The Swords of Babylon

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?”

Dahl said nothing. The merc’s gun wavered just an inch. The Swede needed no other opportunity. He fired instantly, watching as the bullet struck his opponents upper chest and sent him sprawling backwards, red blood spraying across the newly mown green grass.

He jumped and ran forward. “Who sent you?” he shouted as he ran and knelt by the merc’s side. “What is it you want with the tombs?”

The eyes swam with pain. “Fuck you.”

Dahl mashed the barrel of his gun inside the gushing bullet wound. “Easy or hard way, wanker. Which do you want?”

Back arched, the merc roared for Dahl to stop. “You think they tell us that? All I know is that professor guy gave my boss some vital information. So vital, he had to go.”

“What sort of information?”

“Some kind of message they found in the tomb. The kind that makes powerful men sit up fast.”

Dahl caught that one. “Powerful men?”

“The guy I work for.” The merc grimaced and slumped back down. “Makes you look like a fuckin’ pussycat. He’s the devil and all his demons in a fucking truck and he’s driving us all straight to hell. Now, either shoot me or get the fuck away from me, you English arsehole.”

Dahl backed away. He didn’t correct the man. Something told him he should make all haste and get back to Moscow. Something told him that time was rapidly running out.