by Rob Jones
And then Luk pulled a knife from his belt and tossed it in the air so he was holding it by the blade… ready to throw it at me.
She flicked her eyes down at the violent sea and knew there was nothing down there but a terrible, lonely death.
She looked back up.
The next seconds went like lightning.
Luk pulled his arm back to throw the knife.
Maria fired her gun and dodged to the left to miss the knife.
She slipped on the pipe and tumbled over it.
Luk staggered backwards, his hands clutching the savage bullet wound in his stomach.
Maria grabbed hold of the pipe as she fell down, and just managed to grab hold of a riveted plate holding two segments of the pipe together. She was safe, for now, and had stopped herself plummeting into the sea, but it was only now that her hands were grasping the pipe’s metal that she realized it was hot – too hot to handle.
She cursed in pain as she hauled herself back up the pipe and then staggered to her feet. Not taking any more chances she made the last few yards of the pipe and stepped off onto the substructure’s platform a foot away from Luk.
“Please…” Luk murmured. “Make it fast.”
“You want it fast?” she said, her heavy Russian accent concealing only part of the utter contempt she felt for the man kneeling in front of her.
She raised her boot and placed it on his chest. “Нет…No.”
And with that she booted him off the platform.
He screamed as he tumbled over the edge of the Seastead and crashed down into the Kort nozzle of the moored container ship below. Sucked down by the force of the enormous ducted propellers he was drawn helplessly toward the savage, whirring blades. The last thing she heard were Luk’s blood-curdling screams as his body was sucked inside the industrial cowling and minced by the vessel’s azimuth thruster. This was followed by a terrible noise that sounded like an industrial meat grinder. Seconds later the heaving Atlantic was bright red with blood and then it was all gone, washed away with the tide forever.
“Death by a thousand cuts, you bastard,” she said coolly, and slipped her gun back inside her holster.
And then saw the muzzle flash.
And heard the crack.
And felt the shot.
It felt like someone had run a hot poker through her heart.
She gasped, but felt no air fill her lungs, and then she dropped to her knees as the hot blood poured from her mouth.
She knew what had happened… or thought she knew, because now she was losing consciousness. Her blood pressure was dropping because of the nine mil hole in her heart and there was nothing she could do to save herself.
The battle seemed to move in slow-motion as she turned her head and saw Vincent Reno racing toward her with his gun raised. He was screaming Non! and then he fired three successive shots above her head to kill the assassin. She never knew if he got him because instead she chose to close her eyes and go to sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“Who the hell has an escape hatch under his frigging desk?” Lea asked, sighing angrily.
“The President of the United States, for one thing,” Hawke said. “I know because Alex told me she saw it when her Dad introduced her to President Grant. It’s right under the Resolute Desk and leads down on a slide to the Secret Service’s Horsepower Command post in the White House basement.”
“Well, this arsehole has one too,” Lea said. “And he’s just used it to get away. Damn it all!”
A man rushed into the room with a gun raised. He was wearing black and Hawke immediately saw the Athanatoi mark on his wrist. He burst into action ready to fight him when he saw it was the man they had called Lazarus.
“Where is the bastard?” Lazarus said.
Scarlet pointed down the escape chute. “He left the party early.”
Lazarus ran to the chute and cursed in a foreign language none of them recognized. He stared down into the gloom of the escape route, his face crossed with frustration, anger and fear.
“Where does this lead?” Hawke asked.
“He has an aircraft.”
“Shit,” Hawke said.
“Double shit,” Lea said.
Scarlet sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Make that a triple.”
“No, this is definitely a four turd situation,” Camacho added.
“Let’s get after him,” Hawke yelled. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. If we want kill him it’s now or never.”
Lazarus shook his head. “Many have wanted to kill him, but all have failed. Today I will succeed where they all failed.”
The man from the helipad burst into the room with a gun. “Lazarus, you traitor!”
They exchanged gunfire, both striking each other. Lazarus’s aim was better, hitting the other man in the head and killing him instantly, but his own wound was in the stomach. Death would be slow and agonizing.
“Jesus!” Lea said, running to the wounded man. “Oh God…”
“Get after him!” Lazarus said, his voice barely a whisper. “He must die. Take this.” He handed Hawke his M4 complete with grenade launcher attachment. “You’ll need it.”
“Scarlet – with me,” Hawke said. “We’re going after Wolff. Lea and Jack – stay with Lazarus. He could help us.”
Hawke slid down the escape chute at speed, folding his arms over his chest as if he were using an aircraft’s evacuation slide. Seconds later his journey was over and he found himself on a sheet steel platform beside a narrow-gauge railroad leading off into a tunnel.
“What the fuck is this?” Scarlet said, now standing beside him. “Disneyland?”
“He’s gone, Cairo – and whatever he used to get away was the only one because there’s nothing else here.”
“Then we have to run along the tracks,” she said. “Now’s your chance to get back from Pork to Hawke.”
He gave her a look and readied the grenade launcher. “Let’s see who gets there first then shall we?”
*
Lea stared down at the dying man. “Why did they call you a traitor, Lazarus?”
He tried to smile. “Because I wanted to tell the world about what we really are.”
She took a deep breath. “Are you… gods?”
He shook his head. “We have lots of names – the Athanatoi is a very old word we use but there are others – the Shadowmen, the 10th Floor Group, the Priesthood – it depends on the country. In China we’re called Bāxiān, a group of eight xian, or transcendental saints.”
“How many groups are there?”
“There are many sects, or factions. Some refer to these as churches, or creeds, others even use the word denominations, but it all comes to same thing. There are lots of us, more than you know. We are immortal, but not divine. We are human, just like you. We were given the secret of immortality and we guard it with our lives, as you have seen. You can think of us as priests serving a higher power.”
“What higher power – the Oracle?” Camacho asked.
The man laughed, coughing out more blood. He shook his head and gasped in pain as he clutched his stomach. “The Oracle serves the higher power just like the rest of us but now he’s locked in endless skirmishes in the search for…” he doubled over in pain and made an agonized wheezing sound. His blood pressure was falling too low. “I’m dying… I’m finally dying.”
“No you’re not!” Lea said, leaning forward and tightening the tourniquet, but it was useless work and they both knew it. She gripped the man’s head in her hands. “Searching for what, Lazarus?”
He looked up into her eyes as he released his dying breath. “Knock, and the door will be opened to you.”
And then he was gone.
Lea closed her eyes and sighed, and then laid the man’s head gently down in the rubble.
*
Jack Brooke picked up the phone and dialled through to the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. A few seconds later Davis Faulkner picked up the call.
“I don’t know, Jack.”
“A lot of people are talking to me about some kind of military strike on an island down there.” Brooke knew the island, but Faulkner didn’t need to know that.
“I’m the same – just getting crap flying in all over me, six ways from Sunday.”
“Find out what the hell is going on and get back to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Davis…” Brooke rubbed his hand over his face and took a breath. “I’d kinda hoped I could bring this up when we were face to face, but you heard about Harper, right?” His shook his head with sadness as he thought about Harper Cavazo, one of the senators for Florida.
“Sure did – no wonder they call those damned things Doctor Killers.”
Brooke clenched his jaw. He had known Harper for twenty years. Her death in a light aircraft accident a few days ago still felt raw. The NTSB was still investigating.
“Listen, Davis… we’ve known each other a long time so I guess you know what’s coming.”
“Oh no…”
“You don’t think you’re up to it?”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly…” his voice trailed off and Brooke heard a long inhalation on the famous cigar.
“So what do you say?”
“I was thinking about retiring somewhere tropical with a cool drink in each hand.”
“But instead you’re going to join me on the ticket and be my Vice President, right?”
A long pause. “I’d be honoured to share a ticket with you, Jack.”
Brooke smiled. He liked Davis Faulkner – to a limit, but more than that he was a Florida man, and that was a major battleground state in the up-coming election. Brooke was going to have to carry the Sunshine State if he wanted the keys to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Thanks, Davis. Now – find out just who’s been blowing the hell out of the Caribbean. It’s in our sphere of influence and no one plays down there without us knowing about it.”
“You got it, Jack.”
Brooke cut the call. He’d done the right thing. Not that he was going to tell Davis Faulkner about it, but his daughter had been on that island when it was attacked and he wanted to know who to pay back for the favor. At least the old Floridian had agreed to join him on the ticket and run as his Vice President. If Davis could deliver Florida’s Electoral College votes he was sure he could win the Oval Office and if something ever happened to Brooke, Davis Faulkner would be a safe pair of hands in the White House.
At least not everything today had been a disaster.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Hawke and Scarlet emerged from the monorail and found themselves exactly where Lazarus had described. They were standing on a rain-lashed section of the Seastead’s upper level on the northeast of the platform by a runway. A sky slick and greasy with rain loomed above them and dead ahead was the hangar. Trundling out of it was a small Eclipse 500 business jet.
With the grenade launcher the dying man had give him gripped firmly in his hands, and only three rounds for it in his pocket, Hawke knew they only had one chance to stop Otmar Wolff, and that chance was now.
“We have to get closer!” he said. “This thing has a two hundred meter range so we couldn’t hit a barn door from this range.”
They ran across the platform in the rain and wind as fast as they could, never taking their eyes off the jet. Its two Pratt & Whitney turbofans were already fired up and the Oracle was trundling it out of the tiny hangar and lining it up on the runway.
“He’s on his way, Joe!”
“We’ll see about that.”
He aimed the grenade launcher and fired on the small jet. A puff of smoke and then two seconds later the small hangar exploded in a fireball.
“Strike one,” Scarlet said, looking anxiously at the jet as it began to speed up.
Hawke fired the second grenade. Two seconds later another large fireball exploded into the air, this time on the runway twenty yards behind the accelerating jet.
Scarlet sighed and turned to look at Hawke. “Strike two… only one grenade left.”
Ahead on the runway, Wolff had pushed the throttles forward and the afterburners lit up at the back of the small jet. It speeded up rapidly and began to race away down the runway.
“Now or never, Joe.”
Yes, thanks, Hawke thought. I got that.
*
Reaper turned the corner one second too late to save her. He’d just watched Ryan Bale and Dirk Kruger die in a boat explosion caused by Dragan Korać , and then wasted Korać for it. Now, he was thundering toward the sound of gunshots and arrived just in time to see Maria take Luk out. She’d booted him off the platform after he’d tried to kill her with a knife. It was a job well done, but then things had gone badly wrong.
He tried to stop it but was a second too late.
Another fatal shot, this time from above.
And Maria fell down. She swayed back and forth and then it was over.
Reaper immediately scanned the rigging above her and saw the assassin. He was already trying to get away.
Ekel Kvashnin.
Kamchatka had claimed another victim, but this time, Reaper swore, it would be his last.
The Frenchman jammed the gun into his belt and started to climb up into the support scaffolding in pursuit of the Russian hitman. The weasel had now reached the top of the scaffolding and was on a small mezzanine level, taking cover behind one of the Seastead’s enormous electrical turbo generators.
He watched with hatred as Kamchatka reloaded his rifle and took up a defensive position. Seconds later they were engaged in a high-intensity fire fight. A fire fight Vincent Reno was determined he had to win.
High above on the next platform he heard the chaotic noise of battle and what sounded like the whining of an aircraft’s jets, but dismissed it, not believing an aircraft could take off from a platform of this size.
Kamchatka fired on him. He was high in the substructure’s support scaffold, like a pirate in a galleon’s rigging. By the looks of it, he was loading a Russian-made VSSK Vykhlop sniper rifle, and he was doing it with impressive calmness and efficiency considering the circumstances.
Reaper knew this was his moment. He slowed his breathing and took the shot.
And Kamchatka took the bullet in his heart, just as he had done to Maria.
“Goodnight, you bastard,” Reaper said.
As Kamchatka fell from the rigging into the sea, Reaper closed his eyes and gave Ryan and Maria a silent prayer.
*
Hawke aimed the grenade launcher for the final time and fired it at the jet. They watched as the grenade round tore through the air, their hearts full of hope. The former Commando had judged the speed of the aircraft and the crosswind, aiming the projectile ahead of the moving jet and to its left to compensate for the three seconds it was in the air.
Time seemed to slow down.
Lea and Camacho emerged from the monorail and ran to them.
And all four watched as the jet lifted into the air, flying right over the top of the end of the runway as the grenade exploded into a third and final fireball. The aim was good enough to knock the jet to starboard for a few seconds, but they watched with grim disappointment as Wolff pulled it level and banked hard to port. Seconds later he vanished into the low cloud ceiling and all that remained was a stormy sky.
“You missed him!” Lea said.
Hawke threw the grenade launcher to the ground and cursed.
“What about Lazarus?” Scarlet said.
“He’s gone.”
“What did he say?”
“It’s from the Bible,” Lea said. “Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be opened to you. Matthew. ” She looked at Scarlet who was staring at her. “Oh – I’m a recovering Catholic schoolgirl.”
Lexi arrived next, panting hard with the effort of the sprint. “I got the refi
nery.”
“Good work,” Hawke said. “But he got away.”
And then Reaper turned the corner, hands on his hips and doubling over to get his breath back.
“Where are Ryan and Maria?” Hawke asked, unsettled by the bleak look on the former legionnaire’s face.
The Frenchman took a deep breath, straightened himself up to his full height and looked at them. He said nothing, but gently shook his head.
They all knew what it meant.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Davis Faulkner relaxed his posture and tried to remember everything he had been told about the basic golf swing. Sometimes in life it was just too easy to forget the fundamentals, and this was one of those times. He was a busy man, and he had too much on his mind to remember the little things.
He gently corrected his balance, shifting his weight to the middle of his feet and gently angling his spine down towards the Bridgestone B330 ball awaiting its fate down on the tee. He flexed his knees and lowered his right side to ensure the ball was in perfect alignment with the left side of his head.
Faulkner remembered what his instructor had told him about the swing – bring the club head back first, then the hands, shoulders and hips should all move in one gentle, fluid motion. As he raised the club higher he shifted the weight to his right side. The momentum of the swing gained pace, and his shoulders were now a good way into their full rotation in preparation for the attack.
He began the downswing with a lateral shift, dropped his arms, pulled his right elbow into his hip and rotated his body towards the ball, making sure to keep his head up and away from the ball as he went. Then, with an accuracy and power than surprised him, he made contact with the ball, kicking his right knee inward and keeping his left leg straight. The club head smacked the ball high and fast into the bright, crisp Virginia air.
