Capture or Kill

by Tom Marcus

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Logan, I know you’re not armed, but get in that fucking boat now!’

  Putting my phone on speaker, I place it into a chest pocket on my jacket so the DG has live audio of everything we are about to do. I pull out my knife and turn back towards the boat. I look at Alex, there’s no time for a plan. She knows it too, pulls her knife out and activates the spring. The blade makes a reassuring dull click as it extends. No pedestrians around us for at least thirty metres or so, definitely the quieter end of the marina, and the boat is cocooned among these larger vessels either side.

  I nod towards the back of the boat, where Alex is positioned. Instantly, without thought for her own safety, she gets ready to step onto the boat. If today is going to be the day I die, I’m going to do it fucking properly.

  Whispering into my jacket pocket, I hope the DG can hear me clearly. ‘Going in now. Me and Alex.’ I need to make as much noise as humanly possible, to draw the brothers to me and create some chaos. Hopefully Alex will respond to that.

  The door is locked, I know that. Likely barricaded. The windows either side are my best option, even though they’re blacked out. I’m dead anyway, doesn’t matter if I get cut to pieces climbing in. I take a step forward and plant my right foot, heel first, into the lower quarter of the pane. Without offering any resistance, the glass breaks into disjointed triangles. The window is large enough for me to enter, and I crouch to climb through. Knife out, my left foot leads me inside the boat. I’m expecting to be shot straight away as I struggle for a foothold, a firm point on which to transfer my weight and bring the rest of my body into the cabin.

  The blade of my knife is tucked into my side, close to my chest, ready to use. The only people that will die today will be Stone Fist and Iron Sword. And, quite possibly, me. I’m ready for that.

  I bring my trailing right leg inside the boat. It would be pitch black in here if it wasn’t for the hole I’ve created letting sunlight stream through, but even that doesn’t offer much visibility until my eyes adjust. I’ve entered the kitchen of the boat, the remains of it anyway; it’s partway through renovation and the skeleton frames of the cupboards, shelves and sink line either side of the galley, leading towards a sectioned-off area, right in the middle of the boat.

  Thick black sheeting follows the shape of the ceiling and walls, right down to the floor, nailed on tight. No light leaks through, but I know the Foreign Secretary must be behind the partition. I can’t hear Alex on the other side, or any other movement. Taking a second to look at my surroundings, I see a cable snaking its way out from under the black sheet down towards the kitchen frames, before disappearing where the sink should be. With no sink fitted yet, I can see directly down inside the unit.

  The cable leads to a black box; looks like a remote router or signal booster. Whatever it actually is, if the brothers are behind this curtain about to kill someone, this is likely being used to transmit that footage. No time to think about the pros and cons. I lean in and saw at the cable. It takes three hard slices for my knife to cut through. I’ve been in here ten, maybe fifteen seconds. Too long, and far too noisy. Walking up to the black fabric, I drive my knife into the right hand side of it at head height, and slice down to provide a way in. It’s not fabric after all, more of a rubber material, like pond lining. But the sharpness of this blade cuts through it easily.

  The light is instant, as is the barrage of insults. ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?’ ‘WE’LL FUCKING KILL HIM, DON’T FUCKING MOVE.’

  It’s them, the brothers. I can’t see the Foreign Secretary, but I need to draw the brothers towards me and away from him. Fuck, I need to be near Philip Day in order to protect him, but I can’t see him. I take a step back and both brothers, now dressed in black shalwar kameez and holding large butcher’s knives, get on an aggressive footing. That’s it, keep coming you fuckers. The volume these two are shouting at is definitely loud enough for the DG to hear on the other end of the phone, tucked in my jacket pocket.

  They clearly think the game is over for them, but they’ve come prepared to die. It’s a win-win for the two brothers, who are now hacking and ripping at the rubberized black material that was being used, until moments ago, as a makeshift prison and courtroom. As I take another step back, I know I’m going to run out of room soon. Iron Sword is first in line to tear me to pieces, but I can see the Foreign Secretary now, tied to a chair in a bloodstained orange jumpsuit, exhausted and petrified as a video camera connected to a TV screen on the floor stands watch over him with a menacing, blinking red LED. Thankfully I’ve cut the transmission, I hope.

  Buy some time, even if it’s just five more seconds until the DG can get a strike team here, or at least to call off the incursion by Special Forces. ‘I thought it was empty.’

  ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE?’

  ‘I just wanted some tools, kitchen stuff. To sell.’

  I’m trying to give the impression I’m more frightened than I am, some junkie on the rob. The slightest element of doubt will buy me a few seconds. I couldn’t care less that I might be about to die, as long as my death can save others. It’s about time I die, I just need to carve these two up before I do.

  ‘YOU FUCKING POLICE? YOU HERE FOR HIM?’

  ‘No, don’t call the police, I’ll go, I can’t go back inside.’ Taking my last step backwards, I can see an element of doubt starting to creep into Stone Fist, probably not enough to convince them to let me leave, but that doesn’t matter. I just need a window. Stone Fist taps his brother on the shoulder with his non-knife-wielding hand. Iron Sword is still pointing his massive cleaver at me, the tip of his blade now only a metre away. But he half turns his head towards his younger brother, as if to question his judgement, and that’s all I need. Go now, Logan. GO.

  I push forward off my back foot and bring my left hand towards the handle of his knife, almost in slow motion, and I force his hand down towards his groin – there’s no way he’ll start swinging a butcher’s knife around in that area. This twists Iron Sword’s body into his younger brother, in turn putting a barrier between Stone Fist and me. With no time to target where I’m putting my knife and make sure Iron Sword is no longer a threat, my first strike is to the middle of his back, towards his right-hand side, straight in and deep. My fist slams against his ribcage, but I need a lot more hits in the next two seconds or so, before the adrenaline surges around Stone Fist and makes him superhuman.

  Iron Sword screams like a wounded animal. The noise a human makes when they are being stabbed, not once but multiple times, is unforgettable. I twist the knife out before plunging it in on the same side, further down into the area of his kidneys, again pulling it out with a twist. This time the twist wraps part of his shalwar kameez around the blade, and I have to use a bit more force to pull it out, ready to use again. Still holding his butcher’s knife and his right hand by his groin, I plant my left shoulder into his body and continue to work my blade down his torso. He’s already starting to go limp. I drive the blade of my knife towards his arse, hoping to hit his rectum. I think I’ve hit slightly above it, but a six-inch blade, twisting on its way out, has almost the same devastating effect as a direct hit. This scream is the loudest; not the sort of scream you make when you hit your finger with a hammer or drop something heavy on your foot, the sort of scream that lets me know he’s begging for mercy, for it to stop. He knows his time is done.

  Driving my knife up into the left-hand side of his ribcage at the back, I know at this point he’s got seconds to live. I twist the blade out and strike him one last time to the neck, giving his brother an eye-level view of what it’s like to see this level of violence exacted on someone you love.

  This is the last straw for Stone Fist; the shock that had paralysed him for the past few seconds is now making him unpredictably strong. He lurches forwards, trying to grab me, but the dead weight of Iron Sword makes me completely unbalanced and I fall back into the locked doorway. The weight of me and Iron Sword bre
aks the door open, easily snapping the wooden two by four braced across it. Fuck, I’m pinned down. Iron Sword is heavy, too heavy on top of me. Get out, get away and stand on your feet!

  Kicking my feet out, I catch Stone Fist in the knee, buckling him to the floor. I catch sight of the Foreign Secretary’s orange jumpsuit, but I can’t tell if he’s still in the same position or not. Too much happening.

  As I keep kicking, I manage to connect with Stone Fist again as he’s pawing at me. I wriggle free, shuffle away from Iron Sword’s bloody body and manage to get to my feet, knife still ready to go. On the outside of the boat, on the other side of the broken door, I quickly look around me; there’s still no one walking past the boat, but more importantly, still no police. Where the fuck are they? I re-focus on the doorway, because Stone Fist will be coming through it and I need to put an end to this.

  Ducking down, I look back into the boat through the broken doorframe, over Iron Sword’s body, to see Stone Fist running towards me out of the darkness. Like a monster running out of a cave. I can’t run. I can’t stand still. I’ve got to charge back at him. Now, move Logan, MOVE! Just as I start to run towards him, I notice something in his hand. It’s a Beretta 9mm pistol—

  The thump of burning metal into my chest is followed by messages to my brain carried by countless pain receptors. It’s excruciating. I instantly lose my balance and stumble backwards. I can’t see any signs of the orange jumpsuit. I can only see Stone Fist, arm stiff, straight aiming to take another shot as he holds me with his free hand.

  I need to pull him towards me. If I get him outside, hopefully the police will be here any minute and can take him out. I manage to grab him by the scruff of his garment with one hand and drag him outside, holding his pistol hand away from me with the other, the loud crack of him firing another shot off ringing past my head. That one doesn’t connect, but my arm is starting to go numb near where the first bullet ripped through my upper chest. I’ve lost my knife.

  Logan, just fight a bit longer. I trip and fall backwards over the broken wood and plaster. Shuffling back, using the heels of my feet, my hands slide on the broken glass. Keep moving back, Logan. The pain from the glass cutting into my palms is nothing compared to the pain in my chest and shoulder. I’m still facing Stone Fist as he gets ready to fire again. Come on – get out into the open. He tries to pull the trigger yet again, but the smile of vengeance he has across his face is replaced by a look of anger. The pistol hasn’t been looked after properly – what looks like surface rust obviously goes deeper, causing a stoppage. It buys me a few more seconds.

  Every bit of strength I have left forces me to shuffle back against the side of the boat, leaning against the small lip that would normally be used to stop people falling in as they take in the view on a calm canal. I’m using it to prop my body upright, ready for my final fight.

  My body is starting to go into shock. Hold on a bit longer, Logan. Stone Fist looks back towards the broken doorway, seeing his brother. This is not how he imagined passing to the afterlife. I can’t wait to get off this world. Won’t be long now.

  The first of his punches lands on top of my head, and as more rain down they hurt, but are nothing compared to the hole in my chest. I don’t see them coming, my body is shutting down. Somehow he’s picking me up and throwing me across the boat towards the mooring. Adrenaline will do that for you. Come on police. Trying to hold him close to me in a desperate attempt to frustrate his punches, I’m spun round, my chest slams onto the side of the boat and my head hits the concrete mooring. I think he’s trying to smash my head open like a walnut. I crawl out of the boat onto the mooring to get some space, trying to find a second to regain some sort of fighting position. My phone falls out of my jacket pocket onto the concrete. The screen is black. I don’t think it’s connected to the DG anymore, the call must have ended during the struggle. I’ve lost all fight, no more energy to continue.

  Hurry up and get on with it, you fucker.

  Wrapping some rope around my neck, Stone Fist drives a knee into my back and yanks my head backwards, the force of the rope cutting into me, closing off my wind pipe. My left hand has instinctively come up to try and free myself, my right arm still unresponsive, but I’m hoping the pain will soon stop.

  What the fuck is he shouting? It’s incoherent but the volume nearly deafens me, pulling me out of the increasingly black tunnel I was slipping into. Out of the corner of my eye I spot Alex holding the Foreign Secretary, still in his orange jumpsuit, as they run as fast as they can towards some buildings in the distance. Alex is propping him up – being held captive for the last few days has sapped his energy.

  Fuck, if he goes after Alex, it’s game over. I can’t have her die. My vision goes, starting to blur out.

  Logan, get up. Move.

  Sarah? I’m cold, the darkness is swarming around me.

  ‘I’m done. Sarah, I’m done.’

  No you’re not. You won’t die today. You can’t die. People need you. Alex needs you. MOVE!

  ‘I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!’

  Stone Fist screaming threats brings light back to my vision. I need to get him before he gets to Alex.

  My life is worth nothing now, but she has something to live for, surely. Stone Fist’s grip on this rope is too strong to break – the lack of oxygen to my brain is shutting me down. My left hand flails around for anything to help me, got to be something. Please, Sarah, help me. Please.

  I feel the sharpness of the ridges first. A screw, hard to tell what length, maybe four inches. I don’t care. Grabbing it, I jab it into Stone Fist’s shin, and the rope slackens, but I still can’t breathe. I have maybe two more strikes left in me; pulling the screw out I know I’ve hit bone because of the effort needed to extract it. Again, into his shin, straight into muscle, and one more go. Just as I strike down, Stone Fist moves and the screw plunges into his calf muscle. His knee releases the pressure holding me down and he gets up, limping but still fuelled by adrenaline as he starts running after Alex.

  No fucking way, I can’t let her die. Pulling the rope from my neck, my lungs get some much-needed oxygen, but my vision is badly affected. Stars start to form a cloudy haze over everything. I can’t stop coughing, my windpipe feels like it’s been crushed irreparably.

  I can hear Stone Fist shouting, he’s on the marina, running with a heavy limp towards Alex and the Foreign Secretary. Logan, just thirty more seconds then you can die. Don’t let him touch Alex.

  Staggering to my feet, I try and breathe through my nose, hoping it will stop me coughing. It doesn’t, but I get one last surge of adrenaline as I see Stone Fist battling to get past a delivery truck that’s blocking his path. He’s only ten metres away now, his black shalwar kameez flowing in the breeze; this truck has given me one last opportunity to stall him and let Alex get out of here with Philip Day.

  Using every last bit of strength and will I have, I bear down on Stone Fist as the truck moves out of his way. I can’t see Alex or the orange jumpsuit of the Foreign Secretary. But I can see the terrorist. I need to pin him down as long as I can – five metres away. Sprint, Logan, sprint!

  Dipping my left shoulder into his ribcage, I drag him down with my left arm. Our bodies hit the floor, and I try and wrap myself around him to make it impossible for him to get up, but the way we fall, he ends up with the upper hand and is almost sat on my waist. Before I know it, the punches rain down into my face. I wrap my legs around him, locking my feet together in the hope this slows him down when I’m gone. The pain of the first punch isn’t in my eye socket, where he connects, but in the back of my head as it slams against the hard concrete, the force transmitting through my skull.

  He tries to stand up but I keep my legs around his waist. I told you, I’m going to die properly today and Stone Fist is about to find out I’m a relentless little fucker. The damage he’s doing to my face now is out of frustration; he knows he’s lost. But soon the punches stop and his hands and fingers dig into my throat, once again crush
ing my windpipe; this time he has his thumbs into my Adam’s apple.

  My legs are still locked around him but my arms are flat out beside me. I’m no longer able to fight, I can’t see anymore, the only things I can hear are the grunts of Stone Fist as he strains to take my life.

  I hear two cracks almost at the same time and Stone Fist’s body flinches explosively, collapsing to my side. Then silence. A second later, I see the barrel of a black rifle, or maybe this is the tunnel. No light at the end of this one.

  22

  It’s dark. Pitch black. I’m sure my eyes are open. Aren’t they? Unable to see anything, I’m in agony. In my right arm. The ribs on my right side. And my chest. I’ve never felt pain like it. Taking a breath, it feels like molten lava is being poured into my heart while someone is crushing my chest. Which doesn’t make sense. Because I’m dead.

  If so, why am I still feeling pain? Isn’t that supposed to stop when you die?

  I’ve never been dead before. Maybe this is how it works, you take the pain from when you’re alive into death with you, as your baggage? In which case, dying is really not what it’s cracked up to be. And there’s something else that was supposed to happen. Something else that’s not right. But I can’t remember what it was. Damn it, Logan, remember!

  It’s like my brain isn’t getting enough power.

  Slowly the darkness starts to change. As if someone’s turning a dimmer switch. Shadows suddenly appear out of the gloom. Rows of . . . books? Then one of the dark shapes gradually turns into a person. An old woman. She looks familiar, somehow.

  The books, of course! I’m in the bookshop. Her wrinkled face brightens and she smiles at me. I begin to feel the rest of my body, the parts that aren’t in agony. I’m sitting in the chair by the fire, feeling the heat coming from the burning logs as they crackle, it’s hypnotizing. Peaceful.