Mason distracted him with a bolo punch — an undercut-hook combination favored by Sugar Ray Leonard. It struck him hard and knocked him on his heels.
“Army Boxing Champion,” Mason said with a wink. “Did I mention that?”
The man grunted as he regained his balance and searched for a weapon. He snatched up one of the fire irons from the marble hearth and weighed it in his hands. “Istanbul’s dirtiest street fighter,” he said in a thick accent. “Did I mention that?”
“Didn’t have to, mate,” Mason said. “I can smell it from here.”
The man growled with rage and ran toward the intruder. Raising the poker above his head, he swung the poker down hard in a bid to smash it across Mason’s head but the Englishman was faster and slipped to the side.
The poker crashed down on an antique table and smashed a lamp to pieces.
Before he could turn and take a second swing, Mason was on him, pummelling his back with jabs and then swinging another savage uppercut up into his ribcage.
The man turned and fought back, landing a good punch right on Mason’s jaw and nearly knocking him out. He staggered backwards, knocking over a number of Mr Omar’s finest antique ornaments as he went but it still wasn’t enough to arrest his fall.
He went down on his back and crashed into the carpet. Lucky. His skull struck the step leading down to the sunken lounge and for a second he thought he was going to lose consciousness.
A mind-numbing pain coursed through his head. If he went out now he would wake up upside down in a basement with duct tape over his mouth. Milo wasn’t kidding when he’d talked about the last man caught in this apartment. In the Turkish underworld, Omar Dogan was as serious as you got. Waltzing into his private apartment and stealing from his personal safe wasn’t going to end well if you got caught.
Confused by the blow to his skull and the eye-watering punch that put him down in the first place, he now struggled to focus on the men as they padded over to him, one still nursing his bruised throat. They were grinning. They thought they had won.
“I told you this was private property,” said Undercut.
“You should have listened to him,” Buzzcut chimed in casually. He even slipped his hands into his pockets for a few seconds and slouched against one of the interior pillars. “Now we have to kill you and dump your body in a landfill. I’ve got better things to do with my time, believe me.”
Mason shook his head back into focus and got to his feet. He bobbed and weaved as the man stormed toward him, swinging punches left, right and center. One of the men fought back hard, but the Londoner returned fire again, striking the Turkish bodyguard under the chin. The impact forced him back on his heels once again and he threw his hands out for balance.
Seizing the initiative, Mason grabbed one of his hands and forced it back against the top of his forearm until he heard a loud snapping noise. The man howled in agony and collapsed to his knees to nurse the wound and Mason ended the brawl with a hard left, smashing the man in the side of his head and putting him out for the count.
“No flash knockdown for you, lad,” he said.
Buzzcut rejoined the fight but was still struggling to breathe properly from his windpipe punch. He flicked open a switchblade and padded over to where Mason and Undercut had brawled a few moments ago in the center of the plush apartment.
Mason saw the knife. Things were getting out of control. Army boxing champion was one thing, but that didn’t usually involve fighting armed men. He grabbed Buzzcut’s knife hand with his left hand as he piled his right hand up into the guard’s jaw. Holding him tight he was able to put his body between Buzzcut and the knife, and then he brought his hand down hard on his wrist and belted the knife from his grip. He kicked it away with his boot and then brought his elbow up into the man’s throat for the second time.
Buzzcut gasped for air like a freshly landed fish on a jetty.
Mason moved in for the kill. “Is it that you can’t learn, or won’t learn?”
The gasping man was on his knees now, unable to breathe and eyes full of genuine fear.
Mason delivered a catastrophic overhand punch and knocked the man down into the sunken lounge beside his associate. Stepping over the fatally wounded man, Mason moved to the window and talked calmly into the mic. “Milo — I’ve been rumbled and I’m going to need to get out of here ASAP.”
“All right,” Milo said. “We saw. I’m looking at the schematics of the apartment right now. Where are you? I can’t see you anymore.”
“To the east of the study in some kind of recreation room.”
“Okay, I see it. You need to go to your right and you’ll see a corridor. Go to the end and then take the first left. This gets you to the stairs that lead up to the roof.”
Mason followed Milo’s instructions until he reached Omar’s private staircase and ran up the steps to the door. He slammed the panic bar on the inside of the heavy security door and was blinded by the bright Turkish sunshine.
“I’m out!” he said.
“Good stuff, Jed,” Milo said.
Mason raised his hand to block the sun and scanned the sky. “But where the hell is Kat?”
“She’s on her way!” Milo said.
He heard shouting and the sound of men clambering up the steps behind him. “I hope she gets here in about two seconds, Milo, because it looks like I’ve got some more trouble on the way.”
He slung the bag over his shoulder and ran as far from the door as he could, but then more of Omar’s men were on the roof. This time they had knuckle-dusters and scimitars.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Making contact with the Persian was always unpredictable and dangerous, because the Persian was unpredictable and dangerous, and Schelto Kranz knew it better than most. As he waited for the man to answer the Skype call, he realized he was wringing his hands in fear and fought hard to make them still. He controlled himself but the sensation had left him bereft of his confidence, and in awe of the sort of power held in the Persian’s hands.
“Kranz,” the Persian purred menacingly. “How good of you to call me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Persian studied his face for a moment. “You look nervous. I hope you’re not going to disappoint me today.”
“Not at all, Amadeus. I bring good news.” He swallowed with anxiety as his eyes crawled all over the silhouette image of the man on the iPad screen. Why did he always hide his face like this? Kranz was Dutch aristocracy, with enormous wealth and power, and yet the Persian put him on edge more than anyone else in this world. He supposed that was the way of things in the Order. The Hidden Hand moved around the world in the shadows, flitting in between the gaps of reality like phantoms. The making of their deeds was never seen, but always felt, and usually by millions of people.
“Then share this good news with me. I like good news.”
“Kiya and the others had a successful hunt.”
The Persian leaned back in his chair and the light behind him shone through into the camera, burning itself on Kranz’s eyes. He blinked and looked away, but then his superior resumed his normal position and blocked the light once more.
“We have the ankh?”
“Yes, sir — and there is more good news.”
The Persian breathed out slowly. “You have the woman?”
“Finn and the Spiders took her into their custody a few hours ago. She is already on her way to one of our temples.”
The Persian gave a low chuckle. “So, easier than we had anticipated. I am most impressed with your work, Kranz.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you will find the time to mention my work to the Sun-runner…”
The Persian cut him off. “That is not the way of Occulta Manu, Kranz. The fact that you would even propose such a thing makes me question your suitability for promotion to higher offices.”