Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  Bishop frowned. “Ah, that may have been my fault.”

  Slowly, Oleg turned to him. “Why?” His word was a slab of ice.

  “I did suggest she could perhaps make my position more difficult.”

  Oleg’s eyes were wide. “Why would you do that? Why would you taunt her? What is it between you two?”

  It was a good question, but one for another time. Right now they had more pressing matters.

  They turned to see the mounting crowd draw ever closer. The mob carried baseball bats, planks of wood, steel pipes. They were angry and hungry. A lethal combination.

  Astrid had just weaponised an entire impoverished neighbourhood. She’d turned the population of Cité Soleil into assassins.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Which hundred do you want?” Bishop swept his two pistols at the crowd.

  Oleg unslung his submachinegun. “I’ll take all the ones under four foot. The rest are yours.”

  “You spoil me.”

  “Any plans coming to mind, Englishman?”

  A brick was thrown in their direction, but it went wide and smashed through the old woman’s front window. The crash turned heads, but Bishop and Oleg’s focus remained on the crowd in front of them.

  The old woman rose from her rickety chair. “Who was dat? You gonna fix dat window. Get manman ou!”

  “Plans?” Bishop asked as he shook his head at an encroaching kid, no older than twelve. The youth wisely backed away, staring wide-eyed at the pistol aimed in his direction. “Fire into the air. They’ll scatter and we make a break for that small gap over to the right, the green fence—you see it?”

  Oleg sneered. “Into the air?”

  “These people are hungry and poor, Oleg. They’ve been given an opportunity that comes once in five lifetimes. It’s not their fault.”

  “Your affinity with the common man will get us killed, you know that?”

  “You may be right.” Bishop pulled back the hammer of his pistol to discourage a couple of skinny toothless men from rushing him on the side. “But we minimise losses, alright?”

  “That’s not a plan,” Oleg replied, stony faced.

  The crowd grew unruly. They had seconds before they were rushed and overpowered.

  “Fine, it’s not a plan.” Bishop didn’t wait for a response. “On three. Two.”

  The throaty thrum of a powerful engine drowned out the noise of the crowd. Many scattered at the sound, terrified. The remainder parted like the Red Sea. From around a corner, a huge black pick-up spewing clouds of black smoke pushed its way into the sea of bodies. The massive vehicle seemed to have been a Ford at one stage, but had been heavily modified. A white skull was hand-painted on the hood. An M60 machine gun had been welded to the roof, attached to a homemade swivel mechanism. Skulls—whether real or not Bishop couldn’t tell—spears and other intimidating paraphernalia were strapped to its surface. The pick-up could have driven straight off the set of a post-apocalyptic movie.

  The local warlord had arrived.

  A heavy hatch on the top of the vehicle’s cabin was flung open. Emerging from within was a man, no older than early twenties, wearing a white Nike t-shirt, gold chains and sporting a mohawk more suited to an eighties music video. Someone was a big Mad Max fan.

  The warlord pulled out a baseball bat studded with nails and addressed the crowd loudly. In French, he screamed, “Nobody touch dese men! You hear? Nobody! Dey get hurt, you get hurt worse, yeah?”

  Oleg glanced at Bishop hopefully.

  The MI6 agent frowned. “I don’t think we’re better off.”

  The warlord leapt to the ground. Strapped to each leg were mismatching guns: a Colt 45 and a 357 Magnum. Swinging the baseball bat casually, he leered at them. He was missing several teeth, and those remaining were more crooked than an Alabama politician. Eying the spies, he smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes.

  At least he spoke French. Bishop knew no Creole.

  “You da men I heard about on the radio? Oohhoo!” He spun on the spot, excited. “I is Lord Jules, Esquire. At your service.” The warlord assessed Bishop, lingering on the various bandages, cuts and bruises. “You in da wars, mon. You look more banged up dan da neighbourhood whore. How you still standin’?”

  “Sheer force of will.”

  That amused Lord Jules. A genuine smile creased his features. “What you doin’ in Soleil, my friends?”

  “We’re just passing through. We need to get to the airport urgently.” Bishop gripped the pistols tighter.

  Nodding sympathetically, Lord Jules scratched the underside of his chin with the bat. “Hmmm, hmmm, urgently, yessir. Ain’t nobody with brains be usin’ da Soleil as a shortcut, eh? Not lest dey got shit for brains, yeah?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

  “That’s what I tried to tell him.” Oleg thumbed in Bishop’s direction. “But he refused to pay the extra taxi fare.”

  Lord Jules placed both hands on his back and let loose a full belly laugh. “That is funny. You is a funny man. I like you. Tell you what, mon, you both come wit’ me, I give you a ride to da airport, hmmm?”

  Bishop eyed Lord Jules’ men as they made their way through the crowd, circling behind them. “What if we don’t want to go? It’s a lovely day for a walk.”

  “Yes, yes, it is that, yes. But I tell you sometin’ friend to friend, yeah?” Lord Jules leaned in close. “You don’ come wit’ us, you be dead in t’ree minute.” He held up three fingers to emphasise the point. “I guarantee it.”

  “You’ve got guns. We’ve got guns. Looks like a lot of innocent people could get hurt.”

  Lord Jules frowned and nodded as if conceding the point. In a smooth motion he extracted the Colt 45 and fired backwards into the crowd without looking. A young male dropped to the ground, crying in agony, clutching his wrist.

  Flashing a toothless grin, Lord Jules eyed them both carefully. “Yessum. You was saying sometin’ about people gettin’ hurt?”

  “I can make you a rich man.” Bishop eyed Lord Jules’s men edging closer.

  “You got five million dollars on you now, hmm?”

  “No, but I can—”

  “Oh, dat a shame, a real shame.” He shook his head, but made sure his eyes never left Bishop. “Because dere a lady who will give me five million dollars in cash today.” Lord Jules said the figure with reverence. “You got dat much cash on you, hmm?”

  “It’s in my other trousers.”

  “Den it a shame you don’ have dem trousers on now, eh?”

  Lord Jules’s men were mere feet away now, wielding machetes.

  “It doesn’t have to go down like this. We can discuss it like gentlemen.”

  “Gentlemen? Ha!” He laughed and turned to the crowd, who soon joined him, either finding it amusing or terrified of the warlord. “You call me a gentleman? Nobody ever done dat. You know why dey never do that, Mr Fancy? Do you?”

  Bishop stayed silent.

  “Because I took everyt’ing myself, I never ask nice.” He tilted his head menacingly. “Like now.” He raised the Colt to Bishop’s eyeline. “Dead or alive, dey said. What you want, Mr Fancy?”

  Bishop squared his jaw. “Dead.”

  Lord Jules regarded him quizzically. He retracted the gun and rolled the Colt around his ear. “You one crazy son of a—”

  Before he could finish the sentence, Bishop drew his weapon and shot Lord Jules between the eyes, the back of his head blown away. Ducking low, Bishop took out the three of his men nearby, all clean head shots. Oleg fired the machine gun above the mob.

  The crowd reacted with pandemonium. Some dropped to the ground. Most scattered to the periphery. Others saw it as an opportunity to rush the foreigners. Three of those carrying makeshift weapons were cut down in quick succession by the spies. Others, having seen their comrades expurgated so brutally and efficiently, backed away, but they didn’t leave.

  Bishop broke into a run towards the pick-up. “Change of plan.”

  Running to
catch up, Oleg replied, “You didn’t have a plan to begin with!”

  The young man on the back of the pick-up swivelled the M60 machine gun their way. Bishop picked him off with a bullet through the brain. Another poked out of the vehicle’s cabin, struggling to pull out a rusted six shooter. He swiftly had his head annihilated by Oleg’s submachinegun.

  Bishop leapt up and yanked at the door. It was welded shut. He clambered on top and jumped in, pushing off the body that was slumped across the roof. Outside, the crowd was regrouping, coming to terms with what had happened.

  Oleg manned the M60 but quickly abandoned it to join Bishop. “Pure show. Empty.”

  It would only be moments before the crowd launched a counteroffensive.

  Bishop started the hefty engine. “Want to get out of here?”

  “I was hoping to stay for dinner, but if you insist.”

  “I do.” Bishop threw the car in gear. “I really do.”

  The pick-up was strafed with gunfire as it churned dirt and sped away. The driver’s side window shattered and bullets peppered the bodywork. Within seconds they had turned a corner and were out of the line of sight.

  That didn’t mean they were safe. Not by a long shot.

  Navigating the narrow, unplanned streets, Bishop drove as fast as he could. On a brief straight stretch, he touched his side. His hand came back bloody.

  “Son of a bitch.” Bishop held his side to stem the bleeding. It was only a nick, but it hurt like hell.

  “Are you a bullet magnet, man?” Oleg’s face was astonished. “Do you know how many times I’ve taken a bullet on this mission?”

  Bishop squinted, concentrating on the chaotic configuration of the streets. “I don’t know, seven?”

  “Not once! Look at me.” Oleg swivelled his body, displaying it. “I haven’t even been stabbed. Not a mark on me. But you’ve been shot up worse than a Moldovan road sign.”

  “Bully for you.”

  Teeth clenched, Bishop sped towards the Toussaint Louverture International Airport. He had no idea how much time they’d lost confronting the crowd, but thanks to the pick-up they were making it back quickly. He was too jaded by the last few weeks to believe that even that minimal luck would hold, though.

  A metallic knocking came from the front of the vehicle, coupled with a shuddering of the steering wheel. Pungent black smoke seeped from either side of the hood. The engine coughed and spluttered, and lost momentum.

  With a palm striking the wheel, Bishop let loose a livid cry. “Once, just fucking once I’d like to catch a break on this cock-sucking mission!”

  Oleg stared at him and held up his submachinegun. “Is now a good time to mention I’m out of bullets?”

  The pick-up juddered and gave a fatal-sounding clanging wheeze. The engine stopped completely and the vehicle slowed, then came to an inglorious halt in front of a makeshift bar. The only thing to differentiate it from any other dwelling was the word “Bar” written in faded white paint on the front door. That and the ten hard-looking men who milled about out the front holding beer bottles.

  When Oleg and Bishop climbed out of the dead vehicle the group of locals took intense interest in the two white men. Many wore cheerful expressions, as if someone had just handed them five million dollars.

  Oleg sniffed and stared them down, empty machine gun in hand. “Can you run?”

  “I don’t think we’ll outrun this lot.” They all appeared relatively fit, Bishop thought.

  “Oh, I don’t have to outrun them. I just have to outrun you.”

  “Charming.”

  Oleg aimed the useless weapon warningly at a particularly bold local wearing a Tupac t-shirt. To Bishop he said, “You should try negotiating with them. It worked so well last time.”

  “I was doing alright there for a while.”

  “Until you shot the warlord in the face.”

  “Well, yes, apart from the whole face shooting thing, I’d categorise the negotiations as quite promising.”

  The two spies eyed the ten men. The upside was that they were unarmed. The downside was that they couldn’t be outrun, at least not in Bishop’s condition. In his present state he’d be hard pressed to outrun a pot plant.

  Leaning against Oleg, Bishop aimed the two pistols at the men. He spoke French. “Anything I can help you gentlemen with?”

  A few watched, confused, as most of the population only spoke Creole. The lead man, bald and with a neck like a truck tyre, frowned. “We good here, man.” His French was heavily accented, but understandable. “We good. You havin’ problems wit’ your car dere?”

  Bishop glanced back at the smoking, bullet-ridden vehicle. “No, why do you ask?”

  The bald man nodded and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Dat looks like Lord Jules’s car. He not stupid enough to drivin’ up in here. No sir. He do, an’ he gonna get awful dead I t’ink.”

  “I don’t believe he’s going to be overly concerned by that any longer.”

  A youth, perhaps ten, sprinted away, racing out of sight like a sewer rat, no doubt to alert the local warlord that all their collective Christmases had arrived. Perhaps the men were less of a threat in the short term. Their job was probably to distract the two until the real muscle arrived. If that was the case, Oleg and Bishop had minutes at best.

  “I’ll lay down supressing fire and we hustle down the lane, the one on the left.”

  “Excellent.” Oleg nodded. “And where will you obtain the wheelchair from?”

  “I can make that distance, I assure you.”

  “No doubt, but we can’t afford to wait the week it would take.”

  “Debate is over.” Bishop turned and aimed his two pistols at the approaching men. They backed away, holding hands in the air. None ran, as if waiting for an opportunity. “On three.”

  Oleg raised an eyebrow and nodded at the two guns in Bishop’s hands. “Can I have one of those?”

  “No. You were snippy. Snippy people don’t get guns. Two.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  In the distance the low rumble of an engine told them another warlord was en route. Given their recent history with warlords, Bishop was keen to be anywhere but the most dangerous place on earth facing down a murderous sociopath. He was fussy like that.

  “One.”

  Bishop fired into the air and the men scattered. A few were foolish enough to stand their ground, but he aimed at their feet and the bottles on the makeshift table and they dove for cover or ran for the hills.

  The two spies ran. The pain ripped through Bishop like spears. Every limb felt like it was being wrenched from his body. The agony almost made him black out, but he stayed the course, limping to their rendezvous point free of pursuers. Though it wouldn’t be long before they were flushed out of the labyrinth by the newly appointed assassins.

  Gasping, Bishop said, “Told you I’d make it.”

  “You probably left a trail of blood.”

  “I didn’t,” Bishop replied indignantly before checking. He hadn’t.

  The spot they had found was a tiny alcove between buildings. A rusted tin roof offered shade from the afternoon sun. It was shielded from view from either end of the street, but anyone searching thoroughly would find them soon enough. They were too exposed. They were staving off the inevitable and they both knew it.

  For the life of him, Bishop couldn’t recall the last time he’d smiled. The all-encompassing torture of this mission had multiplied until only pain remained. Perhaps another day he’d smile again, but it seemed unlikely. He had to survive this one first.

  Bishop handed one pistol to Oleg while he checked the other. Bishop’s was empty. The SRV agent checked his; only a few bullets remained. They exchanged despondent expressions. The big Russian poked his head out in search of angry locals.

  There was no way they could keep this up. Without transport they couldn’t make the airport in time. In Bishop’s condition, they’d be lucky to make the next block.

  They had no suppo
rt. No comms. No time. A whole city out to kill them. And they were virtually out of bullets. Bishop had been in tough positions before and had always managed to fight his way out, but he couldn’t recall anything quite this grim and hopeless.

  Oleg rose to one knee. “Well, I would like to say it has been a pleasure,” he offered his hand, “but we know this would be a lie.”

  Bishop blinked several times. “You’re leaving?”

  “Have you not been paying attention? Hundreds of thousands of impoverished people have been offered a chance to escape their unfortunate lives. Take a look at yourself. That chance is you, my friend. If you last beyond the end of this sentence I will be surprised.” Oleg raised both eyebrows, waited a couple of seconds, then frowned. “I am surprised.” He handed Bishop the empty machine gun. “Here, perhaps this will stave off death for a few seconds.”

  “At least give me the loaded weapon; even the odds?”

  With a frown, Oleg seemed to contemplate the idea. “No. You were snippy. I will keep this.”

  “You bastard.” Snatching the empty weapon, Bishop tossed it aside and stared at the Russian. “You’re letting Astrid get away!”

  “Did I say this?” He shook his head. “I said I was leaving you. I am still on my mission. I am SVR. I will complete my assignment. I can only do this without a dead man dragging me down. Farewell. I hope you die quickly.”

  Bishop clenched his teeth. “I wish you the same.”

  Without another word, Oleg stood, checked the narrow road and sprinted into the light. He didn’t look back.

  Fucker.

  How could he leave Bishop? Surely he realised he was signing his death warrant? Bishop knew they weren’t friends, but even so, the defection was cold-blooded. Oleg had literally left him for dead. If by some miracle Bishop survived, he vowed revenge on the treacherous Russian. After Astrid, of course.

  Lots of revenge.

  The battered MI6 agent took a deep breath and gazed at the two empty weapons in his hands. There were a million obstacles between Bishop and his prey. He could hardly walk. It would be all too easy to lie down and die. Very easy. But that wasn’t how Bishop was wired. There was too much fight in him, always had been. Unsteadily, he pushed himself up. He was bloody, he was bruised and unlikely to make it more than a hundred metres. But he had to try. There was no other choice.