by James Quinn
But as he did so, he felt something that only a man of his level of training would be aware of – a slight stiffening of the woman's body – and, almost too late, he understood what was happening.
The red-headed woman was not unconscious. Her body said otherwise. She was very much alert and was arcing an elbow-strike down to Chang's right temple. He moved just in time and instead of taking the full force of the elbow-strike, it became a glancing blow, but one that still sent him reeling backwards.
Eunice watched as the little killer took the blow and rolled backwards. He was up on his feet instantly and sprang into a Shaolin Kung Fu fighting stance. Eunice rubbed her wrists and readied herself into a boxing stance, hands up, poised to guard and to punch.
Chang moved forward, ready to penetrate her defence and in response, she kicked out at him with a perfectly timed strike to the thigh. He felt the impact, winced and knew then that this woman wasn't to be played with and that her skill level in hand-to-hand combat was way above just boxing.
In fact, Eunice had spent one whole summer training under a world-renowned Savate instructor in Paris many years ago. The skills of boxe française were ones that complemented her physically and she knew how to use the techniques of pugilism and foot-fighting to devastating effect.
Chang moved forward with a lightning-fast hand strike that impacted on her arm and moved her back, allowing him to penetrate her defences with a low kick to the shin. But what Eunice lacked for in speed, compared to Chang's fast movement, she more than made up for in reach. Her right fist hit out with three successive jabs to his face and was followed up with a Fouette kick to the jaw that hit Chang like a baseball bat.
Chang rocked, unsteady, but still remained standing. The kick to his head had left a cut and blood was seeping down onto his face. He changed his fighting stance and approached her once more. Eunice threw out a combination of high and mid-line kicks which he either avoided, or took the impact on his bicep. He just needed her to come a little closer…
She attacked again, using a high-line boxing combination and then he threw himself forward into grappling range and he had her! Chang grabbed her around the body, his hands locking onto the material of her dress at the neck and elbow and completed a perfectly executed Harai Goshi, a judo sweeping hip throw.
Eunice felt the Chinese assassin grab her, lock onto her and then, with body strength that she wouldn't have given him credit for, he swept out her legs and threw her to the ground. The hard impact on the sand winded her, temporarily leaving her gasping for breath.
Chang was already in motion following the throw and was getting ready to hit her with downward boot kicks to pummel her into the earth. The first one took her in the thigh. She screamed, and then she was rolling away from the assault, trying to put distance between herself and her opponent.
She ran for the Podium as a means of escape, but Chang was too quick for her and managed to get a hand to her hair, pulling her back to him. She swung round a reverse hammer-fist blow which landed on his jaw, then an elbow, and then another hammer-fist – she knew that if the little assassin, Chang, got his arms around her throat, she would be finished. She could not allow that to happen.
She turned quickly towards Chang, whose fingers were already arcing towards her throat, and she thrust her head forward and delivered a full-force head-butt into his nose. It was enough. Chang momentarily let go and she was off! She reached the nearest brazier that held one of the flaming torches, lifted it out and swung it round like a club. It was a perfect shot.
The torch caught Chang full in the face, the fire burning his eyes and igniting his clothes. He screamed and fell to his knees, his upper body licked by the flames, his hands scrabbling desperately to put out the fire and stop the pain. Eunice took careful aim once more and threw a full-power Louisville Slugger-style whack to his head.
It was over. Eunice looked down at the unconscious body of Chang and said dismissively, “Men! They are such assholes.”
Then she turned her attention to the lights of the villa up on the hill, and the man who had killed her lover and, for the first time in her career, Eunice Brown, bounty-hunter and tracker, was going into battle to kill a man in cold blood.
Caravaggio let himself in to the coolness of the open-plan lounge.
The air conditioning was set at just the right temperature and he already felt better. Now, he wanted nothing more than to sit and bask in the night's achievements. Soon, Chang and the woman would be here and he would deal with all of that, but for now, he desired tranquillity.
He poured himself a glass of tequila from the drinks cabinet, took an appreciative sip and then stood and stared out at the spectacle before him by the pool. The orgy had abated and the naked bodies were spent and exhausted, scattered around the gardens. In the distance, a firework display from the mainland was illuminating the sky. Caravaggio looked at his reflection in the glass, noting the aging around his eyes and the weariness in his face from the night's combat.
But he would recover, he always did. He had killed Gorilla Grant, a worthy opponent, and now he would go and fuck his woman.
He spent several minutes reflecting on the fortuitous nature of his life. He had it all. He was a man complete for now. He took one last sip of the tequila, closing his eyes as it slithered down his throat. He was still the best, he was still The Master.
Then he opened his eyes and stared into a face of horror that was reflected in the glass doors. Behind him was a beast covered in mud and dirt from the swamp. Its eyes were burning with a bright fury and its face was set in a furious rage. In its hands was a machete, similar to those the gardeners from the mainland used to hack back the foliage around the grounds of his villa.
Caravaggio's instincts took over and he spun, reaching out for the revolver that he had placed on the table to the side of him. He almost made it… almost, but just as he grabbed the handle, he felt the burning pain as the machete sheared his hand off at the wrist, leaving a neatly cut, bloody stump.
He clutched the injured arm to his chest, screaming in agony.
“I owe you that for Nice,” growled the beast.
“You…? YOU? But… I saw you! You're… you're dead!” screamed Caravaggio, his mind a whirlwind of confusion, pain and failure. He had already dropped to his knees, his wrist spurting blood, and was crouched on the floor, preparing himself for the violence that was about to come.
“No, you're wrong,” said Gorilla Grant, his voice deep and guttural. “I'm not dead. You are!” And with a scream of fury, he swung the machete downwards and hacked again and again and again…
The blood dripped onto the immaculate tiled floor in Caravaggio's private office. Gorilla was still in shock at what he had just done to another human being. Hacking a man to death took a bit of getting used to. He would deal with the horror and the nightmares later.
He quickly searched the villa and found nothing of use until he made his way up the staircase to Caravaggio's private sanctum. The office consisted of an ornate mahogany desk, a comfortable chaise lounge, a huge gun cabinet and several pieces of amateur art that were signed by Caravaggio himself. The pieces were portraits of tough-looking men in business suits.
The desk was bare, except for a heavily embossed envelope containing a handwritten note. Gorilla reached one hand forward and opened the flap. His fingerprints left bloody stains on the paper. He glanced down at the perfect handwriting. It read:
My Dear Mr Grant
If you are reading this, then you have bested me in single combat. I congratulate you. I hope I was a worthy opponent.
24-39-42
This is the combination to my private safe. It is hidden behind the portrait of Mr Vittelli behind my desk. Mr Vittelli wasn't as successful as you when he visited me here to play my little games. I always create a portrait of my late opponents in my death-games. It seems that you will never hang on my walls.
Inside the safe, you will either find wonders and riches beyond your wildest dreams… o
r you will find death. Do you dare risk it?
The Master
Gorilla crumpled the paper in one meaty fist and smiled to himself. Even in death, Caravaggio was playing mind games. He could open the safe and it could contain everything that he had been ordered to find by French Intelligence. Job done. Alternatively, he could open it only to find that it was rigged with explosives and he would be obliterated.
He stepped around the desk and pushed the leather office chair out of the way to give him more room. The portrait on the wall was that of a noble-looking gentleman of indeterminate age. He had Mafia hit man written all over him.
Gorilla ran his fingers around the edge of the large frame until he felt a small catch on the left side. He pressed it and heard a click. The frame swung towards him on a hinge. Hidden behind the painting and set in the wall was a standard metal wall safe with a generic combination lock.
Gorilla stood staring at it for more than a minute, trying to figure out the risks and the play that Caravaggio had instigated. He could see no wires, no scratch marks on the metal, nothing. It looked exactly what it was; a standard safe. He breathed once, twice, each time sucking in a full capacity breath to his lungs. What to do? In the end, it was the risk factor that motivated Gorilla. He had always been a risk-taker.
“Fuck it,” he said out loud and he stepped forward and twirled the dial around to the registered numbers.
2… 4
3… 9
4… 2
Without a second thought, he pulled on the handle. If it was going to happen, it was going to happen now! But nothing did. Instead, the door to the safe gently swung open to reveal, in its gloomy interior, a large manila envelope that seemed to hold a cache of documents and a clear, sealed plastic bag that seemed to contain a large amount of currency.
The only other thing was another note in the same handwriting as the first. Once again, Gorilla opened up the sheet of paper and read:
Gorilla Grant
I am a man of my word. There is no more subterfuge here. You have your freedom. My files are inside the envelope that you have found. Do with them what you will. I no longer have any need for them. But be careful, that level of information comes with a heavy price, so use the intelligence wisely.
I have also provided a gift for you and the beautiful Miss Brown. Again, I hope that you will use it well for your future.
Your friend
Caravaggio
He had no idea how much cash there was. A million? Maybe two? Certainly enough to retire on for a while. He loaded the files and stacks of cash into a canvas rucksack that Caravaggio had helpfully supplied. What next? The gun cabinet. He would need weapons to get off the island. Despite what Caravaggio had said about him being free to leave, he didn't believe him for a minute. There was still a drugged-up mob of killers, terrorists and gangsters down there and they were between him and the ferryboat.
The gun cabinet was a large metal affair that was unlocked. He pulled back the door to find a treasure-trove of weaponry; pistols, handguns, automatic rifles, grenades and enough ammunition to start a small war. Gorilla looked over the arsenal with the appreciation of someone who is an expert in the tools of his trade. Really, there was only one choice.
He picked up the heavy, ugly weapon, attached a fully-loaded drum magazine and put the spare magazine into his rucksack, then hung it over his shoulder by the attached sling.
He wiped the sweat from his face and picked up the machete in case the little Chinese assassin was lurking nearby. He was ahead of the game; he had killed his target, he had the files, he had the money… all he needed now was to rescue the girl.
Eunice Brown had never needed rescuing in her life. There wasn't a situation created that she wasn't able to escape, talk her way out of or just downright fight tooth and nail to extricate herself from. Ever!
She had made it to the villa's grounds, ready to find Caravaggio and kill him. She didn't quite know how she was going to do that yet, but she would find a way soon. Eunice was a born improviser. She took in the half-naked mob around the pool and the grounds, most of them sated from their exertions. The problem was that they were between her and the villa. Dressed as she was, she would stick out and it wouldn't take much for them to pounce on her.
She was toying with the thought of stripping naked in order to blend in when, thankfully, she saw him at the top of the steps. His shoes were gone, as were his shirt and jacket, and he was wearing only the trousers from his suit. Over his shoulder there was a rucksack and a sling that held a semi-automatic rifle that was unrecognizable at this distance. He was covered in mud and sweat and the blood-stained machete that he held in his right hand told her that Caravaggio was dead. At least, she hoped he was.
Gorilla Grant looked like a monster that had emerged from the pit of hell. He stood staring down at them all, seemingly in a daze. Behind him, from inside the villa she could make out the orange lick of flames as a fire started. Then it was a blaze. Soon, she knew, it would be an inferno and the whole property would be razed to the ground. From inside, she could hear the popping and crackling as the fire began to spread.
Gorilla saw her and began to walk slowly down the steps towards her. Several of the guests from the orgy had roused themselves from their slumber and were watching the threatening figure that was approaching them. Most cowered and moved back, creating a pathway to let him through.
One tough-looking Italian man, naked, his body covered in scars, lifted himself up off the woman he had been molesting and began to walk towards Grant, his posture and body language aggressive. Gorilla flicked a glance at him.
“Hey, you… what da fuck?” said the man.
In one quick motion, Gorilla dropped the machete and in its place appeared an old but workable Thompson submachine gun with a drum magazine. Gorilla let out a short burst of 9mm rounds and the Italian dropped, riddled with bullets.
Several more of the males, and one tough-looking woman, made an effort to close Gorilla down. The Thompson fired quickly in lethal bursts, killing the advancing parties. The reaction from the rest of the crowd was instantaneous – screams from the women, naked vulnerability from the men. They scattered like ants, many of them running blindly towards the jungle and the swamp. The predators of the island would dine well that night. Gorilla fired a few more warning shots, but really, the fight had left the guests.
He came to Eunice, no longer aware of the violence of the night. He was spent. All that he saw was his woman. The red hair, the green eyes, her body. She put her arms around him and they embraced. Their kiss was long and slow, as was their way.
“Is it done?” she asked him, tears in her eyes.
He nodded. “It's done.”
She kissed him again and looked into his eyes. “Then baby, let's go home.”
He was back where he had started when he first arrived on the island.
The little ferryboat was there, ready and waiting. Once again, Caravaggio had planned everything perfectly. They climbed into the boat in a daze, started the engine and Eunice carefully guided it out of the swamp and into the tide. Gorilla sat on point, the Thompson ready in his hand, just in case.
“Here,” he said handing her a file from the rucksack. “It's a gift from me to you and the CIA.”
He had already found one for the SDECE that he would deliver back to Sassi.
“What about the rest of the files?” she asked.
“Gone. They'll be ash by now.” The rest of the files, comprising the secrets of several dozen intelligence agencies, he had left to burn in the inferno of the villa. Caravaggio's secrets would be lost forever.
He saw her nod with satisfaction in the darkness as the boat began to pick up speed and head out towards the Mexican mainland. “That's the best outcome, Jack, for everyone. Caravaggio and his games have caused enough chaos. I'm glad he is dead.”
Gorilla thought the same. He wondered if Caravaggio had secretly welcomed being eliminated… if it had come as a relief to him with those
final few blows of the machete.
He turned one final time to look back at the raging inferno that had once been the villa. It was nothing more than an orange glow in the darkness. That night, the island burned brightly. To the locals on the mainland, it looked as if El Diablo had opened the gates of hell one last time.
It was the screaming that brought Chang back to consciousness; the terrified cries of people being hunted and devoured in the jungle.
He sat up and felt the pain across the side of his face and found that his vision on that side was gone. His fingers touched the burnt skin and he winced. Even with all his self-control, and Chang had become a master of self-control, he still felt the pain caused by the fire that had disfigured his face. He turned and became aware of the inferno in the distance. Even at this distance, he could feel the heat emanating from the blaze.
He stared at the scene of chaos around him. His Master would never have allowed this. Something must have gone drastically wrong. And it was in that moment that he knew that Caravaggio, his Master, was dead.
Chang took a moment to compose himself, said a silent prayer for his former mentor and began to walk up to the blazing villa. He would find his Master and bury his bones. It was about respect, and the passing of the mantle from master to apprentice. It was the natural order of things.
Mr Chang would rise like a phoenix from the ashes of the inferno and would at last become his own master. He had knowledge, he had skills, he had inherited the contacts from Caravaggio. He would take on the role of freelance assassin for whoever was rich enough to pay him. He would be a success.
And who knew how fate worked? Maybe one day, in the fullness of time, he would have the chance of revenge against the killers of his former Master – the Gorilla, the woman Nikita. One day…. Yes, one day.
