KOP Killer (17 page)

I kept my eyes aimed at the ground and followed the bobbing beam of his flashlight, getting in the rhythm when he stopped short. I smacked into him, my face bouncing off his shoulder, the taste of blood in my mouth.

“Sorry.” He swept the flashlight beam left and right. “Don’t we have to turn here?”

We stood in the center of an intersection. He three-sixtied the beam, hitting all four corners: shoe store, fruit stand, rubble from a collapsed building, another fruit stand. I knew where I was. I’d been here a few nights ago, on my way to the Punta de Rio, the restaurant where I’d met Maggie. “Ahead another block, then left to the river.”

“Got it.” He was off.

I hustled to catch up, then settled back into the pace. Misting rain didn’t keep me cool, and sweat broke on my forehead, in my pits. We made the turn, our footfalls echoing in the silence like ticks of an old clock on a sleepless night.

Block after block, we approached the river, the nicer parts of Villa Nueva falling away behind us, brick and asphalt giving way to clumps of weeds and brush, the air heavy with the smell of wet mulch. This patch of urban jungle was once a bustling port, a buzzing, booming link of the supply chain from the long-gone brandy era.

Deluski’s flashlight flitted over the signs of neglect: glue jars huffed clean; used rubbers tossed from car windows; bottles and cans; cig butts and O pipes. We hurdled vines, dodged shrubs, stomped through knee-high grass, coming ever nearer to the Cellars.

Deluski slowed. He swept the flashlight beam across an angled plane of greenery. Starting from ground level, the plane sloped upward, rusted metal showing through in places. This was the roof, one side of a massive A-frame that sheltered a man-made inlet big enough to hold a barge.

We ran alongside, seeking a usable entrance. Deluski stopped to aim the flashlight at a pair of doors lying flush with the ground, his beam settling on a locked chain running through the door handles, the links knotted with roots and vines. This place was condemned a decade ago. A deathtrap. Supposed to be sealed up.

We moved on, passing two more properly chained entrances before reaching a pair of doors flapped upward, a bolt cutter lying on the ground. I could see the first steps of a long staircase that I knew tunneled into the earth, down, down, down to the Cellars, a series of cavernous rooms buried beneath the inlet.

We started our descent, my piece clutched tight, too tight, like I was trying to hold on to a slimy fish. A fly buzzed my ear. My stump had to be bleeding again, must’ve bumped it without noticing. No other way to explain why the damn pests had been dogging me since the gay bar.

Already, the air felt cooler. The Cellars were designed to provide a constant temperature year-round, each meter of depth providing further protection against the scorching Lagartan summer. Perfect for brandy’s long-term aging process.

We descended one step at a time, our movements deliberate, careful, nervous, weapons aimed at the black shadows hiding ahead of the flashlight beam. My lungs protested the stale air; legs quivered from overuse; eyes stung with salty sweat.

The bottom was near, a tall, arched doorway emerging from the dark like a tombstone, the last two stairs submerged in floodwater. I stepped down, ankle-deep water filling my shoes, the spaces between my toes. We took the last stair, cold liquid soaking our calves. Deluski swept the beam from side to side. Brandy casks sat on rusted shelves, rows and rows of them bathing in still water. We entered a tunnel of tipped shelves. I had my eyes peeled, my ears dialed in. Shattered casks poked out of the water like shipwrecks.

We sloshed to the row’s end. The water was now above our knees, my already exhausted legs resisting the extra work. Up ahead, Deluski’s beam found a lift, one of many that were once used to lift casks to the surface, where they could be loaded onto a barge docked in the inlet overhead.

We about-faced and started up another row. Casks towered overhead, water dripping from cracks in the ceiling, plinks and plunks echoing all around. I tried to shut out the fear of the ceiling giving way, river water crashing down on our heads in a violent torrent.

Water crept up my thighs, every centimeter a shock to my never-cold Lagartan skin. We stopped at the foot of a metal monster, long arms reaching out, the robotic stock picker frozen with rust and crusty mold.

“This is going to take forever,” I said. “They could be anywhere down here.”

“They might not be down here at all. They could’ve gotten scared off. If we smelled a setup, they could’ve too.”

Deluski’s phone rang. My heart jumped at the sudden ringing.
Shit!
To free up a hand, he tucked the flashlight under his arm, making everything but a small, rippling circle of light on the water go dark.

“Fucking silence that shit.”

“Sorry. Forgot. Call’s coming from a blocked ID.”

I felt a twinge in my gut. Something was up. “Answer it.”

“It’s a vid.”

“Live feed?”

“Yeah.”

“Turn off the outgoing vid before you answer.”

“Got it. No holo-projection down here. We’ll have to watch it on my screen.”

I dragged my rubbery legs through the water until I stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “Go.”

Dim yellow light jittered across several racked casks of brandy. The camera was as dizzying as the lighting, bouncing, weaving, until finally it steadied on two men,
my
men. They were both on their knees, water up to their waists, faces sagging with resignation. A third man stood behind them, panama hat tilted down to keep his face in shadow. A lase-blade fired up, its red glow casting the scene in hellish fire.

No!

Panama took hold of Kripsen’s hair and sliced his throat. Flash-fried blood misted upward among puffs of curling smoke. Kripsen’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, blood streaming, life draining.

Blood pulsed in my temples, my face on fire. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Panama shoved Kripsen forward. A splash of water kicked up at the camera, and the camera jumped. “Fucking watch it,” came a voice with a pissy attitude.

I knew that pretty-boy voice. Mota. With no conscious thought, my arms came to my face and started to knead, the butt of my weapon digging into one cheekbone, the butt of my right arm into the other.

The screen shook in Deluski’s quivering grasp.

Kripsen wasn’t moving. He was doing the dead man’s float.

Bile stewed in my gut. We were too late. Too damned late. Lumbela was about to die, and we were powerless to stop it. The Cellars were too big. They could be anywhere within this network of interconnected underground warehouses. We’d run out of time.

Lumbela’s hair was in Panama’s grip, head tilted back, Adam’s apple bulging, eyes pleading, begging. The blade scorched and charred its way through skin and muscle and windpipe. Panama let go of his hair, and Lumbela briefly splashed under the surface before slowly rising to the top.

Deluski didn’t speak. But I could hear him breathing fast through his nose, the sound raking in and out.

Panama wasn’t done. He turned the floaters over, their blank eyes staring, throat wounds gaping, mouths hanging open and filled with water. Panama pulled Kripsen close and reached a hand toward the wound. Kripsen’s still face went underwater as Panama worked his fingers inside his throat. He pulled his hand out, bringing Kripsen’s tongue with it. He left it like that, red flesh poking from a mouth that wasn’t a mouth. A Lagartan necktie.

I wanted to scream, but they were down here somewhere. Possibly
near.
Mota and Panama. They were going to pay.

Panama moved in to dress up Lumbela.

“Turn it off,” I said. “We’ll fry the fuckers on their way out.”

Deluski understood. He was already moving, heading back toward the staircase, his legs high-stepping through the water. I was right behind him, doing a sloppy imitation, bumbling and stumbling, my stride a splashy sort of scramble.

The water shallowed nearer to the stairs, my gait taking on a semblance of normalcy. Deluski used the flashlight to help me pick a spot behind a cask that had a good line of sight.

“You set?” he asked.

“Yeah. Don’t shoot until I do.”

“Got it.” He splashed away, light jouncing for a minute then extinguishing when he found his spot.

My feet and ankles were still in the grip of cold water, an aching numbness taking hold. Wet pants chilled my legs. A water-splashed shirt clung to goose-bumped flesh. Focus. I held my piece tight in my left, my eyes searching for a break, any break in the pitch black dark. They’d come this way. They had to.

Mota and Panama. I’d passed on my chances to kill each of them. Kripsen and Lumbela had paid the price for my stupidity, the ultimate price. My once-fearsome crew was now reduced to one.

I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, wiggled my unfeeling toes. Mota had been asleep when I had him in my sights.
Asleep.
All I’d had to do was squeeze the trigger. But I was weak. Soft. Felt sorry for the piece of offworld ass spooning alongside him.

And Panama? I’d left him beaten and bruised but all too alive.
Fuck.

I tried to take satisfaction from the fact that Panama’s YOP partner didn’t show on the vid. I’d clocked that bastard over the head good. That SOB probably still wasn’t seeing straight.

I let my piece hang by my side. Didn’t want a tired arm. I’d have plenty of time to take aim as they approached. The sound of dripping water pinged hollowly off the walls. I ignored the fly buzzing around my head.
Focus.

Neckties. Panama gave my boys fucking neckties, the calling card of the jungle warlords. I couldn’t wait to fry the fuck out of him. Mota too. Despite the chilled bones in my shoes, this time there’d be no cold feet.

Yepala was General Z’s territory. The general was famous for employing an army of children. Decades of war had taken its toll on the adult population so now he drafted children.

But what was the connection between Mota and General Z? I remembered the picture: Mota, Froelich, and Wu standing around a pile of cash. Opium money? It was possible.

But would General Z order the murder of two Koba police? That was a risky move for the warlord. A move as ballsy as that could provoke a nasty backlash from the Lagartan army.

So perhaps Mota and Panama weren’t conspiring with the warlord at all. Yepala was on the edge of the general’s territory, a place where nonopium trade and commerce were freely permitted. Those two SOBs could be operating an independent business inside the general’s territory.

I saw a light ahead, and I put thoughts of drugs and warlords out of my mind. The light blinked in and out as they passed behind one obstruction or another. Then it split into two lights.

Mota and Panama.

Panama and Mota.

I raised my piece, my heart quickening its pace. They were
mine.
Darkness was my shield. I was invisible, a ghost with a gun.

Mota and Panama. Panama and Mota. They made slow, sloshing progress. My finger was on the trigger, waiting, anticipating.

Ready.

A phone rang. One of theirs. “Who the hell is that?” asked Panama, his voice distant but audible.

“It’s him again,” said Mota. “It must be important. Hello?”

Not yet, I told myself. Be patient. Let them get nice and close. Close enough that I couldn’t miss, even with the left. No need to rush it. They couldn’t see me. Couldn’t see Deluski.

Not yet.

Their lights went out. Their silhouettes disappeared. The sound of splashing water.

What the fuck?

I resisted the urge to open fire. Couldn’t give away my position. I had to stay between them and the door. As long as I did, the upper hand was mine. Only one way out of here.

Water dripped. The fly buzzed. My breath pumped in and out. Otherwise, quiet. Total, absolute quiet.

The phone call. Whoever the bastard was he had tipped them off. Ambush up ahead. But who? How?

The air came alive with red fire. My eyes went blind, bright light overwhelming me. An oven blast struck my cheek, eyelashes curling, skin burning. I dropped down, taking cover behind the cask, my body in a crouch, my ass dipped in the water, face pressed into the wood.

I could feel the cask shake as lase-fire ripped into it. Smoldering wood chips rained on my head, and smoke filled my nostrils. I looked left, my vision fuzzy and blurred. Through the haze, I could see return fire coming from Deluski’s position, the beam terminating in a confusing red-black smear.

How did they know where I was? Fucking heat sensors. Had to be.

A chunk of wood bounced off my shoulder. My cover wouldn’t last much longer.

Fall back to the stairs. Cement and rock would hold better than rotten wood. I sank into the cold water, stretched my legs out so my torso went all the way in. Good luck finding my heat signature now. I took a second to locate the staircase in the deep-red glow of lase-fire, then I sucked in a breath and dropped in my head. Underwater, I scrambled for the stairs, doing a swim-crawl. Water exploded around me. Microcurrents struck me like punches, wild surf tinted bloodred with lase-fire.

Hot water scalded my face, my ankles, my gun hand. I turned back, paddling, crawling, lunging. My head struck something hard. I came up and sucked air as I tapped around with my weapon, the sound of hollow wood answering back. Another cask. I pulled myself upright, my back leaning against my new cover.

Bastards saw me. Even when I went underwater.
Shit.

Lase-fire erupted from the staircase, momentarily silhouetting Deluski’s crouched form. He’d managed to fall back unhurt. All their fire was focused on me.

It was me they could see. Not Deluski. How?

From behind, I heard splashing. They were closing. Deluski searched with his flashlight and took some potshots, but the splashes came closer.

I couldn’t stay here. But I was farther away from the stairs than I’d been on my first try—no chance in hell I’d make it. Deluski’s position was more and more vulnerable with our enemies’ every wet step forward.