The Swords of Babylon

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Dahl and Akerman made their way down to the old harbor, scanning the various sized vessels moored to their right. The inner harbor was home to dozens of small boats and larger ships, some owned by Reykjavik residents, others visiting from near and far. The two men parked near the entrance and proceeded on foot, Dahl keeping a surreptitious watch on every angle. The real danger, if indeed there was any at all, would come after they met Jakob Hult.

A harsh wind blew in from the sea, carrying with it the sting of spray and salt. They passed a myriad of different colored signs, each one promising ‘Sea Tours’ or a ‘Festival of the Sea’ or ‘Whale Watching’ and, especially, ‘Sea Angling’. The Atlantic looked like an undulating gray swell beyond the sea walls, and out on this spit of land Dahl saw it on three separate horizons. He imagined how different a story it would be if, like Drake recently, you found yourself swimming out there, adrift, lost.

He shook it off, looking off to the eastern horizon in the direction of Sweden. Somewhere over there his wife and two children were going about their day, oblivious to his location. A blissful ignorance, he thought. He wondered what Johanna was doing at that exact moment.

Then Akerman spoke, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Dahl shot him a suspicious look. The translator was also gazing wistfully to the east. “I bloody well hope not.”

“I miss her terribly, don’t you?”

“Olle—” Dahl’s voice carried a warning tone.

“Stockholm,” Akerman said innocently. “Why? What were you thinking of?”

Dahl stopped. They had reached the area where Akerman had seen Jakob purchasing the boat. The older man pointed to a relatively small vessel, white hulled, with a high rail at the prow and a single blocky cabin in the middle. A ladder ran up the side of the cabin and the mast stood behind it, a curved area of wooden deck leading aft.

Dahl started down the quayside, coming to stop at the mooring post in front of the boat. Through the grimy window at the front of the cabin he could just make out some movement. At that moment, the glass shattered and a man’s head came part of the way through. Dahl then heard another man’s malicious laughter. He cleared the quayside and landed on the boat, sprinting hard. Within seconds he had reached the cabin. Through the wide-flung door he saw an older man who could only be Jakob Hult falling to his knees, looking up at a much younger, fitter man. The second man wore a black t-shirt that emphasized his bulging muscles, had a grim set to his face and a bearing that screamed military.

Dahl moved in fast, coming close to the military man. “What’s going on here?”

The youngster’s eyes went wide. Clearly, he had been enjoying himself too much to even notice the Swede’s approach. “Who the—” he began, speaking with an accent. Something mid-European, Dahl thought. Hard to pinpoint.

“Walk away,” Dahl was told. “Leave now and you won’t get hurt.”

The Swede could barely keep the smile from his lips. “I won’t get hurt?”

“Don’t fu—” ended up being the last two words he was going to speak for a while as Dahl smashed the bridge of his hand under the guy’s nose. His eyes rolled up and he slithered to the ground like a set of falling curtains.

“Oh, thank you.” Jakob Hult breathed a sigh and moved so that his back was against the bulkhead. “I don’t know—”

“Cut the crap,” Dahl said quickly. “I know what those men were doing here and I know what you did. Now, speak to me. Fast. There’s no way he was acting alone.”

As he spoke he heard a whisper of sound at his back and spun. The man there — another military figure — was actually leaning around Dahl’s bulk, pointing a weapon at Jakob.

“Stop!”

The gun went off, the bullet shattering Jakob’s collarbone. Dahl used the seconds at his disposal to lunge and take hold of the gun hand, shatter it against the door frame, and twist it first to the left then right, dislocating the shoulder. Before his opponent could even scream, Dahl slammed his face into the ship’s side.

Akerman was screaming. Dahl looked up to see the translator running down the quay, a man in black chasing him. Dahl cursed. He looked to Jakob, took in the gray pallor and pouring blood. Hult was dead, but wasn’t quite there yet.

Damn.

Dahl scooped up a handgun and fired at the figure chasing Akerman. Within a moment he had pulled up and backed away, giving Akerman precious moments to hide. Dahl gritted his teeth, put his feelings aside, and ran to Hult’s side.

“Tell me,” he hissed. “Tell me what you know.”

Jakob’s mouth worked, his eyes wide. Blood flew from his lips. “I… can’t—”

“They killed you,” Dahl spat. “For what? Tell me. There is no man better equipped to avenge you better.”

The eyes closed, life slipping away. Dahl leaned in as sound flitted through the torn lips. “Found a translation… relating to… about the device.” His head lolled. Dahl held it steady between his hands.

“There shall remain one other way to activate…two failsafes…” Jakob sat up a little, suddenly stronger. His eyes flew open. “Three minds, three tombs, three bones. Do you see? Do you see?”

Dahl was silent for a heartbeat. Then, “Not really.”

“And Cayman.” The translator’s head sagged for the last time, his entire body now going limp. “He… he too knows…”

Dahl cursed loudly. Hult was dead. With no time to spare he lifted his head and looked out the window. The last remaining merc was still casting about for Akerman. Time for Dahl to pay him a visit. He grabbed another weapon and exited the cabin, making sure he could be seen on deck.

“Hey!”

The black-clad figure turned and took in the situation. He would know Dahl had taken out his two mates. He fired. Dahl didn’t move. The shot ricocheted off the boat’s white railing. Dahl ran forward, taking aim. He needed to wing this one and draw some answers out of him. He fired once. The merc half turned, looking surprised, and stared at a ragged, red streak that had just been made along the top of his shoulder. Close.

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.