PLAZA

by Shane M Brown

  Dale raised an eyebrow enigmatically. 'Well now, that's the stuff of myth and folklore, isn't it? How does one escape the inescapable? How did young Dale Brish escape the flooded vault surrounded by every cop in Paris?'

  Merc waited, but Dale didn’t elaborate. Merc tried something else. 'What was the score then?'

  'Huh?'

  'What were you trying to steal? They never said in the papers.'

  'Three first-edition pound sterling coins. Very rare.'

  'That's all?'

  'Yep. Anything else was a bonus, but it was the coins I needed to complete a valuable collection.’

  'Did you get them?'

  Dale sat back with his hands on his thighs. 'No. But I know who has them. You've seen one of them. It's the coin Spader always carries around.'

  Merc was quiet for a while. He knew the coin. It had been Spader's lucky charm for the last three months. Spader flipped it over his knuckles like it wasn't especially valuable, yet it had led to the deaths of Dale's four friends.

  Merc asked, 'So you met Spader after you escaped?'

  ‘Spader's face was the very first thing I saw.'

  'What happened to the builder?' asked Merc suddenly. 'The one you conned?'

  Dale brightened. ‘He was the only person who profited from the operation. He sold his story to the tabloids! Ironic, huh?’

  Merc smirked. After a moment of packing up the artifact bags, he said, ‘Come on, we got to move this stuff back to the plane. Remind me one day to tell you how Spader recruited me. Now that’s a story.'

  Chapter 8

  Ethan hurt like he'd been in a car accident.

  After being pushed down the stairs, his hip and shoulder throbbed like a son-of-a-bitch. Rourke was correct, no bones seemed broken, but he sure felt like something should be broken. Hands bound, he couldn't probe the cut above his ear. When Ethan tried to check the wound, Rourke shoved him savagely onwards with his rifle barrel. At least the wound had clotted and stopped dripping blood off his earlobe.

  A nearby explosion jolted Ethan from his escape plans.

  Pieces of metal debris rained down ahead of them. A large piece, still on fire, resembled a twisted piece of scaffolding.

  'What was that?' Ethan demanded. 'What just exploded?'

  A smoke cloud appeared to the east. Rourke whistled an appreciative note. 'Kline really knows how to get the job done. I can't fault him in that regard.'

  Now Ethan could smell the smoke.

  What did Kline just blow up? Ethan wondered, scanning in the direction of the dispersing smoke.

  The communications tower.

  The comm-tower was missing from the Plaza skyline. Kline had just destroyed any possible way for Ethan to call for help. The smoke from the explosion was blowing right into his and Rourke's path, wafting through the Plaza ruins like a warzone. The only difference was that this place had been ruins before the violence broke out. Ethan gagged and coughed. Hand’s bound, he could only turn his face into his shoulder and use his shirtsleeve as a filter.

  A dangerous thought occurred.

  Should I run while we're in the smoke?

  Was he in any condition to make a run for it? His head had finally stopped spinning, but would his legs do the job? He wouldn't need to get very far before he could dodge behind some ruins, but nothing prevented Rourke from chasing him. Rourke knew the Plaza every bit as well as Ethan. In fact, as it was turning out, Rourke seemed to know the Plaza better.

  If he caught Ethan, assuming he didn't just shoot him, Rourke might do something worse than simply pushing Ethan down some stairs.

  As quick as they had entered the smoke cloud, they emerged on the other side and Ethan's chance was lost. Still coughing to clear his lungs, he realized he wouldn't have been able to hide or run in the smoke cloud anyway. He'd have collapsed from smoke inhalation before he'd gotten twenty feet. If the tumble down the steps had taught him anything, it was that Rourke was only mildly interested in keeping him alive.

  Ethan's life was expendable.

  But there must be some reason he's keeping me alive.

  Rourke had ordered Kline to send six men to the Gallery. Why the Gallery? Ethan stood little chance of escape once Rourke had another six men on hand.

  If I'm going to do something, I have to do it now. I need information.

  Ethan looked for an angle to exploit. At once, something occurred to him. The flashlight.

  'At least tell me how you entered the east bunker before me,' he prompted. 'That just seems impossible. If you're going to kill me, you might as well tell me that.'

  Rourke sounded surprised. 'I'd have thought a genius like you would have figured that out by now. It's quite simple really.'

  'Figured out what? It was impossible when I found the flashlight and it's impossible now.'

  'If it's impossible, then how did you find my flashlight?' taunted Rourke. 'I think you need to open your mind more, Ethan. Impossible isn't always as final as it seems.'

  'Alright, keep your secret then,' said Ethan, turning to a new strategy. 'So what was down there that you needed to see so badly?'

  'The same thing that you were looking for.'

  'What...the codex?'

  'The one and same,' admitted Rourke.

  Now Ethan was really confused. 'What do you need my help with? What's in the Gallery I could possibly help you with?'

  'I need something translated.'

  'Translated? There's no codex in the Gallery. I think the artwork in there speaks for itself, Rourke.'

  'Not the artwork,' corrected Rourke. 'Although, between you and me, I think you have never paid enough attention to the carvings. I need you to translate something else.'

  Ethan's mind locked onto a desperate idea. 'I'll need Joanne's Sy-hack program. I’m useless without that.'

  Rourke laughed out loud. 'You expect me to believe that? You really think I'm as dumb as the rest of your dirt-jockeys? You've been humoring Joanne from day one on this site. You've been able to translate the codex almost as quickly as her precious program, but you've been hiding it from everybody. You recognized most of the pictograms before her program even isolated them from its database. I watched your face during the trial runs, and you knew when the program was getting it right and wrong.'

  Ethan felt guilty shock. Was he that transparent? He hadn't exactly been humoring Joanne, but he had been letting her think the program was more indispensable than it really was. All researchers needed motivation, and Ethan had played dumb on more than one occasion to let her think her project had unlocked the answers. Answers that he already knew.

  But how can Rourke know that? The man must be a master of reading body language or...

  Ethan spun to face Rourke. 'You've been learning to interpret the pictograms, haven't you? That's the only way you could know what was happening in my mind. That's why you were using the flashlight in the east bunker. You were reading the submerged sections of the codex.'

  Rourke's tone was smug. 'A simple security guard like me? Whatever can you be suggesting, Ethan? How could I possibly learn all that on my own? I didn't spend seven years at University scratching my ass and writing useless papers.'

  'OK. I get it,' said Ethan. 'You can read the pictograms. So why do you need me?'

  'You can do it better,' conceded Rourke. 'I can get a broad feeling for the themes, but only you can provide the fine details. Like they say, the devil’s in the details.'

  Ethan said honestly, 'I might be able to partially translate something, but trust me, the Sy-hack program is really going to help. We depend on it more than you think. If this is something new, and it must be if I don't know about it, then there's a good chance it will incorporate pictograms I'm unfamiliar with. I need that program.'

  Rourke didn’t answer, so Ethan pressed on by saying, 'Look, I want this nightmare to be over as quickly as possible. To do that, I'm going to need the program. The only copy still on site is the one we left where Joanne died. It's on our way.'


  Rourke waved his rifle towards the east bunker. 'OK. Lead on.'

  As they approached the bunker entrance, Ethan sensed that Rourke, suspicious, was being extra cautious. When they reached the bunker, Ethan knew it was time to test his gamble. He pointed with his sneaker at the padlock. 'Only Claire has the key to that.'

  Rourke shoved Ethan aside. 'I have the master key, boy genius. This had better not have been a stupid plan to see Claire.'

  Ethan waited until Rourke swung open the big corrugated iron door before starting down the stairs. He remembered walking with Nina up similar stairs earlier that morning. Now she was dead by this man's hand.

  'Not too fast,' warned Rourke, following a step behind Ethan.

  One-third of the way down, Ethan stopped on the stairs, jerking himself rigid. 'There's somebody down there.'

  'What?'

  Ethan looked straight down the stairwell and hissed. 'I saw movement. There's somebody down there. Who were your guards shooting at?'

  Rourke maneuvered around Ethan in the tight stairwell, reaching for his flashlight.

  Ethan struck the moment Rourke's hand left his rifle. Lunging sideways, Ethan cracked the side of his head into Rourke's temple. Ethan had timed it well. Rourke's head collided with the wall.

  Rourke stumbled, but the man obviously wasn't knocked out. He squawked a surprised grunt, lost his footing slightly, but didn't go down. Twisting, Ethan shoved Rourke as hard as he could in the dark. It was ludicrously awkward with his hands bound, but Ethan managed to use his head to give an extra push.

  It worked. Rourke tumbled down the stairs, grunting like a wounded animal for the first ten meters, then silently as whatever punishment the steps inflicted took full effect.

  Ethan stood on the stairs, heart pounding, listening until the sounds of Rourke’s rolling body stopped.

  Hurts, doesn't it.

  There was no telling if Rourke was stunned or dead, so Ethan turned and ran up the stairs. If Rourke was conscious enough to fire his rifle up the stairwell, Ethan would be shot for sure.

  No bullets followed him. Ethan reached the top of the stairwell and sunlight again.

  Right, first things first. Get these restraints off. After that, I need to find Claire. And I'll need some kind of a weapon.

  The idea of going back and claiming Rourke's gun flashed in Ethan's mind, but equally present was the thought that Rourke might not be dead. The workshop would have plenty of tools that should let him cut through his bonds. Or even the tent he slept in. He had one of those Swiss-army gadgets in the toiletry bag Grace gave him last Father’s Day.

  Just move, Ethan. Standing here is plain stupid.

  He reached the middle-tier steps and then the denser, safer-seeming ring of ruins on the top tier. The workshop was close, but it was all locked up. He didn’t have the key. It had to be his tent then. He’d have to circle around the top tier to reach his tent. Moving quickly north, he ducked out of site when he heard footsteps. He scrambled into the first semi-intact structure he could find. Fortunately, its roof was also intact, so there was a dark area he could crouch in.

  Ethan held his breath as Kline led five men past. Kline walked by so closely that his shadow crossed Ethan's knees. Kline was carrying a long weapon he hadn’t been carrying earlier.

  That must be what he used to destroy the comm-tower.

  Rourke hadn't updated Kline about Ethan's detour to the bunker, so there stood a good chance Rourke wouldn't be found anytime soon.

  This is my chance to find Claire.

  Ethan froze. He wasn’t alone.

  Still crouched, he whirled on his heel and found two faces less than a meter away sharing his darkened hideout.

  Even obscured by shadow, Ethan knew he didn't recognize the men. They both wore official uniforms. Blue long-sleeve collared shirts and dark green cargo pants. One man - the one crouching on the left - was larger than the other. They both nursed short rifles.

  The smaller man pressed his index finger to his lips. 'Shhhhh.'

  Ethan nodded, listening until the sound of Kline's party moved from earshot. As soon as he judged it safe, he found himself speaking so quickly he was stuttering.

  'Thank Christ I found you. Cut my hands free, quickly. They've got my safety officer and I'm pretty sure they plan to kill her. What are you waiting for?'

  Ethan suddenly had a dreadful thought. 'Do you speak English?'

  'Neither of the men moved, but Ethan knew from their faces that they understood him perfectly. He felt vulnerable. He scanned their uniforms. 'Listen. I'm Ethan March. You're police, right? You've came to investigate the death of Joanne Preece. Now cut me out of this bloody thing so we can find her!'

  The men finally spoke, but to each other, ignoring Ethan.

  The larger man spoke first. Even crouched in the darkness, his manner had an overbearing, aggressive quality. 'Was Kline just carrying a rocket propelled grenade? Have I missed something here? What are the security guards doing with RPGs?'

  The smaller man wiped sweat from his forehead. His voice was calmer, more reasonable. 'Blowing stuff up by the sound of it. This doesn't make any sense. This is all wrong. I am really starting to hate this operation.'

  Operation? Ethan's eyes flicked between them.

  'You know who this is?' asked the big one.

  'Ethan March,' the smaller man replied flatly.

  'That's right,' said Ethan, somehow relieved they recognized him. 'Now help me.'

  'Who tied your hands?’ the smaller man asked, finally addressing Ethan directly.

  'Them,' Ethan pointed with his head at where Kline had passed. 'They've taken over the site. Are you listening to me? They've already killed someone! They've also taken my safety officer, Claire Purcell. I think they're going to kill her too!'

  The big man spoke this time. 'What happened to your head?'

  'Ambrose Rourke pushed me down some steps!'

  Ethan's confusion increased as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Why weren't they helping him already? The man crouching on the right was wiry like a long distance runner. In the low light, his drawn features were unreadable.

  The second man's muscular physique dwarfed his companion. He stared at Ethan with hard grey eyes. His black hair was short and stood straight up. He looked more like a policeman, neat and strong and efficient, but he didn't sound like one. He sounded...volatile.

  Although the smaller man was asking most of the questions, the bigger guy was taking it all in. He seemed to be waiting for something. He asked, 'You're supposed to be gone, right? Your site team was supposed to pull out first thing this morning?'

  'That's right.'

  'How many of you are still on site?'

  'I've just frigging told you. Why won't you - '

  Ethan learned what the big man was waiting for. He was waiting for Ethan to misbehave. His bulk hit Ethan like a bus.

  The next Ethan knew he was flat on his back, his hands painfully crushed behind him. The man straddled Ethan's chest, a knee either side of Ethan's face.

  The smaller man came around, squatted, and looked straight down, upside-down from Ethan's perspective.

  Ethan hissed through his pain, 'If you're not police, then who are you?'

  The big man's answer was terrifying. 'I'm the man with the knife. And he's the man with the questions.'

  With that, he drew a nasty looking military-style dagger from his boot. Ethan squirmed, but he was pinned completely immobile. The man lowered the knife so that its tip rested on Ethan's lower eyelid. Gripping Ethan's face with his huge left hand, he thumbed down Ethan's lower eyelid.

  Ethan shrieked in horror as with deliberate slowness the man slipped the point of the knife under his eyeball. The knife wasn't cutting, but Ethan could feel its dreadful pressure inside his eye socket.

  Ethan clenched his jaw, holding completely still.

  'From here,' the smaller man started, 'things can go three ways. First, he could lower the knife about half an inch and sever your optic ne
rve. It can't be repaired, so that means you'll be blind in that eye. Or he can keep on pushing and penetrate your frontal lobe through your optic canal. You'll hear a crunch, and then, well, I guess you'd call it a frontal lobotomy. You might live, but you probably wouldn't want to. Or, you can answer my questions as quickly and as accurately as you can, and keep all your I'm-so-fucking-important comments to yourself.'

  Ethan tried not to blink. The knife point made his eye water.

  Knife-man said, 'You want what's behind door number three. Trust me. Those first two options are as unpleasant as they sound. For both of us.’

  'I'm alone,' croaked Ethan. 'I sent everyone home. On the boat. Two hours ago. My research assistant died. I stayed for the coroner. My safety officer stayed too. Rourke's got her.' Ethan considered mentioning the police were coming, but it might sound like a threat. Also, he was out of breath and couldn't inhale with a giant straddling his chest.

  'You're crushing him,' warned the smaller man quietly.

  The weight on Ethan's chest repositioned. The knife was removed from his eye, but it didn't go back into the boot, Ethan noted.

  'How many security guards you got working here?'

  Ethan sucked in air and rapidly blinked his eye, relieved there seemed no permanent damage to his sight. 'Six on a roster. But they rotate. They all work for Ambrose. There's more here now than there should be. I don't know where they all came from.'

  'Fuck,' swore the big man. 'What have we walked into here? And what are we going to do with this one? We could truss him up and leave him. Job's already half done.'

  Both men studied Ethan.

  The smaller man shook his head. 'The way things are going we might actually need him. We need to warn Spader that things are going deep south out here. Rourke is up to something nasty.'

  Ethan found himself hauled up in one smooth motion. The big guy very nearly lifted Ethan right out of his shoes.

  'One thing,' Ethan added. 'I think I may have just killed Ambrose Rourke. I pushed him down the stairs of the east bunker.'

  'Payback,' smiled the big man. 'I like that.'