Confident and in control, she grinned as another swift stab went close to skewering him. “If you turn and run, I won’t follow.”
“Fuck you.” Herron kicked out, landing only a glancing blow, but forcing her back a step. “This ends now.”
Herron was tired of running…
… and hiding…
… and denying his nature.
Determined to make a stand, despite his injuries and the lack of conditioning from long months spent on his yacht, he felt a fire in his stomach that fuelled his movements. He darted back from another slash, blindly reaching out to grab a raincoat from a rack out front of a street stall, a two-buck covering against Manila’s frequent tropical storms that Herron hoped would protect him better than that.
He quickly rolled the jacket into a ball and then changed up the game.
He came at her, using the balled-up jacket like a shield as the Widow slashed out at him again. The blade buried itself in the jacket, robbed of its power, but Herron still felt another sting in his hand as the tip of the blade bit into him. This wound was nothing compared to what he’d gained in return—control. The Widow’s eyes widened in fear as she realized the power shift, and he struck.
He reached out with his free hand to grab her wrist and snapped it. She cried out in pain and released her grip on the knife, which remained buried in the coat.
Herron yanked on it at the cost of a deeper cut, but finally disarmed her. Now the tables had turned. He didn’t let up, closing the distance between them and delivering a brutal knee to her midsection. She yelped and doubled over, then put her back in a headlock.
Except, this time, she was out of tricks.
“We’re going for a walk.” Herron gripped her tight and looked around. No cops. No embassy goons. No bystanders looking to intervene. “Try to escape again and I’ll snap your neck.”
She didn’t respond. She was done fighting back—for now.
He dragged her into the street, in front of the slow amble of cars that clogged the narrow roads around the market. Vehicles approached in both directions, but Herron saw the one he wanted in the southbound lane—a newer model Mercedes. He marched the Widow toward the car, bleeding and angry, ready to take issue with the driver if he had to.
Herron stood in the way, and the driver slowed the car to a stop. The man took a second to take in the scene in front of him, then held his hands in plain sight, just above the wheel. Herron gestured with his chin: get the hell out of the car or get hurt. The driver did so without hesitation, running from the situation as fast as his legs could carry him.
Herron opened the rear door, punched the Widow hard enough to knock her out, then shoved her inside. “Time to go.”
It was night by the time he parked the Mercedes. He’d driven them from the market at top speed, darting between traffic and working his ass off to the evade the cops, the Widow unconscious on the back seat. It had taken some time, but the high-performance vehicle had served him well and within an hour he’d been free of police attention.
He'd pulled over and opened the trunk, hoping to find something to tie up his captive. Inside, there was a bunch of junk; the owner of the car was clearly some sort of hoarder or survivalist. There was a tow-rope—which he’d used immediately to bind the Widow—a tool kit, a reserve gas can, a tire iron, some emergency flares, a blanket, a first aid kit and more. He’d been forced to shift it all to the back seat to make enough room to lock the woman in the trunk.
And now he opened it again, looked down at her and smiled. “Good evening. Have a nice sleep?”
“Mmm!” She tried to speak, but Herron had stuffed another of his discoveries—an oily rag—in her mouth. She didn’t bother to test the rope tying her hands and ankles together, her broken wrist making such efforts futile. “Mmm!”
He lifted her out and tossed her roughly onto the forest floor. Then he knelt down next to her. “What happens next is up to you, so I suggest you answer my questions.”
She continued to stare up at him with cold, fearless eyes. Herron respected that—even though he’d bested her and her network of hijackers, she at least had some self-respect.
It wouldn’t matter a few hours from now, when he’d done what he had to do to get the answers he needed, but for now, he had to give her a little credit.
The moment he removed the gag from her mouth, however, the source of her impressive confidence was revealed. She smiled. “I’m a Chinese diplomat. Holding me prisoner violates the law.”
“So does coordinating the hijacking of a few dozen vessels in international waters.” Herron sneered. “You’re a smart woman. You’ve done your homework.”
“Of course.”
“Then you know what I did to China Offshore Oil and Gas in Fiji.” Herron leaned in close to her face. “You think I give a damn about your diplomatic immunity?”
Less than a month ago, he’d blown up a gas facility owned by the state-owned China Offshore Oil and Gas Company. He’d cost the company billions, removed its stranglehold over Fijian politics, and brought a swift end to the reign of the local dictator.
She stiffened, and for the second time in a few hours, Herron detected fear in her. Who knew what such a man would be capable of here, deep in the forest, with no witnesses?
“I can’t say anything to you.” All the earlier bravado had vanished from her voice. “It’s treason.”
“Traitor if you talk, dead if you don’t.”
He needed information from this woman to deliver on his commitment to Laidlaw and, if she didn’t provide it, he’d have to take her out. He couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more: a middle manager protected by diplomatic immunity. She preyed on the vulnerable by choice, made others prey on the vulnerable to put food on their table. That made her expendable.
“I want to know why a Chinese diplomat is coordinating hijackings.” He walked to the car and grabbed the tire iron he’d shifted from the trunk to the back seat. “I’m prepared to work for the answer.”
“Because the Foreign Ministry told me to,” she snapped. “Because, like everything else that’s happening in the waters of Southeast Asia, China wants its neighbours to cry for help or run in fear.”
Herron’s eyes widened. “So you want the United States Navy to struggle to stop the hijackers. The President of the Philippines will beg China for help and the problem will magically disappear.”
“Sure…” Her voice trailed off, like she was thinking better of what she was about to say. “A few low-level deaths and a few destroyed hijacker vessels will have them eating out of the Party’s hand.”
It had been the same story in Fiji: China had propped up the General—a brutal military dictator—in return for the right to exploit his country’s resources. Clearly, the country was flexing its muscles across Asia, using a range of plots and mechanisms to exert control. It was behaviour consistent with an emerging great power and eventually it would lead to a clash with the US.
And the more the US pushed to counter it, the more the Philippines, Fiji, and places like them would fall into China’s lap.
“I’m going to need more than that if you want to make it out of here with your head on your shoulders.” Herron slapped the tire iron against his palm. “I need answers.”
“No need to be so crude.” She spoke carefully, her eyes on the weapon in his hand. “My entire career has been about making deals. So let’s make one.”
“I’m listening. But you better give me something damn interesting, otherwise bits of you are going to break until you do.”
“What do you want?”
“Your bosses. You can save your own skin by giving up whoever’s in charge of the smuggling operation.”
“You may as well just kill me, then. I’d prefer that to the punishment for betraying the Party.”
She didn’t know how tempted he was to do just that. His whole being wanted him to swing the tire iron at her skull, take vengeance for the things and the people she’d taken from him�
��the things and the people she’d taken from others—and stop her from doing ever again.
She undoubtedly deserved it.
She was proud of her work and certain of her cause.
She had no remorse for anything she’d done.
She’d continue to do it.
He lifted the tire iron to strike.
And the Widow’s head exploded.
8
Herron flinched as blood and brain matter sprayed his face.
He blinked in confusion, looked down at the tire iron, then back at the Widow’s corpse. What used to be her head was now a mess of gore, flayed skin, and matted hair—far more damage than could be inflicted by a crude weapon like a tire iron.
Especially given he hadn’t hit her with it.
In a split-second, his mind finally caught up to his eyes. He ducked low to obstruct the sniper’s next shot, winced as the shot bored deep into the trunk of a nearby tree and told him the direction of the shooter.
South.
Grasping the tire iron—his only weapon against the sniper—Herron ran back to the car and took shelter behind the hood. Inhaling sharply, he pressed his back against the vehicle, even as the sniper fired a half-dozen rounds into the engine and destroyed his ability to escape.
He assessed his situation. It was clear now why the Widow hadn’t put up more of a fight once he’d taken her out of the trunk. She’d thought an embassy wet team would follow them and bail her out.
Instead, they’d been deployed to blow her head off.
In the end, her self-proclaimed ability to control the men around her had let her down.
That was cold comfort for Herron. His situation was bleak: he was alone in a country he didn’t know well, with just a tire iron and his wits to defend himself against an entrenched sniper with a suppressed, high-calibre weapon. Nothing else could cause the amount of damage to the Widow’s skull without a sound.
The only consolation was that the shooter had taken out the Widow first. If Herron had been the first target, he’d be with his maker right now.
That fact alone suggested he was dealing with an embassy wet asset. The Filipino police would have taken him down straight away, especially given he was holding a heavy tool up, ready to kill their honoured guest. The Embassy would consider the Widow to be a burned asset. They’d worry she’d talk to Herron, so she’d have to die first. It wasn’t a certainty, but that’s where he’d have his money.
Now he was alone in the woods with no means of escape from one or more enemy operatives.
Armed enemy operatives.
Deniable enemy operatives.
It wasn’t the worst situation he’d ever been in, but it was near the top of the list. Almost all the other times, he’d had more weaponry or more support, but there was neither on offer here. That reduced his chances of success against his hidden foe to near zero.
He waited for more shots to land, but except for the gentle rustle of trees in the breeze, the forest was silent. The shooter was seemingly content to wait for Herron to get impatient and put himself in the crosshairs, or else keep a close eye on him until the rest of the operators arrived to kill him.
With a sigh, Herron decided he needed to make a move.
He had to play a hunch, one he knew would get him killed if he’d guessed wrong. Taking the chance, he peered up above the engine block. His head was exposed for a good five seconds, more than enough time for a shooter to spot him and take him out.
No shot came.
He let out a long exhale. “Thermal imaging.”
The shooter had a thermal scope, but he couldn’t see when Herron popped up over the engine, which had until a few minutes ago been working its ass off and burning hot. But he knew that moving away from the engine would instantly reveal him to the shooter.
Unless…
The seed of an idea forming in his head, Herron moved carefully to the back seat of the car, knowing his heat signature would no longer be hidden and that a shot from a high-calibre rifle could punch through any part of the car that wasn’t the engine.
He opened the door and winced as a shot ricocheted off the vehicle, but he didn’t delay in grabbing the few items he needed—the half-full reserve gas can and the box of flares.
Working quickly along the side of the car, more shots pounding into the vehicle, he opened the cap for the gas tank. Knowing he was taking a huge chance, he lit one flare, shoved it into the tank, and ran like crazy.
As shots bored into the car and trees around him, Herron bolted through the forest, knowing he needed to get far away from the vehicle. A second later, the car exploded in a massive fireball as its gas tank ignited.
And, for a split second, the entire forest was lit up by a blinding flash.
Knowing the sort of discomfort the blast would have caused anyone watching through a thermal scope—searing and painful—Herron had a few seconds of total freedom. He moved further to the south, darting between trees, making use of every moment he was free from the sniper’s fire.
“Good shooter…” Herron whispered to himself as he pressed up against the trunk of a tree and tossed the empty gas can on the ground. “But not great…”
The whole time he’d been running, he’d been spilling gas from the reserve tank over the forest floor. And now, hoping he had got none of the fuel on his clothing, he prepared for his last play.
He sparked the last of his two flares and tossed it on the liquid.
The result was muted at first. The flare ignited the gasoline, but it took some time for the forest to burn properly. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two. But eventually the flames, aided by the fuel, began to consume the forest, the blaze growing with each passing second.
And each passing second making thermal imagining less effective.
Herron waited as long as he dared, knowing a kill team of operatives might be on their way, then took his chance. Although he wanted to kill the sniper, his mission to destroy the piracy ring was completed, and it was time to bug out. He wouldn’t waste the chance he’d created for himself by being stupid.
He moved to the north, back in the car's direction, the flames in between himself and the sniper. The thermal shroud he’d covered himself in did the trick: the shooter couldn’t find a target amongst the flames and he clearly had no other type of scope amongst his gear.
He was blind… and Herron was out of there.
Now a mile past the car, Herron continued through the forest, his footfalls as silent as whispers, each move careful. He was free of the shackles of the sniper’s gaze, but now he had other problems. He had no vehicle, it was a long way back to the road, and he knew a kill team might be hunting him.
His bag of tricks empty, he was fumbling through the forest in near-total darkness. He could see only a few feet ahead of him, using the small amount of light from the moon that peeked through the canopy, and knew any operatives tracking him would have thermal imaging he could no longer spoof.
As he moved, his senses worked their hardest to locate the hunters he assumed were out there—his ears for any sound, his eyes for any movement, his nose for any scent. If he detected someone, he could get the jump on them or evade them entirely, but it was just as likely they’d kill him before he even knew they were there.
Fifteen minutes later, resting against a tree, he heard the first potential contact: the muffled sound of a male voice. It carried farther than it usually would in the silence and stillness of the forest, the first sign the team arrayed against him was less than elite.
The operative should have known better. Herron would be sure to teach him.
He stayed pressed against the trunk of a tree, on the far side of where he thought the voice came from. If he was wrong, the operative would likely have seen him already with the thermal goggles. When no shots came, he figured he was as concealed as he could hope to be.
Crouching down, he fumbled on the ground until he found a small branch. He tapped the stick against the tree a few times and, after a hal
f-dozen knocks, tossed it right in front of him. More noise for the operative to pick up on.
More chatter.
Male voice.
Close.
Herron remained deathly still. The operative came closer, the voice replaced by the sound of footfalls. He was good — quiet and slow — but he wasn’t perfect, making a slight sound with every step. Each rustle of leaves was an imperfection Herron could make fatal.
When he was almost level with the tree, Herron swung the tire iron with all his strength.
The blow landed like an atom bomb. Although Herron’s aim was a little low, for a blind attack he’d done enough. The steel crushed the man’s oesophagus and he started to choke, even as he stumbled back in shock. Experience or instinct kicked in and the wounded man raised his submachine gun.
Herron gave him no time to aim and shoot. He gripped the tire iron tight, then brought it down on the operative’s right hand, shattering his wrist and devastating the many other tiny bones nearby. The shock wave ensured he couldn’t grip the submachine gun or pull the trigger.
As the operative screamed out in distress, Herron hit him one more time, a hard shot to the chin that knocked him out and sent him to the ground. Herron dropped on him, placing the bar lengthwise across his neck, and pressing down hard.
The unconscious man couldn’t fight or struggle. It was over quickly.
The job done, Herron tossed the tire iron away and searched the corpse, fast but thorough. The thermal goggles and earpiece communicators the operatives were using were both perfectly intact. He put both on, then hefted the suppressed submachine gun.
And with the playing field levelled, he set off into the forest.
Figuring the dead operative’s cry would bring the others down on top of him, Herron kept his eyes peeled. He could hear them talking and guessed it was Mandarin, pegging the team as Chinese.
The Azure Backlash Page 8