The assassin staggered to his feet. His face obscured by his motorcycle helmet, but something about the way he moved told Hawke he was young — maybe early twenties. It didn’t matter. A fight was a fight.
“You drive like a girl,” Hawke said.
Behind him, Lea sighed. “Oh, very Dirty Harry.”
“It was the first thing that came into my head,” he shrugged. “It just felt right.”
The man said nothing in reply, but pulled a flick-knife from his pocket and pressed a gloved thumb down on the button to extend the lethal blade. The razor-sharp steel flashed in the sunshine.
“Get back,” Hawke said to the others. “This bastard’s all mine.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Bastard came at Hawke, hard and fearless. He lunged forward and propelled his knife-hand into Hawke’s face, but the former SBS man simultaneously pushed his head back and sidestepped to dodge the blade. Passers-by screamed and ran further from the fight, while others whipped out their phones and starting filming, something Hawke was getting used to.
Maria and Ryan moved forward with Lea to help but Hawke yelled at them to stay back. He saw nothing in the crash helmet’s black visor except his own reflection, so was unable to read the other man’s face. Sometimes that helped in a fight. This time, it wouldn’t. In the distance he was dimly aware of the other bikes as they circled like vultures.
The man came again, slashing the knife forward at Hawke. The Englishman thought this second lunge was a little sloppier than the first and that maybe the other guy’s nerves were starting to fray. A good sign.
Hawke sidestepped again, and this time spun around and moved into the Bastard’s flank, powering a heavy jab into his stomach. The man staggered back off-balance for a moment before righting himself and coming at Hawke once again.
He felt his adrenaline rise as the third attack came, but was just beginning to relax into the fight all the same. Back in the day he was in the Royal Marines Boxing Team and learned more than a few moves, but his opponents generally didn’t bring switchblades to the tournaments.
Now, he dodged to the right and delivered a solid palm strike to the side of the crash helmet. A right hook might have been more powerful, but he would have got four broken knuckles in loose change out of the deal. As it was, the palm strike worked well, knocking the heavy weight of the helmet against the Bastard’s head and sending him flying off his feet as if he were made of jelly.
When he hit the cobblestones Hawke heard a distinct cracking sound, but it was just the helmet striking against the stone. He moved forward to get a closer look when the man crawled up to all-fours. Never one to miss an opportunity, Hawke kicked him hard in the ribs as if he were trying to kick a soda can across Covent Garden and the man tumbled over onto his back, wheezing and screeching in winded agony.
Somewhere in the background he was once again aware of the other bikes revving and screeching.
“If you want some more,” Hawke said, not even breaking a sweat, “Get up.”
To his amazement, the man got up.
Hawke thought he was moving slower now — he was tired, but his mind was still revved up enough to push him on. He swiped the knife at him again, this time catching his jacket and slashing a thin cut in the front.
Hawke’s reply was a rapid and no-nonsense uppercut smashed into the exposed area of his jaw beneath the crash helmet. The ex-SBS man immediately stepped back for the response but the last punch had done the trick. The weight of the helmet had now acted against the Bastard and his uppercut had knocked his head back at a terrific velocity. He watched as the man staggered backwards like a drunk before falling onto his back with a thud.
Hawke padded over to him and kicked the knife from his hand. It skittered across the cobbles and came to a stop in the gutter. He grabbed the Bastard by the throat while forcing the helmet off with his other hand. He was right — his assailant was no older than twenty. Maybe even younger, but it was hard to tell with so much blood all over his face.
He started to come-to, but Hawke wasn’t in the mood for introductions, so he tightened his hand into a fist and piled it into the young man’s nose, smashing the bone and cartilage into a pulp and knocking him out hard and fast.
“Other people use punch bags to deal with their aggression,” said the Irish lilt.
Hawke made no reply.
Moments later an armed response team from the Met pulled up and blocked the escape routes either side of the old market place. The other bikers had obviously decided to abort the mission and circled for a moment before figuring out where to go.
“They’re getting away, Joe!” Lea said.
“And just when I was having fun… this way — they’re headed into the market!”
“I see them!” Maria said. “They’re trying to get away from the police.”
They ran across the cobblestones toward Covent Garden Market. As they drew closer they heard a shotgun fire and then shattering glass. Up ahead, the bikers had blasted the gates open and were racing inside the market in a bid to avoid the police. Shoppers laden with bags and baskets scrambled for safety as they ripped into the covered marketplace.
As the men from the Specialist Firearms Command fanned out around the market and radioed their intention to go in, Lea showed the lead man her ID card. Issued by Sir Richard Eden MP it was enough to get them into the chase, and seconds later they were sprinting into the covered market in pursuit of the killers.
Despite being lit from above by the sun which now shone through the Victorian glass and iron atrium roof, there was an atmosphere of dark terror as they scanned the Apple Market for the fleeing assassins. Then Hawke’s eyes fell upon the steps at the end of the room which led to the upper level.
“They must be in a panic — they’re going upstairs.”
They ran across the traditional flagstone floor and leaped the steps three at a time to reach the upper level, a mezzanine which stretched around the entire hall. Up here they ran past various boutique shops — Chanel, Burberry and Crabtree & Evelyn to name but a few — and closed in on the killers while the police tumbled into the ground floor level below them. Tooled up with Heckler & Koch MP5s and self-loading Glock 17s, the cops looked like a small army as they moved into the market and scanned for the bikers.
Upstairs now, Lea scrambled to a halt in front of one of the windows. “Ooh, I like those Kurt Geiger wedge sandals!”
Hawke screeched to a halt a few meters beyond Lea and turned around with a look of incredulous confusion on his face. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve never seen them in that champagne color before. What do you think?”
He cocked his head at her. “Um, I think you’re as crazy as a sack of starved weasels.”
Lea’s reply was drowned out by the sound of a shotgun burst and then the rasping noise of the Vespas inside the enclosed market. Judging by the look on her face, Hawke considered, this was probably just as well.
They ran along the mezzanine and then jumped over a low iron fence before landing in front of a bistro at the south end of the building. At the far end of the hall the bikers skidded to avoid another team of police officers who had made it up the stairs. They spun around in an arc of burning rubber as the horizontal two-strokes pumped out clouds of noxious fumes. Panicking now, they looked up and saw the only escape route — the bistro behind the unarmed ECHO team.
“Um, guys…” Ryan said. “One of them’s heading this way and he’s pointing his shotgun at us.”