by Ty Patterson
Bwana had restrained Cruz, a knee on his back, one hand pressing Cruz’s right hand deep in the ground. Cruz thrashed on the ground, nearly unseating Bwana, a stream of curses filling the air. Bwana slashed his head with his gun barrel, and that drained his resistance. He removed plastic ties from his belt, and Cruz struck.
Using his grounded hand as a pivot, using the force Bwana was bearing down on him, Cruz twisted sideways and jerked back with his head, catching Bwana on the bridge of his nose. Bwana, his grip loosened, reared back as Cruz whipped a foot-long blade from an ankle sheath, twisted around on his right shoulder and slashed at Bwana.
Sharp, so sharp that it cut the light, the blade swept from left to right, a neat horizontal line appearing in Bwana’s shirt that turned crimson and then black. Using the twisting motion to free a leg and get it under him, gaining leverage, Cruz swept back the blade in a wicked arc, aiming for Bwana’s throat.
Bwana, half falling back, losing his balance, deflected the strike with his right hand and, with his left hand, bunched Cruz’s shirt, put a knee to his middle and heaved him over his head, and threw him behind.
He rolled immediately, getting to his feet and turning around, and Cruz was up, attacking, not giving him time. He had run almost half a mile, but he was breathing normally, the knife weaving in his hand, catching the sunlight in tiny streaks.
He feinted, withdrew, feinted and attacked, a quick in an out at Bwana’s stomach, and Bwana stepped back. He darted forward again, and this time the blade went horizontal and upward, a smooth controlled flow, and Bwana swayed out of reach again.
Bwana reached down for his knife, but stopped when Cruz feinted again, a long sweep of his arm, Bwana following it with his eyes, and the arm swerved suddenly up, Bwana moving just his upper body and his head, the sharp edge catching the tip of his ear.
Cruz bared his teeth in a feral grin, attacked rapidly, thrusting in short fluid motions, and as his right arm was cutting the air, the left hand, which was stretched for balance, cocked and swung at Bwana… who was ready for it, sailed under it, and the knife came back, lightning fast, parting the air, aiming for his throat.
Bwana bent back, making room and then following the blade, grasped Cruz’s wrist in a lock that had crushed bricks, pulled Cruz forward, kicking him in the groin, his leg curling up in the same motion to knee him in the face, swayed to the side, still holding his wrist, twisted and dislocated his shoulder.
He threw Cruz to the ground and grasped his hair to pull his head back and break his neck.
‘No,’ Broker said quietly.
Bwana paused, looked silently at him, Cruz’s harsh breathing punctuating the seconds, and slowly released his head, and finally cuffed and gagged him.
He stood up, breathed deeply once, twice, then thrice, to rid his head of the adrenaline and combat instinct, and caught Broker’s smile.
‘You could’ve shot him and saved me the trouble.’ He grinned.
‘I thought it was high time you took a shower, and this now gives you the reason,’ Broker bantered back. He’d guessed, correctly, that the two swipes were more blood than cuts, and would heal in no time.
‘Were you slow, or…?’ Broker asked.
‘Nope. I wanted him to draw blood, make him confident. Overconfident.’
He walked over to Diego, crouched down, and looked in the hate-filled eyes. The feared enforcer stared back and spat at Bwana, who ducked and smiled at Broker.
‘Feisty fella, ain’t he? Let’s see just how long he lasts.’ He pressed down on the wound in Diego’s thigh.
Diego cracked ten minutes later and told them what they wanted to know.
They looked up as steps came their way – Roger and Bear, who had finished searching the bodies and stacked them together.
‘What?’ Bwana demanded, seeing something in their eyes.
‘Chloe, she’s not answering. Tony too. Eric doesn’t know where they are. He thought they would be here by now.’
Chapter 37
The Watcher had been following Tony at a sedate pace, knowing Tony would eventually take him to where the rest of them were going. He knew they were planning to take out Cruz and Diego; the where was unclear to him.
As they headed out of the city, he figured it would be somewhere on the highway, and once they were on the US 130, he knew.
He held back, shielded from Tony’s mirrors by the dark around him, his headlights doused, and was enjoying the feel of air and speed when he saw Tony’s brake lights come on, slow down, then pick up speed. He drifted to have a clearer view of the highway ahead and didn’t see anything.
That was his first inkling of trouble.
When Tony veered off the highway, the Watcher idled to a stop, dug out his night vision and scanned. He saw Tony step down from his vehicle and approach Chloe. When they bent over her bike, four figures sprang from behind the undergrowth and surrounded the two.
They were bundled in the Patriot. He followed them.
He shook his head at the hitters’ stupidity. They should’ve shot the two, but then the end result would have been the same.
Traffic was increasing now; on this highway, a couple of cars half an hour apart was the definition of heavy traffic.
Onward they went, down US 130, the SUV maintaining a steady pace, down an exit, then another, more tarmac and miles, and they entered Gloucester City shrouded in predawn mist, its red traffic lights blinking at emptiness.
Klemm Avenue and Market Street fell behind, and Southport loomed, power pylons and cranes reaching up in the sky like Godzillas.
The Watcher, holding way back now, blending his ride with dark surroundings wherever he could, followed them down to the port on potholed tracks that had forgotten what tarmac was, and saw them turn into a factory site.
He turned off his bike, and in the distance he could hear iron grating rolling, the entrance to the site being shut.
He gave them another fifteen minutes as he pushed his bike closer to the site and laid it on its side in the cover of stunted undergrowth. Stripping off his leathers, he donned a lightweight backpack that he tightly secured, and resumed the chase on foot.
Hunt, he corrected himself. It was no longer a chase.
The rolling gate across the site was ten feet tall, rusted, and went from left to right where it got padlocked to securing clasps. There was no padlock on the gate, but one glance at the condition of the gate and the Watcher ruled out rolling it a foot back to slip in.
He approached the left pillar, took a running jump, levering himself off it, over the gate and inside.
Inside was a flat expanse of tarmac littered with broken crates, old containers in a corner, run-down trucks, forklifts… what one would expect to see in a factory site, except they were all still and old.
The structure in front of him was huge, as large as an aircraft hangar, with a gaping entrance large enough for a midsized plane to wheel in and out of, and through the dim light inside he could see gantry cranes and machines.
The structure didn’t have windows, but had skylights, and the only way inside was through that enormous maw. Ruling it out, he ran along the side of the structure, left of the entrance, to the far end, peering cautiously around the corner and saw another large entrance in that side, two hundred yards down. The rear probably had another such exit.
He pulled a black ski mask over his head, donned dark shades and thin feel-through gloves, and paused when he heard the noise.
A woman’s voice cut off abruptly by a sharp sound, a slap, and then another man’s voice that, too, got cut off. The other voices started shouting again, talking over one another, their individual voices echoing in the cavernous interior.
He made out that they were at the side entrance and, if they were smart, would be in the deep interior where the light didn’t reach. He couldn’t risk putting any eyes inside, not even a fiber camera, without knowing how alert they were and which way they were facing.
Their shouting was a good sign, thou
gh. They don’t know where Cruz and Diego are, haven’t been able to make contact, don’t know if their bosses are dead or alive. He heard further shouting, slapping sounds, and what sounded like a groan. Shouting also meant they were thinking less.
He looked round and saw a couple of barrels in a far corner of the site. He ran toward them, saw they were empty, and lifting one easily, brought it back to the corner of the building. Placing it on its rounded side, the flat top parallel to the side of the structure, he assessed the lengths of the sides of the building.
Less than two minutes to get to the opposite side.
He pulled the barrel back a few feet and set it in motion toward the open mouth and took off down the length of the building.
Three hoods were arguing loudly among themselves, the fourth trying Diego’s phone for the umpteenth time as he walked circles around Chloe and Tony. Tony had fallen to the ground sideways, a deep gash on his forehead, his teeth broken, his eyes half closed. Chloe, her lips cut, stared at the circling hood steadily through her swollen eyes.
Phone guy stopped suddenly, looked at his phone, jammed it in his pocket, and gestured urgently for the others to keep quiet. They heard it then, a soft metallic, grinding sound outside. He mouthed at the driver, ‘Anyone follow us?’
Driver shook his head. Phone guy motioned at him to go look outside. Driver hesitated and then took a couple of steps to the sound, now growing louder. Phone guy beckoned at another hood to follow him.
AKs gripped in their hands at the ready, they edged to the entrance, the second hood covering the first from behind. Phone guy and the last hitter took cover on either side of the entrance, their captives in plain sight through the opening.
Driver took a quick look to the right, his rifle following his sight. Nothing. He whipped to the left. Nothing. His eyes slipped lower and spotted the rolling barrel, which was a few turns from coming to a stop just at the edge of the entrance.
Driver shouted a warning and darted backward in the shadow of the factory, keeping the barrel in sight. He fired at the barrel, and bullets pinged and whistled in the air, some of them making holes in the empty barrel. It shuddered and came to a stop, jerking sporadically as bullets hit it.
The second hitter scanned the other end, saw nothing, and whispered at Driver to inspect the barrel and recce the front of the factory.
Driver stepped forward cautiously, edging wide to have an early look inside the barrel. It was empty. He whipped his rifle up and called out softly to the men inside, briefing them.
The second hitter stepped away from the building and edged to the back, taking short steps.
His rifle poked its snout around the edge of the building, then one eye appeared, followed by his forehead; the rest of his head showed itself as he detected no threat.
The Watcher lay prone, hugging concrete and cold steel, another dark stain in the darkness carpeting the shadow of the site.
His hands were stretched in a pistol shooting stance, arm and fingers melding into pistol, eye becoming front sight, front sight becoming forehead, finger depressing in response to a brain command.
The hitter’s head exploded. The Watcher didn’t wait to watch.
His left leg and arm sprang down, powering him up, right leg taking a long step, left leg another, right leg taking him to flight, left leg bracing against the cold metal of the side, launching him.
The Watcher flew out of the side of the structure, legs spread wide, body bent forward, his gun arm straight and steady, searching and finding Driver, who was looking eye height and down for threats. The Watcher’s first bullet went wide, the second hit Driver in the left shoulder, the third tapping him in the back, and the fourth caught his head.
The Watcher landed, took three steps to slow and turn and ran back down the side of the building. Stopping in its shadow, he pulled another gadget from his backpack, an audio playback device with a timer setting, scrolled down its list of recordings and selected one. Setting the timer, he hid it under a metal overhang at the foot of the building and ran.
The hoods inside saw the men outside being blown away, and one of them stuck his rifle out and started firing blindly in the direction of the attacker. The other, older and more experienced, shouted at him repeatedly till the shooter stopped, and signaled at him to stay quiet. They needed to know how large the attacking force was without revealing their positions.
Twenty seconds of deep silence followed, broken by the creaking of metal, and then the first shot rang out, loud and echoing in the empty factory, making them duck for cover. A barrage of shots followed, pinging off the metal frame, making them step deeper in the cover of the side walls. The older guy ducked low, took two steps back, frowned hard, and he whirled round suddenly as realization hit him.
His forehead blossomed and disappeared before he could shout a warning.
The Watcher stood inside the shadow of the entrance, trained his gun on the second man, and then lowered it.
The woman had taken advantage of the distraction to run behind the second hitter, kicking him in the groin from the rear, another kick smashing his face against the metal wall. He fell heavily and stayed still as she kicked him in the head again for good measure.
The Watcher’s lips twitched, his muscles unused to smiling, as he tossed a knife on the concrete and disappeared.
Chloe turned around, saw the entrance was empty, checked outside, ran back to the side entrance, past the corner, peered low, and saw the device. She’d realized the shots were phony, yet in the heat of battle, they’d sounded realistic along with the metal pings and impacts.
She went back inside to the knife and, lying down awkwardly, picked it up with her fingers, fumbled with it, and headed to Tony.
Half an hour later she was leading Tony out, away from the site to where the hum of vehicles could be heard.
Vehicles meant people. She kicked up the pace.
Harry’s Diner, its faded sign swaying limply in the sky, was in a gas station and, despite the shabby exterior, was richly warm inside, the smell and sound of food, coffee, and people comforting.
She marched to the counter, where a bearded and heavily tattooed mountain stood chewing on a plug.
‘Phone,’ she demanded.
The mountain ran his eyes over her and jerked his head at a far wall where a pay phone hung.
Chloe picked up loose change, tips from tables, on her way, lasered the waitress’s indignant, ‘Hey,’ with cold eyes, and dialed.
‘They must have followed Chloe and somehow got the drop on her and Tony.’ Bear broke the silence at last.
They were hurtling down the highway toward Gloucester City, following a weak signal emitted by a transmitter sewn in Chloe’s jacket. They all had such transmitters, put there for just such circumstances.
Broker nodded, didn’t comment, his foot down hard, cold rage and fear turbocharging the vehicle.
Bear glanced at Bwana, who had just smashed a massive fist against the window.
‘They need her alive, Tony and her,’ he said mildly. ‘Till they know what’s happened to Diego and Cruz, they need leverage to negotiate… and they don’t know since we have their phones and have ignored their calls.’
Bwana looked at him and away, the truth in Bear’s words not reducing the urge in him to strike hard, reducing the hoods to fine dust.
Roger gripped his shoulder, knowing exactly how he felt.
Silence fell over them again, their thoughts drowning the rush of rubber on asphalt and sounds of occasional passing traffic.
A silence that was broken by Broker’s phone ringing shrilly. He looked at it, not recognizing it, and took it on his headset.
‘Yes,’ he grunted, then sat straighter, letting the vehicle slow.
‘Where?’ he asked and thumbed directions on his GPS system. ‘Hold tight. We’ll be there in half an hour.’
He hung up and turned on the gas again, ignoring the inquisitive looks the others gave him till Bwana punched him in the shoulder, a
light punch by Bwana’s standards, that nearly threw him into the windshield.
He grinned broadly. ‘That was Chloe. She’s out and safe.’
He held his hand up to silence them. ‘Nope. I don’t have anything more than that. All she said was she was taken to Southport in Gloucester City, and now she’s free and safe. She said we should haul our asses and get her.’
‘That sounds like her,’ Bear said and leaned back, relaxing, little springs and nerves in him uncoiling.
They didn’t spot her outside the diner, just a whole load of cars, trucks and drivers of various shapes and sizes. No Chloe. No Tony.
Bwana didn’t wait for Broker to stop, lunging out of the Escalade before it had even come to a halt, covering the ground in long strides, other drivers scampering to get out of his way.
Broker shook his head at his departing back. ‘Surest way to get ulcers, or give someone a panic attack.’
Bwana flung open the double doors to the diner and stood there, ignoring the scowls from the tattooed mountain behind the counter and scanned the diner. No Chloe. No Tony.
He scanned again, now joined by the others, blocking the door. No sign of them.
He walked to the counter. ‘There was a guy and a woman here, half an hour back. She used the phone. Seen her?’
The man looked at him dismissively. ‘Bud, do I look like someone who keeps tabs on who comes here, does what? So long as I’m paid, I don’t give a damn.’
Roger joined Bwana, the others staying by the door, and smiled widely at the man. ‘My friend here is not a man to rile. If you know where those two are, it’s best you tell him.’
The man opened his mouth to retort, saw something in Bwana’s eyes, and closed it, his eyes moving past their shoulder.
‘Those two are here,’ came Chloe’s voice from behind them.
They turned round to see her supporting Tony, handing him over to Bear and Broker.
‘Any need to barge in here and threaten violence?’ she asked Bwana icily.