State of Emergency (8 page)

The Dragon surveyed the motel room. Four walls, a bed,
a bathroom, and an arsenal of weapons. On the bed lay
two M60 7.62 mm machine guns, each capable of firing
550 rounds per minute. Next to these was a box containing
1000 rounds of M61 armour-piercing shells. Towards the
pillows lay two of the most powerful handguns in the world,
his trusted Smith & Wesson Model 500 Magnum and an
Israeli Army standard issue semi-automatic Mark XIX Desert
Eagle .50 AE. Next to these rested a leather box containing six
M67 fragmentation hand grenades, each with a 'guaranteed
killing radius' of five yards. To complete the collection,
propped up on a pillow, was an SAS favourite, a Fairbairn-Sykes No. 2 commando knife.

The Dragon was an ordinary looking man. He was 47 years
old, with light-brown neatly cut hair, greying at the temples.
He had a plain face, with a nose that was perhaps slightly
too big, and watery pale-blue eyes. He was wearing a paleblue
shirt, cream chinos and conservative loafers that made
him look like a college professor on vacation, or a middle
manager on a mufti day. There was only one detail about
his physical being that spoke of something else, something
darker – a red tattoo of a coiled dragon on the inside of his
left wrist. The dragon's tail ran back the length of his arm. It
had hideous black eyes and a lascivious, lashing tongue; the
words Death, Conquest, Pestilence and War spewed from its
mouth.

The Dragon's appearance may have been completely
unremarkable, but the man's CV read like something from
a Bond movie. Once upon a time he had been Igor Andrei
Makanov, the son of Andrei and Lena Makanov. His Russian
father had been sent to a Gulag in 1975, where he died from
frostbite-induced gangrene. Lena was a Pole who had been
only twelve when the Russians invaded her homeland. Igor
had also been the brother of Angela and Ania, who, along
with their mother, had died from malnutrition in Moscow.
Igor, the youngest of the family, was the sole survivor. When
he reached the age of seventeen he joined the army. He was
later trained by Spetsnaz, the Soviet special forces.

With the collapse of the USSR in 1991, Igor destroyed all
trace of his former life and relocated to America. He changed
his physical appearance and severed all connections with
his previous existence. He quickly forged links with the
eastern-seaboard mafia families, who were happy to find
work for muscle with no history. Searching for something
more reliable, he headed south, where he became the
personal bodyguard for the family of a Texan oil baron.
When the youngest son of the head of the family was
elected to high political office, his bodyguard went with
him to Washington.

It did not take Igor long to cross the paths of the Four
Horsemen and to acquire his new name. Now, after so many
years, he had almost forgotten his birth name, but the
memory of his family's suffering remained undimmed. He
could not pin the blame for those horrors on any individual,
but he knew that he would rather kill himself than ever be
poor again. And because of this he had immediately clicked
with the Four Horsemen, to whom the acquisition of money
was everything.

The Four Horsemen demanded exclusivity, and the
Dragon was happy to provide it. They paid him extremely
well and he enjoyed his work. In ten years of service, he now
had eliminated over two dozen people for them. The most
recent had been the killings in the Hollywood Hills, but his
CV was diverse.

One of the Dragon's earliest assignments had been
Victoria Bramley, a lawyer working in the Department of
Justice in Washington. The woman had stumbled upon some
documents she would have been better off never seeing. The
fact that Mrs Bramley was a young mother with two kids in
preschool did nothing to dent his enthusiasm for his task,
and he had completed it without fuss. Another prominent
victim was Peter du Feu, an octogenarian congressman from
Nebraska who had been sniffing around some elaborate
financial operations planned by the Horsemen. He had
enjoyed that assignment. Du Feu was a repulsive old weasel
who smelled of death. The Dragon considered the job little
more than euthanasia, almost a mercy-killing.

He was nearly ready. He placed the weapons in their
various carriers, zipped up the bags and closed the latches.
He had parked his anonymous, rented white Toyota close
to the door of the motel room. In a few moments he had
loaded the car, returned his room keys to reception and
signed out as Michael Connor.

Now his adrenaline was starting to pump. Although he
was over 300 miles from his destination, he was at last on
his way.

A Red Hot Chili Peppers song was playing loud through the
stereo of the old VW campervan. Steve Marshall, his hair
shaved to a stubble, wearing ripped jeans and a vintage 1977
Led Zeppelin US tour T-shirt, was at the wheel and singing
at the top of his voice. Todd Evans sat beside him, his long
stoner hair tucked behind his ears. He was crumbling some
Lebanese blow onto a line of tobacco on a cigarette paper
placed precariously on a CD case.

In the back sat Dave Golding, playing a Nintendo DS,
a joint dangling from his lips. He had ultra-short hair and
wore round John Lennon glasses. Dave was rake-thin, a
fact accentuated by his baggy jeans and a 49ers sweatshirt
at least three sizes too big for him. He looked like a prisoner
released from a detention camp and hurriedly dressed
by liberating troops. The three of them were sophomore
students at Berkeley, and were travelling to Los Angeles
for Senator Kyle Foreman's speech at the California
Conference Center. They were serious OneEarthers at
Berkeley, handing out leaflets, chairing debates and
writing inspirational articles for the university magazine,
The Daily Californian.

The VW camper was Todd's, the spoils of a three-month
stint in his second term holding down two jobs – days at
Starbucks and evenings at Jerry's Steak and Chop House
on Montgomery. Built in 1970, the camper was a piece of
shit. It leaked oil, the carburettor filter needed cleaning
every thousand miles, and it had two bald tyres. The best
thing about it were the stickers on the rear window – 'No
Blood For Oil' and 'Global Warming – It's A Hot Issue'. Some
150 miles out of Frisco all three students were quietly
amazed they had got this far. The plan was to share the
driving so they could get to the speech that evening. Later
they would find some quiet lane, sleep in the van and head
back to Berkeley at first light.

'I need a leak,' Dave said, tossing the Nintendo onto the
seat beside him.

'Again!' Todd and Steve said in unison.

'Yes, again. I'm
terribly
sorry.'

A few minutes later they saw a small café and gas station
just off the main road.

'Better get some gas anyway,' Steve said, eyeing the gauge.
'Fuck. This thing sure is a thirsty bastard.'

'She's an old lady, leave her alone,' Todd responded,
patting the dash.

An attendant came out as the camper pulled into the
station. 'Just some gas,' Todd said, jumping out the passenger
side. 'I'll do the screen.'

'Don't tell me – students?' the attendant sighed. 'Counting
the cents?'

'You got it, man,' Steve retorted. He grabbed the sponge
and bucket of tepid water beside the pump. 'And I make no
apologies.'

The attendant spat into the dust and pumped gas in
silence.

Dave slipped out of the camper. 'You look pale, dude,' Todd
said. 'You didn't tell us you got travel-sick, you pussy.'

Dave gave him the finger as he headed for the
bathroom.

'So, Stevie,' Todd said coming round the back of the
camper and draping his arm across his friend's shoulders.
'You missing Audrey already?' Then he pretended to cry and
pumped his palm on his chest. 'Young lovers!'

'Oh, fuck off.'

'No, really,' Todd said, his face dropping to a mock
serious look. 'I find it very touching. We should all have an
Audrey.'

Steve shrugged Todd's hand from his shoulder and started
to walk away.

'You don't reckon she'll be getting some of this tonight,
do you, man?' Todd was making an obscene gesture with
his fist.

'Maybe. Who knows?' Steve replied smoothly and reached
into the camper to find his wallet. He needed some money
but he also wanted to hide the look he couldn't keep from
his face. Todd, as always, had hit a raw nerve. Steve had only
been dating Audrey Delaney for six weeks, but he loved her
so much he had begun to think that he was losing his mind.
He hadn't been able to tell her. It was too soon. It would
scare her off. And besides, he wanted her to say it to him
first. He thrust his hand into his rucksack and surfaced with
a handful of bills.

In the bathroom, with the door latched behind him, Dave
was alone and sweating. He stood over the sink and splashed
cold water over his face, letting it run down his neck and
onto his chest. The face staring back at him in the mirror
was that of a much older man. He looked down at his hands.
They were shaking. He ran a basin of water and thrust his
head in. The sounds of the world vanished and he imagined
never surfacing. He could just die here, he thought. Then he
pulled his head up and gasped. He dried his face and hair
with a paper towel. Leaning against the mirror, he put his
head between his outstretched arms and sobbed.

'Dave?' It was Steve, from outside the bathroom.

'You okay, man?'

'Yeah, cool. Be out in ten seconds.'

He heard a door close. Rifling through his pockets, he
found the plastic container. On its side was a sticker from
a pharmacy: 'Vicodin. 80 mg tablets. Strong Painkillers.

Prescription Only.' He tipped two of the small white tablets
into his palm and swallowed them dry. He washed his hands
and splashed more water on his face before drying it with
another fistful of paper towels. His hands were no longer
shaking.

The VW campervan made it another 48 miles before breaking
down. They had just passed the tiny town of Gorda with
its Whale Watcher Café, white clapboard houses, flags and
chintz curtains, when the temperature gauge started to
climb rapidly. Just south of Gorda the van began to lose
power. Todd, who had taken over the driving, let the old van
glide onto a concrete bridge spanning Villa Creek and then
steered off the road and onto a wide gravel verge.

'Great!' Steve said, jumping out. Todd popped the engine
cover at the back of the van and followed Steve around.

'Fanbelt's gone.'

'Excellent.'

Dave eased himself out of the back seat and trudged
around. 'What's the story?'

'Fanbelt's kaput.'

'Which means?'

'Which means the "old lady" won't go,' Steve snapped,
glaring at Todd.

'So it's my fault?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Well, you implied it.'

'Whatever,' Steve slurred, turning away and pointedly
studying the incredible view. A hundred feet beneath them
waves smashed on rock, plumes of spray shot into the crisp
afternoon air, water cascaded into the creek and back again.
He turned back and was about to ask if either of them had
any bright ideas when he saw a car crossing the bridge. It
was a white Toyota. It slowed to a stop on the gravel just
behind the VW.

The Dragon had been on the road for about 90 minutes and
was already getting twitchy. It was a blend of excitement
and expectation. He could taste blood in his mouth. But
he had to be patient. Passing through Gorda, he thought
of stopping at the Whale Watcher café, but decided against
it. He had the driver's window down and the sun was warm
on his skin. A short distance on, he approached the north
end of the bridge over Villa Creek. A hundred feet away,
off the road, stood a VW campervan with three figures
behind it.

'Hey, guys,' he called through the window as he drew
alongside. 'Trouble?'

One of the kids had his head under the bonnet, and
another had turned from the view as he had pulled up.

'Yep. Fanbelt has snapped.'

The Dragon drove onto the verge immediately in front of
the camper and stepped out. His feet crunched on the shingled
road edge. He glanced at his watch. It was approaching noon.

The kids from the camper were a scruffy bunch.
Typical
students
, the Dragon thought to himself. The one who had
been poking around with the engine had grease on his
hands. The Dragon offered his hand but when he saw the
grease he withdrew it with a disarming grin. Todd smiled
back. 'Sorry, dude. It's not the newest engine in the world.
Leaks oil just a bit!'

The Dragon felt a twinge of hatred at the kid's familiarity.
He had always hated the word 'dude'. 'Let's take a look,' he
said.

Todd stepped back. Steve was over from the edge of the
road and Dave hung back a little, close to the door of the
camper. They watched as the Dragon bent low over the VW
engine. 'I had one of these babies when I was at college,' he
lied. 'Went everywhere in it. Where you headed?'

'LA,' Steve said.

'Yeah? Girlfriends?'

'I wish,' Steve replied. 'Kyle Foreman's giving a big speech
at the CCC.'

'Is that right?' The Dragon's voice was strained as he
yanked at something under the bonnet, his Russian accent
just discernible. 'He's making quite a name for himself, isn't
he? About time someone stood up and told it how it is.' He
straightened up, the mangled remnants of the fanbelt in his
hand. 'Yep, it's busted!' he said with a grin. 'I don't suppose
any of you three have a tie? No, silly question.'

'Nope. No stockings either, dude,' Dave remarked from
the side of the van. 'Although, come to think of it, Todd may
have a secret he hasn't told us about.'

Steve laughed and Todd gave his friend a black look.

The Dragon felt his stomach tighten. The iron taste of
fresh blood wormed around his tongue. 'I think I have
something we could use,' he said and wiped his hands on a
rag Steve had handed him.

Dave got back into the van and started to roll another
joint. Steve stepped round and saw what he was doing.
'Jesus,' he said under his breath. 'Put that shit away!'

Dave looked nonplussed. Steve nodded towards the
Dragon's back, and Dave hid the gear under the seat.

Reaching the Toyota, the Dragon pulled a metal box from
under the front seat and opened the lid. Inside was a pistol
– a Russian army Yarygin PYa wrapped in a piece of velvet.
Beside it was a garrotte made from a length of piano wire with
lightweight leather endpieces. He pulled out the garrotte,
closed the lid of the box and pushed it back under the seat.

Back at the VW, Steve was in the passenger seat, Dave had
returned to his Nintendo DS and Todd was again peering at
the engine to see if there was anything else wrong.

The Dragon crunched his way slowly towards the van,
the length of wire swinging beside his right leg. He caught a
whiff of cannabis as he passed the sliding door of the vehicle
and smiled to himself. Passing round the back of the camper,
he saw Todd tugging a spark plug from its housing.

'Good idea,' the Dragon said, making Todd jump and
bang his head on the engine cover.

'Shit!' Todd exclaimed. Bent over, he saw two polished
brown loafers ahead of him. Straightening, he came eye-to-eye
with the Dragon.

The wire was stretched between the Dragon's fists.

'It's not ideal,' he said, 'but it should get you to the next
gas station.' And he crouched under the engine cover to slip
the wire around the crank and the alternator.

Todd stood to one side, watching the man work. The
Dragon was having trouble threading the wire around the
water pump housing to one side of the alternator. He twisted
his left hand around the spindle and caught the lower end
of the wire where it was dangling beside the crank. Tugging
it up, he pulled the wire tight and dexterously tied off the
two leather ends.

As the Dragon pulled his hands away from the crank, his
shirtsleeve rode up and Todd caught a fleeting glimpse of
the tattoo on the underside of the man's left wrist. It was
totally incongruous with the rest of the man's appearance,
and Todd was shocked.

The Dragon straightened and snapped his head around.
Todd was slow to compose himself but did his best. 'Fan . . .
fantastic,' he said, taking a step back. A few feet behind him
was the rail of the bridge, and beyond that the foaming
water. A gull swooped low, gliding on a warm current of
air.

A faint smile played on the Dragon's lips. He knew the kid
had seen the tattoo, and he knew the kid knew he knew. For
a second, he considered what fun it would be to slaughter
the three of them. It would have to be done quickly, which
would take some of the pleasure out of it, but it would be
entertaining. The moment passed. The Dragon turned and
walked to the side door of the camper.

Dave and Steve got out.

'Fixed,' the Dragon said.

'Cool! Thanks, man.'

'No problem. I think there's a gas station about ten miles
further on. They should fix you up – to get you to LA, at
least.'

The Dragon noticed a line of sweat above Todd's upper
lip. With a wave, he paced back to the Toyota, started the
engine and pulled onto the road, thinking with satisfaction
that the kids he had just helped had only hours to live.