Matt Drake 8 - Last Man Standing

by David Leadbeater

  Alicia was gawping. “Beauregard! Shit!”

  Drake jumped up. The Frenchman was unmasked, but also the only contestant apart from Coyote that might think he could take all four of them at once. Drake struck, but the assassin appeared to have some kind of sixth sense, evading blows from the side and behind, then using his opponents’ surprise to his advantage.

  Drake staggered, a knee having raised fire inside his right thigh muscle.

  Alicia cried, “Watch him! He’s as slippery and slimy as an oyster.”

  “Why, thank you,” could be heard as Beauregard actually glided underneath Mai’s offensive and came up kicking on the other side. Dahl lunged hard, but Beauregard unbalanced the Swede, spinning and sending him into a plastic trash can. Dahl’s forehead connected hard, and left a great imprint and a huge crack. The mad Swede barely felt it.

  Drake found his handgun at last, feeling that whole minutes had passed since Beauregard had started his assault but knowing it was mere seconds. “Stop,” he said. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

  Laughter crept all around him as the French assassin weaved and twisted from side to side. A black gloved hand knocked the gun to the floor. “Damn,” Drake breathed, trying to keep track of the ghost.

  “He’s just smoke and shadow,” Mai said. “Nothing more. One good strike will scatter him.”

  A gunshot rang out, loud in the alley. Dahl had drawn his own gun and fired at the darting shade. Drake heard the thunk as the bullet lodged in the wall at his back. In another second Beauregard had scurried high, using the trash cans and air-conditioner units to gain the roof in a matter of seconds.

  “Jesus,” Drake said. “That was close. Hope you measured that shot to the millimeter, Dahl.”

  The Swede grunted. “Worth the risk.”

  Drake gritted his teeth. “Everyone okay?”

  “So that was Beauregard Alain,” Mai said. “The stories may be true.”

  “What stories?”

  “Really. You don’t want to know. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Well, that just fills me with confidence.”

  They exited the alley and moved back cautiously into faceless rows of storefronts. Mai tapped the folder they’d been given.

  “We should get acquainted with the other assassins,” she said. “Before we rush headlong into another fight. We need knowledge, a plan. We need to force them to react, not us.”

  Alicia pouted. “You mean we’re gonna have to do some reading?”

  Drake nodded, already reaching for the file. “Yeah. And fast.”

  Dahl leaned back against a wall. “So tell us about the people that accepted the offer, and would love to get rich by killing us tonight.”

  ***

  Vincent, The Ghost, was a contract killer that hired himself out to the highest bidder. Didn’t matter if the person that had hired him was subsequently gazumped by the person he’d been hired to kill; Vincent went with the money, providing you could dish it up. More than one story existed of Vincent marching a target to some safety-deposit box, clearing it out and then fulfilling the hit, but on his original employer.

  Total anonymity enabled him to do this. Vincent wasn’t called The Ghost for nothing. His art was concealment; often the first you knew that The Ghost had been hired to kill you was when you heard the whisper of steel across your throat.

  Next up was Gretchen, the Russian. An old picture of her showed a woman that might well be mistaken for a member of an Olympic weightlifting team; something that put Drake in mind of watching old Olympic Games, when Eastern Bloc teams used to proffer male and female line-ups that were almost interchangeable.

  “That woman,” Alicia said. “Will not be hard to recognize.”

  “Photo’s ten years old,” Drake said. “And if she’s stopped using steroids she could look as handsome as . . . well . . . as Dahl by now.”

  “Shut it, Yorkshire twat.”

  Gretchen was ex-special forces, as most of these paid killers tended to be. Her specialty was close-up strangulation, asphyxiation, using her muscles to end a man’s life. Like a boa constrictor, once Gretchen enclosed you in her grip, the game was lost.

  Blackbird was Mossad, one of the most feared special-forces agencies in the world. Little was known of the Israeli agent; hence the description that they remained ‘of Mossad’. The Israelis kept schtum on the subject, typically proffering no information. Male or female? Nobody knew.

  “That person might be a little harder to spot,” Alicia commented.

  “Sharp as a razor,” Mai said. “That’s been used to trim a tree.”

  “I’ll trim you if you don’t be quiet.”

  “Uhh, promises, promises.”

  Dahl carried on his emotionless monotone. “Blackbird has been called a freelancer by some in the Israeli government. It says: ‘Blackbird never fights alone’. Others—still reputable sources—say he only carries out hits sanctioned by his bosses. Which begs the question—why is Blackbird here?”

  “We’ll ask him later,” Drake said. “Next.”

  Duster was a Cockney and a weapons expert. Everything from knives to high-explosives and advanced armaments filled his résumé like a comprehensive menu.

  “Where the hell did she find these people?” Drake asked. “I never heard of any of them before.”

  “Coyote has run among them most of her life,” Mai said. “In one form or another.”

  Gozu’s name came up next, the second Grand Master assassin from Mai’s village and quite possibly the only free member of Clan Tsugarai. Gozu would want to exact full vengeance for his clan’s shame, money for himself, and walk away with Mai’s head.

  “This is his theater,” Mai said. “It is what the masters trained for. Covert assassination among civilians. Slip in and slip away, a shadow in the twilight, an art learned over decades and through hard experience.”

  Gozu had been identified and placed on a watch list by Dai Hibiki, Mai’s old police friend from Tokyo. The picture they had of him gave very little away, except that he looked almost identical to Gyuki, the Grand Master Mai had slain and her old teacher.

  They skipped Santino.

  Second to last on the list was Beauregard Alain, the French assassin, also known around the world as Lucifer. Deadly, pitiless, without restraint or remorse, Beauregard was revered in the same vaunted circles as Coyote.

  “All I can say is, to get all these celebrities together the bloody reward must be fantastic,” Alicia pointed out. “Why would they, and especially Beauregard and Coyote, want to fight each other just for this?”

  Dahl sighed. “Kovalenko’s fortune,” he said. “Was vast. He funded this, remember? The vendetta fund goes to the last man standing . . . and it is one hundred million. More to the person that takes down Drake and Crouch.”

  Alicia coughed hard and eyed Drake. The Yorkshireman frowned. “Don’t be silly.”

  Alicia narrowed her eyes. “I could put my kids through college with that kinda dosh.”

  “You don’t have any kids.”

  “Sure I do. Just because they call themselves the Slayers and are aged twenty five to forty doesn’t mean they’re not family.”

  “Last on the list,” Dahl said. “Is Michael Crouch. Wonder where he is?”

  “He’ll make contact,” Drake said. “I’m not worried about that.”

  “So what’s first?” Alicia stared across the dark town. “What’s the plan?”

  “Track them. Draw them out. End this.” Drake said and then turned to the companions he was closest to. “And get on with our bloody lives.”

  Mai’s emotionless stare did nothing to ease his fears.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  After Kinimaka fired his Glock he ducked reflexively as the window exploded outward. The evasive action was for when the wind, strong at this height, whipped some of the flying shards back in. Hayden covered her top half with a pillow. Smyth just stood and watched.

  “What the—ow!”

  Kinimaka
crossed over to the shattered window. “We’re not running, we’re standing,” he said, pressing a panic button. “Backup’s on the way. We just have to hold for a few minutes. Smyth—” he pointed to the window. “Out.”

  “What?”

  “You know what to do.”

  “Shit, yeah. Doesn’t make me happy though.”

  Kinimaka held his tongue. The ex-Delta man wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine most days and had been spectacularly irritable since Romero died. Something they were all trying to help him through. The Hawaiian heard noises and rushed to the door.

  Smyth headed for the window and a two-hundred-foot freefall.

  ***

  Kinimaka saw four men running in single-file formation along a corridor that led to Hayden’s room. Only one of the men startled him, a mountain of a man with a mongoose’s face—all furry and twitching—several inches taller and wider than even Kinimaka himself. The Hawaiian suddenly knew what it was for someone to come up against him in battle.

  Hope the bastard’s as light on his feet as I am . . .

  Kinimaka hit the door just before the team leader got there. A bullet flew through the gap, slamming past his nose. The door crashed into place, and he turned the lock. A figure collided against it from the other side. Now his attackers couldn’t get to them through the bulletproof door.

  A terrible memory swept through his mind just as Hayden said, “Mano. They might have the code.”

  He remembered with horror the first time he’d come up against Dmitry Kovalenko. An overwhelming force had crashed a safe house in Miami, and they had known the entry code.

  “Override it!” Hayden cried. “Override it and shut it down!”

  Kinimaka punched in the code just as the door clicked open. Without a moment’s pause, the frame burst inward, men with severe crew cuts following close after. Kinimaka wrenched at the first one’s shoulders, spinning him in place—much to his surprise—and forcing him back against the shattered frame. Splinters tore into the man’s face, making him scream. The second stumbled over him. Kinimaka stomped on the man’s spine as he landed on all fours, and fired into the first man’s ribs, putting him down for good. The Hawaiian leapt aside as the second man, prone, twisted and fired at him. Bullets whickered through the thin air he had previously occupied. Kinimaka collided full-on with the third man, not on purpose but with characteristic clumsiness. The man flew away as if he’d been shot from a bungee rope, disappearing back down the corridor. Now it was mongoose-man’s turn, and the enormous warrior was still trying to fit through the broken doorway.

  Kinimaka stared, almost transfixed.

  And heard the whisper as a trigger was pulled behind him . . .

  No! The second man! He . . .

  A gunshot erupted. Kinimaka had no chance to get out of the way. The bullet ripped into flesh, bursting the heart, but it was not his own. He dropped to his knees, landing hard and turned to see the second man holding a gun on him, unfired, and Hayden holding a gun on the second man.

  Even from her hospital bed Hayden Jaye had saved his life. The second man collapsed, instantly dead.

  Then, all was rushing, heaving manflesh as the outsize monster rammed him.

  ***

  Smyth felt half-a-second’s debilitating fear at the sheer, dizzy height then made himself suck it up. The window ledge ended where nothingness began. Far below, the distant street nestled, terrifyingly small. Smyth thought about how fear could only control you if you let it. Romero would have felt no fear out here. Romero would have eaten his misgivings alive. But Romero was dead, and all that was left of him out here were Smyth’s best memories.

  Smyth clung with one hand inside the outer wall as he stepped onto the narrow, slightly-curved ledge. That hand gripped with a Hulk’s strength whilst the other quested along the outside wall for a firm handhold. Strong, erratic blasts of wind tugged at his hair, his clothes. All the world was silence except for the brief terrifying gusts, any one of which might suddenly hit gale force and pluck him off the ledge.

  Smyth looked down. Stupid move. He did it again, irritably, angry at himself for being a fool and then angry that he was angry. He punished himself for being annoyed by doing it a third time, then remembered that Kinimaka was already fighting four men inside and Smyth was their only hope against the rest that were assuredly coming. Taking a breath he inched along the ledge, gripping the outer wall with steel-taloned fingertips where the mortar had crumbled away between blocks of stone. The grip was nothing more than a way of helping him balance; it could never hold him if one of his feet slipped. His right hand now held the edge of the window; still a firm, safe grip but one he would have to relinquish in order to move on.

  Damn, the ledge looked wider when we came up with this plan.

  With the balls of his feet balanced on the rolled top of the ledge, Smyth inched outside the tall building with nothing but fresh air and a long drop at his back. Little gusts of wind tugged at his body like playful imps. A shard of glass snagged in the sleeve of his jacket, tearing through and destabilizing him for a second. He had to concentrate hard in order to carefully unhook it. Sweat dripped from his brow. Someone fired a bullet inside. Smyth prayed to God his people were all right. Mai Kitano popped into his mind and he hurriedly put her aside. This was no time to lose focus.

  Smyth shuffled sideways, painful inch by painful inch. A series of firm handholds didn’t speed him up, but gave him more confidence. In a matter of minutes he realized that the tips of his fingers were chilling rapidly, and being scraped bloody. He compartmentalized the pain and chose not to see them.

  Finally he reached the next room’s window and reached out for the frame. Smyth never knew where he made the mistake; possible over-eagerness, a momentary lack of judgment and spatial-awareness, or the weakening grip in his hands—but his fingers missed the edge of the frame by millimeters and closed over nothing.

  Unbalanced, committed, Smyth wavered.

  And fell.

  ***

  Kinimaka pushed hard against the man-mountain, the two men like dueling rhinos trying to throw each other to the ground. A meaty paw lay across his shoulders, pushing down on them with all the force of an industrial crusher, forcing the breath out of Kinimaka’s lungs and making his eyes pop. The Hawaiian pushed back with all his might, but the monster had the advantage and was bringing his extra weight to bear. Grunting filled the air between them. Hayden couldn’t fire because Mano was between the giant and her.

  Kinimaka saw the man’s other hand coming around. In it was clasped a big Magnum, reduced to the size of a toy pea-shooter in the veiny flesh and stubby fingers. Seconds passed that felt like minutes. The gun moved slowly, but inexorably, the barrel turning. As it lined up with Kinimaka’s knees he half expected a fast bullet, but the giant was going for the kill shot. More seconds passed. Then, as Kinimaka saw the stubby fingers contract around the trigger, he allowed the giant’s weight to topple him, unbalancing the man and making his ear-splitting shot pass harmlessly overhead.

  Both leviathans crashed to the floor. Kinimaka recovered first, grabbed the legs of one of the dead attackers and swung the body around at the giant’s head. The body actually lifted off the floor, shifting at speed, the shoulders crashing into an enormous chest and producing a satisfying grunt of pain.

  But Kinimaka didn’t stop there. He was in the fight of his life and knew it. He rose fast, swinging the inert body again, this time letting go at the last second and hoping the extra momentum would topple his opponent.

  He stared in amazement as the monster stared and then simply swatted the dead merc’s body from the air, just slapping it down like an annoying insect. It crashed to the floor, bones breaking.

  “Mac never beaten.” The growl was the sound of an approaching subway train. “Not start with you, little man.”

  Kinimaka blinked. In all his life nobody had ever called him “little man”. Now he cringed as Mac stamped on the other merc’s body for good effect, snapping whatev
er intact bones the man had left.

  Hayden’s voice snapped him out of it. “Get out of the damn way!”

  Kinimaka just wasn’t that quick. He was trained, he was fleet of foot, but he wasn’t exactly Jet Li, for God’s sake. Mac lumbered toward him, closing the distance fast. Kinimaka, out of time, met the giant head on. Their chests crunched. Mac’s huge arms tried to wrap around but Kinimaka delivered four fast kidney punches that actually slowed his opponent. Kinimaka finished with an uppercut, his big fist connecting solidly with the other’s jaw.

  Mac’s eyes closed and his body slithered to the floor.

  “Thank God,” Hayden said.

  Kinimaka frowned. “I don’t think he’s—”

  Mac rolled backward and tried to stand. When his knees wobbled he decided to stay kneeling, then grabbed hold of the side of the room’s double sofa and hurled it. Kinimaka had nowhere to go. The sofa caught his lower body, sending him over the top and tumbling past the cushions onto the floor beyond. Mac was already there, looming above the Hawaiian.

  “Nice try.”

  A shot rang out. Instant surprise creased Mac’s eyes. The bullet flew above his head, but the frozen moment gave Kinimaka a chance. The Hawaiian scrambled away, hands and feet scrabbling amidst the debris, looking for anything that could give him an edge in this uneven battle of Goliaths.

  A chair. Kinimaka picked it up, spun, and swung downward all in one easy move. Mac rose into it, forehead upraised, and the wood simply splintered and disintegrated all around him. Three long shards stuck out of the bridge of his nose, monstrous spines acquired in combat.

  “Is that it?” Mac grunted.

  “Stop!” Hayden screamed. “Stop, or I will kill you!”

  Mac guffawed. Kinimaka was up against a wall. Mac charged and Hayden fired, the bullet punching into the enormous merc’s side and lodging there. To the bullet’s credit it did make Mac grimace, it made his body kink, but it didn’t slow him. He hit Kinimaka head on, foreheads colliding with a heavy crunch. The wall exploded around them, plaster and timber and a single block wall smashed to pieces. Debris rained down and cascaded away. Mac fell on top of the Hawaiian.