Against the Clock (30 page)
Smith looked up from the floor, reaching for his pistol, which had fallen from his grip as he'd fought to shield his fall. The intruder was wearing a helmet with a tinted facemask. He couldn't see who it was, but he knew without doubt it was Shirin Reyes.
21:49:30
Shirin moved forward, unchallenged in the confusion. She found Director Zelig quickly, four rows ahead of her to the right. He was busy trying to strap himself into his seat, the man beside him fawning over him.
Ahead of her a man was on the floor, reaching for a gun in the middle of the aisle. She didn't hesitate. Gave no warning. She fired twice, catching him on the back of the shoulder blade and the upper ribs. He stopped moving. She moved faster, stepping over the still body.
Two rows from Zelig, Shirin sensed the danger before she saw it. She ducked low, pivoted backward, extended her gun and fired five times as the first wave of bullets screamed over her. Four security agents at the rear of the plane fell.
Without slowing, she lunged forward, ducked the attack of another agent, buried the muzzle into his chest, fired, and moved past him before he even stumbled.
Two more agents in the forward rows turned, reached for their weapons but stumbled back, each of them slammed in the chest with 9mm rounds.
Out of bullets, Shirin dropped her Beretta where she stood, reached for the second pistol by her side and withdrew it mid-stride.
She reached Zelig's row. The agent beside him tried to fend her off while reaching into the folds of his jacket. A double tap to the chest and he fell, still, back into his seat.
Zelig looked up at her, scared, panicked. She had never seen him like that before. She liked it. He was buckled into the seat, and without a second's hesitation Shirin took aim and shot the buckle. It exploded into shrapnel, the belt released. Zelig screamed.
Shirin grabbed him by the hair with her left hand and dragged him out of his seat into the aisle. She glanced to the front of the plane. There was no one standing.
Looking toward the rear, she saw the security team was down. The politicians and power players were cowering in the seats, too scared to even look up at her.
Shirin tugged Zelig behind her as she moved toward the rear entrance. She panned left and right, watching for any movement that would warrant a bullet. There was none.
She was at the second to last row when she saw movement. She paused. It was the old man. He was looking up at her. He must have known it was she, but still, he looked incredulous. She ignored him and powered on.
At the end of the aisle, she flung Zelig forward violently, enjoying the sound of him striking the back wall hard with his body.
"
Wait! Wait!"
he screamed. "Do you know who I am?"
Shirin pounced forward, punching him square in the nose. His face seemed to disintegrate under her gloved fist. It felt good.
Grabbing him by the hair again, she dragged him toward the open rear door. The wind was whistling past, the noise overwhelming.
"
Stop! Please!"
He was screaming over the noise. "I'll give you whatever you want!"
Shirin thrust her hand under his chin, grappling his throat in a claw grip, and squeezed. He tried to fend her off, to loosen her grip, but she was unshakable.
Shirin moved closer to him, raised the visor of her mask, and stared deep into his frightened eyes.
He saw her, but it took a few moments for his brain to register what his eyes were telling him. He tried to scream, but her grip around his throat strangled any sound.
She leaned in close, her mouth over his ear.
"I want the man who killed my husband to die!"
Shirin threw Zelig toward the door.
"Jump!" she commanded.
Zelig looked out the open door into the black night flying past and shook his head.
Shirin raised her gun and fired.
Zelig howled as his hand exploded under her bullet. He held it close to his chest, clutching at it with his good hand.
"Jump!" she said again.
Zelig didn't move. His expression pleaded for her to stop.
Shirin fired again.
Zelig's elbow disappeared behind a puff of pink mist and the white shrapnel of his bone.
"Jump!" she yelled.
Screaming, Zelig moved closer to the open door. His clothes were being sucked toward the open sky, but still he leaned against the wall, unable to move.
Shirin aimed the gun slowly toward his groin. She didn't tell him again. She looked up from her aim; their eyes met. Her finger tightened slowly on the trigger…
Zelig cried, closed his eyes, and fell back, out of the open doorway and into the dark night sky.
Shirin stood in the empty doorway.
So. It was done. The man responsible for her husband's death, for the death of so many, was gone.
The emptiness of the doorway beckoned to her, it resonated within her.
She closed the visor of her helmet, stepped back into the cabin of the plane, ran toward the door and dove out, disappearing into the night.
to be continued…
"not much point closing the door if a window remains open."
the book of seekay
Eight days later.
Robyn placed the full coffee cup on the portable bedside table and perched herself on the arm of the large hospital armchair.
Barratt sat up in bed. He felt fine, strong enough to walk around, strong enough to make his own coffee, but Robyn had been a force to be reckoned with. She hadn't left his side since arriving at the hospital with her brother.
She'd held his hand, wiped his brow, protected him, and cared for him. She'd helped him escape, helped him heal, and now, he smiled to himself, she helped him feel a sense of happiness.
It was a strange feeling, but he liked it.
"So Shirin's husband, Harry… He was a nice guy?" Robyn asked innocently.
"Yes," Barratt said with a deep warmth. "He was a great guy."
"It's just crazy to think that everything that happened started because of one man―Director Zelig. It just seems so impossible that he would sell out his own country, blackmail, frame, and murder people of his own government. And maybe, if he hadn't killed Shirin's husband, he would have gotten away with it all."
Barratt nodded. She had a point. It was the observation of an insightful, beautiful person. A person not familiar with the dark, evil world of politics and espionage.
Barratt knew too well, Zelig was not the exception. There would be more men like him, more evil, and it would always be that way. Power was dangerous, and destructive. It was an addiction.
"Do you think Shirin and Ben will be okay?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "She'll keep him safe."
"That's not what I meant, Trent," she said, raising her eyebrow at him.
"I know," he said, smiling. After a moment of consideration, he added, "They'll be okay."
Satisfied with his answer, she slipped into the folds of the sofa. "So what do you think they're doing right now?" she asked.
Barratt looked at his watch. It was 11:00 p.m. Venice local time. "Finishing what Harry started."
Campo San Moise, Venice, Italy
The old man left the bar, cocktail in hand, and joined the main crowd mixing in the foyer of the hotel.
The Bauer Hotel was a hot spot in Venice, regularly sought by celebrities and young professionals. Tonight it was the venue for an impromptu gathering.
The old man scoffed silently to himself as he watched the men and women mingling. None of the people present were vaguely aware of who he really was or what he had planned.
As a master puppeteer of the masses, the old man was adept at making men and women like these do his bidding, and keeping them completely unaware of his influence. His skill and ability filled him with pride but also with a disdain for these people so easily manipulated.
The crowd was growing as more invitees arrived. In a short while, they would retire to the conference room, where the presentation would begin.
It had been a long time coming, with a few challenging moments, but overall, the old man had been able to keep the momentum of his plan in motion.
He feigned a sip of his cocktail, smiled a polite smile as several guests walked past him on their way to the bar. It had been eight days since the death of Director Zelig. And such a glorious, tumultuous eight days. But as always, his will had prevailed. He was torn as to where he found his greatest pleasure: in having Zelig killed by Shirin Reyes, or for having Harry Reyes, Shirin's husband, killed by Zelig? One and the same, he supposed.
Just as he had designed, his enemies were gone, his competition capitulated, and the drones of society staunchly supported his agenda.
"Oh! Excuse me!" someone blurted out as she bumped into him from behind. He felt the hard bump in his back…two hard bumps. As though someone had elbowed him in the kidneys.
He turned in shock and tried to speak, but suddenly he couldn't breathe. It felt like his lungs had just deflated.
"Are you okay?" a concerned female guest asked. She wrapped her arm around his and escorted him to the side of the large hall. She took the cocktail glass from his hand before he dropped it and handed it to someone.
The old man didn't know what was happening. His lungs didn't work.
The young lady helped him take a seat at one side of a quiet alcove. She leaned him gently against an antique grandfather clock and kneeled in front of him so that they were looking into each other's face. The old man's eyes grew wide with shock. The recognition, unmistakable.
"You're struggling to breathe," she said without inflection. "That is because I injected a muscle relaxant through your back, into the lower lobes of each lung. What you're feeling now is called a pneumothorax. It's when the air in your lungs escapes through the hole I made with my needle into the chest cavity, causing the lung to collapse."
The young lady held his hand. "I understand it is very unpleasant," she said, "but what you might feel happening already is the relaxant being absorbed by the surrounding muscles. That means soon, the muscles you need to expand your chest and your lungs will stop working altogether. There is no escaping it."
She held his hand firmly. Her grip was dry and hard.
"I would like to stay and watch you die, but I have someone special waiting for me outside."
Shirin Reyes stood and walked away as the old man died quietly, alone, unnoticed against the clock.
shirin reyes returns in
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Charlie Moore was born and raised in Sydney, Australia. He started work on his first full-length novel at age 18. When running through final edits for the book, he put it aside; wanting to live and experience some of the adventures his characters were thrust into. He became an accomplished martial artist, winning his first full contact fight by TKO and gaining over 30 medals before retiring from competition. He travelled the globe, got lost in dangerous parts of the world, swam with sharks, jumped out of planes, and became a Private Investigator.
Resuming his passion for writing, Charlie started ghostwriting to build and harness his skill, and in mid-2012
Against the Clock
was born.
Charlie now shares his time between rock climbing with his wife and writing deadly action-packed thrillers.