Rules of Honour (24 page)

As he pounded up he didn’t stop to think that the men were here for anyone other than his would-be victims. They had definitely been watching Parnell’s apartment, and the movement of the curtain was what had brought them from their car. The stairs doglegged back and forth, and at each level allowed access to a corridor open to the elements along the rear of the building. He ignored the first few landings, but the higher he went the more careful he had to be. He’d momentarily lost count of the flights he’d ascended and it was important that he scope out each landing in case one of the tough guys had exited the elevator on Faulks’s floor. When he detected no movement he continued up. At the penultimate level he paused, catching his breath. There he withdrew his gun, careful that he didn’t snag it on his clothing. He checked the action and was confident that all was in order. He went up the final flight of stairs at an easier pace, picking the spots where he placed his feet to avoid making any unnecessary noise.

Coming to the final level, he pressed himself into the door frame, out of sight of anyone in the corridor, and peered through glass made practically opaque by the number of greasy fingerprints smearing the window. The elevator doors were approximately twenty feet away and were closed. Beyond them he could make out two bulky figures moving along the hall, attempting to be cat-footed, but still cumbersome from the way they were bunched together. Markus thought about rushing along the hall behind them and shooting them before they knew he was there, but the noise would most assuredly alert his targets, who would already be on high alert. Should he approach them in another manner – his gun hidden – and take them out silently? He was confident that he could handle the two of them, even though they carried clubs. Their weapons would hinder them in the confined space, whereas he’d have plenty of room to deliver a couple of larynx-crushing blows. The idea was tempting but he chose to wait, his finger hooked around the trigger of his gun, observing the men as they took up position to each side of the second to last door. There was no doubt now that they had come for Parnell. But with their weapons of choice they had not come to kill him; he would enter the apartment after them, kill them, then take Parnell at his leisure.

Markus crouched slightly, attempting to find a cleaner spot on the window. When he could find none, he took the decision to push the swing doors open a little and he watched the action through the gap down the centre. He was in time to see the nearest man rap softly on the door. Immediately the tough guy slipped out of the way; possibly so he couldn’t be seen if anyone checked through a spyhole. Markus couldn’t recall if there was a peephole or not. When there was no reply the two guys huddled together, but their words were merely a sibilant hiss from this distance. One of them backed up, placing his hips to the small wall that formed the balustrade. Then he lunged forward, lifting his knee and crashing his heel close to the door handle. His first attempt to kick open the door failed, so he lifted his knee and booted it again. The clatter of a chain snapping and the links scattering on the floor was loud even to Markus’s ear. The door swung inwards this time, and crashed off a wall. Immediately the two guys charged inside.

Markus didn’t stop to think. If they were here to harm Parnell and Faulks, he had seconds to respond or they would get to his targets first. He thrust through the swing doors and raced along the hall.

He could hear the stamps of the men as they surged around the apartment, the thud of doors being thrown open, and the sounds were almost Markus’s undoing. He was concentrating on them so much that he almost missed the final door on the landing being pulled open and a man stepping into sight. He thought that the man was possibly a concerned neighbour, checking on the sounds of commotion. But then it struck him. He knew the face that briefly turned to regard him. He saw the man’s eyes widen in recognition, and in the next instant the man’s hand was coming up and it was clutching a handgun. Unlike the two tough guys who’d mounted their attack with the finesse of charging bulls, this man moved with professional calm. The man centred his gaze on Markus the way he had in that moment when they’d glanced at each other over the fence in Yoshida Takumi’s back yard. The stranger aimed his gun at Markus’s chest.

Markus also lifted his gun, but he wasn’t quick enough. He fired, but it was a moment after the stranger had already done so. Markus had no way of knowing if his aim was on target, because his reaction was to throw himself to one side. It didn’t save him: the bullet struck his side like a hammer blow. Caught mid-dive the impact spun him and Markus caromed against the low wall.

Pain flared through him, a white flash of agony lancing through his senses. He wanted to scream but the pain ensured his teeth were clamped tight. Before this he’d had no idea of what being shot felt like, but he knew now. He wondered if he was dying, his mind racing, rage boiling up because he’d been thwarted before completing his mission. The wind was caught in his lungs, his throat pinching tight, and then the world tilted.

He could see the evening sky, the clouds a bilious orange tinted by the city lights. Then his vision was filled with the lights of the buildings opposite, and they were slipping and arching, following his sideways pitch as he tumbled out over the balustrade. Everything moved with a lazy calm, and Markus looked down at the hard-packed dirt of the fallow ground behind Hayes Tower.

Then the earth rushed up to meet him.

Chapter 28

So that’s Markus finished then.

That was my acerbic thought as I watched the killer tumble from the sixth-floor balcony and plummet from sight.

My next thought: Rink’s going to be pissed at me.

After Rink had collected McTeer and Velasquez from the airport and they had taken over the minder duties, I’d briefed him about Harvey’s discovery, and the likelihood that our enemy was Charles Peterson’s firstborn son, Markus Colby. Discovering that Markus was so hell-bent on destruction he’d murdered Michaela Douchard, and even his half-brother, Nicolas, it stood to reason that he would not stop until he’d had his day with Parnell and Faulks. His agenda had escalated exponentially, and neither of us believed he’d allow more than a couple of days to go by without trying to get at one or the other of them. He had no way of knowing that we’d already snatched the old guys out from under him, so the probability of him launching an attack at Hayes Tower was a firm one.

We’d arrived just as dusk was falling, leaving our car in a lot on the far side of a service yard bordering the Christian book depository, and entering via the rear of the building. We had bypassed Faulks’s place, electing instead to set up a trap at the highest and most defensible point on the upper floor. Parnell informed us that his neighbour who held tenancy of the final apartment on his level was currently out of town, visiting relatives down in Los Angeles. I jimmied the flimsy lock and set up in the neighbouring apartment while Rink ensconced himself in Parnell’s. Two pay-as-you-go cellphones we’d picked up on our way in allowed us to keep in touch, and to coordinate a pincer movement for when the killer showed.

We hadn’t expected our unknown friends in the sand-coloured car to take up observations again. We had waited for them to make their move, but apparently they were stalling until there were no witnesses out on the street. Finally as evening had settled in, Rink had made a decision.

‘Let’s find out what these jokers want and who the fuck they’re working for.’

He had jerked aside the curtains, ensuring that they noticed the sudden movement.

I had angled myself so that I could watch from the neighbouring window and saw the guys exit their car and tool up. The guy who leaned inside the trunk to fetch their weapons concealed his actions, but I still caught a glint of steel before he shoved the items under his coat. Whatever they were bringing to the party it wasn’t handguns: they looked more like steel bars. I concluded they weren’t here for either of the old men, but to extract information from them about where to find us. Rink’s warning had been explicit to Sean Chaney, but it seemed that his buddies weren’t the type to listen. As the second guy collected his weapon from his friend, he looked up at Parnell’s window.

The two men had then headed quickly for the tower and I’d moved for the front door, awaiting their arrival. Cracking the door open I’d heard their approach along the corridor, listened as they’d knocked at Parnell’s door, no doubt hopeful of drawing the old man into their clutches. When I heard the first boot smash into the door I drew my SIG, held my breath, waiting for the second crash as they went inside. Immediately I pulled open the door and went to follow them in. Damn the stupid fools, but they’d diverted us from our main objective.

My reaction to the killer’s presence was pure instinct, but I couldn’t tell if I’d hit him or only his clothing before he spun over the railing and plummeted out of sight. Training told me to check that he was dead, but friendship was a more powerful deciding factor and I leaped after the two thugs who by now were cornering Rink.

I passed through the short vestibule in less than two seconds, noting distractedly that the doors to the anterooms had been thrust open, as the men had made their search of the apartment. Although the door to the living room stood wide, the room was in darkness save for the narrow strip of city light leaking through the chink in the curtains. The two men were big and blocked much of my view, but I could tell from their stance that they hadn’t found whom they were expecting. But the person they had found was an unexpected bonus.

There were words: recriminations and threats, but my mind was working on another level and didn’t order them into any sense. It didn’t matter. If they were here for a fair fight, then maybe I’d have been happy to oblige, but they had come to force information from helpless old men, so the rules didn’t apply. I slipped into the room behind them.

Rink had placed his gun down, out of reach of the two bruisers, and was beckoning them forward with his curled fingers. His face was set in a manic grin, and I understood that he had not yet gone beyond the madness his father’s murder had induced in him. He could have easily disarmed them by threat of his gun, but no: Rink wanted to fight these punks. I slipped my SIG into my trousers.

Fair enough, I thought, as I lunged at the nearest one.

At the same time Rink went for the other.

There was no time for checking Rink’s tactics; I was too busy with my own. The big guy reacted to my presence by jerking away, but immediately swiping at my skull with his metal bar. I ducked and closed with him, getting within the arch of his weapon and jamming his arm with my elbow. I jabbed a knee into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, a hand’s width above the knee. His leg buckled, but he didn’t go down. That was OK, because I was more intent on disrupting his balance for a follow-up strike than on putting him down on the floor. The guy should have dropped the bar, because it only hindered him. He tried to twist it around and took a couple of cracks at my skull, but the bar couldn’t reach. With my defending arm, I jammed the heel of my palm solidly below his right ear. My free fist pounded into his solar plexus in a right hook. He massively outweighed me, but that meant he was easily manoeuvred when off balance. I struck upwards now, employing my palm heel against his chin, smashing his teeth together and rocking him back on his heels. As he backpedalled my left hand struck a knife-edge blow to the mound of his forearm and his numb arm could no longer hold the unwieldy bar. It fell with a hollow thud on the carpet.

The big guy was more dangerous now, but he didn’t know it, and I didn’t give him an opportunity to use his strength or size. I shot a kick into his knee, choosing to attack the one previously softened up. His leg twisted awkwardly, yanking and ripping the tendons in his hip, and the guy let out a shout of pain as he began to collapse. As he dropped down to my size, I whipped the point of my right elbow into his cheekbone, and the force of the blow, plus the tremendous impact in his skull, spun him to the floor. If his leg had been twisted badly before, now it was in a grotesque position. I’d never previously dislocated anyone’s hip by striking their head, but I wasn’t particularly impressed. Feeling mildly nauseated by what I’d done to the man, I spared him the boot to the balls I was lining up and turned to check on my friend instead.

I was just in time to see Rink drive his heel into the second man’s gut and send him five feet backwards to crash against the living room wall. The big guy rebounded, but it only meant he met Rink’s fist as my friend spun and back-fisted him across the jaw. The man completed a graceless pirouette and went face down on Parnell’s settee, his legs jerking in a spasm as all the receptors in his brain rebelled against the concussion. Rink leaned over the downed man, his fist cocked. I was about to step in and halt the final blow, but Rink had already figured the man was out cold and relaxed. He turned to me, his face still rigid with battle determination.

Rink used to say I had a look when I went into battle. He called it ‘my face’: well, I could see it reflected in that of my best friend and I didn’t like what I saw.

I grabbed at him, took his elbow. ‘These fuckers almost spoiled everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The killer. He was here.’

Rink jerked at my words. I held on to him. ‘I shot the bastard, Rink.’

‘You did what?’ Rink began hauling me towards the exit.

I held on.

‘He’s gone, Rink. He went over the balcony.’

‘Son of a bitch!’ I couldn’t tell if he was angry with me, or if he’d been distracted by the two thugs here and missed the action. ‘Where is he? Show me.’