Tempest

by Mark Dawson

  Danny knew exactly who he was. Time had not been kind to him, but he had the same cruel upturn to his mouth.

  Eddie Navarro.

  “You’re a hard man to find,” Navarro said. His lip curled the same way as Danny remembered when he spoke.

  Soto gaped at the pistol.

  “I didn’t want to be found,” Danny said.

  “I’m afraid that all ends tonight.”

  “What’s going on?” Soto said. “Who are you?”

  “You must be Mr. Soto?”

  “That’s right. And you are?”

  “An old friend—isn’t that right, Danny? Friends from a long time ago.”

  49

  Farrow closed the door as soon as he was inside the house, and Morley waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. There was a thin sliver of light beneath the bottom edge of a door on the other side of the space where he found himself; he waited for a moment as the details of the room resolved themselves. They were in a garage; he saw a motorbike parked nearby and, beyond that, the shape of a large family sedan. There were workbenches set alongside the walls and a large roller door to the right.

  Morley held the M4 in a loose, comfortable grip and crossed the garage. He reached the door on the other side of the space and waited, listening intently. He could hear the sound of the television in one of the rooms beyond the door and the sound of conversation and raucous laughter. The conversation was muffled but, he thought, in Cantonese.

  He turned to Farrow and was about to signal that they should get ready to go inside when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He held up his closed fist to indicate that they should stop, and then pointed to his ear. Farrow gave the signal that he understood—his thumb and forefinger held together—and backed away, sliding down into the gap between one of the workbenches and a large freestanding fridge freezer. Morley pressed himself into the space between the door and the wall and concentrated on keeping his breath even, conscious that his pulse was beginning to tick up a little.

  The door opened and the lights were switched on; Morley’s view was obstructed by the door, and he waited quietly until it swung closed to reveal a man. The man moved a little awkwardly, and Morley saw that he was carrying a large bag. It looked like the bag that had been taken from Danny’s boat.

  The man went to an empty workbench on the other side of the garage and put the bag down.

  Farrow crept out of cover, his silenced M9 clasped in a steady two-handed grip.

  The man opened the bag and started to empty out the contents.

  Farrow took another step, then another.

  He pulled the trigger. The suppressor masked the pop of the subsonic bullet as he put a round into the back of the man’s head. He fell forward, slumping onto the workbench.

  Morley turned to face the door, the M4 aimed dead centre. He listened: the TV, voices, laughter. Nothing else.

  He backed away from the door, still facing it, still aiming the M4.

  Farrow was looking at the bag and the things that had been unpacked onto the bench. Morley gave it a quick glance: he saw a sheaf of papers, some hardback books, and two old cassette cases.

  Farrow took the cassettes and held them up. “You think these are what the boss was after?” he hissed.

  “Could be,” Morley said. “We’ll take all of it.”

  Farrow gestured toward the rest of the house. “How many more do you think?”

  “I heard two voices. Might be more.”

  “We could just take the bag and go,” he said.

  “The boss wants Wang gone. We won’t get a better chance than this.”

  50

  Danny looked over Navarro’s shoulder, through the open French doors and into the cottage. There were other men there; Danny saw three of them spread out around the room, opening drawers and cupboard doors, looking for something. They were all dressed in black and they moved with brutal efficiency, yanking out drawers and upending them with no concern as to the mess that they were making.

  George saw them, too. “What are they doing?”

  Navarro took a step closer. “You want to tell him, Danny?”

  Danny didn’t know what to say.

  “Danny?” George said. “What’s happening?”

  “Let me,” Navarro offered. “Danny has information about a mutual friend. He would have been better to stay here, out of the way, but it seems that he wants to go back home. We’re worried that he might use that information when he gets there. Our friend isn’t happy about that, not happy at all; hence, I’ve been sent here to find him.”

  “I’d forgotten all about it,” Danny protested. “I just want…” He was about to say that he just wanted a passport so he could go and meet his daughter, but he realised that he had no idea what Navarro did and did not know.

  Navarro picked up George’s tumbler, put it to his lips and tasted it. “This is good.”

  George stood up. “I want you to leave.”

  Danny’s throat was dry; he couldn’t help but look down at the gun in Navarro’s hand.

  George took a step toward Navarro. His expression was sour with the indignation of a man who, used to having his way, now finds that he is being ignored. “Didn’t you hear me? I told you I didn’t want—”

  Navarro languidly changed his aim, pointing the gun at George. Then, without even a moment of hesitation—much less consideration—he pulled the trigger. Danny’s protest died on his lips, too late and pointless. The gun barked out; at this close range, it was impossible that the bullet might miss. It punched into George’s gut, its impact marked by an immediate burgeoning of blood that spread across his white shirt. He clutched his stomach, the anger on his face turning to shock and then pain. He looked down to his hands, saw them covered in his own slick blood, and then looked up to Danny as if confused about what had just happened to him. He fell to his knees and then slumped against the wicker sofa.

  Navarro looked back to Danny as if oblivious to the man dying at his feet. He gave a thin, predatory little smile. He turned his head and called out, “Harker—give me a hand here.”

  The men were still ransacking the cottage; they had turned out the drawers, tipping the contents onto the floor. One of them stepped through the French doors and made his way onto the balcony. “Yes, sir?”

  Navarro nodded to Danny. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  The new man—Harker—reached into his pocket with his left hand and took out a cable tie.

  “You don’t need to do this,” Danny said. “Please. None of this is necessary. I’m not a threat. I just want to go home.”

  Harker stepped up closer to him. “Turn around, please. Hold your wrists together.”

  “Come on,” Danny said, the panic bubbling up. “Navarro—please.”

  “Turn around, sir. Now.”

  “You’re not listening to me. I—”

  Harker stepped forward and, before Danny could do anything to stop him, punched him straight in the face. The hard edges of his knuckles thudded into his nose; Danny felt a stinging pain, followed by a warm moisture on his lip. He dabbed out his tongue and tasted it: blood. Harker took advantage of his disorientation to grab him, spinning him around and then shoving his right hand and then his left through the loops of the flex-cuffs. He yanked up, closing the cuffs, the plastic biting into Danny’s skin.

  Dazed, Danny looked down at the gobbets of blood that had fallen onto the marble tiles.

  “Get him in the van,” Navarro said.

  51

  Morley froze; he had heard the sound of a man’s voice. He was close. He indicated the door, moved away from the body, readied his silenced M4 and took aim.

  A second man came inside the garage, looking to the right and then to the left. He saw the body on the floor. His mouth dropped open in shock, and then he saw Morley.

  Morley pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the man on the left-hand side of his head and knocked him into the workbench on the right. He toppled over, landing o
n his side. Morley grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of sight, depositing him next to the first victim.

  He turned to Farrow. “Let’s clear it,” he whispered.

  Morley made his way out of the garage and into the office that was alongside it. There was a desk with a computer and a printer, together with a metal filing cabinet set over to the side. The room was empty. Morley hurried across it, pressing himself up against the wall next to the door that led into the hallway beyond. He could still hear the television and, over that, the sound of conversation. He thought he could distinguish two voices, but he couldn’t be sure; he laid two fingers on his forearm to indicate two bad guys.

  He waited for another moment and then risked a look around the door into the corridor beyond. It appeared to be empty, leading to a closed door on the left and an open door and a staircase to his right. He kept low and ducked around the doorframe, scurrying ahead. He gave the staircase a quick sideways glance—it went down, presumably to a cellar—and paused beside the open door; he waited a moment before allowing himself a quick look, the carbine held ready.

  Morley scanned the kitchen, a large room with expensive fixtures and fittings and a vast granite work surface. The room appeared to be empty.

  The noise of the television changed from conversation to the roar of a crowd at an event; someone had changed the channel.

  Morley knelt down low and used the central island as cover as he moved carefully into the kitchen. He looked around the edge of the island and into the room beyond. The lounge was set a little lower than the kitchen, accessed by a short flight of three steps. There were several sofas placed around the room, a large and ostentatious fireplace fitted with a modern, artificial fire, and a sixty-inch television. Morley could see two people inside the room: one man was speaking on a telephone that was clamped to his ear while the other was smoking a cigarette on the sofa that faced the television.

  Morley and Farrow took aim, one man each.

  “Wang,” Morley said.

  Both men turned in their direction. They saw Morley and Farrow and then the weapons that were aimed at them. Wang was the man on the sofa; Morley recognised him from the picture that Navarro had shown them after the briefing.

  Wang looked at the M4 and then up at Morley. “Who are you?”

  Farrow pulled the trigger, sending a round at the man who had been speaking on the telephone. He jerked to the side and toppled onto the floor, the telephone sliding away from his body.

  Wang scrabbled back on the sofa, fruitlessly trying to put something between him and his fate.

  Farrow gestured with the muzzle of his pistol and shook his head. “Stay where you are.”

  His eyes went wide. “Who are you?” he repeated.

  “You know who we are,” Morley said. “You disappointed the wrong people, Jimmy.”

  Morley fired a round into his torso. “The CIA sends its regards.”

  He fired another round. “That’s from Navarro.”

  Wang slid off the sofa, leaving a trail of blood against the bright white upholstery.

  “And this is for all the trouble you’ve caused us,” he said as he fired a third and final round straight through his forehead.

  His brains looked like chunks of dog food sprayed across the white leather.

  Morley turned back to Farrow. “Let’s go.”

  52

  Morley led the way back to the garage.

  “The boss is going to be pleased,” he said.

  “A good night’s work,” Farrow agreed.

  “Not as good as you might have hoped.”

  Morley froze. It was a woman’s voice, coming from his left. He turned. She was cloaked in the shadows at the edge of the garage.

  “Nice and still,” she warned.

  He looked at her: slender and slightly above average height. She stepped into the light that was shining from the door and he could see more of her: she had short black hair and she was wearing heavy black make-up. She held a Ruger pistol in her right hand. It was aimed at him with a steady and certain grip.

  “Easy,” Morley said.

  “I’d say the same to you. Nothing silly, boys. Put the artillery down.”

  Morley knelt down slowly and laid the M4 on the concrete floor. Farrow did the same with his shotgun.

  Morley straightened up. “Who are you?”

  “You don’t need to worry about that.” She nodded to the bodies on the floor. “Any more inside?”

  “Two more.”

  “Dead?”

  Morley nodded.

  “Jimmy Wang?”

  “One of them.”

  “Very helpful,” she said. “You’ve saved me a job.”

  Morley saw Farrow out of the corner of his eye. He had his attention fixed on the woman’s Ruger, still pointing at his head, but he was aware that Farrow still had his holstered M9 and that he was slowly creeping his hand up to it.

  “I see it, too,” the woman said, as if she had just read his mind. She didn’t take her eyes off Morley, but addressed Farrow. “Hey, chuckles, if I see your hand move another millimetre towards that weapon, I’m going to put a bullet in your chest, and then I’m going to shoot your friend.” She paused. “Actually, now I come to think about it, I should probably just do that now.”

  “No need for that,” Morley said, raising his hands high above his head. “Just tell us what you want.”

  “Take out the handguns and put them on the floor.”

  Morley watched the woman as she spoke: she was confident and composed. He resolved not to call her bluff. Farrow muttered a curse, but they both did as she had ordered.

  “Kick them over here.”

  The guns clattered as they slid across the concrete to stop at her feet.

  “There’s a walk-in storeroom over there,” she said, nodding. “Both of you inside, please.”

  Morley turned in the direction that she had just indicated. He had seen the door earlier, but now it was standing ajar.

  “Who are you working for?” he said.

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “Going up against us isn’t going to end well for you.”

  “Says the man with the gun pointed at his head.”

  “I’m just saying,” he said, smiling at her. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  “The Special Activities Division,” she said, unfazed. “I know who you are. And I know you don’t last as long as you have by being stupid when someone is pointing a gun at you. So—inside, please.”

  Morley backed away from her, her gun following him. He reached the door and opened it all the way. It was a storeroom with shelving on the walls and metal gas cylinders stacked up beneath them. The woman levelled the gun and then flicked the muzzle for them to go inside. Farrow went first and Morley followed.

  “This is a mistake,” he said.

  “I’m doing you a favour,” she said. “But, if I were you, I’d hope that I didn’t see me again. I might not be so generous next time.”

  She closed the door and the storeroom was plunged into thick darkness. Morley heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then an angry scraping as something heavy—one of the workbenches, perhaps—was dragged across to block the door.

  Morley took out his phone and activated the torch.

  “Who was that?” Farrow asked him, shielding his eyes from the light.

  “I don’t know,” Morley said. He found the number for Navarro’s burner and called it. “But I’m not looking forward to telling the boss.”

  53

  Navarro led the way back into the cottage. Harker seized PROSPERO’s collar and dragged him behind.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing,” Schroder said. “This is a vacation place. They didn’t bring much with them.”

  “Fine. Finish up. We need to get out.”

  Harker shoved PROSPERO, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He was unable to break his fall with his hands behind his back, and his should
er took the impact; he grunted with pain.

  Navarro nodded down at the old man. “Put him under.”

  Harker grabbed PROSPERO’s armpits and muscled him up and onto his feet. Schroder grabbed him and held him steady. Millman took a flask from his pack and, as PROSPERO watched with growing alarm, he opened it and upended it over a cloth. PROSPERO tried to struggle, but the men were too strong. Millman held the cloth over his mouth and nose. PROSPERO’s strength quickly left him. He tried to speak, but the words were nothing more than a mumble into the cloth that was impossible to interpret.

  He blinked his eyes, once and then a second time, and then slumped back against Harker.

  Navarro’s phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket and took the call.

  “It’s Morley.”

  “What is it?”

  “We have a problem.”

  Navarro listened with a mixture of irritation and incredulity as Morley recounted what had happened to him and Farrow. They had followed the triads back to a house in Stanley where they had, he said, located the cassettes that Navarro had noted in the briefing. They had cleared the property, shooting Wang and the men that they’d found with him, and then made their way out. Morley explained, with obvious chagrin, that they had been jumped before they had been able to leave.

  “By who?” Navarro snapped.

  “A woman,” Morley said, his discomfiture increasing. “She was waiting for us. She was a pro, boss. She knew what she was doing.”

  Navarro bit down on the insult that he was about to deliver. It could wait. “Get back to the safe house.”

  “That’s the problem. She locked us in a storeroom. We can’t get out.”

  Now Navarro couldn’t restrain himself. “You let her lock you in a storeroom?” He took a breath. “Send me your location. I’ll send someone.”