Ghost Target (Ryan Drake)

by Will Jordan

‘Then you’re just what I’m looking for.’

  The booming techno music was still pounding inside her skull, and suddenly it seemed like an annoyance now that she’d found someone she actually wanted to talk to. Well, talk and other things.

  ‘What do you think of this place?’ she asked suddenly.

  He glanced around for a moment or two before turning his attention back to her, guessing what she was hinting at. He was leaning a little closer to her now, his body language open and inviting. She wasn’t complaining.

  ‘I think it’s a little loud. Maybe we go somewhere more… quieter?’

  That was all right as far as she was concerned. One thing she appreciated about German men was that if they liked you, they let you know pretty quick. Better than fucking around with boring small talk all night. After all, it wasn’t as if she was in the market for a long-term partner.

  However, there was one thing she did need to take care of before she left this place, and her body was reminding her of that with increasing urgency. Four bottles of beer down, it had to go somewhere.

  ‘I’m down with that,’ she agreed. ‘Do me a favour, order a couple of shots before we go. Something strong and clear. I’ll be back soon.’

  Anton’s face was one of mock disappointment. ‘You’re leaving me all alone?’

  Grinning, the young woman grabbed him by the T-shirt and pulled him close, her lips parting as she pressed her mouth against his, hard and insistent and leaving him in no doubt about her intentions tonight.

  Releasing him at last, she took a step back, smiling at the reaction her kiss had provoked. ‘Yeah, but I’m worth waiting for,’ she assured him, then held up two fingers. ‘Two shots. Make it happen.’

  Fighting her way through the crowds of revellers who were waiting none too patiently to be served, Frost circled around the bar and headed for the restrooms at the back. Preoccupied with thoughts of the evening that lay ahead, she didn’t notice two men following in her wake.

  It was almost a relief as the door swung closed behind her, leaving her in the relatively quiet corridor beyond. She glanced up at the signs above the doors. Men’s room, then ladies’, then a third door at the far end that she guessed was a fire exit.

  Alone for a moment, she paused, leaning against the wall and taking a breath as she ran her hands through her hair. At 31, she was probably a little old to be having one-night stands in foreign countries with complete strangers, but what the hell. There wasn’t much in life that couldn’t be sorted out with a good fight or a good fuck, and it had been a while since she’d had the latter.

  She was just heading towards the restroom when she heard the door swing open behind her. It was a busy place after all, and likely the toilets saw frequent use, but instinct and habit prompted her to turn around anyway.

  Had she gone easier on the drink, she might have seen what was coming half a second sooner, might have reacted half a second faster, might have avoided the blow aimed at the back of her head. But she hadn’t, so she didn’t.

  Crack!

  The explosion of white light and pain that reverberated through her head even worse than the music outside was almost enough to send her spiralling into unconsciousness. As it was, she pitched sideways and began to fall, clutching at the wall in a vain effort to support herself.

  The first explosive impact was followed a moment later by a second vicious blow to the ribs that robbed her of whatever strength and resilience remained. She doubled over in agony, bile rising in her throat.

  Through blurred vision, she was just about able to see a tall young man with short blonde hair rushing forward to grab her, then suddenly something heavy and was thrown across her head and body, and the world went dark.

  ‘Grab her! Get her up!’ Anton called out to his partner, a big shaven-headed Bavarian named Ruprecht.

  ‘Are you sure it’s her?’ Ruprecht asked, securing the unconscious woman’s wrists behind her back with plastic cable ties before heaving her up off the ground.

  ‘I’m sure! Move! Go!’

  Already Anton was sprinting towards the fire exit with Ruprecht close behind, breathing more heavily as he fought to manhandle his burden. Keira Frost’s limp form was just visible beneath the cloth sack they’d thrown over her.

  Kicking open the door, Anton found himself in a narrow alleyway at the rear of the club, used for deliveries and garbage disposal. And waiting for him there was a Volkswagen panel van driven by the third member of his crew, his brother Martel.

  They had to move fast. Opening the fire door would trigger the alarm, prompting the bar’s security team to investigate. He intended to be well out of here with his prize by then.

  Giving Martel a nod as he passed, Anton made his way to the rear of the van and hauled open the doors. ‘Get her in. Now!’ he shouted, adrenaline and excitement causing him to speak louder than necessary.

  Approaching the rear door, Ruprecht heaved his burden up and practically tossed her into the cargo compartment as if she were a piece of lumber. Her muffled cry on impact suggested she’d hit the steel deck with bruising force.

  ‘Be careful, for Christ’s sake!’ Anton reprimanded the hired muscle. ‘We kill her, we lose three million euros.’

  Ruprecht fixed him with an angry glare. ‘She’ll live. Get in.’

  The axles seemed to groan under his considerable weight as he clambered up, kicking the unconscious woman aside to make room, with Anton close behind. Pulling the doors shut, Anton hurried forward and slid into the passenger seat, leaning in close to speak to his brother.

  ‘Where the fuck did you get this guy?’ he asked, his voice low.

  ‘Relax. He’s cool,’ Martel assured him with entirely too much confidence. The unfocussed look in his eyes suggested he’d hit up a line or two while they’d been inside, despite his earlier promises to stay clean until it was over. ‘Buckle up.’

  With that, he threw the van into gear and accelerated away down the alley, turning right at the far end and onto the main road. In under a minute, they were clear.

  Despite Anton’s anger with his brother and his distrust of Ruprecht, he began to feel his anxiety abating. They had their prize, they were well away from the scene of the crime, and all of it had unfolded exactly as he’d planned. Considering the bounty on her head and the warnings about the danger she posed, he’d expected more trouble.

  ‘Pull in up here,’ Ruprecht said. ‘The parking lot on the right.’

  Anton frowned at the sudden change of plans. ‘Why?’

  The big Bavarian glowered at him. ‘I want to make sure it’s her. Now pull over.’

  ‘Fuck that. Keep driving,’ Anton instructed, wary of the man’s intentions. The last thing they needed was to pull over and find a dozen of Ruprecht’s friends waiting to relieve them of their prize. ‘We’re not stopping here.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Ruprecht grunted, switching on the internal light. ‘But I want a proper look.’

  Reaching into his pocket, he unfolded a printed photograph of the woman known as Keira Frost and laid it on the deck, then drew a Sig Sauer automatic from the back of his jeans and cocked the hammer.

  Keeping the weapon in his left hand, he gripped the fabric hood they’d thrown over her and pulled it upwards, exposing her unconscious form.

  It happened fast. Faster than Ruprecht could react. In a sudden blur of movement, the young woman sprang to life. Her right hand shot upwards, something metallic flashed in the harsh electric light, and suddenly the big German grunted in pain. Staring at him in shock, Anton saw the haft of a flick knife protruding from his neck as the man lurched sideways, blood pumping from a severed artery.

  His finger tightened convulsively on the trigger, the interior of the van resounding with the thunderous crack as the weapon discharged, sending a round into the deck.

  ‘What the fuck!’ Martel screamed, flinching at the deafening report and causing the van to swerve dangerously.

  Belatedly Anton realized their target wasn’t
as helpless and subdued as they’d assumed, that she had used the knife to slice through her restraints, and he felt his stomach lurch at the realization she was still very much a threat. A threat that needed to be dealt with now.

  But before he could clamber into the rear cabin to restrain her, he saw her make a grab for Ruprecht’s weapon, saw her yank it from his faltering grasp as he tried to pull the blade free from his neck. He was screaming, a low and animalistic howl that was a mixture of pain, shock and growing fury.

  There was another deafening crack, followed by a heavy thud as his body hit the floor, and the screaming abruptly stopped.

  ‘Get her!’ Ruprecht yelled. ‘Before the stupid bitch—’

  His sentence was abruptly cut off as a 9mm Parabellum slug tore a gaping exit wound in his throat, blowing out his windpipe and severing his spinal column in a single devastating blast.

  No longer under conscious control, the van slewed sideways off the road. Anton turned, trying to grab for the wheel, and was just in time to see a concrete lane divider rushing forward to meet them.

  The van impacted with all the force that several tonnes of steel moving at close to 50 miles an hour conveyed, crumpling the front chassis like paper and destroying the engine. Unrestrained by a seatbelt, Anton was flung forward like a rag doll by his own kinetic energy, his body tumbling through the shattered windshield and over the concrete divider with bone-breaking force, coming to rest in a bloody heap several yards beyond it.

  For the next several seconds, silence descended on the scene of the crash, broken only by the dripping of oil from the ruptured sump and the steady ticking of the cooling engine block. Steam was rising from the shattered radiator, misting in the cool night air.

  Then, suddenly, the van’s rear doors shook with a resounding clang as something slammed into them from inside. The blow was repeated a second time with equal ferocity. Finally on the third attempt they flew open, allowing a battered, bloodied figure to tumble out onto the road.

  Keira landed hard on the asphalt, letting out a groan of pain as fragments of glass from the shattered windshield embedded themselves in her arms and side. Her entire body radiated agony from both the beating she’d taken and the crushing impact that had crippled the van. Her vision swimming in and out of focus, she closed her eyes for a moment, tears trickling down her cheeks as she curled into a ball, trying her best to take the pain.

  Get up, a voice warned her. Get up, you stupid bitch, before the cops arrive. Move!

  Gritting her teeth and keeping a death grip on the gun she’d fought so hard to wrestle from her captor, Frost managed to get one bloodied hand beneath her and dragged herself to her feet.

  The big guy and the driver were very much dead – she knew that because the contents of their skulls were splattered across the inside of the van – but a soft moaning from the other side of the road told her that her third captor was still alive. For now at least.

  Wincing in pain, she limped around the remains of the van and approached the concrete lane divider, then somehow managing to heave herself over.

  Anton was lying on the far side, moving sluggishly as if to get up. He wasn’t going to be walking any time soon. Both legs were twisted and bent at an unnatural angle, and judging by his laboured breathing he’d broken several ribs, probably puncturing his lungs into the bargain.

  Dragging herself forward, Frost knelt down beside him, gripping him by the T-shirt just as she’d done in the club earlier. But there was no kiss in store for him this time – just the barrel of the 9mm automatic.

  ‘Who sent you?’ she demanded.

  Blood was seeping from the corner of his mouth. His eyes were on her, though she wondered if he was even still capable of speaking.

  She held up the crumpled, bloody photograph of herself that had been lying in the back of the van, held it so close that he couldn’t fail to see it.

  ‘Who sent you to kidnap me?’ she repeated, rage and anger overriding the agony of her own battered body. ‘Answer me, you piece of shit!’

  ‘Bounty…’ he managed to choke out. ‘For you… alive.’

  Frost closed her eyes, letting out a sigh. He wasn’t Agency; that much was clear. He and his two terrible chums were bounty hunters who made a living out of bringing in wanted fugitives. No doubt they’d seen her picture on Interpol, the FBI or some other website’s Most Wanted list, and taken her for an easy payday.

  It should have made her feel better instead of hurting more, but it didn’t. Because it meant Anton probably wasn’t such a bad guy; just another man trying to make a living. It was going to make it harder to do what she had to do.

  A quick search of his pockets revealed no identification. No driver’s licence, no credit cards – no wallet at all, in fact. Just some euros and loose change. He had a cell phone in his back pocket, but it was a cheap burner that had likely been purchased for this job. At least he’d been smart enough to go into it sterile.

  ‘Go…’ he whispered as she pocketed the cell phone. ‘Leave… me here.’

  Leave him to get picked up by the police, taken to hospital, nursed back to health and thoroughly questioned about what had happened. Leave him to tell them that a wanted criminal had murdered his two friends, and was still at large.

  ‘Sorry, Anton.’ Frost looked at him with a twinge of pity as she stood up and trained the weapon on his head. ‘Guess those drinks will have to wait.’

  She turned her head aside to avoid the resultant spray of blood and pulled the trigger. The weapon kicked back against her wrist with a sharp discharge, the ejected shell casing pinging off the tarmac a short distance away. It was done.

  Only now that it was over did she begin to feel the warm wetness seeping down her right side. Closing her eyes, she pulled her jacket aside and reached in, almost surprised when her hand came away wet with blood.

  She thought back to her brief, violent confrontation with the big man in the back of the van, and the sharp crack as he’d accidentally discharged a round into the steel deck. Only it hadn’t just hit the deck – it had passed through her first.

  ‘Fuck…’ she said, her body seeming to weigh her down as if the gravity around her had suddenly doubled.

  She had to leave this place. She was completely exposed here in the middle of the road, and likely the police were on their way already. The injuries she could sort out later, but for now she had to get out of here.

  Steeling herself against the pain, she turned and made for the bushes on the far side of the road, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

  Chapter 7

  Milan, Italy

  ‘Yup, this’ll do it,’ Cole Mason remarked, leaning over the stripped-down scooter engine laid out on his workbench like a patient on an operating table. ‘See, the problem with these old motors is the bearings. Damn things burn out quicker than a teenage romance. Why, you might ask? Because the assholes who run them never bother to check the goddamn oil levels.’

  Prising the bearing ring free of its housing, he held it up to the work light for inspection. Sure enough, the inner shaft was scored and deformed by the little steel ball bearings that were supposed to ensure smooth operation.

  Three more bikes were sitting in the improvised parking garage below, awaiting his attention. Scooters and mopeds were as popular as breathing in this part of the world, used by everyone from young waitresses zipping through traffic on their way to work, to old guys in their eighties making the morning milk run. Everyone used them, which meant sooner or later everyone needed them fixed.

  ‘Still, keeps guys like us in business,’ he concluded. ‘Isn’t that right, Rock?’

  Spinning around in his chair, he regarded the big tabby cat that was sitting on the far side of the open space that served as his living quarters, kitchen, bedroom, workshop and just about anything else he needed it to be.

  He had no idea where the feline had come from, except that he’d found it lurking in a corner of his improvised home about a week after he’d mo
ved in. He hardly considered himself a cat person, but with no one else to talk to, he was happy to let it stay. It in turn seemed to tolerate him, which was probably the best you could expect as far as cats were concerned.

  With no collar or owner that he knew of, Mason had taken to calling him Rocky on account of the fact he was Italian, and because he loved the boxing movies.

  He supposed Italian heritage was something the two of them had in common. His original family name had been Martinelli, until his grandfather moved to the States at the turn of the century. He’d used that as his reason to reside here in Milan, as if he were somehow returning to his homeland.

  ‘Knew you’d see things my way,’ Mason said, regarding the cat’s gaping yawn as a sign of agreement.

  Pushing away from the workbench, he allowed his swivel chair to glide across the open space to his kitchen table, as if he were an astronaut making a daring leap from one spacecraft to another. He liked to challenge himself with these little exercises, trying to negotiate his trajectory through difficult obstacles and narrow gaps. Like a game of pool, it was all in the angles.

  The haphazard layout of the room reflected its multipurpose nature, with a basic kitchen counter, fridge, cooker and table in one corner, a worn old couch and TV in another, and a simple metal-framed bed against the far wall. The remaining side was occupied by a long workbench cluttered with various tools and spare parts. The floors were bare wooden boards, the walls unpainted red brick, scant thought given to comfort or aesthetics.

  That was how life had to be lived right now, both for himself and the small group of ex-Shepherd operatives he called his friends. Moving from one location to another, always ready to cut and run at a moment’s notice. Though he had to admit, he’d be sad to leave Milan.

  A coffee percolator was steaming away on the kitchen table. Bringing himself to a stop with a gentle nudge of his boot, Mason poured himself a cup. That was one aspect of life here that he really appreciated – the quality of the coffee.

  ‘You know, I never quite saw myself moving from covert ops to engine repairs. Not a real logical career progression there,’ he mused as he took a sip of the strong black liquid. ‘Funny old world, huh?’