Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  “Why choose that place for the deal?”

  Oleg turned to him. “It is out of the way?”

  Realising he’d started a conversation by mistake, Bishop replied, “Yes, but why there? Surely any sufficiently trained soldier has contingencies? They’ve painted themselves into a corner. There’s no way out. Unless…”

  Bishop’s binoculars flung to the corners of the port, searching any half-reasonable position to set up a sniper’s nest. Unable to see anything out of the ordinary, he swivelled his view to the kid by the fuel pump. His hands were flopped at an unnatural angle, his thin body slumped over his weapon. Puffs of dirt erupted near the police officer’s head.

  “She’s going to blow the fuel.”

  “Who is?”

  Before he could answer, a giant orange and black fireball erupted into the sky.

  Kali had blown the fuel depot. They had their distraction. On the ground, people scattered like bugs under a lifted rock, scurrying in all directions. Chaos reigned. The remaining Haitian police dropped where they stood, succumbing to sniper’s bullets. Bishop was willing to put good money on who the sniper was.

  Performing urgent mental gymnastics to triangulate Astrid’s position, Bishop pitched his binoculars around the dock. Beside him, Oleg was pointing and yelling at his comrades in Russian. Bishop did the same. Nobody had a target.

  The first SVR agent cried out, then the second. Urgent calls went unanswered. Bishop screamed at his men to take cover. It was too late.

  An RPG spewed smoke as it snaked its way towards the MI6 shed.

  “Get out!”

  Bishop’s call came too late. The small tin shed erupted in a fireball, sending shrapnel and debris in all directions. All that remained was a smoking ruin. The men and women he had just met were dead, never to return to their families. It was a horrific, inhumane way to die. He would mourn his colleagues later. They were professionals, they’d want him to stay on mission. Grieving would come, but right now he had more immediate concerns.

  “Where’s the money?”

  Oleg’s head swivelled towards him. “What?”

  “The case, with the money. Where is it?”

  There was no sign of the case on the causeway.

  “Our countrymen are dead!” Oleg’s tone was hard; he was astonished at Bishop’s heartless observation.

  “The case is gone. Either Kali has more people on the ground or one of the Haitians got greedy. I think the former.”

  “Whatever. We have more pressing matters.”

  Oleg nodded towards the devastation below. Thrashing, smoking bodies; silent screams. Motionless forms, never to move again. Doing his best to ignore the human cost, Bishop focused on what he had to do next. The RPG had left a trail. A trail that led to a decrepit tugboat moored to a tiny pier. It was a trail that led to Astrid. Bishop picked up his pistol.

  Yanking open the trapdoor on the floor of the cabin, Bishop checked the rounds of his Glock and slapped the magazine in place.

  “You’ll never get to the ground in time.” Oleg’s tone was even. Bishop was unsure if it was due to the death of his comrades or in response to Bishop’s action.

  Oleg was right. It had taken them over ten minutes to climb the crane. The descent would be quicker, but even so, Astrid would be long gone by the time he reached the ground. Then a thought struck him. Bishop beamed.

  “Who said I was going to climb down?”

  Forehead creased in confusion, Oleg shook his head. He followed Bishop’s eyes to the end of the crane. Then he understood. “You are without a doubt the most insane human being I have ever met.”

  The MI6 agent bowed slightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was not meant as one.”

  Bishop waggled his eyebrows. “I know.”

  Moments later he was high above the sun-baked earth on all fours, crawling across the arm of the crane. His hair fluttered in the heavy breeze. Hand over hand, he clung to the crane for dear life, doing his best to imagine that it was merely feet off the ground. He made steady but slow progress. Suddenly a gust of wind buffeted Bishop and shunted him to the left, and his handhold slipped. Recovering, he sucked in a deep breath.

  “What the fuck was I thinking?”

  Over the headset came the reply. “Would you like me to sing to you again?”

  Bishop inched forward. “You do and I’ll jump.”

  “I am still undecided if I should sing or not.”

  Far below, no one had exited the tugboat. The occasional writhing body had been ruthlessly taken out by the sniper at the front of the boat. Oleg had tried to raise the Haitian police but couldn’t get through. Either their communications were down or the signal was being blocked.

  Mouth dry, Bishop finally reached the end of the crane. Now came the hard bit.

  “Hoist it up.”

  As instructed, Oleg retracted the crane. At the very end was a large hook, about half a metre in size, and above that was a metal ball about the size of his head. In theory, all Bishop had to do was drop from the end of the crane onto the ball, then place his foot in the hook and wait to be be lowered to the ground. In theory. Below that little leap was 100 metres of certain death. If he slipped, if he lost his grip for even an instant there would be no second chances. Bishop would fall, clawing at the air while screaming the best profanities His Majesty’s language had to offer.

  Inhaling deeply, Bishop leapt from the crane. His foot hit the ball and it moved far more than he’d expected. He lost his footing. Gritting his teeth, his left hand reached out to grasp the chain. He missed. Bishop was in freefall. Below was nothing but ground. In a desperate lunge, his right hand grabbed at the rapidly disappearing hook. His fingers barely gripped the rusted metal, but miraculously they held for a fraction of a second. Carefully, he raised his left hand to take a more secure hold. He got hold of the hook and held fast.

  In seconds he pulled himself up. All those push-ups and chin-ups paid off. He planted his foot securely in the hook and glanced up at the crane’s cabin.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  The motor whirred and the hook descended towards the ground.

  “You almost died.”

  “Thank you for letting me know, I completely missed it.” For the first time, Bishop was aware of his breathing. “I think after this I might retire and run a flower shop.”

  “Know anything about flowers?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “It’s a well thought-out plan, then.”

  Bishop looked down and gritted his teeth. “Much like this one really. Seems to be a recurring theme.”

  The hook descended rapidly, but as he dropped lower, Bishop realised it would be out of range of the tugboat unless he did something about it.

  Into the headset, Bishop growled, “I want you to swing this baby like Sinatra at the Sands.”

  Silence followed. Eventually, Oleg replied, “I have absolutely no idea what that means.”

  “Swing me around in an arc, it’s the only way I’m going to reach the boat. Otherwise I’ll need to cross open ground and I’ll never make it.”

  On the ground, all remained still apart from sporadic bursts of gunfire quickly quashed by sniper’s bullets. Nobody had emerged from the tugboat.

  Bishop heard the clunk of levers. “I see. And where does Sinatra come in?”

  The crane groaned and the huge arm began to move in a slow arc. The wire Bishop dangled from swayed and dragged him to the left. In no time, he was fighting to hang on as the hook spun around and the ground became a swirling blur. A blur that was steadily growing closer.

  “Get ready.” Oleg’s voice was hurried. “Next round you’ll reach the boat.”

  The world was a smear. Bishop only knew which way was up because the upper part was blue. He clung to the wire for dear life. It was nearly at right angles to the ground. He had no idea how he was meant to dismount the swirling chaos of the crane to confront the enemy on the tugboat. The speed was ludicrous.
He’d envisaged himself swinging in, gun blazing, like Errol Flynn—if Errol Flynn was prone to firing Glocks at clandestine international arms dealing syndicates while swinging on a crane. It was practically the same. But now, the thought of letting go of the end of the crane filled him with mounting dread and the certainty of a crushed skull.

  “Three.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  “Two.”

  “Oleg… I…”

  “Now, Bishop!”

  The tugboat came at Bishop like a freight train. In an instant he was committed, he had no choice. It was either leap or slam into the hull and be squashed like a bug.

  Bishop leapt.

  Time slowed. In midair, Bishop extracted the pistol from the rear of his pants. Behind him, the hook caught on the hawsehole on the bow and came to an abrupt halt. Bishop didn’t.

  Flying through the air, he was hurled over the deck. Spinning head over heels, Bishop attempted to control his landing, but it was too late. He hit the deck hard, face forward, arms protecting his head, then scrunched into a ball and tumbled uncontrollably. Splaying his body, he tried to slow himself down as he hurtled across the deck.

  Decelerating enough to gather his wits, he ignored his screaming body. Bishop stood and realised the pistol was no longer in his hands. He forced his watery eyes to focus.

  “Looking for this?”

  Bishop reluctantly turned to see a grey-hooded woman in the doorway of the wheelhouse on the deck above him. In one hand she held his Glock, in the other, a silenced Beretta M9A3. Both were pointed at Bishop.

  “Thanks ever so much. I’ve been searching everywhere for it. It’s always the last place you look, isn’t it?”

  There were several metres and a ladder between them. Astrid was too high for him to reach in one leap. She was out of range, had the high ground and had him severely outgunned.

  “I suppose I have you to thank for all this?” Astrid jerked her head towards the smoking ruins of the port.

  “No. I’m reasonably certain I wasn’t the one firing off RPGs and killing indiscriminately.”

  Bishop’s back was aflame and each intake of air felt like an insurmountable hurdle, but he would not give the woman the satisfaction of showing weakness. Not now. Not ever.

  Astrid snorted. “Oh, don’t be so obtuse.”

  “I always thought I was rather acute.”

  Astrid blinked several times. “Did you just try to make a geometry joke?”

  “I sometimes talk in circles, but I didn’t see the point.” Bishop shrugged. “Sorry, I was off on a tangent.”

  She pointed the Beretta at his head. “Please stop.”

  Bishop’s expression turned dark, his voice like stone. “Surrender. You won’t make it out of here alive if you don’t, Astrid.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I seem to have done alright so far. Plus,” she glanced down at him, “I seem to be the one holding the guns. Obviously, I’m no expert on these things, but I’d say you’re the one who’s not making it out alive.” Astrid waved the guns, gesturing for Bishop to step back, then descended the ladder and stepped onto the deck. “You can’t charm the pants off me now.”

  “They are very nice pants.”

  “You hate me, don’t you Bishop?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Perhaps.” Astrid studied the pistol in her hand. “Hate. It’s an exquisite emotion. So passionate. So intense. Isn’t it?” Her smile blazed at him. “I hate you too, Bishop. We hate each other so much. Who hates the most, I wonder? You, maybe? I think you hate me so much you’re going to die from it.”

  “One of us will, I assure you.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Astrid leaned forward, pointing the barrel at his forehead. It wasn’t the first time she’d aimed his own pistol at him. “You’re going to die, Charles Bishop.”

  Bishop tapped the side of his head. “Now.”

  Astrid baulked slightly. “Did you just ask me to kill you?”

  Bishop raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  The entire tugboat groaned. The sound of grinding metal was deafening. The world tilted on its axis as the bow of the boat lifted from the murky waters of the port and lurched skyward.

  Oleg had understood the message and retracted the crane’s hook, tugboat and all. Moorings snapped, water surged, the world twisted. Bishop leapt across and grabbed the boat’s railing, threading his arm through the rope tied to the tyres on the side of the lurching boat.

  Astrid, at the centre of the deck, was nowhere near anything to hold onto. As the heavy vessel violently drew vertical she lost her footing and stumbled. Her feet searched for ground but found only air. She toppled downward, towards the wheelhouse, which was now the floor.

  She landed on her back, hitting with a hard “Oof”.

  Bishop’s Glock sailed downward towards the rapidly disappearing earth. Her silenced pistol spilled from her hand and skidded across the wood. Astrid blinked several times, stunned.

  The tugboat creaked as it swayed in the wind, and the ground grew more distant by the second. Bishop only had a moment. If Astrid recovered and picked up the gun, he’d have no defence. The distance between the railing and the wheelhouse was only a few metres, but if he mistimed his leap he’d hurtle towards terra firma and death. It was a theme he was growing far too accustomed to. Bishop gritted his teeth and leapt.

  Landing awkwardly, his ankle felt like it had been smashed by a sledgehammer. Falling on his side, Bishop scrambled towards the Beretta. Astrid wasn’t as stunned as he first thought; she hoisted herself up to clamber towards the gun.

  But she was too slow.

  Bishop picked up the Beretta and pulled back the hammer. “Don’t.”

  Eyes crazed, Astrid leapt towards him, fingernails raised like claws. She thrashed at him wildly. Bishop ducked and threw a Kizami-Zuki karate jab to her ribs. It threw her off balance. Staggering, she took another swing as she tried to find her footing, but there was nowhere to step. Astrid fell off the wheelhouse, grasping at air, and plummeted to the earth.

  Dropping to his chest, Bishop shot out his hand and grabbed Astrid’s wrist. They both grunted as she jerked to halt. With a heave, he hoisted her upward until she could clamber up of her own volition. When she was back on the wheelhouse, she eyed the gun on the other side of him.

  Bishop’s lips curled into a sneer. “Seriously? I wouldn’t advise it.”

  Astrid grunted and collapsed backwards, knowing it was futile. She winced and closed her eyes, defeated.

  There were no thanks for saving her life. Not that he expected any.

  It would be easy to advise Paul and the other MI6 superiors that he’d saved Astrid because she had vital information that would facilitate the apprehension of the Kali organisation. But Bishop knew it wasn’t entirely true. He would spend time with his therapist over that one, but for now, there were more pressing matters.

  “Oleg,” Bishop wheezed, “if there’s anyone left alive down there, please inform them that we have the leader of Kali in custody.” He looked at the face he had once considered so beautiful. “If you could lower us anytime soon, that would be splendid. The sooner this woman is out of my sight, the better.”

  “Look at the big hero.” Astrid’s voice was as cold as a mortician’s slab. “Wins the day and gets the girl. My, they’ll probably give you a medal or a sash of some description, won’t they? You must feel very special.”

  “The only thing I feel is tired.”

  “You do seem tired. Maybe lie down. I could hold the gun for you. Looks heavy.”

  The tugboat halted its ascent with a shunt. Seconds later it reversed and slowly headed towards terra firma once more.

  Astrid’s face changed again. She appeared more angelic. On the outside. “You haven’t changed anything, you know? You can take me down, but nothing will change.”

  “I don’t know about that. A man can change the world with an opportunity and one bullet.” She slither
ed towards him. In response, Bishop aimed the pistol at her. “Don’t give me an opportunity, Astrid.”

  The head of Kali slumped backwards and huffed. The tugboat descended. Bishop just wanted a scotch, and to lie down for a year or two.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The white van clattered so much that Bishop’s teeth rattled. He was beginning to wonder if the driver wasn’t deliberately aiming for the potholes. In the back of the Haitian police van, Bishop sat on a bench opposite a serene-looking Astrid. Her demeanour was in direct contrast to the chaos she’d wrought. The Haitians had suffered terrible losses. There were no survivors from the Saudi side. There were Kali dead too, but not all members on the ground were accounted for.

  The back of the van had no windows, only the white metal walls. Beside them were two police officers barely old enough to shave. They formed part of the second wave of police after their comrades had been brutally eliminated by Astrid and her cohorts. There had been a brief period where the police had wanted to execute her on the spot. Calmer heads had prevailed.

  Those left in authority, Bishop included, thought it best to take no chances and get Astrid out of the country ASAP. They were headed straight for the airport. Well, almost straight. The police were travelling in a wide arc, avoiding one neighbourhood in particular.

  Cité Soleil was an infamous part of Port-au-Prince, situated between the port and the airport. The UN called Cité Soleil the most dangerous place on earth. Bishop thought it was an understatement. Armed gangs roamed the streets and terrorised the neighbourhood. Murder, rape, kidnapping and shootings were still common, as was lynching. The government sporadically attempted to remind the populous lynching was a crime but they continue on anyway.

  The neighbourhood was continually terrorised by armed gangs who had driven the police out in the nineties. They never returned. In 2007 UN troops aided by heavily armed Haitian police were sent into Cité Soleil. Four lives were lost and another ten were injured. They lasted one hour. All in all, Bishop would prefer Cirque du Soleil.