*
Lucy tried to steal a look at the paper in Simonova’s hand, but the Russian had it hidden away before she could get close. She fought down the sudden impulse to snatch it from the other woman, the consequences be damned, just so she could have some idea of where the threat was located. Lucy’s home town of New York was in the firing line as much as Beijing and Moscow, and even as she tried to convince herself that it was all part of Ramaas’s greater shell game, she couldn’t help but experience a surge of fear for the city of her birth.
She closed off that part of herself and drew on her training. Lucy let herself go dead and cold, holding her focus on the target. She imagined herself in a sniper’s blind, silencing her breathing, letting in everything around her, analysing every variable. Read the landscape. Look for the anomalies.
Simonova showed no emotion, her face gaunt and statue-still. Across the room, the CIA operatives and the Chinese agents from State Security were equally stoic. None of them were meeting the gaze of the others, none of them showed the reaction that a warning about their own city would have instilled. That meant that either all those operatives had nerves of steel or that something else was going on.
The next round of bidding began, and it became an ugly screaming match. The Saudis and the mysterious Europeans fought over one another, upping the money on offer into tens of millions of dollars in the first few moments. Lucy watched as the Combine’s representative added in his bids every so often, but to her dismay the major powers did little to stop the cost rising and rising. She kept expecting the Americans or the Chinese to drop in a sudden, show-stopping bid that would freeze out the rest, but they let it climb. Finally, the auction turned into a two-way duel between the Combine and the North Koreans, each topping the next until the bidding tipped the scales into the $200 million range.
Lucy found Marc and they shared a look across the chamber. The same question was on both their lips. What the hell is going on?
‘Enough!’ shouted Ramaas, bringing his fist down into his palm with a smack that echoed like a shot. He gripped the last envelope in his hand. ‘I am getting dizzy!’ He snorted and his words were buoyed by the ferocious amusement of his gunmen. ‘Come and claim your prize!’
Both the Japanese mercenary and a North Korean came forward, but Ramaas nodded to one of his bodyguards and the man shoved the Combine operative back.
‘Not you,’ Ramaas told him, bearing his teeth. ‘Never you. The lesson has to be taught to your masters. We have not forgotten how they sent the toxic wrecks to our shores. They are owed nothing but poison.’ He threw the envelope to the North Korean as the army officer stepped away from the laptop, the final cash transfer signalling it was complete. ‘Here. You have earned this!’
The man clutched the paper to his chest and held it close, scowling at the rest of the representatives, and smug in his victory. But then Ramaas gave another nod to his bodyguards and a gunman blocked the North Korean’s way with his assault rifle.
‘What now?’ said the army officer. ‘Our dealings are over. We are leaving.’
‘Not yet. Open it,’ ordered Ramaas. ‘Let everyone see.’ He was eager for it to happen.
A growing sense of unease clawed at Lucy’s gut as the sullen officer tore open the envelope.
The man flushed bright red with fury as he read what was written there. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he bellowed, turning on Ramaas. ‘The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea will not be insulted by the likes of you!’ He advanced on the warlord. ‘You will give us what we paid for!’
The officer’s words were drowned out by a torrent of mockery and hateful laughter from the gunmen in the gallery, their taunts reaching a climax that made the metal walls vibrate.
‘How dare you!’ shouted the officer, and it was then that Lucy saw what was written on the paper. The seven-letter code was FUCKYOU. ‘We will rain fire and death down on your worthless nation!’ the North Korean went on, screaming in rage. ‘You have made an enemy for a thousand years!’
‘And you were idiot enough to give your money to me!’ Ramaas shot back, silencing the other man with a roar. He waved at his gunmen and every one of them raised their rifles, taking aim at the assembled group. ‘Show everyone,’ he said, glaring at the Russians, the Americans and the Chinese. ‘Show the world what I sold you!’
One of the Chinese agents was the first. He reluctantly unfolded the page and held it out. Lucy’s heart froze in her chest when she saw the words NEW YORK CITY written there. But if that meant the video from NYC had been of the real Exile device, then the others –
Simonova offered up her page. The location of the bomb was shown as BEIJING.
With growing alarm, the CIA operative who had taken the other envelope showed his paper to the rest of the group. Lucy heard Simonova draw in a hissing breath as the word MOSCOW became visible.
And then the room was awash in contemptuous laughter once again.
*
A shell game.
Marc stiffened as the full clarity of it shocked through him. There had never been any devices in the three cities. The videos, the demands, all of it had been a ploy by Ramaas to keep his enemies off balance, a way to make sure that he could fight them on terms that best suited him rather than those that favoured the global superpowers.
‘He lied to us all,’ said Saito, a hint of admiration in his voice. ‘I suppose you must respect his audacity, in its own crude way.’
‘Where is the weapon?’ The North Korean officer was crimson-faced and livid. ‘We made a deal! You have reneged on your promise!’
Ramaas’s feral humour flickered into rage for a brief instant, and he knocked the man down with a quick, brutal slap. ‘Of course I did! I am a liar! I am a criminal!’ He opened his hands, daring anyone to decry him. ‘I am a pirate! I am what you have made me!’
‘You’re a dead man, is what you are.’ The words slipped out of Marc’s mouth before he realised he had given voice to the thought, and they caught in the air in a random moment of pause amid all the jeers.
Ramaas glowered at him. ‘I beg to differ.’
‘Really?’ Marc squared off in front of the warlord, fighting down the fear in his gut. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you just scammed not only the largest military forces on the face of the planet, but also a bunch of the most ruthless extremist groups as well. In what version of that story do you come out of it alive?’ He shook his head. ‘You’re insane. Even if you kill everyone in this room, you’ve signed Somalia’s death warrant!’
Ramaas let that slow, predator’s smile come out again. ‘Don’t you want to know where it really is, policeman?’ He wandered back to the raised platform at the rear of the compartment, talking as he went. ‘I have learned one truth in life. God has taught me this. The only things a man must respect are money and strength . . .’ He rubbed at the skin beneath his dark eye. ‘Now I have both. I have taken it from these fools.’
Ramaas moved to the tool chest he had been using as his makeshift throne and flung open the lid. From inside, he drew out a bulky steel suitcase and set it down. The room fell silent as the warlord opened the smaller case’s latches and revealed the complex nuclear detonator mechanism within.
A vivid memory flashed in Marc’s mind. The duplicate steel cases in the boot of the sports car. Four of them.
‘So what now?’ The enforcer from the Los Noches cartel spoke up. ‘You gonna start the bidding again, hombre? Is that even the real thing?’
By way of reply, Ramaas’s skinny hacker wandered over with a Geiger counter and waved it in the direction of the device, the detector returning a sullen chorus of metallic clicks as he pointed the scanner head at the case’s innards.
‘No more money, no more shouting and posturing like some politician,’ said the warlord. ‘You want this? I will let you take it. The price is blood.’
‘You want us to . . . fight you for it?’ Saito appeared to find the prospect interesting.
‘Me? No.’ Ramaas chuckled. ‘Each other? Yes.’ He came forward and rested on a safety rail, as his gunmen drew back. ‘Each of you put in your best. The last man standing gets this.’ He waved in the direction of the steel case. ‘I’ve seen your money. Now I want to see your strength.’
‘All your lies,’ spat the North Korean. ‘Why should we believe you will keep your word now?’
‘Because only a man who fights is worth my respect.’
A ripple of anticipation went through the assembled gunmen. Marc saw some of them muttering to one another, others already trading folds of cash in anticipation of placing bets on the outcome.
‘You don’t seriously expect us to kill each other for your entertainment?’ The CIA operative stood tall, his arms folded across his chest. ‘The United States does not exist to amuse you, Ramaas.’ The American turned to meet the gazes of the others. ‘Listen to me, if we all refuse to –’
Marc saw the annoyance in the curl of Ramaas’s lip; he saw the warlord throw a nod toward a pair of men standing behind the Americans. He tried to call out a warning, but a clatter of gunfire briefly filled the compartment as the armed thugs shot the two CIA men in the back with bursts from their AKMs.
‘You refuse, you die,’ Ramaas said impatiently. ‘Now show me blood!’
*
Simonova threw off her jacket and the taciturn man at her side caught it. She shook out her arms, limbering up, and stepped forward.
‘You’re doing it?’ Lucy hissed. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘This is his arena,’ said the Russian. ‘He makes the rules.’ She turned and looked Lucy in the eye. ‘And I have my orders, Keyes. If I do not leave here with the weapon, this place will be destroyed in order to deny it to anyone else.’ Simonova flicked a glance at the watch on her wrist. ‘If I were you, I would get away now, while you still can.’
Lucy followed her, clutching the assault rifle close, but Simonova was already walking into a wall of lusty shouts from the baying crowd. The tattooed Los Noches enforcer saw her coming and came around, bringing up his hands – too slow. The Russian landed a hard uppercut – the first blow of the new game – that hit him square in the gut and the cartel’s representative staggered back drunkenly.
Ramaas’s men roared their approval and it was the starting bell for the melee. Suddenly, there were fights breaking out all across the rusting machine room. Lucy saw one of the Chinese agents execute a brutal throat chop on one of the other representatives, sending the man down. She heard the sharp crackle of breaking bone.
Lucy drew back, using the distraction to cover her as she slipped around the edges of the compartment, moving toward one of the open hatchways. She could see Marc standing by a steel pillar, and as she watched him the Brit’s eyes were darting back and forth as if he was searching for something.
I know that look, Lucy thought, and her heart sank. He’s going to do something reckless.
*
‘It’s time to end these childish games,’ said Saito. He slid out of his combat webbing vest and pushed past Marc. ‘The Combine want the weapon. I’m going to get it.’
‘What, you’re going to beat everyone else?’ Marc snapped.
‘I will do what is needed.’
‘Ramaas hates everything the Combine stands for,’ said Ruiz. ‘He’ll deny it to you out of spite.’
Saito nodded. ‘That’s why I will kill him in front of all these animals. He said they respect strength – they will respect me when I break the brigand’s neck.’
‘You’ll never get close!’ Marc watched him step forward, into the ersatz ring that had formed in the middle of the crowd. ‘When did this turn into Gladiator?’ he muttered.
‘Ah, these boys, they like the cut of it,’ said Ruiz. ‘It’s all their kind know.’
The Japanese mercenary did not hesitate to show his colours. He threw an overarm strike at the Saudi who stood up to oppose him, making the other man dodge – but from his vantage point, Marc could see it was a clever feint, and Saito’s other arm came up in a bullet-fast punch that landed in his opponent’s ribs. The Saudi reeled back as all the air in his lungs was expelled in a choking grunt. Saito walked to him, unhurried, and grabbed the thinner man by the throat. The Saudi clawed at the mercenary, trying to reach his face, failing. Saito put his long-fingered hand over the mouth and nose of the other man and smothered him.
‘One down,’ said Ruiz, with a sour grin. ‘I’ve seen him do this before. Always an education.’
Saito let the Saudi fall to the deck. Marc couldn’t tell if the other man was still breathing, but the mercenary was already moving on to his next target, one of the Europeans. They fought close at hand, this time in a flurry of short, sharp strikes. Trading attacks, the two of them spun about at the edge of the crowd and the gunmen shouted as they came near, shoving them back toward the space in front of the raised platform.
Ramaas stepped down and walked among his men, sharing their elation, their savage joy at the display before them. The hatred in the air was a palpable thing. The brigands wanted nothing more than to watch these foreigners destroy one another.
Saito got his arm around the European’s neck and twisted it with slow, steady pressure. His opponent’s face turned purple and Marc heard a sickening crackle as the mercenary crushed his trachea.
‘Two down,’ reported Ruiz. ‘Madre, I should have bet on him . . .’
‘You think he’s getting tired?’ Marc said aloud. He wasn’t looking at Saito or the other fighters anymore. He was staring at the hacker and his laptop, and the prize itself, the steel case atop the tool chest.
‘What are you saying?’ Ruiz gave him a sour look.
‘Never mind.’ Marc took a breath and mantled a rusted switching gear on the deck, sliding over it and into the middle of the fighting space.
The crowd bellowed their approval at the sight of a new challenger, even as the rational part of Marc’s mind was screaming at him that this was the stupidest fucking thing you have ever done. Saito heard the shouts and he was turning, momentary confusion written across his face.
Marc dragged up the muscle-memory of all those months of Luka Pavic’s fight training at the gym, moving into the fast, sharp steps of a Krav Maga pattern. It was all about speed, about the application of maximum damage as quickly as possible. There was no way in hell he would beat Saito in a stand-up fight, no way he could second-guess him. His one, slim line of advantage was surprise – that, and the fact that the mercenary didn’t consider him capable of it.
He went for a hard hit to the kidneys, mustering his strength and channelling it so that the punch landed in exactly the right place. Marc’s fist connected with Saito’s torso, but it was like hitting a wad of knotted rope. He got a grunt of pain from the mercenary, more from shock than actual hurt, and followed it up with hits in the same place.
If I can knock him off balance, if I can stay outside his reach –
Marc didn’t see the backhand strike that hit him. It was a glancing shot, Saito’s iron-hard knuckles clipping his brow and snapping his head aside. The mercenary followed it with a swinging kick that landed on Marc’s knee joint and the second blow sent an electric shock of agony through his body. He stumbled backward and fell into the crowd, who parted and let him crash to the metal deck.
Marc blinked away the bright spirals of pain, and saw Saito rock on one foot, as if he was considering the value in coming in to finish the job. Then the mercenary flinched aside as the Chinese operative came at him and for a moment Marc’s brief assault was forgotten. Some in the crowd spat on him and then turned away, disappointed by his performance.
Hands grabbed at his arm and hauled him up to his knees. He saw a dark red shemagh around a face and familiar eyes glaring out at him. ‘You’re an idiot,’ Lucy grated.
‘I know . . . what I’m doing.’ He dragged himself the rest of the way to his feet. Something he had said to Saito moments ago was running through his head, or perhaps it was the fi
rst signs of a concussion. ‘You’ll never get close. I’ve got to get close.’
‘What?’
‘Going back in,’ he said, lurching forward. ‘Trust me.’
‘Then for cryin’ out loud, take this!’ Lucy jammed something cold and metallic into his hand and Marc’s fingers closed around it.
Marc stumbled back toward the edge of the crowd and the men around him parted. They gleefully helped him on his way, shoving Marc back toward the fighting floor.
The Chinese operative was still breathing and struggling to get up, although Saito had done something to the man to make his right arm hang wrongly from the elbow. Marc saw the Russian woman across the way in the middle of a boxing match with the Los Noches enforcer, the pair of them landing blow after bloodied blow on one another.
Saito rounded on him. ‘Are you going to make me end you? I’m sure I could find another pilot.’
Marc circled the mercenary, until he was standing with his back to the dais. He could see Ramaas out in the audience, grinning wider with each blow struck. ‘Come and have a go,’ Marc snarled, ‘if you think you’re hard enough.’
Saito came at him in a rush, much faster than Marc had anticipated, leading with the same move he’d used on the Saudi. It showed how little respect he had for Marc’s abilities, lazily using the same feint to set up for the hammer-strike that he would use to put him down.
Marc met him halfway with a high punch to the chest, but clutched in his fist was the weapon that Lucy had pressed into his grip. The silver dagger was long and slender, a rod more than a blade.
Misericorde, Marc remembered. The clinical, analytical layer of his mind retrieved the name from the depths of his tech-nerd recall, where the stats for dozens of guns, the arcane forms of programming languages and a million other bits of trivia were stored. Used for killing champions.
Exile Page 42
