by Jason Dean
‘Unbelievable,’ she said, slowly shaking her head. ‘I could actually kiss you right now, Bishop. On the lips.’
‘Better not,’ he said, ‘you’d only regret it later.’ He turned to the other woman, who was coming over to join them. ‘You’re Patricia Tatem?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘How did you get in here? What—?’
‘No time for explanations,’ he interrupted. ‘We’re up against it. You both ready to move?’
‘You bet your ass we are,’ Vallejo said.
Bishop nodded and handed her Baldwin’s Walther and the spare magazine. ‘That makes thirty rounds, including one in the chamber.’ Vallejo pocketed the spare, still grinning, while Bishop took the fully loaded .38 Special from a jacket pocket and showed it to Patricia. ‘This is your husband’s. He ever teach you how to use it?’
She gave a tight smile. ‘More like I taught him.’
‘Excellent,’ Bishop said. He’d been right about her. Tough as nails. He handed her the gun. ‘Just don’t get trigger happy. Use as a last resort only.’
‘I understand. So are we leaving now?’
He shook his head. ‘Not without the other women. Apparently, there are seven more locked in their rooms, including Selina. Vallejo, I assume you know what this is about now.’
‘Yeah, Patricia filled me in on what this place is. So what’s the plan?’
Bishop passed her the sketch Neeson had made and pointed to their current location. ‘This is us. The numbered rooms are where the women are held, except for 8 and 9, which are both vacant. So to start with, you’ll need to wake them up and drag them back here in batches. There’s no telling how they’ll react after being doped up for so long, so Patricia, you’ll need to stay with them so they don’t freak out.’
‘Okay,’ she said.
Vallejo frowned at the map. ‘No. 7’s easy, but what about these ones at the other end?’
‘Well, Selina’s in No. 3, so you won’t be able to do anything until they’ve taken her out to meet the buyer. His plane’s coming in now. Then you’ll just have to gather the rest, somehow, and bring them back to join the others.’
‘While avoiding the armed goons,’ Vallejo said.
‘It might not be too bad. The head man, Hallaran, is short-staffed now, so they’ll all be busy preparing for the plane’s arrival. That’s the theory, anyway.’ On the map, he pointed at the hangar’s east wall and said, ‘The good news is there’s a passageway along here that runs the length of the hangar, so you can access those rooms without going down the main central corridor.’
Bishop turned to Patricia. Pointing at the office diagonally opposite the room they were in, he said, ‘This is where you want to take the first group of women. There’s a steel trapdoor by the desk that leads down to Hallaran’s personal escape tunnel.’ He gave her the key. ‘This opens it, and there’s a locking bar on the other side. You’ll also find the body of one of the guards down there, so you better take a bed sheet to cover it with.’
Vallejo looked at him. ‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Idle hands,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Patricia, once you get yourself and those women down in that tunnel, you wait for Vallejo and the rest. Arrange a code so that you’ll recognize her when she knocks. Otherwise, keep it locked. Once you’re all together, follow it to the end and out. I don’t know where it leads, but it’ll be better than here.’
‘If everything goes as planned,’ Vallejo said. ‘So where will you be during all this?’
‘Going after Selina. She’s the main reason I’m here, remember?’
Vallejo snorted. ‘What? All on your own?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ From his windbreaker pocket, Bishop pulled out one of the flash drives and a spare cell phone he’d brought along. ‘Keep these safe. If you get into trouble and need to contact me, just speed dial one. I’ll try to—’
Just then, the two-way radio in Bishop’s pocket crackled to life. He brought it out as a voice said, ‘Grieco, status report.’ Bishop recognized it immediately. Hallaran.
A deep, baritone voice came back: ‘Just got off the radio with the pilot, sir. He said he sees the lights and estimated they’ll be on the ground in three minutes or less.’
‘Good. You’d better go now if you’re going to meet them.’
‘Yes, sir. Out.’
Perfect. Bishop turned the volume down and said, ‘That’s my cue. Remember, if it comes down to the wire, shoot to kill. ’Cause they’ll do the same to you.’
‘I won’t forget,’ Vallejo said and touched his arm. ‘You be careful, huh?’
‘You too,’ he said and jogged over to the door. He opened it and peered left. Six seconds later, he heard the sound of another door opening and pulled his head back. When he heard footsteps getting fainter, he peered round again. He saw a stocky, well-muscled man in a baseball cap marching down the corridor towards the garage door. He wore one of those nylon hip holsters on his right side and was twirling a key ring around his finger.
Grieco. The man from the comms room.
The moment he stepped through the doorway and into the garage, Bishop followed.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Bishop glanced both ways at the junction, saw it was clear and then sprinted all out for the door straight ahead, reaching it four seconds later.
He turned the handle and opened the door a crack. The lights were on inside: six industrial-sized fluorescent tubes running along the length of the garage. To his left, about fifty feet away, Grieco was walking towards the limo at the end, still playing with the key ring.
Bishop silently pulled the door shut behind him and ducked between the two vehicles directly ahead. When he reached the trunks, he raised his head and saw Grieco turn near the end and approach the driver’s side of the limo.
As soon as he opened the door, Bishop began moving at a half-crouch from car to car in that direction. He was four vehicles from the end when he heard the limo’s engine start up. He moved to the next vehicle. Then he heard the car door open again, accompanied by the bing, bing, bing of an electronic warning chime and the sound of footsteps. Bishop figured Grieco was under orders to turn off the interior lights before opening the garage doors.
He moved to the next car’s rear bumper. Stopped. Then on to the next. He was halfway along the second-from-last vehicle’s bumper when the lights went out. Good. Bishop liked the dark. Peering over the trunk, he saw the only illumination was coming from the limo’s interior. He kept his eye on the open door, listening to the man’s footsteps as he came back. Then he watched as Grieco got in the driver’s seat and reached for his seat belt.
As soon as he shut the door, Bishop turned into the space between the cars and crept up to the driver’s side. Behind him, he heard the sound of the garage doors opening and he placed the Sig back in his shoulder holster. Better to keep things quiet if he could.
He watched as the garage shutters arced up, placing his hand on the door latch. Before they reached the top, he stood up and yanked the door open.
The car’s interior light came on. Grieco looked up and gaped at Bishop at though he’d just seen the Rapture. Bishop pulled his right arm back and chopped at the man’s larynx with the hard edge of his palm. Grieco made a gagging noise and lurched forward as blood erupted from his mouth and onto his pants. Bishop reached in with both hands and finished him, using the same move he’d used on Baldwin.
Bringing down the odds, one at time. That’s the way to beat them.
Bishop pulled the lever to pop the trunk, placed Grieco’s baseball cap on his own head and clipped the man’s holster to his belt. This one held a Glock 23 with a full magazine of seventeen .40 S&W rounds. And another spare mag in the side pocket. In situations like this, you couldn’t have too many guns, or too much ammo.
Bishop dragged the body back and stuffed it in the trunk. Then he got behind the wheel and backed the limo out. There was a remote on the passenger seat and Bishop pressed the button that closed the shutters.
He aimed the limo in the direction of the front gate and checked himself in the mirror as he drove. The cap and the tinted glass should help at the entrance. If not, he’d simply have to reduce the enemy’s ranks by one more. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that just yet. Nice and quiet was how he wanted it. For now.
As he got closer to the gatehouse Bishop tried to make out Lane, the guard, but saw no sign of him. When he was within a hundred feet of the fence, the gates began to automatically open inwards. He looked to his right and saw Lane lean out of a window and wave him through. Bishop lowered the visor on his cap and waved back as he drove by.
Just business as usual.
Bishop hung a left as soon as he was through, refusing to dwell on how easy that had been. It wouldn’t last. He just kept the limo at a steady twenty, and when the perimeter fence turned left again, so did he. He pressed the button to lower the window and tried to discern the sound of a plane, but couldn’t hear anything yet.
Another thirty seconds and he was past the hangar. Movement over there caused Bishop to turn his head. But it was just the fuel tanker coming out of the annex at the rear. A six-wheeler with maybe a three or four thousand gallon load capacity. He’d almost forgotten about the refuelling. Now he was glad he hadn’t had to kill Lane.
Fifteen seconds more and he was past the perimeter fence. Ahead was just darkness and desert. Except he could now make out faint landing lights in the ground a half mile away, arranged in an east–west direction. Faint from his position, but probably as clear as day when seen from above. And he could also hear the distant sound of a prop plane coming from the east. Sounded like a single-engine, but he couldn’t be sure.
Bishop aimed for the most westerly part of the strip and spotted lights in the sky about half a mile away. When he was about a hundred feet from the landing strip Bishop stopped the limo, but kept the engine running.
1.06 a.m., according to the dashboard clock. Looked like they were right on time.
Less than a minute later, Bishop watched as the plane came in at a perfect angle. It touched down, decreased its speed and finally came to a stop with fifty feet to spare, perfectly placed in the centre of the airstrip. Bishop put the limo in gear and drove over to meet it.
The corporate jet was a single-engine turboprop, as he’d guessed. Most had twin propellers, one on each wing, but this only had the one. Possibly a Pilatus. Bishop remembered one of his old clients having owned something similar. He pulled up outside the passenger door on the port side. There were four small windows along the body and a cargo door at the rear. He didn’t have to wait long before somebody inside opened the passenger door and lowered it to the ground.
A large, shaven-headed, dark-skinned man in a sports jacket and slacks appeared in the entranceway and glared at the limo. Bishop leaned out and touched a finger against his cap visor. ‘How you doin’?’ he said.
The bodyguard disappeared for a moment and then came back out, taking the steps two at a time. He came up to Bishop and said, ‘Name.’
‘Mine or yours?’ Bishop said.
The bodyguard’s expression didn’t change.
‘Hey, I’m just screwing with you. I’m Grieco, your limo driver. Call Mr Hallaran if you don’t believe me.’ Bishop pulled the two-way from his belt and offered it to the man.
The bodyguard ignored it, turned to the plane and nodded to another steroid abuser waiting at the top of the steps. He had the exact same build and dress sense, but he had long hair tied back in a ponytail. Even in the darkness, Bishop saw facial similarities. Maybe they were brothers or something. Ponytail said something in Portuguese, then moved aside as a third man came down the steps. He wore an expensive-looking suit and looked to be in his mid-fifties. He had grey, receding hair. His face was heavily lined and his expression sombre. He looked like a man used to getting what he wanted. This had to be Poleina.
Shaved-head went back and opened the limo’s rear door. Poleina quickly ducked inside and sprawled out on the back seat like he owned it. Shaved-head followed him in, closed the door and took the jump seat opposite. Ponytail came round the front of the vehicle, opened the passenger door and sat next to Bishop. ‘Drive,’ he said.
‘Way ahead of you,’ Bishop said and started back the way he’d come. He looked in the rear-view. Poleina was looking out the right-hand window at the hangar in the distance.
‘Nice landing,’ Bishop said.
‘Thank you,’ said Poleina without turning from the window. ‘Gerardo?’
Ponytail turned to Bishop and said, ‘No more talk. Drive.’
Bishop shrugged and drove. Halfway back, they passed the fuel tanker coming the other way, also with its headlights off. Less than ninety seconds later, he reached the entrance gates and Lane opened them and waved the car through like before. Bishop didn’t wave back this time. He just kept going towards the hangar, passing the garage shutters and stopping outside a nondescript door a couple of hundred feet further along. Bishop was only guessing, but this had to be the entrance to the reception room.
‘Here we are,’ Bishop said. ‘Door to door service, as advertised.’
Without another word, all three men exited the car and approached the hangar door. He watched Gerardo open the door and go in first, followed by Poleina, then Shaved-head.
Bishop rolled his window back up and turned off the engine, hoping Vallejo and Patricia were making progress. He looked at his watch. 01.13. This was the worst part. Waiting for Poleina to deliver Selina to him. Neeson said it usually took half an hour to finalize everything. Once they were all inside the car, he could take care of Poleina and his men. Then it was a simple matter of taking out Lane at the gate and driving on through. Hallaran was a luxury he’d have to save for later.
Sure. Nothing easier.
Except Bishop had been on countless missions during his eight years in uniform, and something invariably went wrong somewhere along the line. It was inevitable. Life wasn’t like the movies, and human error was just something you had to factor in right from the start. And right now, there was too much happening over which he had no control. Too many people. And the fact that it had been plain sailing thus far only added to his uneasiness.
Experience told him they were due for a slip-up. So Bishop sat back and tried to anticipate all the ways that could happen. The possibilities were almost limitless, but that didn’t stop him. He had nothing else to occupy his time.
He was still thinking on it at 01.26, when he heard gunfire coming from inside.
EIGHTY-SIX
Bishop pulled the keys from the ignition and jumped out of the car. As he was locking it, the radio on his belt burst into life again.
‘Grieco, Baldwin, Kiervan,’ Hallaran yelled, ‘get your asses to the south side of the hangar right now. We got a shooter in room 2. The dyke cop.’ More gunshots. ‘She’s got some of the women with her. Sullivan, cover the main entrance. Lane, you stay in position at the gate and make sure Poleina gets out okay. And keep your eyes peeled for a male intruder. He’ll be around here somewhere. Everybody report your positions now.’
‘This is Kiervan,’ another voice said, sounding out of breath. ‘Pilot’s still in the middle of refuelling. I’m running back now. Be there in four minutes or less. Lane, get ready to open that gate for me.’
‘Lane here. Copy that. Am waiting at the gate.’
‘Sullivan here. Making for the main entrance now.’
Bishop pressed ‘Transmit’, rubbed the speaker back and forth over his cheek stubble to mask his voice and said in a baritone, ‘Grieco here. Coming in now.’ Then he clicked off.
He turned the volume down, ran over to the hangar and pressed himself against the wall a few feet from the door. He held the Sig Sauer to his chest and just stood there, waiting. With Grieco and Baldwin down, that left Hallaran and one more goon inside. Plus two more, Kiervan and Sullivan, on their way. As for the civilians, Ryan was out for the count and if the two hypnotherapists had any sense they’d have locked themselves
in their rooms at the first sound of gunfire. One of them had probably been the fat man he’d spotted earlier.
Bishop saw movement at his left. A tiny human silhouette about two or three hundred yards away, running towards the hangar door. Bishop heard more gunshots coming from inside. He’d given Vallejo thirty rounds. How much did she have left? He needed to get to her fast. But first, he had to wait for this Sullivan to close the distance. Come on, boy. Your boss is calling.
The shape had halved the distance already. He was moving at a good clip. Bishop watched him get bigger and bigger. When he judged Sullivan was about twenty feet away, Bishop pushed away from the wall, raised the Sig and aimed it dead centre at the man’s chest area. He fired three times in quick succession and Sullivan went down soundlessly in heap, like the strings had been cut. Bishop ran over, gun aimed at the spot where he’d fallen. When he saw the body, he pointed the gun at the man’s head and fired again. The man’s left leg jerked once and then was still.
It was always best to be thorough. Bishop had learned that lesson the hard way a long time ago. He didn’t need any nasty surprises creeping up behind him.
Bishop knelt down and checked for the man’s gun, but the holster and both his hands were empty. He found his Maglite, played the beam around the body and still couldn’t see it. He knew it had to be here somewhere, but he didn’t have time. He ran back to the door and heard shouting from within. And it didn’t sound like English.
As he pulled the door open he also grabbed Grieco’s Glock from his hip holster. He re-entered the hangar with a gun in each hand, covering everything in front of him.
The ‘reception room’ was a vast open space resembling a modern loft conversion, with oak flooring, and white walls and ceiling. There were carefully designed nooks here and there, stocked with modern seating and tables. Fifty feet away, Poleina stood in one of these recesses, gripping the shoulder of a blonde woman in a white, spaghetti-strap dress.
