In another moment he was turning, running back up the quay. Dahl pocketed the guns and took off after him, breathing easy, conscious of their surroundings and what lay further ahead. If the merc continued in that direction, he would head toward an outdoor market. Dahl increased his speed, but the soldier was pretty fast, maintaining the gap. They passed several gawping locals and two fishermen, who just shook their heads in bemusement before casting another line. Dahl yelled at the man to stop, but may as well have saved his breath. They darted across the harbor, cutting across to the left toward the market. Maybe the merc thought he could lose Dahl there.
The merc barged through the pedestrians, pushing them aside and into the wooden stalls. Dahl closed at first, but then found his way hampered. He hurdled several rolling individuals, one injured, and leapfrogged over a damaged stall. The merc charged on, heading for a set of stairs. He glanced back, his look of surprise apparent as Dahl got closer. Up the steps he dashed, at the top rebounding off the side wall, using it to jump higher and attain an almost unreachable ledge.
Then he ran across the narrow ledge, arms out for balance, forty feet above the market, until he managed to grab on to a rail at the far side and leap over, accessing another level.
Dahl emulated him with ease, using the side wall to give him lift and landing feet first on the ledge without needing to steady himself. Five seconds and he was across it, leaping atop the rail itself and then leaping again, instantly breaking into a sprint.
The merc stepped out from behind a corner, launching a series of hand strikes which Dahl deftly blocked. The Swede used elbow and shoulder to catch the blows, then struck back. When the merc started kicking up close, Dahl stopped him with a raised knee, jabbing constantly and snapping his opponent’s head back every time he landed a blow.
It didn’t take long for the merc to realize he was outclassed. With a last flurry, he managed to break free and dart away, rushing toward a far set of steps that led down to the street.
Dahl hurried after him, unable to keep the grin off his face.
The mad Swede hadn’t had this much fun since he’d been forced to give back that Shelby Mustang.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Dahl slipped down the handrail that bordered the steps, rapidly gaining on his quarry. At the bottom he managed to deliver a boot to the man’s spine, sending him flailing head first, but through skill or pure blind luck, he managed to arrest his fall and keep running.
Dahl’s phone rang. He fished it out. Akerman. Bollocks.
“Are you okay? What is it?”
“Just wondering how you were doing.”
“Make your way back to the café, Olle. I’ll meet you there. And stay out of sight!”
Dahl ended the call as Akerman started to question the aptitude within those last few sentences. The merc loped straight across a road and over a big roundabout at its center. Cars swerved and honked horns, a driver leaned out and waved a fist. Dahl followed in his wake, finding the way blocked by two cars that had ended up so close together they were literally touching bumpers. He leapt feet first, slid along a nicely polished bonnet, and hit the road even faster. The roundabout was bordered by block paving, enabling Dahl to get a good grip. At the top he hopped from upraised block to block, hitting the slope hard and skidding part of the way. The merc caused havoc again, crossing the next road before he rushed into a border of thick trees.
Dahl burst through seconds later and took a moment to catch his breath. This might be a good place to pause and stop the chase with his handgun. But no. The merc darted into a skatepark, quiet at this time of the day but still populated. Dahl ran hard, clearing a raised wedge formation with a narrow top ledge for BMX’s, then barreling down a set of steps. Another recreational wedge stood before him, sprawling the length of the park. The merc jumped from foot to foot up the vertical surface. Each leap raised him that bit higher until he could clamber over the top. Then he turned, a triumphant grin on his face.
If Dahl had had his weapon free he could have shot him then, but instead ran hard, aping the merc’s movements, finding the ascent easier than he had imagined. Up above, he heard a gasp, and figured the merc was probably thinking the same. Dahl reached the top. The merc had shown good sense and hadn’t stopped to confront him. He leapt over the edge, still running in freefall, landed, tucked and rolled, then came up without losing stride.
They skirted a wide, sharp depression in the ground, darting around its edge after each other like storm waters circle a whirlpool, then burst out of the other side of the skatepark, back on to the civilian streets. The chase continued, neither man flagging nor losing ground. Then a huge space opened up ahead.
Dahl stared. The sign was clear: FC REYKJAVIK.
A bloody football stadium, he thought. Shit.
Sure enough, the merc was on the same wavelength. Here was a place big enough in which to lose his pursuer. He arrowed toward it, scaled the fence around the main gates like a monkey, and simply flipped himself over the top, avoiding the razor wire with several inches to spare, then landed adroitly on the other side. Dahl stopped and reached for his gun. The merc took off like a terrified rabbit. Dahl fired once, the bullet kicking up concrete shards from around the man’s feet.
The last thing he wanted to do was willingly enter a rival’s football stadium, but Dahl stayed his quaking heart and shot out the locks on the fence. Ahh, he thought, feeling marginally better, then rushed on through.
Distance and time focused into a narrow tunnel for Dahl as he hotfooted it after his target. The figure leaped from a car bonnet to a low balcony and then up further still to the second floor, swinging his whole body up like a trained acrobat. For a second, his hand lost purchase and he scrambled desperately, all the while allowing the Swede to close the gap, but then he steadied his grip and took a firm hold. Once there, he broke a window and disappeared inside. Dahl made the same leaps, paused as he crossed the broken threshold, then dashed inside. He saw black clothing only a few feet ahead, racing along a corridor, and then the man veered away. The sound of gunfire preceded the even louder sound of exploding glass. Dahl entered the same room and, through the shattered high, wide, box seat picture-window, saw the merc leaping from seat back to seat back, going deeper into the stadium.
Dahl jumped down from the window, feeling his feet strike the hard plastic of the chair backs and then hopped forward, repeating the move again and again. In tandem, they bounded down the rows of seats, the harsh sea breeze helping to keep them cool, the sense of the wide open football field ahead serving only to disorient them. Dahl was three rows behind his quarry. With one crazy leap he knew he would be able to catch the man in mid-flight, but worried about the landing. Too many variables even for him. As they reached field level the merc must know he had nowhere else to go. He used his last jump to launch his body as far as he was able, flying high across the outer track, landing on the edge of the green field, rolling, and coming up with a handgun clasped between two hands.
Dahl stood, legs apart, on top of the last row of seat backs, aiming his own gun. “Drop it.”
“I’ve trained in this shit my whole life,” the merc gasped. “Who the hell are you?”