Martyris: Cavalieri Della Morte

by Olson, Yolanda

  Back tracking, I head to the edge of the building. There’s no fire escape, but a drop to a balcony ten feet or so away. I’m agile and fit enough, trained for such situations. I don’t give myself time to think. Dropping, I land hard. Pain reverberates up my legs and spine, but I’m lucky enough not to break anything. Adrenaline keeps me moving, flooding my veins and deadening me to any discomfort. Fast and efficient, I strip down my rifle into smaller parts, fitting it into my backpack to make it less conspicuous. A handgun is easier to hide. Tugging the pistol from my shoulder holster, I keep it handy. I’ve no doubt my assailants are armed. How long have they had eyes on me? The whole goddamn week, or just tonight?

  The room is shrouded in darkness. It’s a relief to find the balcony door unlocked. Slipping inside, I cross the room, heading for the door. Someone shifts in the bed to my right. All I can make out in the dark is an outlined form hidden beneath the blankets. I hope to fuck they don’t wake up. If they do, I’ll have to put a bullet in their head, and I hate wasting ammo. Making it to the door with a stealthy tread, I peer through the eyehole. Beyond the stylish corridor or what I can see of it lays empty. Staying where I am isn’t doable. The poor arsehole asleep might not have woken up, yet, but I only have so long before they do.

  Inching the lock round, I click it open. The murmur of voices greets me when I step out to my left.

  Russian again. Who are these bastards?

  Silent as a ghost, I prowl toward the exit that leads to the stairs. The elevator would be suicide. If they’re still searching for me on the roof, I have a better chance at escaping the way they came up.

  Halting at the door, my fingers inch the handle ’round. It opens without sound, and I’m through the threshold in a heartbeat.

  Stilling, I listen to the silence. I’m not stupid enough to relax. Anything can be deceiving, and with my arse on the line, I won’t breathe easily until I’m clear of this place. Backpack hooked over my shoulder, I descend the steps on light feet. Gun raised, I scan each stairwell cautiously. I don’t like this. Some sixth sense has my skin prickling on the back of my neck. A seasoned hunter sensing danger.

  A subtle sound from above is my only warning. Dropping between the stairwells a figure plummets toward me. Dodging, I side step before he can land on my back.

  Unfazed from his jump, he comes at me with a nasty looking blade. Blocking his arm with my solid forearm, it’s a struggle for supremacy. His menacing eyes burn into mine with the same soulless emptiness I see every time I glance in a mirror. Movements quick, precise, his grasp of martial arts is just as honed and deadly as my own. We trade a rapid succession of blows, both searching for weakness. Another male dashes down the steps with a gun. I’m careful to keep the one I’m battling with between us. I’m not about to give him a clean shot. One to the head and it’s game over.

  They’re good. Too good. Mercs or assassins like myself. Killers. This smells even more like a set up. Am I the only one compromised, or are the other members of the group at risk? My concentration slips at the thought. My assailant takes advantage, swinging his arm free.

  Pain erupts red hot through my side. I don’t need to look down to recognize I’ve been slashed. I’ve been on the receiving end of a knife more than once in my life.

  Grunting, I smash my forehead into his. He staggers enough sideways for me to raise my gun. I’m exposed, but so is the other fucker. One quick squeeze, a millisecond faster than him, and there’s a neat little hole between his eyes. Ignoring the corpse as it hits the steps, I send a second one through the neck of his companion. Blood explodes through the other side, decorating the smart white wall. Shock ripples over his expression. Folding down to his knees, his hand jerks up to cover the wound. The wheeze that leaves him brings crimson bubbling from his lips. Pushing the barrel of my gun into his chest, I send another straight through his heart. Jolted backward with the force, he collapses to lay broken on the steps. Casting a quick glance up and down I check for more assailants.

  I’m lucky the hotel doesn’t have security camera here. I’ve compromised my position. The others will be on me faster than flies on shit. Stowing my gun in its holster, I crouch, doing a quick search through his jacket. Nothing. Cash but no I.D.

  The wound in my side throbs. Blood soaks my hand when I touch it, and although I know from experience it isn’t serious, it’s going to be a problem. Leaving the corpses in a puddle of their own thickening blood, I jog down the rest of the stairs to reach the ground floor. Wasting too much time, the bodies will be discovered, and my escape route will be blocked. I need to get out now. Tugging the side of my leather jacket closed, I conceal my bloodied shirt; my other hand remains glued to the hidden hilt of my gun where it’s tucked in the waistband of my jeans.

  Releasing a breath, I shake off my tension. If I’m lucky, there will be enough people around to keep me unnoticed. Swinging the door open, I step out into the lobby. Music is playing softly from discreetly placed speakers. Italians chattering merge with the other languages of the individuals milling around. A quick sweep and I don’t see any suspicious goons loitering. Are the idiots all still on the roof? Going room to room? Perhaps they’re not as professional as I first thought.

  Making a beeline for the front doors, the concierge barely spares me a glance. His voice is animated and pleasant as he talks to some rich guests. I’m just another tourist going about their evening to anyone who’s looking. An English man on holiday. Keeping my steps fast but not too conspicuous, I cross the space, pushing my way through the glass rotating doors. The noise of the busy street crashes over me, cars, voices. Breathing in a lung full of night air, it’s laced with the scent of food and city smells. The Russians will be at my heels, and I need to keep moving. Using a bus or the metro, I’ll stick out like a sore thumb in my condition. I don’t need the Italian authorities on my tail. Hunting ’round, my attention latches onto the car parked up on the street. A woman alone sits on the driver’s side, the engine still running. She’s riffling through a handbag. A curtain of long brown hair shields her from view. Perfect.

  About the Author

  Yolanda Olson is an award winning and international bestselling author. Born and raised in Bridgeport, CT where she currently resides, she usually spends her time watching her favorite channel, Investigation Discovery. Occasionally, she takes a break to write books and test the limits of her mind. Also an avid horror movie fan, she likes to incorporate dark elements into the majority of her books.

  You can keep in touch with her on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.