State of Honour (29 page)

Tom struggled up, hearing the discharge before he could break into a sprint. He saw the Browning fall from Karen’s hand. Then another shot rang out. Her body collapsed to the ground, an agonized expression creasing her face.

“Jesus, no,” he said. “Karen!”

As he was about to run to her, Tom heard Lester hammering down the corridor behind him, emptying half a clip as he did so. He glanced over his shoulder, almost involuntarily, just as Lester put a round in the head of the man in the alcove. His near-suicidal charge had been successful only because the man had risked ducking out rather than blind firing, conscious, perhaps, that if he missed he would be vulnerable. They had both acted recklessly, and Lester was lucky to be alive.

Tom turned and glimpsed a shaven-headed man disappearing down the stone steps to the basement. The last man. He saw Karen lying on the rug, her body twitching in spasms. He ran towards her, jumping over the body of the man he’d secured earlier. As he got to her, he bent down. Her eyelids were fluttering, her camo windbreaker soaked with blood around the two scorched entry holes.

“Go on,” she said, blood oozing from her already blue-tinged lips. “Find her.” Her breath was laboured, her voice a murmur.

“Karen, hold on. Just hold on,” he said, cradling her head. Her eyes closed, a ghostly moan emerging from her mouth. Then she went limp. He put his hand to her nose, felt nothing. Tears welled in his eyes.

“She’s dead,” he said, hearing Lester come up behind him.

“We gotta move, Tom,” Lester said, putting his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “We gotta move now.”

“He went down the steps. That’s where she is, in the basement.”

“C’mon, Tom. We gotta finish this.”

Recalling Karen’s words to him at the airfield, Tom took off his jacket and placed it over her neck and face. He slumped down afterwards, the impact of the shock of her death making him lose focus. He held her flaccid hand, willing her to somehow open her eyes.

“The secretary,” Lester said, dragging Tom up. “He’s gone to kill the secretary.”

Tom shook his head, took a deep breath and stared blankly at his friend.

“C’mon, Tom. We gotta move,” Lester said, grabbing Tom’s forearms and shaking them like a pair of maracas.

Running down the stone staircase with Lester, Tom felt as if his head were about to explode, as if he had come to the limits of his physical and mental self. It was all he could do to stop himself from passing out. But he had to go on. To find her. To fulfil his promise to her. He hadn’t had the opportunity to save his mother, although he would’ve gladly died in the process. If he knew anything at all now, it was that he had to go on. To take revenge on the man who’d killed Karen, too.

As they got to the foot of the steps the corridor went left and right. Tom and Lester hugged the opposite supports beneath a large stone lintel.

“We’ll split up,” Tom said, his head still buzzing.

“I’ll go right.”

Tom watched Lester run down the corridor, drops of blood leaving a scattered trail from the entry wound. Looking left, he saw the dim corridor, a few lights affixed to the low ceiling in wire cradles. The gas pipes were exposed against the off-white walls, the floor grey-slate slabs, uneven and cracked with age. As he got halfway down he saw three rooms to the right, another corridor leading off to the left. Uncertain of how to proceed, he crouched down. The chain of events that had led him here were a wake-up call. Many people from Pakistan to the States had been involved in the secretary’s abduction. Some were dead or captured. The rest would follow, he told himself.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he glanced around, seeing Lester jogging back along the corridor, shaking his head. Five seconds later, his friend knelt down beside him, breathing heavily and grimacing as he tightened the makeshift tourniquet with his good hand.

“A dead end,” he said. “A windowless, granite wall.”

“You check the corridor off left. I’ll check the rooms,” Tom said.

With that, the middle door swung open slowly.

“That’s spooky shit,” Lester said.

“No, that’s flesh and blood that wants us to walk into somethin’.”

Tom sighed. He figured she had to be in the room. There was no other reason for the man who had shot Karen to come down here. Nowhere else for the secretary to go, either.

“What now?” Lester asked.

Before Tom had a chance to answer, a voice called out.

“You got ten seconds. Then I’ll blow her face off.”

“An English accent. The guy the Frenchy called Proctor. He’ll know we won’t go in shooting,” Lester said.

“I gotta go,” Tom said, standing up.

“We come this far. I say we go together.”

“You’ve done a suicide run already, old friend.”

“He killed Karen. Your blood is up. That means you ain’t thinking straight,” Lester said.

Tom figured he was right. They got up together and walked side by side down the corridor towards the open door.

The room was the makeshift cell she’d been kept in, a rank smell of body odour and damp filling it. The secretary sat gagged on a wooden chair. Her body was covered in blankets. Apart from her cut hair, her nose had been broken, her cheeks scarred and bruised. Her face was smeared with blood. Her appearance shocked Tom, but he did his best not to show it.

Proctor was standing beside her, holding a handgun to her head. Tom noticed the laser sight and flinched. It could only have been Proctor who had killed Karen, the shaven-headed man he’d glimpsed running down to the basement, but the physical confirmation had sent a jolt of aggression through him. He wore green fatigues and high, laced combat boots. He had a childlike smirk on his ugly face, his thick neck protruding from his clean-shaven jaw-line. Tom switched his eyes to the secretary.

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “I’ll keep my promise.”

Her head flopped forward as she appeared to pass out.

Tom sucked his teeth, stared hard at Proctor. “You’ll pay for this.”

Proctor nodded. “You want revenge; I’ll fight you for her. I win, she goes with me. You win, you take her home.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Tom replied.

Proctor’s eyes darted from Tom to Lester, his handgun pressed against the back of the secretary’s head. “How about this, Yank? Let’s say it’s still me and you, man to man. I win, you give me twenty minutes before you raise the alarm. You win, you can leave me for the French.”

Tom thought about that for a moment. “And the secretary goes with us either way?”

“As I said.”

“Don’t do it, Tom,” Lester whispered.

But Tom figured it was his best option in the circumstances. The secretary would live whatever happened. If Proctor took his chances with the French, it was likely he’d be picked up and either extradited, or do serious time here. But at least he could finish it without risking her life, which was something he would have jumped at just an hour before. Still, if Proctor was prepared to release the secretary so they could go at it, he wanted to know why this man thought he and Lester would keep up their end of the bargain. Although Lester had a bullet lodged in his arm, he still looked as if he were about to turn the Englishman’s face into hamburger meat.

“Why the trust?” he asked.

“A man gets a reputation. Yours is being a man of your word.”

Crane, Tom thought.

“And you gave her a promise, after all,” Proctor said, gesturing to the secretary. “Looks like you’ve kept that, too.”

“You hear that, Lester?” Tom said.

“I did. But I don’t like it,” Lester replied, his SIG pressed against his thigh. “And y’all ain’t agreed the rules.”

“The rules?” Tom asked Proctor.

“A submission,” Proctor said.

“Now take that damn gag off her,” Tom said.

“All right, but she stays in the cell until this is over. And the cell stays locked.”

As Proctor untied the secretary’s gag she groaned loudly. Tom rushed forward, ignoring the Englishman, and picked her up in his arms. He lowered her gently onto the bed pressed against the bare-brick wall, manoeuvring her so that she was in the recovery position. Close up, the extent of her beating looked even worse, and Tom noticed that her irises were a milky-white, the green pupils rolling as if she was drugged. He clenched his teeth. But Proctor was a big guy and trained, no doubt. He told himself to bury the anger. It would slow him down and cause him to make mistakes, just as Lester had said.

Tom walked backwards, joining Lester at the open doorway. As Proctor stepped forward Tom and Lester eased back out of the room. Proctor shut the door, swinging over the metal arm and locking the padlock, leaving the key in place. He led Tom and Lester into the adjacent room, which like the cell had a wooden table, although it was three times the size and had a dozen unwashed dishes on it, together with empty bottles of wine and water. The only other item was a compact DVD player. Proctor walked over to the table and lifted it, using his muscular thighs to take the weight, as he lent back and carried it over against the far wall. Clenching his jaw, Tom watched Proctor kneel down and slide in a DVD. As he pressed a button he said he thought it was a good idea to mask the sound of the fight; the secretary looked a little fragile as it was. With that, the sound of heavy metal basted out.

“Didn’t think it would be Miles Davis,” Lester said, above the din.

“Anything goes wrong, get the secretary outta here.”

Lester nodded and leaned against the whitewashed wall, cupping his injured arm. Tom removed his backpack, the MP7s, his field-scope and SIG. He walked into the centre of the room where Proctor was waiting for him.

They faced one another, a heavy drum beat and a screeching guitar cutting through the air. Proctor cracked his knuckles, threw a right hook. Tom ducked, hit him just below the heart with a stinging jab, and heard the man groan. As he straightened up he punched Proctor in the left eye, temporarily disorientating him.

He waited a second, watched the Englishman raise his guard before kicking him with the instep of his boot, connecting with Proctor’s exposed ribs. Proctor winced, but lunged forward, and, throwing a blur of combinations, brought his right boot up deceptively, catching Tom in the lower stomach. He doubled over.

Proctor unleashed a powerful uppercut, sending Tom reeling back as his teeth crunched together. He rushed at Tom, his face contorted in an ugly glare, and grabbed him around the thighs, lifting him, his momentum sending them backward. They crashed into the table, the DVD missing a few beats before starting up again. As the table rim cut into his back Tom grimaced. Proctor let go of him and weaved upward. He punched Tom on the temple with a vicious hook, which spun him around. Before he could recover, Tom felt his head being grabbed about the ears. A split second later, his forehead was smashed into the table.

Tom felt dazed and nauseous; a rivulet of blood oozed from his lacerated head. As Proctor let go of him he collapsed. Blinking as the blood seeped into his eyes, Tom glimpsed Lester raise his SIG. He just managed to shake his head a fraction, willing his friend to back off.

“Don’t get up,” Proctor said.

“I’m not done,” Tom replied, his voice barely more than a murmur.

But he couldn’t see where the next attack would come from. A swinging boot soon put paid to that disability. It crashed into his mouth, jarring his head. He spat more blood, flayed about with his right arm hopelessly like a blind man. The second kick landed between his open legs. He sucked in air and curled up into a ball, the pain so acute that he wished he’d capped Proctor when he’d had the chance.

“You had enough?” Proctor asked, backing off.

Tom moaned on the floor.

Then he calmed himself as best he could, zoning out. The pain eased a fraction. He struggled up, although his head was still a blur, his breathing reduced to short gasps. He put his arms out to steady himself. But Proctor rushed in once more, hitting Tom with a shoulder barge and grabbing him around the waist. The two men stumbled sideways, Tom vaguely attempting to elbow Proctor in the nape of his neck but failing. As he released the bear hug Proctor flipped his head up and caught Tom with the back of his skull under the chin. Tom fell again, hitting his head on the tiles, the searing pain making him almost retch as his heart rate spiked.

Proctor loomed above him and kicked him in the exposed right kidney. Tom let out an agonized cry. As he felt his head swim Proctor pulled his right leg back to kick him again. Knowing it could be his last chance, Tom galvanized his depleted strength into one action, lashing out with his leg, hitting Proctor squarely on the side of the kneecap with his toecap. Buckling, Proctor screamed out in pain. Tom willed himself up, blood covering his body, as he soaked up a hit of dopamine. Twisting sideways to lessen Proctor’s strike options, he feigned a right. Proctor’s head tilted to avoid it, and Tom hit him in the exposed jugular vein with a hook, swivelling his right side from the foot up, increasing the momentum and power. Proctor crumpled, moaning morbidly.

He hit the tiles hard, his head bouncing. Kneeling down behind him, Tom went for a sleeper hold. He wrapped his arm around the Englishman’s throat, his bicep squeezing against the right side of Proctor’s neck as his forearm pressed against the left.

Simultaneously, he used his free forearm to press the man’s head down.

He began to crush the windpipe. Proctor gasped for air like a beached fish. Bending sideways, Tom saw panic flicking across his pale-blue eyes. He knew he couldn’t find an angle of attack, and that the Englishman’s strength was ebbing fast. Proctor made a mewing sound, and began to tap the floor as best he could with his right hand: I submit. But Tom kept up the pressure. He bent forward again, and, as he saw Proctor’s eyes rolling back, he knew he was seconds away from unconsciousness. A minute or so after that and Proctor would be dead.

But he released the sleeper and rolled off him. He heard Proctor moan and then gasp as the air was drawn into his starved lungs. He watched Lester kill the music before lying flat, feeling as if his body had been crushed in a vice: every bone seemingly on the cusp of fracturing.