CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: A TIGHT GROUP
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 7:01 p.m. Day Five.
“Stopped?” Major Eames sat up. “What do you mean they stopped? Why?”
Her command track, a Grizzly IFV, swayed from side to side, the turbo whine of the engines growling as it tore down the roadway. The trooper in the comms seat, PFC Banner, put one hand up to his headset and yelled over the noise. “Dunno, ma’am. Happened all of a sudden. They’re saying something about a blocked intersection.” He listened again. “He says there’s cars smashed up, people hurt. I’ll get him rerouted—damn!”
“What?”
“That sounded like gunfire. They… shit! They’re being hit. Someone’s bushwhacking them.”
“Get me that location, trooper.” She turned to Colonel Estevana. “Order all units to drop everything and converge on that van.” She stabbed a glance back at the private. “You find them yet?”
“Isolating them now.” He flicked through digital displays faster than she could register them, freezing on one with a glowing green dot. “There. Main artery coming out of Sant Adrià near the Dock.”
Major Eames shouted at the driver. “Get us there! Now!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The diesel turbines snorted and wound up to a relentless howl as thirty-four tons of ceramic and steel Chobham armor accelerated. The vehicle heaved upward briefly then settled like a massive bull in full charge.
Private Banner kept listening and looked over at Major Eames. “Ma’am. Sounds like a major shit storm. This guy is losing it big time. His partner’s dead, and he keeps saying there’re three of them. Three of them. And…” he clutched his headphones again, twisting the dial on his set. “Ma’am, I lost ‘em.”
They both looked up on the screen. The green dot was still winking at them. “Vehicle’s still intact.”
“God. Damn. IT!” Major Eames ground her teeth. “Get everyone there. All G.C., Grupo Especial, and D-H Special Deployment teams. I want that area sealed. These scabs aren’t sliming out of this one. Get this thing moving faster!”
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It was another time drag: I saw her eyes tighten and her body shift as the chopped muzzle brake of an AK-74 snaked around the corner of the doorframe. Gibson was right behind me and Tam yelled something. I felt him scramble to shield the boy with his body. I drove myself forward towards the woman, my hands still fastened behind my back. I’m not sure what I meant to do, but I wasn’t dying cowering in a corner.
I didn’t hear any sound, just saw the rifle come up in stop motion slowness, its black wire stock fixing itself to her shoulder like a choppy training video. I was almost on her when real time kicked in. There was a rapid smack as three rounds punched through the van door right by her head in a picture perfect-tight group. Grit and splinters hit my face and her eyes widened in surprise as she darted back and disappeared. I slammed into the doorjamb and careened out of the van face first into an oily puddle. I lay there panting in the open in the middle of the road.
The place was chaos. Stained, tar-brown buildings towered over a narrow intersection where five roads met. Cars were burning, overturned, and black smoke was spilling up into a low and churning sky. Rain was falling, soaking the bodies spilled on the road, hanging out of shattered car windows all around me. I could see the traffic stretched out, jammed tight in every direction. The rancid snap of diesel and low tide was in the air. We were near the Docks.
On my right, the Mosque woman was ducked down behind the crumpled fender of a grimy black and yellow taxi. The big man from the basement was next to her, and two cars over I spied a small scraggly rat-faced man. All three had old Russian assault rifles. I scuttled frantically on the asphalt, cursing the flex cuffs, trying to get out of their line of sight.
Thankfully, they had more immediate concerns. The heavy clatter and flash of their fire was directed at someone off the roadway on my left, and I could hear the fast chatter of a Heckler & Koch assault rifles answering back. I made it behind one of the van’s back tires when I spied a large figure with a pale face and short white hair dart out from behind a corner of a building.
Poet9 had come with the Triplets.
The three attackers were stuck behind the cars. Caught off guard, they recovered fast, but anytime they raised a head, the Triplets kept them from moving any closer toward us. They were giving us a chance to get clear. Near one of the muddy brown buildings, I spotted Poet9 running toward me.
“Here! This way, to me. Move!” he shouted. The distant wail of sirens was growing louder, more shrill. I banged on the dented roof of the van beside me. “Tam! Grab Gibson. Cavalry’s here and we gotta go now!”
They scrambled out the back of the van on their knees, and together the three of us made our way toward a side street where Poet9 waited.
“Where’s Al and Carmen?” Tam looked around.
The thin Mexican shrugged. “Last I saw, the leprechaun guy was taking them to the Docks. I don’t trust that poco bastardo, but I had to make a choice,” he said as he cut us free. “I made a good call coming back to you, eh? Madre Santa de Dios,” he gestured toward the wreckage of the road. “They don’t like you much.”
Tam rubbed his wrists. “Yeah well, we’ve met before… when you were napping. I don’t think they’re with Hester, or whatever his name is, but I don’t want to stick around to find out for sure. You got a ride out of here?”
Poet9 shook his head. “We’ll have to hoof it. I got a weird wave from Jaithirth. He says Tokyo’s singing a different tune, playing all nice now. They want their package after all, and are waiting for us. What’s up with that?”
“Wish I knew,” I said. Shots whined overhead. “We need to color ourselves gone, Tam.”
“We were on our way to the Docks anyway,” Tam said firmly, then grabbed Poet’s comm-link and radioed the Triplets. “Asset is secure, but we need to keep him that way. We’re moving out on foot. Cover our retreat. Eliminate the threat if possible, but disengage when necessary. Rendezvous is on the bottom level, very end of the South Dock in thirty minutes. Repeat: Lower level, tip of the South Dock in thirty minutes. Confirmed?”
The exchange of fire was growing more furious, but Cottontail’s voice sounded calm. “The boy is safe?”
“Come again?” Tam asked.
“The boy… is he safe?”
“Roger,” Tam said. “He’s fine. Gibson is A-1. Confirm orders.”
“Engage and cover. Rendezvous Barcelona Port Complex, Bottom level, end of the South Dock.” There was a pause. “Mr. Song, sir?”
Tam was handing the radio back and stopped. “Yes?”
“You’re taking him some place safe?” Cottontail’s voice sounded plaintive, even over the tiny speaker.
Gunfire and thunder rattled the air all around us, but Tam, Poet and I all looked at the mike. The Triplets spoke among themselves in a simple argot, a strange hybrid of child-like babble and military acronyms. It was rare that they spoke more than two sentences to anyone else. Ever.
Tam opened his mouth to fire back a sharp answer, to reinstate tactical discipline, but he caught himself and keyed the mike gently. “Affirmative. He’ll be safe. I need you to keep hostiles off our back. We need to protect Gibson.”
“Roger. Protect Gibson. Out.”
“Picked an odd time to come out of his shell, eh?” Poet said, peering around the side of a mailbox. The gunfire between the Triplets and the mosque shooters was growing more vicious by the second, and there was a chorus of sirens accompanied by a swarm of flashing lights converging from every direction. It looked and sounded like every cop in Spain was headed our way. Poet9 handed Tam and me pistols with spare clips. Then he tossed me a Gerber combat blade.
“One of your favorite things,” he winked. “Docks are that way.” His big black Walther 11 pointed down one of the long, narrow streets.
Thunder tore through the dark sky, and a single dagger of lightning flashed. Cold rain was falling in sh
eets now, soaking us through. I looked over at Gibson, huddled up against the yellow mailbox. His head was down, and he shivered in the wind, looking smaller, paler than even a few moments before. My heart sank. We’re going to be the death of him, I thought.
He glanced up and his green eyes shined back at me. “Is it time to go yet?”
I only nodded.
Behind us, the swelling sound of gunfire and bitter sirens was dwarfed by the rage of the black storm. I lifted Gibson into my arms and the three of us took off, running toward the leaden horizon.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: RADICAL CONTINGENTS
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 7:13 p.m. Day Five.
Combat Unit 5905, the one they called “Cottontail”, watched his master/leaders disappear down one of the long side streets. The rain was falling harder now and the second-in-command, Jace, was carrying his new friend. It made 5905 feel sad to see the boy go. He and his brothers all liked Gibson, but the master/leader, Mr. Song, said they were taking him someplace safe so that was good. Cottontail felt a little better.
Another round of shots came from behind the smashed taxi and clawed into the brickwork, sending a spray of dust and splinters onto his head. That was close. The stinging made him think about his orders: cover their retreat then disengage to rally at the Dock. But Mr. Song’s also said they had to protect Gibson. That was the priority. It seemed these hostiles wanted to take the boy away, maybe to someplace bad and hurt him, and that made 5905 mad. He radioed his brothers and they agreed: they wouldn’t let anyone hurt Gibson.
5905 popped out from behind the corner and put a three-round burst precisely over the hood of the battered cab, right where the larger man had been kneeling half a second ago. But he’d already moved.
5905 frowned. These hostiles were fast, very fast, and much more proficient than regular targets. He saw his brothers firing, trying to pin them down and keep them away from the street Mr. Song, Poet9, Jace and Gibson had just taken.
But these hostiles were smart too. They’d recovered from the surprise of the ambush quickly, and one of them, a woman, had already shifted right, angling toward the long road. The other two concentrated fire on 5901 to keep him from cutting her off.
Another spatter on the brickwork and several rounds cracked past Cottontail’s head as the larger man dashed between the cab and the overturned van. He was moving right too.
Whoever these three were, they were good enough to be dangerous. The tactical problems were multiplying by the second.
Two of them were near the side road now, and Cottontail could hear the local police coming. Lots of them. He glanced up. The storm would interfere too, cut down on visibility, mask noises and scent. At least it kept security choppers out of the sky.
Cottontail radioed his brothers again. It was time to get away from this intersection, and there was only one option left. On his signal, they’d fire and funnel the hostiles down the long road. They’d be between them and Mr. Song, but that way they could narrow the kill zone and move away from the Spanish security forces at the same time. Cottontail and his brothers would just have to eliminate them before they reached Mr. Song.
A flash of movement, the small man was moving now. Cottontail fired and he saw him flinch as if hit, then ducked down. Cottontail grinned.
He hadn’t been this challenged since Africa.
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Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five. 7:25 p.m. Day Five.
Colonel Otsu looked up as his secretary strode through the door holding out a data pad. “The mercenaries are on their way, sir. We just received flash traffic from their agent in Belfast stating they were headed this way right now.”
“This is confirmed? They’re bringing the device to us?”
“It’s authentic. The codes were verified, but the message only stated they were coming to the Docks. It also said the asset required immediate medical attention.”
“What? An asset? It’s supposed technology, not personnel.” He took the data pad and scrolled through the screens. Nothing in this operation was going as expected. Between the Dawson-Hull Security force, Hsiang, Tetsuo, the shinigami clones, and now this, there were far too many radical contingents here for his comfort. His secretary cleared her throat.
“Yes?” he didn’t look up.
“Colonel, we are receiving reports of a massive traffic accident closing the E-15, as well as gunfire north of here. Intercepts indicate the Spanish police are heading this way in pursuit of a suspected ‘terrorist’ group, and that Dawson-Hull Special Deployment units are involved as well.”
“And you think this terrorist group and our mercenaries are one and the same,” he said.
“That would be an unusual number of coincidences,” she replied.
Colonel Otsu nodded, considered the narrow slit of his window for a moment then tapped the intercom button on his desktop. “This is Colonel Otsu. I’m ordering a Code Orange Alert. All automated defense systems are to go to standby status. All security personnel are to report to their perimeter defense stations immediately. Use of deadly force is not authorized at this time. All units are to remain on Standby status until further notice. Out.”
An alarm started to sound, and the Colonel looked up at his secretary. “Make sure the mini-sub is prepped and ready for immediate departure. This storm should provide excellent cover for it to get into international waters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be at the command and communications center. I need our security details alert. If those agents are coming here with the British on their trail, they are to be secured and safe, not shot. I’m going to credit both Madrid and Dawson-Hull with enough sense not to violate corporate sovereignty and risk an international incident. Even if there’s pressure for an inspection, it’ll have to be cleared past Tokyo first. We can stall long enough to get the asset and the mercenaries out of country. Let me know when the sub is ready.”
“Of course, Colonel.”
As the doors hissed shut, Colonel Otsu gathered his jacket and turned toward the window again. The horizon line was lost in the far dark of boiling silver gray, a thin strip of churning sky washed-out by the glare of floodlights. Motion brought his attention in closer. The Dock’s automated cargo systems continued to run unceasing and oblivious in a complex ballet of crisp, seizured jerks as crane arms loaded, unloaded, sorted, moved and stacked. Chains of mini-trains laden with color-coded crates zipped by in every direction, chasing each other on overhead loops and conveyor tracks. Several wavered slightly, buffeted by powerful winds that gusted through the level, funneled by the maze of duracrete columns, steel gantries and support beams. In the distance, Colonel Otsu spied a huge wave heave up and shatter, reaching past the railing with soaking fingers before dragging itself back out.
His grandfather used to call storms like this “Fujin’s Fury”, telling his family the mythical demon prince had stirred up the waters for battle. A lifelong fisherman, Colonel Otsu remembered the scent of open air and brine clung to him for years after he’d retired. His grandfather had also been a devout Shintoist, and insisted tempests mirrored crisis and strife in the spiritual world, the turmoil so great it was reflected in the physical one. He always claimed hurricanes heralded momentous change.
That was many years ago, and Colonel Otsu didn’t believe in deities or spirits, but as he stepped outside, he couldn’t shake the impression of inchoate rage. The wind screamed, and the sky and sea battered at the Port Complex as if they sought to tear it down and pull it into the depths.
Fury and turmoil were fitting descriptions indeed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: ANGLES, DARK WITH FOG AND SMOKE
Barcelona Metro Zone, Port Complex District. 7:25 p.m. Day Five.
The storm was swelling into a full-blown hurricane, the downpour a relentless drumbeat on the roof of the Grizzly Command Track. Major Eames clenched her teeth against the throbbing in her arm and l
eaned forward to pester Private Banner again.
“What the hell? Why aren’t we moving?”
Traffic had slowed, stuttered, and finally stopped about seven kilometers out from the intersection where the police van had been ambushed. A quadruple line of standing cars and trucks stretched out on the highway in front of her convoy, disappearing as black inkblot shapes in the gray curtain of rain and fog.
“Ma’am, no one’s moving. The roads are clogged in every direction going in. Spanish emergency service is putting heavy choppers in the air to get EMTs to the accident, but they’re having a hell of a time getting airborne in this weather.”
“I need boots on the ground now. Bring up a map showing the area from here down to the B-Port.”
Private Banner clicked twice and a street map of the city northeast of the massive Port Complex sprang up on his screen.
She leaned over his shoulder and began pointing with her good arm. “I want all Dawson-Hull Special Deployment units mobilized to seal off the area around the Dock. Stop everything that moves. Order units there, there, and there—and every other street or alley that spills out at the water. Especially those on either side of that long one those fugitives were heading down. My money says they’re going to either to hand the boy off, or hitch a ride out of town.” She singled out the circuit splay of lines stretched out over the Mediterranean. “That Goddamned Port is a maze of layers that runs for klicks. They make it there, they can hide for days. Or worse, cower inside some company’s sector, protected by extraterritorial status. I’ll be damned if I let that happen!”
She looked over at Colonel Estevana. “I want your men to secure the intersection where the van was ambushed. Have the Grupo Especial units fan out and go after whoever’s there. Maximum sanction. Any hostiles, I want their heads on a platter.”
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 25