Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “Fucking break it down then! Do I have to tell you everything? I want those scabs nailed. Get your men in there, on the Docks, ten minutes ago, Sergeant. What’s so hard to understand here?”

  “Major, needless destruction of Port infrastructure could jeopardize—”

  “Letting that asset get away jeopardizes any career plans you had with Dawson-Hull, Sergeant. Rig up some C4 and open those fucking gates!” she roared. “You clear on that?”

  “Yes, Major, perfectly clear. Right away.”

  “Now we’re going somewhere. What’s the status on the boats?”

  The sergeant chewed his lip. “Storm’s whipping the water out of control, ma’am. One boat barely made it to the start of the South Arm, and the captain of the other is refusing to launch. Teams Six and Seven were on the first boat. They’re spreading out now. Two and Five are standing by at the lower tug dock awaiting further orders.”

  “Suffering Christ, find me a captain with some balls! I want the other teams out there. The South Arm has to be isolated. My guess is those scabs are running for the APAC sector, and even money says the Japs are taking in strays today. I need their entire Legation surrounded. Make it happen.”

  “Yes, Major, right away.” A hasty salute and the sergeant ran off.

  “Major?” Private Banner popped his head out of the command Grizzly’s turret hatch clutching the communications handset. “I’ve got a Priority wave from London. Director MacKinnon’s office. He’s asking for you.”

  Jessa Eames bit off a snarl and grabbed the comm. set. “Major Eames here.”

  Jackson MacKinnon’s clipped tones sounded loud and clear. “Major Eames, I was informed you’d been seriously wounded. While it’s good to hear your voice, why are you in the field and not in the hospital?”

  “I’m just earning my pay, sir. We’ve located the asset. It seems he was snatched by some black ops freelance outfit. We tracked them to the Barcelona Port Complex and are in pursuit right now. It looks like they’re heading for the Asian Pacific Legation.”

  There was a slight pause before Director MacKinnon’s spoke again. “Exceptional work as usual, Major. You say they’ve brought the boy to the Docks?”

  “Yes, sir, but don’t worry. I’ve got units closing in. We’ll have him back by nightfall.”

  “You’re certain the boy is there? These mercenaries definitely have him?”

  “Yes, sir. We think he’s unharmed, and I don’t think they’ve crossed into the Jap’s territory yet,” Major Eames answered. “I’ll get him, sir.”

  “Very good, Major.” Jackson MacKinnon’s voice took a direct, authoritative tone. “In light of this, I want you and your men to stand firm around the Consortium’s Legation there at the Port Complex. I cannot authorize deadly force, but no one enters or leaves. I’m going to call an emergency session of the Board here in London. We will contact Tokyo and lodge a formal complaint, and request an immediate inquiry. Our U.N. staff will apply pressure from there.” Director MacKinnon paused. “Outstanding work, Major. You’ve certainly earned your pay. Now, I’m ordering you to report back to the hospital. I can’t have my finest security commander disabled.”

  Jessa Eames stared at the comm-set. “I’ve got them in my sights, sir. We can get the boy back. Today.”

  “Of course you can. I don’t doubt that for an instant,” Jessa Eames’ superior responded. “This mission was important, which is why I specifically selected you for command. The Special Deployment units have exceeded my expectations. Again. You have done your job, and now I will do mine.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you. But, Mr. MacKinnon, the situation is very fluid… if we cut them any slack, APAC will find a way to slip the asset out of the country. We have to strike now before they can consolidate.”

  “Your concern is valid on a tactical level, Major, but the situation is far more than fluid; it’s positively volatile. These new developments with the freelance mercenaries convey the entire situation beyond your area of expertise. This is the realm of corporate affairs, Major. Rather sensitive corporate affairs at that.”

  “Mr. MacKinnon, I can get him,” the major urged. “All I need is an hour, two at the most. I have to move on it now, though.”

  “Major Eames, if those mercenaries have the boy in the Asian Pacific sector, they are officially under their jurisdiction. I won’t have an inter-cartel incident on my hands because your forces trespass and break several dozen international laws.”

  Jessa Eames implored her boss. “Sir, I doubt the fugitives have crossed over Consortium lines yet. And with all due respect, we’ve already got an incident. Let me go in and finish the job. The Spanish authorities are standing off. It’s only D-H men here, sir. Let us go in. They won’t be able to prove a thing.”

  “That asset is designated Tier Ultra. Ultra, Major. That means he’s critical to the company’s global strategic interests.” Director MacKinnon was lecturing her now. “I’m not even sure I’m afforded that designation.”

  Major Eames fell silent for a moment, then spoke softly, urgently into the comm-set. “Sir, speaking frankly… if he’s that valuable, then we can’t let him fall into another’s corporation’s hands. Grant Headshot Clearance, Mr. MacKinnon. I’ll have him eliminated before Asian Pacific gets him.”

  “Major Eames, I appreciate your candor, but the asset must not come to any harm whatsoever. I’m giving you a direct order: seal off the Asian Pacific Legation. That is all. You and your men have performed excellently. Now I will handle the balance of the situation from here. MacKinnon out.”

  There was a faraway click as the line cut off. Jessa Eames looked down at the comm-set and clenched in her fist… something wasn’t right. MacKinnon wasn’t acting like the ruthless old bastard she’d known for years. She turned and threw the headset back to Private Banner. The sergeant had returned and was standing off to the side, waiting to speak with her.

  “What is it?” she snapped.

  “Breaching teams are ready, Major, and the second tug just launched. They’ll be out on the South Arm in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s about time. Have them link up with Six and Seven and cut all access to the Asian Pacific Legation. I want eyes on every walkway, stairway, elevator, and conveyor into or out those levels. If London wants babysitters, we’re going to clamp down Asian Pacific like they’ve had an Ebola strike. I want those gates open in five minutes, and I don’t care how it’s done. We’re going in.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: HOSTILE PARTIES

  Barcelona Port Complex, South Dock, Level Two. 8:15 p.m. Day Five.

  We ran through the Port Complex for twenty minutes, trying to get as much distance between ourselves and the gate as possible. Gibson had started wheezing when we reached the junction to the South Arm. I was last in line, and I could see him draped over Poet’s shoulder, his face flushed and sweaty. Every now and then, his eyes jolted open, and he’d look around before sinking back into exhaustion. I could even hear his breathing over the distant crash of the storm and the surrounding buzz and rattle of machinery. We’d come to the bottom of another set of steel grate stairs when Poet9 called for a break.

  “Boss, I can feel the heat coming off him through my clothes,” Poet9 called out. “Madre de Dios, this place is huge. How much farther?”

  “Eight sections total. Al’s friend is at the very end.” He pointed at a thick numbered column. “We’re only in three, and we’ve got to go down another four levels.”

  I brushed Gibson’s hair aside and put my hand on his forehead. “He’s burning. The little nano-cancers must have kicked into high gear. They’re eating him up inside.”

  Tam glanced back down the Dock. “OK, one minute, but he’s got to hang on.” He sighed and looked at me and Poet. “APAC is Section Four. What do you think about going straight there? They’ve got medical staff.”

  “They got crazy people with guns too,” Poet9 said. “Weren’t we bringing him with us?”

  “Look at him. You think he�
�s going to make it back to Belfast?” Tam asked. “And what about Al and Carmen? They’re with Hester.”

  “Screw the leprechaun. We can take him.”

  “How you going to feel when he dies if APAC could have saved him?”

  “You don’t know that. You’re making a case for a payday, is all,” Poet9 said. “We owe the kid… I owe him, anyway.”

  Gibson was unconscious again, breathing loud and ragged. One look at him, and I knew we were kidding ourselves if we thought we could save him. Something tore in my gut when I realized that, but I said it anyway. “How many people want us dead now, Poet? I’m losing count. Tam’s right; he’s sick and we’re targets. APAC might be his best bet.”

  “We can make it,” Poet spoke up. “We’ve weaseled out of worse before—”

  “You think the Brits made it in yet?” I interrupted him, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m surprised they didn’t smash the wall down right then and there.” Poet started to protest again, but I cut him off. “Madrid won’t want to waste cell space on us. Those D-H lads want our heads on stakes, and I’m still not sure who that Hester guy is working for. That makes three hostile parties.”

  “The mosque,” Tam added.

  I threw up my hands. “Right… how could I forget? Make that four. It’s a cast of twisted characters with dangerous intent, and we’re not doing Gibson any favors dragging him around with us.” I ended gently. “We have to bring him to APAC.”

  Poet’s face clenched, and he held the boy tighter but kept silent. We were out of choices.

  As we moved out, I leaned in close to Tam. “You think Shorty’s telling the truth that APAC sent that woman and her two friends?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “I’ll have to ask next time I see her.”

  “Nah, just shoot her.”

  “Love to, but I sure as hell hope the Triplets have them bagged and tagged already.”

  ------------------

  The one they called Cottontail was down to one last magazine for his rifle. He peered into the street, searching for the three abiku. Their former Zulu drill sergeants had used the word for General Mambi’s enemies, and at some point in the last thirty minutes, he and his brothers had resurrected it for the hostiles. It meant ‘child-eating demon’.

  They’d chased them through the furious storm for thirty minutes, trading shots down the long street, and getting closer to the Docks with every stride. Soon, they’d be down to their pistols, and after that they’d need new weapons. From the sounds of the police all around, Cottontail didn’t think that would be much of a problem.

  It was the abiku that troubled him. They were modified, conditioned, and good—dangerously good. After forcing them out of the intersection, he and his brothers had been unable to kill even one of them yet. Worse, 5902 had been hit in the shoulder and 5903 was bleeding from several grazes on his legs. They were still combat effective, but for the first time in almost a decade, 5905 felt concern.

  The female seemed to be the leader, and she’d had one of the men always rotating back to shoot and delay pursuit. It was a page straight out of the tactical manuals, performed flawlessly. Cottontail decided that was their strength, and their weakness. It didn’t matter the abiku had been spliced, hardened and wired; he and his brothers had experience. They would improvise, think around the drills, and that, Cottontail decided, was their edge.

  His brothers were trading careful shots with the bigger man now, so he ran to the next doorway. The structures in this neighborhood were plain and dilapidated, and crouched behind flaking concrete, he realized the street was ending. Up ahead over the slight rise in the road, the muffled glint of flashing lights bounced off the faces of the buildings. Sirens were growing louder by the second. Cottontail smelled a rotting tang of seawater, and the multi-tiered shape of the Port Complex rose darkly in the gray gloom. This was where they were supposed to meet the Mr. Tam and the others.

  5902 fired from behind a lamppost, two sharp cracks down the street and the big man stumbled. He recovered immediately, but ran off favoring his right side. Cottontail grinned like a schoolboy. Things were looking up, and the promise of new weapons was just around the corner.

  Gibson was one child they weren’t going to get. He and his brothers would slay these abiku.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: GRACE WORKS

  Barcelona Port Complex, South Dock, Section Three. 8:33 p.m. Day Five.

  Poet shifted Gibson gently and looked around, “Hey – where is everyone? Workers, I mean.”

  Tam shrugged. “My guess is management sent everyone home with the storm. As long as no one’s around, we can stick to the marked walkways and move faster.” He gestured toward the machinery and conveyors on the main floor. “Otherwise, we’d have to play duck and dodge out there, and those things can pulp a person without slowing down for a second.”

  “I’d really feel stupid if I got killed by a case of jockey briefs,” I said.

  “Me too. Let’s keep an eye open for an elevator.”

  We got down to another level, one of the sorting areas. All around us, the B-Port’s automated systems were in motion keeping the flood of commercial goods flowing. Bolted to the floor and hanging from the ceiling, a network of conveyor belts and monorail skiffs whirred incessantly, bearing endless lines of cases and cartons of every size and shape. Every one of them passed under a series of infrared scanner eyes, and hydraulic arms clattered back and forth, diverting each box according to the codes on the manifest chips. It was the electric pulse of profit.

  The four of us followed white outlined walkways through the stacks of shipping containers. Painted in bright primary colors, their corrugated steel walls formed a labyrinth of corridors, dead ends, and random clearings, and everywhere the stark tribal hieroglyphs and animistic icons of company logos were stamped like primitive finger-painted ciphers. Between the flickering lights, the moan of funneled wind, and the drip of moisture off the low ceiling, I felt like I was trapped in an Ogilvy and Mather rendition of the Lascaux Caves.

  Another five minutes and two levels down, we came to the Personnel Area at the end of Section Three. The floor was wide open, with only four conveyors running through it. Two routing stations stood roughly at the center, a bank of vending machines stood next to toilet stalls on one wall, and there were a dozen forklifts and loader exo-suits were parked opposite them. At the far end, next to another set of stairs, a wide freight elevator stood open-mouthed and lit behind a chain-link fence.

  Gibson stirred on Poet9’s shoulder. His eyes fluttered open. “Where are we?”

  “You keep resting. We’re almost there.” Tam pointed. “That’s a sign for the APAC Legation.”

  “Mmm, OK,” he mumbled, and fell back into a fitful sleep.

  We were about to get in the elevator when voices drifted up from the floor below, radio crackle and the tone of command and instructions. We froze.

  “Sounded English to me,” Poet9 whispered.

  “D-H troops?” I looked at Tam. “How the hell…?”

  “Beats me. A boat? Swimming lessons? Either way they’re between us and the Japanese. And if they made it there,” he pointed down, “five credits says they’re closing in behind us too.”

  Poet9 glanced over my shoulder. “Why don’t we hop on the elevator and skip them altogether?”

  Tam shook his head. “It’s slow, wide open and empty. There’s no cover. They’ll shoot us like fish in a barrel as we go past. We have to get past them. Fast.”

  I pulled out the Beretta Poet had given me and slid the Gerber into my left hand. “Time to get sneaky devious.”

  “Poet, hang back out of sight with Gibson until we call,” Tam said. “We need you, you’ll hear us yell.”

  Poet unholstered his Walther 11. “Got it, boss. Either of you want to borrow Grace?”

  “Grace?” Tam looked puzzled.

  “I told you he named it,” I said.

  “You named your pistol Grace? Isn’t that a little… blasp
hemous?” Tam looked at Poet9.

  “No way.” The small hacker hefted the big black magnum and gazed at it. “She saved my life three times on that last run in Morocco. Three times. I wanted to do something special, so it was either that or Baldomero.”

  “Baldomero?” I coughed.

  “After my father. He was big and loud and could kick the crap out of anybody.”

  Tam just shook his head.

  “I’ll take her,” I said.

  He handed it over along with four spare clips. I passed the Beretta back to him.

  “Be nice to her,” Poet9 said seriously. “And if you need to take a long shot with her, pray and it’ll hit.”

  “Oh stop, Poet. You’re sounding like Al now,” Tam hissed.

  “Hey, it worked in Morocco. And whatever works...”

  Tam shooed him off toward the row of forklifts. He turned to me. “You ready?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  I glanced back at Poet9 and Gibson. The skinny Mexican winked, put his hands together, and mouthed the words, “Pray. Pray.”

  I grinned and slipped after Tam.

  -------------

  The next level down was another sorting area, so Tam and I had plenty of crates and noise to cover us. Problem was it worked for the D-H troopers too. We knew they were there, but we didn’t see them until we were almost on top of them.

  We were crouched by a monorail when Tam spotted the first one ten meters away.

  There was four of them kitted out in Special Deployment red and gray combat armor, the Kev-flex pads bulking them out. They’d paired up behind cover on either side of the main walkway to the elevator, and I could see the cool blue of their reflective goggles moving slowly back and forth over the floor. They were carrying brand new FN F2000 assault rifles. Sharp, suited up and armed to the teeth, they were definitely a cut above the standard issue security mannequins. Tam and I were clad in soggy jogging suits, clutching pistols behind a crate of toys from Hasbro International.