False Move, page 25
No! He wasn’t going to die today, no way, no how. Running away wasn’t an act of cowardice, only about self-preservation, because it was an intrinsic trait to wish to live to fight another day. Right then he was at a supreme disadvantage having lost all of his people, his weapons, and even his damn sense of direction! He had to turn things around, and quick, but couldn’t do that while running blind. He slowed, stopped and took stock.
Nearby the footfalls also fell silent.
More distantly he could make out the voices of those still in the auditorium, although he couldn’t discern actual words. A woman was crying, and he supposed it was Stella Dewildt: he’d watched Megan die, and he suspected that Vera Seung hadn’t gotten out alive either. He felt no pity for either, especially not for Megan who’d given into rage and gotten the others killed. His small sense of gratitude towards her was only because she’d also given him the opportunity to flee, and to fight again. Had she not shot things out with Lacey and Villere, they would all have been taken prisoner and handed over to the cops. As it were, while he was at liberty, he could possibly get Holbrook and Glenn away from their captors, and salvage what was left of his get-out plan. How he was going to do that was the issue, but it was apparent he was going to have to re-arm and reposition, and to do that he must kill the one stalking him through the twilit gloom of the building. He was under no illusion about his hunter. It wasn’t Pinky’s man who’d unloaded a clip at him as he’d first ran from the auditorium, his sole hunter must be Nicolas Villere, because they’d been destined to fight since first laying eyes on each other. Hayden was fine with that, just not while he was at the disadvantage of being unarmed.
Behind him, spots of his blood marked his route. The wound to his thigh wasn’t serious, but it bled like a bitch and Villere didn’t have to be a bloodhound to follow it. He set off, walking this time, and Villere moved after him. Partition walls separated them, some already cladded with drywall boards, others temporarily sheathed in semi-opaque plastic sheets to keep down the dust. Other dust sheets hung at regular intervals down the passageways he’d followed, sometimes forming separate mazes to further confuse his route. Of course they equally impeded Villere, and offered Hayden concealment, so he shouldn’t complain. As he progressed he sought a weapon, but soon he considered a different strategy.
Villere had Hayden’s pistol, and most likely that damn knife he’d spirited as if from thin air, except through previous observation Hayden had concluded that Villere wasn’t prone to using either in cold blood. Perhaps he could use Villere’s reluctance against him, to control their confrontation.
He ducked under a hanging plastic sheet and found a space more familiar to him. During his earlier recce he’d visited the large room assigned as a bar/diner area. The fitters had dressed the walls here, and the windows were in place albeit concealed from without by secure boards to protect the glass. The diner’s permanent fixtures and bar area was still under construction, and tables had been stacked in serried ranks at the far end of the room. Beyond the bar area, a door led to a kitchen he’d earlier checked out and found almost ready to go, but for the necessary utensils: there was no chance of finding a conventional weapon in there, or even a heavy skillet like he’d once used to good effect, but plenty other objects adaptable to use should he have misread Villere’s reticence to murder.
He headed inside the kitchen, knowing he was entering a bottleneck, but it was also an arena where he could meet Villere that was difficult for the others to find if they came to his assistance. His plan required a swift death for Villere, where he could re-arm and then launch an ambush to liberate his bosses. The brushed-steel countertops were devoid of sharp implements, but stacked against one wall was some metal shelving waiting for assembly. He selected one of the upright supports, a steel bar as thick as a broom handle and two feet long. It wouldn’t level the field against a gun, but would give him reach on what was obviously Villere’s weapon of choice. It hadn’t escaped his notice when Villere refused to take the gun offered to him by Pinky, or when he’d shoved away Hayden’s gun in his belt after taking it off him: Villere was a knife man.
He took a couple of practice swings with his impromptu club, and was satisfied with its weight and manoeuvrability. Then he deliberately knocked the tubular steel against a countertop to lure in his prey. Nicolas Villere didn’t dally, he filled the doorway within seconds, and after one cursory check of Hayden’s position he entered the room. Initially he held the Beretta loosely by his side but brought it to bear and aimed it directly at Hayden’s heart.
‘So many people have died already,’ Villere said, ‘I guess one more won’t matter.’
‘That depends on who walks out of this room alive,’ Hayden countered.
‘Buddy, who gets to live isn’t even in question.’
Villere squeezed the trigger and the suppressor did little to muffle the retort in the enclosed space.
FORTY-SIX
Another man was seconds from death. Stella cradled her father’s head in her lap, one hand stroking his cheek as he gasped for breath. Blood flecked his lips, and made vivid streaks on his unshaven chin where Stella’s fingers touched. She wept for him, and didn’t know what to say except she loved him and didn’t want him to die: sadly she had no influence over the latter. Pinky had used his replacement cell phone to call an ambulance, and the police, before joining his friends who were in the act of leaving, as now they’d played their part in the rescue they’d no intention of sticking around. Tess feared that the emergency services would be too late to help Lacey, and all she could do for him was to help keep him comfortable in his last moments alive. Megan Stein had only temporarily lost in the exchange of gunfire, as she’d fulfilled her promise to slay him. Her bullets had taken one lung, and scrambled more of his internal organs; his wounds were catastrophic, and it surprised Tess that he’d clung on this long. His eyelids fluttered, slid shut.
‘Dad … Dad, stay with me! Help’s coming, but you have to stay with me.’ Stella’s tears dripped on his face. ‘Don’t you dare die, I won’t let you!’
‘Don’t cry for me,’ Lacey whispered as he roused, and he aimed a pained smile up at her. ‘I never expected … to get out of here alive, but I came anyway.’ He wheezed out a laugh at the irony. ‘But that’s OK. I created … the diversion I promised, and saved you. I love you so … so much, Stella, and I’m happy that you’re safe. That’s what’s really important.’ He flicked his gaze from Stella to Tess, as if she was included in the sentiment too. Tess squeezed his hand gently, but it was cold and clammy, and it was doubtful he could feel her. Again he slipped towards eternal darkness.
‘No, Dad,’ Stella cried. She shook him, and once more his eyelids fluttered.
‘I … I have to go …’ he said, his voice barely audible, ‘but first I need to tell you …’ His focus swam in and out, and both Stella and Tess crowded a little closer, and it was unclear for whom he directed his final words: ‘I love you, and my only regret is that I wasn’t always the father I should’ve been …’
He died, and Stella folded over him, wrapping him in her arms as she sobbed uncontrollably. Tess hugged her, her hands smoothing Stella’s hair as she whispered condolences, but her friend was inconsolable. Tess finally withdrew to allow her friend to grieve. It was as if a pillow had been stuffed in her chest and her eyes were hot, but she fought back the tears. She looked to where Pinky stood guard over Holbrook, Glenn and Seung. He met her gaze, and though he’d only recently shot dead Johnson in heated battle, he’d reverted to the man of good heart she knew him as. He directed a look of shared sorrow at her, and then Stella beyond. Shaking his head, he looked down at his prisoners and muttered something harsh. Holbrook hung his head in shame, but it wasn’t enough.
Tess strode towards the prisoners, a finger pointed back at where Lacey lay in his daughter’s arms.
‘Was his death worth it, you?’ She threw out her arms in an all-encompassing gesture of the other corpses in the room. ‘All of this death, to feed your damn greed?’
The Elite heads remained gagged, and she couldn’t bear to listen to their excuses anyway, but she still wanted to vent. ‘This is your fault, because you chose to line your pockets. You protected a murderous pig over good, decent people, and look where it has gotten you. All of these people died … and you are going to prison. Well? Was it fucking worth it?’
Clarissa Glenn scowled up at her, and made a grunt of scorn behind her gag. Tess stepped forward sharply, balling her fists. She was tempted to strike the hawk-faced bitch, but once she began she might not stop until she’d beaten her to a pulp. She aimed a finger of warning down at Glenn, and Holbrook both. ‘You’re going to prison, and I’m going to see to it that it’s for a very long time.’
Tess returned to Stella’s side, and again tried to soothe her friend. Stella looked at her in disconsolation. ‘Why did my dad have to die, Tess?’
‘He died so that you didn’t, Stella. He sacrificed himself so that you could be saved, because that’s the kind of man he was. He was a good man, a good cop, who wanted to ensure justice was done, and we’re going to make sure it happens.’
Stella had never been party to any of their discussions about the horrendous crime her father had uncovered, but now wasn’t the time to tell her the details. It was enough that she understood her dad had died for something nobler than cashing in on a blackmail scam. It was better too that she remained ignorant to the full facts until after she was questioned by the police, so she was deemed a victim; the same might not be extended to the rest of them, specifically Pinky who would have to lie his way through a police interrogation to protect his allies, and Po who had gone off in single pursuit to exact vigilante justice.
Even as she thought about him, she caught the distant sound of suppressed gunfire – a series of soft thuds to her ear – and feared it was too late to dissuade him from killing Hayden James, and securing himself a place in prison. But that fear was only fleeting, because Po might not be the one doling out an execution. She ran to Pinky, held out her hand and after a moment’s pause, where he considered he should be the one going to Po’s assistance but decided he served best by watching their prisoners, he handed over the SIG P228.
‘Be careful,’ he said as she raced off to where the gunfire had fallen silent. Once she was out of earshot, he leaned towards Holbrook and Glenn. ‘You’d best hope she gets there in time, you. If your boy has hurt Nicolas, I don’t care about the consequences, me: I’ll shoot you both like the sick mutts you are.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Po cast aside the empty gun.
‘There,’ he said, with a note of satisfaction, ‘it can’t be used if you do happen to get past me.’
Hayden had weathered the bullets skimming so close to his head and shoulders he’d felt the heat of their passing. Behind him broken wall tiles clattered to the countertops and the floor, making almost as much racket as the pistol had a moment before: suppressed pistols were still noisy in close confines. With each pull on the trigger, Po watched the reflexive jerk of anticipation from Hayden as he steeled for the killing shot. Only after Po threw away the gun did he relax again, and offer a sneer at the dramatics.
‘I didn’t take you for a cold-blooded murderer,’ he said.
‘I’m not. But that doesn’t mean you’re getting outta here intact.’
‘You’ve been anticipating this fight as long as I have, huh?’
Po danced his eyebrows. Nodded at the steel bar. ‘You don’t want to go hand to hand?’
‘There’s the matter of that knife of yours …’
Po shrugged. ‘Ask your girlfriend where it is when next you see her.’
‘You telling me you left it sticking in Megan’s shoulder?’ Hayden shook his head. ‘Sorry, Villere, but I don’t believe you.’
Po held up his empty hands. ‘Aah, to hell with it. You can keep the bar if you think you’ll need it.’
‘Sure of yourself, huh?’
‘Yup. We doing this?’
Hayden watched him for a long beat. Then he tossed aside the bar on a countertop. Waited.
‘The cops will be coming,’ Po reminded him.
‘They won’t get here in time to save you.’
‘That ain’t my concern, bra; I don’t want them stopping me from kickin’ your ass.’
‘So come ahead.’
Po walked to the centre of the kitchen. Underfoot was non-slip flooring. The walls were tiled. The steel counters, discounting the gaps where the cooking ranges were still to be fitted, formed a neat oblong thirty by twenty feet in dimension. It was as good an arena as any to fight in. He slipped out of his jacket and set it on top of one brushed-steel counter, allowed Hayden the opportunity to disrobe too, but the man didn’t bother. Hayden settled his stance, left leg forward and bent at the knee, his right extended slightly behind him. He formed a guard, again with his left arm and shoulder forward. Po knew a karate practitioner when he saw one, most likely from one of the modern rather than more traditional styles judging by the loose guard.
‘You’re not the only one with a few tricks,’ said Hayden, noting how Po had scrutinized his stance.
‘Tricks are for play fighting,’ Po responded, ‘you ready for the real thing?’
They moved forward, circled left, then switched and moved right. Po threw a lazy left jab, and Hayden didn’t bother pawing it away, only swayed out of reach. Po’s second jab was faster, and delivered at a tighter angle. His knuckles crunched into Hayden’s shoulder: this time he batted at Po’s forearm, then switched stance fluidly and his right fist flailed at Po’s head, then his open left slashed at his throat. Now Po had to sway and bob to avoid the bruising impacts. They eased apart, and both men smiled slyly.
‘Kempo, huh?’ asked Po.
‘You know your fighting styles.’
Po nodded. Kempo practitioners were prone to blitzing their opponents with blindingly fast combinations of strikes from all angles and all the body’s natural weapons, dominating and destroying them in short order. Po respected their skill set, but not always their commitment, because in launching so many strikes in quick succession, some – not all – failed to deliver any with intent before the next was on its way.
‘If I knew we were going to have a catfight I’d have left you to the girls,’ said Po.
‘Not impressed, huh?’
‘Nope.’
Again they met, and their punches and blocks were a blur. All had been directed towards the head and body; Hayden switched to a low line, and kicked at Po’s shin. Po retreated, the skin barked, but then snapped off a kick that skimmed Hayden’s knee. Hayden pivoted and raked Po’s forehead with an elbow. The impact set of a flurry of black spots through his vision.
‘How’s about now?’ Hayden crowed.
Po shook his head, his smile set, but he was fooling nobody: he was also shaking lucidity back into his brain.
Hayden tried to capitalize on Po’s injury, stepping in and kicking again, this time spearing the toe of his boot at Po’s groin. Po knocked the foot aside with a swipe of his left knee, and it overbalanced Hayden. Po slashed in with his elbow, ramming the tip in the man’s exposed ribs. Hayden staggered away, and fetched up against the metal counter holding Po’s jacket. Po followed, kicking at the wound on his opponent’s leg.
‘Son of a bitch!’ Hayden wheezed, barely able to catch his breath. He turned quickly, and used the counter to catapult him towards Po, throwing a rapid combination of knife-hand slashes. One blow slammed Po’s cheek, and it immediately puffed up the size and colour of a ripe plumb. His right eye watered. But he weathered the blow and threw one of his own, his knuckles raking Hayden’s eye socket. When Hayden reared back, blood trickled from a split eyelid. He shook the blood away to clear his vision.
Already Po was on him. He swept apart Hayden’s arms, caught his neck in both hands and dragged him forward onto his knee. The first blow was to his chest, but Po wasn’t finished, he rammed the knee up again, this time to Hayden’s jaw. Hayden’s knees wobbled, but he jammed a forearm over Po’s knee to avoid a third soul-destroying impact, then wrapped both arms around Po’s slim waist and hauled up and back. He flung Po down on the counter. Po scrambled, his heels squeaking on the brushed steel, but Hayden followed, peppering him with hammering blows of his fists and elbows. Hayden overreached.
Swinging around on his butt, Po shot his right leg past Hayden’s neck, then immediately bent it at the knee. His other leg forced under Hayden’s extended right arm, and his right foot hooked under the knee. Po grabbed the back of Hayden’s head and it was almost as if he hugged the man to his own chest: it was an innocuous-looking hold, but Hayden was in immediate danger of suffocation. He panicked.
As he tried to prise off Po’s legs, Po caught his flailing arm and hyperextended it at the elbow, without ever releasing the choke hold with his legs. Hayden had little recourse: he tried biting, but that only filled his mouth with denim, and added to the overwhelming sense of suffocation, so instead he hauled backwards, holding Po elevated for a second or two, then arched forward at the floor.
Po’s spine took the impact, and he lost his hold on Hayden’s arm, but his legs were cinched in too tight. He wriggled his butt backwards a few inches, stretching out Hayden, who’d dropped to both knees, and the crown of the man’s head became a target. Po dropped the tip of his elbow repeatedly, like a volley of bombs on Hayden’s skull. He felt the strength go out of the man, and kicked him away without rancour: Hayden had given his best, but it was not good enough. Po stood, peered down at the semi-conscious man. He could kill him if he wished, with a stamp to the nape of his neck, but Po wasn’t a psychotic scumbag, the likes of the scarred woman Hayden had held near. He took another couple of steps backward, wiping at the swollen lump on his cheek with the back of his wrist, but never taking his gaze off his opponent.
