Shadow Box, page 3
“What are you?” Carnack growled, wiping blood from his mouth where the blow from the Kalashnikov had loosened a tooth. “Some kind of joker? You’re surrounded by a whole bloody ville of my men. I ain’t going to give you squat, buddy. Squat, got it?”
Kane smiled humorlessly. “If you tip-off your men, if you so much as breathe funny once we leave this room, I will shoot you in the head. You understand?”
“Do I look like an idiot? You’d never get out of Hope alive, Magistrate,” Carnack stated bitterly.
“Ninety seconds ago you had a gun pointed at my crotch and your gal pal here was about to take my eyes out,” Kane told him. “I’m thinking that this here is a step up. Now, on your feet, we’re leaving.”
Tom Carnack spit a gob of blood to the floor as he slowly lifted himself from the disarrayed cushions. Kane noticed there was a single broken tooth shining amid the splash of blood.
Grant slipped through the curtain back into the anteroom while Brigid kicked back her foot until the heel of her left boot snapped free. Kane looked at her and she shrugged.
“I’m not running around on one heel,” she told him. “That’s a sure ticket to spinal damage.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He held the Kalashnikov steady on Carnack.
Then he raised his voice, calling to Grant, “Everything okay out there?”
Grant’s head popped through the drapes a moment later, his brow furrowed with concern. “I got into the trunk but the kid’s disappeared.”
Carnack nodded knowingly. “Benqhil has gone for help. You’re dead men,” he snarled.
“Yeah, pal,” Kane said, dismissing him, “heard it all before. Distribute the weapons and let’s move, Grant,” Kane urged, shoving Carnack toward the rift in the drapes.
As they left the room, the dancing girl writhed on the floor, still clawing at her eyes. “Did you hear? They’re taking Tom. Are you all buffoons? Stop them.”
Her pleas went unacknowledged—the guards in the room were either unconscious or still blind and deaf from the flash-bang.
Outside, the chest on the floor of the anteroom stood open, its lock smashed in two where Grant had either pulled or kicked it apart. Grant handed Brigid her compact TP-9, and she checked its ammo clip was still in place before she led the way into the street outside. The TP-9 was a midsized semiautomatic weapon, roughly the length of Brigid’s arm from wrist to elbow. The bulky pistol had a grip just off center beneath the barrel, and a covered targeting scope across the top for pinpoint work. The whole unit was finished in molded, matte black.
Grant clipped the sheathed knife back on his boot and shoved the corroded Police Special into an inside pocket of his black leather duster, keeping the Heckler & Koch in his right hand. He offered the .44 Magnum weapon to Kane, who shook his head.
“Seems a shame to lose the Kalashnikov,” Kane told him, “but it would be bastard conspicuous out on the street.”
While Grant held both pistols on their blinded prisoner, Kane removed the clip from the AK-47 and pocketed it before tossing aside the empty rifle.
“They’ve probably got spare ammo,” Grant warned.
“Of course they have,” Kane agreed as he took the .44 Magnum weapon from his partner, “but they’ll be blind for a couple more minutes yet, and I intend to be long gone by the time they’ve reloaded it.” With that, he shoved a firm hand between Carnack’s shoulder blades and pushed him through the curtain into the tight alleyway after Brigid. “Keep going forward, fast as you can,” Kane told him, “I’ll tell you when to stop.”
“I can’t see anything, you idiot,” Carnack screamed at him as he batted at the wall in front of his face.
“So, run your hand along the wall if it helps,” Kane suggested. “Just keep moving.”
Brigid Baptiste waited for them in an alcove across the main street at the end of the alleyway, the TP-9 cradled in her hands, partially hidden by the shadows. The whole shantytown reminded the three of them of the Tartarus Pits back in Cobaltville, the ghetto level that sat at the base of every ville structure, both metaphorically and physically, supplying cheap labor and offering dire warning to those who disobeyed the baron.
The whole ville stank of human waste, and people watched warily as they made their way into the light. None of the street people looked well fed. By contrast, the physically powerful Cerberus warriors had to have looked like gods to their eyes.
“We got a way out of here?” Grant asked as he mentally checked off the people milling in the street, reassuring himself that no one was taking any undue interest in their progress.
“Our best bet is to head for the docks and pick up a boat there,” Brigid said.
“Do you know where you’re going?” Kane asked her.
Brigid smiled, tapping the side of her head with her empty hand. “I saw satellite recon photos before we came,” she told them. “I’ve got a pretty good idea of the layout of this rathole. Soon as we get back on the main thoroughfare I’ll find us the right route.”
Kane pushed Carnack between the shoulder blades again as they rushed through the narrow streets. “Keep moving,” he growled, his finely tuned senses alert, warily watching for signs of possible attack.
“Oy,” Carnack yelled behind him, “careful, fella. I can’t see, remember? What the bleeding eff was that thing, anyway?”
“Just keep quiet and keep moving,” Kane told him sullenly. “Your eyesight will come back soon enough.”
“That’s reassuring,” Carnack muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he rushed forward. “Right now it sounds like everyone’s underwater, too, you know? You’re a bunch of frackin’ idiots.”
They had reached an intersection and Brigid had stopped, looking down each of the routes, trying to fit them together with the map in her mind.
“Come on, Baptiste,” Kane urged as he glanced over his shoulder, checking for pursuit, “let’s hurry it up.”
“This way,” she decided, her long legs kicking out as she raced off to the left.
Carnack just stood there, refusing to move. Kane shoved him once more while Grant covered their backs with the Heckler & Koch.
“All right,” Tom Carnack yelped, “keep your hair on. I’m disabled, remember?”
“About that,” Kane said, checking his wristchron. It had been three minutes since they had exited Carnack’s lair, almost five since Brigid had unleashed the flash-bang. Ample time for Carnack to recover, at least enough to see shapes and blurs. “How’s your vision?” Kane asked him.
“Completely scragged,” Carnack complained.
“You’re faking,” Kane told him. “You should have recovered by now. If you’re deliberately slowing us down I’m going to shoot you in the foot and carry you the rest of the way.”
“Genius,” Carnack said, snidely. “That’ll only slow you down more.”
“That’s my problem,” Kane growled, whipping out his .44 Magnum pistol and pointing it at Carnack’s stumbling feet.
There was a loud report as he pulled the trigger and buried a slug in the ground between the trader’s feet. Carnack leaped aside, pulling his hands over his ears.
“That’s your warning shot,” Kane told him. “The next one hobbles you.”
“All right,” Carnack cried, hands up in the air. “I can see colors and shapes. It’s still a bit messed up, though, so I’m going to go slow. Okay?”
“Speed up,” Kane responded, “and keep moving.”
They turned another corner into a wide thoroughfare, stepping past a man with a burned face and a begging bowl who was lying in the middle of the street. Between the tightly packed shanty buildings Kane saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off water.
Brigid waited while her companions caught up. “We’re close,” she told Kane as he grabbed Carnack’s collar to halt him. “There’s a series of jetties down there. It’s where the ville folk fish from. Or they used to.”
Kane nodded, peering behind and checking to see if anyone was following.
“There’s an unmanned motorboat off to the left,” Brigid pointed when Kane turned back. “Just a little way along from the pier.” Her finger pointed to a small fishing scow with a tiny covered bridge.
“You’ll never make it.” Carnack laughed fiercely. “My people will ex the lot of you the second you step out there.”
Brigid grabbed the man’s stubbled chin. “Sorry, Tom. We’re home free,” she told him. “Didn’t you hear—they’re not coming for you. There’s no honor among thieves.”
“Scratch that,” Grant chided from the rear of the group. “We’ve got company.”
Brigid and Kane looked in Grant’s direction and saw four dark shapes weaving along the narrow street at high speed: three motorcycles and a quad bike followed by a billowing plume of dark exhaust.
Carnack looked at Brigid and laughed. “Before the end of the day I’ll have you right where I want you, red,” he said, “bunny hopping across my lap.”
“Keep moving,” Kane said, ignoring the man’s vile comment.
More people were milling where the streets opened up onto the waterfront, and Brigid looked back at Kane as she took them in. “It’s too crowded, Kane,” she told him. “Someone’s going to end up getting hurt.”
Kane checked behind him for the approaching gang members, then shoved Carnack toward Brigid. “Cover him,” he instructed. “I’m going to clear us a path.” With that, he strode forward and raised his pistol in the air, pumping three shots into the sky in quick succession. “Everyone get out of here,” Kane shouted over the frightened cries of the crowd.
They didn’t need to be told twice. Everyone ran to the edges of the ramshackle street, ducking into doorways and clearing a path for Kane and his team.
Behind him, Kane heard gunshots as Grant began firing at the approaching marauders. He refilled the chambers of the .44 Magnum pistol and turned to face the enemy.
Beside Grant, Brigid raised her TP-9 pistol and blasted off a stream of shots down the street as the motorcyclists and quad riders approached.
Seeing his chance, Tom Carnack took a step away from her, his bloodshot eyes fervently looking around for an escape route. Suddenly, he felt Brigid’s elbow slam into his gut and he doubled over, his breath exploding out of his mouth in a coughing whoop.
“Stay still,” she told him, thrusting her free arm around his throat and holding him against her hip in a headlock. Carnack continued to cough and splutter as Brigid pumped the trigger of her pistol, firing shots at the approaching gang members.
Their attackers were the same guards they had seen in Carnack’s trading pad. The velvet-coated Señor Smarts sat on a motorcycle behind one of the guardsmen from the main room, a spooky-looking man wearing a bandanna across his head and goggles over his eyes to protect them from flying grit. Beside him, his partner was riding alone on his own motorbike, spinning a chain in one hand as he powered the throttle. A pace behind them, the dark-haired dancing woman rode her own bike. There was a scabbard attached to the side of the bike, the shining hilt of a sword sticking out beside her right knee. Bringing up the rear of the group, the two large guards from the anteroom shared a quad bike that belched a thick cloud of black exhaust into the air around them. While one drove, the other raised a Kalashnikov autorifle and aimed at the Cerberus field team. The muzzle flashed as the guard launched a stream of bullets into the narrow street.
Kane, Grant and Brigid each pulled back, finding what little cover they could at the sides of the street, backs against the walls, with Brigid and her prisoner standing close to Kane. On the other side of the street, Grant took careful aim and his bullet clipped the shoulder of Velvet Coat, almost toppling the bike as he reeled in pain.
Then the vehicles were upon them.
Kane held the .44 Magnum pistol in a two-handed grip, steadying his aim as he blasted three shots into the driver of the quad bike. The man slumped in the saddle and the bike veered off to the side, crashing through the flimsy walls of one of the ramshackle huts that lined the street.
Brigid took aim at the second bike, the one with the guard wielding the chain, as it bore down on her. Carnack’s struggling tipped her aim, and her shots skewed wide. Suddenly, the bike was next to her, zipping past at a ferocious speed, the guard’s chain spinning through the air with an audible thrumming. She ducked back as the bike passed, and her eyes widened as she saw the chain whip out and snag Grant’s ankle, pulling the big man off his feet.
“Eyes front, Baptiste,” Kane’s bellowing voice warned from behind her as Grant was dragged off onto the pier. She looked back and saw the dancing girl’s sword cleave the air at waist height, just barely missing her while the other bike skidded to a halt a few steps ahead.
As the sword cut the air beside him, Kane’s empty hand shot out and tangled in the woman’s long brown hair. In a fraction of a second, the motorcycle tipped up as the dancing girl was yanked from the saddle, still clinging to her sword.
She appeared to be falling backward, but her momentum dragged her ahead, pulling Kane into a stumbling run for a moment before her snagged hair ripped from her scalp and he let go. She crashed to the ground, slamming hard against it on her back as her bike sped away, the distinctive note of its two-stroke engine rising as it raced out of control.
She was quick; Kane acknowledged that much. She had hit the ground hard, but she rolled and was standing before him in less than two seconds. She stood low, adopting a fighter’s stance as she held the heavy sword behind her, readying for attack. There was blood in her hair, and she gritted her teeth in a fierce smile as her eyes met with Kane’s.
The bandanna-wearing guard had pulled his bike around, kicking up dirt as the tires tore against the makeshift road surface. Brigid struggled to target him with her TP-9 while Tom Carnack squirmed against her side in the headlock. She seemed only able to watch as the motorcyclist pulled a revolver from his jacket’s inside pocket and aimed it directly between her eyes.
Meanwhile, already thirty yards away, racing down the rough wooden slats of the fishing pier, Grant found himself dragged behind the rider of the other motorcycle, his right ankle caught up in the chain that the man held. His back slapped the splintering pier beneath him, tossing him in the air before dropping him back down hard against its surface, knocking the breath out of him and giving him no time to recover.
Realizing that the slats were evenly spread, Grant timed his breaths and tried to focus his vision on the jostling view of the rider. He was momentarily tossed into the air once more, and as his shoulders took the brunt of another hard landing, Grant raised the pistol in his hand and aimed down the length of his body at the motorcycle, praying he would manage to avoid shooting his own foot off.
The Heckler & Koch spit, and three bullets flew through the air. The first one hit the rider just behind the ear, causing him to turn the handlebars violently and forcing the motorbike into a skid. The second shot went wide, flying over the top of Grant’s target, but the third bullet hit the bike beneath the saddle, drilling through the chassis and into the fuel tank.
With a blossoming explosion, motorbike and rider caught light as it sped off the side of the pier with Grant still dragging behind it.
The motorbike and its flaming rider hit the blue-green waters of the ocean with a splash, before sinking immediately beneath the waves and pulling Grant along with them as the flames were extinguished.
“Oh, crap,” Grant snarled as his head ducked beneath the water and he felt himself plummeting toward the bottom.
Back on the pier, Kane watched as the bike caught fire and Grant disappeared off the side of the wooden structure, dragging behind it. But there was no time to react—the dancing girl was already upon him, swinging the wide blade of her sword in a sweeping arc intended to rip his chest in two. Kane leaped backward, barely an inch out of reach.
“Looks like we get to dance after all, Magistrate man,” the dark-haired woman announced, her eyes flashing.
“I’ve got two left feet,” Kane replied, raising his pistol and targeting her head with the heavy Magnum handgun.
And then, with no warning, the ground started shaking, rocking the whole, flimsy ville of Hope. Kane and his beautiful opponent staggered before falling to their knees.
Chapter 3
Pulled down by the weight around his ankle, Grant held his breath as he sank beneath the waves. He opened his eyes, feeling the salty sting of the ocean press against them as he plummeted from the surface. Beneath him, the rider and the motorcycle were sinking rapidly, and the rider still clung to the length of chain that was wrapped around Grant’s ankle. The ex-Mag fought for a moment, trying to swim away from his sinking adversary, but the chain was cinched tight and he would have to disentangle himself before he could escape.
Grant looked back down the length of his body, watching the darkness of the ocean envelop the bike and its rider. He discarded the Heckler & Koch, letting it drift away from him on the current as he twisted his body in an effort to reach for his trapped ankle.
The darkness was closing around him now, and his chest was starting to yearn to take its next breath. Soon it would be hard to see the chain.
As he scrambled over himself, plunging his arms toward his weighted foot, Grant felt something slam his body beneath the water, as though he had hit a solid wall. He was thrown about in the ocean depths, spun and shunted, as the wall of pressure hit him. Light followed by darkness, then light again, his breath blurting from his mouth in a rush of bubbles, and suddenly Grant could no longer tell which way was up.
Beneath him, or at least at the end of his foot, the rider clung to the chain as his motorcycle was wrenched from under him, and Grant watched in astonishment as the heavy two-wheeler seemed to dance around then disappear over his head.
Suddenly another wall of pressure collided with Grant’s body, and he seemed to pirouette in the dark waters of the Pacific. He felt something pull at his foot as he was tossed around, and suddenly his assailant’s face rushed before his eyes before spinning away.
