by James Phelan
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Not great, I’ve got to say.” He checked his watch. Three minutes to go. He led the way up the stairs, and they exited at the next level: private boxes, with as many staff milling about as there were patrons.
Two uniformed security guards headed their way, walking along the wide hallway, their demeanor suggesting that no threat had yet gone out over their radio network. Walker checked his bearings and the time; another minute before he could flee this zone.
“We need to keep heading up,” said Walker.
“We need to get you down to the harbor,” Somerville countered, following Walker up another flight of stairs.
“What’s at the harbor?”
“Not what, who,” Somerville said, dialing a number in her phone. “That persuasive friend I was telling you about.”
“I’m not heading straight for the harbor,” Walker said, emerging onto the highest level: a service area of open steel mesh walkways behind the lights that illumined the track for those in the grandstand. He stopped, knowing he was now at the edge of the twenty-meter range. He checked his watch: 9:31 pm.
Job done.
“You have something to do?”
“Yeah: not get caught,” Walker said. They made their way past all sorts of warning signs telling them not to be up here. “They’ll be at the harbor.”
“Who?”
“Cops. Those guys who’ve been tailing me all night. Whoever put that dead girl in my bed. They’ll be covering all the exits.”
“My friend will be able to get you out.”
“Is he a magician?”
“Of sorts.”
“Right, well, meantime in the real world . . .” Walker said, looking down from the roof of the racecourse. Wind shot up from where it hit the structure below. “How are you with heights?”
“Fine.”
“Then follow my lead.”
“I’m not the fugitive here.”
“Then don’t follow me.”
“I’m taking you with me.”
Walker looked at her, his expression saying, How you gonna do that?
“Okay,” Somerville said. “I’ll follow.”
Walker made his way along the steel lattice gangway, the radiant heat from the huge floodlights to his left as intense as the sound from the grandstand as the horses thundered toward the finish line.
There was an emergency exit ladder that went from the roof structure to the ground below, and Walker took it down, fast. It ended several meters short of the street level, where he had to break through a security tape and kick down the final section of ladder.
At street level Walker led the way through the throngs of people who left after each race. There were red cabs lined up, but he didn’t want to be stuck in one. There were shady guys milling about, spruiking lifts in illegal taxis, but he didn’t want that either. He needed to stay in control. Mobile. Fast.
He threaded between the long rows of scooters and motorbikes in the car park.
“So, how do you plan on leading the chase elsewhere?” Somerville asked, her gait cumbersome, somewhere between a power walk and a jog, as she kept up with Walker’s fast stride.
“I don’t,” Walker said. “You do.”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
“I’m flattered. But you won’t have to. Make a phone call.”
“A phone call?”
“To the embassy,” Walker said, stopping by an old scooter but then thinking better of it. He started up the search again. “Place a call to their regular open line. Tell the RSO that you have me, that you’re in Kowloon and headed for the airport with me in custody, that you’ll need assistance on arrival.”
“You’re assuming that those hunting you here are listening in?”
“I know they are. They’re CIA.”
Somerville nodded, dialed the number and relayed the message, the perfect sell, every detail. Thirty seconds later she said, “Done.”
Walker stopped at the perfect vehicle: a Husqvarna 400 Cross motorcycle, probably older than he was but in gleaming condition. He sat on it and kicked up the stand.
Somerville said, “You’re stealing a motorbike?”
Walker reached to her hair and took a hairpin, which he used to undo the steering lock, and then he kick-started the engine.
50
Somerville rode pillion position, her hands on Walker’s rib cage, which made him wince, and he moved them down to his hips.
“You’re injured?”
“A scratch,” he said.
“Central,” Somerville said into his ear. “Head for the westernmost pier at Central.”
“To your friend?”
“Yes.”
Walker was silent as he considered his options, the bike slow going as the junction ahead clogged with all manner of traffic. Going with Somerville could be the best way out of the county—but will she get me to the US?
“Not yet,” he said, toeing up into third gear as he wound through Queens Road East. “We wait for them all to converge on the airport. Thirty minutes. They’ll then be tied up there for a couple of hours, looking for us.”
Somerville said, “We can be on a flight out of Macao by then.”
“I don’t have time for that. I have to get to America. Fast.”
“You’re on a deadline?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re safely in the air and headed stateside. Can you organize that?”
“If you tell me everything, yes, I can. Where you’ve been since Yemen and what you’ve been doing. You tell me all that, then yes, we can take you home.”
Walker nodded almost imperceptibly, noticing the headlights behind him take the same turn he did for the third consecutive time.
Walker stuck to his speed and made the amber light. Just.
The car behind flashed through the solid red.
At the next traffic light he stopped.
The sedan—Walker could just make out the BMW badge—stayed back, as though not wanting to be seen at close distance under the street lamps and red-vapor glare of his tail-light.
The intersection was full of the ubiquitous Hong Kong red cabs, old Toyota workhorses. This was a business area, and outside of 7 am to 7 pm things changed to dining and drinking and tourism. It had just ticked after 9:50 pm. The other way was still green but there were no vehicles passing through.
Walker turned into the oncoming lane, through the intersection.
“What are you doing?” Somerville shouted against the wind as he moved up through the gears, her voice alarmed.
“I got sick of waiting,” Walker said, his eyes on the side mirror.
The chase car made the same maneuver, but the driver had hesitated, as though weighing up the move since it would be the clearest sign yet that they were tailing him. They sped to catch up. The BMW was nowhere near as nimble as the bike, but it was big and powerful. Better keep them at arm’s length.
“So much for being patient,” she said.
Walker grinned. Eyes on the road ahead, stealing glances at the side mirror.
Behind them, the BMW announced itself by way of a blue flashing light mounted on the dash. The car closed in on the bike’s rear tire, the light strobing in the night. Somerville noticed it, looked behind her.
“Police,” she said. “Seems your little stunt got noticed. What’s next, genius?”
Walker kept at his speed, on the limit, and considered his options. It was highly unlikely that these guys were cops. Maybe the Special Duties Unit, modeled on Britain’s SAS before the handover and still staffed by a lot of expat types . . . that would explain the grizzled old meat-heads back at Happy Valley. While they weren’t in the habit of making traffic stops, they would be after a prized and dangerous catch such as Walker, the killer, his guilt by association to a false passport and a dead woman in his hotel bed.
They could be part of the same crew tha
t hit the safe house. Or someone posing as cops. Or Agency goons, outsourced heavies.
Too many variables. Better to deal with it here and now.
Ahead was Staunton Street, lined with bars and restaurants, and plenty of people.
Walker pulled to the curb.
They flashed headlights at him, a hand out the window, signaling him to drive around the corner into an alleyway. It wasn’t a good option, but it also told Walker something useful: whatever they intended, they didn’t want it to go down in public view.
Walker drove on toward the corner.
“Maybe I should let you off here,” Walker said, motioning to the packed line at the door to a speak-easy marked Feather Boa.
“It’s not my scene,” Somerville replied. “Besides, you might need me.”
He looked back at the federal agent: about five-three, maybe sixty kilograms, soft yet fit. Capable.
But he had to get out of here as quickly as possible. He had to get to a computer and log onto a secure network to download the data from his head chip.
And he had no intention of losing his head.
Walker pulled into the side street.
51
Walker and Somerville had climbed off the bike by the time the BMW pulled up behind them.
The driver said, “Police. Hands in the air.”
“You’re not cops,” Walker said as the two guys he had seen back at the racecourse got out of their car. They moved from the vehicle to stand a couple of meters away from Walker. Somerville stepped up to his side, and her bravado made him smile.
“Then why did you pull over?” the other one said.
His accent was Afrikaans, which to Walker confirmed them as outside muscle: private contractors; mercenaries; soldiers of fortune. Used by the Agency for the same reason anyone hired them: deniability. They may have been good once, but now that all the piss and vinegar of being a young man fighting for God or country had worn off they wanted a sweet life with a big pay check.
If they want to meet their maker so badly, Bloom used to say in weapons training at The Point, we’re here to help.
“Why did I stop?” Walker said. “Because I wanted to get rid of you guys here.”
The two men shared a smug look.
Good, feel confident.
“How did that work for you, Mr. Walker?” Afrikaans said.
“I’ll let you know in a couple of minutes,” Walker said.
The two men chuckled.
“Who’s your lady friend?” Afrikaans asked.
Walker watched the guy, a level gaze, never faltering. He replied, “She’s the person who’s going to clock your lights out in about a minute fifty.”
“A minute fifty?” Afrikaans said, his eyebrows raised to his cohort. “Quite specific in his dreams, this one, hey?”
Walker said, “One forty-five.”
“Okay,” Afrikaans said, “enough shit, hey, mate. In the car.”
Walker said, “Why would we do that?”
“Because I said so. Come on, then.”
Walker remained silent.
The other guy said, “We want to talk.”
Walker said, “So, talk.”
“Not here.”
Walker said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Get in the car.”
Walker said, “I don’t think you guys understand what is going down here.”
The two guys chuckled, then opened their suit jackets to reveal holstered automatics: Glock 19s.
“We’re not going to ask again,” Afrikaans said. “We can give you all kinds of pain, mate.”
“You know,” Walker said, taking a couple of steps to close the gap, “you really should be careful who you try to bully in dark alleyways.”
The repartee stopped as a large group of loud, drunken tourists made their way through the laneway, a couple of them hurling obscenities at the driver of the BMW for taking up so much of the road.
“We’ve seen your record, Walker,” the other guy said, this one with an Irish accent. “You were a good operator in your day, but you’ve been out of it. We never have. And there’s two of us, and we’re both armed. So, don’t be a dick, yeah? Get in the car, and make this easy. We want to know what you know, simple as that. Otherwise, well, look at her, she’s real pretty. Shame to have to hurt her.”
Afrikaans added, “It’s not just you who’s going to get hurt tonight, Walker, see?”
“Ah, now I see,” Walker said, looking back to Somerville, who had an unreadable expression plastered onto her face. He turned to face the two guys. “The thing is, I’m on a bit of a deadline.”
“A deadline to die?”
“That’s just the thing . . . I’m already dead.” Walker smiled the kind of knowing, dangerous smile that these two hardened men had likely seen before. “So, you see, I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Behind that smile, if they were really paying attention, if they knew what they were doing, they would have noticed Walker’s adrenal response: the monosyllabic speech, furrowed eyebrows, dropped chin, white cheeks, the bared teeth in the smile. These tiny motions, all within the same split second, indicated that an attack was imminent.
Most people will not back down from an attack once their adrenaline has surged. The two guys saw that in Walker’s smile, but they were not quick enough. They were good, but not great. The B Team.
Three things happened within three seconds.
First: both guys reached for their Glock pistols. That was their biggest mistake—aside from taking on Walker up close and in a confined space. They were both right-handed, with the holsters on their right hips, which meant they had to bend their arm at the elbow to remove the pistols, moving their shoulder and arm back as they did, index finger pointed straight at the ground, other fingers and thumb curling around the grip, as had been drilled into them thousands of times at some military training ground. They also knew that for a close-contact firing position, the grip must be perfect or more time is wasted adjusting to aim, so their quick draws became a split second slower still.
While they were in motion, so was the second thing.
Walker.
He descended upon them. Fast.
Walker took the two short steps and punched forward and up with two fists, one in each target’s solar plexus; he positioned his fists like he was holding a mug handle in each hand, so that the force on connection did not reverberate back or transfer through his wrists and elbows. Two hundred and thirty pounds delivered in a lined-up kinetic chain through to two hard fists.
The guys never got to draw. Walker’s blows damaged nerves, which would result in serious organ dysfunction, and caused diaphragms to spasm, knocking the wind out of them.
And then the third thing happened.
Somerville. Her attack came in the form of a kick to Afrikaans under the jaw. The uppercut from the toe of her boot targeted the guy’s chin by coming straight up, minimizing lateral movement. A spectacular sound emanated as the recipient’s head snapped straight up, then his knees gave out, collapsing as if the puppeteer had cut the strings.
The Irishman in front of Walker was winded and staggered back a step, wide-eyed. In that passing second his survival instinct kicked in, and his brain told him to drop his right hand back down to the still-holstered Glock.
Walker caught the hand reaching for the gun, twisted it around the guy’s back in a compliance hold and applied increasing pressure. First the wrist snapped, a double pop from the ulna and radius as they splintered apart.
Walker didn’t stop there, because the guy wouldn’t give in. Walker turned him around to face the car, and used his left hand against the guy’s shoulder and continued the compliance hold to the point of shoulder dislocation, while hammering his head down onto the car boot.
The guy slid from the car to the ground and didn’t move.
Somerville was silent, taking a step back, the moment of violence settling in.
Two minutes, start to finish.
“German engineering isn’t what it used to be,” Walker said, admiring the dint in the BMW. “Time to go.”
She turned to look back as Walker guided her by the arm and they joined the throng of Staunton Street, where Walker kick-started the motorbike and Somerville climbed on behind him. He headed for the westernmost point of the Central Piers, the night’s summer breeze in his face as he descended from the Mid Levels.
52
Walker winced at the tearing pain in his side as he brought the bike to a stop. Bill McCorkell waited inside a helicopter, the Chinese version of the Augusta 109, its rotor spinning as they arrived. Somerville dismounted and then Walker followed and dropped the bike. He took the packet of pain-killers from his pocket and swallowed three. He walked under the rotor wash.
“Bill McCorkell,” McCorkell said, offering his hand.
Walker shook it. Firm grip.
“I hear,” McCorkell said, as they climbed aboard, “that we have a deadline.”
•
McCorkell’s contribution to the deadline factor was providing two flights. First in the chopper, which took them to Macao International Airport, where they ran to a private terminal and boarded a Gulfstream G650. The sky’s speed queen, the G650 had a record speed of close to Mach 1, making it the world’s fastest passenger aircraft. With a range of 7000 nautical miles on long-range cruise, it would get them non-stop to their next destination: Washington DC.
“What’s our deadline in DC?” McCorkell asked.
Walker said, “It’s not in DC.”
“So what’s in DC?”
“Answers.”
The G650 climbed fast.
Somerville looked at Walker, expectant: they’d come through, buying him time and a trip back to the United States. Time for the payback.
“I have to go to DC first,” Walker said, settling back in his chair. “For two reasons. First, I need to use a secure terminal at Langley. Then, I have to visit Jack Heller.”
The pilot’s voice came over the speakers, announcing their flight plan: they would be flying north-northeast, over mainland China, Korea, Russia, the Arctic Circle, and down through Canada to DC.
Nine hour flight time. Walker checked his watch. They’d arrive 5:30 pm NY time.