“Varun, how could I possibly turn down such a gracious invitation?” replied Grace in her thick Scottish brogue.
“I see Krasimir personally escorted you here,” said Sandesh, glancing out of the corner of his eye at his head of security.
“He offered me a lift. Besides, I know how he looks at me and how much it bothers you.”
Sandesh chortled. “You do like your games, Baroness. Please let me introduce you to a new associate of mine.”
Mitchell saw Sandesh looking his way, and stood. He forced himself to stay calm. Whatever Grace was up to, he didn’t want to be the person to blow her cover.
“Mister Mitchell, I’d like to introduce to you Baroness Clare Strachan, of Braemar, Scotland,” said Sandesh.
Mitchell studied Grace’s eyes and saw nothing. Her face was expressionless. It was as if she were meeting Mitchell for the first time in her life. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Mitchell,” said Grace, holding out her hand in greeting.
Mitchell took Grace’s hand in his, and shook it. “Likewise, Baroness.” He felt something tiny slide into his palm. “I take it you’re here to watch the race?”
Grace nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I hear Varun has a team of young Indian drivers entered in the Grand Prix this year.” She let go of Mitchell’s hand and slid her hand under Sandesh’s arm. “Come, dear, let’s get a drink.”
“Evening, Mister Mitchell,” said Dimov coldly. He glared at Mitchell for a moment, before following his employer to the bar.
Mitchell smiled and waved a hand at Dimov. As soon as they were at the bar, Mitchell let out his breath and retook his seat. His palms were sweaty. He glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching him, before opening his right hand. In it was a miniature USB flash drive, no larger than a dime. Mitchell nonchalantly pocketed the drive away and stood. He had to tell Jackson what had just happened.
In the blink of an eye, every light in the grandstands and the drivers’ pit switched off. People staggered around in the dark, knocking things over.
“Please remain calm,” announced Sandesh. “I’m sure the power will be restored momentarily.”
As if on cue, all of the lights came back on.
Sandesh’s guests nervously laughed, or clapped at his prophetic pronouncement.
The metallic click of a weapon being cocked caught Mitchell’s ear. He spun around and swore under his breath. Three of the bartenders had Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns in their hands. Before Mitchell could call out a warning, the assassins opened fire. A crowd of people next to Sandesh fell to the floor, their bodies riddled with bullet holes.
In Mitchell’s mind the next few moments seemed to slip into slow motion. First, Krasimir pushed Grace to one side, as he grabbed hold of his boss and forced him to the floor. With no regard for his own well-being, Krasimir used his body to shield his employer. People ran in panic, trying to avoid the deadly swath of bullets tearing through the room. The three gunmen walked out from behind the bar, firing indiscriminately as they closed in on Sandesh. Empty casings flew from the weapons, covering the carpet in brass. Mitchell scooped up a half-empty bottle of beer and hurled it at the head of the closest attacker. The bottle smashed against the gunman’s temple. The man let go of his MP5 as he tumbled onto the floor.
Out of the blue, a server’s silver tray flew like a discus past Mitchell’s head and struck one of the other attackers in the chest. The man staggered back. With a cry from deep in his gut, Jackson charged the stunned man, and struck him in the chest with his shoulder, sending him flying head over heels. The assassin landed on the bar and Jackson dove at the man. Together, they tumbled over the top of the counter and vanished from sight.
The last gunman saw the world turn against him, and hurried to change his empty magazine.
Mitchell dove to the floor, scooped up one of the dropped MP5s, and turned it on the assassin. The man saw the gun aiming at him and grabbed a woman to use as a shield. He fired a poorly aimed burst in Mitchell’s direction, missing him entirely.
“Drop it!” yelled Mitchell, getting up on one knee.
The gunman said something in Chinese before pushing the woman toward the glass windows of the private box. Mitchell tracked the man with his weapon’s sights, waiting for an opportunity to fire.
The assassin spat in Mitchell’s direction, brought up his MP5, and fired off a long burst at the glass, shattering it. He pushed his hostage away from him and leaped out of the broken window down onto the pit lane. Vehicle crews saw the gun in the man’s hand and scattered.
“Crap,” muttered Mitchell as looked down into the pit. The gunmen fired at anyone who tried to stop him from escaping. Without hesitating, Mitchell jumped from the box and landed on the hard ground. He rolled over on his shoulder to minimize the impact. Mitchell brought up his MP5 to fire, but the assassin was nowhere to be seen. Mitchell prayed he hadn’t lost the man in the crowd. He jogged forward and followed a trail of bodies leading toward an idling police car. On the ground lay a wounded officer, holding a blood-covered hand to his right leg. All of a sudden, the police car spun out of its parking spot, with smoke trailing from its squealing tires, and headed down the pit lane toward the race track. Mitchell ran over to the injured officer, brought up his weapon, and took aim. He was a fraction of a second too late; the police cruiser turned a bend and was gone.
Mitchell turned on his heel, desperate to find something he could use to stop the man.
“Over there,” said the police officer through gritted teeth.
“Where?” said Mitchell, looking all around.
The officer raised a hand and pointed at the track’s safety car.
Mitchell nodded and sprinted over to the parked car. He opened the door and slid inside the Mercedes-Benz SLS. He found the key in the ignition, and turned it over. The vehicle’s V8 engine roared to life. Mitchell slammed his left foot on the clutch and his right on the gas pedal as he rapidly changed gears and took off in pursuit of the assassin.
“Ryan, wait!” pleaded Jackson between breaths, as he ran down the stairs and out into the pit. He arrived just in time to see his friend turn the corner and speed off down the track.
Sirens filled the air. Police and emergency vehicles from all over raced in to help the injured people shot during the attackers’ escape.
Jackson patted the spare tire around his waist and vowed, once more, to lose it for good. It was becoming more of a liability the older he got. He spotted a policeman trying to staunch the blood coming out of a wound to his leg, grabbed a couple of clean rags, and walked over to help the man before he bled to death. He bent down and examined the wound.
“How is it?” asked the officer.
“Looks like it went right through your leg and missed all of your major arteries,” replied Jackson. “You’ll be up and dancing in no time.”
“Was that man who took the safety car your friend?”
Jackson nodded as he helped the man sit up.
“I hope he’s a good driver.”
“He’s one of the best. Why?”
“Both he and my attacker turned the wrong way. They’re driving into the oncoming cars, and from what I can tell, when the lights went out so did all the comms between the drivers and the pit.”
Jackson stopped what he was doing and scanned his surroundings. It was the same everywhere he looked. Pit crews desperate to reach their drivers cursed their jammed equipment and scrambled to find a radio that worked before it was too late.
14
Mitchell spun the wheel in his hands and took the sharp corner, sliding dangerously close to the safety barrier. He kept his foot flat on the gas pedal, while he swiftly changed gears. Up ahead was a brightly lit straightaway. He glanced out the side window and spotted the Singapore Flyer, a massive, one hundred and sixty-five-meter tall Ferris wheel, slowly rotating against the skyline. Mitchell gripped the driver’s wheel tight as he took another sharp bend and sped off down another stretch of straight r
oad. Within seconds, the track turned to the left, and Mitchell had to slow down or risk hitting a row of yellow barrels filled with water.
“Where are you?” muttered Mitchell, as he sped past a grandstand filled with fans wondering what was going on. A man desperately waving a checkered flag ran out onto the track in a vain attempt to get Mitchell to stop. Without slowing down, Mitchell raced past the man and took a couple trickier turns in rapid succession on the road before coming out on Raffles Avenue.
The road up ahead was empty.
Mitchell hurriedly changed gears and chased after his prey.
Rohan Arora felt his race car’s engine roar, as he lowered his foot down on the accelerator. As the lead car, all he had in front of him was empty road. Arora had the route memorized, and knew after the next left he would be on Raffles Avenue, and only a few minutes from the finish line. Excitement built up in his chest. It was his first time competing in a major race, and already, he could see the millions of dollars in endorsements that would come his way after he had won the prestigious title. He slowed slightly to take the corner. The silence from his pit crew bothered him, but with victory all but assured, he wrote it off as a technical glitch. A split-second later, his heart skipped a beat as a police cruiser suddenly appeared from around the bend. Arora turned his wheel hard over to miss hitting the police car head on. His car left the track and spun around several times, pushing him tight against his seat, before smashing into a safety barrier, ripping off his rear driver’s side wheel.
“Damn you!” screamed Arora, ripping off his helmet and unbuckling his safety harness. Before he could get out of his seat, the police cruiser was gone. He staggered to his feet and shook his head as a safety car rocketed past him, also going in the wrong direction.
What the hell is going on? thought Arora, as a team of safety technicians jumped over the race barrier and ran to see if he needed assistance.
Mitchell felt his vehicle’s tires slip on the road. He’d taken a turn far too fast, and struggled to keep his car on the track. He changed gears and slowed down slightly to arrest his slide. Just before he ran out of road and crashed, his tires gripped the pavement. Mitchell spun the driver’s wheel around and aimed his Mercedes down the long stretch of track.
The cruiser was less than three hundred meters away.
“I’ve got you now,” said Mitchell, shifting his car into fifth gear. Within seconds, he was right behind the fleeing vehicle. Mitchell was just reaching over for the MP5 on the passenger seat when all hell broke loose.
The rest of race cars came speeding around a wide bend and came straight at the two vehicles. The lead car had nowhere to go and bounced off the front of the police cruiser and launched into the air. The race car flew right over the top of the cruiser and Mitchell’s car, and landed on the road behind it, shattering its undercarriage. Jagged pieces of metal and fiberglass flew in all directions as the car spun off the track. Like a swarm of fighter jets passing each other at breakneck speed, the race drivers tried their best to avoid the two cars driving right through their ranks. Some slid off the track, while others collided and twirled like spinning tops off the course. The sound of screeching tires and crumpling automobiles was everywhere.
Mitchell held his breath as he drove through the moving wreck. As the last car passed him, Mitchell glanced up in the rearview mirror at the smoldering pile of wreckage on the side of the road. He said a silent prayer for the drivers and grabbed his MP5, propping it up on his lap. He had no idea who had fired on Sandesh’s guests, but he intended to find out who was behind the attack, no matter what.
In the fleeing cruiser the driver, a former Triad member, grinned at the trail of carnage he had sown. Hired to kill Sandesh, he and his accomplices had failed in their task. Now, all he wanted to do was escape before the police caught him and threw him in jail. He judged his best place to leave the track was around the two-thirds point, next to the Esplanade Station. The assassin looked in his mirror and ground his teeth together in frustration. Whoever was behind him was closing in again. He cursed his employer. Tonight’s activities should have been a cakewalk. Instead, he now found himself a hunted man.
The driver gnashed his teeth when two police cars burst through a safety gate with their sirens blaring and their lights flashing. Both vehicles sped after the stolen cruiser. All wasn’t lost. A plan quickly formed in the assassin’s mind. He waited until the police were less than a couple of car lengths behind him and his pursuer and then jammed on the brakes. Smoke flew from his tires as they gripped the road. In an instant, all three vehicles raced past him. Quickly applying power to his vehicle’s engine, he took off after the other cars. The gunman swerved behind the closest police car, lowered his window, and thrust his weapon outside. A second later he pulled back on the trigger, spraying the back window of the police car with 9 mm bullets. The glass shattered as the rounds flew through the air and struck the hapless police officers in the back of their seats.
The officer driving the police car died instantly when a bullet struck the side of his head. His partner was too severely wounded to stop the car. Driverless, the car careened over to the left and hit the other police cruiser, forcing it to slide off the narrow track into a couple of yellow safety containers. Water flew up into the air as the barrier exploded, stopping the cruiser in its tracks. The vehicle with the dead driver in it bounced off the safety railing a couple of times, before smashing through a flimsy metal gate and flying into Singapore harbor.
Mitchell jammed his foot on the brake as one of the cruisers swerved over in his direction. He geared down and shook his head as the police cars were knocked out of the chase. Mitchell moved his foot back over onto the gas pedal and hurried to get his car back in the hunt. It was obvious his opponent wasn’t an amateur gun for hire. The man had skills which made him doubly dangerous. Mitchell flung his car’s stick through the gearbox as he maneuvered behind the attacker’s car. Wary of the move that had killed the police, Mitchell stayed back a bit. He wanted the man alive.
A bright light from above lit up the track.
Mitchell looked up and spotted a police helicopter flying right above his car with its spotlight fixed on the fleeing cruiser. A voice on a loudspeaker gave a warning in Chinese and then English, ordering the man to slow down and surrender to the police.
Good luck with that, thought Mitchell. He had no doubt that the assassin would rather die than be taken alive.
A burst of gunfire fired indiscriminately from the gunman’s car at the chopper, forcing it to seek safety. The pilot banked over in the air and edged back from the shooter.
Mitchell had seen enough. He accelerated until he was almost side by side with the cruiser. He lowered his window and brought up his MP5. Rather than fire at the driver, he let off a burst into the vehicle’s tires. The assassin saw the move, and swerved from side to side on the road to avoid being hit. The fire from Mitchell’s weapon harmlessly struck the ground next to the cruiser’s rear tires.
They both took the next bend going far too fast, and slid sideways on the track. Mitchell tossed his MP5 over into the passenger’s seat and tightly gripped the wheel with both hands to try and regain control of his car. His heart jackhammered in his chest as he saw a line of yellow containers grow closer by the second. His car bounced off the side of a container, before moving back onto the road. Sweat trickled down Mitchell’s back. He looked over and saw his opponent drive back onto the track as well. Together, they sped down a long stretch of road.
“I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you,” said Mitchell under his breath, as he brought his car over, colliding with the police cruiser. The sound of screeching metal grinding on metal filled his ears. The two cars were evenly matched for weight, so neither could easily muscle the other off the road. Like a pair of prized pugilists, the two vehicles nudged up against each other, trying to find a weakness in its opponent.
Five hundred meters away a long line of police cars, with red flashing lights, b
locked the end of the straightaway.
Mitchell turned his wheel over and decelerated. He grinned—game over. There was no need to risk his life anymore. The assassin was trapped. All he had to do was stop him from turning around and trying to escape. His opponent never slowed down or veered off the track. As fast as he could, the gunman sped straight at the line of police vehicles. When he was less than fifty meters from the cars, the police opened fire. Bullets tore through the assassin’s windshield, killing him in a hail of bullets. His car smashed into the side of a parked cruiser, pushing it to one side before coming to a halt itself. Armed police officers swarmed the vehicle.
Mitchell geared down and brought his car to a halt a good hundred meters from the police. The last thing he wanted to do was startle a bunch of trigger-happy cops who were out for revenge. He slowly opened the door to his vehicle, and got out with his hands held out by his sides to show he was unarmed. The light from the police helicopter lit him up.
A loud cheer burst from the people in the stands who had been watching the spectacle unfold before their eyes.
Mitchell stood still as two police officers approached him with their pistols trained on his chest.
“Are you Ryan Mitchell?” asked an officer with sergeant’s stripes on his shirt.
“Yes,” replied Mitchell.
The sergeant holstered his weapon. “Sir, please lower your arms and accompany us back to Mister Sandesh’s box for questioning.”
Mitchell did as he was told. “Sounds good to me. I take it the driver of the stolen police car is dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before we go, you should know there’s an MP5 on the passenger seat of my car.”
The sergeant’s partner ran over and disarmed the weapon.
Mitchell fell into line with the officers and walked back to the row of flashing police cars blocking the track. He looked over at the sergeant and said, “It’s too bad that you weren’t able to take him alive.”
Eternal Night Page 9