Strike Matrix

by Aiden L Bailey

  A gunshot startled him.

  Simon ducked instinctively, and for a moment he thought he had taken a bullet, but he was unharmed.

  A tin roof less than a meter from his head rattled at the sudden impact and he could see a circular smoking hole in the metal. Turning, he was both afraid to find the shooter right behind him, and afraid not to.

  But there he was, the dark-skinned man who had earlier shot the truck forcing it to crash. He was standing only fifty meters away, with a pistol in his firm grip.

  Two more bullets zipped past Simon’s head.

  Men, women and children ducked at the noise of gunfire, ran and — much to Simon’s relief — formed a panicked crowd between him and his foe, a protective shield.

  Not wishing to take a bullet, and wanting to ensure that they took no innocent lives, Simon sprinted again through the twisting and crisscrossing streets. His lungs burned with the exertion. His heart beat like a racing car piston. His mind screamed that he must orientate himself quickly or they would herd him into a trap. If circumstances had been reversed, if he was the predator rather than the prey, Simon would have sent a second man to trail him, pushing him forward but cutting him off to head him in a circle. The other would circle around the other way, a coordinated ‘herding’ into a two-flank attack, trapping him in the same way that lions would hunt a gazelle. If he were to survive this encounter, Simon knew he must move in a straight line toward the east, but he wasn’t sure he could do that.

  Taking the next corner at a sprint, feet splashing through the rising puddles, he came across an elderly, white-bearded man lazily selling pottery on a corner outside his lean-to house. The wizened man mumbled a tune, the words indistinguishable. He stared forward, unblinking, looking at nothing but the blank wall of the concrete shanty hut opposite. Simon skidded to a halt, realizing with surprise he had seen this man before, during a clandestine meeting on this corner over eight years ago. Nothing about the old man, his tune, his stares or his wares had changed. Time on this corner had literally stood still. When Simon pulled up for a fast stop, the old man smiled. Simon grinned in return, nodded his thanks then kept sprinting. He knew where he was now.

  Taking the next corner quickly, he pivoted sharply, scuffing his boots on debris just as another gunshot blasted through the air behind him. A chunk of concrete exploded from the wall. The hunter was persistent, but so was Simon.

  As the heavy rain pelted the ground and obscured his vision, Simon tried to remember an ideal direction to head next. He turned a corner at a sprint and saw he had guessed right, a wall mural of a bearded man with a white turban, royal garb and two proud lions at his side appearing where he hoped it would be. He pushed through a group of dainty transvestites, overly made up with lipstick, eyeliner and tight saris, all trying to get out of the rain. He jumped over a dog picking at a dead rat that had washed up in a drain, then found the ladder he was searching for, tucked into an alcove out of sight.

  He slipped on the rungs as he furiously climbed, scaring the cat-sized rats away with a wave of his hand, as they challenged him for a position on the rungs. Within seconds he reached the two-story high roof lookout. Several young boys, none over eight years old, threw pebbles onto the tin roofs across the passageway not caring that the rain drenched them. Simon nodded and grinned, amused by their surprised stares at his sudden appearance. He edged up to the lip of the roof, looking down into the passageway he had just taken. Just in time. The special forces man was sprinting up the stairs, USSOCOM MARK 23 semi-automatic pistol drawn and out in front. His expression was cold and serious, a professional killer. He checked every corner carefully just in case Simon was waiting for him.

  But he wasn’t looking up.

  Simon dropped off the building and landed suddenly on the man. The force of the impact threw his foe to the ground while cushioning Simon’s fall.

  The man hit the concrete path hard, creating the reverberating, sickening noise of bones breaking. Simon clambered to his feet and clobbered the man once in the back of the head. The impact smashed his face into the wet concrete, knocking him unconscious. The few locals nearby ran from the scene, leaving the two men to sort out their business on their own.

  Simon quickly grabbed the fallen USSOCOM and pointed it at the back of the man’s head. When his foe didn’t stir, Simon checked both ends of the street. No one else was approaching. No one had hung around to witness the fight. This was good. Simon’s guess that the second pursuer was circling around through another route to meet Simon head on was probably correct. He should have time to put his plan into action.

  Taking the tape and two-way radio from his backpack, Simon held the transmit button down to activate it and taped it into place. He put the radio into the unconscious man’s soaked trouser pocket so it could relay any future conversations, at least as long the battery lasted, or until they discovered it.

  He considered checking for identification, but he knew an experienced operator would carry nothing that would give him away. Simon also considered taking the man’s earbud and the radio transmitter, but knew that would betray his ruse. He’d figured radio transmissions would be far more difficult for an AI like Shatterhand to interfere with than tapping into an electronic communications system.

  He took a moment to consider his plan. If he left the two-way radio on the man, chances were they would quickly discover the weighty device. Simon’s number one aim was to learn Casey’s location, even if it was only a vague idea what Gridley-Brooks had done with her. If one of the kill team talked while he was eavesdropping, Simon would gain an advantage. But if they discovered he had overheard them, they would either move Casey somewhere if they had captured her, or they’d double their efforts to get to her before he could. It was a long shot he’d catch the conversation he needed to hear, but with little other options available to him, he decided it was worth a try.

  He placed the radio nearby under a pile of rubbish, hoping they said enough before they moved from this spot.

  Something hit Simon in his right shoulder. The pain was sharp, but not as agonizing as a bullet wound. He looked around and up to determine its source as he tentatively felt the point of impact, checking that no blood was seeping from the wound. A pebble sailed past. Another narrowly missed his face. Through the drops of falling rain splashing in his eyes he saw young boys looking down from the roof above. They laughed at him and threw more stones.

  Simon took this as his cue to leave, noting the appearance of a few local adults. Backtracking quickly, he took a route southeast — hopefully in a direction the two soldiers would not be expecting.

  After two blocks more residents appeared, seemingly nonchalant toward the gunfire they must have heard, and avoiding interaction with him wary that he may be a dangerous intruder. He was sure that, usually, a white man alone in the slums would be unusual and a target for the local opportunists, but nobody hassled him or asked for money, instead they were quietly letting him past. They even made an effort to move out of his way.

  With startled embarrassment, he remembered the USSOCOM in his hand. No wonder people were avoiding him. He threw the weapon into his backpack. Then he checked that the 1A Pistol tucked into the small of his back had a chambered round, ready for firing. With all three guns concealed, including the second 9mm in his backpack, he moved on. After passing a few more blocks people were clearly taking far less notice of him.

  Now was a good time and a reasonable distance from the downed man to switch on the radio and eavesdrop.

  Two men were talking and he could only just hear their voices over the sounds of pattering rain.

  “You okay Rashad?”

  “Fucker jumped me. Jumped off the fucking roof.”

  Both men had American accents.

  The uninjured man laughed, “Ashcroft must have been giving me the slip.”

  “He’ll have doubled back,” Rashad said before he gave out a loud and agonized cry. “Oh fuck. Motherfucker snapped my wrist!”

  “
Looks bad buddy.”

  “Course it looks bad!”

  “You still able to pursue?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not you when you take a beating.”

  “You know, just asking. You limp-wristed and all.”

  Simon smiled as he listened to the banter. So far, his plan was working better than expected, but he needed to know more.

  “What happened to you two?” A woman’s voice now, a third operative, joined their conversation. She too was American, yet he detected the slightest hint of a foreign accent, one that sounded vaguely Eastern European. There was contempt in her tone, and a hint of sniffles, as if she were fighting off a cold or flu.

  “Keser, Ma’am.”

  “What’s the sitrep?”

  “Ashcroft gave us the slip. Jumped Wilks and took his gun.”

  She sighed and Ashcroft couldn’t help but notice her disappointment. “How did a U.S. Delta Force operative get taken down by an Aussie intelligence officer?”

  “Ma’am, even operators get ambushed sometimes. This guy has training. He knows what he’s doing.”

  “You snapped your wrist Rashid?”

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” he winced.

  “Looks like we need to get you to a hospital.”

  “Rashid will be fine,” jested the other soldier.

  “Fuck off Bodo. Why don’t you kiss it better for me, and we’ll see then?”

  “Does it hurt that bad?”

  “Yeah, like Satan’s asshole.”

  “Sergeant Pfündl,” Keser interrupted harshly, not enamored to their jovial take on an important situation. “Unlike your buddy, I hope you are uninjured?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Then what are you waiting for, get after Ashcroft. Now!”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I’ll deal with Sergeant Wilks.”

  As Simon listened to the man run off, he memorized the names, Sergeant Rashad Wilks, Sergeant Bodo Pfündl and an operations head named Keser. They were talking and behaving suspiciously like a CIA hit squad, with him as their target.

  “Did you secure Claire Skaffen?” asked Wilks.

  Simon raised an eyebrow at that. A psychopathic soldier in Goa had called Casey by that name when he thought she was a cyberterrorist and hacker, hoping that she would pay him vast sums of money for not torturing then killing her.

  “Yeah, Szymanski’s just collected her,” explained Keser. “He’s taking her to our tactical ops center on Kale Marg Road.”

  Simon smiled to himself, surprised at her carelessness in giving away a strategic location. It seemed this hit squad didn’t really know what they were doing or who they had captured. On a positive note, it was this incompetent team and not Gridley-Brooks who were now holding Casey prisoner. That might be an advantage he could use.

  “What about Gridley-Brooks, and Adebayo?” Although Wilks was doing his best to mask his pain, Simon could tell the fracture was excruciating, listening to the grunts and heavy breathing emanating through gritted teeth. “Are they still on the radar?”

  “Here in Dharavi, somewhere. I followed them in, but lost them. I’ve got Dawson looking for them with the Predator. I’m presuming Adebayo and Gridley-Brooks are still hunting Ashcroft.”

  Simon grimaced as he heard that news. Although he had guessed as much, it hurt deep that his old friends had turned against him, willing to kill him because of a false story Shatterhand had put out to the world about him. It must have detailed some awful untruths if his previously loyal colleagues had come this far to murder him.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah, give me a minute…” Bodo Pfündl groaned again as he got to his feet.

  Simon heard them shuffle away, and then nothing. That was all he would get from them but it had given him enough information to know where to look for Casey. He threw the other two-way radio into a mound of sweet-smelling garbage and ran.

  Another gunshot sounded loudly as it ripped passed him.

  Simon halted, startled. He looked up as the crowds again fled, avoiding yet another violent confrontation. He identified Sergeant Ndulu Adebayo, twenty meters distant, the rippling muscles of his arms and torso showing through his olive-green t-shirt as it became wet with the rain. He scowled, his eyes like dark pools of nothingness. Ndulu was unwavering in his aim, the 9mm Glock pistol steady and pointed straight at Simon’s heart.

  Simon thought of running, but there was no cover near enough for him to reach before Ndulu Adebayo would fire a clean shot at him.

  “Ashcroft.”

  “Ndulu,” Simon spoke in the calmest voice he could muster.

  “Why the fuck did you do it Simon?” Ndulu suddenly screamed, his colder than stone calmness washed away in his unbridled rage. “Why the fuck did you screw us over?”

  “What do you think I did to you?”

  “You serious?” Ndulu growled. “Are. You. FUCKING. SERIOUS?”

  Simon raised his hands in a surrender position, wishing he had one of his weapons in his palm right now. “I’m sorry. I honestly don’t know.”

  “The fuck you do—”

  “You know me!” Simon countered desperately. He had to diffuse the situation, fast, because he acutely knew that Ndulu’s gunshot would have alerted Keser, Pfündl, Wilks and also, presumably Gridley-Brooks, as to where he was. “You think I’ve done something awful to you, but you also know me.” He imagined the false news stories they might have read about him. The worst he could think of was a false story regarding the murder of Ndulu’s wife and children with the evidence fabricated to make it look like Simon was the culprit. That was the only scenario Simon could think of that would send this man into this level of rage. But that didn’t explain Gridley-Brooks or Naas Visser being here. Neither man had children. They wouldn’t understand a father’s all-consuming drive to protect his families at all times, and at all costs. “Is it your family?” Simon asked, dreading the answer.

  “What? Fuck no.”

  “Then what?”

  “You destroyed us. Financially. You took all our money. All of it!”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Grow some balls, Ashcroft. Admit what you did.”

  Simon shook his head, refusing to break eye contact with his old friend. “I promise you, Ndulu, I did no such thing.”

  “I’ve heard what you really are. You’re a cyberterrorist. I thought I knew you, but you’ve stolen from everyone. You have no humanity.”

  “Ndulu,” he tried again, one ear listening to what was going on behind him, ready for his other foes to sneak up, as they soon would, there was no doubt of that. If he was still talking to Ndulu by then, it wouldn’t fare well for either of them. “Ndulu, mate. Think about it. If I really had that much money, then why the hell would I be here in a slum, running for my life.”

  There was a twitch in Ndulu’s eyes. He was thinking about what Simon was saying, reluctantly considering that Simon’s claim might be true.

  “You had several opportunities to kill me back at Pankot Palace Hotel. I know you were the sniper, but you never took the kill shot.”

  Ndulu twitched again. His gun arm wavered. The rain falling on his head ran like rivers down the side of his face. “We were friends once. Felt you deserved a sporting chance.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “But you don’t deserve it.”

  Lightning flashed in the skies.

  “Mate, we’re the same. We’re family men. We do whatever we must do to protect what is most important to us. Our children and our wives. You know me, like I know you. Nothing else matters—”

  Ndulu squeezed the trigger. The gun flared in his hand.

  The muzzle blast was as loud as a firecracker going off against his ear.

  Another gunshot, just as loud, less than a second later.

  Ndulu’s right eye vanished, replaced instantly with a dark red hole that bubbled with spurting blood. He dropped to his knees, falling lifelessly, landing flat on his fac
e in a deep, muddy, sewerage-smelling puddle.

  Simon pulled the 9mm from his waistband as he pivoted, catching sight of the white Delta Force operator who was staggering behind him, his USSOCOM loosely held in one twitching hand as his other pressed hard against his gut, trying to stem the flood of blood escaping from a meaty stomach wound.

  Simon didn’t wait to consider his next action. He shot the man twice more. Once in the chest and once in the head. The Delta Force operator fell heavily and stopped moving.

  Another flash of lightning illuminated a woman, further down the slum passage.

  She fired her pistol. Bullets ripped everywhere but none found Simon.

  Exposed, he darted into a perpendicular passageway and took cover.

  His friend was dead. The image burned into his mind, of Ndulu falling lifeless. It stung Simon hard. He couldn’t put that thought out of his head. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right that powers greater than him were turning his closest buddies against him, taking lives, and doing so for all the wrong reasons.

  Then he remembered that the tides had turned. With the two Delta Force operators out of commission, he was now the hunter.

  CHAPTER 18

  Peri sprinted through the twisting, narrow alleyways of Dharavi as the rain fell in heavy sheets and lightning arced across the heavens. She welcomed the drenching for the rain cooled her. No longer was she crippled by her illness that the heat seamed to aggravate. Knowing that the rain wouldn’t last forever, she took her opportunity and pushed on.

  Women in purple headscarves with red-dyed cow hides slung over their backs pushed past her. A thin wrinkled man brushed floating turds into an open gutter washing them deeper into the slum, looked at her like she was from another planet.