Chasing The Dawn (Luke Temple - Book 2) (Luke Temple Series) (32 page)

Luke methodically searched the lounge and bedroom, slowly seeking out objects and then taking pictures with his phone before moving anything. Each time he had finished examining the object he would bring up the picture and replace it exactly as it had been. The search so far had turned up nothing.

There were several documents and pieces of noted paper that he had sifted through on the writing desk, but even though Luke could read Italian he could not make sense of them. They were in a language he did not know, a scientific language.
What are you hiding?
Luke was sure that the police would have gone through and collected evidence.
There are papers but no photos?
There were no personal touches at all. His mind went back to Brun’s house and the array of memories and pictures that were on display. Vittorio’s home was lifeless.

As Luke flicked through the photos he had taken his mind suddenly snagged on something. It looked like a tiny second pane of wood was protruding from the desk. It was so fractional that it could only been seen from above, at the exact angle from which Luke had taken a photo …
what is that?

He moved straight over to the desk, found the corner and started pawing and pulling at the wood. Something gave way and a strip of thin wood fell to the floor. Feeling underneath the desk, Luke’s fingers dipped inside a hidden compartment and from inside he retrieved a single sheet of paper that had been folded up small.

There were markings all over, some apparently made with pen, others printed on, all interconnected. It was a well-worn sheet of paper, the edges were crumpled and the ink fading; it had once been a working document: a
personal
working document.
I know someone who will know what this means.

As he leant back onto his hands to stand a shadow flashed across the moonlit scaffolding grid. He froze. In his current position he was obscured from the window by the wall. The shadow flashed across the window again. This time Luke saw it was a human outline moving right to left. As he got to his feet he heard the front door rattle and then open.

“Sounds like all you are doing is making a very loud noise. We don’t like loud noises.” Chung Su grimaced at the throaty, cigarette-harshened voice that was talking down the phone. She could picture the man’s yellow teeth as he relished every word, smiling from the power he had. The conversation was in her mother tongue and it was freeing but at the same time painful. “Maybe you do not want to return? Perhaps there is no need for us to keep talking.”

“I have more information …”

“Go on …”

“There has been a breakthrough in what they are working on, and I am being chased here; others know what we have been doing.”

The line went quiet. The short raspy breaths could still faintly be heard, then the man responded slowly, “I want to know exactly who these people are.”

“They are Iranian.” Chung Su was grasping at what Luke had been saying to her.

The shallow breaths were all that was audible, then
:
“What Iranians?”

“I don’t know exactly, but they killed Professor Brun, and are trying to kill me, which means they definitely want this for themselves. I can come back and explain exactly what they have found.” She knew she didn’t fully know but she just wanted to go home.

“And have you located our men?”

“No, but …”

“And Professor Vittorio?”

“I don’t know that either, but I am sure they would not have hesitated to have killed him also …” Chung Su broke off; she rested her head against the plastic phone casing attached to the wall. She felt exhausted.

“I was very clear that you were to discover what happened to our men, and also what has become of Vittorio, and I don’t believe you have achieved either of those.”

Chung Su was horrified. “But I have given you who is opposing us. I am only a scientist, you need to send more men over here … they are trying to kill me … do you hear? Trying to kill me.”

“It is out of the question for me to send more men or for you to come home. You are to complete the mission I assigned you. I must have more information. Think of your home, think of your colleagues … think of your family. You know the power we could hold, and you must help us attain it, Devils will always beseech the righteous. We do not crumble in the face of opposition.”

“But what can I do?” she asked weakly.

“It is quite simple, get the information we need and you can come home.”

***

The phone call had not been a pleasant one. The receptionist had kept a shifting eye on her. Her language was indecipherable but the tone and emotion were quite clear. She was very angry and upset.

The receptionist watched as she moved briskly in front of him, purposefully avoiding his eye contact. The news broadcasts had said she had been captured by a man, but the woman in front of him was definitely not being held against her will. It was no longer his concern. Fate had put her here and he wanted her and her captor gone just as quickly as they had arrived.

He pounded the numbers on the sleek black phone in front of him. It rang three times, then a professional-sounding female voice answered. “Emergency services, how can I direct your call?”

“Police please …”

Luke pressed himself into the corner of the room next to the desk. It was the darkest corner, and it gave him the best view of all entry points. There were low-level murmurs coming from the dining room. He tried to pick out the number of people but they were speaking too quietly. He could tell they were male. The shadow reappeared at the window; there were no exit points, the front door was blocked, and going out of any window was out of the question, he had no visibility on weaponry or numbers.
This isn’t looking good.

To his left he heard a metallic rattle, it was coming from the bedroom and he guessed that the man on the scaffolding had moved round to the bedroom window. Edging gently out from his corner, Luke peered out the window; there was no sign of movement. He took two sharp steps into the centre of the room and jabbed his hand up through a dust-ridden lampshade, gripping the bulb. He tried twisting but it wouldn’t budge. Knowing he was running out of time he took a chance and yanked hard; the bulb cracked a little in his grip but came free; he moved back into the corner. The room would now stay dark, as he needed it to.

Luke wrapped his sleeve around his left hand and gripped the light bulb until he felt it crack into pieces. His right hand retrieved the kitchen knife from the small of his back.

A popping noise came from the bedroom and a cold draught crept under the frame.
Someone is inside.
Luke allowed his muscles to go loose in preparation.

Finally, a gruff voice barked an instruction in the dining room and the door handle shifted down and a hulk of a man wandered in. His massive shaved head easily cleared six feet; he was wearing a long black overcoat, black gloves and he held a pistol in his right hand. Luke’s eyes lasered in on the weapon, he immediately recognised it as a Tariq 9 mm.
These guys are definitely Iranian.
Luke held the knife by the blade.

The man reached straight for the light switch, clicking up and down a few times before finally realising that the light wasn’t going to come on. He grunted and moved further into the room; as the moonlight hit his cheek Luke could see his skin was pockmarked, he had dark rings under his eyes and his skin was dusky. Suddenly the bedroom door started to open … his time was up. Luke had to act.

In one swift movement Luke brought the knife up to his ear and then snapped his forearm back down. The silence was broken by the short, sharp swoosh of displaced air as the knife flew across the room and buried itself up to the hilt in the pockmarked man’s throat. His eyes went wide with shock, and the gun dropped to the floor as both hands gripped his throat. The gurgling and spluttering began as he fought for air through the steel and blood.

The bedroom door was now fully open and without hesitation Luke crashed into the mystery man emerging from the doorway, Luke sliced down with the edge of the light bulb onto the emerging man’s right wrist, feeling the warm blood shoot from the artery as he left a chunk of broken glass behind. He then bent his knees so he could push the pair of them back into the bedroom. Shouts followed them from the lounge.

Someone tried coming through the door. Luke scrambled to his feet and kicked it shut, just as three bullets thumped through the wood. Luke now turned his attention to the injured man. There was blood everywhere. The man was only slight in frame, his wrist pumping blood, a blood-smeared baton laying slick by his side. In a fast and deadly move, Luke ran the remaining sharp edge of the smashed light bulb down the man’s leg, slicing through the femoral artery.

A guttural voice bellowed from the behind the door, “Come out, or we kill you.”

Luke didn’t respond
. Action is not always as effective as reaction. An operative must always assess when to act, and when to react.
There was a hushed conference happening next door. Luke knew something was about to happen. He eyed the half-open window
. Could I make it?
He visualised himself escaping onto the scaffolding. He shook away the thought.
I need information.

The door crashed open. The gun barrel, complete with suppressor, had barely appeared through the doorway but Luke had already seized the baton and was bringing it down with all his might. It connected hard on the trigger finger, breaking it instantly. The man howled in pain as a movement flashed out of the shadows and Luke realised there was someone else in the room. Luke jammed his hands under the man in front’s armpits. He didn’t have a particularly big frame. Then with a gritted scream, Luke lifted him off his feet and drove them both toward the other person.

The other man had not expected the move and did not get a shot off until it was too late. All of Luke’s focus shifted to the gun. He caught the man’s hand just as he was taking aim and the bullet buried itself in the ceiling. Luke wrapped both his hands around the gunman’s wrist and pushed his left leg over the top of his bicep. Then, in a swift, fluid motion he rolled backward, wrenching the arm up above the man’s head. It didn’t take much pressure for the shoulder to dislocate and a guttural scream followed. Luke pulled the gun free.

The man Luke had carried across the room was now staggering to his feet; he was holding his shoulder and moving back toward the door. Luke ran his hands over the Tariq 9 mm, it felt bulky and unfamiliar, a crude suppressor unbalanced it. Without further hesitation, he lifted the Tariq and let off four shots; two passed through the man’s heart less than one centimetre apart and the remaining two tore through his forehead, sending blood, muscle tissue and brain matter splattering over the furniture and walls.

The remaining man on the floor was fighting the pain in his shoulder and pulling himself up against the wall. Luke moved across to the dead body slumped on the floor, kicked away the gun and picked up the baton. Without warning, he strode purposefully over to the struggling man and smashed him in the back of the thigh. With a cry he crumpled to the floor.

“Get up … up!” Luke yanked the man by the neck until he was sat up on his knees. “What are you doing here? Did you follow me?”

The man didn’t answer. He was unshaven and his eyebrows met in the middle. He stared defiantly at Luke. Luke smashed the baton into his ribs, buckling him forward.

“Are you Iranian?” There was silence. “Are you Iranian?”

Luke lifted for another blow. “Yes, Iranian.”

“So you can understand me, you piece of shit!” Luke gave him a cheap blow on the collar bone. “What are you doing here in Italy?”

The man looked defiantly into Luke’s eyes and said nothing. Luke shifted to the immediate to try and coax out answers. “How many of you are here? Is this it?” Luke indicated to the bodies with a nod of his head.

The man sat motionless, like a rock. His eyes never left Luke’s. This was a trained man; if he had been a two-bit criminal then he would be doubled up in tears at this point.

Luke smashed the baton onto the bridge of the man’s nose, then kicked him to the ground. He put the Tariq 9 mm against the back of his head and stretched out the man’s fingers on his right hand. “I am going to carry on asking you questions, and every time I don’t get an answer I am going to break a finger … understand?”

There was no response.

“Is there anyone else here waiting outside?”

No response. The cracking bone of the little finger echoed in the silence, accompanied by a gritted cry against the floor.

“One down, four to go. Is there anyone else waiting outside?” Luke dramatically raised the baton.

“No, no … no one outside.”

They were making progress. “Where is Vittorio?”

Silence … followed by a bone cracking and a muted cry.

“Where is Vittorio? I know you know, so save the pain.”

“I don’t know, I don’t …”

Luke smashed the baton down on the middle finger and the man cried out. “I am going to treat lies the same as silence.”

Luke hauled him back up onto his knees; blood was flowing down the man’s face, and his fingers were swelling.

“Who sent you?”

The man shook his head. “I can’t tell you … I … can’t.”

The man’s demeanor had changed. His resistance was waning, but it was being replaced with a far greater force,
fear.
Luke could see it in his eyes.

“Believe me, I am far scarier than anyone you are trying to protect.” Luke stepped back and leveled the Tariq at his head. “Vittorio’s experiments, what are they to do with the Iranians?”

The man lowered his head. Luke was not expecting what he saw when it was raised. A broad smile was splitting the red flow dripping from his nose. “You don’t get it, do you? You have no idea what is happening here … you may well be the scariest person, but it is not a
person
I am afraid of …”

“Then what?”

The man began laughing and spluttering, he looked to the skies. “It is more than a person. This whole thing is about more than a person … it is about an ideal, and you cannot fight an ideal.”