I spotted movement down the alley from the other foot soldier sweeping the area. He had his back turned to us, and was drifting farther away. The falling ash made him blend well with the elements.
A clanging noise sounded behind me. I shifted my weight, turned to the side some, then looked over my shoulder, but spied no threats.
The armed gunman stomped on my foot, then elbowed me in the side. I caved, reeling from the blow. My hand lowered, removing the dagger from the side of his neck.
He planted his feet, then pushed toward the dumpster. We slammed against the front. His elbow pounded my ribs three times. He stopped, brought his rifle up, then tried to pull away from me.
My fingers grabbed the edge of his ballistic vest, keeping him close. I plunged the tip of the dagger into the side of his neck twice.
His muffled screams of agony filled his mask. He thrashed from side to side, fighting to break free. He reached for my head, clawing at the hood. The rifle dropped from his hands and swung at his side.
I pushed the dagger farther into the side of his neck. He squirmed in my arms a moment longer before going limp.
I dragged the man back and around the dumpster, and discarded his body on the pavement close to the brick wall, then toed the edge of the waste container.
The coast looked clear. I couldn’t see the other target down the far side of the alley that ran behind the row of shops.
I limped out from the dumpster and got back on the move. I wiped the blood from the dagger on my pants, then stuffed the weapon back into my pocket. I glanced over my shoulder once more, closing in on the passage where the jeep waited. Still nothing.
I skirted the corner and worked my way toward the vehicle. The pain in my hip grew with each step. My side ached from the punishing elbows.
My hand pressed against the cold-steel hood of the jeep. A layer of soot gathered on its top. I limped down the driver’s side, stopped just past the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled up.
The door opened and swung wide. I removed the rifle from my shoulder and crammed it onto the passenger side floorboard. I climbed inside the vehicle, then closed the door behind me. My hand reached inside the coat pocket for the keys, but felt nothing. I patted the pockets of my trousers, a dawning realization emerging. Jackal had the keys.
Shit.
I punched the steering wheel twice, then sighed. I ran my hand over my face, frustration building from the disaster that wouldn’t end.
Ash gathered on the windshield, making it difficult to see the alley and any movement ahead of me. I had to move and fast.
I opened the door, leaned out to the cold bite of the wind, then paused, remembering that I never placed Lawson’s black book in my pocket. I reached over the center console to the passenger side seat, feeling for the small book, but came up empty.
Where did it go?
I glanced to the floorboard and craned my neck, struggling to pierce the darkness. The murk made it near to impossible to make anything out, and I needed that black book. It couldn’t be left behind.
My hands searched the dash for the interior light, but I couldn’t locate one. I glanced at the light above my ahead and felt around the dome-shaped, plastic casing. A switch on the side brushed against my finger. I pushed it.
The light turned on. I leaned over the center console and felt along the floorboard. The tips of my fingers grazed over the rubber floor mat, then discovered the small booklet.
I grabbed the black book, sat up in the seat, then stuffed it into the pocket of my coat. I thumbed the switch to the light and hopped out of the jeep. Movement from the corner of the building, at the far end of the alley, caught my eye.
I ducked, closed the door, then made for the backside of the jeep. My back rested against the bumper. I slid to the edge of the driver’s side, then peered down the alley.
The lone gunman stood dead center in the corridor, sweeping both sides of the buildings with his gun-mounted light. Headlights at his nine o’clock washed over his tactical, arctic-white ballistic vest. More men, but how many were inside the vehicle?
I faced forward, staring at the empty street before me, not finding any movement or headlights cutting through the gray ash. I left the cover of the jeep and made for the main road.
My hand palmed the sore area of my hip. I glanced over my shoulder, past the jeep to the vehicle and armed gunman at the end of the alley. He stood next to the driver’s side door of the truck, then pointed my way.
The truck’s engine revved. The gunman on foot took off down the passageway, sprinting in my direction with his rifle shouldered. The truck sped off down the alley, past the corner of the building.
I hit the entrance to the alley and crossed the street. I skimmed over the row of buildings, hunting for a spot to lie low.
The grumbling engine of the truck and squealing tires grew louder. I moved faster, battling the pain in my hip.
A beige sedan sat parked next to the curb ahead of me. I skirted the rear of the vehicle and dropped to the ground on the far side. I moved to the center of the car with my back against the passenger side door.
The truck came to a skidding halt. I stayed low and moved toward the front end of the car. I peeked over the ash-covered hood at the idling truck.
The foot soldier hunting me
