The men lunge at one another in a furious volley of punches and kicks. Cross blocks a high punch and goes low with a drive to Bourne's ribs. Bourne takes two hard hits, grabs Cross' right arm and wrist, and spins to his left until the other man is behind him; he brings his left elbow back into Cross' jaw. Cross' head snaps back from the blow, and Bourne drives Cross back against the wall. Picture frames fall. They tumble across the wall, knocking over a small round table and lamp which crashes to the floor. As Bourne goes to shove Cross back into the wall again, Cross forces a rotation and slams Bourne face first into the wall. Bourne smashes his boot down on Cross' instep and turns quickly to strike Cross.
Cross dodges the hit, attacks Bourne with a hard punch. Bourne deflects the extended fist, and swings an arm around Cross' neck, pushing him down, using his knee to toss the Outcome agent to the floor. Cross kicks to his feet rapidly and they face each other again.
Cross bends his elbow over Bourne's extended right arm to divert a punch. Simultaneously, Bourne strikes out with his left hand. Cross grabs that wrist and brings his right arm down over Bourne's forearm. Cross pushes Bourne's arm down and around until he traps it in a hold over his shoulder. His left hand holding Bourne's arm in place, he strikes a a blow to Bourne's neck with his right hand.
The rapid feints and parries, strikes and counterattacks are typical of the modified Kali fighting style in which the Beta operatives were trained. Physically, they're evenly matched: both in the prime of their lives and honed to peak perfection.
Nothing's going to stop them until one of them is dead.
It's Nicky's nightmare come true.
Nicky sees the discarded Sig Sauer on the ground and leaps for it. Marta gets there first. Grabbing the loaded gun from the ground, Marta points it at the men, firing right above their heads. Plaster and wall spray the men; they duck, stepping back to separate corners, momentarily startled.
"Shit!" yells Nicky, hoping no one's in the room Marta just fired at. She whirls on the other woman only to find Marta racking the slide, pointing it directly at her.
"Stop or I will shoot her!" Marta shouts.
Bourne freezes, his muscles coiled, his body instinctively turning to Nicky.
They hear screams from the room behind them. Doors are opening and people are shouting in the hallway.
Nicky drops to her knees, heedless of the gun at her head. Marta's hands are surprisingly steady.
A snarl more animal than human-like erupts from Bourne's throat.
"Stop," says Nicky through clenched teeth. "Marta's not going to kill me."
Both men are watching the women, but still intensely aware of one another. Cross looks like he's about to launch himself at Bourne again while the other man is focused on Nicky.
"They're not here to hurt me," Nicky says distinctly, drawing Cross' attention, willing him to back down.
"Doesn't look like that from where I'm standing." Bourne's voice is harsh, low. He's amped on adrenaline, and he's struggling to ignore the clear danger to Nicky.
Without breaking her gaze, Nicky lifts up her right hand, palm facing up, and orders succinctly: "Marta, take your finger off the trigger and put the gun in my hand."
Marta glances at Aaron who is holding to his corner of the room, watching Bourne, waiting for any sign of aggression or intent toward the women. Bourne is breathing hard, laser focused on Marta.
"Bourne." Nicky's voice is firm.
He shifts his gaze to Nicky.
"Marta is going to put the gun in my hand and Cross is going to stay to that side of the room and walk around behind me till he gets to Marta. We clear?" His attention is fixed on her, an unblinking, piercing blue stare. Nicky's brown eyes are wide, fierce, determined. "You're not going to move a muscle, got it?"
The shouting and running in the hallway are in contrast to the stillness in their trashed hotel room.
"Marta," Nicky says warningly.
Slowly, Marta pulls the barrel from Nicky's head, her index finger off the trigger, and lowers the gun onto Nicky's outstretched hand.
"Step back from me," Nicky instructs. Marta takes two steps back and away from Nicky. "Cross, go to Marta."
Cross moves slowly, giving both Bourne and Nicky wide berth as he moves behind Nicky and goes to Marta, pushing her gently behind him. Marta resists, remaining at his side.
Without looking down at her hands, Nicky swiftly ejects the magazine, racks the slide and empties the live round into her hand. Her movements are efficient and practiced as she field strips the gun, locking the slide to the rear with the slide catch, rotating the lever above the trigger ninety degrees and guiding the slide off the frame. It takes her only another five seconds to remove the recoil spring and the barrel. All four pieces of the Sig are on the ground next to the Mec-gar magazine in less than thirty seconds.
Nicky maintains eye contact with Bourne. "You are safe with -," her voice trails off, truncating what she intended to say.
Bourne's lambent eyes are narrowed, mistrustful.
She tries again, forces her voice to stop shaking. "I am safe."
This time, there is a relaxing around the grim set of his mouth, though his eyes remain thoughtful. Nicky exhales deeply, slumping forward slightly in relief. There's not going to be bloodshed in the room.
There is new commotion in the hallway. The hotel's security guards are shouting at people to move out of the way. Footsteps are bearing down the hall toward their room.
"Stay," Cross barks at them as if talking to recalcitrant children. He goes to the door, opens it and leans outside, waving his hands, his voice taking on urgency and panic. "Officer! Officer! We heard shooting there!" He points down the hall. "What's happening? Do we need to get out? My wife is hiding in the bathroom, what do we do?"
Behind him Nicky swiftly reassembles the Sig and slaps in the magazine, tucking the gun into the back of her pants. Bourne scowls but Nicky doesn't care.
The security guards, following Cross' misdirection, rush past him down the hall. He quickly opens the door, checks both ways then gestures to them. The four of them flow out into the hall, along with several other guests who are racing to the elevators. Nicky observes that Bourne and Cross keep their distance, or as much as they can given the narrow passage. They head toward the staircase, racing down the five flights to the lobby. Nicky wonders where the hell Bourne was situated to break through the fourth story hotel room window. The main lobby is filled with panicked and confused guests who are blocking the same entrance that police are trying to enter. Other guests are exiting through various entry ways and congregating outside.
Sirens can be heard approaching. The three of them follow Nicky, who walks to the Café de l'Opéra, one of the hotel's multiple dining establishments. This one offers a view of the Saigon Opera House. Nicky grabs a pen from a credit card portfolio on the bar as she strides quickly to the exit that lets out onto Đồng Khởi Street.
"There's a noodle house in District 11 called Thiệu Xinh," Nicky calls out as she writes on her hand. "Lê Đại Hành street. I have a room above the restaurant. Number 4. Marta come with me. We'll do better as two women. Meet us there."
She turns and shows her hand to the two men, watching as they both process and commit the name of the noodle house and the street on which it is located to memory. That done, Nicky, uses the pen to quickly scribble out anything legible and tucks the pen into her pants pocket.
Cross does not like this plan at all. It's plainly visible on his face but Marta moves to him, pulls his head down and presses her mouth against his in a deep kiss.
Bourne is immobile as a statue watching them; Nicky stares across the street, determinedly not looking as she scans for a taxi.
When they break apart, Marta looks up at Cross. "I'll be all right. Get there safely."
He's still not okay with it, but he nods and takes off across the street. Bourne and Nicky exchange a long look.
"I'm safe," she says. "I'm not in danger."
It's as close as she can get to saying, Leave. You don't have to stay. She reaches behind her back to grab the Sig, handing it to him. He takes it, nods and leaves in the opposite direction from Cross. She watches him disappear for the second time that night and wonders if there'll be another rendezvous.
More police have arrived and are rushing into the hotel's entrance. Guests are milling about. Smart phones are snapping photographs, taking video of the scene.
"C'mon," Nicky tells Marta, hurrying toward the taxi stand. "Keep your head down. There are cameras all around."
Marta doesn't need the reminder; her head is already down. She knows all about evasion.
On the run again, thinks Marta, keeping pace with Nicky.
Once they leave Đồng Khởi, she follows Nicky a few streets over to Hai Bà Trưng. Nicky flags a taxi and speaks to the driver in Vietnamese. Marta can't tell but it seems that Nicky's accent is flawless, so much so that the driver appears to be exclaiming in pleasure over her fluency.
The air conditioning in the taxi feels good after the oppressive humidity and warmth of the evening. Marta lifts her hair from the back of her neck, allowing the cool air to wash over that damp skin.
"You speak Vietnamese," she remarks when the other woman settles back against the seat.
"One of our maids was Vietnamese," Nicky offers off-handedly. "She spoke to me in Vietnamese at my mom's request."
Marta is surprised by this candid revelation. So Nicky grew up with some affluence. It's all she gets from Nicky though; the other woman clams up, and stares out at the passing landscape as they make their way out of District 1.
The driver passes by Công viên Cảng, the semi-circular shaped park that overlooks the Saigon River. The car heads in the direction of Võ Văn Kiệt, the main highway that runs along an inlet of the river called the Bến Nghé.
There don't seem to be any road rules; motorcycles, moped, small cars, trucks and motorized carts weave in and out of traffic, miraculously not hitting each other or anything else. Marta watches as a young man swerves his Vespa directly in front of a moped ridden by a man and a woman, who is clutching a small baby in between them. She gasps when the family on the moped simply veer around him. No one is wearing helmets. Wide, tree-lined streets, high rises and well-lit store fronts pass in a blur until the buildings get denser, shabbier, and look more like tenements. Soon there are few trees and plenty of roads littered with trash and crowded with people.
Where is Aaron? Marta wonders. What if Bourne doubles back and tries to hurt Aaron? She bites her lip, reminding herself that Aaron was built to out-think, but he can also out-muscle if need be.
Half an hour into their trip, the driver pulls off the highway and makes his way through a series of smaller streets with tightly packed buildings. He pulls up to a nondescript ediface. The top half is painted white, the bottom is an aqua-greenish color. The paint is chipped and splattered with dirt and stains; the windows and doors are worn. The neighboring building is equally grimy and shabby.
Nicky pulls out cash and pays the man, then opens the door. Marta slides on the seat and follows her out. Nicky starts down the long alleyway formed by the two buildings.
The gantlet is dark, a couple of motobikes pushed up against one wall. It runs about 50 feet long, at the end of which she can make out lights.
"C'mon," Nicky urges, walking quickly.
Marta can feel the ache in her calves as she keeps up with Nicky, but a few moments later, they emerge on the other side onto a wide stone street. Both sides are fronted with shops, cheap apartment buildings and restaurants. Working class Vietnamese mill about, and barefoot children squat on steps. Flimsy bistro chairs and tables are set up along the sidewalks, some of them occupied with people eating steaming bowls of egg noodle and pork soup. A ragged little black dog flits from table to table, begging for scraps.
Nicky heads to a small storefront, stepping around to the side of the building, heading down another alley before she stops at a door. Pulling a set of keys from her pocket, she opens it. Marta follows her inside and they head up four flights of stairs before arriving at a single, small landing with two doors. Nicky unlocks the one to the left and enters, flipping on a switch. Light fills the room.
Marta steps inside, noting the extremely spare set up: a futon with a dark blue mattress, a desk on which rests one laptop and a bunch of devices that look like routers, modems, and external drives, a chair, a lamp. There are two duffel bags shoved between the desk and futon. Across the room is a full size mattress on the floor, pushed up against the sole window. Nicky heads to the window which overlooks the street, pulls down the shade.
"Now what?" Marta asks.
Nicky is already by the futon, hauling out one of the duffel bags. Unzipping it, she pulls out two guns. They're both small, compact, black. Marta can't tell the difference between them.
"You know your way around a gun." Nicky's not really asking a question. "You're going to need one."
"I had a revolver," Marta comments. She had a Smith and Wesson 386 that she'd kept for home defense. She remembers when Larry and Dr. Connie Dowd – if those had really been their names – had come to her house and tried to kill her by placing the revolver in her hand and forcing it to her head. Then Aaron had burst out from the pantry, saving her and killing all the assassins sent by NRAG to eliminate anyone associated with the Outcome project.
"These are semi-automatic 9mm pistols," Nicky says. She points to them. "Glock 19 and Heckler & Koch USP Compact. Pick one." She reaches further into the bag and pulls out magazines and ammo boxes. Then she mutters sarcastically, "Other girls keep dream chests. I keep arsenals."
Marta looks at Nicky. "What happened to going our separate ways?"
"Doesn't look like it's happening does it?" Nicky slams a box of 9mm ammo down so hard it splits and bullets roll across the floor. "I should've left you all at the hotel once Bourne agreed you guys weren't a danger to me."
"Yeah well, it would have worked out a lot better had he walked into the room like a civilized human being instead of bursting through the window for a shoot out," Marta agrees, getting down to help Nicky gather bullets. "Beta I is all about fight or flight, Nicky."
"Jesus," Nicky grounds out. "Just…shut up with the science, will you?"
Marta's hit her limit.
"Nicky?" Marta says sweetly. "Fuck you. No, really. Fuck you. You know DoD scientists used dextroamphetamines to keep their pilots alert during missions? Yeah. They gave them speed. Ostensibly to combat fatigue, but really intended to keep pilots wide awake long after fatigue should have set in from extended missions. The US Army gave Dimethylamine to their soldiers to help with stamina and performance. That's a substance that's banned as a performance enhancing drug by the World Anti-Doping Agency. You know what DARPA did? They implemented the Peak Soldier Performance Program. It was a biomedical attempt to make soldiers function for up to a week without requiring sustenance. They were doing everything from creating nutrients to finding ways to lower core temperatures, and boosting mitochondria. Was it to torture their soldiers and airmen and sailors? No. They thought they were doing something to make their people better, more capable, more able to come home alive."
Marta leans forward, eyes blazing. "Maybe we both bought into a patriotic bullshit story that didn't pan out the way we thought it would. Even if you knew what was going on and maybe I didn't want to know what was going on, the end results were the same. We were creating super soldiers for the war games our country is waging. And I don't know what the hell you were doing, but I was trying to figure out ways to give our guys leverage so they could live, so we could bring home people instead of body bags. So fuck you."
"Marta," Nicky says slowly. "Seriously shut up with the science before I have to kill you. And then I'll have to kill your boyfriend when he shows up and sees you dead. And if we're unlucky enough, Bourne's gonna appear at the same time and then there's going to be a three way battle and every one will die. It'll be fucking Shakespearean."
Even though Nicky sounds resolute, Marta hears the concession in that sarcasm.
"I like Shakespeare," Marta snaps as she returns to picking up bullets.
There's a sound at the door. Nicky grabs the Glock and slaps in a magazine, racking the slide, the distinct sound extremely loud in the sudden silence.