Avenger

by Chris Allen

  “Come on! Come on!” she yelled.

  “We’re good,” Sutherland replied. “Get back in!”

  The two agents, firing and moving the last few yards, covered each other every step of the way. Reigns was behind the wheel as the first rounds started to reach the Range Rover. Somehow, the bleeding and broken Inspector Lam managed to fold the back seats down flat. He reached through to the button on the dashboard that activated the rear tailgate and pressed it. All Morgan and Sutherland had to do was leap in.

  “Great work, Victor!” said Reigns.

  Sutherland got to the vehicle first and dived in backward as the rear door was opening, still firing to cover Morgan. When he finally leaped in beside Sutherland, Reigns put her foot down and launched the vehicle forward with a screech of tires. The rear door was wide open but they were both inside, so Sutherland reached out to close it.

  “Fuck! I reckon that’s about as close as I ever want to—”

  It was as far as he got. His body was extended wide across the opening and the last wave of rounds from their pursuers struck Sutherland across the chest, neck and abdomen.

  CHAPTER 18

  “What’s the closest fucking emergency room from here?” Morgan yelled over the screaming engine noise and constant blaring of horns.

  “QE … Queen Elizabeth Hospital,” Lam replied, struggling to speak or even breathe due to his own smashed ribs and concussion. He turned to Reigns. “Near King’s Park.”

  “Get us there,” cried Morgan. “Break out the trauma kit for me,” he said to Lam. “It’ll be under your feet. And take this. Call the hospital. Tell ’em we’re coming in. Then call your boss and explain what went down. We need full HKPD support at the hospital until we can get our people involved.”

  Morgan tossed his phone to Lam and grabbed the trauma kit that was handed over in return. It was a small sports bag containing Israeli-made hemorrhage-control compression bandages, tourniquets, blood-clotting agents and morphine, along with other emergency items like clips, clamps, scissors and sutures. Sutherland lay cradled in Morgan’s lap. Blood was everywhere. It was gushing from his neck and oozed from the wounds beneath his trousers and vest. He was still and quiet, eyes open, but he was struggling, spitting blood.

  Morgan had a hand clasped down hard over the neck wound, trying desperately to apply pressure, but the blood kept coming. With his teeth and spare hand he began tearing open a bandage pack. Fuck! Was he shaking? No. No, he had this. He was OK. Sutherland needed him to be OK. There was no time for anything fancy, and using the anti-clot or morphine would only complicate matters for the medics at the other end. All he could do was try to stem the flow of the bleeding and keep his friend alive until they handed him over to the experts. Morgan grappled with the first bandage, wrapping it as best he could around Sutherland’s neck. Then he set to work, getting him out of the vest. It was difficult – Reigns was driving as fast as she could to the hospital but the constant stop-start of the traffic and swaying of the car made everything ten times harder. Just as Morgan was getting the vest off, Sutherland starting coughing hard; blood and spit sprayed from his mouth and his eyes started rolling back. Morgan didn’t say a word. He knew Reigns was going as fast as was humanly possible – yelling at her to step on it wouldn’t make any difference.

  Morgan saw the main damage was on Sutherland’s left side. He’d been struck exactly where the Velcro fastened along the vulnerable flank area of the vest. He guessed by the amount of blood down that side that the left lung had been badly damaged, most likely collapsed. He turned his friend on to that side, allowing gravity to do what it could to keep the blood from affecting the hopefully intact right lung. Then he checked Sutherland’s airway and breathing and set to work as best he could, sealing the wound and applying yet another bandage. It’s taking too long, he thought. It’s taking too fucking long.

  Morgan went in search of other damage. “Fuck! This is impossible,” he hissed under his breath. The amount of blood combined with the confined space of the rear compartment and the constant irregular motion of the vehicle as Reigns raced across Kowloon to the hospital were frustrating all his attempts to save his friend’s life. In the midst of it all, he realized that Sutherland’s eyes were fixed on him, silently imploring him to succeed. Morgan smiled down at him.

  “Don’t go getting all miserable on me, Dave,” he said quietly. “I’m just making everything look worse than it is, so you can tell everyone how much of a cluster I was next time we’re at the Red Lion.”

  The slightest flicker of a smile came from Sutherland’s eyes. It wasn’t much but it was enough.

  “Stay with me, mate,” said Morgan. “And don’t go getting any ideas while I do this next bit.”

  Undoing Sutherland’s belt and pulling down his trousers, Morgan found two more wounds, one in the lower gut and one at the top of the left thigh. Reaching beneath Sutherland, he located an exit wound in the lower back but couldn’t find one in the leg. The best he could do was grab the few bandages left in the kit, tear them open with his teeth and keep padding the entry and exit wounds.

  “How long?” he called to Reigns.

  “Less than a mile.”

  Sutherland’s eyes closed.

  CHAPTER 19

  “I’m sorry, Victor. I know this goes against the grain for you as a police officer but this is the way it has to be for us. Dave knows that.”

  “I understand,” Lam replied, struggling to speak. “I’ll take care of him now. You must take care of yourself, too, Mei-Zhen, and your colleague.”

  Reigns smiled and squeezed his hand. Lam’s face was battered and bleeding, and he was straining to breathe against the pain of his broken ribs. Still, he was a fighter and she knew he would hold out until the medics arrived. They were on their way. Above all, she knew he would take care of Sutherland. Reigns reached around under Lam’s arm and helped Morgan prop him up against the wall outside the emergency reception area of the hospital. Then, as quickly as they dared, they carefully lifted Sutherland from the back of the Range Rover and laid him down next to Lam. Sutherland was a dead weight. He didn’t look good. He was covered in blood and bandages, his eyes hadn’t opened and he was completely unresponsive. Everything had happened so fast, Reigns wasn’t even sure if he actually had a pulse. Morgan was adamant that he did, so she wasn’t about to question it; this wasn’t the time. Sutherland and Lam were where they needed to be and she knew the medics would only be minutes or even seconds away. Reigns and Morgan had to disappear.

  “We’ve got to go,” she said urgently in his ear. “We can’t be here.”

  Morgan looked up. He was by Sutherland’s side, issuing final instructions to Lam and clearly conflicted by the prospect of leaving his badly wounded friend behind. Reluctantly, he acquiesced. He wished Lam well and, turning back to Sutherland, said, “See you soon, mate.”

  Reigns was already at the wheel with the engine revving. Morgan jumped in beside her and the Range Rover vanished from view.

  “OK,” he said. “Back to the hotel, grab our things and straight to the airport.”

  “Airport? Why the airport? We have work to do here.”

  “There’s work to be done but not by you and not by me,” he replied. He was reloading magazines and making sure the Sigs, his and Sutherland’s, were functional and fully loaded. “You’re compromised and I have to get you out and back to London as soon as I can. So, yeah, we’re heading to the airport. Hotel first.”

  Without another word, Reigns tore through the gears, racing the vehicle around the twists, turns and ramps of the hospital grounds, speeding beneath the Gascoigne Road overpass and on to the narrow double lanes of Jordan Road.

  “Here, keep that handy,” Morgan said, stowing Sutherland’s Sig, muzzle down, in the cup holder beside the gearshift along with a spare magazine. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Really? You think they’ll come after us?”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out,” he said. “They’l
l be pretty pissed that you’ve escaped and I’d say they’ll be keen to get you back by any means possible. For as long as we’re on their turf they’ll have a shot. So, the sooner we get you the fuck out of Hong Kong, the better.”

  The mounting wail of police sirens in stereo threatened to drown out their conversation. Morgan turned and Reigns checked the mirrors. They saw two HKPD BMW motorcycles with lights flashing approaching fast along Chatham Road from the south-west as they neared the interchange leading to Princess Margaret Road. The lead cop was waving them down.

  “Fuck it!” Morgan exclaimed, thumping the dashboard. “We don’t need this.”

  “What do we do now?” Reigns asked. “We should stop, right?”

  “Yeah, we should,” he agreed, checking the navigation screen on the dash. “Head to that side road up ahead, it leads into Hong Kong Polytechnic. That way we can’t get blocked in.”

  Reigns eased off the speed and drew the Range Rover expertly across the lanes of traffic and into the side road. Morgan took the Sig from the cup holder and handed it to her. She took it in her left hand, resting it in her lap well out of sight. Morgan positioned his loosely beneath the folds of his jacket. Behind them the cop eased off too and as the Range Rover pulled to a stop he coasted up alongside Reigns’ window and raised his helmet visor. His colleague pulled in behind them. Reigns kept the vehicle in gear with the clutch depressed, handbrake engaged and the engine idling steadily.

  “Is everything all right, officer?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer replied. “We have orders from Assistant Commissioner Kwong to escort you wherever you need to go.”

  “That really won’t be necessary, officer,” said Morgan firmly. “But thank you and please thank the assistant commissioner.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. Now, if you’ll—”

  The first rounds caught them all off guard.

  As the heavy burst peppered the side of the Range Rover and the police officer speaking to her, Reigns had no choice. She released the clutch, pushed the accelerator flat to the floor and disengaged the handbrake in one fluid motion, pushing the revs instantly to red. The vehicle roared away from a standing start just as the second officer began to engage the as-yet-unseen source of the incoming gunfire. Morgan instinctively clambered between the front seats to the back section of the Range Rover. When his Sig Sauer P226 exploded into action behind her, Reigns knew that Morgan had acquired the target.

  “It’s a black Alfa Romeo sedan!” he yelled. “Can you see it?”

  “Got it!” Reigns replied. In the driver’s side wing mirror she could make out a guy hanging from the Alfa, awkwardly clutching what looked like a Chinese-made QBZ-97 assault rifle. They were closing fast. The guy was changing mags and about to re-engage. Morgan was blasting away as best he could but the Sig was no match for sustained fire from an assault rifle.

  “We need cover,” he said. “Get us out of here!”

  Reigns tore the wheel to the left, heading down the side road toward the Polytechnic. The Alfa followed. A second later she realized it had been a mistake.

  “Jesus!” she cried. “Gate! The road’s blocked.” Thinking fast, Reigns sized up her options. Morgan was still firing but it wouldn’t be long before they were blocked, totally outgunned, and others arrived to support the Alfa. It was directly behind them, closing fast and twenty feet from their rear bumper while the Range Rover was bearing down upon the heavy metal gates blocking access to the Polytechnic. With a quick final glance at the mirrors, Reigns made her decision.

  “Brace yourself. Now!”

  Morgan grabbed on to anything he could find.

  She stamped on the brakes and the Range Rover responded, coming to a sudden but controlled dead stop in the center of the road. The driver of the Alfa Romeo had no time to counter the move and the sedan slammed into the rear of them. Morgan was thrown hard against the back of Reigns’ seat and groaned as the wind was forced from his lungs. She wasted no time. At the moment of collision, she threw the big car into a tight U-turn, tires squealing, and opened up the exposed flank of the unsuspecting stalled Alfa to a broadside. Morgan, tumbling around in the back, was thrown against the passenger-side rear door but dived back behind Reigns, opening up with everything he had on the driver of the Alfa.

  Reigns stole a look over her shoulder. The Alfa Romeo wasn’t moving.

  “Did you get him?” she asked.

  “Yep,” said Morgan. “Let’s get clear, ditch this fucking car and find a taxi.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Restaurant Le Diane

  Hôtel Fouquet’s Barrière

  46 Avenue George V

  Paris, France

  “OK then, I guess we’ve discussed this particular course of action through to its natural conclusion.” The man’s accent was pure Boston, Ivy League, most likely Harvard. “Can I take it that you’re both happy to leave the next phase of the negotiations to me?”

  The superb luncheon was finally coming to a close. As the conversation began to wrap up, the last of the dessert plates and wine glasses disappeared and invisible staff began to serve coffee.

  “I think so,” the second man replied. His accent was Swiss. “If we allow her to progress her current arrangements with the Chinese then it would certainly save us a great deal of trouble. And if you can encourage her to meet your people in Los Angeles that would be timely, to say the least. What do you think, my dear?”

  “I think that to date we’ve allowed things to progress at an appropriate pace,” the woman answered. Her accent was very British, Oxbridge educated. “We know that she has a strong grasp of the business, she can handle difficult partners, cross-border transactions and movements, and is clearly not averse to maintaining strict control measures on her people and operations. We know she’s good. We’re confident in the numbers and we’ve substantiated most, if not all, of the background. So, yes, I agree. I think it’s time we moved things along, and if you have a team in LA then they should meet her there. It’s time to tie things up, and the sooner the better.”

  “What about your friend, the general?” the American asked. “Is he showing any interest in this? It would be helpful to know.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t comment with any certainty. Normally he’s reasonably open to sharing information. Of late, not quite so.”

  To a casual observer, the elegantly attired trio sitting by a window with a view over the Champs-Élysées looked just like any other high-end gathering discussing business over lunch. The first man, the American who had offered to lead the merger negotiations with their potential new business partner, was about fifty-five with closely cropped blond hair. He was dressed impeccably in a pale gray suit with a fine check, a white shirt with narrow purple stripes and a dark green tie ornamented with subtle splashes of purple, to complement the shirt. To his right, the other man, the other side of sixty and completely bald, was more conservatively dressed than his colleague, in a navy blue three-piece suit and pale blue shirt worn with a burgundy tie. Both of them shone with health and vitality, assiduously trim with no sign of the midlife paunch or sagging jowls too often associated with highly successful men in the grip of middle age, for whom indulgence was a daily privilege. Both clearly enjoyed the success that had come to them and went to great lengths to prolong their ability to savor it.

  The woman was extraordinary. She was striking to look at, with fair skin, full lips, soft brown eyes and thick, shoulder-length, raven hair, which she occasionally tucked behind her left ear, conveying an air of playful seductiveness. Her full figure was cloaked in a fitted black leather jacket, black blouse and skirt, with knee-high black leather boots. Her minimalist approach to jewelry enhanced her contemporary elegance. She was fifty-two, but looked forty.

  These three were part of a larger group of twelve, consisting of a chair and eleven members. The dozen referred to themselves collectively as The Board and presided over a multinational, multi-billion-dollar enterpris
e. But unlike other boards, run in accordance with charters and laws and governed by stock exchanges and government watchdogs, this board was silent, operating below the radar, the power behind the publicly listed corporation. Ultimately answering only to itself, it pulled strings, influenced and manipulated situations, individuals, governments. Its very existence and the identities of its membership were more closely guarded than the most sensitive of any country’s top secrets. Retirement was mandatory at sixty-five and the retiring member invited a new member to join. New members were appointed after an extensive vetting and selection process lasting, in most cases, years, and a final, unanimous vote. Membership was international and kept strictly to the very top-shelf corporate and government executives of CEO and director-general level. The board operated in the shadows of global commerce and yet, with the official corporation as its instrument, was a major influence on most markets. No names were ever used when in each other’s company. This was the rule by which they lived and they never broke it, no matter how seemingly innocuous the occasion or circumstance. Many years before, board members had decided upon a suitable motif by which it would identify itself, one that would reflect its beyond-the-law modus operandi. So it was that the stylized, blood-red profile and headdress of a Native American chief became the official emblem of the enterprise, The Renegade Group of Companies.

  The board members quietly concluding their meeting at Restaurant Le Diane were the three responsible for strategic assessments and recommendations.