“I’m hit. Good…luck,” he called into the rear of the van, and then his breath burbled wet through the holes in his shirt and his head lolled forward. The van coasted until it was stopped by one of the dark brick walls. The helicopter hovered overhead, its light fixed on its roof.
The two pursuing squad cars slid to a halt on the wet asphalt near the mouth of the alley, the officers shaken by the high-speed chase. The police driver unlocked the shotgun in the center console mounting and pumped a cartridge into the chamber. With a glance at the alley, his companion drew his pistol and threw his door open to use as cover. They eyed the van, steam rising from the crumpled hood, and stepped out of the car, weapons at the ready, the downdraft from the helicopter’s rotors blowing a gale-force wind through the narrow space.
The officers in the second patrol car were exiting their vehicle when the rear cargo doors of the van flew open and a blast of high-velocity automatic weapon fire shredded the nearest car. The driver screamed as an errant round tore half his face off, reflexively squeezing his shotgun’s trigger as he fell. The heavy double-aught buckshot pellets slammed harmlessly into the nearest wall as two motorcycles catapulted from the van bed and barreled headlong toward the squad cars. The startled officers fired at the bikes, but they stood no chance. The left motorcycle’s driver leaned forward against the handlebars as his passenger strafed the officers with his Heckler & Koch MP5 on full automatic, and the 9mm rounds cut through policemen’s torsos as the motorcycle roared by.
The right BMW motorcycle’s lone rider soared into the air as the bike flew over the bodies of the downed police and landed with a scream of rubber. The rider swung the front tire on impact and gunned it in the opposite direction from the other motorcycle, making it impossible for the helicopter to follow them both. The rear tire smoked as the rider twisted the throttle and popped the clutch, and the BMW leaped forward like a rocket, engine revving into the redline as it streaked toward the next block, a large intersection where a few sluggish early morning commuters were wending their way into town.
Bullets pocked the street around the motorcycle as the helicopter fired a stream of lead from above, gouging divots of asphalt from the pavement. The bike hurtled forward. The staccato barking of the big gun echoed off the buildings as the first faint traces of dawn lit the sky. The motorcycle skidded, taking the turn as the rider stabilized it with a boot, and then went barreling down the main street, weaving between cars as the chopper’s gunner watched impotently, forbidden to fire into a populated area no matter how hot the pursuit.
Two police motorcycles rocketed onto the main artery from a tributary and took up the chase, the officers accustomed to insane traffic at high velocity, determined to stick with the escaping bike at all costs. Word had come over the radio that the other motorcycle had disappeared, and the second van was still in a high-speed race, the police cars taking fire from at least one gunman as it tore from the downtown area in a breakneck bid for freedom.
The rider spied the flashing lights from the police bikes and slammed on the brakes, causing the BMW to skid to one side and up onto the sidewalk. A twist of the handlebars took it into a narrow walkway between two buildings, where it exploded through bags of trash awaiting early morning collection. Fruit rinds and refuse flew into the air as it narrowly avoided colliding with an old man pushing a hand cart laden with produce.
A glance at the side mirror caught a reflection of the police motorcycles behind it, and the rider instinctively gave the throttle free rein as the engine’s RPMs screamed into the red. Brick walls streaked by on both sides as the bike careened dangerously, and then it vaulted out the other end and onto a small one-way street.
The ornate golden spires of a temple jutted from behind a brick and ironwork wall fifty yards away. The rider swung the bike through the nearest of its elaborate entry arches and bounced up the four stairs to a pathway that stretched through the park-like grounds. The sky glowed orange from the rising sun, high ribbons of clouds marbling the heavens as the helicopter’s ugly snout appeared overhead, and the gunship opened fire again, blasting chunks of grass from the immaculately tended lawn. The motorcycle was moving too erratically, though, and the barrage missed the mark by a wide margin. At the far end of the temple grounds, the bike skidded to a halt, and then, after a split-second pause, jumped the low rear wall and landed hard in a wide culvert – a concrete drainage canal that was almost dry now that the rains had abated.
The BMW accelerated in a blur as the chopper kept up the gunfire, but with a weaving target moving erratically, the gunner had slim chance of hitting it, and the rounds struck well short of the racing bike. An overpass straddled the culvert, and the motorcycle ducked beneath it, but didn’t emerge on the other side. The pilot and crew glared at the area as they hovered overhead, ready to resume blasting away when their quarry reappeared. After thirty seconds the pilot exchanged a nervous glance with his partner, who radioed in their position, requesting instructions.
“Our map shows a maintenance access point there. Repeat. There’s a maintenance access point beneath the overpass,” the dispatcher’s voice intoned over the crackling channel.
“Damn. Where does it let out?”
“Looks like there are two alleys, one on each side.”
“I see that, but the buildings are pretty close together. They don’t look wide enough for a motorcycle to easily make it. Do we have any units in the vicinity?” the pilot asked.
“Negative. Closest is two minutes out. Will divert.”
The helicopter rose to a higher altitude in the hopes of being able to spot a fast-moving bike in one of the alleys. When a squad car arrived, followed closely by the two police motorcycles that had been chasing the bike, there was no sign of their target. The officers dismounted, drew their weapons, and crept down the access stairs to the path that led to the underpass. There they spotted the BMW, engine still purring, lying on its side, abandoned.
Two blocks away, shopkeepers were setting out their wares on the sidewalks as pedestrians hunting for early morning bargains meandered along, many on their way to work, some finishing after a long night. A tall blonde woman with a motorcycle helmet in one hand and a black nylon backpack securely strapped to her shoulders approached a dumpster at the side of a filthy side street and tossed the helmet into the heap of trash, where it would be scavenged within the hour by one of the countless poor teeming the area.
She retraced her steps and continued to the end of the block, and found herself facing the chrome and glass exterior of a twenty-four-hour fast-food restaurant. She entered, and after ordering to go, slipped into the restroom, where she removed her jacket and stuffed it into the garbage bin, taking care to remove her cell phone from the breast pocket before burying the discarded jacket in the crumpled paper towels.
Her dark blue, long-sleeved T-shirt barely contained the swell of her high breasts. She took a deep breath and inspected herself in the mirror. She looked calm. Innocent. One of the army of tourists that walked the streets of Bangkok at all hours of the day and night. She wiped a small smudge from her right cheek, and after offering her reflection her most relaxed smile, shouldered the backpack and went back out to pick up her order. She left the restaurant, and glancing around, placed a call as she sipped her coffee and walked unhurriedly down the sidewalk. A male voice answered on the second ring.
“I’ve got it,” she said.
“Where are you, Tara?”
She described her rough location.
The voice paused. “Can you be at the condo in an hour?”
“Maybe two. They’ll be setting up roadblocks if they’re smart. I’ll call you when I’m clear.” Tara hesitated. “I don’t know how many of the others made it.”
“So far it looks like we lost at least half the team.”
“That’s a shame.”
“It is. But at least it was worth it. Take good care of yourself. No foolish chances.”
Tara considered her breakneck run from the p
olice and countless near misses, dodging machine-gun fire at a hundred miles per hour as dawn broke over the city. She smirked as she moved aside for an elderly man shambling along as though with the weight of the world on his shoulders, her blue eyes twinkling with merriment at the admonition, her smooth tanned skin creasing as the corners of her lips twitched in response to the warning.
“You bet. I’ll keep a low profile.”
Chapter 1
Six days earlier, Marbella, Spain
Music drifted on the evening breeze, perfumed by orange blossoms and the salty tang of seaweed. A gentle surf rolled onto the beach and pulled greedily at the sand and rocks, as though nature was trying to claw back the rarified section of coastline from its privileged residents. The last of the sunbathers had departed hours earlier, and dusk had brought with it blessed relief from the day’s heat. Up the strand, the silhouette of a twenty-thousand-square-foot Italianate villa loomed like a medieval castle, every lamp in the opulent home illuminated, the lights twinkling like rare jewels as darkness descended.
A band was set up to the side of the massive pool deck, easily the rival of many luxury hotels in the area, and was playing a medley of local and international favorites as white-jacketed stewards roamed the grounds carrying trays of appetizers. A group of swarthy young men lounged around the pool in resort wear, their linen pants and silk shirts a kind of informal uniform, cigars smoldering in crystal ashtrays atop the stone tables sending pungent tendrils of smoke into the night sky.
These were the impossibly wealthy scions of Saudi oil money, the lucky offspring of families that controlled more riches than many nations, for whom no luxury was too lavish and no whim too extravagant. They’d arrived the prior day on private jets and mega-yachts for a weekend getaway from their stodgy country, where custom and the law forbid the drugs, alcohol, and female company in which they enthusiastically indulged while on vacation.
Bottles of the finest single malt Scotch sat half-consumed on each of three tables as the guests caroused and told stories about their wild times at university in Europe, where the wealthy elite of Saudi Arabia were educated while their less fortunate countrymen lived in abject poverty. None was older than twenty-five, and all were lifelong friends, frequent guests at each other’s palaces, and students in the same schools.
The night’s festivities celebrated the villa owner’s twenty-sixth birthday, and no expense had been spared. The rarest wines had been painstakingly selected by an internationally recognized sommelier, a Michelin chef had been flown in to prepare the meal and a harem of starlets and models had spent the day lounging around the pool, providing whatever recreational diversion the young men could imagine.
Near the bar, a six-foot-tall ice sculpture of a scowling Neptune stood in the center of an elaborate display of shrimp, lobster, and every imaginable seafood delicacy, one of numerous stations where thousands of dollars of appetizers were on display for the two dozen guests. A dark-complexioned tall man stood rigidly by the seafood table in a polar-white formal chef’s hat and coat, occasionally mopping the sweat off his brow with a pocketed hand towel. His clones framed the other stations, ignored by the celebrants as they joked in loud voices, their Arabic exclamations undecipherable to the local staff.
A perimeter wall ringed the property, with lush foliage to conceal all but the top. Discreet bodyguards in dark blue suits ambled along the footpaths, earbuds connected to coiled white cables that disappeared into their jackets a ubiquitous accessory. Bulges of shoulder-holstered pistols distorted their otherwise well-tailored vestments as they patrolled the familiar grounds. All were hardened professionals paid top dollar for the security duty, which routinely involved nothing more than acting as combination babysitters and bodyguards when the men tired of domestic entertainment and decided to go into town to hit one of the city’s wild nightclubs, a common occurrence after a long evening of drinking and chemical fortification left the guests restless and bored.
The men’s heads turned as a loud crack sounded from the bar area. Two of the bodyguards swiveled from their positions, hands on their weapons, ready to draw, and then relaxed as a statuesque blonde wearing a white miniskirt and bikini top threw her head back and laughed as her companion, a stunning brunette, held aloft a bottle of Cristal champagne, a torrent of bubbly frothing from it, the cork blown a dozen yards into the air before coming down out of sight on the other side of the nearby perimeter wall.
“Are you girls having a good time?” one of the Saudi men asked, his English unaccented, a tribute to his million-dollar education and private tutoring.
“Never better, sweetie,” the blonde said, her words softened by a Texas twang that made her a requested favorite on the international hospitality circuit. She winked at her companion, a nineteen-year-old model from Rome who was already a three-year veteran of the lucrative duty, preferring the financial rewards of being a paid companion to royalty to the rigors of the runway.
“Why don’t you come over here and give me a shoulder massage? I’m sore from all the swimming today,” Abbas, the cousin of their host, said with his face radiating spoiled ennui.
“I’d love to, honey. Give me a second, and I’ll give you a workout you won’t believe,” she promised, taking a sip of her champagne in preparation for her next round with Abbas, who was known to all the girls as overly rough and somewhat sadistic in his pursuits. She’d spent the morning with him and was only now walking without pain, although she did her best to hide it and would never complain – at ten thousand dollars a day, she could suffer his appetites without flinching.
“That’s my Barbie,” Abbas said, chuckling as the other men eyed her. He’d taken to calling her Barbie, and whatever her real name, or the one she’d chosen for her profession, it had been discarded in favor of the moniker. She didn’t mind. One more year of this and she could retire in comfort at the ripe old age of twenty-two. In the meantime, she would be Barbie, or Brandi, or whatever else the clients wanted to call her. It was all the same to her. The young ones were inevitably the worst – like they had something to prove to themselves – whereas the older men tended to be gentler, and quicker to get it over with.
Three security guards watched the approach to the beach. They were more relaxed than their counterparts on the grounds; visibility was good down both stretches of sand, not a soul out now that the sun had set. The band wound down their rollicking final song of the medley and launched into a ballad, a lover’s lament played to melt even the most callous heart –which went largely unnoticed by the gathering, who took everything from the spread to the band as givens, no more noteworthy than the waiters they waved off with disdainful hands.
The guard on the right side of the house reached the front corner. Two of his colleagues were smoking and chatting by a black Land Rover and a red Ferrari Scuderia parked in the large circular drive. Beyond the wrought-iron gates several stretch Mercedes limousines waited, should the guests feel the urge to go into town. The contingent of a dozen guards was typical for a low-threat location like the villa, more as a deterrent than anything, there being no threat to the guests in Spain other than the risk of self-inflicted substance abuse or overexertion with the paid talent.
He approached the two smokers and bummed a cigarette, admiring the expensive red Italian sports car with a shake of his head.
“I could retire on what that thing cost,” he muttered, and one of the men lit his smoke for him with a waggle of bushy eyebrows.
“But then you’d miss the joy of standing around in a monkey suit all night while your betters frolic.”
“And the satisfaction of a job poorly done,” the second man said, his craggy features stony in the dim light.
The men continued the exchange, their attention riveted on the automobile, and none heard the rappelling line sail over the perimeter wall at the home’s midpoint, nor did they register the small fiber-optic scope watching them over its high top from the lot next door. Seconds later a black-clad figure slid down the ro
pe and dropped to the ground, hidden by the bushes at the wall’s base. A second figure joined him moments later, and then a third, all as silent as death as they crouched in the bushes.
The guard took a long pull on his cigarette. “Thanks for the smoke. Got to get back to the party. Make sure nobody’s drinks run dry,” he said to his companions, who waved him away. They’d done dozens of these sorts of security jobs for the royal family and its constellation of relatives, and were accustomed to the long hours and boring duty – some of the best paid in the world.
He returned along the path, wishing for better lighting on the side of the house, and was almost to the midpoint when he heard a faint rustle behind him, as soft as a gust of wind stirring the plants.
A white-hot lance of pain shrieked up his spine as a razor-sharp carbon-fiber blade penetrated his back, his cry silenced by the vise-like hand clamped over his mouth, and then another stab sliced through his spinal cord, and he collapsed, dying even as his body betrayed him. His assailant waited until he’d stopped breathing and then expertly removed the guard’s earbud and transmitter and slipped them on, removing the balaclava and dropping it on the dead guard’s chest before the other two men dragged the inert corpse into the underbrush.
Leonid unzipped his black mechanic’s coveralls and stepped out of them to reveal a blue suit identical to those of the rest of the guards. After a nod to the men in the bushes, he ambled toward the rear of the house, taking his time. He paused near the back corner and made a hand gesture. His two companions darted to the side service entrance and slipped inside while the suited man watched the party from his position at the corner.
The interior of the home rivaled a French royal palace, the marble floors the finest Italy had to offer, every detail and appointment the result of countless hours of deliberation by some of the most in-demand interior designers in Europe. The intruders crept on soundless feet along the hall, now with compact MTAR-21 sound-suppressed bullpup assault rifles in their hands. The first man pointed at the sweeping stairway leading to the second floor, where they knew from studying the house blueprints the master suite was located, and the other nodded, both listening for any signs of life. The servants would all be in the kitchen area, attending to the caterer’s exacting instructions – if they had any luck at all, they wouldn’t be molested while performing their errand.
Justice Page 2