Cole waved his hand for a taxi, and no sooner had he done so than a bright orange three-wheeled Bajaj – Indonesia’s version of the auto rickshaw – pulled up next to them, the driver smiling with a mouthful of golden teeth. ‘Where to?’ he asked in English, in deference to Cole’s appearance.
‘Anywhere!’ Cole said, jumping into the back with Wong as he eyed the Korean agents hightailing it down the alleyway after them. ‘Just move!’
‘No problem!’ the driver said jovially. ‘I –‘
The next words caught in his throat as a 9mm bullet entered the side of his head, skull and brains showering the windscreen.
‘Get down!’ Cole ordered Wong, who was already curling himself into the Bajaj’s cramped foot well. Stepping over the driver, Cole slammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal and pulled the wheel around sharply, making the three-wheeler perform a tight U-turn in the middle of the road, the little vehicle teetering violently to one side as it did so, threatening to turn over completely.
But it regained its traction and Cole leaned over the dead body in the driver’s seat, saw the men approaching, and accelerated off into the oncoming traffic.
Park looked on in disgust as the American escaped with their target.
Who the hell was he? The throbbing in Park’s leg told him that whoever he was, the man was good. Park had removed the skewer, and luckily it hadn’t done any real damage; it had passed through the meat of his leg, and the wound was now merely uncomfortable. But it would be nice to kill the man who had done it.
But what were they going to do now? The target was getting away and the Third Bureau didn’t tolerate failure.
Indecision, however, was a foreign concept to Park, and he immediately turned towards the street and aimed his gun at a passing car, forcing it to a halt.
Park was pleased to see Chae responding immediately, opening the door and reaching inside to pull the driver out onto the street, slipping in behind the wheel and gunning the engine. Park made for the passenger door, and saw that Song Soo-chul, the man who’d been stationed at the front of Vietopia with his now dead colleague, was about to climb in the back.
‘No!’ said Park, noticing a passing motorbike. He fired a single shot from his Browning which hit the rider in the chest, knocking him from the bike, and pointed towards the fast two-wheeler which skittered on its side to a stop in front of them. ‘Follow him on that!’
And just seconds later, they were on their way, following Wong and his American guardian angel into the oncoming traffic, ignoring the chaos they were leaving behind.
Cole saw in the Bajaj’s small wing mirrors that he was now being pursued by a car and a bike. Each had advantages and drawbacks; the car would provide a stable platform for shooting but was less maneuverable in traffic, while the bike would be more likely to catch up to them but would be difficult to shoot from. Combined, however, the agents had both firepower and maneuverability. Cole knew that the bike would try and cut them off, and the car would approach to perform the executions.
Watching the two vehicles in his mirrors as he weaved the dented Bajaj in and out of the oncoming traffic, Cole opened a door and – waiting until the time was right – kicked the driver’s dead body out into the street, wrenching the sagging door closed behind it.
Song saw the body hit the ground and roll towards him and instantly veered left, cutting across an approaching sedan and straight back in, avoiding hitting the dead man. He knew what the American’s plan had been – make the bike hit the corpse, which would have sent Song flying off.
But it hadn’t worked, and Song accelerated again towards the orange three-wheeled rickshaw.
Behind Song, Chae leaned on the horn to clear the traffic ahead of them, Park hanging his body out of the side window, handgun aimed down the street on the off-chance he could squeeze a few shots off at the Bajaj. He saw Song skillfully avoid the driver’s body, and smiled as Chae took the direct route and ran straight over it, the car rocked by a heavy thumping as it passed underneath the wheels but kept on course.
Chae was playing a game of chicken with the oncoming traffic, and he was winning; other drivers veered out of their way, crashing into cars and nearby storefronts, and Park considered that perhaps it was partially down to the gun he was pointing towards them.
He pulled himself back into the car as he saw the Bajaj, and then the motorbike, take a right turn at the end of Cikini 1, merging with traffic going north on Jalan RP Suroso.
‘They’re turning right,’ he told Chae, who merely nodded in acknowledgment, his own mind locked onto the targets ahead of them.
Cole fought to control the Bajaj as he ducked in and out of the steady thrum of traffic headed north, the little engine struggling to cope with the demands he was placing on it.
Behind him, he could see the car struggling to keep up, but the bike was moving ever closer, able to weave through the other vehicles even more easily than the three-wheeled Bajaj.
He jerked the wheel left at the last second, careening on two wheels onto Gondangdia 2, a narrow road leading west. Cole pushed his foot down harder and took off at speed past the Menteng Regency apartment building, a group of tourists stopping to stare at the crazy Bajaj driver, mouths agape.
Cole could see that his maneuver had paid off; the bike hadn’t been left enough time to turn, and had gone sailing right past. But Cole knew it wouldn’t take the rider long to correct the error; he would either turn around quickly, or else carry on to the next parallel road and then cut across to intercept them further up.
And Cole knew that the car would certainly have enough time to respond, and would soon be after them.
With Wong Xiang still cowering on the floor in the back of the Bajaj, Cole whipped down the street and took a right turn at the end onto Gondangdia 3, which ran parallel to a set of train tracks.
Cole knew from his earlier research that the tracks led to Gondangdia Station, and an idea began to formulate in his mind.
Cole heard the supersonic crack of a 9mm round followed an instant later by the sound of a ricochet, and saw in his wing mirrors the agent he stabbed through the leg, gun in hand. He was leaning out of the car, which was accelerating fast towards him.
More shots followed, and Cole kept his head down as the bullets ricocheted off the metal skin of the Bajaj. And then he heard the screaming of an engine at high revs and looked right to see the motorcycle racing towards him down another side-street, gun in the rider’s hand. He saw a flash from the barrel, and buried his head under the wheel, the bullets tearing through the Bajaj’s canvas upper.
Cole immediately punched the accelerator down even further and turned left at the end of the road onto Cut Meutia, the motorcycle right next to him now, the rider pointing his handgun through the open window.
Cole wrenched the wheel across and knocked the bike off to the side, keeping the momentum going and coming off the road; suspension shaking, he mounted a grassed central reservation, ploughed through a barrier and crossed over onto Jalan GSSY Samratulangi, heading north.
The bike was out of action for the time being, but the car followed him, bullets flying out across the highway as he gunned the tiny engine and headed for the train station which was now just ahead.
Time to see if his plan would work.
5
‘We’ve got him!’ Chae said confidently. Traffic was clogging up outside the station, and soon even a Bajaj wouldn’t be able to get through.
Park grinned and leaned further out of the window, gun arm steady, waiting for the kill shot. He’d take the American out, and would then move in to grab Wong Xiang. It was even providential that it would happen outside the station; they could get Wong away from the area nice and quickly by just taking the train. By the time anyone thought to follow them, they’d be long gone.
But then Park saw the little Bajaj turning, cutting sharply across traffic, across pedestrians, across the sidewalk; and then the American and Wong Xiang were gone completely, the little vehicl
e having been driven inside the train station itself.
‘Are you crazy?’ Wong called from the rear, people’s screams reverberating off walls and ceilings having told him they were now driving indoors. ‘You’re fucking crazy! Let me out!’
Cole ignored him as he piloted the Bajaj past stalls and ticket desks, in and out of startled onlookers, looking for the escalator.
He saw it moments later and drove the three-wheeler straight towards it. He revved it hard and the front end shot up and mounted the steps, the escalator’s motors pulling the lightweight vehicle right onto it.
Screams came from all quarters, but again Cole ignored them, keeping the revs high to ensure that the Bajaj didn’t fall down backwards to the foyer.
And then they were at the top, the little vehicle’s front tire bit down, then the rears, and it catapulted forward onto the platform, waiting commuters jumping out of the way and running for their lives.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Park spat as Chae mounted the curb and they both got out at a run. What was the American thinking? What did he hope to achieve?
A security guard, alerted by the screaming and running crowds, stood in the foyer. A look of confusion and panic was on his face, but a gun was in his hands and Park shot him on the run, passing him and mounting the escalators.
But then he heard the high whine of an engine behind him and moved to the side as Song mounted the moving staircase on his bike, accelerating up past Park and Chae onto the platforms above, in hot pursuit of the wild Bajaj.
Cole gunned the little auto rickshaw along the platform, people jumping out of the way left, right and center. A security guard drew a gun, but Cole veered close and clipped him with a wing mirror, knocking him to the ground.
Behind him, Cole could hear the sound of the bike accelerating up the escalator and found himself being impressed; if Cole was determined to win, then so were his pursuers.
Cole drove parallel to a stationary train, which began to move away from the platform, passengers wide-eyed as they watched him from their windows.
He saw the biker in his mirrors, raising his gun and firing, and again Cole hunkered down, hoping that the thin metal of the Bajaj would protect him.
And then the train left the station completely and Cole veered across the platform and accelerated towards the edge.
The orange three-wheeler left the platform with a less than graceful leap, plummeting hard to the tracks below; but the Bajaj got traction and pulled away after the train, puttering over the railway line.
They were only doing thirty miles an hour, the Bajaj all but incapable of doing any more, but in the damaged, semi-open three-wheeled rickshaw, it felt much faster.
As Cole turned to see the bike perform a superb jump off the platform onto the train tracks, he knew that the motorcycle was fast, and would be on them soon.
But at least he had narrowed his pursuers down to just one, the other two left behind to watch uselessly from the platform as their lone comrade continued the chase.
Song accelerated down the railway line towards his prey. He would have to kill the American for sure; the skill would be in capturing Wong Xiang safely.
As the bike bounced up and down on the metal pilings, Song was forced to pocket his Browning; there was no way he could control the bike with only one hand. But he was catching the Bajaj rapidly now, and would soon be in a better position to attack.
Song was there within half a minute, revving the bike hard and taking the bone-shattering impacts of the rutted sleepers as they passed under his narrow tires. He pulled alongside, close now; he knew that the driver would be reluctant to ram him again, as the sideways movement might put the Bajaj off the track completely.
Holding tight with his hands to the handlebars, Song balanced on his far leg and shot his near-side boot through the open cockpit, connecting with the American’s face, rocking him back.
Song grinned as he swiftly retrieved his leg, checked the track ahead – saw it curving in a gentle bend – and then lashed out again, steel toe-caps whipping across the driver’s jaw.
While the American was distracted, Wong too scared to offer any assistance, Song put both feet firmly back down and reached out for the Bajaj, hoping to pull himself inside to use his knife on the driver.
But then – what the hell? – the American reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling it further in and then kicking the inside of his own door.
Song realized the man had been overreacting to his blows, luring Song in closer; and as the door hit him hard, he knew what was going to happen.
His hands came away from the door, the impact of the driver’s kick sending the bike skittering sideways over the tracks, and he was fighting to control it round the bend when he heard it; the sound of a train, approaching at speed.
Song looked ahead, saw that he was on the opposite track now, the flat grey metal façade of a locomotive speeding towards him at over one hundred miles per hour.
Cole pulled the door shut as the train crashed into the biker head-on, sending both the motorcycle and its rider flying back the other way along the tracks before it crushed them underneath a thousand tons of fast-moving metal.
The passage of air as the train whipped past the Bajaj was almost enough to jettison the rickshaw from the tracks; but as soon as it started, it was over, and Cole was past the rear of the train now, heading towards freedom.
It was just minutes later that he heard it – another train, this time coming from the rear; within moments, it would be bearing down right on top of them, crushing the Bajaj beneath it just like the bike before it.
‘They’re on the train!’ Wong called out to him.
Cole looked in his mirrors again, and saw that Wong was right – literally; the remaining two agents were on the roof of the train, riding it towards them. Far from being left behind at the station, they must have simply jumped aboard the next train and followed them, knowing they would be able to catch up.
Cole looked across the elevated tracks, saw the traffic on the road beneath, and yanked the wheel over. ‘Hold on!’ he yelled to Wong.
Moments later the little rickshaw smashed through the side barrier and went flying through the air, Cole’s stomach lurching up into his throat as they seemed to sail out across the streets below.
But then the Bajaj crashed onto the street, weight crunching down hard onto the tires, the suspension, rocking the vehicle and its occupants with its savage impact.
Cole looked up at the tracks and his jaw dropped open.
The two agents had hurled themselves from the top of the train in an insane final bid to catch their prey.
Park grabbed hold of the limbs of the tree, using them to break his fall, branches lacerating his skin as he tumbled down, his momentum eventually slowing before landing in a parachute roll on the grass below.
He was satisfied when the bloodied but otherwise undamaged form of Chae landed by his side. It might have appeared suicidal, but Park had seen the section of trees planted on the corner of Medan Merdeka Timur and Medan Merdeka Selantan, and aimed his highly-trained body towards them, knowing that at that height, the branches would break his fall sufficiently for him to survive.
He saw that the Bajaj had also miraculously survived the fall from the railway bridge, landing heavily on Selantan. As he and Chae pushed through the trees towards the road, he watched the rickshaw travel a few tentative feet before giving up the ghost completely; the engine blew and the axle snapped in half, depositing the body of the car right onto the hot tarmac.
The American grabbed Wong instantly and took off at a run, leaping a barrier across the road and heading for more trees beyond.
With all parties now on foot, Park could feel victory right around the corner, and he and Chae set off in hot pursuit, guns out and ready.
Cole and Wong broke through the tree line and were immediately taken aback at the sight which loomed before them; a marble-clad obelisk topped by a flame covered in gold foil, the National Monument rose ov
er four hundred feet into the brilliant blue sky above the teeming city of Jakarta, a symbol of the fight for Indonesian independence.
Cole and Wong raced forwards to try and lose themselves in the crowds of tourists, and were soon in amongst people, trying to blend in, to hide and regroup.
Cole saw the gun rising towards him almost too late, the black barrel emerging from a crowd to his left, the muzzle flashing as a shot was fired.
But Cole was already moving, pivoting to the side before snaking back in at an angle, both hands seizing the barrel and turning it upwards, forcing Park’s wrist back on itself until the gun was ripped from the man’s grasp.
Cole quickly aimed it back at Park, but the man’s leg lashed out and kicked the weapon out of Cole’s grasp. Cole responded instantly by launching a solid rear hand punch to the man’s face. He thought he could feel the eye socket fracture, but Park barely seemed to notice, whipping a round kick into Cole’s thigh before looping another towards his head.
Park had obviously hoped his first kick would topple Cole and allow the second to be the coup de grace; but Cole had spent the last eighteen months in the rings of Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, where leg kicks were the bread and butter of the vicious combat sports practiced there.
He therefore stood his ground and intercepted Park’s second kick, hooking his hand around it and spinning the man further around, launching a strong front thrust kick of his own into the agent’s back which sent him sprawling into the frightened crowds.
Cole could hear police sirens in the streets beyond the square, and police whistles much closer; but he ignored these for now and turned to find Wong.
Seconds later he spotted the man, being marched away by the other agent, a pistol held to his back.
Cole sprinted ahead but the agent must have heard him and turned, pistol aimed at Cole’s chest. Cole was glad when Wong slammed his hands down hard onto Chae’s arms, the gun discharging harmlessly into the floor; and then Cole was there, kicking the gun out of his hands and grabbing the man’s head, pulling it down onto a powerful knee strike.
WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller Page 10