Kiss My Assassin

by Dave Sinclair

  Bishop took a shaky step into the light, preparing to take on an entire city, alone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Limping, Bishop eyed the darkened doorways and windows of Cité Soleil. Faces looked out at him. Some were curious, some angry, others had hungry expressions. No one came out or even spoke to him.

  Bishop knew it wouldn’t hold. There were five million reasons it wouldn’t. He hobbled on regardless. Whether it was stubbornness, a quest for retribution or complete stupidity, he could no longer tell. He was too spent. Already a mess from his previous injuries, the addition of the new gunshot wound sapped his strength. His feet dragged, carving lines in the dirt. Only memory kept him moving now, but that too would be exhausted soon enough.

  Behind him, Bishop heard urgent whispers and tentative footsteps. He turned to see five youths, four boys and a girl following him at a distance. Their expressions were more than idle curiosity, they shone brightly with anticipation. The four boys were handsome and confident, with straight backs and strong strides. The girl hung back, holding one arm across herself defensively, head down, hair half covering her face. It was the stance of someone who had been beaten down by life already.

  They saw that Bishop had noticed them and seemed emboldened by this. They quickened their pace and closed the gap. In no condition to outrun them, the MI6 agent slowed to a halt, unsure if he would be able to summon the energy to move again. He stared at the group, awaiting their move. They tried to conceal various machetes and knives behind their backs. The smallest comically did his best to hide a baseball bat.

  Tired, Bishop grunted, “Go away.”

  A short stocky boy yelled, “Make us!” before retreating to the back of the pack.

  Bishop waved the guns in their general direction in some sort of vague threat, then turned and trod onward. His little gang of admirers drew closer.

  The tallest of them, wearing a porter’s uniform from a local hotel, stepped in front. In English, he said, “I’m tinkin’ if you had bullets in dem guns you woulda fired dem already, cha? But you ain’t.”

  “An astute observation.” Bishop paused and casually aimed one in his direction. “Probably.”

  The youth grinned a broad, white-toothed grin. “Nah, man, I t’ink you got nothin’ in dem bangers, yeah.”

  “That so?” Bishop tilted his head. “Willing to bet your life on it?”

  “Mebe.” He stepped forward. His words were brave, but there was real fear in his eyes. He flicked his fingers, gesturing for his friends to circle either side of Bishop.

  “So whacha gonna do, Mister?” He grew more emboldened by the second. “You fire one shot in da air and we skip, yeah? Just one. Promise.” He beamed. “Dat is, unless you empty like my sister’s belly?”

  The pistol and the machine gun felt heavy in his hands. Bishop exhaled a heavy sigh. There was no longer a need for pretence. The jig was up. He let go and they clattered to the ground.

  Startled, the girl ran off. Whether it was in fear or to gather others, Bishop didn’t care. He didn’t want her to be around for what was to come. He was sure she had seen her share of death already.

  Exhausted, Bishop raised his fists. The youths laughed. They moved within a step of him.

  “You ka hardly stand, mon!” The tallest youth looked around for his friends to join him in his revelry. “How you gonna fight us four, eh? Tough man? You answer me dat!”

  “Like this.”

  The first punch landed squarely on the tall youth’s nose. Staggering backwards, he clutched at his broken nose, a cascade of blood already flooding down his face. A second youth heaved a machete at Bishop’s upper body. The move was so telegraphed, Bishop had time to react and have a cup of tea if he wanted. Dropping to his knee, he delivered a series of rib-cracking body blows.

  With no idea where these last vestiges of energy reserves had come from, Bishop knew he had seconds left before he collapsed, completely spent. The third boy came at him with a knife, blade down, slashing as he approached. Using footwork to circle in a tiny dance with his attacker, Bishop kept his eye on the blade. When the strike came, it was clumsy and uncommitted. The trained MI6 agent grasped his wrist, used the momentum to aid his twist and promptly broke the kid’s wrist at the joint.

  With an unbelievably painful sting, Bishop’s head rang like a bell and he staggered sideways. His vision blazed white, fuzzy around the edges. The blow from the baseball bat had been delivered expertly. Bishop had collected a full swing that would have felled most people, but he was too obstinate for that. Rounding on the kid, Bishop shook his head to rid himself of the pain. Buoyed by his initial success, the youth went in for another hit. But this time Bishop was ready.

  The strike was a direct blow. Bishop swerved under it, using his upper arm to glance the blow harmlessly away. He didn’t want to hurt the kid, but the anger had welled too much. Using all the might he had left, he punched the youth square in the jaw. If he were at full capacity, the blow would have broken his jawbone. As it was, the kid would have a nasty bruise for a week or so. He stumbled backwards, clutching his jaw, screaming.

  All four attackers subdued, at least in the short term, Bishop slumped forward, the full force of his exhaustion bearing down on him. He had nothing left. He was done. Vision blurring, he attempted to stagger away, but tripped on a writhing body on the ground. So shattered he couldn’t raise his hands to protect his head, Bishop’s face hit the dirt with a thud.

  Blackness invaded his vision, the peripheries grew darker. He clawed at the ground, trying to crawl, to make it anywhere but where he’d fallen.

  There were shouts and screams, a cacophony of noises, though he couldn’t determine where from. He felt hands on him and tried weakly to brush them off, but he was too exhausted. He knew the end had arrived and there was nothing he could do.

  His body was being dragged.

  Everything went black.

  Bishop woke with a start.

  Eyes wide open, everything was still dark. For an instant, he thought the blow to his head had sent him blind, but after a few moments he realised he was in a dimly lit room. Outside was commotion; inside was calm and still.

  “Don’ move.”

  It was a woman’s voice, soothing. Bishop’s gaze was drawn towards the window of the tiny room. A woman sat on a battered crate, watching what he assumed was the street. She was young, early twenties. Her finely curled hair was short, framing her elegant face.

  “You dragged me from the street?” Bishop coughed up blood.

  “I did, ta save your fool ass. Keep yer mout’ shut if ya want ta stay safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded in reply.

  “English. You speak English?”

  Eyes still on the fracas on the street, she replied, “Yes, we not savages here. We got schools, not government ones, but we educate ourselves. Dat because nobody else will.”

  Even though she eyed him intently, the woman had a lovely, kind face.

  “What da hell was you t’inkin’ being out dere in broad daylight, ya damn fool? You was gonna die on da street. Dat be sure.”

  She was feisty. Bishop liked her.

  “Thank you again.” Bishop flexed his hands to encourage circulation. “Are you going to hand me in?”

  With a huff, she nodded towards the street. Bishop shuffled over and looked out through a crack in the curtain.

  “Out dere, people are goin’ crazy lookin’ for you an’ yer mate. Dey sell dere own granma for dat money, dat much for sure.”

  Outside on the street dozens of locals milled about. Some shouted, some darted in different directions, some were just there to witness the chaotic spectacle. The tall youth in the porter’s uniform who Bishop had taken out was bellowing orders. None glanced towards the tiny shack Bishop was in.

  “That didn’t answer my question.”

  Light shone on half her face. She issued Bishop with a sarcastic expression and rolled her eyes. Bishop really liked her.

/>   “My name is Roseline. I don’ have much to fix you up, Mister, but I’ll try. I don’ think da proper hospital would have enough, ta be hones’.”

  “Bishop.”

  Through the dirty curtains, he watched the street. Roseline used some offcuts as a tourniquet, gave him water and bread. After five minutes the commotion began to die down.

  “They’re about to disperse. That tall lad, the one in uniform, seems to hold some authority. I believe he’s organising teams to search the streets. He’s smart. He’s just looking in the wrong direction.”

  Roseline squeezed past Bishop, her soft skin brushing against his. “You observant. Dat Jacob. He’s a good boy, jus’ easily led.”

  As the crowd dispersed, finally leaving the street close to deserted, Bishop allowed himself to slightly relax. He knew he was far from safety. Roseline finished tending to Bishop’s wounds. Her hands were not as delicate as her features, but she seemed to know at least some basic first aid.

  “W’at you doin’ in Cité Soleil?”

  “I’m here by accident, I assure you. I was on my way to the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz Paris and seem to have gotten a bit lost.”

  “Yeah, you t’ink you funny, but you ain’ all that.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’m sorry to have troubled you. I do appreciate your help.”

  Roseline nodded. “No good ever come from white men ’ere. White men ’ave always made promises and never turned out good. I was at a football match in 2005 put on by da white man. Meant to be for peace, dey said. Dat day ended in bloodshed when da police officers shoot up da stadium, and gangs wit’ machetes hacked up da fleeing spectators.” Her eyes bore into him. “Then I seen the blue hats of the UN, the peacekeepers you call them, shoot men, women, in the head. That is not peace, Mister. Not even where I come from.”

  “Then why help me?”

  “Because hate don’ stop hate. Same way bullet don’ stop bullet. Gandhi said you haveta break the cycle of violence.”

  “I fear you’re far wiser than I, Roseline.”

  “Prolly.” She winked. “Either way, I have ta get you out o’ here. Dey might start looki’ in da houses soon.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Jus’ one.”

  “One will do.” Bishop tilted his head towards the woman who had saved his life. “I’ll tell you what, Roseline of Cité Soleil. If I survive this, I’ll buy you dinner. The fanciest dinner you could possibly imagine.”

  She squinted and didn’t speak for several moments. “I’d like dat, the dinner. You actually mean dat, don’ you? I read people good. You mean what you say.”

  “Almost always.”

  “Good enough.” Her teeth shone. “Den again, could be da pain talkin’. You lost a lotta blood. You delirious. You stay here.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  “Ha, if I was gonna claim da money I woulda screamed down da walls by now. But I ain’t, okay? You stay, I be back before you can say Wyclef Jean.”

  Before Bishop could protest further, Roseline was out the door. The woman held his fate in her hands. She could claim the prize for herself, but he didn’t think she would. It could have been the delirium speaking, but Bishop believed she was acting in his best interests.

  In what seemed like hours, but was likely only minutes, Roseline returned. In her hand was a large battered motorbike helmet. She threw it at him.

  “Put it on. You goin’ for a ride.”

  Knowing his time was limited, he did exactly as she requested. Unsteady on his feet, Bishop pushed through the pain and stepped onto the street, helmet on. A kid, seemingly no older than twelve, sat atop an idling beaten-up motorbike, held together by makeshift welds and electrical tape.

  “Who’s that?” Bishop’s voice was muffled under the visor.

  “He my cousin, ya. He can be trusted.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if he don’ do what I say,” she raised her voice towards her cousin, “I gonna slap him upside o’ de head so hard.”

  “Hardly reassuring.”

  “You in da wrong part of the world for reassuring, Mr Bishop. Now, is you ready?”

  “Not even a little.”

  She looked down at the white skin of his hands. “Not much we can do dere.” She shrugged. “Good luck.” She slapped him hard on the back. “You gonna need it.” Pointing to the bike, Roseline said, “Get on den.”

  Not needing to be asked twice, Bishop threw a leg over the bike, holding the thin frame of Roseline’s cousin. The boy was even slighter than he appeared.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “The airport, international departures, please. And fast.”

  Roseline chortled. “Fast is all he know.”

  After exchanging a few urgent Creole words with Roseline, the kid dropped the bike into gear, twisted his wrist and the bike flew off. Bishop held on for dear life and didn’t have time to glance back at the woman who had saved him.

  The kid was either a motocross professional in training or suicidal. Possibly both. The youth wove through the unruly neighbourhood with ease, never slowing. Bishop clung tightly to his slight frame. Along the dirty streets, through infinitesimally tight gaps where there didn’t seem to be a road at all, the motorbike powered on. Roseline’s cousin sped through it all at breakneck speed.

  Bishop had to wonder why his exposed white hands had been a problem at all. They were travelling at such a speed they would be nothing but a blur. Finding it hard to stay focused, Bishop watched the world weave by. It was claustrophobic and hectic, and then suddenly it wasn’t.

  In an instant, the confined space of Cité Soleil gave way to an open field with freshly mown grass behind a chain-link fence. Threading the bike through a gap, the kid sped into the grounds of the Toussaint Louverture International Airport.

  In the space of a few short minutes Bishop had gone from certain death to being within reach of his goal. He checked his watch. They were cutting it fine, but there was still a chance.

  The head of Kali was within his grasp once more.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The executive lounge of the Toussaint Louverture Airport was much like any other the world over. Perhaps a little smaller and slightly more weathered than some, but it seemed to offer the same amenities as most.

  Bishop wasn’t interested in amenities.

  The immaculately dressed woman at the front desk certainly seemed to fit the mould. Prim, with hair tied back so tightly it could have created its own black hole, her make-up was thick but perfectly applied. As Bishop’s bloodied, limping form hobbled through the entrance to the first-class lounge she let out a shriek. Ignoring her, Bishop used his final remnants of energy to propel him to his goal.

  “Sir,” she huffed around the desk. “Sir, do you have a first-class ticket, sir?”

  Bishop found it amusing that even in his battered and bruised state she still had the politeness to address him as sir. Ambling forward, the MI6 agent scanned the room. The only international flight out that afternoon hadn’t boarded yet. She should still be in the lounge.

  “Sir, I really must insist.”

  Bishop swatted her away like a fly.

  “I’ll call the police!”

  There, next to the window. Astrid sat alone, absentmindedly swirling a straw in a cocktail, unaware of the commotion at the front desk.

  Bishop turned to the irritated receptionist. “As you like.”

  She scuttled away in a bluster. Paying her no mind, Bishop limped forward. The head of Kali was alone, reclining on a couch, no henchmen in sight. Astrid must have assumed that once she was through security she was safe. Not that her security team could bring weapons to protect her anyway.

  Staggering the final few steps, Bishop issued a polite cough. Annoyed, Astrid turned. Once she realised who it was, her jaw dropped, as did her drink. It clattered onto the tile floor, the glass smashing into pieces.

  It didn’t take long before she regained her composure.
“You look like absolute hell. How are you still standing? Look at you.”

  “Vengeance is a powerful motivator.” Bishop subtly pushed his knee against the couch to prevent him from collapsing. “It’s over, Astrid.”

  Self-control regained, she smiled amiably. “What are you going to do, bleed on me?”

  “Arrest you.”

  “Ha! You and what army?”

  “This one.”

  Without looking, Bishop thumbed behind him. A phalanx of Haitian police swarmed into the lounge, causing the receptionist to shriek. He could have worked with Roseline to find a phone and just call it in but he needed to see her go down. And not in a good way.

  Bishop tilted his head. “In light of your carnage at the Port, these gentlemen would like a word.”

  The deaths she’d caused, the pain and suffering she’d inflicted, there was no way Bishop would miss the opportunity to see justice done. To see the expression on Astrid’s face when she realised it was all at an end.

  All deportment vaporised, Astrid’s face turned cold, acidic. He was right. It had been worth it to see her face contort from confidence to stoniness to outright fear. She knew she’d finally reached the end of her chain, and it was he who had yanked it.

  She sneered. “You’ve made a powerful enemy today, Bishop. I hope you know that.”

  As two senior police officers barged forward to handcuff her, Bishop slumped onto the couch. He clicked his fingers to garner the attention of a passing waiter.

  Still watching Astrid, he sighed. “At this stage I honestly don’t care.” To the perplexed waiter, Bishop leaned forward. “Please grab the largest bottle of scotch you have, pour a tiny bit into a glass and bring me the remainder of the bottle. Oh, and some ice.” He turned his attention back to Astrid. “If the Haitians ever give you up, you’ll be facing ten lifetimes behind bars.”