The Hunted Assassin (2 page)

2

Despite the vast differences between living on a space station and living on earth, the environments were not all that different. Besides the obvious—no openable windows or clean, natural air—the surroundings were very similar. There were streets and avenues, for example, but there were no cars, as the streets were more like enlarged sidewalks, complete with curbs and gutters that were most likely in place to remind the people on board where they all came from: earth.

As Martin moved into the street crowd, the undeniable flow of traffic took him toward the center of the pavilion. Without a solid plan in mind, he felt it best just to blend in to his surroundings for the time being. He realized that being in the middle of all these people gave him a great cover, but it also made it difficult to spot more of the assassins. Regardless, this was his best bet at staying alive.

As he merged toward the center of the crowd, he continued to analyze those around him. Most of the people were smiling and being jovial. But Martin noticed some men and women at the perimeter who appeared more rigid. They weren’t necessarily just standing around, not enjoying themselves, but they weren’t exactly celebrating expectedly. That’s when he noticed the next assassin.

Stepping out from a service corridor, a man wearing black pants and a black ribbed sweater stood and scanned the crowd. He’d obviously ditched the black gloves and mask and even rolled his sleeves up in an attempt to blend in with the crowd. The sharply formed bulge at his waistband gave him away though, and it was clear that the assassin was looking for somebody in particular: Martin. Or more precisely, he was looking for the man Martin used to be: Jaxon Rasner.

Martin fished an elastic band from a side pocket and quickly cinched up his shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. He cursed himself for not thinking of grabbing a hat as well, but he did the best with what he had.

Wanting to stay away from the killer, Martin began to drift in the opposite direction until he nearly came face-to-face with yet another man dressed in black.

“Shit,” Martin muttered before he discreetly turned his head away and attempted to disguise his height by bending slightly at the knees and shrugging his shoulders over. After he’d moved along several paces past the second assassin, Martin gradually turned his head to see if he was being followed. Thankfully, it appeared that neither of the men had recognized him as they continued to scan the crowd.

Martin realized that, short of a complete disguise, there would be no concealing his appearance and avoiding further assassination attempts. But until he got to his apartment, there wasn’t much he could do.

Then, suddenly, Martin noticed that the crowd of people were converging toward the primary station lift. He realized that if he continued with the flow, he would be enclosed in a space with no escape route. Until he was positive that he was clear of any of the pursuing killers, he needed to stay out in the open or in an environment he had more control over. He glanced around the promenade and spotted his target.
Superlative.

As casually as possible, he parted through the crowd to the entrance of the classical 1980s-era dive bar and stepped inside. Surprisingly, there were far more patrons in the establishment than he’d expected, considering the station’s big celebration that was about to take place.

Once out of view, he stood for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkened environment. Suddenly, he heard his name being called out.

“Hey, Marty! You’re here early? Decide to exercise your liver like the rest of us?” Zed, the bartender, asked.

“Crap,” Martin said in a low voice. He’d hoped to be able to duck into the bar and not be recognized so quickly.
So much for staying low profile.

Martin moved up to the bar and smiled at Zed. “Um, yeah. It’s been slow over at the shop today, so I figured what the heck.”

“Well, buddy. The first one’s on the house. We’re celebratin’ today!” Zed said.

“Hey, thanks. Can you send it down to the end of the bar? I need to take a piss,” Martin said as he started toward the back service hall.

“Will do, boss.”

As soon as Martin stepped into the hallway, he planted himself against the side wall and peered around the corner toward the front entry. From his vantage point, he could see the light of the pavilion shine in and dance off of the walls of the bar. Nobody came through the door.

Could I have gotten so lucky?
he wondered. He stood silently, scrutinizing the entryway for several minutes until the bad news walked in. The killer with the sleeves rolled up boldly stepped in from the pavilion, followed closely by another assailant. They conversed briefly before splitting up and moving deeper into the bar.

Without hesitation, Martin bolted toward the bathroom doors, first popping into the women’s room, looking for any sort of access to the service corridors. Having run into a dead end, he stepped out and then into the men’s room looking for the same.

“Shit,” Martin exclaimed as he stepped back into the hallway. He knew that returning to the bar would be certain suicide, but he couldn’t very well just disappear down one of the toilets. He was contemplating his next move when the wall next to the bathrooms suddenly moved to the side, revealing a hidden passageway. As the disguised door opened fully, one of the establishment’s barmaids stepped through, carrying a plate of fried bar food, the door closing automatically.

“Hey, sugar. Haven’t seen you around for a while,” she said as she passed Martin.

Martin smiled and winked at her as she continued her stride out into the bar. As soon as she was out of sight, he pushed on the wall where she had just come from and it gave way again with a click.

Once inside the kitchen, Martin moved past the stainless steel cooktops and prep tables. He was looking for the access point that he knew existed. He was looking for his escape. There, next to a walk-in freezer was a door very much like the one in his tea house. It had the same metal security latch dropped across the face of the door, preventing any unauthorized access.

Martin removed the security bar, and just as he was about to step into the service corridor a beam of greenish-blue energy blasted the wall next to him. He dropped to his knees and turned in the direction of the blast. One of the assassins stood on the far side of the kitchen, waiting for his weapon to recharge. Without hesitation, Martin ducked through the door and slammed it shut.

3

Martin instantly broke out in a sprint, fleeing down the corridor at top speed. The service hallways were generally unoccupied by people but were large enough to accommodate bidirectional delivery-drone traffic. Because of the service nature of the thoroughfare, the walls were lined with sheet metal for protection and the ceiling was highly illuminated. Unfortunately, that spelled for a difficult attempt at seclusion. Martin could run, but there was no place for him to hide.

As he ran past half a dozen closed shop doors, the service-way came to a T. To the right, the corridor continued on for another ten meters before it terminated at a door, most likely leading back out into the pavilion. To the left, the passageway sloped down and away before curving out of sight. Without wasting a single moment, Martin turned left and began the descent into the unknown.

Clink, clink, clink, echoed all around him. It was the familiar sound of metallic bullets hitting the thin sheet metal. Within seconds, the weapons discharge alarm began to blare.

“Jesus, these guys never give up,” Martin said as he leaped the final three meters and into a large open warehouse. Scattered about the enormous stockroom stood numerous shipping containers, no doubt filled with supplies for the various shops in the pavilion. Martin darted between two of the containers and hid along the back edge of the warehouse.

As Martin checked himself, he realized that his breath had nearly returned to normal, and his heart rate had stayed at a constant ninety beats per second. He grinned, thankful for the training that he’d endured all those years ago. Training for situations just like this. He also realized that there was only so much running that he could do before the killers caught up with him. He was on a space station, for shit’s sake—a proverbial island in the sky. He’d have to face them head on sooner or later.

He removed his shoulder bag and pulled out the energy pistol. A quick study of the default settings and he noticed the intensity was set at its lowest level. He contemplated the reasoning behind it, and concluded that the recharge rate would be quicker that way, and the killers would be more than happy to finish the job with a combat knife once the target was incapacitated from the energy blast.

Martin increased the firing intensity to full power before unlocking the safety. It was a calculated decision; he was confident with his aim and he wanted to ensure that he took the assassin down on the first shot.

With the pistol at the ready, Martin pulled the combat knife from the bag and gave it a quick polish with his shirt sleeve. He then angled the blade around the edge of the container to see the reflection of the service ramp. From his vantage point, he could see anyone approaching.

Within seconds, the first assassin came into view and was side-stepping down the far edge of the wall. He slowed his pace as he took in the surroundings, almost certainly assessing Martin’s location.

Martin withdrew the blade and stowed it back in his bag. Then, he rolled onto the floor and crawled slowly into the space between the containers. With his position low to the ground, the assassin wouldn’t see him right away. Martin gripped the pistol with both hands and leveled it straight out in front of him. He pointed it directly at the killer. Still, the killer didn’t notice his position.

The killer fully moved into the warehouse, eyes darting all around. Finally, his eyes looked down and saw Martin behind the sight of the pistol.

Martin pulled the trigger.

The discharge was nearly instant, a solid burst of energy, though the pistol had almost no recoil. A splash of greenish-blue light spat from the barrel of the gun, leaving a faint tracer line through the air. But the blast did not have the anticipated effect for Martin. The energy blast struck the assailant directly in the middle of his chest, but it only caused him to stumble back slightly. These killers were well funded, judging by their top of the line gear. To obtain anti-phasor armor was not a cheap requisition.

Martin looked at the recharge meter on the side of the pistol, and it moved painfully slow. At that rate, the killer would be on top of him long before he could even think about getting off another shot.

Martin sprang to his feet as the assassin continued advancing, a menacing grin crossing his face.

One last glance at his pistol’s meter, and he realized it was futile. Without thinking, Martin hurled the pistol directly at the assailant, striking him in the middle of the forehead. The force caused him to drop to a knee, probably more out of surprise than injury.

Before the killer could regain his composure, Martin lunged directly at him, his fist striking the killer’s left temple with such force that he heard his own knuckle crack.

Again, the assassin was too stunned to retaliate, giving Martin the upper hand. He continued to pummel the killer until he dropped his firearm in protest.

Martin saw his chance and went for the gun. But the moment he stopped throwing haymakers, the assassin tackled Martin from behind. With catlike reflexes, he had Martin in a chokehold—starving him of oxygen. Martin twisted his torso fiercely and swung his legs to the side, causing both him and the killer to lose their footing.

As they fell to the ground, Martin reached for the gun again, but the killer’s momentum knocked it away before he could grasp the handle. Feeling his lungs burn, Martin rolled to his left and onto his back just as the assassin came down on top of him. He brought his knee up sharply into the killer’s groin, producing a satisfying yelp.

Martin once again went for the gun just as he saw a garrote pass over his head. Within seconds, he felt the metallic wire cinch tight. He thrust his head backward sharply, connecting it with the killer’s chin, giving him just enough time to get his hand between the skin on his neck and the wire. The assailant grunted and tightened the garrote once again. The man had enormous strength—far more than Martin was used to. He knew his time was limited. He had to make a move now … or else.

With all his might, Martin thrust himself backward, driving them out into the open. He continued to drive his feet backward, unaware of their direction, but with each step backward, the garrote loosened a little more. As their momentum increased, Martin thrust his head back once again but missed the killer entirely. The movement, however, was beneficial, as the killer finally lost his footing and they both plummeted to the ground.

The impact happened suddenly, causing the killer to scream into Martin’s ear. A split second later, Martin discovered the reason for his pain as a sharp object drove into his own lower back. Then, just as suddenly, the killer’s grip on the garrote dwindled and his body went limp.

Martin thrust the wire cord away from his body and cautiously rolled off of the dead assassin. He looked back and noticed that they had landed on a pile of surplus metal fittings, many of them jutting out at sharp angles. One had impaled the killer through the chest and then punctured Martin’s back. Thankfully, the killer’s torso was thick enough that Martin’s own injury was minor.