by Ray Smithies
The Scorpio assassin selected a side passageway recess isolated from the main arterials, believing his foe would concentrate on the broader and more prominent pathways. Crouched behind a rather unassuming statue, he waited to assess the pursuer’s whereabouts. He would attempt to seek a more suitable refuge and attend to his injury when time permitted.
~ * ~
Martin and Dave knew where the bullet had been fired from. They also knew with a fair degree of accuracy into which corridor the man had retreated. The challenge that lay ahead wasn’t so much direction, but rather the distance the Piedpiper had penetrated the passageways. Martin, in particular, was no fool for he realised his enemy maintained an advantage in knowing his surrounds. He also knew his adversary was carrying a major injury that would slow his escape. This had now become a game of wits in figuring how the mind of the hunted would function. He anticipated the man to be close by and was probably relying on his pursuers to search vast distances.
The immediate passageways were lit by camphene burners erected at twenty-metre intervals on the bluestone walls. Their tapered wick tubes encased in whale oil illuminated an adequate light source. The two decided to communicate in sign language, in preference to the loud and crude approach that would only serve to accentuate their position. They concentrated their search within a radius of one hundred metres, initially assessing the main thoroughfares.
With the unlikelihood of hiding amidst the camouflage of the more obvious retreats, the Traffik thugs commenced their surveillance of the intersecting passageways. These smaller corridors were less conspicuous, suggesting a more appropriate area to hide oneself. A cautious approach had become increasingly necessary, for the assassin presumably still carried a gun and would have the element of surprise.
Starting with what they perceived to be the outer perimeter of their search, the two gradually drew closer to the gallery as they pursued each darker and more secluded side path. Statues adorned many of the recessed chambers, all of which were progressively subjected to a thorough inspection. No stone left unturned was Martin’s motto, for these sculptures appeared the only means for secretion. The Traffik pair continued through the first two major thoroughfares and failed to disclose the assassin.
~ * ~
The hunted man had become desperate, since distance could not be a considered option. Lump it or like it, he had to make do with his immediate surrounds. The troublesome leg had seen to that. With blood continuing to pour freely from the wound and his heart pumping at an alarming rate, his condition would soon begin to deteriorate.
Sensing his foes were at least two corridors away, he had no alternative but to tie his jumper arms firmly over the leg wound to minimise the blood flow. To become light-headed and delirious would be an equally arduous plight. It was important to find a suitable refuge, rest and attend to his injury more thoroughly.
His first objective was to reach the compressor and turn the unit back on. He hoped the distraction of the machinery noise would provide his one last means of escape. Positioned two corridors across, the task at hand was at least feasible. He estimated the distance would take around two minutes. With the jumper firmly in place, he hobbled toward the compressor room.
~ * ~
The Traffik pair had been surveying some fifty metres into their third side passageway when they detected a trail of blood. Although not overly surprised with their discovery, it did, however, issue a warning to be doubly alert and indicated the man was in close proximity. Again Martin stressed the importance of sign language to eliminate any undue indecision and unnecessary noise. They hoped their quiet approach would unnerve the Piedpiper into declaring his whereabouts.
In the lucid stillness of the subterranean world they heard a sudden noise that gave the impression of something being dropped on a blue-stone corridor. There was a series of repetitive taps that progressively became slower and finally fell silent. The echoing acoustics implied stone being dropped on stone. Martin signaled to his compatriot in the general direction of noise - their approach should be from opposite ends of the passageway to minimise the enemy’s escape.
~ * ~
Determined to maintain his accelerated pace, the Scorpio cohort had successfully ventured one minute into reaching his objective. The air compressor was no more than one intersecting corridor away. With each progressive step he grimaced in pain when pressure was applied to the right leg. Time and the ability to remain undetected had become paramount. He was acutely aware of his deception in throwing a stone to the far end passageway that had momentarily diverted the Traffik pair. But for how long could his charade maintain its trickery?
Forever forward he pushed, punishing the body to the extreme with this newfound speed. His leg screamed of unimaginable pain and was badly in need of rest and medical attention. He threw a further stone to confuse his pursuers. As he turned his one last corner, the hunted man could finally see an idle compressor resting up ahead.
~ * ~
The Traffik thugs maintained their unrelenting pursuit. Both men were determined not to leave empty-handed. Dave’s torch shone down on the loose stone that had successfully worked its deception. Martin brought up the rear to inspect his colleague’s discovery. They knew immediately their adversary had given them the slip. So where had the son of a bitch disappeared to? The code of silence was promptly dropped.
‘Can’t be far with a bullet in his leg,’ Dave suggested.
‘We’ll start looking over -’ Martin was cut short by the sound of a compressor starting its laborious beating sound.
‘Got the bastard! He won’t get more than fifty metres from that machine. Make sure ya gun’s loaded.’
Martin and Dave were now in a desperate frame of mind. Quickly they rushed toward the compressor with their torches ablaze. If they returned empty-handed they would incur the full brunt of Indigo’s raging antics. They had to present the elusive Piedpiper to their awaiting leader. Excuses would mount to disciplinary measures if they were to fail. Grudgingly Martin acknowledged the re-ignition of the compressor was a clever ploy in distraction. Sensing the noise element would contribute to the confusion and ultimately, assist with the felon’s escape, he quickly had to find the stop button. Both men tore down the corridor, but were mindful their adversary held the element of surprise.
The sight of the air compressor had now come into view. Torches remained switched on to brighten an otherwise subdued light. Whilst portable and commercial in appearance, the mechanical device was quite a sizable unit, possibly producing in excess of 100hp where air was compressed by either rotary or centrifugal operation. An elongated cylindrical storage tank sat on a heavy-duty trolley, complete with four large metal wheels that looked distinctly out of proportion. A cogwheel and wide belt positioned high side, together with dryers, after-coolers and supply lines provided the finishing touches. Martin wondered what purpose a compressor could possibly serve Scorpio. Perhaps it was intended for cleaning, atomising or with pneumatic tools in mind? He dismissed the likelihood of mining or tunneling, given the immediate expanse of network.
Following a rotation of the compressor, a conspicuous red button was finally located far side. Martin pressed the knob. The mechanics immediately responded with their wind-down procedure. Silence finally reigned again and they could recommence their search and find the blighter for Indigo’s amusement.
The subterranean world at hand was no different. Narrow corridors still intersected their larger counterparts, where passageways gave way to occasional galleries and recessed chambers. Communication for now would be strictly carried out by sign language. A quiet and methodical approach was necessary. All was dead still as the Traffik pair tried in vain to detect the slightest sound. Nothing stirred. Not even the echo of water droplets could be heard in this vast and oppressive existence.
Martin thought about where the man might hide. His options would be limited given their close pursuit and the fact that the compressor had only commenced its operation some half minute
earlier. Logic told him the man’s refuge must be close at hand. A circular network of eight corridors led from the central gallery housing the compressor. Martin’s opinion was conclusive, for the man had to be hiding in one of these passageways. Time didn’t permit for a greater distance with his apparent handicap. The pair commenced their surveillance of each subsequent artery, anxious to capture but mindful he still carried a gun.
Up and down each tunnel they searched. Suddenly they heard a short but distinct sound up ahead. Dave pointed to the direction of the source. The noise indicated a position around thirty paces from where they stood. Unmistakably within the same corridor, the hunted man had become clearly uncomfortable with their relentless advances. Torches lit the passageway indicating a distance of fifty metres. A narrow side aisle could be seen about midway. Shallow, recessed chambers were periodically positioned every twenty steps and located both sides. No human outline could be detected.
Following a series of hand signals, Dave quickly and quietly slipped around the passageway block to enable his approach to be made from the far end. With both exits of the subdued lit corridor now controlled, they cautiously closed in toward the source. The assumption suggested their adversary resided in one of two chambers. They maintained their sign language but Martin suddenly signaled to stop. He withdrew a cigarette lighter from his pocket, indicating to his accomplice that he was about to throw it toward him. The sound landing on a stone floor would make a startling and abrupt noise, possibly arousing the man into exposing his whereabouts.
He threw the cigarette lighter. Movement could be heard up ahead. A slight shuffle of feet gave the impression there was a rearrangement of position following the sharp distinct sound. With the Scorpio assassin moving around the recessed statue to improve his camouflage, Martin caught the partial outline of the man holding a gun. Wearing a balaclava, the fugitive appeared to be clutching his arm, suggesting he was possibly carrying a further injury of some sort. Perhaps he’d fallen over in his attempt to seek a quick refuge? Their two-way directional assault would now have considerable advantage. With their nemesis only some ten metres away to the left, Martin and Dave pounced.
A barrage of open fire was immediately released by the fugitive to fend off his advancing foe. So intense was the delivery, the Traffik duo quickly scrambled to the safety of the recessed chambers. Their reaction in exchanging gunfire was distinctly slow, made more difficult by Indigo’s direct order to bring him back alive. Unexpectedly the fugitive’s Smith and Wesson jammed, its firing mechanism refusing to release the intended ammunition. Realising the .38 calibre weapon was now useless, he threw it down, narrowly missing Dave stepping forward from a side chamber. Retreating via the side aisle, the Scorpio felon was now desperate.
The Traffik pair now considered the man to be defenceless, unless a knife was to suddenly manifest itself. Martin and Dave were closing in, effectively forcing their archenemy to return to the gallery. They observed the man continued to carry a limp, a major hindrance in the context of things and undoubtedly a serious liability if he chose to make a run for it.
Returning to the nearby gallery, the man hobbled across to where the air compressor stood. No sooner had he arrived than his assailants scurried through the same entry. On seeing the Scorpio leader stand behind the sizable and now silent machine, the Traffik pair slowed their pace and approached the man with caution. They were wary of the fugitive still possessing a second gun. Martin and Dave stared at their hooded adversary. Was this a trap of some kind? A compressor hardly qualified as a means of defence. Martin issued the long-awaited directive.
‘Drop your weapons and step forward with hands on your head!’
The Scorpio criminal immediately looked across his shoulder. He made no effort to cooperate. Only two options could be considered. Either he surrendered to face the humiliation and ominous wrath of Indigo, or he risked the apparent threat and fight to the death. His instinct dictated the latter.
Cautiously Martin and Dave approached the man from either side. Within two arm lengths of securing their runaway, the hooded criminal suddenly produced a knife and let out a heartrending howl. He conceded his game was finally at an end.
Martin moved swiftly to secure the arm holding the blade. He immediately realised that his adversary had suicidal intentions. The struggle was intense. Despite his apparent injuries, the shorter enemy was extremely strong and it required Dave’s intervention to curb the downward thrust. Reminiscent of some arm-wrestling contest, the blade descended close to the man’s heart, only to be then withdrawn with considerable resistance from the Traffik pair. The seesawing effect fluctuated in synchronous rhythm, at times coming precariously close to the man taking his life. With the test of strength taking forever to maintain its status quo, Martin threw a punch causing the desired effect. The knife was released and thrown to one end of the gallery. A second and equally loud howl followed, possibly more out of frustration in being denied hara-kiri.
Finally the elusive runaway was brought under control. The man’s arms were placed behind his back and a thick cable tie was then secured to both wrists. Martin decided to leave the balaclava in place, realising this was Indigo’s territory to unveil. He envisaged his leader to overindulge in the usual theatrics. Their captive then unexpectedly roared his disapproval.
‘You deprived me of my final wish!’
‘What, and deny Indigo the pleasure of your company? Never!’
‘You bastards!’
‘Back to the main gallery, now,’ Martin ordered pushing his captive forward, ignoring the leg injury.
As a gesture of torment Dave reignited the air compressor as they departed the room. The slow return walk was without incident. Martin in particular saw to that. He didn’t underestimate his prisoner, whose credentials were widely recognised by the fraternity. The man had, after all, headed a regional operation, was quite possibly handy in the art of self-defence and was definitely no fool. This was a prize catch and one that Traffik would relish over given Indigo’s lust for revenge.
~ * ~
Their sudden arrival brought an instant response of jubilation from Indigo. The remaining attendance simply stared at the hooded captive, wondering whose identity lay beneath the mask. His stature was of stocky build bordering muscular in definition. Standing at around five-seven, his limited skin exposure suggested a dark-olive complexion of possibly southern European descent. He was brought to the centre of the gallery, placed before Indigo and Arthur Simpson and instructed to remain standing. The Traffik leader commenced his theatrics.
‘So, who lurks from behind the three-hole hood? Perhaps Cosa Nostra, the Black Hand, or maybe my elusive adversary? Off with his sock and let’s expose this son of a bitch!’ he taunted.
Ivan commenced to peel back the tight-fitting balaclava. Its removal was more difficult than anticipated, for as if like a second skin, the process could only gradually uncover the face. Finally and with sufficient material to take a decent handful, he forcefully pulled off the remaining part to reveal the man’s identity. The initial response came from behind Indigo. It was a scream of disbelief released by Martha Kellett.
‘Noooo ... no it can’t be!’ she bellowed with her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
I looked on the man in utter shock. Sam Vaccaro, Martha’s resident gardener-cum-handyman. How could this be? He was a kindly and humble soul who was always willing to help Emily with the garden chores.
Indigo was growing impatient with the audience’s reaction. Being anxious to resolve the million-dollar question, he turned to Arthur.
‘Who and what is this person?’
‘Unquestionably Lou Hanna and the infamous Piedpiper!’ declared Arthur Simpson, who didn’t hesitate to reveal the scoundrel.
Martha was near collapse. Forbes looked like he’d just been hit by a truck and I continued to stare in absolute disbelief. Everybody was literally shell-shocked by Arthur’s verification. Indigo turned to the Scorpio pair, still seated cross-l
egged, for further confirmation.
‘Is this person the Piedpiper?’
Neither man responded, not even a nod to confirm or deny. They simply sat with their heads bowed in silence. The Traffik boss was fast becoming incensed with this sudden lack of cooperation.
‘You’ll regret the day you were born if you continue this way!’ he roared.
Both men remained still. Not a murmur was uttered. In a furious display of temper he let fly with his boot again, striking the pair in the upper torso to the sound of their screams, He repeated the callous act until the shorter man declared he had had enough.
‘Okay, okay. Yes, it’s our leader!’ he yelled back.
‘Anyone can be your leader, but is he the Piedpiper?’ insisted Indigo, determined to reveal the truth.