I was in control.
I was unemotional.
I was ice.
The bullfighting ring was adjacent to the Estadio Azul, the soccer stadium named after its brilliant blue exterior and seats, but it was no less spectacular.
The ring’s grandstand rose in the center of the grounds, a big cone surrounded by pens for the bulls, stables for horses, parking for service vehicles, and stands offering concessions. A concrete wall surrounded that, encompassing a city block. About four meters high and painted two shades of chipped orange, the wall had entrance gates on each side, five in total. Every few meters a column interrupted the flow, each topped with a statue of man and bull in various phases of the fight.
El Plaza de Toros México was the largest bullfighting ring in the world. And looking at the way the walls of the grandstand itself inclined up and out on all sides, it was no wonder The Instructor had chosen this location for his strike.
A big bowl of a stadium within a bowl of a city, the structure wouldn’t allow airborne Ebola to escape easily, and that had to be part of his plan. The pathogen would linger, giving spectators plenty of time to breathe it into their lungs. And once they were carrying the virus, the burgeoning population, close quarters, and rampant poverty would ensure the infection’s spread. It would balloon into a national crisis in a matter of hours.
I scanned the structure, focusing on the advertisement for a bank rimming the bowl’s edge, and another at the top that proclaimed LA VICTORIA ES TUYA. Victory is yours.
I hoped it was speaking to me.
Directing my driver to pass the plaza, I let him take me several blocks down the street. There I paid him and climbed out. I then took a circuitous route back to the bullring. I focused on adopting the walk and posture of a local—not too fast, a slight shuffle of the feet. One of the most important skills of a spy is being able to blend in, to still the mind, to adopt the mannerisms of the populace, and the more I concentrated on these details, the calmer and more invisible I felt. If Heath was one of the operatives here, and I was pretty sure he would be, I wanted to do whatever I could to spot him before he recognized me.
An exhibition prior to the official start of the season, this afternoon’s event had the area buzzing. Concession stands lined a shady park in the adjacent block. The exhibition was set at an earlier time than customary for a bullfight, but it still wouldn’t begin for several hours. Scores of people were getting an early jump on the festival, and as I got closer, a brass band started warming up on a paso doble. I could smell tortillas and varieties of chili-spiced meat combined with the scents of hot pavement, car exhaust, and manure. As in all big cities, birds fluttered in the streets, mostly pigeons, fighting for crumbs of food, and a constant racket of vehicles and sirens and horns and the endless whistles of traffic cops filled the air. Gate number one seemed to be the only one open. It was still hours from the start of the event, and only those readying the plaza for today’s exhibition were allowed past the uniformed guards.
I stopped at a corner taqueria, one of the sources of the tortilla-and-meat smell. Looking much like a college sports bar with exposed pipes, fluorescent lights, and streamers hanging from the ceiling, the place was cheap and relatively clean. A handful of patrons loitered in the place, eating breakfast. A couple who only had eyes for each other took up one table, two men who looked me up and down stood in line, and a teenager served food behind the counter. None of them seemed out of place.
I ordered two cheese and chili quesadillas and two bottles of water at the counter, then positioned myself at a corner standing table with a view of the stadium gate. I slipped a water into my backpack, then ate slowly, savoring the food while I surveyed the plaza gate and watched the festival crowd grow.
To figure out how the attack would take place and stop it, I needed to get into the plaza. After watching the guards stop people at the front gate and allow only those with identification badges through, I started looking for alternative routes.
I noted that trees reached over the concrete wall at several points. Buses transporting festivalgoers lined the streets. It was tough to jump the gate in broad daylight without being seen, but with this combination of elements, I might be able to manage.
When he finally showed up, I almost missed him.
Dressed in jeans and a light blue guayabera, the short-sleeved, button-down shirt common to the area, Heath looked like dozens of men I’d seen coming and going all day. A straw cowboy hat covered his head, shielding the eye patch from my notice. But his walk—that arrogant, rolling amble that had drawn me from the first time I met him—gave him away.
He entered the gate, chatted with the guards as if he knew them, then strolled in, as if it was something he did every day. I had to wonder if it was and how long he’d been preparing in order to pull off an inside attack.
As soon as Heath disappeared through the gates, I waited a few beats, looking for signs of the big woman, Earnshaw, who I assumed was his partner, or any of the other Hydra Deux members in case I had that wrong. When none of them showed, I tossed the wrappers from my meal and left the restaurant.
I passed the gate on the other side of the street and continued down the block. At the corner, I crossed, following the curve of the wall to the spot were three buses lined the curb. Hidden behind buses and camouflaged by trees, I shimmied up one trunk, climbed out on a branch, and dropped onto the plaza’s outer concrete wall, flattening my belly to the top. It didn’t take longer than five seconds.
Inside, a small parking lot spread beneath me, a groundskeeper’s truck, two stock trailers, and a smattering of cars filling the spaces. From there, a ramp led underground and presumably into the bowl-shaped arena itself. In the corner to my left, bulls stood in corrals, swiping at flies and pawing at the dirt. Closer to fight time, each would be herded into the individual stall called the chiquero, where he would wait to enter the anillo and fight for his life.
I was about to lower myself to the pavement when I heard voices below. Two men who looked barely old enough to drive walked up the ramp, and I recognized their faces from the poster out front. The matadors.
Heath emerged behind them, driving a small pickup truck up the ramp to the parking lot area. The truck, whose bed was filled with rakes and a large tank for watering down dust in the arena, was hitched to an arena drag, a plow-like apparatus designed to break up clumps and smooth the arena for optimal footing.
It made sense. Posing as a groundskeeper and arenero, he would have free rein of the entire place.
The truck door slammed, and I flattened my cheek to the concrete, listening to his boot heels drum the pavement, closer with each step. The tree over me offered some camouflage, but while I hadn’t been worried about the matadors spotting me, Heath was a different story.
The footsteps stopped.
I brought my hand around my back and pulled the Jericho, fitting it snug in my hand, finger on the trigger.
He started moving again, this time away. When his steps started to blend with the city sounds, I raised my head and peered inside. He reached the main gate, and after a few words with the security guards, he left the plaza.
I had another decision to make: take a look around the plaza or follow.
The Plaza Mexico wasn’t going anywhere. I could always come back and play needle-in-the-haystack. If I let Heath go, I might not catch up with him again until it was too late.
I jumped to the outside of the wall, hung off the edge, and absorbed the ten-foot drop with my knees. Adjusting my backpack and checking to make sure my pistol was secure and out of sight under my baggy T-shirt, I walked down the sidewalk and peered around the corner.
Heath was just outside the gate…and heading straight at me.
I slipped back behind the wall. The shadows under the trees were dark. There was a good chance he hadn’t seen me, at least not well enough to recognize my face. I had a few seconds lead time, but I had to move fast.
I crossed the street and blended i
nto the outer edges of the festival crowd.
Music bounced through the park, the brass paso doble replaced with a Cuban salsa equally at home in nightclub or daytime festival. Booth after booth swayed with T-shirts, bullfighting capes—the pink capote and red muleta—and botas, the sides of the wineskins stamped with pictures of matadors and bulls. Carts sold tortillas and nearly every imaginable foodstuff to fill them, and the air smelled of spice and sun and felt sweaty and alive.
Peering through a chink in the crowd, I watched a light blue guayabera and cowboy hat move toward the park. Pulling out the Jericho, I kept it low and in front of me, hidden among the folds of my T-shirt. Firing in a crowd as thick as this was dangerous, the chance of hitting an innocent far too great, but I couldn’t let Heath get the drop on me, either. He hadn’t killed me in Maine, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t now.
The hat bobbed closer. I slipped behind a display of pint-size chaquetillas, the ornate waistcoats that are part of the matador’s suit of lights, and waited for him to pass so I could slip in behind. He cleared the stand, and I got my first clear look.
Not Heath.
Shorter and more heavily muscled, the man I’d been watching was a regular Mexican version of Tequila.
Damn.
In a city of millions, finding Heath was less likely than locating the needle in the haystack. Unless I located him in the next few minutes, I’d have to move to plan B.
I flowed through the crowd in the direction of the music. I’d search a few minutes longer, then circle around and return to the plaza and scour every inch inside those walls before the stands filled.
Heath must have spotted me, otherwise I wouldn’t have lost him, despite the fact that seeing him had rattled me more than I wanted to think about. As with my glimpse of him at the lighthouse, I felt jangled and off-balance. Only this time, I didn’t have tear gas and flashbangs to blame.
A hand pressed against the small of my back.
I started to turn, expecting a pickpocket or some asshole trying to cop a feel, but before I could, the hand clamped mine, hyperflexing and twisting it into a wrist lock.
“Going somewhere so fast, bonita?”
I wanted to strike, to whirl around and plug a few rounds into his belly. But with all the people around me, I didn’t dare.
Applying pressure to my wrist, Heath took my gun and pressed the barrel into my side, angling upward to do maximum damage. He leaned close, and his lips brushed the back of my left ear. He was no longer wearing the hat, a wifebeater had replaced his blue guayabera, and I realized he must have traded with the hombre I’d been tracking.
“This is our secret, but I’m glad you didn’t get barbecued back in Maine.”
“Feeling you this close makes me wish I had.”
“Oh, you can’t mean that. I would be so hurt.”
“I just bet.”
“You don’t understand what you do to me, Chandler.”
“I’m Hammett.”
He laughed his breath warm on my cheek. “I can’t say it didn’t throw me a little to see three of you in Maine, even though I was briefed that you had identical sisters. But I know you. And no matter where you are or what disguise you wear, it makes no difference. We’re connected, you and me. I feel you in my heart.”
He fitted me hard against him and swayed his hips, the move so sexy I wanted to punch him.
“Trying to fight me wouldn’t be smart. There are so many civilians in this place. I’d hate to see them get hurt.”
“Reading my mind now?”
“No, mamacita. I’m reading your body, like always.”
“Go to hell, Heath.”
“Oh, querida, you have no idea how much I’ve missed you. You are just what I need. In fact, I have a little treat for you.”
I angled my body ever so slightly. A broken wrist and possible bullet wound would be better than letting him take me. I just needed an opening.
“Look around you, Chandler. All these people. All these children. If you try to fight me, many of them will die. Many more will trample each other trying to get away. Are you willing to be responsible for that?”
My stomach clenched. As much as I hated this bastard, he did know me. And every time I turned around, he used that knowledge to beat me at my own game.
I was sick of it.
But not sick enough to cause these people harm. And of course, he knew that, too.
I nodded. He released my wrist, the gun still stabbing into my side. But before I could even think about moving to disarm him, I felt the sting of a needle in my arm. I pulled away, sending the syringe flying, but I knew I was too late.
“What did you give me?”
“Something you’ll adore.”
“What?”
“Just a little Special K, bonita. Lean back against me and enjoy the ride.”
Fleming
“The best defense is a good offense,” The Instructor said. “And the best offense leaves no survivors.”
Using the lock picks that Harry McGlade had thoughtfully provided, Fleming had made good use of the fabrication tools the custom motorcycle shop had offered. Using sheets of steel, pneumatic machines, a blowtorch, and good old sweat equity, Fleming had been up all night building what might have been her finest creation.
It had some problems. Weight, for one, though the two-stroke engine helped. And ventilation. Fleming had sacrificed keeping cool for bulletproofing. But the biggest problem was mobility. Turning was tough. Stairs, or bumps, or even steep grades, were impossible.
She used ramps and a winch to load it into the back of her van, kept the ramps for later, and got out of the shop before it opened for the day. It was still five hours before the supposed rendezvous at noon, but Fleming wasn’t waiting until then. She was going to bring the fight to Rhett and Scarlett.
The odds weren’t good. In fact, the outcome could be downright pathetic. Fleming was outnumbered, outgunned by who knew how many, and crippled. Chances were high she wouldn’t even be able to save herself, let alone Bradley.
But she sure as hell was going to try.
Hammett
“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” The Instructor said. “But in the heat of the moment, doing stupid things often seems preferable to doing nothing at all.”
Hammett got there early, and she was almost too late.
Downsview was a private airport, and Hammett hoped she’d have time to anticipate Tristan and Isolde’s arrival, giving her enough time to search through twelve hangars on site for the right one. After a nightmare-filled forty winks at the Homewood Suites, she’d gotten up sore and stiff at four a.m., forced down a gas station breakfast burrito, and purchased a new TracFone to replace the one she’d lost in the river. But by the time the cab dropped her off and she’d cut through the fencing on the west side, Hammett saw the aircraft was already out on the runway and ready to launch.
It was three hundred meters away, bright red, and massive. CANADAFEST was emblazoned on the side, underneath the obligatory maple leaf of the national flag. The same zeppelin she’d seen on YouTube.
Except this wasn’t technically a zeppelin. Zeppelins were made by a specific German company and were rigid airships, keeping their recognizable shape via an internal metal frame even when not filled with helium. Hammett’s research revealed the Canadafest dirigible was a blimp; it had a tough outer skin called an envelope and no internal structure apart from suspension cables and the two ballonets—large inflatable rectangles that functioned as ballasts.
The airship was being towed by a truck with a tower attached to the flatbed—the mooring tower—a cable at the top hooked to the craft’s nose and keeping it on the ground. Once the cable was released, the airship would launch, and once launched it would infect the festival with Ebola from that funky-looking tank attached to the rear of the gondola.
Hammett couldn’t let that happen. So she set her jaw and ran for it.
In perfect health and gym shoes, she could sprint two hundred me
ters in under twenty-five seconds. In boots and a vest, carrying a bag of gear, with at least four broken ribs, it was less of a sprint and more like a pain-wracked jog, and as Hammett halved the distance she saw the mooring line fall away and a large man—Tristan—enter the gondola door just as the ship began to rise.
Hammett’s first inclination was to yank out her shotgun and try to punch some holes in the craft, preventing it from liftoff. But the dirigible was just so damn huge—at least sixty meters long and more than fifteen meters wide in the middle. Hammett didn’t believe anything smaller than a howitzer would deflate it. Plus, the air pressure inside the envelope would be much lower than the air surrounding the craft, which meant helium wouldn’t leak out; rather, outside air would leak in. Even with big holes, it would fly for hours.
So Hammett kept running, and when the blimp rose to a height of two meters—too high to reach—she jumped onto the truck, took two steps up the mooring tower, and launched herself at the rope ladder hanging off the blimp’s side as it passed overhead.
Her hands slipped, but Hammett got her armpit in the rung, and then the twin engines attached to the gondola kicked on and the blimp began to ascend more rapidly. Wind whipped in her ears, blotting out most sound and making her ears and throat ache. Within a few seconds, they were fifty meters up.
Hammett grabbed the rung above her. Not eager to fall again after Niagara, she pulled herself up and managed to get her feet on the ladder. She was hanging too far away from the gondola to reach it but could see inside the cockpit. That little emo bitch, Isolde, was flying. The hulk, Tristan, was pointing a gun at Hammett’s head.
He fired, a high-powered round punching through the reinforced window, missing.
Hammett climbed as fast as she could—not very fast because the wind was smacking her around and the blimp was moving a lot quicker than she expected. Not airplane quick, but at least forty miles an hour and accelerating.
Flee, Spree, Three (Codename: Chandler Trilogy - Three Complete Novels) Page 90