He entered a larger space, a storeroom stripped of furniture, with boxes and bags full of assorted loot Herron could only assume had been pillaged from dozens of ships. There was cash, jewellery, bars of precious metals, plus some documents and a bunch of other stuff Herron hadn’t thought pirates would be interested in, but which must have some sort of value.
It was a treasure trove of misery, plundered on the high seas.
He left the room with the loot and passed through more dank areas filled with rusted industrial machinery. The genuine mystery wasn’t where he’d find the hijackers, but how he’d do it with his eyes watering so badly. How could a place that seemed so long out of operation still stink so badly? It was like the rotten-fish smell was baked into the concrete and the steel, destined to haunt the building no matter what purpose it served later.
The thought distracted him a little… enough that he almost got his head knocked off.
Some primal, reptilian instinct deep in the recesses of his brain warned him just in time, and he ducked as someone standing to the side of the doorway he’d passed through swung a steel pipe at him. The metal slammed into the wall—loud and harmless—but would have caused a mess had it connected.
“Strike!” Herron snarled. Returning to his full height, he shot his assailant in the gut with the silenced pistol, then cracked him over the head with the butt. “You’re out.”
With any pretence of stealth blown, Herron slid behind cover as a pair of heavies appeared and opened fire on him. He guessed that a second ago they had been gathered around the vehicle to open their bags of gold and was a little sad to have missed their moment of disappointment.
He kept low as shots slammed into the steel drum he was sheltered behind, the impromptu cover holding up so far.
“Police!” Herron shouted over the sound of the gunfire, hoping the heavies might be scared enough of the authorities to hesitate. All he got in return was more bullets. “Shit!”
“You’re not the police.” A female voice he knew well laughed derisively at his attempt to fake them out. “The man who tried to blow me up does not work for the police…”
The Widow.
“Oh hey, girlfriend!” Herron popped up, fired a few suppressed shots that hit one of the Widow’s goons, then ducked back behind cover. “I’m here to finish the job.”
“Looks like you’re a little under manned for that.” The rattle of a submachine gun and shots ricocheted off the drum. “But it saves my men from hunting you down…”
My men.
Was she more than just a rank-and-file pirate with delusions of self-importance?
Was she a leader?
Was she the leader?
The only way to find out was to capture her, the Widow, the clear next link in the path to the top.
That had been made harder because of the dumb luck of the guy who’d ambushed him. Now, instead of a sneak attack, he’d needed to overcome a numerically superior foe. He looked around for something to turn the tables on the hijackers.
Then he spotted it—a dozen fifty-five-gallon drums against the wall of the warehouse.
Near to the hijackers and their vehicle.
With the ‘Flammable’ symbol on them.
Taking his chance while he still had it, Herron pushed himself up and fired several shots over the top of his drum. They slammed into the chemical barrels, tearing holes that let the contents spew out over the floor. Crouching into cover again for a second, he repeated the process, until vast pools of the mystery fluid had spilled from the punctured drums. Then he pulled out his Zippo, lit it…
And threw it across the warehouse.
The chemicals ignited and in seconds the entire space was brightened by flames, before gradually blackening with smoke. This soup of misery made Herron’s eyes water but was altogether worse for his foes, who were coughing and spluttering as they choked on the noxious clouds.
The distraction was enough to conceal him as he burst from behind the drum. A few shots whined towards him, but none of them found their mark. He returned fire, snapping off a shot at one heavy who’d abandoned his cover in the confusion. His aim was perfect, square between the eyes of his target. The man made no sound as he dropped, dead instantly.
Herron made it to the hood of the Mercedes and crouched down low. He scanned amidst the smoke and the flame for other threats, and a few shots pounded into the sedan. Down behind the engine block, he was safe for now, unless one of them managed to flank him.
“I’ll give you one chance to put down your gun and come out into the open!” The voice of the Widow filled the cavernous warehouse. “Otherwise you’re going to burn to death in here.”
Herron laughed, sharp and bitter. “You clowns took away the only thing I cared about. There’s nothing else you can do to hurt me. But there’s plenty I can do that hurt you.”
As he spoke, he spotted the last of the male goons, trying to sneak up on him from the side while the Widow distracted him with conversation. Herron shifted his aim and fired at the same time as his foe. The enforcer dropped, and Herron felt something hit him in the right shoulder. He grunted and reached up to the wound.
Just a graze.
Herron let out a sigh of relief. “Nobody else left to help you, lady.”
“I assume you’re the reason my team never reported in?” Somewhere in the thick smoke, she coughed. “That’s a lot of valuable assets you’ve taken from me.”
“You’re the one who chews up men and spits them out!” Herron laughed. “I didn’t realise you were the leader of this whole shindig, though.”
“I sometimes like to get my hands dirty…”
“Well, now they’re going to get bloody.” Herron skirted around the car to the sound of her voice. “You shouldn’t have assumed a yacht was easy prey. You never know who’s aboard.”
“And who might that be?”
Spotting her through the same smoke that concealed him from her, Herron took aim. He grinned, wrenched her weapon from her hand, then spun her round to face him. With the flames reflected in his eyes, he figured he must look like one scary motherfucker… but still she looked composed. Her eyes were cold, but there was something in them he hadn’t seen on the yacht. Not fear. He doubted she ever showed that. Something more akin to curiosity or wonder.
Herron’s lips curled into a thin smile. “You’re a dead wom—”
Shouts filled the warehouse, and flashlights knifed through the smoke and darkness. Herron couldn’t see much of the figures storming in, but there had to be a half-dozen or more of them.
Cops.
A SWAT team, he assumed.
And a damn fine one, given he hadn’t heard a thing.
He kept his gun pressed against the Widow, but the new arrivals had changed the arithmetic of the situation. He hadn’t planned to kill the woman right away; he wanted to see if she was indeed the end of the line, the top dog in the leadership structure of the hijackers. Now he might never get the chance to find out. And if he pulled the trigger, the police flooding the warehouse would blow him away.
With a sigh, Herron lowered his pistol and tossed it on the ground.
6
“Mr Herron!”
“Why are you in the Philippines?”
“Do you regret your many crimes?”
“Is our president in danger?”
“Did the CIA send you?”
Herron squinted as camera flashes flared in his eyes and questions, shouted in broken English by a dozen journalists, assaulted his ears. He could do little beyond that to shield himself from the abuse, because his hands were cuffed behind him and a pair of burly cops had him in a tight grip, manhandling him past the assembled reporters.
After his arrest at the cannery, he’d been bundled into a cop car and driven into the capital—Manila—where he’d been paraded past a small media throng and into the police headquarters. The questions shouted at him had told him plenty: the authorities knew who he was and that he was wanted in a hundred countries.
As he was walked through the corridors of the colonial-era building, he couldn’t help but feel some regret. He’d done his deal with Laidlaw to avoid exactly this kind of exposure.
They deposited him in a small, mostly featureless interview room. Besides a ceiling fan, which was protected from any shenanigans he might have in mind by a wire mesh cover, there was very little to work with, just a wooden table and four chairs, a mirror, a barred window, and the door. The only other thing was a camera in the corner of the room to monitor him.
“Boo.” Herron jerked his head forward at one cop, startling both, then chuckled. “They clearly gave me the bench warmers…”
The cops didn’t say a word, but he could tell they were furious. One pinned his arms while the other unlocked the handcuffs, quickly re-cuffed him to a steel ring on the table and then shoving him into the chair. Only then did the cops relax, step back and exhale. They had him as secure as could be, ready for whatever came next.
They shuffled out of the room and left Herron with only the camera to keep him company. Out of habit, he checked the cuffs, the metal ring, the feet of the table and the feet of the chair, but all were as secure as they needed to be.
Like it or not, he was stuck here for a while.
Herron settled in for the wait, because long experience had taught him his captors would show up when they damn well pleased. If he was in their position, he’d make his prisoner wait for hours. With that in mind, he closed his eyes and put his mind in neutral, content to recharge his batteries until he needed to pay attention again.
As he rested, he felt the temperature in the interview room rise steadily. The sun was beaming into the window and the small fan did little to help. An hour passed, then hours, until finally he grew impatient. He’d had no food or water. He’d had no bathroom breaks. The combined message of all of this was clear—he was being softened up.
It was nearly another hour before the thick door unlocked with a clunk and squealed open on its hinges. Two cops walked inside, both male, their faces neutral as they sat opposite him. They got settled, chatting to each other in their own language, then fixed him with a hard gaze.
“What is your business in our country, Mr Herron?” One man, probably the senior detective, leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “You’re not welcome here.”
Herron kept quiet.
“You were arrested trespassing on private property, where we also found several bodies and a fire you lit…” The detective let out a fake-weary sigh. “Even without your other crimes abroad, you’re in a lot of trouble.”
He’d already tuned out. He’d been tortured by the best of them—an Iranian known only as Pain, an artist of her craft. Civilian law enforcement couldn’t compare, even in places where the law might sometimes inch over the line a little. They’d have to go a lot further than that to get him to say a word.
Realising his prisoner wasn’t listening, the detective pounded his fist on the table. “You need to work with us, Mr Herron!”
Herron didn’t flinch at the action; he just closed his eyes, took a deep breath—slowly in and slowly out—and then opened them again and stared at the detective. “I don’t need to do anything.”
The detective’s face screwed up in frustration. “Suit yourself, but we’re the one thing standing between you and extradition to one of many countries where the punishment for your crimes will be death…”
Herron snorted. He’d cheated death so many times, the thought of it didn’t scare him at all. He’d rather avoid it for now, but it didn’t frighten him as it might other people. “Let’s spin the wheel to see where I go.”
“No need.” The other cop laughed, his paunch jiggling in time with his joviality. “That’s already been decided.”
“And they’re burning to meet you…” The lead detective joined in on the joke at Herron’s expense. “You really should have gone to the bottom of the ocean with your yacht.”
Herron’s mind worked overtime to decipher what they’d said. The clues were obvious, because they clearly couldn’t help themselves, so it was more a sense-check on if they were telling the truth. Laidlaw had told him that the Philippine Government hadn’t lifted a finger to stop the hijackers, but the detectives’ less than subtle references told him more than that.
It told him they were in league with the Widow and her pirates.
Suddenly, it made some sense. The cops had saved the Widow, not arrested her. He seriously doubted now that she was in the next room being subjected to the same treatment as he was.
Sure, no criminal organisation could act with such impunity without having someone in the authorities in its pocket, but the comments from both detectives told him this relationship was more than that. It was more permissive and more coordinated.
Herron smiled at the detectives. “A steak, fries and a coffee.”
They looked at each other in confusion. At last, the one with the paunch spoke. “What?”
“If you get me a steak, some fries and a cup of coffee, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Their eyes lit up, and it was easy to understand why. They had the collar of their career in the seat opposite them: the most wanted man on the planet, a man they clearly expected to be extradited as any moment. Yet he’d just offered to spill the beans in return for a trivial boon… and that gave them the chance to be famous.
The older detective nodded, and they stood and left the room.
This time, it didn’t take long for them to return. A half-hour later, the door screeched open again, and the cops entered; this time, one of them carried a tray with a plate on it, filled with a large steak and all the fries Herron could ever hope to eat. The other carried a takeaway coffee cup from Starbucks–a franchise that had obviously made it to Manila.
They’d gone to a lot of effort to please him, on the promise he’d deliver more in return.
Herron watched as the plate, the coffee and some flatware were put in front of him. He waited for them to return to their seats, then made a show of trying to eat with his hands cuffed to the table. With a sigh, he put the cutlery down and sat back in his chair, to make it clear he wouldn’t talk until he could eat.
Again, the two detectives looked at each other. Herron could understand their hesitation but was counting on their greed for fame to overcome it. On the one hand, he was well known as a deadly operator; Interpol’s Red Notice said as much. But, even without cuffs, he was in a secure room, in the middle of a large police station, with a camera and two armed detectives watching him.
They’d be wondering: what’s the worst he could do?
Eventually, they relented. One stood and backed away from the table, his hand on his sidearm. The other stood and moved around the table to Herron’s side, reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the handcuffs. A second later, free of the restraints, Herron could enjoy the steak and the coffee.
He took his time with the meal because he didn’t know when he’d get his next one. He savoured each morsel and washed it down with the hot coffee. It was so slow and rhythmic, the cops gradually let their guard down, content that they’d held up their end of the bargain and that Herron would soon hold up his.
When the steak was down to the last pieces, Herron lifted the fork to his mouth with one hand and gripped the serrated knife with the other. He smiled up at the guards. “I’m done.”
“Time to talk…” The detective against the wall grumbled. He started forward, grabbed Herron’s plate, and held his hand out for the flatware. “Give me the knife.”
He kept totally still as the other guard closed in with his colleague, cuffs out and ready to secure him to the table again. If that happened—if Herron was again disarmed and restrained—he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance to get out of the situation. That meant he’d have to take down two cops who’d simply done their job, no matter how co
rrupt they might be. He’d have seconds to act—any slower, and whoever might be watching on the other side of the mirror or via the camera would summon help.
He waited until the detectives got close… then burst into life.
He had a simple plan, and he executed it with a speed that was a blur to the cops.
First, Herron rammed the serrated knife through the outstretched hand of the first cop, boring through the palm and into the wooden table. It pinned him in place as he screamed and grasped for the blade, too focused on his pain to draw his weapon.
Second, he kicked out at the knee of the man trying to cuff him. The detective let out a pained scream, dropped the cuffs and collapsed to the ground like an avalanche down a mountainside, equally unable to grab his weapon.
Third, Herron lunged at the standing cop, who by now was trying to pull the knife from his hand. He snagged the pistol from the detective’s holster and cracked it over the man’s head, catching him just as he removed the knife.
With one down, Herron then moved to take the weapon of the cop he’d kneecapped.
Except, this time, things didn’t go to plan.
His eyes widened as the cop’s hand gripped the pistol a split-second before he could reach it. As the crippled detective drew the gun and prepared to aim, Herron only had a moment to act… and he did, with extreme violence.
His boot came down on the man’s wrist, breaking it. The detective howled and released his grip on the pistol. Herron kicked the weapon away. “Stay down.”
His former captor relented, clearly not wanting to add a third injury to his litany of misery. He glared at Herron. “You’re not getting out of here alive.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Herron crouched down to pick up the second pistol, then turned his back on both cops and aimed at the mirror. “You’ve got three seconds to duck.”
He counted down silently in his head, then fired a single shot into the top of the glass. The pane shattered and fell in large pieces to the floor, where it blew into a thousand pieces.
Herron barely noticed. He grinned wolfishly as he looked through at the room on the other side of the broken mirror—or, more precisely, at the person on the other side of it.
The Azure Backlash Page 6