Red Wolves

by Adam Hamdy

  The slap shocked Leila, but once its sharp sting had subsided she looked up at Hill with nothing but fury.

  ‘Officer!’ she yelled. ‘Someone help!’

  The door opened, and the uniformed cop who’d escorted her from the holding cell stepped into the room.

  ‘Detective Hill just struck me,’ Leila said. She could feel the heat radiating off her cheek and knew the blow had left a mark.

  The cop looked at Hill awkwardly. ‘Would you like to make a report?’ he asked Leila.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said to Hill. ‘Would I?’

  Hill got to his feet, his face tight with rage. ‘You could have talked to me,’ he snarled. ‘And life would have been so much easier for us both. Now . . .’ he hesitated. ‘Now it’s going to get ugly.’

  He stared at Leila and she held his gaze.

  ‘Get her out of here,’ Hill told the uniformed cop.

  Leila watched the detective storm out of the room and wondered why she didn’t feel like someone who’d just won a battle.

  Chapter 78

  Ziad lay at the edge of the roof and watched men he knew patrol the block. Emmett Martin, an American convert, emerged from the community centre picking his teeth. Ziad had never liked Emmett, one of four brothers and three sisters fathered by a strict Baptist minister whose zeal turned most of them into degenerates. Emmett had been a petty criminal until he’d converted to Islam in prison and he’d embraced the faith with a wholeheartedness his father would have recognized. He worked for Deni, collecting rent and other monies owed by members of the community. Ziad had seen mourners arrive at the centre with huge platters and containers. He’d been to enough wakes to know there would be a feast inside, and Emmett certainly looked like someone who’d eaten his fill.

  The convert joined Adel, Ehsan and Sid on the corner of 42nd Avenue and 140th Street.

  Emmett said something to Ehsan, who gave a subdued nod and headed inside. Emmett took Ehsan’s place manning the checkpoint and the group scanned the street.

  There was a similar squad of men on all four corners of the block and another team of four men guarded the entrance of the community centre. Ehsan was passing them now. Fearing war, Deni Salamov had summoned everyone he had left, and if the East Hill Mob had attacked, they could have finished off the Salamovs. But they weren’t coming, so Awut would have to do the grisly work instead.

  ‘Cross the road, man,’ Sid yelled.

  Ziad saw what looked like a homeless person approach the other side of the intersection.

  The figure was cloaked in a filthy, tattered blanket that threw his face into shadow. He was pushing a cart full of cans and other garbage and had rags draped over the rim.

  ‘Cross the road,’ Sid yelled. ‘This side’s closed.’

  ‘Fucking degenerates,’ Adel remarked.

  The figure ignored Sid’s instruction and pushed the cart off the kerb. The cans rattled loudly as they headed directly for Emmett and the others.

  ‘Shall I just shoot him?’ Adel asked. ‘Put the dirty bastard out of his misery.’

  Ziad saw Awut’s eyes blaze beneath the blanket and the Thai assassin reached out and touched Emmett’s hand.

  ‘What the . . .’ Emmett asked, and Ziad saw him recoil and examine his hand. ‘Eww. What the fuck is that?’

  Adel and Sid ran forward and pulled Awut away from his cart.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Adel said, but rather than back away, Awut stepped forward and brushed Adel and Sid on the cheeks.

  Ziad felt the thrill of excitement and anticipation and then, almost as quickly, shame. He shouldn’t be enjoying this. But he was.

  ‘You fucking . . .’ Adel said, throwing a punch, but Awut sidestepped it.

  ‘You guys OK?’ Sajid yelled from the corner of 40th Avenue. He was one of another trio guarding the other side of the block.

  ‘This fucking guy!’ Adel shouted over.

  Sajid, Hani and Jamal left their post and hurried over. Adel tried to kick Awut, but he stepped forward and grabbed his cart. He rolled it towards the group approaching from the other corner. Ziad’s hand curled around the pistol Awut had given him. He was under strict instructions to stay hidden unless absolutely necessary.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ Adel shouted after him, wiping his cheek.

  Awut didn’t respond. He kept walking, and Saijid, Hani and Jamal stepped aside to allow him to pass. He surprised them all by touching their hands and faces. They recoiled in disgust, much as the others had, and shouted curses at Awut.

  Rather than continue up the street, Awut turned his cart right and headed along the path that led to the entrance of the community centre. The four men guarding the door watched him approach with a growing sense of bemusement. They were making the same mistake Emmett and the others had made; they were underestimating the man. Ziad watched Emmett try to yell a warning, but he couldn’t get any words out, and when Ziad looked at Adel and Sid, he saw panic in their eyes. Like Emmett, they were having problems breathing. Emmett clutched his throat and fell to his knees, and Ziad watched the six men on the sidewalk struggle with the inevitable as they clawed at their throats, weeping with the realization they’d already taken their final breaths.

  He saw fear in their eyes, and wondered exactly what was going through their minds. Would they be bargaining with the Almighty? Would they be lamenting their mistakes? Or mourning all the days that would never come?

  Ziad’s eyes shifted away from the dead and dying and settled on Awut, the Angel of Death, who was a few paces away from the men by the main entrance. He sensed the men’s confusion as they looked beyond the shambling figure at their six comrades, who were well and truly done with life. Ziad produced the phone Awut had given him, and made a call.

  ‘We’re ready,’ he said, before hanging up.

  Chapter 79

  Pearce was sitting in a dining area that lay off the main hall. There were more than forty people spread over three long tables. The food was laid out on a fourth and mourners shuttled between there and the community kitchen to top up the buffet. As in the rest of the centre, the walls were decorated with Islamic scripture embossed on coloured banners in gold thread. High windows opened onto the street and Pearce could hear only the occasional passing vehicle. It was as though the subdued, mournful atmosphere inside the centre had spread throughout the neighbourhood. Pearce wondered how many families across the city had been affected by the atrocity, and how those who’d perpetrated it could live with themselves.

  The latter question was rhetorical. He already knew how such horrors happened. People of power, usually men, rarely needed to get their hands dirty. The world offered a plentiful supply of people with personality disorders who could be coaxed or cajoled into perpetrating all sorts of evil. Narcissists without empathy, borderline personality sufferers with poor impulse control; there was a long list of conditions that, with the wrong upbringing and life experiences, could yield people capable of slaughtering others without losing a wink of sleep. Then there were others who weren’t defective in mind, but who had a defect of the spirit, motivated by anger, lust or vengeance, who could be radicalized into violence. Three men had fled Al Aqarab. Ziad, an unidentified American, and Narong Angsakul, the getaway driver and brother of the man Pearce had killed in Islamabad. Pearce suspected one of them was behind the Meals Seattle attack.

  Was it Ziad? Pearce wondered. Or had he died in the warehouse?

  Ziad had been in one of the trailing SUVs, but Pearce didn’t remember him being part of the crew that came into the building with Rasul, and he couldn’t recall seeing him in all the horror and confusion. He would have to check the footage taken by his surveillance glasses to be sure.

  He looked through the folding glass doors that separated the dining area from the main hall and Essi Salamov caught his eye. She was in the female mourners’ section, comforting a handful of women. Pearce wondered what could have happened between her and Ziad. They’d been lovers at some point,
that much was obvious. How involved was she in her father’s operation?

  Deni and Rasul were sitting further along the table, talking to one another in hushed tones. Everyone else in the dining room either sat in stunned silence or sobbed quietly, their grief coming and going in overpowering waves. The subdued air of tragedy that hung over the gathering had a profound effect on Pearce. This was a community bound together by grief, taking comfort from each other. Sitting there watching them draw strength from their shared suffering, Pearce once again felt the need to belong.

  Something distracted him from his thoughts. A noise. At first Pearce thought the sound was another mourner swept on a rising tide of misery, their wail echoing through the centre, but when one voice was joined by another, and then another, and the wails turned to screams, he knew something was very wrong. He ran from the dining room into the main hall. Mourners rose from their seats and turned with shocked concern towards the source of the screams: the entrance corridor beyond the double doors. Pearce sprinted towards them and pushed one open. His stomach rose and fell when he saw the man he’d been hunting, Narong Angsakul, moving along the corridor in silence, his face expressionless, his hands whipping out to touch everyone he could reach. In his wake he left a trail of death. Mourners who’d stepped into the corridor, Deni’s men who were supposed to be guarding the building, all had been afflicted by Angsakul’s touch and were choking to death.

  Two members of Deni’s crew emerged from a side room and drew their weapons, but Angsakul rushed forward and disarmed them with a combination of punches that left them reeling. Within each flurry of blows, Pearce noticed the assassin graze the men’s faces with his fingertips, and by the time he stepped back, the toxin had started to do its work. The assassin reached inside his jacket and produced a metal canister, a replica of the one he’d used in Al Aqarab. Angsakul’s touch meant death, and it would come quickly, but Pearce knew what would happen if Angsakul succeeded in getting into the main hall and detonating that device.

  If he got through the doors, everyone in the community centre would die.

  Chapter 80

  ‘Get out!’ Pearce yelled at Deni and Rasul. ‘Get everyone out!’

  Pearce stepped through the door and calmly pulled it closed behind him. He heard Deni, Rasul and the others mustering people and directing them towards the emergency exits. Pearce turned to face Angsakul and adopted the ‘Thinker’s Stance’, folding his left arm across his body, raising his right fist so it touched the bottom of his chin. It was a favourite of experienced street fighters and Angsakul gave a smile of recognition. He tucked the canister into his jacket pocket and raised his fists in a classic Muay Thai stance. Pearce kept his eyes on the man’s gloved hands. One touch meant death.

  Angsakul darted forward and swung an open palm at Pearce. He blocked with his left elbow – his skin protected by his jacket –stepped inside the swing and brought his right fist down like a hammer, smashing it into the bridge of Angsakul’s nose. The smaller man leaned back and robbed the blow of its full effect. He snapped out his left hand and Pearce lurched back just in time. Angsakul’s gloved hand whipped the air in front of his face, and Pearce went low and lashed out with a sweeping right kick, which connected with Angsakul’s left shin. Angsakul responded in kind, and they traded vicious, sharp kicks. The assassin kept swiping at Pearce with his hands, forcing him back towards the double doors. No matter what happened, Pearce couldn’t let him through.

  Pearce blocked a kick with his knee and moved forward, dodging Angsakul’s lightning-fast hands. He pushed the assassin’s arms away and delivered a lateral hammer punch to Angsakul’s left jaw, at the point where the upper and lower bones connect. Pearce felt the satisfying crack of bone and as Angsakul recoiled, Pearce followed up with a cupped slap that drove a pocket of air into the man’s left ear. Angsakul yelped and jolted back with the energy of someone stung by a cattle prod, and Pearce thought he’d burst an ear drum. The man’s hands flew to his injuries and Pearce experienced a rush of satisfaction when he saw a white substance smeared across Angsakul’s face. Pearce stepped back and waited for the toxin to do its work.

  Angsakul took a moment to get through the pain. His jaw was hanging wrong and his face was already starting to swell, but he still managed a dark grin.

  He had no reaction to the toxin. He stepped forward and swung at Pearce. He ducked and stepped back, and the blow failed to land. Pearce was horrified. The man seemed immune to the poison that should have killed him.

  Automatic gunfire erupted outside the building and was met by a volley of small arms fire. Then came screams and cries, and Pearce heard movement inside the hall. He guessed Angsakul had accomplices who were trying to prevent people escaping.

  Angsakul sprang forward and unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches. Like a wounded animal, the assassin fought with renewed ferocity and Pearce worked hard to avoid his darting hands. The two men moved back towards the door, and Angsakul surprised Pearce by tackling him. Together they fell through the double doors into the hall and landed on the floor with a heavy thud. Pearce felt Angsakul pulling at his clothes, trying to reach his skin. Pearce kneed the assassin in the groin and he rolled off. Pearce got to his feet. The mourners were clustered away from the fire doors, where Deni, Rasul and their men were trading gunfire with unseen associates.

  Pearce watched in horror as Angsakul rolled to his feet with the canister in his hand. He started sprinting as the assassin’s fingers searched for the pull. He raced towards the fire door on the female mourners’ side of the hall, where Deni and Rasul were positioned.

  ‘Gun!’ Pearce yelled, getting Rasul’s attention.

  Pearce glanced over his shoulder and saw Angsakul yank the pull and lob the canister into the air. It floated up towards the high ceiling as one of Rasul’s men tossed Pearce a pistol.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted without breaking his stride. He barged past the men shooting through the doorway and caught sight of a skinhead and a woman with short black hair leaning out of a van, firing machine guns. Ziad was with them, blasting a pistol at the building. The man and woman were covered with tattoos, including many variations of a large red wolf. Pearce burst out of the building as the canister popped behind him. He turned to see the hall, and everyone in it shrouded in white powder. Through the cloud he saw Narong Angsakul escape though the double doors.

  Pearce’s sudden emergence startled the shooters and he opened fire as he ran towards the vehicle. He could see the skinhead register the cloud of white death. The man yelled something at the driver, and the van sped away. Pearce locked eyes with Ziad the instant before the van’s side door slid shut. Unless he was much mistaken, Ziad’s face betrayed his shame. His murderous treachery was now public.

  Pearce turned to see the interior of the community centre shrouded in white. He’d failed.

  But then there was movement and he saw Rasul usher the panicked people from the hall. They were covered in the deadly toxin but had held their breath. Rasul must have recalled his experience at the Meals Seattle warehouse and instructed them before the canister burst. But they could only hold their breath for so long and their clothes were now covered in death.

  Pearce cast around for a solution and saw it on the corner of 42nd Avenue and 140th Street.

  ‘Get everyone over here,’ he commanded Rasul.

  Pearce ran to the street and smashed the window of the nearest car. He didn’t have time to hotwire the vehicle, so he leaned in and flipped the gearshift to neutral. When Rasul and the others realized what he had in mind, they joined him, and together they pushed the car towards the corner. Pearce was surrounded by men covered in white powder, and held his breath. He was dead if he caught any of the dust that covered them. The car gathered speed and together the gang of men pushed it onto the kerb and into the fire hydrant that protruded from the sidewalk. There was a crack and a grinding of metal on metal, and then the high-pressure pipe burst and jets of water sprayed from beneath the car. They kept pushi
ng and the car cleared the hydrant, water shooting high into the sky. Pearce banked on water being a neutralizing agent, offering the same salvation as the river.

  The young and old were first. Deni, Rasul and the others helped them into the water and their clothes were jet washed, leaving them spotless in moments. The confusion provided Pearce with his opportunity.

  ‘Tell them I’m going to find who did this,’ Pearce said to the old man, Abbas, who had been one of the first through the wash. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Pearce didn’t wait for a response and sprinted along 42nd Avenue to the sound of oncoming sirens.

  Chapter 81

  Ziad had felt fear when he’d seen Amr’s fierce eyes. The man had said he’d served in the military, but those eyes hadn’t just seen action, they’d stared death in the face, and Ziad couldn’t help shake the feeling they’d been judging him. Deni, Rasul, any of those who survived the attack would know he had betrayed them. He’d helped kill people who’d once been his friends.

  They betrayed you, he told himself, but he couldn’t get rid of the filth that seemed to cling to his insides.

  Murder.

  Friends.

  Two words that should never go together. Their proximity a simple verdict on what he’d become.

  As Eddie Fletcher’s van sped through the city and the adrenalin of the attack subsided, Ziad looked around the cabin with a sense of shame. These were his friends now. Psychopaths and murderers. What had become of him?

  ‘What the fuck are you looking like that for?’ Fletcher asked angrily.

  One of the Red Wolves was driving, taking side roads that kept them away from the approaching cops.

  Ziad was about to respond when his eyes fell on Awut, who didn’t look well. He stumbled against the side of the van and slumped to the floor. Ziad went to his side and kneeled beside him.