————
Jinbo thought he knew exactly where Max Haulden was: two train cars in front of him, in the back left corner. But by the time he snaked his way through his own car and the one in front of him, Max was gone. Jinbo scratched at his arm and tried to calm himself. Max couldn’t have gone far. He had to be on the train. A quick perusal told him that there was clearly no white boy here, so he must have moved towards the front. A small shuddering motion also told him that the train was already slowing. Approaching a stop.
This presented another problem. What if Max got off? Then all was lost. He would miss his mark again and end up out of all of the action entirely. He couldn’t possibly monitor everyone as they got off of the train, but since Max had to be in one of the two cars ahead, he could perhaps hang just outside the door and watch for a brown mop of hair a good head above everyone else. He might even get a shot off and end this foolish chase. He would spare no expense this time. He grabbed the hilts of both of his guns, crossing his arms over his chest. He sniffed up the last of the blood that dripped from his swollen nose as he heard the harsh squealing of the brakes. As the train lurched to a stop he shuffled to a position just outside of the door, one foot on the train and one foot on the platform. He ignored the grumbling as passengers pushed their way behind him and outside, and focused on scanning the heads of the people exiting in the two cars in front. Max wasn’t hard to spot. He was in line to exit, and he seemed none the wiser. Jinbo could hardly believe his luck. He gingerly loosed both guns from their respective shoulder holsters. He would wait until the last minute to align his shot with the side of the train; he wanted to get Max just as his head appeared outside, but before anyone noticed his weapons.
“Jinbo.”
He didn’t hear his name—or he refused to hear it. Concentrated as he was, he didn’t even register the strange rising hum of noise coming from behind him.
“Jinbo!”
It was loud this time, shouted. Confused, he turned his head. Standing there like some horrific reckoning out of the romantic old west of Jinbo’s dreams was Johnnie Northern, his blue eyes glinting in the afternoon light. The gaping barrel of Northern’s gun yawned toward Jinbo’s forehead.
Jinbo didn’t have time to even blink. The shot was loud, its effect immediate. He dropped right where he stood, half in and half out of the train, as screams erupted from every direction. The closing doors bumped softly upon his body and then opened again. Bumped then opened. Northern watched him for a moment as Max shoved his way through the retreating crowd and to his captain.
“Just one of them,” said Max.
“Better than none,” said Northern, and the two of them dashed off down the platform.
————
As her cab approached, Nikkie Hix could see Obata and Fuse from a distance. Both still stood in front of the station, waiting for a team member who would never come. Northern had called her, his voice constrained, no hint of celebration as he told her Jinbo was out. Sit tight, he’d said. We’ll finish them and get you out of here. No problem.
From the looks of it, Obata and Fuse were just coming to the conclusion themselves. She could see Obata shake his head and snap his phone shut with one hand, his other forming a tight fist. Fuse leaned away from his captain, as if anticipating an explosion of anger. She smiled in spite of her pain. They had no idea she was near.
“Stop here,” she told the cabbie. He pulled to the side perhaps one hundred feet from the two members of Red. They didn’t give it a glance. Cabs pulled up and departed from around the station regularly. Two others were pulling up at that moment and another was leaving with a fresh fare.
The cabbie pressed a switch to open the door. Nikkie calmly paid the man. Then she took out her gun and propped herself up behind the door, her pistol leveled at the two.
She opened fire.
She got two good shots off before the cab abruptly pulled away, leaving her out in the open. Both shots slammed into Fuse as he turned to locate the noise. She grinned as he staggered backwards into Obata like a man whose chair has been whisked out from under him. He hit the pavement and writhed there, leaving the captain wide open.
But Obata was quick. As she squeezed off a third and fourth shot, he turned sideways and stepped back, forcing her to reposition her already wobbly stance and sight one handed. Her own body seemed to rebel; her arm was infuriatingly slow. She fired off one more haphazard shot, missing Obata entirely, before she felt the first diode punch into her gut. She managed to fall onto the sidewalk rather than the street behind her, but she could no longer raise her hand to shoot.
She vomited in earnest as a second diode hit her back. It felt worse than the gut punch, like a hammer slammed down on her spine. She vaguely heard the screams of several people around her mush together with her own cries. She tilted her neck and saw that her gun was away from her. She had dropped it. She dared not move; the pain was too intense. Everything about and around her screamed.
She heard Obata walk up behind her but couldn’t turn to see him. His steps were sure and quick. She hadn’t even come close to hitting him. He halted. All around him was blaring, siren filled mayhem. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing but she felt like she was choking on air.
“Look at me,” he said, his English accent strained and juvenile sounding.
“Fuck you,” she croaked.
The diode crashed into her skull, knocking her into a full coma before she could even hear the report of Obata’s handgun.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I GNAZIO ANDIZZI GOT THE drop on him.
The first thing that went through Ian Finn’s head as he stood face to face with his cocksure Italian counterpart was we’re all dead.
The second thought was why hasn’t he shot me yet? And as the hammering of his heart and the whistle of blood rushing through his ears was slowly displaced once more by the muted whine of turbine engines and the hiss of re-circulated air, Finn remembered that he was on an airplane. You don’t shoot on an airplane. It’s just not done. Andizzi smirked because he had surprised Finn, but also because he knew Finn wouldn’t shoot. He saw Finn’s hand go to the holster under his jacket and grinned even further. It was as if both men were trapped in a room full of explosive gas. Ian was able to fully take in the presence of a rival team member without shooting, and the effect was unsettling, like coming face to face with a snake.
Finn chanced a glance down the aisle; Kayla was right. Tessa Crocifissa, captain of Gold, was turned around and watching them intensely. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils flared with anticipation. Finn was sure that their sweeper, Lorenzo Aldobrandi, was also nearby, no doubt also conveniently placed between all three of his own team and the exit.
They had planned this from the beginning. Green was trapped.
Ian badly wanted to see what his own team was doing behind him, but he dared not turn his back on Andizzi. The man smelled strongly of hair gel and cologne. He practically oozed.
Andizzi spoke in overly enunciated English, his Italian accent slamming home the first syllable of each word.
“Drink cart,” he said.
Ian furrowed his brow.
“The drink cart, Finn. For the drink. It is behind you.”
A stewardess tapped his shoulder and indicated that she wanted to pass with the metal bulk of the drink cart. Her smile was practiced. Ian shifted his gaze from her to Andizzi, his head throbbing.
“Sorry sir. May I get by?”
Ian stepped inside the nearest row, annoying a large bald man seated there who ruffled his newspaper loudly.
“Sorry,” Ian mumbled, his eyes fixed once again on Andizzi.
“Would you like a drink?” the stewardess asked.
“I’ll take a whisky. Neat,” Ian said, staring straight ahead at his smirking opponent.
She rummaged about the cart and handed him a small bottle. Ian took it without looking. The woman looked back and forth between the two men in their odd, silent stando
ff, shrugged, and moved the cart forward. Ian watched Andizzi take a small cup of orange juice and sip on it thoughtfully, his metal bangles sliding up his tan arm as he drank. Ian realized that his team would never leave this plane. The Italians were blocking the exits. They would pop out as soon as the hatches opened and just wait. They would watch every exit from the outside. He and Pyper and Kayla would have to leave sometime and then they’d walk right into the bullets, like weevils popping up for the hammer. Ian had never been so resentful of first class in his life. Why hadn’t they just sat first class? They’d wanted to see everything that happened in the airplane, but they had never thought what to do if something did happen.
Andizzi toasted to him with his orange juice as he backed his way down the aisle and to his captain.
Kayla crept up behind Ian.
“I think the sweeper is in the front right. See him? All three of them are here.”
Ian saw. “What is Pyper saying we should do?”
“Wait. They’re obviously not going to shoot us in the air. There is a lot of time left in the flight. She says the situation might change,” Kayla said flatly. She clearly gave little credence to this theory.
“How might it change?”
“I don’t know. I think we should just shoot them.”
“We’re ten-thousand meters in the air Kayla.”
“These windows are plastic, not glass. The diodes won’t rip through the hull.”
“You don’t have a gunfight in an airplane. There are hundreds of people here crammed right next to each other.”
“You’re worried about the people?”
“Of course I am.”
There was a silence in which both teammates watched Andizzi yawn luxuriously.
“He sees us talking. Slimy fucking little prick that he is,” Kayla said.
“I know.”
“Think he can understand us?”
“Maybe.”
“Well shit.”
“Shit.”
“Just look at him,” Kayla said, disgusted at everything. “Look how pleased he is with himself. He’s already gloating.”
Andizzi was tapping the butts of his two pistols, covered loosely by a thin linen jacket, but their outline evident nonetheless to anyone who was looking for them.
Ian shook his head. Was this how their short run would end? Never even seeing the English? Gunned down by Gold as they left the airplane? The ringing in Ian Finn’s ears increased as he thought of how Alex Auldborne would take the news. He’d probably give a little guffaw, maybe a single, derisive snort, as if he knew all along that Green wouldn’t pass the first round. Or worse, he wouldn’t even care enough to guffaw. Ian grinded his teeth, and seeing his expression, Andizzi laughed. Ian wondered how hard it would be to rip a man’s tongue out.
But there were too many people. It was too dangerous. He couldn’t allow himself to potentially risk the lives of three hundred people just for a chance of dropping three. This was their own fight in their own world. No need to involve others.
But would he for the chance to drop six? The three Italians and then the three they would get next round? What if those three were the English? What then?
The buzzing in his ears turned to ringing.
To drop nine? To become champions?
Would he do it to wipe Alex Auldborne out?
The ringing turned to roaring.
He shook his head violently to clear it. No. It was foolish to risk innocent people to further his own agenda. There were children on this plane for God’s sake. It was selfish. But still his heart raced. He couldn’t swallow. He gripped the chair in front of him and tried to will his left hand away from the barely covered holster above his hip. Half of his brain pleaded with him to sit down. To acknowledge that the Italians had gotten the upper hand and chance what would almost surely be a disastrous exiting of the airplane. A walk right into the fire.
But the other half, the half of him that was his father, demanded that he remain standing.
Down the aisle, Ignazio Andizzi saw Ian Finn struggle with his helpless situation, he saw him trying to work saliva down his throat and he saw him dig his nails into the headrest in front of him, and he guffawed. He let out a single, derisive snort. Something Auldborne would do.
Ian snapped.
Andizzi didn’t even have time to change the expression on his face. One second, Ian Finn stood squeezing the chair, and the next second there were shots flying down the plane. Andizzi was still mid-guffaw, it happened so fast. Then everything went to hell.
————
The airplane’s captain and first officer were locked in the cockpit, as per FAA rules. Both were senior officers with many thousands of hours of flying under their belts. The captain was a slightly gaunt, gray haired man, who, as a result of his occupation, had a slightly discombobulated look, as if always confused about the time of day. He was pleasant in an older uncle sort of way, although he had been sometimes a little forward with the female attendants on transatlantic flights.
The first officer was a paunchy, ambitious fellow who wanted nothing more than to be the gray haired, slightly gaunt man sitting to his left. He immediately recognized the popping sounds emitting from the cabin for what they were. It took the ensuing screams to convince the captain, who radioed in a dazed distress call and asked his first officer to ensure that the door to the cockpit was, in fact, locked tight.
The first officer jumped up and double checked the lock, full of a fierce sense of duty and an even fiercer sense of terror.
“We should land the plane no matter what, captain. No matter what those terrorists threaten us with.”
The captain, who had worked too damn hard for this over the years, began to tear up at the thought of dying in this cockpit. In this seat. He took several controlled breaths to stave off weeping. His first mate, jittering about like a caged rabbit, was none the wiser.
“Sit down,” ordered the captain. “You’re making me nervous.”
Finally, the control tower at Dublin International responded. In an infuriatingly calm and controlled voice, they were told turn the plane around and make an emergency landing at London Heathrow.
“I’m not sure you understand the situation—”
“We do understand the situation,” said Tower.
“We have what are most likely several Arabs with machine guns—”
“Three Irish nationals and three Italian nationals,” corrected the Tower.
Both officers paused.
“How the hell do you know? Is this some sort of mob fight?”
“No. You’ll be landing on runway 12.”
“Listen to me,” insisted the captain, pressing his com to his face. “They are shooting right now. Do you hear that? My cabin crew hasn’t checked in yet. For all anybody knows—”
“We’ve been told the bullets won’t pierce the cabin walls or windows,” said Tower.
“—What’s that supposed to mean? By who?”
“Divert the plane to Heathrow, runway 12. You’ll be debriefed. We’ll keep this channel clear.”
And that was that.
As another volley of shots popped off behind them, the two officers looked at each other in muted disbelief. They banked the plane hard to the left and back towards England.
————
Ian was fast as lightening, but he wasn’t always accurate. Two of his first three shots hit the carpeted cockpit wall behind Ignazio Andizzi. The third hit him in the collarbone. When Andizzi slumped backwards onto the knees of those sitting in the row to his left, Ian thought he’d gotten him for good. When Ian saw him kick his way further into the aisle atop the screaming passengers, like some trust fall gone horribly awry, he cursed under his breath and dove for the ground himself.
Ian didn’t want to face his captain. He knew Pyper would be seething; he’d disobeyed a direct order. He couldn’t quite believe what he’d done himself, something about a ringing in his ears and Andizzi snorting and then he thought
of his father and then he’d unloaded three shots. This was all his doing. With any luck they wouldn’t plummet from the sky and Ian could spend the rest of his life in jail right next to his dad.
Somewhere to his right, Kayla was being her usual brash self. Whatever Pyper might be thinking of what Ian had done, Kayla was supportive.
“I shoulda figured you greasy fucks would pull something like this!” she screamed from somewhere under the seats. “In a goddamn plane! Unbelievable!”
Tessa gave an Amazonian scream of rage, and fired seven distinct shots at absolutely nobody from way down the aisle. Ian flattened himself lower onto the floor, flinching at each pop of her gun. Each report was painfully loud and rang in his ears long after the diode hit. They sounded like a car backfiring in a parking garage.
“Typical micks!” Tessa screamed in remarkably clear English. “Always shooting, never thinking, probably drunk!”
Ian remembered that he’d had several whiskies what seemed a thousand years ago, but if she thought he was drunk she was dead wrong. He’d rarely felt so alert.
“In case you didn’t notice, you crazy bitch, it wasn’t looking good for us from back here,” Kayla said. “We decided to change things up!”
Figuring he should at least look confident, Ian tried to power his voice over the screams and the clawing sounds: “How’s that shoulder, Andizzi? Or did I get your neck? Must not feel too good.”
Andizzi let off a gurgling stream of Italian vulgarity. Ian noted with some chagrin that he didn’t seem to be on his deathbed, just winged. Suddenly he was thrust to the right. The plane was banking. They were turning back. The other passengers felt the change in direction as well and a swell of pitiful cries arose once more.
The Tournament Trilogy Page 26