Kardinal (19 page)

LAWTON had been running for an hour. The sirens told him the police were in pursuit. People stayed out of his way. Drivers stopped and stared, causing more traffic congestion. He was badly wounded, and the kurta he wore was soaked in blood. He was a white man and looked pretty wild with his long hair.

No wonder the city was gawping at him. No wonder it looked at him with dread.

He had to get off the streets. He had to find somewhere to hide.

He felt a dull ache in his side, where Khoury had shot him. The wound seeped. But it didn’t hurt badly. Not like it should have done. It only throbbed now and again. Throbbed like his eye did. As if there was something living in there. Something that wasn’t him but that was becoming part of him.

He stopped in an alley to catch his breath.

Khoury came to mind. He wondered if the young police officer was safe. If his superiors would believe the tall tale he’d tell them about Lawton’s escape. He felt for the Iraqi officer. The guy had taken a big risk. Lawton had taken a big risk.

Lawton now felt guilty because he had had to physically threaten Khoury to shoot. He shook the feeling off. He had to focus on survival.

He started running down the alley. Rubbish was piled up down the sides of the passageway. Boxes and wrappers, the waste from food shops and restaurants.

He heard voices behind him.

He glanced over his shoulders.

He’d rested too long.

The cops had caught up with him.

Overhead, a helicopter swooped. It would appear any second, its passengers targeting Lawton.

He ran harder. The alley led him into the backstreets. Market traders were selling their wares. It was noisy and busy. He smelled meat and perfumes and spices. He saw fruit, vegetables, clothes. He heard the sizzle of someone frying something, the shouts of the traders, the bark of dogs, and the braying of sheep and goats.

He weaved along the busy thoroughfare. Some of the businesspeople reared away from him. Others tripped over, spilling the contents of baskets into the road.

Lawton glanced over his shoulder. The cops were still coming. A dozen of them. And overhead, the chopper had him in its sights. He wondered if either the cops or the helicopter team would start firing. It was a busy street, full of people. Years ago, the shooting would have started. In Saddam’s day, the authorities didn’t care about locals getting in the way of a manhunt. Lawton hoped their attitude was different these days.

He came to a junction and, without thinking, turned right.

Up ahead was a main street.

He burst out of the alley, stared right and left.

Traffic was busy. People everywhere.

“Over here, mate,” said someone.

Lawton turned, not expecting to hear an English voice.

“Over here, come on,” said a big guy in military fatigues.

He stood next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, the back door open.

Two other men sat in the vehicle’s front seats. Both looked military.

Again the big man beckoned Lawton.

He looked behind him. The cops were coming, he could hear them. The helicopter pilot was pointing at him. Voices boomed from a loudspeaker, telling him to stay where he was and to get down on the floor.

“No time like the present,” said the big guy standing next to the Toyota.

Lawton sprinted towards the vehicle. He had to take a chance. The big guy was a bear. Well over six feet. As wide as a doorway.

“We’ll get you out of here,” he told Lawton.

He leapt into the back of the Toyota. The big man joined him in the rear seat and shut the door.

“Go,” he said.

The driver hammered the accelerator. Tyres screeched. Rubber burned. The Toyota barrelled its way through traffic in the wrong direction. Horns blared. Drivers veered out of the way, mounting the pavement. Lawton was thrown around in the back seat.

“I’m Laxman,” said the big man. He had a scar across his forehead. His smile told Lawton, Don’t trust him.

Lawton nodded.

The Toyota raced through Baghdad. The cops tailed it.

LAWTON had a lot of things on his mind, and he was trying to stop them from getting mixed up and confusing him.

First, there was Aaliyah. Where was she? Was she safe? She was in this country somewhere. Hillah, hopefully. At least he could find her if she was
there.

Then, there was the Spear of Abraham. He felt lost without it. As if an append
age was missing. Had Ereshkigal taken it with her? He hoped it had not fallen into the hands of the authorities or bandits.

And then there was Ereshkigal herself. She was constantly on his mind now. He had come full circle, from despising vampires to having to trust one. But she had saved his life. And he had protected her.
Two species benefiting each other
, he thought.
Evolution, maybe
.

Finally, and most immediately pressing, were the three men in the Toyota.

Who were they? How had they just happened to be in the right place at the right time? Lawton didn’t like coincidences. They suggested to him that there were darker forces at play.

He glanced at the guy called Laxman, the leader. He was big and strong. He was bronzed, which told Lawton the fellow travelled a lot. He had that scar right across his forehead. War wound, maybe.

The driver was blonde and had a dragon’s head tattoo on his scalp. The passenger was dark-haired, shoulder muscles like boulders.

They all wore fatigues. Laxman was armed, a pistol strapped against his ribs. It was a Makarov, once popular with terrorists in the Middle East. Carlos the Jackal’s gang had been armed with Makarovs when they’d raided the OPEC HQ in Vienna in 1975, Lawton remembered.

He couldn’t see if the guys in the front seat were packing, but he assumed they would be. You had to. You always had to think the worst.

These men were mercenaries.

He could smell it on them.

“You guys working out here?” said Lawton.

“That’s right,” said Laxman. “Working.”

“Security – or something else?”

“Some security, some ‘something else’, too.”

“You still in the forces?”

“No, I run White Light Ops. Private security firm. Got an office in London, but mostly we work out of Geneva. Heard of us?”

Lawton hesitated. They hadn’t asked him what he was doing yet. Had not asked him why he was running away from half of Baghdad’s Federal Police. And why should he have heard of a private security firm? You’d assume that only military people had heard of such organizations.

His eye throbbed badly. As if it were signalling danger. A beacon warning him of peril ahead.

They were driving through a residential area. Tower blocks. Kids playing on the streets. Washing hanging out of windows. Dust swirling. Vehicles lined the kerb. A mangy dog dragged its hind quarters along. It had something in its mouth.

“You plan to drop me off somewhere?” said Lawton.

“Where would you like to be dropped off, Lawton?” asked Laxman.

The hairs on Jake’s nape stood on end.

They hurtled along narrow roads, weaving through residential Baghdad.

“Where are you taking me?” said Lawton

“To safety,” said Laxman. “Away from those cops chasing you. Or you want to go back into town?”

“Here’s fine.”

The driver glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. Lawton held on to the door handle and tested it. Locked. He bent forward, groaning.

Laxman said, “What’s the – ”

But he wasn’t allowed to finish his question.

Lawton’s right elbow, with a 180 pounds of force behind it, swept upwards at high speed and smashed into Laxman’s jaw. At the same time, Lawton’s left fist smashed into the back of the front-seat passenger’s skull. The guy jerked forward as Laxman slumped.

Lawton snatched the Makarov from Laxman’s holster.

He shot out the windscreen.

It shattered. Glass sprayed. The driver screamed. The vehicle swerved.

Lawton fired again. This time into the rear driver’s side window. His window. It exploded. Glass rained over him.

The driver spun the wheel. The Toyota hit something. It came to a halt. The passenger groaned. The driver swivelled, his face red with rage. Lawton shot him in the shoulder. The man screamed. Blood splashed. He writhed in agony. The smell of cordite was strong in the vehicle.

Lawton shook his head. His ears rang.

He threw himself out of his shattered window. Glass cut his skin. He didn’t care. He was out. He hit the ground. Dust made his lacerations sting.

He groaned, the gunshot wound pulsing, the sixth bullet still lodged in his side.

He got to his feet, disorientated.

The driver was still screaming.

The passenger was coming round, reaching for a weapon.

Lawton scoped the area. Dozens of voices filled the air, all of them speaking Arabic. The world spun. Faces loomed out of high-rise windows. Screams erupted. People were shouting. His head ached badly. The smell of meat and spices made him salivate. He started to stagger away from the Toyota, which had ploughed into the side of a building. He stumbled away, his vision blurred, his ears ringing.

The police car screeched to a halt, blocking the junction ahead of him, its blue lights flashing.

Four cops spilled out. He turned and went back towards the Toyota.

“Shit,” he said as another cop car sped down the road towards him.

It came to a stop. Four police officers poured out of that one, too, and they were all armed.

They shouted at him in Arabic, pointing their weapons.

He recognized Khoury. His eyes were wide. He was terrified. He trained his gun on Lawton.

He thought,
Can I take another bullet and live?

The passenger had got out of the Toyota and started shouting in Arabic at the police officers.

Laxman also staggered out of the vehicle. He looked dazed. He glared at Lawton. He said something in Arabic. The driver was still shouting, and he crawled out, blood pulsing from his shoulder.

“You and me, you bastard,” said Laxman, spit oozing from his mouth. “You and me, Lawton. How did you guess, huh?”

“You said my name, you fucking amateur.”

Laxman grimaced. “You and me, man to man, one on one
.”

The mercenary tore off his jacket. He wore a white T-shirt. Under it he was heavy with muscle and fat. Tattoos covered his tree-trunk arms.

“You think these cops are going to let us fight?” said Lawton

“’Course they will, since I paid them,” said Laxman.

The officers formed a circle. Khoury was there, his eyes telling Lawton that he was scared, that he had no choice.

A crowd had started to gather. Boys with a football. Men started to gamble. A woman in a burkha carrying a sack. More women, most of them covered.

“Let’s give them a show,” said Laxman.

He charged Lawton.

LAWTON dodged Laxman’s charge.

The mercenary hurtled forward and stumbled, hitting the floor. The rough ground ripped skin off his hands, but it didn’t stop him. He got up. His face burned with hatred.

“Come on, you fucking bastard,” he said.

“You have anger issues, Laxman,” said Lawton. “Ever thought of therapy?”

“My therapy would be to have your head on a plate.”

Some of the policemen were shouting at them to stop, but they were silenced by the others – those in Laxman’s pay, probably.

The passenger from the Toyota grabbed the woman in the burkha. She dropped her sack. Something clicked in Lawton’s head, like a light switch. And for a second he saw something.

But then Laxman pummelled into him. The air was knocked out of him, and he flew across the street. He slammed into a wall and saw stars. Shaking himself down, he saw Laxman barrel towards him again. Laxman’s buddy held the woman and pointed a gun at her head. Some of the police moved in, but the mercenary warned them to stay back.

Confusion reigned. No one knew what was going on. Some policemen wanted to stop the fight. Others were allowing it to go on. The helicopter roared overhead. All around, locals shouted and gambled.

It took Lawton back a few months, when he’d taken part in illegal, bareknuckle fights to raise cash. He’d been undefeated.

No point starting a losing streak, now, he thought.

He sprang to his feet to meet Laxman’s charge.

The mercenary was powerful. He swung wild punches. Lawton fended them off, using the pensador defence pose from the Keysi Fighting Method – hands on his scalp, elbows up. This position protected his head and face from Laxman’s blows, and by moving his body left and right, he could fend off the blows and create space for his own attack.

Which came in a flash.

With flying elbows, Lawton smashed open Laxman’s weak defence. A right hook, followed by a straight left, forced Laxman backwards. His eyes rolled back in his head. His arms windmilled as he tried to keep his balance.

The crowd roared.

Lawton followed through with big punches to the mercenary’s head – three powerful blows that decked the big man.

The crowd cheered.

Lawton pulsed with adrenaline. He felt immensely powerful. He sensed everything – every sound, every sensation. He almost welcomed the pain in his body. It felt necessary for his survival. The agony was what made him alive. He tightened every muscle, every nerve.

Laxman was trying to get up.

Lawton went straight for the passenger holding the woman hostage.

The driver said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, Ashton.”

The police looked confused now. Some still trained their weapons on Ashton. Others aimed at Lawton. But he didn’t care. He marched on. They could shoot if they wanted to. He felt now that nothing could kill him. He felt superhuman.

“In the car, Xavier,” said Ashton, and then he said something to the cops in Arabic, and they all turned their weapons on Lawton.

Khoury said, “He will kill the woman if we don’t kill you.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ashton. “Shoot him, you bastards, or I’ll rip this bitch’s burkha off and blow her head off.”

“Let her go,” said Lawton.

Laxman was groaning. He had blood on his face.

“You Ashton?” said Lawton. “Why don’t you come fight me, man to man, like your boss?”

“I’m not stupid, mate. Easier ways to skin a cat. Kill him,” he said, and then in Arabic, “Qetlh.”

Lawton looked at the veil behind which the woman’s eyes hid. He felt something. His eye pulsed. It was as if an electric current was delivered into his brain, and there it became a voice. It called his name.

Behind the woman’s face-veil he sensed something. The glint of death. It was like a religious experience. His heart filled with joy. But he felt scared for her, because it was daylight. And the light would kill her. But she was covered head to foot. No flesh showed. Every inch hidden. Every horror concealed.

Lawton held his breath.

The woman whirled and snapped Ashton’s neck. The cracking sound his death made caused Lawton to shy away, and it sent a gasp of terror through the spectators.

Before Lawton could take a breath, the woman leapt on Xavier and sliced open his throat.

Lawton looked at Khoury and said, “Get out of here, man.”

Gunfire barked. Lawton threw himself down. Screams filled the air. The smell of blood lingered.