The Hunter’s Oath

by Jason Dean

He could hear Klyce yelling, ‘It’s a goddamn set-up. Get me out of here.’ Shapes were ducking and moving in different directions. Then more panicked voices, interspersed by the sound of a single gunshot. And another. Probably aimed at Bishop. They both missed.

  They were followed by automatic gunfire. And plenty of it. The air was full of the sounds of bullets pinging off metal. And more shouting. He also heard a heavy crunching sound behind him as the crusher reached the Caddy’s roof.

  Noise. Chaos. Confusion. Exactly how Bishop wanted it.

  He was scanning the people in front of him, trying to decide on a target. He couldn’t tell who was who in the darkness. The new moon didn’t help.

  Then he noticed one of them was crouched down. Bishop saw a flash and heard a round strike the crusher behind him. The guy was shooting at him. Bishop didn’t hesitate. He aimed for the centre of the man’s body, swung his arm forward and at the last moment let go of the knife.

  He didn’t see it connect. The gunman simply collapsed to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. One down, five to go. Except Bishop was now right out in the open and weaponless. That needed to change. He got up and sprinted to his left, towards the loader. He didn’t see any sign of Eddie. He closed the distance in less than two seconds, dived between the loader’s front and rear wheels and crawled under the machine. He kept crawling until he emerged on the other side. Then he made for the old Thunderbird at the bottom of the stack. The one with the missing front doors.

  He reached the vehicle and leaned in. Inserting his hand in the space under the front passenger seat, he pulled out the Smith & Wesson M&P .45 Compact he’d hidden there earlier. And the spare mag. The Glock 17 was hidden in an old Mustang across the way.

  Just went to show: a little forethought and planning often did half the work for you. Although extra manpower helped too, of course.

  Kidanu had been the one responsible for turning the lamps out at the designated moment. He would have been already hiding somewhere in the front office, as they’d planned, and must have destroyed the fuse box as soon as he received the signal from Doubleday, who was currently hiding in the back of a nearby wreck. One with a good view of the crusher. Right now the special effects guy was working his remote detonator to activate the hundreds of explosive squibs he’d previously positioned on vehicles around the scrapyard. Making it seem as though an army was laying siege to the place.

  Bishop checked the .45’s magazine, rammed it home and flipped the safety off. He raised himself up and scanned the immediate area, using the loader as cover. The sounds of gunfire still filled the air. He saw flashes as more squibs exploded on random wrecks.

  Beautiful. No wonder the studios paid Doubleday the big bucks.

  The area in front of the crusher was empty now, except for the man he’d gotten with the knife. But Bishop knew they’d still be on site. They couldn’t leave by car, since Kidanu had locked the gate with the new padlock he’d brought along. And the only other way out was through the locked front office itself. Which Kidanu was now guarding from inside, armed with Mickey’s .357 Magnum.

  But so far it was all working out as Bishop had planned. If Klyce hadn’t already known he was in that supply room in the Artemis offices, he would have had to make his presence known some other way. He’d needed answers, and he knew the only way he’d get the truth was by placing himself directly into the enemy’s hands. People became a lot more candid when they felt they held the winning hand. And so it proved. Bishop still didn’t know every detail, but he had enough to satisfy him.

  He’d also gambled that once Klyce had him, he’d bring him to the place where he’d disposed of Hernandez. The scrapyard. He’d made that clear during the phone call at the warehouse. And he’d want Bishop alive and breathing, as well. It was a big risk, but one Bishop was willing to take. Then once he was brought here, it was just a case of setting Klyce and Arquette at each other’s throats, then picking off whoever was left.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  Bishop paused when he saw movement next to one of the vehicle stacks across the way. A man was kneeling with one hand on the ground for support. From his posture, he didn’t look too healthy. Not Lars. This guy had hair. So one of the other four.

  Bishop moved out from behind the loader, gun first. He walked across the open area, his eyes moving in every direction. He slowed when he reached the guy he’d nailed. He could see it was Wescott. His eyes were glassy orbs and there was a mass of blood in the centre of his chest. The butterfly knife was in his left hand. Bishop couldn’t see the revolver anywhere. He reached down and used the knife to slit the man’s throat, just to be sure, then closed it again. He got up and kept going. The kneeling man still hadn’t noticed him, and the sporadic gunfire was concealing any noise Bishop’s footsteps made.

  Ten feet away now. Eight. Six. Now Bishop could see it was Eddie. He had an automatic in his free hand. He must have sensed something, because he raised his head. Then he saw Bishop and began to raise the gun.

  Bishop shot him twice in the head.

  Eddie fell back and lay still. Bishop went over and saw two large holes in his forehead. There were also large black stains on his left thigh and his left shoulder. All Bishop had done was put him out of his misery. Practically a mercy killing, if you looked at it that way.

  He reached down and plucked the gun from the man’s grip. It was a black, short-barrelled 9mm semi-auto. A Ruger P95PR from the looks of it. He checked the magazine and saw it was half full. He searched the man’s pockets, grabbed a spare magazine from one and put it in his own, along with the gun. The knife he held on to.

  Two down, four left. Arquette, Klyce, Nowlan and Lars. With any luck they were still busy trying to kill each other. If they hadn’t already succeeded. As long as they were dead, Bishop didn’t care who pulled the trigger.

  The sound of squibs going off had stopped. Doubleday must have exhausted his supply. But Bishop could still hear small arms fire coming from the next aisle. The one with the crane peeking over the top. It was likely Eddie had come from there.

  Bishop walked close to the stacks for another forty feet until he reached the gap that led to that aisle. He looked around and saw more junked vehicles, and another turning on the right. Bishop advanced slowly and peered round an old Nissan on the corner. He saw the crane in the next aisle. It was about forty feet away and towering over everything. It was one of the crawler types, with tracks instead of wheels. Then Bishop saw flashes come from behind the crane, accompanied by the sound of two shots. He rested his arm against the Nissan body and kept the .45 aimed at that general area.

  More gunshots. But coming from behind him this time. Far behind him. Possibly from the front office. Sounded like Kidanu was holding his own over there, making sure all the players stayed on the field.

  Movement in front of him caught Bishop’s attention. He blinked and gradually made out a human silhouette walking this way from the direction of the crane. Already thirty feet away and closing. He looked healthy enough, so maybe he was the cause of the flashes. Sounded like he’d finished off one of the others. Bishop carefully aimed his gun at a point midway between his stomach and chest. He waited until the man was a little closer, then squeezed the trigger five times. The shots came so fast they sounded like one continuous explosion. The man’s body jerked with each hit, then he dropped to the ground like a rock.

  Three down. Possibly four. Bishop kept the gun aimed in the same general area. Waiting for more movement.

  Then from behind him, Arquette’s voice said, ‘That wasn’t nice, Bishop. What did Nowlan ever do to you? Now throw the piece and turn around slow.’

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Bishop slowly relaxed his shoulders and began lowering his gun. He had no choice. He still had the balisong in his right hand, but it was closed, the blade hidden within the handles.

  ‘Throw it where?’ he said.

  ‘Just as far away as possible. Do it now.’

  Bishop pul
led his left arm back and lobbed the .45 towards the stacks of cars straight ahead. He heard it clatter against one of them and then it was quiet again. Even that dog had stopped barking. He and Arquette could have been the last two people in the world.

  ‘Now turn around, real slow,’ Arquette said.

  Bishop turned without making any sudden movements. He kept his right hand out of view. If nothing else, he might be able to throw the closed knife at Arquette. Maybe distract the Fed for a second and allow him to move in. A long shot maybe, but it was all he had.

  He completed the about-face and saw the figure of Arquette standing about ten feet away, his gun aimed at Bishop’s chest.

  The rogue agent said, ‘So it turns out you’re the one who had it all planned out.’

  ‘All except this part,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Glad to know I’m not as predictable as the others.’

  ‘You’ll still end up the same way. Who did Nowlan get at the crane?’

  ‘That idiot with the shaved head. I forget his name. So just you, me and Klyce left. And in a few seconds, just me and Klyce.’

  ‘You plan on wasting him, too?’

  ‘What for? We’re partners. If he hasn’t already figured out this was your doing, he will once I’ve explained it. Then it’ll be business as usual. For a while, at least. I assume all that gunfire was created from squibs? Very nice. Where’s the man pushing the buttons?’

  ‘Outside somewhere. Probably miles away by now, if he followed my orders.’

  Bishop was actually hoping Doubleday was watching them right now. Arquette could pull the trigger any second. Just throw something against a car, Doubleday, he thought. Anything that makes a noise. A brief distraction’s all I need.

  ‘Maybe I’ll check the yard anyway once you’re gone,’ Arquette said. He raised the gun. ‘Not that it’ll matter to you. So long, Bishop.’

  There was a ricochet flash on a vehicle at Bishop’s right, accompanied by the sharp crack of a gunshot.

  Arquette’s gun hand wavered and Bishop immediately dived left, into the next aisle. He heard gunshots hit the Nissan behind him, but he was already on his feet and sprinting for the crane directly ahead. He ran past Nowlan’s body and began zig-zagging when he heard more shots at his back. Unlike the first one, he knew these were real. It seemed Doubleday hadn’t entirely exhausted his supply of squibs, after all. He’d have to thank him properly, assuming he ever got out of this.

  He reached the crane in one piece, ran round it and leaned against the main cabin. He couldn’t see Lars’s body anywhere. Behind the crane was an open area with about a dozen automotive hulks lying around, waiting to be stacked. Then more stacks behind them, forming an impenetrable wall. Which meant no way out except back the way he’d come.

  Bishop pulled the Ruger from his pocket and turned and peered through the crane cabin window. He saw Arquette moving this way at a fast clip. He was playing it smart by keeping close to the stacks of cars on the right side. Bishop saw movement, but no defined human shape. If he shot from here he’d miss. No question. And then Arquette would know he had a gun.

  Bishop silently pulled back the slide on the automatic and backed away from the crane. He carefully moved around one of the wrecks, gripped the gun in both hands and aimed it at his previous position, using the roof of the car as support.

  ‘All you’ve done is postpone the inevitable,’ Arquette called out from behind the crane. ‘There’s no way out of there. Force me to come in after you and I’ll do you a piece at a time, and neither of us wants that. So come out now, and it’ll be quick. I guarantee it.’

  You’re right about that, Bishop thought. Show yourself and you’ll see just how fast. He stayed silent and continued to wait.

  There was a metallic sound to the right of the crane. Like somebody had brushed against a vehicle and jarred something loose. Bishop wasn’t about to fall for that one. He aimed the gun at the left side of the crane. It wouldn’t be long now.

  It took another three seconds before a shape slowly materialized around the front of the crane, gun in the low ready position. He was still side on to Bishop, who bided his time. Then Arquette brought his gun up, turned the corner in one swift movement and aimed the gun at the spot Bishop had just vacated.

  Bishop aimed for his middle and fired the Ruger once. And again.

  Arquette slammed against the cabin and Bishop heard his gun fall to the ground. Still aiming the Ruger, Bishop came around the car and walked towards the fallen man. Arquette was half perched on the crane’s tracks, breathing heavily, with one hand pressed against his stomach. Bishop scanned the ground until he found the man’s Glock and kicked it away. Then he looked down at Arquette and said, ‘So this is how it ends. With you bleeding out in a junkyard, surrounded by shit. Very fitting.’

  Arquette coughed once and looked up at him, his face a picture of pain. ‘You gutshot me.’ He winced. ‘Goddamn, I never realized it could hurt so much.’

  ‘Now you know how my sister felt once your thugs were finished with her.’

  Arquette hugged himself and coughed again. He began to rock back and forth, holding himself in, then looked up and saw the gun Bishop was aiming at his head. ‘Look, you don’t have to . . . don’t have to kill me, Bishop. We can work . . . something out.’

  ‘I already have,’ Bishop said, and pulled the trigger.

  A hole appeared just above Arquette’s left eye and his head slammed back against the cabin door. Bishop watched as his body slowly slid off the tracks and crumpled to the ground. Bishop let out a long breath. So did Arquette. His last. Finally, it was done. Amy was safe. Or almost safe. Only Klyce to take care of now. Assuming Kidanu hadn’t done that already.

  He was ejecting the almost empty magazine from the Ruger when he heard a brief flurry of shots in the distance. Coming from the same direction as before.

  Bishop rammed home the spare magazine, chambered a round, then began running for the front office.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  When he reached it, he saw the office door was wide open. One of the two windows running along the rear of the small building was completely shattered. The other had a long crack at the bottom. The interior was in darkness. There were no sounds.

  He moved to the side of the doorway and said, ‘Kidanu? You in there?’

  He strained to hear something from inside. Anything. After a while, he thought he might have heard a faint shuffling sound. Like someone moving slowly along the floor. Kidanu or Klyce? One way or the other, he had to know. Without further thought, he dashed through the doorway and dived to the floor with his gun raised.

  Nobody shot at him. There was only silence.

  He looked around. The muted light coming through the windows allowed him to make out a few faint shapes. A filing cabinet here, a desk there. Not much else. Then from his left, at floor level, a familiar low voice said, ‘Bishop?’ It was almost a whisper.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bishop whispered back. He moved along the grimy floor in the direction of the voice. He brushed against a chair and a wastepaper basket, then his hand touched a leg. Some of the cotton material surrounding it was damp. And then there was that recognizable metallic smell. ‘You hit bad?’ he asked.

  ‘One in . . . the thigh,’ Kidanu said. ‘Another . . . in my side.’ He grunted. ‘I will . . . live.’

  ‘And Klyce?’

  ‘Held him off . . . but he must have . . . entered another way. Shot me . . . from behind. I dropped gun . . . somewhere. Hallway . . . to our right. Saw him leave . . . through door at the end. Maybe . . . thirty seconds ago.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Bishop got to his haunches and searched Kidanu’s pockets until he felt a cell phone. He pulled it out and pressed a button. The display lit up and he shone it on Kidanu’s two wounds. There was some blood, but not as much as he’d thought. Based on past experience, the injuries didn’t look life threatening. No major arteries had been hit, although he’d need medical attention pretty soon. If not sooner. B
ut it was strange. Klyce clearly had the opportunity to finish Kidanu off, but had decided not to. Why?

  ‘Go,’ Kidanu said, pressing a hand against his side, ‘before he . . . disappears.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Go.’

  Bishop paused for a moment, then got to his feet. Kidanu was right. He needed to find Klyce now, while the odds were still on his side. He looked to his right and saw a thin sliver of faint light. Looked like a partially open door at the end of a hallway. Bishop began walking in that direction. The sliver got bigger. When he felt he was only a few feet away, he reached out with his hand.

  Then he felt a displacement in the air just behind his left shoulder. Barely noticeable, but there. He was in the process of turning when a truck smashed into his back. Or something that felt like one. The pain was sharp and intense. He slammed face-first into the corridor wall. As he slid to the floor, he could feel the Ruger being plucked from his grip.

  He collapsed onto his back and groaned in pain. He heard something big land on the floor a few feet away. A chair, maybe. Then a beam of light shone right in his face, blinding him.

  ‘And you thought you were so smart,’ Klyce’s voice said. ‘Did you actually think I’d leave without settling accounts first? If you think I’m looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life, you’ve got another think coming.’

  Now Bishop understood why Kidanu had been left alive. So he could unintentionally lead Bishop right into Klyce’s hands. Easiest trick in the world to pretend to leave when you haven’t. Especially in the dark. And Bishop had fallen for it. What a smart guy he was.

  Keeping his face averted from the flashlight, Bishop slowly moved his right hand towards his right pants pocket. The balisong was his only chance now.

  ‘Arquette’s toast,’ he said in an effort to keep Klyce talking. ‘Back in the car, he told me he left the evidence on you with someone he trusted. That it would get mailed to the papers if anything happened to him. You’re screwed, Klyce.’