The Last Bazaar (8 page)

Alicia grinned. “Fuck yeah.”

Dahl clenched a fist. “I’m liking the sound of that.”

Hayden looked to the skies. “I was going for sarcastic, guys. But, hell . . . do you think we can do it?”

“It’s a long river,” Drake pointed out. “Nothing says we have to nick the boat this close in.”

“IDs may be a problem,” Lauren said.

“Doubtful,” Hayden said. “It’s a terrorist arms bazaar, not a United Nations charity ball. Of course, there will be an entrance tag of some sort, which we will have to extract from whomever we grab.”

“Let’s hope it’s not fingerprints, facial recognition, retina scan . . .” Smyth started.

“Again, doubtful,” Kinimaka spoke up. “For similar reasons.”

“But we can still take the boat without assuming that risk,” Drake pointed out. “If we decide it’s impossible to gain entrance after that, then we can find another way.”

“Time is against us.” Hayden tapped her watch. “So, if we’re all agreed, let’s get going.”

“This is good,” Dahl said as they walked. “From inside we can identify weak spots. People we should acquire. The expendables. The VIPs. Booby traps. Weapons caches, that sort of thing.”

“And just as important,” Hayden said. “We could identify items that need safeguarding. Items that should never fall into a terrorist’s hands.”

“So plan is . . . a go?” Yorgi asked in a faltering attempt at American slang.

“Aye lad,” Drake gripped his shoulder. “It’ll be a scorching hot day in Hell when all these nasty bastards get their just desserts. We’re about to start fanning the flames. Stoking the fire. Lighting the—”

“Look,” Alicia interrupted, pointing ahead. “The river.”

Drake followed Alicia as the team wound their way downriver, searching for the best spot from which to ambush a passing boat. As they walked, Hayden held up a clenched fist, her entire body freezing. Drake saw it immediately.

There, to the left, twisted around a moss-infested tangle of tree branches, dead undergrowth, and lumps of soil and vegetation, sat the biggest snake any of them had ever seen. Mottled browns and blacks and even a little yellow shone in the direct sunlight as a body the size of a man’s thigh coiled lazily. The entire group took a big step to the right.

Hayden went first, followed by Kinimaka and Lauren. Drake took his time, aware that they were pretty much safe but suddenly even more conscious of the dangers that lay all around and even underfoot beneath the carpet of mulchy leaves.

What we can’t see could kill us even faster than what we can.

He filed that thought away. Ahead, the river narrowed on both sides and where it was most slender the ground rose a little. Hayden motioned for a halt.

Alicia cast a glance backward. “A little close to our big friend.”

Drake sighed. “Anacondas are pretty slow. Even on your worst day I bet you could outrun one.”

“My worst day? Shit, Drakey, you don’t know me at all.”

He acknowledged that with a nod. Hayden beckoned them closer. “Let’s get into position and form a plan.”

And then they waited. The bazaar no doubt was in full swing by now as midday passed. The scorching heat blasted at them like a brazier. Drake took the time to apply even more insect spray and drain his canteen. It took an hour but at last Smyth signaled that a vessel was approaching the choke point.

“We’re on, guys.”

Drake ignored the muddy bank to eye the incoming vessel. The boat did resemble a barge, but with a long, smoked-glass cabin, a figurehead in bronze and various roof-antennae that screamed out the presence of a wealthy individual. He checked his weapons and his safely holstered machete and then took stock of his teammates.

“Let’s keep the noise down, folks,” he said.

They rose as the boat reached its closest point, then ran up and leapt from the raised bank and landed on the deck of the ship, boots striking the planking as lightly as possible. Of course, the three guards spotted them quickly and turned, rifles swinging from around their necks into their hands.

Dahl barreled into the first, smashing his body into the cabin bulkhead, the sound of breaking bones probably loud enough to make even the anaconda take note. Drake rolled into the second, taking his legs, and the two men went down in a tangle. Smyth landed carefully and threw his knife at the third—who was the furthest away—making him duck to the side and lose precious seconds. The knife stuck hard into a wooden upright, quivering. Smyth bounded across the space between them, catching hold of the guard as his weapon came up. The barrel pointed to the skies, but the man’s finger tightened on the trigger. Smyth wrenched at the man, throwing him bodily to the floor, the movement sending him sprawling. Then Smyth jumped on top, pinned his arms away from his body and reached up for the knife.

Drake pummeled his opponent’s kidneys from on top, ensuring the rifle was crushed to the deck and essentially unusable. When he sat up his enemy groaned. Drake clasped his knife and ran it through the back of the man’s neck, then glanced around.

Alicia and Hayden were by the cabin’s side door, pushing it open and slipping inside. Dahl confirmed his own foe wouldn’t revive later to give them away and then followed. Drake ran quickly after them, signaling to Kinimaka and the rest of the team that they should wait a while longer.

Inside the smoked-glass cabin the boat lived up to its opulent promise. Luxurious seats stood all around and the control panel flashed with hundreds of lights. Alicia stood beside the padded steering wheel with her hands around a man’s neck, while Hayden paused at the top of a set of stairs.

She put her fingers to her lips. Drake nodded and signaled that he would back her up. Dahl joined them too. Quietly, their team leader descended the wooden risers and gradually they began to make out the sound of a television. Raucous, bottled laughter boomed out intermittently amid cheers from what sounded like a well-sozzled audience. Drake felt the boat shifting and wondered briefly if Alicia had stopped its forward momentum or was guiding it.

God help us.

A narrow passageway led to three open doors; each room had to be relatively small. Hayden signaled that they should take one each, but then a bare-chested figure appeared at the far end.

“What the . . . who the hell are you?”

Drake reacted first, sprinting down the passage as he recognized that this man was their quarry, listening to him yell out a warning and knowing that down here it wouldn’t carry, understanding that they needed him alive, but already eyeing him for hidden weapons and other devices. The yell caused a scuffle behind and he guessed Dahl had attracted a guard; then Drake was at the man’s throat, forcing him back into the far room.

“Shut up,” he said. “Sit down. And you might live through this.”

The complication sat rigid, her eyes wide as side-plates, a handful of buttery popcorn halfway to her mouth. The TV no longer engaged her attention—rather it was the black-clad soldier holding her husband by the throat.

Drake sensed the scream coming, threw the man over the back of the couch and flew over to the woman. Quickly he held a finger to her lips. Hayden took control of the struggling man. Drake grunted as the woman struck out, catching him a glancing blow to the chin.

Hayden met his eyes. “Where’s Dahl?”

Drake frowned. The Swede should have dispatched his enemy and be here by now. With a nod of warning at the woman, the Yorkshireman slipped quickly back into the passageway, concern written all across his face. The scene wasn’t good. Dahl lay on his side in the middle of the corridor, unmoving.

“Mate.” Drake felt his heart sink through the bottom of the boat. “Torsten?”

The problem wasn’t with Dahl’s health or lack of it—it was with the big bruisers he’d head-locked under each arm. Two strapping guards were almost too much even for the Swede and he was having trouble keeping them subdued. Lying on his back, he looked down the corridor at Drake.

“A . . . little . . . help . . .”

Drake nodded at the upside-down face. He removed his knife from its sheath and moved in close. The guard on Dahl’s right struck up at him but Drake ducked to the side. Dahl could now concentrate on the one man and grappled alongside, the silent battle taking place on the floor with all four men crammed up against the passageway’s wooden walls. Drake struck fast and hard, but his blows were deflected by his opponent’s raised arms. When the guy found a way to strike back, Drake let it fly past and punched at the kidneys. The man’s yell of pain was a double moan, one for hitting the wall and another for the punishment to his side.

Dahl was slowly overpowering his own opponent, bringing strength and weight to bear until he gained an advantage. All four men dripped sweat like rain and grunted like rutting pigs—the air down here was stifling. Drake saw the glint of a knife in the other’s hand and caught the wrist, snapping it. A yelp ensued, but by then the Yorkshireman had his own knife unsheathed and to hand. One thrust was deflected, another pushed aside desperately by flesh that began to bleed. The eyes that stared into Drake’s own were merciless.

He plunged the blade to its hilt and watched the life extinguish, then rose. Dahl rose too, retrieving his own blade and wiping it off. Together, they trudged back into the room where Hayden held their hostages.

Dahl grunted under his breath. “Thanks . . . mate.”

Drake struggled to shrug off the terrible dread that seized him when the Swede failed to appear. “Next time, don’t hug them, put them down.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

Then Hayden fell against the door frame, arms flailing. Drake caught her and moved her aside, spotting the rising welt along the side of her face. A moment later the bare-chested man appeared, clutching an empty beer bottle to his chest as if it were a lifeline.

“Save yourself some pain, knobhead,” Drake growled. “Put it down.”

“I no understand.” The man rubbed day old stubble in agitation, hopping from foot to foot.

“We don’t have the time.” Dahl pushed past, gripped the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him against the far wall before the bottle even moved. A wall-light smashed and a narrow bookcase fell over, scattering paperback tomes everywhere. Drake prevented the Swede from causing further damage by holding him back.

“We need him alive and kicking.”

Hayden rubbed her face and walked over to the woman. Drake guessed from rings on the left fingers and even a framed picture on the wall that this was the man’s wife. Other tell-tale objects revealed that they were wealthy, well-traveled, and possibly hailed from the country of Albania. Tattoos on the man’s hairy arms appeared to be of Mafia origin, but Drake was no expert. Safe to say though, this man was about to be a guest at Ramses’ last bazaar.

“I no understand,” the man said again with a heavy accent.

Drake smiled softly, catching his eyes. “I’ll say this once and then we’re gonna resort to pain.” He allowed the blade of his knife to glint in the remaining light and watched the Albanian’s eyes widen. “Yeah, you understand all right. It’s very simple. Tell us about this bazaar, about Ramses, and why you’re here.”

The man’s face ran through a myriad of emotions, as if contending with an inner struggle. Drake would not hurt the man’s wife but
he
didn’t know that. With a flick of his head he indicated that Hayden should round the woman up. Popcorn fell to the floor. The woman’s long dark hair fell free as she began to sob.

“Start talking.” Drake raised the knife, keeping it neutral but projecting threat.

“I know nothing of Ramses. This is—how you say? A . . . third party made invite. Through my third party. You see?”

Drake actually did “see”. These parasites were too clever to get personally involved in such communications. “Go on.”

“Bazaar is—” the Albanian spread his hands, still clutching the bottle “—a way to make money. Buy and sell. Or buy something . . . want.”

Drake accepted by now that the man’s English was somewhat lacking in depth. These were only trial questions anyway—gauging the man’s honesty.

“We here . . . vacation.” The man shrugged. “It is different, yes? Just a few days away.”

Drake tried to ignore that statement, not wanting to become submerged in the innumerable questions it raised. “We want the passes,” he said. “All of them. And we want the protocols, the etiquette. Everything. Do you understand?”

The Albanian nodded. “You want in?”

“Exactly.”

Hayden added another question. “And these boats? Are they private? Your own?” She pointed to the man and then the room. “Or can Ramses’ men board when they like?”

“Mine.” The Albanian nodded again. “My boat. They not come here. Bazaar very private and . . .” he paused. “Anon . . . anony . . .”

“Anonymous,” Drake helped out. “Okay, okay. So they give you your own space. That’s good. What about entry?”

The Albanian indicated a low coffee table that sat in the center of the room, in front of the television. Upon its smoked-glass surface lay a number of glossy black plastic cards, oblong in shape and about the length of a letterbox. Dahl moved over to them, scooped them up and examined both sides.

“No ID pictures,” he said. “Just a chip embedded in one side. What information did you have to give?”

“Name. Country. Time of arrival. Any special needs.” A shrug. “No more.”

“And why are there five?” the Swede asked.

“Us, plus bodyguards. Protection is . . . must.”

Drake caught the man’s attention. “Did you have . . . shall we say an inventory? Or an index of items.” He searched for an easier description. “A wish list.”

“No. Ramses’ reputation is enough for me.”

“What were you hoping to buy?” Hayden asked suddenly, changing the flow of questioning.

The Albanian’s eyes fell. “I not know. Browse, you say? Yes . . . browse.”

Drake gulped down a rush of bile born of pure hatred for such creatures as this who murdered and destroyed lives because they thought they had a right to. He signaled and Dahl went off quickly to tell Alicia to shut the boat down. They didn’t want to be drifting too close to the bazaar just yet.

“So that’s it?” he said. “The bazaar is a basic market place with stalls and entertainment. Ramses is in it to make a few quick bucks and seal a few deals. Will it really be so easy to get in?”

The Albanian understood the last sentence. “All hard work done,” he said. “To get passes. They know you don’t keep . . . people waiting.”

Drake met Hayden’s eyes. “Five passes,” he speculated. “I wonder . . .”

With shocking swiftness the Albanian’s wife struck out, battering Hayden’s already bruised face with a mug and then kicking her in the chest. Hayden tripped over the coffee table and went sprawling. Drake ignored the shock and leapt at her. The Albanian man struck too. Drake reached the wife first, but she danced away, kicks and blows well aimed enough to make him slow down. The Albanian hit him from behind, the bottle coming down against his neck, but over the thick jacket he wore so the pain was dulled. Drake flicked his shoulders, throwing the man off. The wife came in again. Drake batted her foot away, grabbed her ankle and pulled, overbalancing her so that she smashed through the table. Hayden rose once more, face now bruised in two places, and shouted a warning.

“Quit!” she cried. “As of now, you guys live. Any more of this shit and I’ll personally gut the both of you!”

Drake spun to face the Albanian, hands ready, but the man backed off, holding his arms high but still clinging to the heavy bottle.

“Had to try,” he said, fingers grasping around the neck.

The wife picked herself up off the floor, brushing glass from her clothes and wincing from the dozen or so cuts she’d received. Drake noted that she still did not stop even as the blood flowed and caught Hayden’s attention.

“I think the two Albanian Kruegers really need to be restrained and guarded. No slacking. These two are bloody dangerous.”

“I agree.”

There was the clatter of footsteps and then the rest of the team joined them. Drake regarded Alicia.

“How close are we?”

“No sign of the bazaar’s guards. We’re okay for now.”

“Good. Because we have decisions to make before we go in.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Five passes,” he said. “Eight of us. Who stays?”

“Soldiers should go,” Yorgi said immediately. “More training if something go wrong. If I am needed I can help better alone.”

“Then that rules me out,” Lauren said. “But I agree. I’d be no good in there.”

Smyth watched her. “I’ll stay with them,” he muttered. “That makes it easy and they’re gonna need a guard.”

Drake agreed with him. His eyes took in Alicia and Dahl, Hayden and Kinimaka. “Then it’s all up to us. Are you ready to crash the last bazaar?”

“Are you kidding?” Alicia grinned. “Crashing parties is my thing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Drake said automatically, then added, “In fact, I remember it.”

Dahl stayed serious. “We should conduct a little extra interrogation first. Get them to tell us about what we’re allowed to take in—weapons and the like.”

Kinimaka couldn’t take his eyes away from Hayden’s bruised face. “Shit.”

Hayden ignored him. “All right, let’s do this. And
in there
we’re in hell. Murder central. Surrounded by the worst of the worst. This is gonna be like nothing we’ve experienced before, boys, so be careful. Danger, literally, will be all around.”

“Better than that other fucker that they reckon is all around,” Alicia murmured. “Love.”

Dahl rubbed his hands together a little too gleefully for Drake’s liking. “So come on,” he said. “What are we waiting for? Ramses’ bazaar isn’t going to obliterate itself.”