Birth of an Assassin, Books 1-3: Killer Plots and Powerful Characterization (Birth of an Assassin - the series)

by Rik Stone

  A couple of kilometers further into a fairly strong wind, he caught up with Yuri. “Yuri!” he shouted, slowing alongside the walkway. “What’s going on?”

  Yuri gave him a sideways look. “Keep riding. I’m on my way to The Zanzi-bar on the Icmeler front.”

  “I know it.”

  “Go ahead then and keep out of sight. If you didn’t hear what was said back at the boat, they’re moving against Kudret and the heroin depots. Whatever you do, don’t get involved. Stay undercover until the others get here. I assume you’ve already contacted Michel?”

  “I had to patch through a message, but yes, the unit will be on its way soon enough.”

  “Good.”

  The bike moved too slowly and the relentless wind took hold of the front wheel. The scooter had no choice but to follow it out into the centre of the road. A car screeched to a halt. A horn beeped and then another and finally both drivers yelled a tirade of abuse through rolled-down windows. Mehmet waved and nodded humble apologies before easing to the side of the road.

  Fifty meters beyond The Zanzi-bar, he parked and walked back to hang around on the promenade. Lots of people, including Yuri, piled into the bar and after an age, a couple of limos pulled up outside. Yuri eventually came out with Adam and his cronies. Several people got into the cars and they pulled away with Yuri in the lead vehicle. Mehmet ran to his bike and followed from a respectable distance, and it wasn’t too much of a surprise to see the cars eventually stop at the drug warehouses. They all got out and went inside. For the first time, Mehmet noticed Sergeant Kudret was with them. And that made no sense at all. He continued watching from a distance, time dragged, and then he saw Yuri hauled out and thrown to his hands and knees. They heaved him into the back of a car and Hassan leaned inside and smacked Yuri on the head with some sort of cosh. Then the cars were off again, and again Mehmet followed. They were on a heading for the seed barn, so Mehmet went off-road, took a dirt track to get ahead, and left the scooter about two kilometers from the barn. A path running along the blind side of the hills brought him to a spot not far from the building. Inching his way to a high rise, he saw two men outside the barn. They had machine pistols and walked the perimeter in opposing directions.

  Afternoon had worn thin, the wind cooling further and filling the air with a fine dust; Mehmet hoped it would work in his favor, that he could continue watching unobserved. But then a dark-skinned woman with short, blonde hair came through a small door harbored within one of the larger doors, and stopped to talk to one of the guards. Mehmet had seen a James Bond movie in Istanbul with Yuri: Goldfinger. The main heavy in the film was called Oddjob and if he had been wearing a blonde wig and a grey checked suit, then this ‘lady’ was a ringer, right down to the moustache. But then he changed his mind; she looked more Oddball than Oddjob.

  The guard stared at the ground while she took in the vista. For a moment Mehmet’s spirit jumped, thinking she’d seen him, but then she nodded to the sentry and went back inside. Mehmet thought he would give it fifteen minutes, let them settle, and return to the marina to meet up with the others. He rested his chin on his forearms and relaxed.

  *

  Maybe he had nodded off or, if not, Mehmet had been suddenly aroused enough that his head jerked back in fright. But he must have been dreaming; those at the barn were still walking the perimeter without concern. The sun had dipped while he’d tried keeping vigil and it had left a grayed, bluish atmosphere in its wake. He shivered, time to go, but when he turned over, he found himself looking up at the tallest, skinniest man he had ever seen. To have labeled him ugly would have been flattery. His head was bald and he had a long, thin nose and large, black eyes; sunken cheeks hollowed out as far down as his stub chin and the yellow skin that covered it hung loose. A knife was gripped firmly in his fist and an unnatural, excited leer made Mehmet feel like a child about to be molested.

  Fear took an instant hold and he reacted by spinning his body out of the way, but the man was fast, too fast. Mehmet had knife-trained on the streets of Istanbul as a child and then with elitists from Russia’s Special Forces as an adult, but this man moved like a specter. The knife swiped in a blur and the man grinned lecherously, an eerie smile splitting his face without revealing teeth. Mehmet had moved in unison with the assault, but too slow; excruciating pain froze his brain as the flesh covering his ribs unzipped and the blade sparked against bone. Blood gushed, he couldn’t move. He would surely pass out from the hurt. But he couldn’t allow it. Think … reason … If this man wanted him dead, surely he would be dead already. He’d been sent from the barn to take him prisoner. Remember Yuri’s teachings – take advantage of anything on offer. And the only thing going for him right now was that this misfit didn’t want him dead.

  He ignored the agony and rolled a fraction, arching his back as if in unbearable pain, and slipped his knife from the back of his waistband. His attacker readily accepted that Mehmet was defeated and bent over him, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and pinning the knife to his throat.

  “Carefully does it,” he said with velvet tonsils, as if the sexual kicks he was clearly getting were reaching a climax.

  He pulled Mehmet halfway to his feet and held his groin against the top of his leg – he had an erection. Turn it to an advantage. Mehmet let his body flow in assistance with his aggressor as he was pulled closer. The knife at Mehmet’s throat relaxed as the other’s fervor grew. When he had eased it back enough that there was a space, Mehmet brought his knife between their bodies and plunged the blade to the hilt where his enemy’s heart would reside – should he have one. The shock of the assault was clear; his face stretched, his eyes widened, and his mouth yawned. Drooling turned to dribbling and leering to terror. He let go of Mehmet without a sound and stumbled back, clasping his chest. His long spindly legs juddered and he fell to his knees, looked at the fatal wound, and then turned his face up to Mehmet in disbelief.

  Through his pain, Mehmet went behind him and kicked him to the ground. He leant over him, whipped the blade across his skinny foe’s jugular, and watched until the muscular contractions stopped. Yuri had taught him whatever condition they were in, always to make sure the opponent was dead before turning away. But then Mehmet dropped to his knees and clutched the sliced flesh that had folded back from his ribs. The wound was bad. He’d need stitching sooner rather than later. He should get back to the marina now, before he was too weak.

  The day was ending and the curtains of darkness closing. Hopefully, he could slip away before the others realized their scout had failed. He took off his shirt, ripped the material into long strips, folded the pillowcase, and bandaged it against his body with the pieces of shirt. The bleeding seemed to slow, but then seeped through the material. He had to make a move while he could. He took a look over the rise to check the safety of the situation and a tremor ran down his spine as a spray of bullets stitched the sandstone near his face.

  Chapter 28

  Mehmet flattened out and edged back as bullets peppered the ground near him. He was only thankful that the scattered grit hadn’t dusted his eyes; he had already had enough misery for one day. The Uzi was to one side of where he lay, but stretching for it unzipped him that bit further. With fingers trembling, he pressed a hand to the injury, snaked closer to the gun, and clutched it to his side. He weighed up his options; he hadn’t any. Badly wounded and a host of gunmen at the bottom of the hill firing sub-machine guns at him, he was finished for sure. But Yuri was down there and in big trouble; he couldn’t allow himself to give up yet.

  He pushed the pain aside and moved forward on his belly. As near to the edge as he dared go, he lifted the pistol, pointed it towards the barn and panned the gun as he fired. The fact the day was darkening made little difference to his shooting abilities; Yuri had always said he couldn’t hit a barn door from up close, but he proved him wrong on this occasion. The sentries raced to the base of the hill and again Mehmet pointed the Uzi over the rise and squeezed the trigger. Unlikely, but s
omeone cried out. He peered over the rise and saw a man running back towards the barn, his deserted comrade left to squeal alone. Now was a good time to take advantage, now was the time to run. But getting to his feet, he wobbled and blood loss had his mind wandering. Still trying to concentrate, he saw Oddball run from the barn and make for the base of the hill. Her weapon was set to automatic and she fired as she zigzagged towards him. He fired back, but not for long; the clip emptied.

  Clutching the Uzi to his injured side, he moved off, but the loss of daylight and concentration let him down again, and he staggered in the opposite direction to where he’d left the scooter. Oddball’s footfall grew heavy; she was closing the gap – fast. He clamped a hand to his side and stumbled rather than run. Reaching the bluff on the downward slope opposite the barn, he turned to see that Oddball had made it to the ridge. Maybe a hundred meters between them, but in his condition that was no advantage. Oddball began coming towards him and Mehmet took a step out onto the slope, misjudged his footing, and went tumbling down. Gut reaction caused him to roll up his body, but he hit the ground heavily, bounced, and went into a free spin. Pain seared and skin flayed from his naked back. His shoulder took the brunt of the fall and an old bullet wound there tore open. But all of that was a tickle compared to the ache in his ribs.

  The descent continued. With no bushes, mounds of earth or outcrops to slow the fall, his speed whipped up. He carried on crashing downward until at last the steep slope gave way to a narrow gully. His body had suffered with every movement and now he just wanted to wallow in the relief of this new found stillness. But then he heard Oddball. Weakly, he pushed up onto his knees and struggled for cognitive perception.

  Oddball’s head popped over the brow of the hill. She had set her weapon to manual, probably to save ammo, and fired off single shots. Fortunately, she couldn’t shoot any straighter than him, which might have been funny, but it wasn’t. If she was using an Uzi, she was on the fringe of effective distance, which was another indication that guns weren’t her strong point.

  Mehmet watched her lower the gun to her side and begin clambering down the slope. He had his own Uzi clutched tightly to him. He had no recollection of clinging to it on his way down the hill, but wasn’t about to question why he had. There was a full magazine in his pocket, but there was no time to stop and load here. He stumbled along the gulley, took occasion to see if Oddball was gaining, and got a little satisfaction to see she wasn’t doing so well. While she’d thundered up the hill like an athlete, she only succeeded in scrambling down this side, bouncing inelegantly on her butt, holding her arms out, trying to balance the descent and then rolling over. He should have reloaded.

  The hills that confined him to the gulley looked to open out a little way ahead. The day had darkened, but he was sure he could see greenery in the open expanse beyond. If he could round the bend he’d have time to bang in the clip and bushwhack her.

  He stumbled along the gulley, crouching, while pushing a hand against his wounded ribs to hold the flesh together. Oddball was back on her feet and running, firing single shots as she did. He was almost to the greenery. If he didn’t fall, he could yet make it. But at the end of the draw his heart dropped into his stomach. The greenery wasn’t an opening at the end of the hills; it was a moss-like sludge trapped between them. However, the hills had opened to an extent; the sludge was at least fifty meters across and nearly as long, but it totally blocked his exit. If he tried wading across, Oddball would catch up and cut him to ribbons. He looked back to see she hadn’t made the sort of progress he would have expected. Think! Under, if there was enough water under the mire he could slip beneath and out of sight. On the opposite side of the pond he saw a small overhang. If he could swim under the sludge, he could hide beneath the overhang, get the magazine loaded up and make a last stand.

  He dropped onto his less damaged side and slithered into the moss, but the stench of chemical flared his nostrils. More problems, it could be toxic. Oddball had second guessed his move and attempted to stem his progress by spraying a burst of shot. She was too far away, so he was fairly safe for the moment. And her emptying the clip would give him more time as she reloaded. Think! Toxic waste? Maybe. Lead poisoning from Oddball? Definitely – go!

  Slithering into the slime, a new panic came as he flailed about on top of the sludge. There wasn’t any water. And to add to his gloom, his movements had pulled at the wound in his side. But he had to stay belly down. What to do? Try reloading or get further away? She was too close; there wasn’t enough time to reload. He slithered another two meters into the mire and thoughts of discomfort disappeared when he sunk down into a stink-filled sink. Water! It was warm and brought a degree of comfort to his many abrasions. In all probability, before submerging, he would’ve made a path through the bog and Oddball would easily guess his direction, so he veered off and away from the precipice, pulling a line through the moss on the surface. The deception couldn’t take too long; she would see what he was up to and he had held his breath almost to breaking point. He brought his hand back under, submersed to the bottom, and reversed direction towards where the overhang should be. His ribs burned, his strength was bleached, and his spirit weakened. All he had left was adrenalin. Bullets began zipping into the swamp water, but it was clear she had no idea where he was. Care was still needed; a stray bullet can kill as easily as an aimed one.

  Lungs close to bursting, he frogged along the bottom until striking his fist on a rock and then coming up too fast, he struck his head, but at last his luck had turned; he had made it to the overhang and there was enough room between water and ledge to get his face out and grab air. He made sure his face remained covered with slime so that Oddball wouldn’t easily see him. The Uzi magazine was changed underwater for the sake of silence, but if that same water rendered the ammunition useless, he would fire, the pistol would click, and Oddball would be alerted to his whereabouts.

  Suddenly, the silence broke without his input. A flourish of shots sizzled and zipped through the water near and far. There must have been a path around the perimeter that he had failed to see and his nemesis was working around it while shooting up the pond. The clumping of her shoes neared and then she was almost above him. Another step and she kicked grit over the ledge that splashed in front of his face. The overhang was dry and crusty. If he fired a line into it, maybe it would collapse. If she fell in, he might somehow have a chance; he had his knife.

  Oddball fired her pistol until the weapon clicked – the clip was empty. It was now or never. He pointed the Uzi upward, squeezed the trigger, and kept the gun firing as if drawing a pencil line across the underbelly of the overhang. The ledge creaked and then avalanched into the water, which would have been a good result if it hadn’t fell on him and pushed him under. When the landfall stopped moving, Mehmet was pinned to the bottom of the mere, lungs all but empty of air. Pain ignored, he thrashed in panic, floundered, and kicked rocks away. The earth moved and his legs and arms were freed. When he arched his back, the rest of the debris let go of him. Putting himself at the mercy of Oddball, he pushed for the surface. His face broke through the moss and he sucked in sweet air, but instead of seeing Oddball waiting on the waterside, he found himself alone. She must have jumped away when the overhang fell and not realized he had been trapped. She would be hiding, waiting for an opportunity to pounce.

  He stayed in the water, but then heard moaning, soft moaning. For a minute he thought it was him and that he was crying. But the sound turned to a constant. And it definitely wasn’t coming from him. Wearily, almost hopelessly, he pulled at what was left of the ledge. Not enough strength in his arms, he tried for a foothold with his feet, dragged himself halfway out, dug his fingers into gritted rock, and pulled with his hands while pushing with his feet. He got ashore, lay belly down, and closed his eyes. Exhaustion had taken him and he no longer cared about Oddball. He was finished.

  Minutes passed, the whimpering got louder, and he looked a little way across the divide to see
Oddball on her back near the gulley wall. The area around her crotch was smothered in blood and one of her legs had almost separated from her hip. Her lips dripped blood and her face was contorted in anguish.

  He dragged himself to a sitting position and pulled as much air into his lungs as he could manage. It was fresh and tasted of freedom. Relief overwhelmed him. He laughed and then he cried. The sky was a clear midnight blue and the brightness of a full moon stung his eyes. The simple sight of starlight and earth filled him with gratitude for the gift of life. He was alive and for the first time in memory was glad to be so. The wind had dropped, the air was cool, and for some strange reason, he’d gone past pain.

  “Help me! Please, help me!” Oddball cried.

  Mehmet’s fascination with the world around him was broken and he turned towards her. He should crawl over and kill her, he knew, but a spark of humanity came with the gratitude he was feeling. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m coming.” He got to his knees and crawled towards her.

  “Help me! Please, help me!”

  “Surely, I will. Just give me a minute.” He straddled his arms so he was leaning over her chest and worked his view down her body to see if anything could be done for her. And then, like a striking Cobra, her arm darted up and her fingers dug into his neck. Her strength was unbelievable and her grip choked the blood supply to his brain. His vision blurred and his eyes crossed. He couldn’t fight such strength. His body fell across her chest, but her grip remained solid. There was nothing he could do to stop her other than sink his teeth into her breast, but she seemed oblivious to pain. If something didn’t happen in the next few seconds, he would die. Tracing a hand along his waistband, his fingers wrapped around the handle of his knife. With teeth sunk into her chest, he used his face as leverage and pushed until there was a space between their bodies. Not much room, but enough to slither his hand between them and push the blade against her body. However, the knife must have blunted somehow and made no inroad, and awareness of what he was doing made her tighten the grip. Panic renewed his pressure and the knife surged, the blade finally disappearing between her ribs. Her grip weakened and then her hand fell limply from his neck.