Thunder

by Anthony Bellaleigh

  I seem to be able to bend my arms and legs, and can flex fingers and toes. Reaching up, I feel wetness on my face and, when I pull my hand back down, I’m surprised to see it slick with dark blood.

  Jack arrives next to me and stoops down with a wince from pains of his own. “You’ve cut your head,” he observes. “Doesn’t look too bad. Can you move?”

  “Is he dead?” I repeat.

  Jack nods sombrely. “Looks like it, but we have to go. Now.”

  I push myself upright. Every part of me is complaining but I’m still mobile. “Come on then,” I say. I notice the sirens. They don’t sound far away. “I’m not sure how long I can run for.”

  “Don’t worry about that.” Jack pushes himself up and runs to the bike, hauling it upright. He grimaces at the damage but the handlebars, though out of alignment, appear to be solid enough inside their shattered fairing. He presses the starter. “Come on,” he begs.

  The bike wheezes, turns over, and dies again.

  The sirens are closing quickly. A strafing kaleidoscope of blue and red lights is flickering along the flood wall, signalling their forthcoming arrival.

  I drag myself up alongside Jack.

  “Come on,” he mutters as he tries the starter again.

  The bike fires twice this time, and almost catches.

  “Jump on!” he shouts, throwing one leg over the machine.

  “What if it doesn’t...,” I start to ask.

  “It’ll start!” he asserts, cutting me off, and I heave my aching leg up and climb back astride the machine that so recently evicted me. Under my thighs I can feel the engine turning again. Jack is twisting aggressively at the throttle. It catches, coughs, backfires and roars back to life.

  “Hold on,” yells Jack.

  ~~~~~

  Downstream of the Erzsébet Bridge, the Hungarian police-boat carved round in a graceful arc and came to rest in the darkness of mid-river, bobbing back and forward on the gently lapping water.

  Its searchlight remained trained on an object which bumped gently alongside it.

  A group of police leaned down over the side and hauled Azat Sikand’s lifeless body onto the decks. It didn’t take long before one of them turned to the wheelhouse and shook her head.

  “He’s dead. Bullet wound, straight between the shoulder blades,” the policewoman shouted up to her boat commander. “Also lost a leg somehow.”

  “Yet another bastard gangland murderer,” he shouted back down to her. “Any ID?”

  “None, so far, sir,” she yelled back.

  ~~~~~

  Jack pointed the bike forwards and opened the throttle. They were, at least, already heading in the right direction for Göd though he doubted they’d be able to hole up there for long. On top of all of the eyewitnesses to the bike chase and crash, they would also almost certainly be blazoned across a multitude of CCTV images. Getting out of Hungary was going to be an urgent priority.

  Assuming they could avoid the police net which would be rapidly tightening around the city.

  In the distance, a gaggle of brightly flashing lights telegraphed another group of police cars approaching from in front of him. They were spread out across the road in a line. Blocking the way forward.

  A narrow pathway was set into the flood wall a little way ahead. No choice but to try it, so he killed the headlight and headed off in that direction.

  “Hold on,” he yelled to Nick. “I need to get us up these stairs!”

  The bike juddered and bounced angrily as he punched it upwards over the worn steps until they arrived at a narrow alleyway between the residential buildings perched at the summit.

  The rolling roadblock howled past beneath them.

  He eased the bike along the passageway and out into a quiet road. Time to get moving.

  Avoiding the main roads, he piloted the battered machine to the outskirts of the city. Göd and the neighbouring villages were a less densely packed extension of the main conurbation so he drifted off into an unlit side road and stopped the engine.

  “We should dump the bike here,” he said, climbing off. “Let’s go.”

  ~~~~~

  I grasp the backpack’s straps with both hands and jog along behind Jack as he leads us along the dark backstreets toward the safe house. I’m still badly shaken, and limping slightly from the crash, but I press onwards. He’s a good way in front of me.

  Something is ticking somewhere.

  I noticed the noise after Jack stopped the bike.

  It’s not a particularly loud ticking but it’s persistent, like it’s nearby.

  Then I realise where it’s coming from...

  “Jack?” I call out and he looks round, frowning at me to keep quiet, so I gesticulate over my shoulder.

  He shakes his head and points vigorously.

  He’s right.

  The flat is only a couple of streets away...

  ~~~~~

  Jack frowned angrily, they needed to keep moving and, most importantly, they needed to avoid attracting attention. At the next junction he paused for a moment as he checked for other pedestrians or cars. No-one around. He sprinted away again and glanced back over his shoulder for a second time.

  Nick was still behind him, and still gesticulating at the rucksack for some reason?

  Why would he do that?

  He turned forwards and a splash of light suddenly flashed across the darkness, casting his shadow out across the paving in front of him. The compressed bang which instantly followed made him stumble in surprise, and he crashed to the floor in an instinctive crouch, spinning around to see his stricken comrade flying face forward toward the paving slabs.

  A cloud of tattered rags fluttered like a mass of tiny ghosts in the smoky air where, moments before, Nick had been running along behind him. The remains of the rucksack were still strapped onto his colleague’s back. It had turned itself into little more than a shredded carcass of flapping canvas.

  Concealed booby trap.

  Anti-tamper.

  All of the recent jarring must’ve tripped it...

  He raced back to his stricken comrade.

  ~~~~~

  My ears are ringing.

  I’m lying face down on the pavement.

  I cough and a splatter of blood sprays from my mouth and nose.

  Something grabs my shoulder and carefully lifts me onto my side...

  It’s Jack.

  “What?” I manage to grunt, and can taste more fresh blood oozing round my tongue.

  “Quiet,” he hisses. “The pack was booby trapped. It’s gone off.” He’s examining me. “Looks like it was pointed away from you. Oriented to go off into the face of anyone who tried to open it and get inside.”

  “Hurts,” I mutter.

  “Where?” he asks.

  “All over,” I report. “Leg.”

  He gently rolls me onto my back, and grimaces.

  I glance down. There’s a piece of metal tubing sticking out from one of my thighs. It looks like it might have come from the frame of the pack.

  “Shit,” he says. “Keep still.”

  There’s a lot of blood.

  He explores the wound. It’s close to my groin.

  “It hasn’t hit an artery but is bleeding badly,” he confirms, standing up swiftly and wrestling himself out of his jacket which clanks as he drops it onto the ground next to me.

  “Mind you don’t shoot me,” I grumble.

  He ignores my sarcasm and pulls his shirt off over his head. Even in the almost unlit backstreet I can see his muscular chest tightening in the sudden cold. Then he grabs up his jacket and swings it onto his shoulders again.

  “Bandage,” he explains. “Hold still. I need to get this out.”

  “Leave me,” I mutter. “You need to get clear.”

  A look of abject misery ghosts over his face. “No fucking way,” he says grimly. “Hold still.”

  He pulls hard on the metal and, despite my numbed senses, a strangely satisfying and yet at the
same time stabbing burst of pain leaps upward from the wound. It’s as if my body knew it had to be separated from the invasive foreign object.

  Blood pools rapidly in the hole and he slams the bundled shirt onto the opening then wraps the sleeves around my leg.

  “Put your hand on here,” he instructs. “Keep pressure on it.”

  I comply, and he ties the sleeves as tightly as he can.

  “Keep the pressure on,” he repeats, then roughly extracts me from the remnants of the backpack and hoists me up into his arms. I keep one hand pressing down on the aching wound and throw my other around his broad shoulders. “Time to go,” he says.

  ~~~~~

  London

  “From what I can piece together, it looks like there was a firefight at the apartment in Fecske Street.” Greere paused in case Sentinel was going to interject, but the line remained silent. He cleared his throat nervously, then continued to talk into his encrypted cellphone. “Three Hungarian nationals, with lengthy criminal records but also tenuous links to a number of groups of terrorist sympathisers, were discovered dead at the scene by local police.” Sentinel remained silent. “Neighbours reported another man, a stranger, arriving and then leaving again shortly after the incident. They also reported that two other men exit the building in pursuit of this stranger.”

  Sentinel finally spoke, “The target, followed by Tin and Mercury, I presume?”

  “A reasonable assumption, sir.”

  “Then what?”

  “Shots were fired outside. Information is confused but two motorcyclists were killed and a high speed bike chase is reported to have proceeded from the general location of the gunfire down into the city and then alongside the river.”

  “And?”

  “One body has been recovered from the Danube – confirmed dead – and witnesses report two men fleeing from the crash scene.”

  “Hmmm... Any word from them?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “Where’s Deuce?”

  “Lands shortly.”

  “Plan?”

  “I’ll get Deuce to wind up Göd and make sure it’s clean. The police chatter is speculating that it’s a gangland hit but I suggest we abandon Tin and Mercury, and wait to see if one or other of them can get themselves clear of the immediate vicinity or, preferably, out of the country. They will doubtless have been ID’ed during the bike chase.”

  “Agreed,” Sentinel said emotionlessly. “Wipe the remote terminal, straight away, from there.”

  “I have the kill codes ready to send.”

  “Do it,” Sentinel said. “Keep in close contact with Deuce, monitor for further information, and come to my office with an update in the morning.”

  The line clicked off.

  ~~~~~

  Göd

  I drift back into consciousness and find myself laid out on the kitchen floor of the safe house apartment. I appear to be lying on a large plastic sheet.

  “Don’t move.” Jack is standing at the counter. The laptop is open next to him. “They’ve wiped it,” he reports. “I’ll bet Deuce is en route too.” He turns and stoops next to me. “I’ve pumped you with a load of sedative,” he says. “You’re pretty beaten up but the leg’s the priority. I need to get you stitched, then we need to move.”

  “Why?” I mumble, through lips that feel like they’re fat rubber sausages.

  “We’ll have been made,” he’s rummaging in the apartment’s unusually comprehensive medical kit. “They’ll have our pictures from CCTV or webcams or phones and eventually they’ll find this place.”

  “Could take weeks...,” is the best I can manage.

  “Deuce will get here sooner.”

  “Our side,” I grunt.

  He just looks at me.

  “Trust no-one,” I mumble as I remember his earlier counsel.

  He grins and brandishes a large pair of scissors toward me. “Let’s see what we’re up against,” he says.

  Suddenly I panic. He’s going to cut my trousers off.

  “No!” I grunt.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he mutters, slicing swiftly up the trouser leg, starting at the ankle. “I’m not going to cut you with these!”

  “But you don’t know,” I splutter.

  “Don’t know what?” he asks, scissors reaching the waistband and biting into the thicker material. “You’re only worried that I’m going to find out how minuscule your cock is.”

  “You don’t know me...”

  The sharp scissors are almost through, but he pauses for a second, staring into my petrified eyes. His bright green irises flash with burning intensity. I suspect it’s fuelled by the deep rooted and painful memories of his earlier squad-mates. I know how much these thoughts churn at his soul, no matter how much he tries to hide them away. His piercing eyes bore into me relentlessly and I want to look away.

  “I know enough,” he says simply and starts cutting again. “You are my bro’. I will look after you.”

  He pulls the cloth of my severed jeans to one side and roughly plunges his other hand, full of fresh swabbing, down into the space next to my groin, and onto the re-exposed wound.

  I see his brow wrinkle in confusion and watch him as he stares down there for a moment.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  He looks at me again.

  I can’t make out what he’s thinking.

  Then he shakes his head and turns back to the wound with his readied bottle of alcohol.

  “I’ve got your back, mate,” he says simply. “Now get ready. This is gonna sting.”

  ~~~~~

  Ellard edged himself up to the street corner. A small gaggle of police vehicles were clustered around a section of pavement about halfway along. Too close for comfort. He backed away and headed off toward the safe house.

  The surrounding streets were dark and, thankfully, quiet.

  He scouted around the building. There were no lights from inside and he couldn’t see anyone watching it.

  It had taken an age to get to the front of the late night queue at the airport rental desk. He’d spent most of the wait, listening patiently to his boss raging down the cellphone at him. The latest information suggested that either Tin or Mercury was injured. There were also reports of a small explosion in the streets not far from the safe house – explaining the gaggle of police. A motorbike had been discovered, abandoned in Dunakeszi, the village between Budapest and Göd. A photo of Azat Sikand had been posted to various international security agencies requesting identification. He was confirmed dead. Ellard was to remove all traceable assets from the safe house, clean it down, and get the hell out. Tin and Mercury, if they were there, were to be ordered to go to ground. If they refused then Ellard had alternate instructions on how to deal with them. Ellard then had to go and check the barn, and its hidden arsenal, and change the internal electronic security systems. Greere wanted to mothball it. Ellard had to check that Tin and Mercury hadn’t left anything incriminating or traceable at either location. Then he was to safely dispose of any suspect items, and get the hell back to the UK.

  Ellard carefully opened the apartment’s door and eased himself inside.

  There hadn’t been enough time to try to arrange clearance for a sidearm on the scheduled flight, and he wondered again whether he should have gone to the training-barn first and collected some weaponry. No, it had been a better option for him to remain unarmed; in case he’d run into any local security forces on his way here. Besides, he didn’t think Tin and Mercury were likely to threaten him.

  The flat was as quiet as a grave.

  He closed the door quietly behind him, and eased forwards scanning into the two bedrooms.

  In the half-light he could make out signs of rapid packing.

  They’d been here. Were they still here?

  He crept forward and hunched down.

  “It’s Deuce,” he called into the darkness.

  No response.

  He risked sticking his head briefly into the loun
ge-diner and scanning around it.

  No-one visible.

  He heaved himself upright, reached one arm out around the doorframe to the light switches, and flicked them on.

  Squinting in the sudden brightness he could see the room was empty. A black dustbin bag sat at the end of the kitchen counter. It had a single yellow post-it note on the top of it.

  He snatched up the yellow square and read the characters scrawled on it in black biro: ‘D – 12 – 01 – 52 – 85 – FU – T’. Ellard frowned angrily. Vittalle was an arse-hole. Then he relaxed slightly. At least he was a professional arse-hole.

  The message was in code. Code specific to their unit. A series of two digit numbers which could be used when encrypted transmission wasn’t available, or when there was risk of hostile interception:

  Digits 10 to 19 were allocated to the mission: ‘12’ meaning that the mission objectives had been achieved but with collateral damage.

  “You’re not fucking kidding,” Deuce muttered to himself.

  The zero range was deliberately unused, other than for some codes like ‘12’ which could be appended with more details: ‘01’ meant one person injured.

  He nudged the top of the bin bag open. It was full of bloody sheeting, swabs and other discarded medical equipment. Nice. Tin had obviously patched up Mercury then. Good news. At least there wasn’t a fucking body hidden in here for him to have to deal with.

  ‘52’ – Exit strategy unplanned. Both main and alternate exit strategies have been abandoned or compromised. Using best available means to withdraw.

  That meant they could be anywhere. Ellard didn’t care, as long as they were nowhere near him. Greere wouldn’t either.

  ‘85’ – Communications considered extreme risk. Agent(s) going dark. Do not attempt to contact. Agent(s) will reestablish communications when or if risk of interception has reduced to more normal levels.

  Ellard suspected that the next he’d hear about these two would be when they appeared on television, having been arrested for multiple counts of murder. There would be no ‘attempt to contact’ from either him or Greere.

  They were on their own.

  “F. U. too,” he growled, annoyed that his agent had the audacity to return his earlier favour. Then he pulled on a pair of disposable plastic gloves from his pocket, and set to systematically cleaning down the flat.