Chapter Twenty-Two
Battle on the Borek Bridge
Outskirts of Borek, Poland
01:20 CET
8 Hours Remaining
Marshall tapped his finger along to the tune from his CD Player, a best-selling hit from pure-country artist Charlie Walker, hailing from Marshall's own home state. His eyes were on the dark road, lit very sporadically by gaunt lampposts; the plains on either side of the E30 were completely engulfed in darkness save for the occasional lights from a farmhouse or tiny village. The road was practically abandoned save for one motorcyclist who had been following the same trail for about an hour or so. Marshall didn't envy them – it was bound to be cold outside.
"…Love ain't no wicked thing…" Marshall sang quietly under his breath along with the music as his finger continued to tap against the steering wheel. "...It's simply misunderstood." Marshall glanced to the passenger seat of the van where Rob Winters was sitting, his body as taut as it had been when they had their little conversation a while back. "Come on, kid, settle down a bit," Marshall said, finding the kid to be one of the most boring hostages he'd ever travelled with. "You showed a bit of spirit before, where is that now?"
"Chto tak…" Rob hastily corrected himself, his eyes darting fiercely at Marshall. "What would be the point?"
"Tch." Marshall clicked his tongue. "There's always a point to trying to escape. Always a point to trying to save your own life. You didn't even try to throw yourself out of the car when I went for a piss."
"…You'd just hurt me."
"True," Marshall shrugged. "But hey, it'd make this trip a damn sight more interesting."
Robert didn't respond and Marshall went back into silence, shaking his head. Boring, boring, boring… The promised pay better be good. Driving from Moscow to Berlin wasn't exactly Marshall's plan for a good time, especially when he hadn't had any sleep for nearly twenty hours. He started to hum along with the tune of 'Broken Heart', another Charlie Walker classic, when Rob suddenly spoke.
"Why would you want me to try and escape? Should you not want me to be quiet?"
Happy that the boy was talking again, Marshall smiled and lounged back in his seat. "Here's the thing, kid, I ain't gonna kill ya. Sure, I'll hurt you, cut a few fingers off, but as of the moment this is just a simple kidnap job. I expect your father will be asked for a certain amount, he'll pay it, and then off you trot back home."
"He won't pay a ransom. Not for me." Marshall glanced to the boy's solemn expression.
"And why the hell wouldn't he?"
"He doesn't love me."
"One, bullshit, two, don't get all woe-is-me on me, got it, kid? Every father loves their children."
Rob turned suddenly, emotion carved across his pale face. "He just throws lesson after lesson at me without thinking about what I need, what I want, where I want to go. Chert!" Rob's chest was heaving after the short outburst and he looked sternly out of the window, the back of his head to Marshall.
"I ain't no psychologist but doing those things is your father's love. Sure, it may be misguided, and sure, you may hate it, but the fact is, kid, your father is one of the richest sons-of-guns in Moscow. The fact that he believes you can inherit his empire shouldn't be frowned on." Marshall looked back to the road. "You know what? My daddy wanted me to be a policeman. He was one himself, ya know? Not any kind of good one. Mostly just sat eating donuts while his partner did the work but hey, being a policeman? It sounded like my kind of job when I was your age.
"So, my daddy got me into classes, and then training, and lo-and-behold, lil' old Marshall became a policeman just like his Daddy. Being a policeman, especially in these times, especially in the good ol' USA, has its benefits. It had power. I could do what I want, when I wanted, and no one would look twice as long as I locked up the criminals. What if there was an extra bruise here, a couple of missing dollars there. The fact of the matter was, my daddy got me into that position and I used that position to my benefit. The point of this story, kid, is that you can do your lessons and be a good little boy. Then, when you're a little older, you can buy the shares of the company, hell, with enough know-how you can buy the company. Then you can throw your father under the bus and use that money however you damn well like. You can go sailing, become an artist, do whatever the hell it is you want to do."
Marshall looked back to Rob and while he couldn't see his face in front of him he could see the very faintest of smiles in the reflection of the wing-mirror. "As long as my orders don't change you'll get home soon enough and can go about your daily business as you like."
Rob turned, his face stricken with fear again. "What if your orders change? W-What if you're asked to k-kill me?"
"Then I'll kill ya, no skin off my back," Marshall said with his carefree smile. "See, the kind'a money I get doing what I do lets me buy whatever the hell I want. Women, drugs, booze, I can get it all. It's getting my hands dirty but how is it so different from what I did as a cop, huh? I just don't need to worry about as much red tape. But…" Marshall changed his tone as Rob started shaking in fear again, "don't panic. Chances are the orders won't change. I won't promise it, but I reckon you ain't gonna die, kid. So lighten up!" Marshall clapped a hand on Rob's tense shoulder before turning down a small road.
"Are we here?" Rob asked, surprised as the van trundled along the road.
"Berlin's still six hours away. Nah, I just got to check something. See, in my line of work, occasionally you follow people and occasionally they follow you. Now, first rule of trailing someone is to never get up their ass." Marshall checked out the window and saw the motorcycle turn into the road as well. "Don't take any unnecessary risks. But hey, this could still be a coincidence." After a little while Marshall turned left again. Once again the motorcycle turned. "Strike three but they are not out yet. If you wanna confirm whether you're being followed, especially if you're followed by an amateur… just do a circle." Once again Marshall turned until he entered the A30 again. The motorcycle turned as well and continued to stay behind Marshall's van. "There we have it. We're being followed."
Marshall looked at Rob. "Now don't get all hopeful, kid. As much as I'm not gonna kill ya I'm sure as shit not gonna let you free. So sit tight while—" Something in the corner of Marshall's well-trained eye moved and he turned in his seat to see a second motorcycle heading straight for him in the centre of the road. He was already reaching for the silenced pistol under his coat as the first motorcycle started to overtake, getting side-by-side with the van. Marshall raised his pistol to the window as he saw two black items in each of the motorcyclist's hands.
Seeing these, Marshall changed tactic and shouted, "DUCK!" grabbing Rob's shoulder and forcefully pushing him down off his seat as a hail of bullets crashed into the van. Peppered holes popped into the siding of the van from the left, shattering the window as bullets soared over Marshall and Rob. The second motorcyclist had fired straight forward, shattering the windscreen and covering Marshall's seat in holes. From his crouched position, Marshall wrenched on the handbrake and reached up to spin the steering wheel at the same time.
There was suddenly a great lurch as the van tried to turn and brake at the same time. The weight of the van tipped and it crashed onto its side, sliding across the road in a shower of sparks, glass, and smoking bullets. There was suddenly the wrenching of metal as the van crashed into something and finally, mercifully, the van came to a stop.
Marshall instantly corrected his posture into a crouch, his pistol drawn and held with two hands. He heard a coughing and turned to Rob, who was upside down and bleeding from the forehead. Rob went to move but Marshall put a hand on his chest, stopping him. "Don't," Marshall whispered. "You could be injured and I sure as fuck don't need you outside of this car. Stay put." With that, Marshall took a breath and straightened up out of the side-window that was now facing up. He immediately did a full 360 but saw neither of the black motorcyclists though he saw both motorcycles. One was a mangled wreck, twisting among the roof of the van – a battle the van had clearly won. The other looked like it had been discarded quickly, lying on the road with the engine still running.
Quickly scampering out of the upturned van, he curled over the edge and landed with a faint thud on his boots with his back against the underside of the van, metal and glass crunching underneath his feet. He quickly scanned with his pistol again but there was no movement. The two were somewhere, Marshall knew, since there was not a body in the mess of a motorbike. Marshall had to question who they were. They didn't seem like the kind of people Robert Winters Senior would hire, especially shooting firearms at the van with his son in it, but the fact of the matter was that they had only shot at him, not Rob. Rob's seat had been completely avoided.
With this brief respite, Marshall scanned where he was. The terrain was as important as the firearm in his hand. He was a flat bridge crossing a small river, going by the faint tinkling noise. There were squat railings on either side of the bridge and another squat concrete railing that separated either side of the road. Marshall found that slightly strange as he was sure the second motorbike had been central to the road – it must have been trailing just next to the concrete railing.
This was good. It was a flat area with the only cover being the concrete railing and the van's wreckage itself. While it certainly wasn't ideal for Marshall that also meant it wasn't ideal for the enemies. Besides, the concrete wall looked too low for a figure of any height to hide behind it. Marshall took a deep breath and allowed his focus to kick in. While the other senses were as important, Marshall needed his hearing.
The most prominent sound was the trickling of the river. Not a big river, not a particular fast river but a river nevertheless. The short sharp breaths of Robert could be heard from inside the van. The boy would likely be in shock and starting to hyperventilate. Not as good. If the kid panicked and ventured out of the van that would put Marshall at a severe disadvantage. Playing protection was a lot harder than was needed. The whistle of the wind was thin and quiet and as Marshall had suspected, biting cold as it hit the skin of his cheeks.
Then the unmistakable crunch of a wary foot on broken metal.
Marshall acted instantly, whipping out from behind the van, taking a millisecond to point the silenced pistol at the approaching motorcyclist's head, and fired.
The bullet hit true – or would have, had the visor of the motorcyclists helmet not blocked the shot. Marshall took a moment to wonder what the helmet was made of – as a normal motorcycle helmet would not be able to stop a bullet, especially with the visor – before diving back behind the van as the motorcyclist lifted their hand and fired off what Marshall had now confirmed to be pitch black MP5's.
Had Marshall been a normal agent of the law, perhaps with the FBI, then he would have fallen for the pincer attack the motorcyclists had planned. Yet Marshall Mathers was not a normal agent of the law. Instead of cowering, as might have been expected, or diving out to shoot back at the first motorcyclist, as could have been planned, Marshall spun on his heel and rammed his shoulder as hard as he could into the approaching second motorcyclist. A male voice went, "Oof!" as the motorcyclist fell back to the floor, evidently surprised. Marshall grinned and pointed his pistol at the chest this time, knowing the helmets were bulletproof. He fired two shots and they sunk into the black-garbed chest of the motorcyclist.
Marshall cursed inwardly. He knew Kevlar when he saw it and a silencer wouldn't cut it to get through – nor would his pistol normally, either. Instead he took the advantage and leaped on top of the male motorcyclist like a jaguar leaping on its pray and pinned his arms down with his knees. Marshall immediately used one hand to wrench the bottom of the helmet up and stuck his pistol directly underneath, satisfied at feeling the flesh underneath with the barrel of his gun.
He fired into the bottom of the jaw of the motorcyclist and a red mist burst from inside the visor.
"Alpha!" A female voice. Marshall turned and at the same time used the body of the male motorcyclist, codenamed Alpha apparently, to shield himself. The woman had let her hand slip by letting her emotions of the death of her comrade get to her. Had she said nothing then perhaps she would have been able to pepper Marshall's back with gunshots – but instead her bullets sank into the back of her partner.
The woman, clearly in a rage, spent her bullets and Marshall was quick to take the advantage. He pushed up with his legs and kicked Alpha's body off of him as the woman frantically tried to reload. Marshall pounced and the woman clearly decided that dropping the gun was the better course of action. Marshall disagreed. She may have had time to reload but now it was too late – Marshall slammed his full body-weight onto the stocky woman and drove her to the floor, using his free arm to twist around her arm and pull it tightly into an armbar, pressing his legs on either side of her helmet to keep her pinned. He twisted his hand, pointed the pistol the thin line of exposed flesh on her neck, and fired…
Marshall watched the bullet hit the bridge, marking a small dent in the tarmac. It took him completely out for a moment that he had somehow missed and that moment was all it took for the woman to twist her hips and wriggle out of Marshall's loosened grip. The woman scrambled to her feet at the same time as Marshall who managed to regain his senses. He raised his pistol just as the woman strode forward.
Two shots rang out but two more small dents in the road pinged behind the woman yet there was no effect on the leather over her heart where Marshall had aimed. The woman spun her hips and threw a sharp kick towards Marshall's neck with amazing flexibility. Marshall raised his arm and blocked the blow, gritting his teeth. What was going on? He adjusted the position of his pistol but the woman slapped the gun out of his grip. The pistol clattered against the ground but Marshall was quick to move, hooking his now free hand over the woman's leg…
Only his hand slid straight through the black leather of the leg.
Marshall jumped back as if shocked, staring at his hand and then at the woman, confused. The woman straightened up and raised her fists, inviting Marshall in. Marshall raised his own arms and wouldn't take the bait. He didn't understand how he had managed to miss those shots or grab her leg but he certainly wasn't going to rush in.
The two stared each other down – Marshall's narrowed eyes looking at the visor of the motorcycle helmet with the dent his bullet had made – not moving at all.
The woman finally made the first move, taking a step in and throwing a punch Marshall's way. Marshall weaved with expertly trained precision, driving his fist towards her side in an attempt to wind her. But his fist once again somehow seemed to slide through her side. He stared at the point where his own black-clad wrist fused with her own hips. Marshall pulled away and raised his arm to stop a strike coming from his left, reacting more by instinct than by skill, still shocked at what was happening.
The woman sensed her opening and threw skilled punches at Marshall, coming from all directions. Left, right, under, over, but Marshall twisted his hips and arms, blocking and dodging all the incoming blows. He narrowed his eyes in concentration as he focused on defence before suddenly lashing out with a punch to the sternum. The woman leapt back, her hands raised tightly in guard. Marshall didn't pursue and once more the two fighters were at a stalemate.
The woman's breathing was ragged and Marshall knew he had the advantage. Being in that helmet could not make it easy to breathe and if she attempted to take it off then Marshall would dive in. Would she take the risk of being unable to breathe properly or would she take the risk of taking off her helmet? Either way, Marshall knew he held the advantage.
The woman decided to take her helmet off and reached quickly to the bottom of her helmet, lifting it. The moment she moved, Marshall moved. He took two long strides and flung his fist towards her – yet even as she took her helmet off she twisted her hips, spinning her heel towards Marshall's jaw. Marshall was ready for the attack having suspected this woman was a lot more skilled than he gave her credit for and weaved to the side, twisting to turn the punch into an elbow towards her own chin. The woman was already leaning back and Marshall's elbow flew over quite a beautiful face with mismatched eyes and flowing auburn hair. The woman straightened and attempted to throw a fist at Marshall but Marshall raised his hand and grabbed her smaller fist in the ball of his hand.
Marshall grinned down at the woman with almost wild glee. It had been so long since he had a fight like this. One of her eyes were bright blue while the other was a gleaming green. Marshall stared into them as he flicked his spare hand at his hip and pulled his penknife out, flipping it open with his thumb in one smooth movement and sending it towards her side with her hand still clenched in his own. The knife's blade flashed in the reflection of the flickering headlamps of the van before plunging right between the woman's ribcage.
The blade entered the black leather jacket but Marshall found his grip loosening. He glanced to his now clenched fist to see it was hovering inside the woman's fist as if both limbs were made of nothing but air. The hilt followed the blade until Marshall's hand followed suit, moving through the woman's body as if it were made of mist, taking him off balance. He stumbled forward – directly through the woman. He glimpsed the black leather before a flash of pale skin, then red, white, then black again until he was on the other side of her having apparently fallen through her as if she were nothing but a mirage.
Marshall turned but immediately stepped backwards as the woman sent another sharp jab his way. The back of his thighs bounced against something metallic and Marshall fought the urge to curse out loud. He had managed to hit the edge of the bridge; he could tell without even looking. The woman smiled a successful yet anger-stricken smile before twisting her hips to let fly another of her lethal kicks.
She did not expect Marshall to take the full force of the kick to his side. Marshall heard his ribs crack but the moment the foot made contact he reached forward and grabbed the collar of the woman with mismatched eyes, thrusting his head forward with so much force that both noses let out a horrifying crack! The woman fell to the floor with a cry of pain as Marshall's shoulders heaved, his nose thumping as blood pumped out onto his chest. He held his ribs and looked down at the woman who was clearly defeated, dazed and her face covered in crimson blood.
"…The fuck… are you…?" Marshall gasped as he felt his ribs under his body-armour. Yep, definitely broken. The woman stared defiantly at him. Marshall spat bloody phlegm on the floor and jammed his foot down on the woman's leg, it didn't crack but it felt good. The woman screamed and Marshall looked down at her. "…Fuck if I care… Who do you work for? Why come… for me?"
The woman did not respond at all with those god-awful defiant eyes of her. Marshall felt a flare of anger run through his spine. The fuck was she doing, beaten as she was? Marshall had to figure out what the fuck she was and how to beat whatever the fuck it was she was doing and she disrespects him by just staring at him? "MY STRIKES WENT THROUGH YOU!" Marshall roared, blood spitting down at the woman. "THE FUCK ARE YOU!? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?!" Marshall thrust his hand out towards the woman, pointing at her, allowing his voice to quiet down to a deadly tone. "…You won't die easy. You'll tell me what I want to…"
There was a strange pain through Marshall's wrist and he stared wide-eyed as his hand seemed to fall away from his wrist.
"…when I'm…" Marshall's lips were still moving as he watched something strange appear in front of him like a phantom from out of nowhere. The body of a woman appeared between Marshall and the female motorcyclist. "…with you…" Marshall's eyes connected on the shotgun that was pointed right at his chest. Somehow, a woman had just appeared out of thin air. There was a razor thin machete in her left hand and the shotgun was in her right. Was this some kind of new camouflage technology? Marshall had no time to consider before the shotgun fired.
A mass of pellets slammed against Marshall's chest and he was thrown over the side of the bridge, blood spilling out of his amputated wrist. His mouth was open wide in shock before he crashed into the shallow water, falling still as water rushed over him.
"Ah…" Rob had been huddled in a foetal position as the gunfire and fighting swept over the bridge. There had just been a large shot and everything had gone quiet. He tentatively lifted his head just as a black-clad figure reached through the upturned front window and grabbed Rob roughly, pulling him from the wreckage of the van. Held like a kitten, Rob could only freeze in fear as he looked at the scene in front of him.
A woman with auburn hair was crouching over the motionless figure of one of the motorcyclist's, desperately clutching the body to her chest, her cries of, "Alpha… Alpha… Please no…" Rob turned away from the woman and the body of Alpha to look at his captor – a stern-looking man with silver hair and icy-blue eyes. He wasn't looking at Rob at all but was instead looking at another woman who was holding a shotgun and a machete at her hip. Rob almost threw up what little was in his stomach at the fact the woman was holding an amputated hand in her own.
There was no doubt the hand belonged to Marshall and Rob felt the strangest sensation that he would much prefer Marshall over these three strangers.
"It's shaking, Riddle," the woman said, throwing the hand through the air as if it were a softball. Rob's captor, Riddle, grabbed the hand and studied the watch that was slowly vibrating. He pulled the watch off the hand and threw the hand carelessly over his shoulder. Riddle looked at the watch for a moment before twisting the face clockwise experimentally. Then he twisted it anti-clockwise, frowned, and twisted it clockwise again. "Just a watch?" The woman asked just as a worried voice echoed out.
"Marshal? What happened? You've come to a stop."
Riddle considered for a moment before throwing Rob as if he were nothing but trash towards the woman with the shotgun. The woman caught Rob with equal disregard, watching Riddle intently. Then Riddle leaned forward and spoke with a voice that could only be Marshall Mathers… yet how? How could this man sound just like Marshall? He didn't look American but he was echoing Marshall's voice perfectly.
"The kid put up a fight," Riddle spoke in a perfect imitation of Marshall. "The van crashed. We're both fine."
"…Christ, I was worried."
"It's all good. I'll maintain radio silence. Sorry for the trouble," and then Riddle twisted the top of the watch again and slid it into his pocket. Then with a voice completely different he spoke to the woman holding Rob. "Rivera, get him in the car. We're done here."
"Of course," The woman said and started to tug Rob before a sudden shout echoed over the abandoned bridge.
"RIDDLE!" The woman who had been cradling the corpse was now striding over with venom in her face. "Evrard did not tell us the kidnapper was that skilled! This was supposed to be a simple snatch and grab! Alpha shouldn't be… He…" The blood made her voice garbled and the woman spat out a glob of blood. "…This was supposed to be simple…" she repeated under Riddle's intense gaze.
"The job is done," Riddle said with no sign that he cared at all for the loss of his comrade. "Let us go."
The engine revved and then a low black car almost invisible in the night drove away from the bridge, leaving behind the broken van, motorcycles, and corpse of the man named Alpha. The weapons that were left were unmarked and would not be able to be traced, nor was there any evidence that pointed to who Alpha was or who he worked for. As far as the authority's would understand, this would have been just another gang hit off the border of Poland – nothing, sadly enough, too strange.
The river tinkled along its path until there was a sudden splash and a hand grabbed the sodden dirt. Fingernails raked through, getting a hold before a body pulled itself out of the river, drenched, blood-soaked, and absolutely furious.
Marshall Mathers slowly straightened to his feet, clutching his amputated wrist tightly. No matter how much he held the wound blood poured down his chest – the armor of which was torn and shredded. Most pellets had torn through the layer of body-armour but had lost enough momentum that only a few had made it through the double-layed Kevlar vest Marshall always wore under his chest. Thank god for Lyona and her precautions.
"…FUCK!" Marshall roared, half delirious as he stumbled up the soft incline back up to the road. He tripped and fell into the dirt but pushed himself back up again. "Fuck, fuck…" He stumbled over to the tarmac and stumbled across the road to the concrete dividing barrier. Marshall's eyes flitted around wildly before focusing on the van. He pushed off of the barrier and fell harshly to his knees in front of the van's sideways front window to see that Rob was no-where to be seen. Marshall felt fire in his eyes and let out a roar, his voice echoing over the empty plains.
Then he saw his hand lying absurdly on the road and Marshall stood up to look down at it. The still calm part of his mind noted that his communicator watch was gone. He narrowed his eyes and realised that the vehicle they had used to escape was heading the way he had been originally heading. This confirmed it – they weren't hired by Rob's father – they were some kind of third party who were likely heading to Berlin as they had taken Marshall's watch. Who they were, why they had such strange abilities, Marshall couldn't guess.
"…Superpowers… heh…" Marshall muttered as he kicked his hand away and approached the still running motorcycle that was vibrating against the floor, discarded. The wheel arch was busted and the prongs of the tire were bent – there was no way he would be using the motorcycle to escape but Marshall hadn't thought about that at all. Instead he raised his blood-soaked stub and without hesitation plunged it down onto the overheating engine.
The scream that followed was even louder, echoing further across the plains.
Marshall fell back, clutching the now black stub of his hand. He shoulders were heaving and his breathing was rigid and untidy. Nevertheless he tore the torn body-armour off his chest with his hand and held the rags in front of him. By the grace of some kind of god, a faint blue vial was still sitting in its hidden holster on the inside of the body-armour, untouched by the pellets. Marshall pulled the blue vial and cast the body-armour aside.
For a moment he stared at the blue vial, his breathing growing more and more uneven. This was to be used only in the most dire situations, Marshall had been warned by Ryona, and taking it would put a great risk on the owner.
Twenty-four hours of adrenaline at the cost of a massive come-down afterwards. It was supposed to be used to escape a potentially agency-breaking mission. A normal man would likely full unconscious after such a come-down and Marshall suspected his chances weren't exactly great with the condition his body was in, nevertheless he never failed a mission… and he owed the bastards who attacked him a rematch.
He flicked the cork off the vial with his thumb and downed the whole vial. Marshall threw the vial to the side, allowing the glass to shatter, before closing his eyes. His breathing grew more even and he felt his muscles loosen.
"…Hah..." Marshall let out a long sigh and got up to his feet, a flicker of blue running through his eyes. Then he started jogging, following the E30 towards Berlin, the expression on his face strangely calm and set in stone. He would not let these bastards take his quarry.