The Aztec Prophecy

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.”

Hawke heard the fear in Ryan’s voice as he watched the bikers race toward them.

“This is a dead-end — we’re trapped!” Maria said.

“I’ve got an idea,” Hawke said. “Follow me!”

They moved to the bistro’s entrance and Hawke checked the door — locked. The place had been evacuated in a hurry by the looks of things. The tables — all crumpled linen tablecloths, menus and half-full glasses on novelty coasters, were now abandoned by the terrified customers. Hawke saw the lead Vespa tearing along the mezzanine in their direction. Its rider was steering the bike with one hand and holding the sawn-off with the other as he prepared to fire at them. As he raced along, the police fired on him, but missed.

Hawke shoulder-barged the door open. It wobbled back and forth on its hinges and instantly triggered an intruder alarm which rang out through the building. He grabbed one of the chairs and smashed it to pieces on the floor.

Ryan sighed. “I think they have classes to deal with anger like that, Joe.”

Hawke glanced at him before picking one of the chair’s legs out of the smashed wood. “Thanks for that, but I need this.” He waved the chair leg in his face.

Behind them the first Vespa burst into the bistro. Skidding wildly to the left, the rider corrected his balance and then took a shot at them. The shot pellets sprayed all over the wall beside the fire door and blew out several panes of glass in the windows either side of it as the rider raced past them.

Then Hawke smashed the chair leg into his throat and nearly knocked him off the bike, but the assassin kicked his leg out to stay upright and skidded around in a tight one-eighty to come at them again.

“This bloke never gives up,” Hawke muttered.

“And here comes the other one!” Lea shouted.

She was right — the final biker was swerving to avoid the SFC’s gunfire as he raced toward them along the mezzanine.

“I’ve got an idea,” Hawke yelled.

At the other end of the bistro some French doors opened out onto a balcony and a small patio for al fresco dining. They ran through the doors as the biker spun around and readied for another strike. “Go to the fire escape ladder and wait for me!” Hawke said, and tucked himself against the outside of the restaurant wall right beside the open door.

Lea looked at the chair leg. “Ah — gotcha!”

She ran to the wall, followed by Maria and Ryan and climbed over it on her way to the ladder.

The Vespa raced toward them, one cartridge still left unfired in the twelve-bore. He fired but missed, and at the exact second he passed through the door to enter the balcony, Hawke swung the chair leg like a club at the rider’s neck and knocked him off the bike.

The Vespa drove on riderless, smashing though a table and ripping two of its legs off before crashing into the low wall and coming to a dead stop. With no handle on the accelerator to keep it going, its engine revs dropped to idle.

The rider scrambled to pick up his shotgun, but Hawke slammed his boot down on the man’s hand. It was just an inch away from the gun, but with all of Hawke’s weight pushing down on his gloved fingers it may as well have been the other side of the world.

Slowly, Hawke crushed his boot down and broke the bones in the man’s hand, making the assassin scream out loud in pain. Then he moved his boot and kicked the gun away before grabbing the man’s helmet by the mouth vent and smashing his head back into the paving, knocking him out cold.

“Two down, one to go.”

As he spoke, the third rider bore down on them, gun pointed in their faces. He burst through the French doors and then used the tipped-up table as a ramp, jumping over the edge of the patio and flying through the air like a bird. He hit the ground with a heavy smack and a shower of sparks, but after a short skid he was in control and on his way.

“That was interesting,” Maria said.

“Where did he go?” said Lea, running to the balcony.

“He’s over there!” Ryan pointed over the balustrade as he shot his way through the police line and turned into James Street in his bid to escape.

“Now or never, guys,” Hawke said.

They scrambled to the bottom of the fire escape ladder and ran around the square to James Street to the north.

As they sprinted along the narrow cobblestone street Lea turned to Hawke. “Where are we going, Monsoon or Accessorize?”

Ryan rolled his eyes. Hawke sighed but made sure he hid his smile from her.

“Where’s our little friend going?” Maria said. “There’s another police line set up at the end of the street. He’s trapped!”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “There’s only one place he can go — underground!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” Lea said as her eyes tracked the biker. At that moment, he swung hard to the left and skidded toward Covent Garden Underground Station.

“Can’t believe this…” Ryan said.

Lea smiled. “Ah! You’re not just an ugly face, Joe Hawke.”

His reply, which he just knew would be extremely witty, was cut short by the biker who took a shot at them before disappearing into the station. His aim was poor due to the effort of steering the bike over the cobblestones with only one hand and the shotgun pellets missed their intended target and blew out the windows of the Nag’s Head pub instead.

Hawke never even looked back, but darted into Covent Garden Station pulling Lea behind him with all his strength. Maria and Ryan followed, leaving the summer’s day behind for a world of air-conditioning, electric light and the unmistakable smell of ozone and brake pads.

They sprinted past the ticket office and vaulted over the turnstiles. In response to the hubbub a little man in a peaked cap ran out of the office and waved his fist in the air.

“What’s he saying?” Lea asked.

Ryan looked genuinely worried. “I think he’s remonstrating with us for abusing the public transport system.”

“I’m sure he’s dealt with worse,” Hawke said.

“Look out!” Maria screamed.

Ahead of them the biker turned on his seat and aimed the shotgun at them but missed, striking the man in the peaked cap instead. He fell down dead and the biker steered toward the stairs.

“I can’t believe he’s driving that bloody thing down there!” Ryan said.

“Never mind if you can believe it or not,” Hawke yelled. “Let’s get the bastard!”