Chapter Twelve: Business and Hunting

“The best armor is staying out of the way of a gun-shot.”

-Italian Military Proverb

            George’s first move was to see whether the police had any further information that might help him. He returned to the stairwell and climbed back up to the thirtieth floor. From what he had overheard from Strasser, the bad guys were down to a skeleton crew, so he didn’t expect to run into anyone. Honestly, he half-hoped he would; that’d be one more terrorist down and one step closer to ending this terrible night.

            But he met no one on the way, and soon he found a suitable office in the rear of the building, barricaded the door, and signaled across the street. An answering signal came a moment later.

            “How are you doing?” asked his friend.

            “Angry,” he answered.

            “You saw what happened.”

            “Yes.”

            “Not sure what we do now.”

            “I am. I'm going to fight back.”

             

Julius Shija had grown up hunting leopards, cheetah, and other animals; even, occasionally, stupid wazungu who tried to stop him because he was a ‘poacher.’ Some fool had declared that you had to have permission to shoot certain beasts, but who cared about the damn animals? Julius had made a fortune off of them, and he wasn’t about to give that up. If the westerners were worried about the big cats and elephants and gorillas and things, they could cart them off to their own countries. He’d been born in a shack, and now, thanks to his hunting, his children would be going to college in Europe or America. Though, the war would have to end first.

            Julius was not political and he frankly didn’t give a damn about the Communist agenda. He was looking out for himself and his family; nothing more. Which raised the question of why he was here, halfway around the world, fighting for a cause he didn’t believe in. Well, that was simple. There was only one thing in the world he loved more than his wife and children, and that was hunting. And what was war, but the greatest hunt of all? 

            Julius considered himself the greatest hunter in the world. He had earned that title because he saw things that others didn’t and understood them in ways most people couldn’t. Like right now, for instance, looking out the window he saw a small point of light flashing on and off, off and on in the building behind this one. Most people wouldn’t even notice it, and those who did would think nothing of it. But he knew almost as soon as he saw it.

            Clever, he thought.

            The troublesome American was communicating with the police by flashing Morse Code to his friend across the way. So very simple that of course Strasser, with his mind full of grand schemes and high-tech gadgets, would never have thought of it.

            Another reason Julius was the greatest hunter in the world was that he never let an opportunity go to waste. Strasser had asked him to find out how the American was talking to the police, and he had. Now he was going to cut that connection.

            Julius unlatched the window and pushed it open. He crouched and rested his rifle barrel on the sill, adjusting the focus on his scope until he had a clear view of the room across the way where the American’s confederate was signaling to him. He saw her; a slender figure in the dark room, slightly illuminated by the reflecting light of her own flashlight. He was a little surprised to find it was a woman, but that made no difference to him.

            He swept his view over the other windows in the building; if the Americans had any sense at all, they’d have snipers of their own, and he would need to take them out quickly after he shot the malaya. After a few minutes of searching, he found them; well hidden, indeed, but his sharp eyes could see the ends of their rifles just poking out of a window a few floors below the flashing lights. Good; that would make things easy.

He raised his scope to the woman again and studied her for a moment: Bantu, remarkably good-looking, but dressed up like a man. Americans were so vulgar that way. He lined up his scope so that his bullet would go right through her heart.

            “Lala salama, mrembo.”

            Laura Lotus blanched when she saw George’s declaration of war. Even as she relayed the message, she signaled back “Is that a good idea?”

            “This can’t go on. They need to be stopped.”

            “Yes. But don’t do anything stupid.”

            “Not a lot of options left.”    

“What’s he think he’s doing?” asked Officer Dunn incredulously.

“Being a hero, I guess,” she sighed.

“Tell him that’s the worst thing he could do.”

She relayed the message.

“He says it’s something he has to do.”

“Goddamn reckless…”

Dunn’s radio crackled.

            “Hold on; I’m getting something from the chief.” He paused to listen, then said unthinkingly, “Tell him that at least one of the bad guys is a cyborg.”

            She began to relay the message and got as far as ‘one of them is’ before she realized what she was saying.

            “He’s a what?!” she said turning to stare at him.

            He never got a chance to answer. As Laura turned, the glass in front of her suddenly ruptured. She felt a sharp blow, like a punch to her upper arm and had an impression of flying red. The next second, she found herself on the ground and conscious of an excruciating pain in her left arm just below the shoulder. Then Dunn was on top of her, pinning her to floor and shouting.  

            “Sniper! Chief, we’ve got a sniper up…”

            There was a wet thud and his head suddenly dropped to the ground next to hers. Laura felt a hot wet spray on her face. Numbly, she realized that the back of his head had been taken off.

           

            “NO! NO!” George shouted, pounding the window in desperation as he saw the glass shatter across the street. A moment later, a second shot blasted through the wall under the window frame, knocking a small cloud of masonry into the air.

            Fumbling, he threw the latch and pushed the window open. He leaned out and looked up, searching for some sign of where the shot was coming from. There was nothing…then the gun barked again and he saw the muzzle flash from about five floors up.

            George ducked back inside and ran for the stairs. He’d never be in time; for all he knew, he was already too late. But he’d make sure this sniper wouldn’t harm another person that night.

            He burst out of the stairwell and hurried down the hallway, checking each door as he went. Then, all at once, he found the one he was looking for. But the sniper wasn’t aiming out the window. He was aiming at the door. George just had time to duck back before the rifle cracked like thunder and blew a hole in the wall just where he had been standing a second before. He heard the sniper racking another round into the chamber and took the opportunity to lean around the corner and fire a quick burst from his Kalashnekov, but the sniper had moved so that George’s bullets only tore up the carpet. He ducked back around the corner, panting. A second later, the gun roared again and George was pelted with bits of wood and plaster as the bullet ripped through the wall right less than a foot from his head. Cursing, he ducked and scurried back down the hall, his ear ringing with the shots. He hid around the corner, raised his gun and pointed at the office door ready to blast the sniper as soon as he came out.

            “So you’re the one who’s been making all this trouble,” the Tanzanian called after him. “Go on; run! You won’t be the first American mbwa that I’ve hunted!”

            George had no idea what ‘mbwa’ meant, but he guessed it wasn’t a compliment.

            The sniper didn’t come out. He knew what George was trying to do, and he had the same thing in mind. The trouble was, he had a better bargaining position.

            “Not coming out?” he asked. “That’s fine. Maybe I’ll just take another shot at that malaya you’ve been talking to?”

             That was a ploy to get him to come out…but at the same time, it was just as likely that he would actually do it. If he waited him out, the Sniper would take another shot at his friend. If George tried to stop him, he’d get shot himself.

            Unless he took a leaf out of the sniper’s own book.

            George leaned around the corner, aimed at the wall of the office, and fired. He couldn’t tell, but he thought the bullets penetrated, and he moved out into the hallway, keeping the gun at the ready. Nothing…had he actually killed the guy?

            Staying low, he entered the gloomy office, scanning for some sign of his opponent. There was no movement. Taking a chance, he took his hand off the rifle just long enough to flip on the lights.

            The office was empty.

            Thinking the sniper might be hiding behind the desk, George stepped around behind it, gun at the ready…but there was nothing there.

            Then the doors of the big metal cabinet by the right hand wall flew open and the sniper stepped out and fired. George only just had time to duck beneath the desk himself to avoid the shot, which shattered the open window behind him. The sniper cycled another round and fired into the desk. The bullet slammed through the carpet so close to George’s hand that the shock of the impact vibrated painfully up his bones. The sniper cycled again, and George threw his own gun over the top of the desk and sprayed the room wildly. He rolled out from under the desk and came up shooting.

            The sniper had disappeared again. The big cabinet was still open, so he hadn’t gone back in there. The only other place was into the hallway.

Instinct demanded that he pursue his enemy, but George forced himself to think rationally. He dropped the nearly spent magazine and swapped in a new one, trying to focus. This sniper was crafty: running out into the hallway seemed too crude and obvious a move for someone like him. There must be somewhere else in here where he could have taken shelter.

            George pictured the scene of a few seconds before; he fired wildly from behind the desk, and the sniper had disappeared: taken shelter. Going back into the hall would have left him in the line of fire too long. There was nothing here that could block the bullets, so he had to avoid them. George had sprayed wildly all over the office, leaving no corner where the man could have safely gone, unless…

            George kicked the desk with all his might. The sniper, who had been crouched in front of it, waiting for George to charge past, was knocked off his feet with a snarl of irritation. His rifle swung loose from one hand. George moved up, gun raised, and stomped on the rifle, pinning it to the floor. The sniper didn’t hesitate an instant, but dropped the gun, knocked the muzzle of George’s Kalashnikov aside and closed in, fists flying. George caught a blow to the chin that rocked him back, but he instinctively blocked the next one to his abdomen and dropped an elbow into the sniper’s face, which the man blocked with his forearm. The sniper grabbed George about the lapels and they toppled back over the desk. They hit the chair, which rolled out from under them and they dropped to the ground, breaking their grip on each other.

            The sniper fumbled for his knife, George tried to trap his arm. The sniper slammed his open hand into George’s face, splitting open his lip and forcing his head back…back…

            They were fighting right next to the open window, and the sniper was pushing George right toward it. George was still keeping the sniper’s knife hand at bay, but now the other one was grabbing onto the window frame to prevent him being thrown out. The sniper was terribly strong, and he was laughing as he shoved George further and further back.

            George’s head was out of the window now, and he was looking straight up the length of the Houston Gold, illuminated by the flashing lights from the police cars hundreds of feet below.

            The sniper was saying something, but George couldn’t tell what it was. He was about to be thrown out of a thirtieth-floor window. And then there would be no one to stop Strasser and Gidan, and Ben and Martha and all the rest of the hostages would die, and the Communists would get whatever they came here for.

            He couldn’t let that happen.

            And so George made a desperate move. He released his grip on the sniper’s straining right arm, letting him bring the knife to bear, and he struck the man’s left arm as hard as he could. The sniper’s grip on his face was broken, but his inertia carried him forward against the windowsill. George pulled himself past the sniper and elbowed him hard in the back of the head. Then he ducked, hooked his hand under the man’s ankles, and pulled.

            Before the sniper quite knew what had happened, he was toppling head-first out the window.

            George tried not to listen to the man’s screams as he fell thirty stories. He staggered back against the wall and tried to catch his breath. 

            “Mr. Calvan.”

            Xander Calvan turned from his besieged building to see a lithe, dark-haired young man with a thin face and heavy eyebrows.

            “Mr. Scarletto.”

            Sonny Scarletto was Luigi Morello’s right hand man and chief enforcer. He was known as a hotheaded and extremely dangerous young man, but Calvan didn’t seem intimidated. 

            “Your business partner wants a word,” Scarletto said.

            Calvan raised his eyebrows.

            “You may have noticed that I’m rather busy at the moment.”

            “Yeah, I see that. He’s insisting.”

            Scarletto’s tone gave no doubt that a refusal would have dire consequences. Calvan nodded.

            “So be it.”

            Luigi Morello’s car was parked around the corner about a block away from the police barricades. The Houston Gold was screened from view by the intervening buildings, but the sound of the crowd and the sirens penetrate even to its plush interior.

            The king of San Ignatio sat in the back of his car, looking rather bored. Calvan got in next to him.  

            “Look’s like you’re having a bit of trouble, Mr. Calvan” said Morello without looking at him.

            “How astute of you,” Calvan answered.

            Morello turned his head to frown at him. He wasn’t used to that kind of back talk.

            “Then I won’t keep you,” he said, dropping all pretense of manners. “I’ve got concerns, you’re gonna answer them. You know my men were working on that floor just yesterday. Someone’s gonna know that. They’re gonna ask questions.”

            “You needn’t worry,” said Calvan. “I had my own men inspect your work and report it as corresponding exactly with the order. No more. No less. As I recall, we were quite satisfied with the professionalism displayed by your workers.”

            “That it?”

            “That’s it.”

            “So how do you explain what happened with that balcony?”

            “I’ve been warning the board for some time that the patio is unsafe. They insisted that it was fine. It turns out they were tragically mistaken.”

            Morello’s face hardened as he listened.

            “So legally, we’re clear?”

            “We’re clear,” Calvan assured him.

            “Which brings me to personally,” said Morello with snarl. “I’m going to give you one chance to tell me the truth; was that what you hoped would happen when you gave us that order?”

            Calvan raised one eyebrow.

            “If I’d known my company was about to be attacked by terrorists, don’t you think I would have done something about it? “

            “You mean besides not being there?”

            “That was pure luck,” Calvan spat, beginning to actually sound angry. “Why would I expose my own company to this? We’re going to be loosing millions, not to mention almost my entire senior management!”

            “Fine,” said Morello. “You didn’t see this one coming, but were you maybe hoping something else would’ve happened? The point is, I need to know why you ordered my men to weaken those supports, and I need to know right now. I may not have the cleanest hands in the world, but something like this,” he pointed out the window in the direction of the now-scarred building hidden from view. “That’s not how I do business, understand?”

            Calvan sighed and, for the first time, seemed to deflate slightly.

            “I understand,” he said. “The truth is, I’ve been trying to convince the board to build a new company headquarters. They’ve considered this building perfectly suitable, despite our considerably increased size since taking it. I intended, with your assistance, to lead them to believe it was deteriorating and that a new building would be needed. I never expected that,” he nodded out the window. “Because I expected to be able to call their attention to the problem before anything happened. That’s why I waited until the weather turned foul and no one would be using it. I thought the threat of a disaster would be more than enough to get me what I wanted.”

            He looked heavily at the mobster.

            “This is not how I do business either,” he said.

            Morello appeared mollified. He nodded slowly, then seemed to relax. He produced a fat cigar from his coat pocket and held it up to his nose.

            “Oh, that’s good stuff,” he said. He didn’t give the slightest sign of offering one to Calvan. 

            “One more thing, though,” he went on, still examining his cigar, as though the very appearance and texture of it fascinated him as much as the taste. “I’m wondering how this is going to affect our deal. See, you still owe us a very lucrative contract, which is looking more and more like it won’t be happening in the near future. That concerns me.”

            To his surprise, Calvan actually smiled.

            “Have faith, Mr. Morello,” said Calvan. “You’ll get your payment; never fear. It just may take a little longer.”

            Morello frowned, then produced a cigar cutter.

            “Sounds fair,” he said. “But listen good; you only get one extension when you work with me. Understand? If you come around a month or two from now and start making with the excuses…”

            He snipped off the end of the cigar with unnecessary forcefulness.

            “Do I make myself clear?”

            Calvan watched the mobster coolly as he lit the cigar, filling the interior of the limo with smoke.

            “Abundantly,” he answered. “Will there be anything else? My company is in a bit of a crisis at the moment.”

            Morello grinned behind his cigar.

            “No, that’ll do for now. Hope it all works out for you.”

            Calvan gave him a smile that was as sincere as the mobster’s sympathy had been. 

Next Week:

Chapter Thirteen: Matters of Duty