Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  We halted suddenly when the line of spectators bunched up in a large room. People stood at a doublewide doorway a few meters ahead, the line had stopped because of a security check.

  We waited, and Tam and I gave the place a once over. There were no wands or doing pat-downs, no visible cameras, or sensors, just an old security scanner. I glanced at Tam, who rolled his eyes. A breech like this was big enough to drive a truck through.

  A few more steps and I spied a skinny kid with spiked blue hair seated behind a folding table. He bounced and swayed to the music in his earbuds, barely glancing up from the console as groups passed through the detector frame. He reminded me of Poet9 ten years ago—smart but clueless. Flanking him were four, mirror shade, no-neck gypsies with poorly concealed Uzi bulges under their jackets. Guess the Turkish Mob was relying on old-fashioned intimidation to keep everyone in line.

  I sighed. Amateurs.

  The four guards tried to look tough when the three of us shuffled up to the scanner. Angry noise wafted up the dark stairwell in front of us, and I admit my fingers itched for the familiar grip of my Blizzard. We stepped through, and the blue-haired kid hit a button. The static tingle of electronics filled the air, and a bright tension shivered through me. I swear I felt the outline of Boker blades pressing on my skin. I held my breath. Seconds passed and nothing happened. The kid’s head went on bobbing, the guards waved us through, looking over to the next batch of spectators. Tam caught me out of the corner of his eye again, and I saw him switch into ready mode. I nodded back, and we followed Alejo downstairs.

  The basement turned out to be a large open hall, circular, windowless and clammy. Its center had been dug out for the pit, and concrete ledges dropped like steps in concentric levels down to the fighting cage. The wide, top level was crammed with shouting bookies and food vendors, while at the far end a makeshift bar sold drinks and cheap beer. The place was filling up fast. Clamor and sweat surged in the thick air, like the auger of violence in an impending storm. Mobs of men, and not a few women, kept streaming in, piling into plastic benches lining the ledges.

  Sunk in the center at the very bottom, the hexagon shaped fighting pit was topped with rusted chain-link fencing and barbed wire. The first match hadn’t been fought yet, so the sand on the arena floor was immaculate, raked smooth like a Japanese tea garden. On the six cement walls, a patchwork of painted sheet metal plates made a quilt of faded yellows, reds and blues, all dented, gouged and streaked with dried blood. Rough chiseled entrances with iron gates revealed passageways underneath the stands leading to and from the arena.

  Taking it all in, the feverish seething of bodies, the noise, the murky light, the eager cruelty in the air, the place warped into an industrial version of Dante’s Inferno.

  Alejo caught me sweeping over the area. He gestured with his cane. “The passages down there go the separate chambers where fighters get ready. There are two main rooms—on the north and south sides—and old tunnels that lead to the metro tubes.” He cast his eyes to the far side of the room. “Over there, see the yellow door? That’s a utilities room where the Turks count the money, and keep an eye on everything. Those three guys, there, there, and at the door are armed. And so are the two bartenders. The counting room has a ladder to the street, but you won’t get close to it any day there’s a fight. Only other way in or out is the stairs.”

  “And you said this was a safe spot?”

  “Safer. I said safe-er.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: MAD BADMINTON SKILLS

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs District. 7:30 p.m. Day Three.

  The sun had just set, pulling the narrow streets into darkness. Lieutenant Kaneda squeezed the blue-gray Kia van into an alley across from the mosque and cut the electric motor. Lights glistened in primary colors through the slit windows of the wudu entry hall, backlighting the dark shapes of people on the streets. Several hurried up through the doors into the mosque. The lieutenant rolled down the window and immediately felt the slab weight of slum walls tottering above, the cram and stink of the zones closing in on him.

  Filthy rat’s nest. How can people live like this? He turned, leaned back into the small cargo interior and regarded the clone agents. The two of them were sorting through the contents of one of the large duffle bags. He cleared his throat. “There it is. Over there. We’re told the building hosts illegal fights in the basement. You’re to meet at least one of the mercenaries down there, so be on the lookout. Here is some currency for admission.” He passed back a grimy pastel wad of old large denomination Euros. “Their man will be at the bar, the contact phrase is ‘something to trade.’ Understand? All you need to do is confirm his identity, and make arrangements to pick up the package. Tonight if possible, tomorrow if you must. The colonel has a transport on standby.”

  He paused, waiting for a response. The clones were sorting through the contents of a black duffle bag and didn’t bother to look up.

  “Do not draw attention to yourself.,” the lieutenant continued. “Just get the information and set up the delivery. No more bodies.” Instead of answering, the two clones drew weapons out of the bag’s black nylon folds. Lieutenant Kaneda watched the female pocket two Daewoo semiautomatics.

  “What are you doing? I said no more bodies.”

  “Call it contingency planning,” replied her partner. “There are only two of us, and it’s a tactical liability to be unprepared.”

  “Your friend is busy disposing of a body, that’s why he’s not here. The colonel wants this to be fast and off the radar. This is a meeting, not an assault.” He bit off the words one at a time, as if talking to a child. At his tone, the clones froze and stared at him. Lieutenant Kaneda drew back and continued patiently. “That mosque is run by a local crime gang. There’s bound to be armed guards. Some kind of security. A crowd. Your guns will get detected, and that will cause more problems.” He breathed out a long sigh. “Problems we don’t need.”

  “It’s an illegal gambling operation. There are armed guards, and you’re saying we go in without any weapons?” the large man demanded.

  “Yes. It’s a public place. All you’re doing is talking. My orders are to set up del—”

  “Our orders come from the executive himself,” The woman interrupted. “We are to retrieve the item. Failure is unacceptable. We must guarantee this mercenary’s cooperation.”

  “They are cooperating. They’re the ones who arranged this meeting. I don’t want you taking weapons. Am I clear?”

  The female clone stared at the young officer, then shrugged, and passed a medical hypo-spray to the large man.

  “What was that?” the lieutenant asked.

  “A tranquilizer. We’ll remove the subject for interrogation. You need to be ready when we exit the building,” the large man answered.

  “Look,” Lieutenant Kaneda was almost pleading now. “These contractors know what’s at stake here. They want to get paid. You’re here to get the device. They want to give it to us. Simple. All you have to do is talk, not kill things.”

  “You are correct.” The girl shifted in the back cargo area, facing the lieutenant directly. “It is very simple. This mission is crucial, and we’ve been ordered to take whatever steps necessary to ensure its success.”

  Lieutenant Kaneda ground his teeth. “Fine. Bring the spray. Now get in there and make contact.”

  The female clone hesitated, a mannequin smooth look on her stunning face. Abruptly, she smiled at the lieutenant and put the pistols back in the bag. “We’ll take care of it.”

  Behind her, slick as black nylon, the large man slid an Isuzu machine pistol and a single Semtex micro grenade into an inner pocket of his jacket. “We will return shortly,” he said. “Be ready.”

  Lieutenant Kaneda toggled a switch and opened the side cargo door. The agents hopped out and made their way across the street, two more dark creatures sinuous in the gathering night.

  ------------------

  I leaned back into the damp sh
adows that clung to the wall. I’d stayed on the top level across from the entrance to watch the last of the spectators flow in. Tam stationed himself near the tumbledown bar with its busy swarm of bookies, while Alejo found a bench seat in my line of sight across from me in the first tier. We were ready, and the event was getting started.

  On the pit floor below us, a goateed little emcee in a tuxedo ran around, working up the crowd like some evil circus midget. His voice was amplified incoherence as he bellowed into an ancient handheld mike. Somehow the crowd understood him, or maybe they just knew the routine, because they all roared on cue. The noise made me glance down at the first contenders.

  Judging by all the chanting and stomping in the stands, the first guy who came out must have been local talent. The reigning champ was a thick, swarthy, pug-faced punk who strutted out of the northern tunnel. With his fists raised, he circled the pit, thrusting his groin at the painted women who screamed his name. I shook my head. Hold the lines—we have a winner. Even from the top floor, I could see the thick lattice of scars on his shoulders and head. He was the kind of fighter who led with his face.

  He flexed his arms, all poser ape, and danced some cheap footwork pattern back to his side of the ring, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up. Someone handed him a short club studded with nails, and he swung it back and forth. He was low hit, street-trash muscle, but by the smirk on his thick face, he figured himself the alpha dog in this pen. He stood ready to piss on anyone who dared say otherwise.

  The announcer then turned to the southern wall and gave another unintelligible shout, introducing the challenger. A small black man stepped out of a dark oversized sewer hole. At first, I thought he was old; his skin was the color of dark ebony, shiny and taut over a thin, almost emaciated frame. He was all knobby boned, with long muscles and hair frizzled dirty white from years of malnutrition. He hesitated in the lights, standing still in a half crouch as he adjusted to the halogen brightness and din of the crowd.

  I looked closer and realized what he was: a Somali boy soldier, probably yanked from the garbage heap of a border camp somewhere in the bloody nose of East Africa.

  The entire crowd jeered and hissed, the prejudice palpable as they threw a volley of contempt and beer bottles smashing onto the chain link canopy. Having come of age in the rabid playground of tribal wars, the Somali looked up unfazed and strode into the middle of the ring. In his left hand, he gripped a battered military folding shovel. A cheap Chinese knockoff, it was as scarred and beaten as he was, but the edge held a ragged gleam.

  The local champ snorted in contempt and started complaining to the emcee with indignant sweeps of his thick arms. The crowd loved it and chanting swelled again. The African stood and waited for his rant to end. He knew there was no backing out of this fight. After a couple minutes, Pug Face stopped his little machismo jerk off and agreed to fight, even though this contest was beneath his skill. The crowd roared their approval, the victory as good as won for their boy. Last bets were called and there was a flurry of notes changing hands, but watching the skinny ‘fugee, calmly assess his opponent, I knew where the smart money went.

  The Asian Pacific agents emerged from the stairwell right then; a large man with a good-looking woman. I can’t say spotting them was hard; we were expecting them. I caught the looseness of their limbs, the tightening around their eyes as they swept through the crowd, but something else gave it away. Space: body space all around them. Everyone else was jammed in tight as they passed through the doors, but the other spectators veered away from these two unconsciously. It was like they emitted a repelling field. No one jostled, or even spoke to them. They gave off mixed signals on a primal frequency.

  Tam had made them straight away too, and he caught my eye from across the room. I tipped my beer to Alejo and loosened a Boker in my left sleeve. Tam moved towards the bar.

  I tracked the two agents over my fight bill as they strode up to the bar. Tam eased in two stools down from them and ordered another drink. I started waving my betting sheet and drunk-stumbled toward the bookies clustered by the stairs, drawing them out like gulls to a carcass. I kept two of the better-dressed ones between me and the bar, and played Anglo ignorance, demanding translations of fighter’s names, reps, and odds. The bookies chattered away while I kept one eye on Tam.

  The bartender working his end was a shaggy-haired, foot soldier with muttonchops and missing teeth. He grinned wide and poured the girl a drink on the house. She smiled back, but it never reached her eyes. Despite the subliminals, the girl was definitely drawing attention. There were plenty of appreciative stares and a couple wolf whistles. The big guy didn’t respond, let alone acknowledge them. He was certainly hefty enough to dismiss little dogs yapping, but his body language was way off beam. He wasn’t acting arrogant or macho. He just stood at the bar tense and distracted, gripping his beer bottle like a life rope. Meanwhile, the girl stretched, arched her back slightly, and I saw the effects of her movement ripple up and down the bar. Heads were turning now, and at least four other men had zeroed in on her. These agents were drawing far too much attention, but they seemed oblivious. Our little appointment was starting to read very wrong.

  My palms were itching.

  I was going to signal Tam to call it off, but while everyone was eyeing the girl, he edged onto the stool next to the big man.

  “The first ones are never good, eh?” Tam lurched, sloshing his beer.

  “What?” The big man tensed, his eyes two flat black stones.

  “The fights, you know. Opening bouts are just to get the blood up. Or spilt on the sand.” Tam slurred a little, raising his beer toward the pit. “Fresh meat can’t even fight properly any more than a couple minutes.”

  “Go away,” the big man snapped, staring down at Tam. “I don’t want your company.”

  “What’cha doing down here then, you pissy bastard?” Tam leaned past him and winked at the girl. “Your friend over there want company? Ain’t got any credits left, but I got something to trade.”

  I saw the man start to grab Tam and freeze as the code phrase registered. It was so fast, I only saw him twitch. Sirens were going off in my head now. Other patrons missed it, either heading off to catch the first fight, or intent on the girl. In fact, one of her admirers had screwed up his courage and was angling towards her.

  I took another step closer to the bar.

  The suitor was an old ganger, long past his prime, the right side of his face tattooed in faded Bic blue. Hatchet mark gang signs and carbon copy tears ran down into gray stubble, and a doe-eyed saint peeked out of his shirt collar, her halo sagging in wrinkles. Lingering in a place like this, he was wringing the last dregs out of a fading street rep. My guess was it wouldn’t be long before he wound up as a notch on some up and coming punk’s shank handle.

  Still, he must have been someone in his misspent youth because the patrons gave him wide berth when he moved. Almost as big as her partner, he displaced a skinny meth-head off a barstool and sidled up next to the female agent. He puffed out his chest and yelled.

  “Armando, another drink for the lady here!” He eyed the big agent as he murmured to her, “Hey, chica. I’ve never seen you before ‘cause I know I’d remember. First time to the fights?”

  Her partner was ignoring him, intent on Tam, but she turned her head, appraising the old ganger as through a riflescope. He, in turn, missed it because he wasn’t looking at her face.

  The gangbanger went on. “Fights are exciting, but you can’t see from here, chica. Tell you what… I’ve got a couple good seats down pitside. So close you’ll get blood on you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “You want get closer baby?”

  “No.” She turned her back on him and started looking through the crowd. Anger flashed across the old ganger’s face, but that’s not what worried me. The large man was still staring at Tam like a snake. I pointed to a random name on my fight bill, passed a handful of faded Euros off to one of the bookies and moved closer to the bar.


  “You have something to trade?” the big agent blurted out. Tam gave a slight nod and kept the drunk act going.

  The old ganger eye-raped the woman long and low and made the mistake of insisting. “C’mon, baby. Don’t be shy. No harm done. Just asking that’s all.” The booze must have upped his courage. “Your friend don’t matter,” he said. “He’s ignoring you, see? I bet you want to get closer to me though.” He pressed his crotch up against her back, smirking.

  If I hadn’t rolled my eyes at the ganger’s play and looked over at Tam, I’d have missed it. The big guy was utterly unconcerned about what was happening with his partner. Instead, he dropped his right hand down into his jacket pocket. Tam missed it, leering at the drama with the girl as he waited for the guy to speak again. But the big agent was palming something, bringing his hand up toward Tams face.

  I stepped toward Tam and yelled, “Hand!” and the sugar turned to shit in a split second.

  The same moment, the old ganger had grabbed at the woman’s butt, pawing hard, and rubbing up against her. Both she and Tam reacted simultaneously: Tam by pushing back off the bar and swinging his beer bottle at the upcoming fist, the girl by reaching down and grabbing the ganger’s fingers.

  Tam smacked the big guy’s hand; she jerked her wrist. I heard the ganger’s fingers break the same time a yellow medical hypo-spray flew through the air.