God help us.
A narrow passageway led to three open doors; each room had to be relatively small. Hayden signaled that they should take one each, but then a bare-chested figure appeared at the far end.
“What the… who the hell are you?”
Drake reacted first, sprinting down the passage as he recognized that this man was their quarry, listening to him yell out a warning and knowing that down here it wouldn’t carry, understanding that they needed him alive, but already eyeing him for hidden weapons and other devices. The yell caused a scuffle behind and he guessed Dahl had attracted a guard; then Drake was at the man’s throat, forcing him back into the far room.
“Shut up,” he said. “Sit down. And you might live through this.”
The complication sat rigid, her eyes wide as side-plates, a handful of buttery popcorn halfway to her mouth. The TV no longer engaged her attention — rather it was the black-clad soldier holding her husband by the throat.
Drake sensed the scream coming, threw the man over the back of the couch and flew over to the woman. Quickly he held a finger to her lips. Hayden took control of the struggling man. Drake grunted as the woman struck out, catching him a glancing blow to the chin.
Hayden met his eyes. “Where’s Dahl?”
Drake frowned. The Swede should have dispatched his enemy and be here by now. With a nod of warning at the woman, the Yorkshireman slipped quickly back into the passageway, concern written all across his face. The scene wasn’t good. Dahl lay on his side in the middle of the corridor, unmoving.
“Mate.” Drake felt his heart sink through the bottom of the boat. “Torsten?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The problem wasn’t with Dahl’s health or lack of it — it was with the big bruisers he’d head-locked under each arm. Two strapping guards were almost too much even for the Swede and he was having trouble keeping them subdued. Lying on his back, he looked down the corridor at Drake.
“A… little… help…”
Drake nodded at the upside-down face. He removed his knife from its sheath and moved in close. The guard on Dahl’s right struck up at him but Drake ducked to the side. Dahl could now concentrate on the one man and grappled alongside, the silent battle taking place on the floor with all four men crammed up against the passageway’s wooden walls. Drake struck fast and hard, but his blows were deflected by his opponent’s raised arms. When the guy found a way to strike back, Drake let it fly past and punched at the kidneys. The man’s yell of pain was a double moan, one for hitting the wall and another for the punishment to his side.
Dahl was slowly overpowering his own opponent, bringing strength and weight to bear until he gained an advantage. All four men dripped sweat like rain and grunted like rutting pigs — the air down here was stifling. Drake saw the glint of a knife in the other’s hand and caught the wrist, snapping it. A yelp ensued, but by then the Yorkshireman had his own knife unsheathed and to hand. One thrust was deflected, another pushed aside desperately by flesh that began to bleed. The eyes that stared into Drake’s own were merciless.
He plunged the blade to its hilt and watched the life extinguish, then rose. Dahl rose too, retrieving his own blade and wiping it off. Together, they trudged back into the room where Hayden held their hostages.
Dahl grunted under his breath. “Thanks… mate.”
Drake struggled to shrug off the terrible dread that seized him when the Swede failed to appear. “Next time, don’t hug them, put them down.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
Then Hayden fell against the door frame, arms flailing. Drake caught her and moved her aside, spotting the rising welt along the side of her face. A moment later the bare-chested man appeared, clutching an empty beer bottle to his chest as if it were a lifeline.
“Save yourself some pain, knobhead,” Drake growled. “Put it down.”
“I no understand.” The man rubbed day old stubble in agitation, hopping from foot to foot.
“We don’t have the time.” Dahl pushed past, gripped the man by the scruff of the neck and threw him against the far wall before the bottle even moved. A wall-light smashed and a narrow bookcase fell over, scattering paperback tomes everywhere. Drake prevented the Swede from causing further damage by holding him back.
“We need him alive and kicking.”
Hayden rubbed her face and walked over to the woman. Drake guessed from rings on the left fingers and even a framed picture on the wall that this was the man’s wife. Other tell-tale objects revealed that they were wealthy, well-traveled, and possibly hailed from the country of Albania. Tattoos on the man’s hairy arms appeared to be of Mafia origin, but Drake was no expert. Safe to say though, this man was about to be a guest at Ramses’ last bazaar.
“I no understand,” the man said again with a heavy accent.
Drake smiled softly, catching his eyes. “I’ll say this once and then we’re gonna resort to pain.” He allowed the blade of his knife to glint in the remaining light and watched the Albanian’s eyes widen. “Yeah, you understand all right. It’s very simple. Tell us about this bazaar, about Ramses, and why you’re here.”
The man’s face ran through a myriad of emotions, as if contending with an inner struggle. Drake would not hurt the man’s wife but he didn’t know that. With a flick of his head he indicated that Hayden should round the woman up. Popcorn fell to the floor. The woman’s long dark hair fell free as she began to sob.
“Start talking.” Drake raised the knife, keeping it neutral but projecting threat.
“I know nothing of Ramses. This is — how you say? A… third party made invite. Through my third party. You see?”
Drake actually did “see”. These parasites were too clever to get personally involved in such communications. “Go on.”
“Bazaar is—” the Albanian spread his hands, still clutching the bottle “—a way to make money. Buy and sell. Or buy something… want.”
Drake accepted by now that the man’s English was somewhat lacking in depth. These were only trial questions anyway — gauging the man’s honesty.
“We here… vacation.” The man shrugged. “It is different, yes? Just a few days away.”
Drake tried to ignore that statement, not wanting to become submerged in the innumerable questions it raised. “We want the passes,” he said. “All of them. And we want the protocols, the etiquette. Everything. Do you understand?”
The Albanian nodded. “You want in?”
“Exactly.”
Hayden added another question. “And these boats? Are they private? Your own?” She pointed to the man and then the room. “Or can Ramses’ men board when they like?”
“Mine.” The Albanian nodded again. “My boat. They not come here. Bazaar very private and…” he paused. “Anon… anony…”
“Anonymous,” Drake helped out. “Okay, okay. So they give you your own space. That’s good. What about entry?”
The Albanian indicated a low coffee table that sat in the center of the room, in front of the television. Upon its smoked-glass surface lay a number of glossy black plastic cards, oblong in shape and about the length of a letterbox. Dahl moved over to them, scooped them up and examined both sides.
“No ID pictures,” he said. “Just a chip embedded in one side. What information did you have to give?”
“Name. Country. Time of arrival. Any special needs.” A shrug. “No more.”