Black List (32 page)

Ignoring the pain of her growing list of injuries, Anya pushed herself off the wall and launched herself at Hawkins once more, trying for a kick to the stomach that would double him over. Yet again he seemed to be ready for her, and twisted aside so that his flank absorbed most of the force of the hit.

Hawkins was unlike any opponent she had ever faced before. True, he was bigger and stronger than her, but she had faced and overcome larger adversaries in unarmed combat before. It was more than that.

She couldn’t read him.

Anya had been born with an ability that few others could understand. An intuition, a heightened sense of perception that allowed her to notice tiny shifts in posture, movement, even facial expressions that most others were blind to. It was this same ability that warned her when someone was deliberately trying to deceive her, and more importantly it gave her a distinct advantage in hand-to-hand fighting.

In essence, she could sense what people would do before they did it, could sense the tiny muscle twitches that signalled the beginning of a punch or a kick. But not with Hawkins. He was different, and that difference had robbed her of her advantage.

Before Anya could recover, he had seized her leg with one arm, preventing her from breaking free, while his other hand yanked a knife from a sheath across his chest and swiped it at her throat. Reacting on instinct, Anya leaned back, allowing the deadly blade to sail past her exposed throat by mere inches.

Attempting to use his strength and momentum against him, she gripped his hand before he could reverse his swing, and shoved it even harder in the direction of travel, causing the blade to lodge in the narrow space between two server racks.

She had to take the knife out of play.

Exerting all the force she could command, in one sudden, violent heave, she yanked the knife towards her. There was a moment of taut resistance as the steel blade flexed with the tension, followed by a dull snap and a sudden release as it sheared off.

Releasing his grip on the now useless weapon, Hawkins snapped out a short, vicious punch to the face, hoping to break her nose and disorient her. It took all of Anya’s strength to parry the short-ranged strike and twist his arm aside, though doing it left her head unprotected.

She saw him lean back, saw his head come rushing forward to meet hers, and suddenly a lightning flash exploded across her eyes. She was no stranger to taking hits, but even the toughest fighters in the world can still be knocked out with a single well-placed blow.

Such was the case now. Vaguely, through the fog that seemed to have enveloped her brain, she was aware of being lifted off her feet and thrown backward through the air. There was a moment of curious weightlessness, and then suddenly the concrete floor rushed up to meet her. Her world was engulfed in pain once more as she landed hard, sliding several yards across the smooth surface before bumping against an equipment rack.

Anya was in trouble and she knew it. She’d underestimated Hawkins, believing she could overcome him like any other opponent. Never had she expected a fight like this.

A fight she was losing.

‘You know, this almost makes it worth the trouble it took to get you here,’ Hawkins said, closing in to finish her off. He was taking his time, making his fun last a little longer. ‘Almost.’

Alex was verging on exhaustion by the time he staggering to the bottom of the stairs, his breath coming in strangled gasps that brought a fresh stab of pain with every inhalation. The fatigue of ascending and descending the full height of the building, combined with the various injuries he’d sustained over the past few days, was taking a heavy toll on his already depleted reserves of strength.

Leaping down the final step, he found himself confronted by the only door leading into the server room. Huge and indomitable, constructed of solid steel, with only a single reinforced-glass viewing port permitting a glimpse of the room beyond.

Alex crossed the last few yards and peered through the small window. The room beyond was still shrouded in gas from the Halon system, but even through the crimson-coloured haze he was able to make out Anya locked in desperate combat against Hawkins.

She was fighting, and she was losing. Alex watched in horror as Hawkins butted her full in the face, picked her up bodily and hurled her like a rag doll across the room.

Gripping the door handle, he turned and pulled it. Nothing happened. The door remained firmly closed. It was sealed and locked, the electronic access panel at the side glowing red to indicate the security locks had been engaged.

‘Shit!’ he hissed, watching as Hawkins closed in on Anya to finish her.

Fumbling for the radio at his belt, he yanked it free and hit the transmit button. ‘Olivia, I’m in the basement. Open the server-room door.’

There was no response.

‘Olivia, if you can hear me, open the door now!’

In the security room above, Mitchell found her mind hovering in a curious space between reality and fantasy, between wakefulness and gathering darkness. Vaguely she was aware of the blood still seeping from the wound at her side; the wound that had been made so much worse by her frantic sprint up to the roof, by her refusal to give in to the pain and the growing exhaustion.

She had resisted for a long time, but now knew she was approaching the end of her strength. She was losing too much blood, her thoughts growing confused and muddled, her eyes heavy. If only she could close them and rest, just for a few minutes…

And then, just like that, a voice reached her. Faint and crackling, and yet somehow cutting through the fog that was enveloping her brain.

‘Olivia, please tell me you’re still there!’

Frowning, she looked around, wondering at the source of the voice. Only when she spotted the radio unit lying on the ground by her left hand did it begin to make sense.

‘Olivia, listen to me. If you don’t open this door now, Anya’s going to die. It’s all on you; I need you
now
! Please.’

And just like that, the confused and jumbled thoughts coalesced into a single purpose. She had to get up and open the door. She had to get up.

Get up.

Gritting her teeth, she reached up for the edge of the desk, managed to get a good grip on it, and pulled. She pulled until her muscles trembled, until her vision blurred and she threatened to black out. She pulled until she felt herself rise up from the floor, until she was on her knees staring at the console laid out in front of her.

Though she had no experience of this system, she’d worked in secure facilities most of her adult life and understood how such things were controlled. By her reckoning, the security control system consisted of nothing more than a series of switches governing the electronic locks on all major doors, grouped by floor number.

And there, at the far end of the panel, was a single switch marked B1.

Forcing her mind back from the brink of unconsciousness, Anya found herself lying against the side of an equipment rack. Something was seeping into her left eye, blurring her vision, and with a vague sense of disorientation she remembered Hawkins’s skull making contact with her own, remembered the blinding flash of the impact that had nearly knocked her out cold.

He was still with her, standing just a few yards away, watching her feeble efforts to get up with what she presumed was amusement. He was toying with her, drawing out the inevitable, but this reprieve wouldn’t last long. The moment she showed signs of recovery, she knew he’d close in to finish her.

Her eyes turned away from him, looking for anything she could use to defend herself from the inevitable attack. The assault rifle he’d discarded during their earlier confrontation was still lying where he’d dropped it, though to get to it she’d have to go through him first. No good.

The computer drives fixed into the racks around her might serve as primitive shields, but they were held in place with bolts and tangled bundles of cables that she had neither the time to disconnect nor the strength to break. Keep looking.

Only then did she see it. Lying just beyond her reach in the narrow space between two metal frames, its polished steel glinting in the crimson light overhead, was her one chance to defend herself.

She had to get up. She had to reach it.

An instinct, deeply etched into her mind and reinforced by decades of hard-won experience, screamed at her to get up, to fight back before Hawkins could finish her.

With a supreme effort of will, Anya rolled over and began to drag herself to her feet, breathing hard, trying to get more air into her lungs. Chilled, dry air clawed at her throat while blood dripped from the gash over her eye, staining the concrete floor beneath as she slowly extended her arms.

But Hawkins wasn’t about to let her rise up again. With deliberate care he took a step forward and kicked her in the ribs. Anya shuddered under the blow that seemed to radiate through her very bones, but managed to hold herself defiantly up.

There would be no withstanding the next blow however. His second kick struck almost exactly where she’d been hit by a stray round, and was delivered with all the force that his considerable frame could command. Even Anya couldn’t hold in her cry of agony, and collapsed onto her side.

But the pain of his blows had been worth it. Even as Hawkins reached down and closed his fingers around her neck, she grasped the broken blade of the knife she’d deliberately snapped to protect herself. Straight away the wickedly sharp edge cut into her hands, but the pain was almost irrelevant now. Pain no longer mattered; she was fighting for her very life.

Somewhere behind her she heard the hiss of hydraulic pistons working, but paid it no heed as Hawkins leaned in close, his grip tightening mercilessly. Already she could feel her windpipe constricting as he crushed the life out of her.

He was staring right into her eyes. He wanted to be the last thing she saw as her vision faded and her life finally ended.

With a defiant cry, Anya swept the broken blade upwards, aiming for the face that was now so terrifyingly close to hers.

There was a spurt of red, a spray of warmth that coated her face, and suddenly Hawkins let out an almost bestial howl of pain. Releasing his grip on her, he stumbled backward clutching at his face.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Anya scrambled to her feet, still brandishing the improvised weapon in bloody fingers. She was hurting and tired after their brutal confrontation, yet through some great effort of will and sheer resilience she was standing.

Hawkins meanwhile had overcome the shock of her sudden attack and rounded on her once more, his face twisted in rage and hatred. A deep gash traced a gory path from cheek to forehead, bleeding profusely and narrowly missing his right eye. Such a wound would leave a prominent scar, but it was unlikely to cause any lasting damage. It certainly wouldn’t be enough to stop him now.

Nothing would stop him.

Hawkins took a step towards her, his fists clenched, the muscles of his formidable body marshalled behind a single purpose. There would be no toying with her now, no hesitation or mercy. He was out to destroy her.

Anya raised her hands and gripped the knife blade tighter, readying herself for what could well be the last fight of her life. She had spent her life fighting in one way or another, never submitting, never hesitating, never retreating. That was how she had lived, and if the time had come, that was how she would die.

Hawkins closed in on her, his lips pulled back in a snarl, one side of his face a bloody ruin. His eyes glimmered in the crimson light overhead. The feral, wild eyes of a predator. A killer.

But before Anya could react, a crack like thunder echoed around the room, and suddenly Hawkins was knocked backward a pace as if by an invisible blow. He hesitated, his expression uncertain, as if failing to understand what had happened, only for a second shot to slam into him.

A third shot finally knocked him right off his feet, and he toppled backwards, crashing to the ground with an audible thump. Two more shots followed even as he fell, though his collapse caused the rounds to sail right over his head.

Hardly believing what had just happened, Anya whirled around to face the mysterious shooter. Alex was standing in the doorway, clutching a revolver in his hands, wisps of smoke still trailing from the barrel.

‘Alex?’ she gasped, for once unable to contain her surprise.

Before she could say anything more, however, Alex shouted out a warning. ‘Anya, run!’ he cried, beckoning her towards him.

Glancing over her shoulder, Anya saw Hawkins scrambling to get up. The soft lead slugs that Alex had fired at him might have been enough to knock him off his feet, but his body armour had protected him from any real injury. Already he was reaching for the assault rifle he had dropped earlier, no doubt intending to hose down both of his targets with a single deadly burst of automatic fire.

Abandoning any thoughts of finishing him, or of questioning how Alex had made it back down here, Anya turned and sprinted for the door, summoning up whatever reserves of energy she still possessed in one final burst of speed.

‘Move your fucking arse!’ she heard Alex scream, backing away from the door to let her pass. Dropping the empty revolver, he raised a portable radio to his mouth. ‘Seal the door, now!’

She heard the distinctive hiss as hydraulic pistons went to work, causing the door to swing inward. Covering the last few yards with the kind of speed that only comes when one’s life is at stake, Anya twisted her body sideways to squeeze through the rapidly closing gap. A second later, the door slammed shut, the electronic locks automatically engaging.

No sooner had the locks clicked into place than the door resounded with heavy impacts from the other side. Both Anya and Alex watched as a deformation suddenly appeared in the centre of the steel frame, followed by another, and another. Hawkins was firing on it, trying to force it open, though his efforts were wasted. Nothing short of explosives would break through that door.