The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  “I pity you.” Kono said. “I really do.”

  The man hesitated for just a moment. “And would you forgive me?”

  “For killing me? That’s possible. But for all the other murders you committed? No, for that you will rightly burn in Hell.”

  “Oh, well.” The man laughed as he shoved her off the edge of the roof.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kono grabbed the man’s shirt and threw herself backwards as he pushed. Normally he might have pulled away, resisted, but his damaged knee refused to play ball and he went over with her. If the man had been watching carefully he might have noticed that Kono’s fall wasn’t exactly directionless; nor was it without power. She thrust herself in one direction, away from him.

  Her fall ended abruptly when she landed on a top floor balcony, screaming in pain but alive. His didn’t end at all until he smashed into the concrete floor of the alley below, his own scream cut off by instant death.

  Kono groaned. The balcony was solid, railed and hid her from the eyes below. They would probably guess where she was and send someone up, but those sirens were awfully close now. Blue lights washed the walls of buildings. Would these killers risk capture?

  Voices barked from the alley below.

  “Sheeeyit! That’s Tone. Did the bitch do this to him?”

  “Boss ain’t gonna be happy.”

  “We don’t stop.” Another disembodied growl drifted up. “That’s the regimen.”

  “So we’re cop killers now?”

  “We are today.”

  Kono felt chills radiate from her heart to her brain. The first thing that struck her was guilt. No way would she allow any cop to die whilst she hid out of sight. But how the hell was she going to escape on her injured ankle? The only answer lay in the small avenue of movement open to her.

  Kono used a small plant pot to smash through her neighbor’s French windows, not caring how much noise she made. Then she slithered through into the thankfully empty apartment, piercing her skin with shards of glass but barely noticing. She rose and limped over to the kitchen area, quickly grabbing a carving knife. Not that it made her feel any better, but now she offered a slight threat at least. In a world where it was a dozen trained killers versus one mostly retired surf queen, any weapon could make all the difference. Kono wondered how long it would take them to race around the building and encounter the cops. Not long. She had to get out of here.

  On second thoughts . . .

  A light bulb moment made her stop and study the room. Mano and his associates were probably over at the Pentagon. How long would it take?

  Not long.

  Kono knew the protocols. She had called her brother many times, sometimes in peril and often in anger. She blamed him partly for the death of their mother, but knew she herself had made the decision to run away long before that. She had deserted the family home. But that had been easy when you expected your mother would always be there, right there, waiting and breathing and living and alive. You always knew you could go back.

  It never occurred to Kono, a young girl, that one day her parents might not be there. Even though they wanted to be with every beat of their heart, every ounce of eternal love in their souls. But parents were fragile creatures too, as fragile as they believed their children would always be.

  Kono tapped out Mano’s number and prayed for the big man to answer. He always did, of course, and this time was no different.

  “Yeah? I’m busy, what do you want now?”

  The brotherly greeting never changed. “I need you. They’re trying to kill me at my apartment. Jim’s dead. The cops . . . I don’t know. Help me, Mano.”

  Her voice was pitched low, but Kinimaka’s came back at a high pitch. “What? Your apartment?”

  The line went crackly; there was panting and pounding and incoherent shouting. Kono knew she couldn’t hang around in one place so placed the receiver back in its cradle. Mano would either get here in time or he wouldn’t. She couldn’t change that, but it did make her feel good to have him on the way.

  Maybe it was time to stop blaming her big brother for her own mistakes.

  Yeah, maybe it is.

  Kono approached the door and listened. The corridor outside was in silence. It occurred to her then that the door would be locked from the outside. She needed a key to exit. It took her another minute to find where the spare key was hung—next to all the other keys—and then to quietly and slowly unlock the door.

  The corridor stretched away in both directions, quiet for now, but this was no time to linger. She limped out and pushed at the door that led to the stairs, cocked her head to listen. Again, no sounds. Three minutes had passed since her call to Mano. How long would it take SPEAR to get here?

  Gunshots now echoed up from the street below. Kono inched her way to the staircase and put her face to the grimy window that looked outside. Her vision was limited, but part of the street in front of her apartment was visible. Jim’s cop car still stood there with its nasty embellishment, but next to it now sat two other cop cars. Kono could see their occupants were kneeling and bobbing, engaged in a firefight. Clearly, the cops were under attack and even she, a civilian, knew that men such as the ones hunting her would only tolerate that as part of a deeper plan.

  They were coming for her.

  Kono hobbled painfully down a floor to help mix it all up, then poked her head around the exit door. The first floor was also quiet. Could her stalkers have taken the elevator? Please, please be on the elevator.

  She turned back to survey the scene outside, staying low. Four cops knelt behind two cars with unknown assailants pinning them down from the side of the building and, Kono guessed, several other obstacles. It was a play for time that the cops wouldn’t be expecting. As Kono watched and hoped and tried to keep her weight on one leg a sudden ping announced that the elevator had arrived.

  And it stood right next to the staircase.

  Questions hit Kono, quickly followed by doubts and second guesses. She was not a soldier who could make snap decisions. If she went up she would be trapped again and they might hear her. If she exited the building she would be exposed in the street. If she stayed here . . . only fortune would save her.

  Don’t overthink, just do. Kono chose freedom, placed her hand on the exit handle and pushed. Instantly, street noises flooded her ears. Shouting and shooting and men screaming into radios. What she hadn’t counted on was the sounds being overheard by those who hunted in the corridor. There was a sudden banging and the door behind her smashed open, followed by a gun barrel. Kono hobbled out into the street.

  Caught in the middle of a gunfight she suddenly wished she had thrown on a scarf or a hat or even a big overcoat. Anything to hide her identity. Because out here, now, the gunmen recognized her easily.

  “Shoot her!”

  Kono slipped along the side of the building toward the cops. The glass window at her back exploded as men inside shot through, trying to take her head off. Shards attacked her exposed flesh. She ducked, the sudden movement buckling her ankle and sending her to the floor. A bullet slammed into the brick wall at her back. Gunmen were slipping out from behind obstacles to ensure she was properly in their sights. One whirled as a cop’s bullet entered his chest. His cohorts stepped closer, uncaring.

  Kono looked up. The sky was black.

  At least I went down fighting.

  Shots rang out, the ground around her convulsing with lead. She waited for the first deadly missile to enter her body, strangely impassive, knowing she had put up a good final battle. It was the heavily strenuous sound of gunfire that finally got through to her—no way was that coming from the gunmen. Looking around she caught her breath to see two black helicopters slowly descending, black-clad men leaning out and loosing endless salvos of bullets into the area where the gunmen had taken shelter. The volley seemed endless and louder than anything she had ever heard, the ground actually churning beneath its ferocity. Several bodies lay sprawled out, but more were returnin
g fire, laying down an avenue of escape. Then rappel lines spiraled down toward the ground, quickly followed by men who unleashed compact sub-machine guns as they slithered to earth. Within seconds they landed, squatted and lined up their weapons. Two broke away to make a bee-line for Kono.

  “I . . . I . . .” she didn’t quite know what to say.

  Mano Kinimaka lowered his face helmet. “You okay, sis?”

  “I . . . I think so.”

  Hayden Jaye checked her over quickly. “Nothing seems broken. Get after them!” she shouted at a black-clad agent who had been looking to cover them. He quickly veered toward the gunmen.

  “All this firepower,” Kono said incredulously. “For me?”

  Kinimaka shrugged. “Dead men don’t shoot back,” he growled. “At least not until the Russians or Chinese fuck up in some laboratory somewhere.”

  Kono stared at him, but Mano only smiled. “It’s good to see you, sis.”

  Hayden pointed to the wall. “Let’s get something solid at your back. Are there any other gunmen?”

  Kono nodded. “In the apartment block. First floor staircase.” It occurred to her then that only two members of the SPEAR team were present. “Where’s the rest of you guys?”

  “Friggin’ Drake took ’em all on some kinda track day.” The big Hawaiian shrugged. “Go figure.”

  Hayden radioed in the potential hiding place of the remaining gunmen as Kinimaka reached down for Kono. At first she tried to stand and hobble around, but her brother was having none of it and he scooped her up in his arms.

  “Let’s get you to a hospital. Get that looked at.”

  Hayden fell in alongside as they headed for a chopper. The original cop car still remained in place with its grisly adornment, a terrible reminder of what Kono had faced.

  “I have to say,” Hayden said morosely. “You’ve handled a terrible ordeal, Kono. And you came out alive. How did you do it?”

  Kono thought about all that had transpired that morning, all she had survived. The initial memory of Drake’s catchphrase that had galvanized her into action and survival, and now the second little slogan she associated with the SPEAR team entered her head.

  “Drake made me do it,” she said with a weak smile.

  Kinimaka groaned. “Oh no, don’t you start with that too.”

  Hayden clucked at him. “Hey, whatever works, right?”

  “I guess.”

  Kono buried her head in Kinimaka’s shoulder. Her ankle throbbed badly but she would never say so. At least one good man had lost his life today, and Kono would never forgive herself for that and never forget.

  “Will it ever end?” she said as the chopper started to rise.

  Hayden set her jaw. “It’s ending already,” she said. “The Pythians are falling apart. They’re done. All we have to do now is catch Webb.”

  “And where is he?”

  “Pretty soon,” Kinimaka said. “He’ll be sitting tight inside a black site, king of all the cockroaches.”

  Kono said nothing, painfully aware that her brother’s answer revealed the real truth—that they had no idea where Tyler Webb currently was and thus, no way of ending his reign of terror. She ground her teeth hard as the pain intensified.

  Hayden cursed as her cellphone rang. “Shit, can’t I get a minute’s rest?” She put it to her ear. “Yeah, what?”

  Kono watched her face change as someone spoke fast. Hayden’s demeanor suddenly transformed into an expression of absolute shock and then pure determination.

  “We’re coming in!” she cried. “Call the troops. This is big. Get everyone together and prepare a plane. Fully loaded. No way can we miss this.”

  Kinimaka inclined his head questioningly.

  Hayden clenched her fists. “The terrorists are gathering,” she said. “It’s time to go kick some radical ass, Mano. And I mean all of it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Matt Drake sat with one foot pressed hard down on the Porsche’s gas pedal, the other hard down on the brake. Torsten Dahl’s voice came through the two-way radio.

  “Stop revving the bloody nuts off it!”

  “It’s called launch control,” Drake said a little huffily. “Something ole Aunty Aston probably never heard of.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Alicia stood to the left of the start-line, having borrowed a checkered flag from one of the track day organizers. She raised it up until it fluttered high in the air and then waited until all eyes were on her.

  “Ready?”

  Drake nodded. Dahl revved his engine.

  Alicia mouthed: “Three, two, one . . .” and then brought the flag down swiftly.

  Drake released the brake pedal, allowing the Porsche free rein of its howling engine, and felt his head pushed back into the seat as the vehicle surged forward. Black asphalt stretched away ahead, rising slightly, and he was aware only of the racing line that would take him to the first corner and the speeding car to his right. The Porsche was already ahead, but barely. Dahl had drawn the inside line, which would give him the advantage for the first corner. Drake flicked at the paddle-shift, gaining another gear and another few inches on the Swede. Alicia was already a speck in the distance, waving at their rearviews.

  The first corner hit and Drake swung in hard, making it a few widths ahead of Dahl and almost cutting him off. Dahl veered to the right, huge in the Porsche’s sloping rear window. Drake knew a badly timed gear here would result in an accident, but more importantly a race loss. Corners two and three materialized fast and seemed to merge together. Drake felt the Porsche’s back end twitch as he accelerated out of the third and toward the fourth, but caught it as it slewed back into line. Dahl’s Aston used the slight mistake to gain ground, its front grill now sneaking back into Drake’s eye line.

  “Fucking English,” Drake growled.

  “Through and through,” Dahl said. “Made in Warwickshire.”

  “I meant you, ya knob.”

  “Oh, fuck you.”

  Both cars drifted around the final corner together, Drake concentrating hard to ensure he didn’t miss a beat coming out of the last bend and crossing the line a meter ahead. His great cheer was lost as Alicia’s voice blasted through the two-way.

  “Get your asses back to the start line, boys. Some nice old man just leant me his brand new . . .” there was a pause as she reaffirmed the make of car. “Umm, Bugatti?”

  Drake swore loudly. Trust bloody Alicia to get her hands on one of the best cars in the world. And trust Alicia to really start rubbing it in. He negotiated the turn-off and headed back to the start line, already dreading the sight of Alicia perched primly above the hypercar’s imposing front grille. Dahl motored up behind, the Aston’s exhaust note as intimidating as any starving predator.

  Alicia waved as sweetly as she was able. The older man at her side looked decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Hey guys, wanna race?”

  “Always.” Drake grinned up at her through the lowered window. “But does your new friend know what he’s getting into?”

  “Oh, Bob? He’s cool.”

  “Umm, my name’s George.”

  “Bob. George. Whatever. It all looks the same after fifty, right? Well, maybe fifty five in your case. C’mon, Bob, take me for a ride in your, um . . . Bugatti.” Alicia’s eyes flashed.

  Drake could only smile and nod as the older man gave him a desperate, pleading look. Dahl thought even faster on his feet and stepped out of his rental.

  “I’ll lend you my Aston if you like,” he addressed the older man. “I’ll risk taking her round.”

  George grinned and jumped at the chance. Drake cursed his Swedish friend. “Nicely done, mate. Nicely done.”

  “Alligator,” Dahl said, which Drake knew meant see you later.

  “Not if I see you first, pal.”

  Drake lined up first, wondering which of his friends would end up driving. It would actually be an interesting contest to listen to, in particular now that George was questioning wheth
er either of them should drive his two-million dollar car. He leaned over toward the passenger window just as his cellphone chirped into life.

  X Ambassadors: Jungle.

  This week that meant Hayden, and probably trouble.

  With half an ear listening to his friends he punched the “answer” button. “Yep?”

  “Matt? You guys really need to get back here.”

  Drake caught Hayden’s urgent tone and tuned everything else out. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. But we need to get to the Amazon rainforest double time.”

  Drake found that one hard to compute. “The Amazon what? Why?”

  “Because we just found out that’s where the terrorist prince, Ramses, is holding his last great arms bazaar, in two days, and anyone who’s anyone in the murder for gain game is gonna be there.”

  Drake was momentarily lost for words. “That’s bloody huge.”

  “Damn right. So get your asses back here.”

  Drake cut her off and shouted out the window. “Oy! You two! Time to go!”

  Alicia looked up from where she had George in a playful headlock. “What? He’s enjoying it.”

  “Work called,” Drake said. “We have a job to do.”

  Dahl immediately focused. “Something big?”

  “Something mega.”

  Dahl headed for his Aston and Alicia climbed into the Porsche. “We’re taking the track day cars?”

  Drake burned rubber as he swung the car’s tail around toward the exit. “The world’s safety is at stake,” he said. “And may depend on our speed. I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ramses entered the bespoke elevator that would take him to the penthouse suite of his castle, barely noticing the gold-paneled interior, gilt buttons and plushy carpeted floor. The whoosh of the ascent was soundless and took only five seconds, the slowdown so smooth it went practically unnoticed. Ramses was a big man, almost seven foot tall and wider than some entrances, raw muscle upon raw muscle, with hands as big and deadly as a bird-eating tarantula and neck muscles that could crush Brazil nuts.