by Rick Jones
“Johannes,” Minerva whispered in pain, “what’s going on? Who are these people?”
The children were crying.
And Salt continued to fire off rounds, but more conservatively. The last thing he wanted to hear was a series of dry clicks, meaning no ammo.
He cupped Minerva’s face with his free hand and pulled her close enough to give her a quick peck on the lips. “Remember when I told you that a day may come when you’ll need to leave quickly without packing? That an emergency might arise?”
She nodded.
“Today’s that day,” he told her. “Take the children to our residence in Paris. You’ll be safe there.”
“Johannes, please tell me what’s going on? I’m frightened.”
“Go to the bank. There’s enough money in the safety-deposit box to see you through. See to the children’s safety until I get to Paris.”
Just as she was about to speak, a volley of bullets impacted the areas around them. Quarter-sized holes magically appeared on the wall behind them.
“Go!” he told her. “I’ll provide cover.” Then he gave her a slight push towards the hallway and to the front door. Grabbing her children and hunkering low, Minerva, with the fabric surrounding the wound colored crimson, escorted her daughters to the exit. Salt, maintaining his position, continued to fire off round after round.
Once his family was gone, a silence fell over the room that was weighted with something that had a sinister feel to it.
“Your advantage is now gone,” Salt told them evenly. “Now the confrontation is between you and me only, yes? The question about the whereabouts of the Eye of Moses will be one that you’ll both take to your graves.”
Salt, however, knew this was an empty threat since he had two bullets left in the magazine. Unless they were precise shots, Salt realized that he would find himself on the wrong end of a retreat.
There was no responding answer.
Only silence.
But this was Salt’s home, his territory. He knew the outlay of the apartment better than anyone. And for all the silence, he knew they were coming around to flank him. So, he slid quietly into the shadows and waited.
Remaining as still as a Greek sculpture, he opted to let them come to him.
* * *
Mr. Donatello was silently reprimanding himself. This part of the operation had been twofold: extract information from Salt and then terminate him. On paper it was simple enough. But Salt had proven his worth as an elite assassin and a formidable opponent, so the strategy had gone to the wayside.
Worse, the leverage of using Salt’s family had been taken away from them. Even if they bested the assassin from this point on, there was no guarantee that he would offer them a single breath of information.
Damn!
From a doorway across from Mr. Donatello, Mr. Archimedes waited for instructions, which Mr. Donatello provided with hand gestures. Mr. Archimedes was to circle around to the hallway and come up on Salt’s side. With a nod acknowledging that he received the instructions, Mr. Archimedes fell back and disappeared.
Mr. Donatello, who gripped his suppressed Glock firmly, also fell back to come up on Salt from the opposite side.
With Mr. Donatello working the shadows to his advantage, he knew that Salt would be doing the same to even the playing field.
A couch.
A nightstand.
A comfortable-looking lounger.
A rack filled with magazines.
Against the far wall was a fireplace with a marbled mantel.
Mr. Donatello moved silently and with feline grace, the man searching for his target.
When he rounded the wall to this room, he saw Mr. Archimedes making his way down the hallway from the opposite side. Salt, who should have been between the two, was nowhere to be seen. The only one there and laying on the floor in mock crucifixion was Mr. Michelangelo.
Mr. Donatello pointed to a small recess to his left, but to Mr. Archimedes’ right. Mr. Archimedes nodded.
Then from Mr. Donatello: “Salt, it doesn’t have to be like this. There’s nowhere to go and we will find your family. Your choice.”
Silence.
It was obvious that they weren’t going to extract anything from the assassin, so their only option was to neutralize a clear and present danger.
Mr. Donatello raised his hand for Mr. Archimedes to see three fingers extended, and then Donatello began to tick them down from three . . .
. . . to two . . .
. . . to one . . .
The two quickly united and began firing into the recess. Muzzle flashes from the mouths of their pistols lit the area like a strobe light, with the intermittent flickers of illumination unable to cast light on their target. As soon Mr. Donatello stepped closer, he noticed that the area was empty and that the wall was pocked and pitted with gunfire.
That was when a hand reached out from the veil of darkness to cup a hand over Mr. Archimedes’ chin, and summarily dragged him into the shadows.
* * *
It felt like someone was pressing a hot iron against Minerva’s flesh as she hurried the children down the street and around the block. Minutes before the bank closed, she was escorted to the vault under the curious eyes of employees who noticed the fabric around her wound had bloodied. But Minerva tried appeasing their concerns by feigning a smile and stating that it was ‘an accident,’ and that ‘everything was fine.’ The appearances on the children, however, were telling a different story, which seemed to raise their curiosities rather than to retard them.
Once inside the vault, she pulled her safety deposit box, set it on the counter, and opened the lid. Inside were their passports and an envelope filled with euros, the bundled bills close to fifty thousand in American currency.
Removing the money and passports, Minerva left the box on the counter, grabbed her children by the hands, then rushed from the bank wondering if she would ever see her husband again.
* * *
The moment Salt drew Mr. Archimedes into a space between two bookcases to use as a human shield, Mr. Donatello turned his weapon on them. In darkness that was not absolute, Mr. Donatello could see Salt pressing the point of his pistol against Mr. Archimedes temple.
“Throw down your weapon,” Salt stated. “I won’t ask again.”
Mr. Donatello maintained his stance, gun pointed.
“Don’t think for one moment that you’re capable of putting a bullet in my head from where you are. Your window of doing so is not that great.” Salt was right. Most of his head was hidden behind Mr. Archimedes, with only his right eye and a parcel of white hair showing. “Do I need to count down from three . . . to two . . . to—”
Mr. Archimedes launched himself into action by throwing a right elbow into Salt while ducking, the maneuver saving his life as a wayward shot discharged from Salt’s weapon, the bullet punching a hole through the ceiling where it lodged.
When Mr. Archimedes pivoted, he threw a grouping of punches that connected. His fists drove like pistons, punching and beating Salt while he was pressed against the wall between the bookcases. As Salt tried to bring his weapon across, Mr. Archimedes slapped it aside, grabbed Salt’s wrist, and gave it a hard wrench. The weapon, with only one round left, fell to the floor. In a subsequent move that was fast and fluid, Mr. Archimedes kicked the pistol with a sweep of his foot so that it would skate out of reach.
Mr. Donatello tried to get a fix on Salt. Couldn’t. The two men were united in the shadows as one. Both rolling, twisting, and grappling. The space they were in minimal and tight.
Then Salt countered by deflecting Mr. Archimedes blows with his elbows and absorbed the punches to protect his vitals. When Mr. Archimedes tried to redirect his thrusts to the assassin’s neck and face for desired results, Salt launched into his own tirade. After countering with straight jabs and punches, Salt had drawn enough space between them to lift his foot and thrust it forward, hitting Mr. Archimedes
square in the solar plexus. The blow effectively knocked the wind from Mr. Archimedes lungs as he backpedaled in a stumbling gait, laboring and wheezing for oxygen.
Salt emerged from the shadows with his hands and feet flying with choreographed designs, his form smooth and graceful as he struck Mr. Archimedes and sent him to the floor by Mr. Donatello’s feet. Mr. Donatello, who watched Mr. Archimedes go from victor to being on the losing edge, tried to readjust his aim. But Salt was on top of him in a moment too quick for Mr. Donatello to comprehend, the man impossibly fast. With Mr. Archimedes on the floor trying to regain himself, Salt knocked Mr. Donatello’s gun aside and threw a well-placed chop to Mr. Donatello’s throat. Donatello’s eyes appeared to pop forward from their orbital sockets as the man’s face turned crimson. He then began to gag and wheeze, the chop damaging his passageway. As he was stumbling backwards, Salt grabbed the weapon easily away and followed Mr. Donatello to an adjacent room where, after knocking over the magazine rack, stumbled to the floor with a hand to his throat. As a way of pleading, Mr. Donatello raised his hand as if to ward off the blow of the bullet he knew was coming.
Salt took careful aim. “You shot my wife . . . I get that because it’s business. But it doesn’t mean that I have to respect what you did.”
Salt started to pull the trigger.
Mr. Archimedes was on the floor in the other room laboring for breath. Once Salt finished with Mr. Donatello, he would then focus his attention on Mr. Archimedes and provide him with the same fate.
Just as Salt was about to pull the trigger, a hand wrapped around his face and yanked him backward. The move was a shocking twist to Salt as he was cast across the room and came crashing down on a coffee table, crushing it.
Looking up, Salt was absolutely shocked at what he saw.
Mr. Michelangelo had risen from the dead.
* * *
As Mr. Michelangelo was beginning to come to, his Kevlar vest had taken the double punch of the rounds that Salt had shot at close range. They were like hammer blows, enough to knock him senseless and to the ground. Then as darkness began to fade and light started to take hold, he found himself on the floor looking at the ceiling. Behind him was Mr. Archimedes, who had a hand to his chest while working manically for the intake of air.
In the other room, a voice that was all too clear to him said: “You shot my wife . . . I get that because it’s business. But it doesn’t mean that I have to respect what you did.”
Mr. Michelangelo, after grimacing, managed to get to his feet and went to the adjacent room. Mr. Donatello was on the ground with a hand up, the man pleading for his life.
Silently and within a few steps, Mr. Michelangelo was on top of Salt, and wrapping a hand around the assassin's face, he flung him backward. Salt took flight with his feet going ceilingward and came down on a coffee table. As his crashing weight smashed it into shards beneath him, his eyes began to roll as if he was becoming detached and adrift, his world growing fuzzy. But the moment was swift as his eyes started with recognition.
Mr. Michelangelo.
Then with a smile, Salt said: “Back from the dead, I see.”
After Salt raised his pistoled hand, Mr. Michelangelo kicked it away with his foot, the weapon now free from Salt’s grip as it headed towards a distant wall.
In a following move, the assassin attempted to cut Mr. Michelangelo’s feet out from underneath him with a sweep of his leg, but missed his mark, the assassin able to drive Mr. Michelangelo backward to avoid the strike. The maneuver, however, allowed Salt time to return to his feet and into a combat position.
Behind Mr. Michelangelo, Misters Archimedes and Donatello were beginning to regain themselves as they stood, the cobwebs dissipating.
Salt’s eyes shifted and darted about their sockets, looking for a means of escape.
The Consortium cast were now on their feet, three against one.
Then Salt raced directly towards the wall and tossed himself into it shoulder first. Drywall, studs, and chalk exploded as he fell and rolled his way into another room, the man covered and laden with dust.
The others gave chase.
Then Salt found himself on the balcony.
Nearly twenty stories above the pavement.
To his left inside of a hooded vase was a knotted rope. He tossed the lid, grabbed the rope, clipped it to the wrought iron, and pitched the line over the rail. Just as the patio door slid aside and a hand reached over to grab him, Salt was barely out of grasping range when he made it to the floor below. Kicking the glass door of the apartment beneath his balcony, it was all Salt needed to get away. Once he was on the lower level, he used the hallway to make his escape.
Salt was on the run.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
At the Lucerne safehouse, Alix Kristoffel was tethered to a wooden chair by Flexcuffs. He was bound around the wrists and ankles, which limited his mobility. With his face cast downward, a long, drooling viscous thread of blood stretched from his lips and nearly to the floor. His face was pulpy and bruised, the swelling almost disfiguring his features.
Mr. Spartan, who placed the tips of his fingers against the left side of Kristoffel’s neck to check his carotid, found the assassin’s pulse strong. “What happened?” he asked Mr. Galileo.
“I was made,” he answered. “But I happened to get the better of him.” And then: “The others?”
“Still in the wild. But we lost Mr. Shakespeare.”
“Lost? As in how lost?”
Mr. Spartan, for all his will to conceal most emotions, failed to do so when his features softened to the looseness of a rubber mask. “I’m afraid he’s been terminated.”
Mr. Galileo closed his eyes and began to work the muscles in the back of his jaw. Then softly: “He’ll be missed.”
Mr. Spartan walked around Kristoffel in observance. The man was large and fit with the cords of his muscles straining against his flesh. There was no doubt in Mr. Spartan’s mind that he was a military asset belonging to the Shadow Klan organization. Trying to extract information from him would prove to be a challenge.
Just then, Kimball Hayden entered the room. If he was surprised at the sight, he didn’t show it. Stoicism had always been his shield. What he did consider, however, was the gruesomeness of the capture. The man’s face had been bloodied and pounded raw. But Hayden did not comment on this. Instead, he said, “I heard what you said about Mr. Shakespeare . . . I’m sorry.”
Mr. Spartan continued to look like he carried blanketed sadness that was constantly wrapped around his shoulders, with the weight of his sorrows bending them to the crookedness of an Indian’s bow.
Hayden then began to walk slowly around Kristoffel, who was beginning to stir. “Has he said anything?” Hayden asked. “Anything at all?”
Mr. Galileo nodded. “Hadn’t had the chance to ask him anything yet. He threw the first punch, I threw the last, and here we are.” That was when Mr. Galileo retrieved a cellphone from his coat pocket, a burner. “He did have this on him, however.”
Kimball Hayden recognized it immediately, as did Mr. Spartan. A burner is an inexpensive mobile phone that’s purchased with prepaid minutes and no contract, for which its temporary use is often associated with illegal activities, after which they may be discarded.
Hayden took the phone and examined it. It was a flip type. After searching through the menu, he discovered a few encrypted calls that Hayden commented on it. “Encoded signatures,” was all he said.
“Three,” said Mr. Galileo. “All placed after the confrontation with Kristoffel, and not too far apart.”
Mr. Spartan took the phone from Hayden and said, “Most likely status calls that went unchecked, which prompted a dismissal code.” A dismissal code was the software means to destroy all cyber- or telephonic footprints to disguise any point of origin. However, there were high-tech tracking systems capable of detecting marginal or trace elements to build upon, then home on to the original source. But
this tracking method could sometimes be time consuming. Nevertheless, Mr. Spartan knew that his only option was to contact the Consortium and have them decrypt and track down the original source, if possible.
As Kristoffel’s head started to loll and moans escaped him, Mr. Galileo prompted him awake with light pats to the assassin’s face. “Let’s go, big boy. Time to wake up and talk.”
Alix Kristoffel appeared confused and aimless, with his surroundings completely alien to him. “Where am I?”
“You sound awake enough,” said Mr. Galileo, as he stepped aside so that Mr. Spartan could command the moment.
Mr. Spartan positioned himself before Kristoffel with his arms crossed before his chest. His face was unreadable, unbiased, his features that of a man about to operate with the cold fortitude of a machine. And then: “Mr. Alix Kristoffel,” he said. “One-time member of the KTC, the Korps Commandotroepen unit of the Royal Netherlands Army. You were special forces who conducted missions which included counter-terrorism—”
“Enough!” yelled Kristoffel, who then spat a wad of bloody spit onto the floor. “Big deal. You read my biographical record and now you think you know me, is that it?”
“My point, Kristoffel, is that you worked with an honorable unit, Class A, top of the line. Now you’ve become the very thing you’ve fought against.”
This prompted a laugh from Kristoffel, who leaned forward to test his binds. “Is that what you think I am? A terrorist?” More laughter, almost delirious by nature. “You know nothing about me other than what you’ve read.” He looked directly into Mr. Spartan’s eyes and said, “You’re nothing.”
Mr. Spartan maintained his stance and betrayed nothing as to what he was feeling or thinking. He didn’t even move when Kristoffel hocked a blood wad and spat it in the direction of Mr. Spartan’s feet.
“You think binding me to this chair with Flexcuffs and acting all non-feeling is going to make me talk? Huh? You think you got me figured out? Think again.”
