Swords of Exodus [Dead Six 02] (25 page)

I whistled. “Wow. And I thought I had personal problems in the Air Force.”

“They kept it secret, and the secret grew into a legend. The Soviets were afraid of this valley after that, leaving only a small number of troops to guard the dam. That garrison was removed when the Soviet Union collapsed and has never been replaced.”

“So who runs the dam now?”

“The Pale Man runs the dam, Michael,” Ling said, with a slight change in her tone of voice. “He runs everything through his intermediaries. Crossroads City sits right on the border between Russia and North China. Roads to it run in from Mongolia and Kazakhstan. The rail line from Russia to China is up and running again. The governments of all four of these nations abide the atrocities that go on here so long as they get a share of the profits.”

As we passed the dam, I could see Crossroads City in the hazy distance, miles beyond the reservoir. It sprawled out haphazardly in every direction. A brown haze hung low in the air above the town, obscuring the view. I had heard of this place, of course. It was hardly a secret. It had its own Wikipedia page. To the world, it was just another lawless wasteland that occasionally rated a news blurb. It wasn’t considered any different than the Horn of Africa, the Balkans, or countless other places where law and order had broken down. But The Crossroads
was
different. It wasn’t lawless. It had Sala Jihan’s law.

I looked at Ling as she gazed out the windows, and tried very hard to quash the terrible feeling that was eating at me. It wasn’t just pre-operation jitters. Something was wrong with this place, and I very badly wanted to go home.

I’d promised these people that I’d help them, though, and I intended to see it done.

Chapter 13: The Arena

LORENZO

Crossroads City

March 14th

The Arena was right where I remembered it. The ramshackle buildings that had sprung up around the ancient ruins were situated high on the banks of the river that bled from the nearby Lake Tansai. If I was to follow the river for about thirty miles, it would eventually lead to Lake Hanas and the village of Kola Su in Xinjiiang. That was one of our possible escape routes if this went horribly wrong.

I had been to Kola Su once before, a very long time ago. It was a beautiful little place, rustic, but with beautiful old buildings and long, graceful, white bridges. Katarina and I had shared a small cottage there for a few weeks while laying low after one of Eddie’s jobs. I still remembered one particular moment, waking up on a sleeping mat, and glancing over at Katarina, wearing nothing but my shirt, framed in the glorious sunrise, the crystal clear lake behind her, and her throwing rice balls at some weird looking Chinese ducks. That image had stuck with me for a lot of years. It had actually been a relatively peaceful stretch in an otherwise turbulent time of my life.

I shook my head, forgetting those useless memories, and refocused on the present. The arena was one of the larger structures in town, made of stacked bricks by the long forgotten people that had originally settled this place. It was sloped, with multiple tiers providing seating, so the residents of The Crossroads could watch their favorite sport:
violence.

It didn’t really matter what kind of violence either. The malcontents here were ready for anything that involved blood. The space inside the arena was set up for anything. There were smaller circular pits for cock fighting, dog fights, snakes and mongooses, and wider circles for wild horses to kick and bite each other to death. The losers ended up quartered and hanging from stalls in the marketplace. Eddie had even had the idea of posting these events live on the internet, and taking bets from a worldwide audience. I knew that he had made a particularly large amount of cash on a fight that had involved a Russian bear versus a pack of wild dogs.

The highlight of this casual brutality was the human fights. Nothing brought out the bets like a slugfest between random crazy people, and judging by the size of the crowd gathered around the main fighting pit and cheering from the arena steps, that was exactly what was going on right now. There were about two hundred people, and before I even saw the contestants, I could tell who was involved by the spectators. A group of Russians were the loudest, shouting, and chanting for their guy, while on the other side, a smaller group of Mongolians had some sort of song going on. I merged with the middle group, made up of everybody else who didn’t have a dog in this fight, and jostled my way to the front of the pit.

If the fights had any rules, they were usually agreed to by the factions beforehand. If the rules were broken, then the two groups would usually settle the difference by shooting each other. At least that was how it had worked in the past when Eddie was in charge. With the Brothers running the show, I wasn’t sure how disagreements would play out. An old Chinese man was walking back and forth around the lip of the pit, big wads of colorful money in each fist, shouting and pointing, taking bets from the mob.

Ah, a knife fight. So much for rules.

Both men were shirtless, even though as the Sun dipped behind the mountains it wasn’t even twenty degrees out. The Russian was older, with short, graying hair, and muscles like twisted rope. The Mongol was bigger, younger, looked stronger, with his hair tied back, and was wearing, believe it or not, what looked like pink hot pants. Both of them had a lot of laceration scars, and were armed with very short knives. Of course, long knives make for a shorter fight.

The Chinese bookie was done taking bets. He shouted something unintelligible, both sides began to scream, and the fighters started to circle.

Having no need to watch this, I scanned the crowd. I was looking for information, and watching two psychopaths cut themselves to ribbons for entertainment, pride, and a little bit of money was not my idea of a good time. The market area that Bob had last been seen in was only a little bit further to the north.

One face caught my eye. The easiest way to spot a tail was to wait for some event that naturally draws everyone’s attention, like for example, a knife fight. Then all of the normal people tend to look at the action. Somebody up to no good will be looking at you. The man was walking toward me, moving smoothly through the bustling crowd. He was really tall, broad shouldered, blond, with a bristling beard. His eyes were a cold Nordic blue, and he looked away as soon as he saw me turn. Now he was watching the fight like everybody else.

Got you, asshole.

I pushed to the side past a few random peasants, hunching down into my coat, and pulling my fur hat lower on my head. I didn’t know who the tall guy was, and I didn’t know if he’d brought friends. Best to fade away, then take stock of the situation. I made it all of fifteen feet before somebody bumped into me and tried to pick my pocket, which wasn’t really a shock in this bunch.
Amateur.
I blocked the grab, caught the thumb and twisted it in a direction that nature had never intended. The pickpocket cried out, but I was already gone.

I circled toward the other side of the arena, but couldn’t spot the tall man.
Damn it.
He had to be moving too, and a split second of being distracted by a random thief had given him enough time to fade. He was good. You would think somebody that tall would be easy to pick out in central Asia, but both the Russians and the Mongols had some big boys.

The crowd went nuts at first blood. One of the fighters had just gotten lit up.

The stone wall at the side of the ruins was in the shade. I scanned both ways, didn’t see the tail, and ducked into the dark. There was a tunnel there that ran beneath the seats for about twenty feet before coming out the other side. As soon as I was alone, I tossed my fur hat, took out my black skull cap and pulled it on. Every little bit could help, and if my tail had programmed himself to scan for that hat, it might give me an edge. My sunglasses went on, and if it wouldn’t have looked suspicious walking around without one, I would have ditched my Turkic coat.

Who was following me and why? Could it be one of Jihan’s men? But that didn’t make sense. He ran this place. If he wanted to take me out, he would have just done it back in the silo. Maybe somebody was just looking to kidnap and ransom a wealthy westerner, and I was supposedly Jill’s translator. It was doubtful anybody would recognize me from the last time I’d been to The Crossroads.

I stepped over a passed-out drunken Kazakh, thought better of it, went back, and relieved him of his stinking coat. I draped mine over him, and pulled the filthy thing over my shoulders. He really got the better deal out of that trade. Then I was into the light on the other side of the seats, head down, hands in my pocket, walking briskly in the direction of the market.

“Hello, Lorenzo.”

I stopped. The noise had come from above me, from the arena seats. Turning slowly, I nodded at the tail. He was good. He must have seen me enter the tunnel, and he had hurried right across the top and waited for me on the other side. He was sitting on the third row of stones, studying me emotionlessly, not breathing hard from what had to have been a good run to catch up. Everyone around us was watching the fight, so nobody noticed the HK .45 dangling from one hand.

His voice was dead calm. I’d seen the gun, so he moved it under the edge of his coat and kept it there, hidden, but still ready. He had spotted me even when I was trying to be grey. He had tailed me without my noticing for an unknown amount of time. Once I’d made him, he’d caught up and revealed himself rather than shoot me in the back. That meant he wanted to talk business. It was rare that I let somebody get the drop on me. This was a professional.

“Do I know you?”

He ignored the question. “You met with Sala Jihan. That makes you an important man around here.” He could tell I was doing the math. “I’ve been told that you’re extremely fast, but I
am
faster, so don’t do anything stupid. You’re coming with me.”

An American?
“Where are we going?” I saw no opening. My body was relaxed, hands loose and ready, but my brain was flipping cartwheels at a million miles an hour. I would only have a split second to move and get to my gun. We were only a few feet apart. There would not be any room for error.

“Montalban Exchange.”

Oh fucking shit.

“No thanks.”

“Have a seat.” He patted the spot next to him with his left hand. The tall man waited only a moment before adding, “Not a request.” He nodded his head toward the far side of the market.

I followed his gaze. Several men were getting out of a 4x4 with tinted windows. “I don’t really feel like having a gunfight right now,” I said simply as I walked up the steps and sat next to him.

“It wouldn’t be much of a fight.”

What the hell was he doing?
Montalbans? Did they know I’m the one that blasted Eddie? Would they care?
The stone was cold and uncomfortable. We were now at bad breath distance. Around us the crowd continued to scream and chant, apparently the knife fight was one hell of a show.

We were both silent for a moment. He was big, and it was obvious even while wearing a heavy coat that he was thick with muscle.
He didn’t have a neck. Instead, muscles like pot roasts came out of his shoulders and met up under his ears. An anvil-like head sat on top. I sat just to his left, his right hand was crossed over his body, under his coat, pointed at my midsection now.

“No.” He shook his head slightly. “I know what you’re thinking, because I’d be thinking the same thing in this situation, but if I was supposed to kill you, you’d already be dead. And even if you got lucky, you wouldn’t get back to the Glorious Cloud before we got your people.”

Shit.

“I don’t get menaced by Vikings that often. So who’re you?”

“My name’s Anders.” I waited, but he didn’t elaborate further. He seemed content to sit, half watching the fight, and half waiting for me to try something stupid. Finally after a moment, he spoke again. “So, who do you think will win?”

“Huh?”

“Russian or Mongol?” His voice was emotionless, as if watching a fight to the death was like watching the Weather Channel.

Both of the combatants were bloody now, spinning, and circling, lashing out at each other, then dancing away. Inwardly I was dying, trying to think of something, anything, that I could do. So I decided to answer his question. I wouldn’t say I was a master of the blade or any macho horseshit like that, but I had been stabbed, cut, and slashed, and even killed quite a few people with various sharp or pointy things myself over the years.

The fighters were hurting, both were breathing hard, slick with sweat and blood. The Russian had the more serious injury, a cut to the muscles of the abdominal wall that was bleeding profusely.

“The Russian,” I said.

“Wanna bet?”

“Twenty bucks says the Russian kills him in the next two minutes.”

“You’re on,” Anders responded. “The Mongolian’s bigger, younger, stronger.”

“See how the Russian has those faded blue tats? Russian prison tats. They’re always blue like that. Means he’s done hard time.” The Russian twisted and dodged as the Mongol swept in, a flurry of back and forth swipes. “The crucifix means he’s the highest possible rank. The crown on top makes him
Pakhan,
a leader.”

“So? He’s old.” Anders looked to be about my age, but it was hard to tell with the beard.

“The skulls mean he’s a murderer, and the number means he’s done a bunch,” I pointed. “The stars on his back are one for each year he was in, and the knives pointing up in the stars . . . ”

The old Russian had waited long enough and his boys had placed enough bets at bad odds. The young Mongol thought he was winning, so he pushed in, hard and fast. The Mafioso took a small cut to the chest, but climbed right up the Mongol’s arm, driving the short blade in, running it up the limb, opening it like cleaning a fish. The younger fighter screamed.

“Shit,” Anders muttered.

“The knives are pointing up, which means his murders were straight-up prison fights. If they were down, then it would have been by stealth. So counting from here, it looks like he’s won twenty-six knife fights.”

The Mongolian stumbled back, blood flowing everywhere. A knife wound is all about running the clock. As soon as you cut somebody, a clock starts. The body can compensate for a lot, but the more you hurt it, the less it can compensate for, the faster the clock runs down. When the clock hits zero, you’re done.

The Mongolian was getting wobbly now. The Russian probably could have just hung back and let him bleed out, but that wouldn’t have been sporting. He went low, caught the Mongol’s wide swing, and ran the blade from the kid’s belly button around to his kidney. The Russian jumped back before there was a response, and then a shower of blood doused the side of the Mongol’s pink hot pants. The Russian pumped his fist in the air and bellowed as the Mongolian went to his knees in the black dirt of the arena. The Russian side of the arena went nuts, chanting his name. A rope ladder was rolled down for their champion.

“Make that twenty-seven. Now pay me my twenty bucks, asshole.”

“I’ll pay you when we get back to my place,” he said. “Now . . .”

Pain burned through my arm as Anders jabbed a long, spring-loaded needle into my neck.

“Gah!” I stood up and yanked the needle out. “What the fuck?” A thick burning sensation worked its way down my shoulder, into my arm and my chest. It was like hot wax was being pushed through my veins.

Anders was nonplussed. He watched me carefully, ready to pull his .45, but didn’t move. “Calm down, Lorenzo. Trust me, you’re going want to keep your heart rate down.”

I cursed and swore at the pistol-packing viking, but the words didn’t come out right. I was mumbling, babbling, not sure of what I was saying. My mind raced but I couldn’t focus. Darkness edged into my vision. I tried to back away, but his men had already come up to keep me from falling and making a scene.