the street, between moving cars and trucks and buses, shattering windows and bursting tires, sending civilians scrambling to the ground and behind obstacles.
They ran east, mirroring each other from both sides of the street, sprinting to get a shooting opportunity ahead of a car, slowing to let a bus pass, or even choosing one of the windows to fire through. Kovalenko picked two enemies off this way with no regard for the people aboard the buses.
“Just run,” Kinimaka said. “You’re wasting time exchanging gunfire.”
“You’re worried the nuke’s gonna blow?” Kovalenko shouted, glee in his voice. “Actually, me too.”
Kinimaka worried that he’d put the nuke to the back of his mind in favor of concern for Kono. Either way, the deck was stacked against him, against New York, and all of its inhabitants.
They reached the junction. A Russian had started sprinting between cars and was clipped by a yellow Mustang, sent rolling into the back tire of a truck. Another wound his way through the traffic and lined up Kovalenko in his sights. Without hesitation, Mano shot him, seeing an enemy of the people as much as the Blood King. Shop windows shattered everywhere under gunfire. People screamed and ran as the cross-street exchange continued.
Kovalenko pointed north. “That way. Six blocks.”
Kinimaka grabbed the Blood King and hurried him across a road, hunching over his body to protect him. Shawnasee came up against another Russian and threw him over her shoulder toward Kinimaka. The man had a knife protruding from one eye.
She plucked another from her belt.
Kinimaka was grateful that she was so good. It made his job easier. A bullet whizzed over the top of his skull. Another shattered the phone booth to his left, sending plastic shards spattering against his back. Kinimaka ducked, and then he was around the corner, temporarily out of sight of the Russians.
From behind, though, more gunfire erupted. That would be the Strike Force team finally confronting the Russians. Kinimaka breathed a short sigh of relief.
Shawnasee shouted, gesturing ahead. The rain pelted them. Kinimaka wiped it out of his eyes. They sprinted down a short, clear stretch of sidewalk before slowing once more for pedestrians.
A hand shoved Kinimaka in the back. He staggered, caught himself, and spun around.
Luther was there, the big man’s shaven dome shedding water and shining under the lights. “What the hell are you doing?”
Kinimaka hesitated. The Blood King had stopped too, despite Shawnasee’s urgent shouting. Kinimaka couldn’t abandon Kovalenko now.
“I’ve got this,” Mano shouted.
Luther barged into him, throwing him off balance.
Shawnasee dragged the Blood King away.
Luther squared up to Kinimaka. “Move aside, Mano.”
The big Hawaiian stood his ground, as large as Luther and just as intimidating. “Don’t push me again.”
“I don’t care what’s happening here.” Luther tried once more. “I only care about that nuke and the man holding the trigger.”
Kinimaka blinked. “Me too.”
Luther gave no warning, but threw a quick right jab at Kinimaka’s face. The Hawaiian saw it too late. The blow connected solidly, drawing blood. Kinimaka’s head rang. He blocked the next punch, a solid right, and elbowed Luther in the stomach, driving him back. Luther dug his heels in, arresting the momentum before jumping up and coming down at Kinimaka with an elbow strike.
The Hawaiian grabbed the arm and pushed it to the right, unbalancing Luther. The bald man roared and came straight back, leading with an uppercut. Kinimaka stepped in close, neutralizing the punch with his chest, smothering it.
Up close to Luther, he grabbed the man’s ears and pulled his head forward.
“They have Kono,” he whispered. “They have my sister.”
He flung the squawking Luther into a newspaper stand. The structure collapsed around the big soldier, timbers, plastic and piles of magazines and paper falling on top of him.
Kinimaka turned and ran, speeding up to catch the Blood King. Without any thought he tackled the man around the waist and sent him sprawling to the ground. As Kovalenko landed hard, Mano ripped the gun from his pocket and ground it roughly against his head.
“My sister. You free her now or you fucking die.”
Mano forced the barrel of the gun into Kovalenko’s temple. The Blood King rolled along the saturated sidewalk and then rose to his knees, hands up.
“The order is—if I’m killed, she dies horribly. So go fuck yourself.”
Kinimaka squeezed the trigger. He stopped from firing just a pound of pressure from the point of no return. He shoved the barrel into Kovalenko’s right eye.
“Let her go. Call them and tell them to let her go. Do it.”
The Blood King laughed and snarled, eyes wild. “You don’t have the balls to shoot me. Not knowing how badly your sister will die.”
Kinimaka pushed the gun harder against Kovalenko’s flesh, making him scream in pain. His finger tightened. He leaned forward and tore the cellphone from Kovalenko’s pocket and brandished it like a weapon in his face.
“Call her!”
“Maybe later.”
Every fiber of Mano’s being wanted to pull the trigger, to send a bullet through this bastard’s brain and end the nightmare.
But there was Kono.
And then there was the nuke.
And then Shawnasee came into view, standing above and directly behind the Blood King.
“Please . . .” she mouthed. “Please . . . not yet.”
Kinimaka closed his eyes in agony then yelled out in rage. He pulled the gun away. Unable to stop the reflex he drew the weapon back and fired three times into the air, screaming in anger at the rainswept clouds. Shawnasee stepped in, hooked the Blood King under his shoulders with her hands and hauled him to his feet.
“We have to move,” she said.
Mano gestured at her, unable to look her in the eyes. Was it the good in him that wanted to help her, or the coward? Should he have pushed Kovalenko harder?
If Kono died, Kinimaka would never forgive himself. His life would be over. The moment the Blood King resurfaced he should have gotten his family to safety. By then, it might have already been too late, but he should have tried.
Instead, he’d helped protect the man in a nightmare chase along ten blocks in New York City, under fire and under immense
duress. Did he really think the Blood King was going to let Kono and Han escape his clutches alive?
He’d kill them both soon.
And what of Shawnasee . . . what did the Russian have over her?
Kinimaka chased Kovalenko and Shawnasee north, running toward a ticking nuke, anxiety turning his stomach to acid, unable to look back to check on the progress of his friends for fear of making eye contact with them.
But he did make a show of placing the Blood King’s cellphone onto a fire hydrant.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“Where are your men?” Shawnasee asked the Blood King as they ran.
“No need to sound so desperate, Shaw. I’m sure you’ll keep me alive until they get here. In fact, I’m positive you will.”
The Native American pulled harder at him, dragging him along. Kinimaka was a few steps behind them.
“She has a point,” he said. “Was that the last of your men back there?”
At that moment his cell rang. Kinimaka could feel it vibrating in his pocket and knew it would be Hayden trying to talk to him. Hopefully, Luther would enlighten her.
“Of course not,” Kovalenko was saying. “I have men at every block.”
Kinimaka surveyed the street ahead, seeing just one more rainy concrete throughway, lit by a rainbow of colors and overflowing with life. A man pushed past them, striking Mano with his umbrella. A woman stomped by, attention focused on the phone in her hand, almost walking into a car and blaming the driver. It didn’t stop her. Social media was too important to put on hold. Kinimaka jumped over a veritable river running down the gutters and then negotiated a fire hydrant, keeping pace with Shawnasee.
Some way back, he could see the Strike Force team huddled together. He clenched his teeth, hoping that was a good sign.
Ahead, twenty feet in front of Shawnasee, a blue-and-white pulled up to the curb, tires spraying water. Cops jumped out, two in front and two in back. They were armed and stern-faced, reaching for their guns.
They recognized Luka Kovalenko.
Kinimaka understood what Shawnasee could not. That the cops were here to kill the Blood King, not arrest him. They were working for Harry Hodge, under orders but, corrupt or not, Kinimaka could not open fire on them.
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