The pain in his injured abdomen was becoming sharper by the second, but Kurtis simply pushed it to the back of his mind and continued on. It was impossible to retrace his steps: if he tried to return the way that he had come he would surely be captured. Perhaps if he was fast enough he might just make it to his motorbike in time.
After what seemed like an eternity the vent shaft that he was crawling through began to widen somewhat, and Kurtis found that he was able to stand with his back hunched and go on a little more quickly. Soon the shadow of a whirring fan was thrown across the floor beneath him, and he found an opening at his feet. Through the grilling he saw nothing but a darkened storeroom, however, and continued on again in his search for an opening leading to the parking garage.
There was no doubt in his mind that Gunderson would be on his trail, but Kurtis figured that he had the upper hand since his men had been ordered not to shoot. If he could just keep enough distance between himself and them then he would stand a chance of reaching his bike and hopefully getting the hell out of dodge.
Eventually Kurtis paused, listening hard for any noises below him. The silence was beginning to unnerve him as he continued on again in a half-crouched position, taking care to step as lightly as possible. In this fashion it took him about ten minutes of vainly scrambling through the vents before he reached a dead end and a grilled opening into the parking garage beyond. By this time he was out of breath and his stomach was throbbing unmercifully.
Again Kurtis paused and listened hard, straining his eyes into every dark corner of the area below. Idly he considered whether or not to use his farsee ability.
No, he decided, I've tired myself out too much already. I'll probably collapse if I put that much strain on my mind.
Instead Kurtis drew his Boran X, backing away several steps before he took aim at the bolts on the vent cover. Several blasts resounded in the silence, and slowly Kurtis returned his gun to its shoulder holster as he listened carefully for any sign of his pursuers. When none was forthcoming he steeled himself and then threw his weight against the grilling before him, taking the brunt of the impact with his shoulder.
Two more hits brought the vent cover off its hinges, and Kurtis cringed as it crashed to the ground half a dozen feet below. If nobody had heard him before then surely they would come springing out of the shadows now.
Fortunately, however, there was no hint of movement once the echoes had finally died down, and gently Kurtis hoisted himself down through the opening and out of the vent to the ground below.
He landed with a soft thud, instinctively bending his knees as he landed in order to cushion the sound of his fall. With one hand upon the ground he remained frozen in this crouch, considering the area quietly. When he was convinced it was indeed safe he straightened again and quickly set off in search of his motorbike.
XXX
Kurtis stuck to the shadows as he weaved his way amongst the multitude of parked cars, his senses alert. At this time of night the parking garage was deserted, and he did not meet anybody as he approached the small bay on street level where his motorbike stood, his green bedroll still tied to its handlebars. Fortunately he still had the keys upon his person, although Lara had handed them back to him that morning only with great reluctance. As he drew them out of his pocket they jangled worryingly in the echoing quiet, and instantly Kurtis came to a standstill, knowing instinctively that something was wrong.
This was just too easy. The exit was in sight, and he was only minutes away from freedom. This had to be a trap.
But it was too late to turn back. Suddenly his senses were assaulted by an immensely bright light. The darkness was abruptly extinguished as Kurtis threw out a hand to shield his eyes. One of the parked cars before him had turned on its headlights, and this seemed to act as some kind of signal, for one set of headlights and then another were duly switched on in rapid succession. Soon an entire row of black cars stood illuminated in the darkness, barring his way, their engines rumbling threateningly.
Kurtis took in this sight as he slowly backed away towards his motorbike, his keys hanging loosely at his side.
"I guess this would be my welcoming party…"
As he turned and raced towards his bike Kurtis heard the sound of car doors being opened behind him. He ignored it as he slammed in the kickstand, slid his keys in the ignition and swung his leg over the body of his motorbike. In an instant he had brought the thing around with much screeching of the tyres.
Amidst the row of cars before him stood Gunderson, who kept a hand lingering upon the open door of his vehicle. An amused smile was upon his face as he watched Kurtis ferociously revving his engine. Several soldiers emerged from their vehicles to join him, some wielding 9mms and others sub-machine guns.
"Give it up, Trent," Gunderson scoffed. "Did you really think that we'd fail to guard all of the exits?
Kurtis ignored the man's words, continuing to rev his engine as he searched desperately for an escape route. There was none: he was trapped behind an unmoving wall of vehicles. Obviously they expected him to surrender there and then, but it seemed that Gunderson had forgotten that he was a stubborn son of a bitch.
With a deafening roar Kurtis released his brakes, and his bike raced forwards. The smile disappeared from Gunderson's face as the motorbike hurtled towards him on a head on collision.
"Shoot out his tyres!" Gunderson yelled.
But it was too late. Just seconds before he collided with the cars before him Kurtis slammed on his brakes and brought his bike about in a tight turn, veering left and kicking one of the soldiers squarely in the chest. The man stumbled and fell with a grunt, and suddenly a space opened up between two of the vehicles. It was extremely narrow, but it was enough.
As bullets sparked around him Kurtis urged his bike to turn sharply and speed through this sudden gap. As he did so his handlebars caught the wing mirror of one of the vehicles and snapped it clean off. Panicked cries rose behind him as his bike lurched forwards over a speed bump, but Kurtis swiftly recovered its balance and roared on towards the nearby exit.
He gave a curse as he noticed the black-and-yellow parking barrier blocking his way. There was no time to slow down and lift it – the urgent screeching of tyres told him that his pursuers were coming straight after him.
Well, Kurtis thought to himself. I guess here goes nothing.
And with his jaw clenched Kurtis twisted the throttle and urged his motorbike at high speed towards the barrier in his path. He did not dare to slow down even a fraction until the very last second. Then he suddenly turned his front wheel and spun the bike hard, leaning heavily to the left and sending the bike drifting sideways at speed. With the bike almost horizontal to the ground Kurtis roughly lowsided beneath the barrier, and with a swift application of the brakes and then the throttle he righted the bike again onto two wheels and spun in a half-circle, kicking up a spray of debris from the tarmac. Before his pursuers could even register what had happened Kurtis slammed the throttle and roared away again.
Darkness had descended early that evening, and the parking lot was bathed in the orange glow of street lamps as Kurtis searched frantically for the exit road. But he was not out of the woods yet. Suddenly there was a crack as the windscreen of a car shattered beside him. Kurtis cursed again and banked sharply to the right, realising that his pursuers were desperately trying to shoot out his tyres before he disappeared from their sight. With renewed speed he began to weave in and out of the rows of parked cars to shield his tyres from harm, all the while barrelling frantically towards the exit.
The closed barrier had thwarted Gunderson and his men for just long enough, and with some skill and just a little luck Kurtis eventually emerged from the hospital grounds unscathed. He slowed considerably as he approached the exit, praising the heavy traffic which made the streets of Prague so congested. A car sounded its horn impatiently as he swerved violently out onto the main street, and without once looking back Kurtis ducked into the traffic and ran a red light in his desperation to get away.
He did not slow again until he was convinced that he had lost his pursuers.
XXX
About a mile out from the hospital Kurtis finally turned off the road and into an underground parking garage, switching off his engine and leaving his bike standing in a shadowy corner on basement level. With a hand to his stomach he approached the machine near the exit and forked out for a short-term ticket. He had no idea how long he would be here, but he knew that it would probably be best not to get too comfortable.
Near the stairwell door that led back out onto street level there was a payphone, illuminated by the red glow of the fire exit sign hanging above. Kurtis paused before it and delved into his back pocket, producing a fistful of coins and the piece of paper upon which Lara had scribbled down the contact details for the morgue in Paris.
Once he had carefully dialled Kurtis tapped his fingers anxiously against the payphone. He frowned as a computerised voice told him that the number did not exist. The paper in his hand rustled as Kurtis smoothed it out further, cradling the phone against his shoulder and trying the number again with the same frustrating result. After failing for the third time to get through Kurtis slammed down the receiver angrily.
Lara would not have given him a fake number – not after everything that they had been through together. That left only two options. Either Lara had written down the number incorrectly, or else the person who had phoned her was not from the morgue at all. After the events of that evening Kurtis knew without a doubt which option was true.
As he leant back against the wall Kurtis screwed up the piece of paper and pitched it into the darkness. Then he rummaged in his pocket and fished out a rather crumpled packet of cigarettes. It was almost empty, but he grudgingly slid one out and lit it up using his old Zippo lighter.
He only smoked out of habit, having started during his years in the Foreign Legion as a way to socialise with the other soldiers. It was not long before a couple of cigarettes a day had become his crutch, and whenever he was feeling nervous he would light one up and make a half-hearted promise to himself to quit.
With the cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth Kurtis lifted up his shirt to check his bandages. When he had reassured himself that he was not bleeding to death he took one last drag and then stomped out his cigarette with the heel of his boot. He could go no further this night, and it would be best to stay off the radar for as long as he could.
A dog-eared telephone directory hung from the payphone by a chain, and Kurtis began to urgently flick through it looking for cheap hotels. When he found a nearby listing he studied the address before tearing out the page and stuffing it into his back pocket, and then returned to his motorbike and removed the bedroll from its handlebars.
It had begun to snow as he cautiously emerged onto the street outside. Kurtis shivered a little as a cold wind picked up and nipped at his bare arms, and he pushed down the long sleeves of his shirt before thrusting one hand in his pocket, the other cradling the bedroll bundled beneath his arm. With his senses on guard he thus set off in search of a hotel, keeping his head down and praying that he would not be noticed by unfriendly eyes.
XXX
The hotel where he ended up staying left a lot to be desired. Kurtis could not afford to be picky, however, for he did not have the cash flow necessary to stay at the Four Seasons. He needed somewhere to lie low for a while and recover whilst he planned his next move.
Kurtis opted for a room on ground level, deciding that if he needed to leave this place in a hurry it would be best not to find himself stuck on an upper floor without escape. His room itself was small and dingy, almost devoid of furniture save for a dresser, a chair and a cot which stood against the far wall and was covered with a moth-eaten blanket.
So much for decoration, he mused, kicking the door shut behind him.
The bedroll from his motorbike Kurtis slung upon the bed. In the tiny en suite bathroom he washed the blood from his ravaged knuckles before splashing his face with cold water from the sink. As he gazed at his tired reflection in the mirror and dried his hands upon a towel he had to admit that he looked like hell.
Kurtis waited a long time for sleep to claim him. When he had stared at the dank ceiling for so long that his vision was beginning to blur he finally conceded defeat and returned to the lobby to watch the fuzzy black-and-white television set. A few tattered seats stood facing the set bracketed to the wall in the corner, currently showing a succession of commercials. Kurtis was just about to return to his room and stare at the ceiling some more when a news report suddenly flashed up.
It was obvious that the station had quickly scrambled to place a reporter on the scene, for a rather flustered-looking woman stood outside the entrance of Motol Hospital with one hand hovering at her ear piece. Kurtis could speak a little Czech from his extensive travels throughout Europe, but he needed no grasp of the language to understand what was happening. A number of squad cars stood behind her, and a solemn policeman could be seen standing in the background with his hands clasped behind his back. Along the bottom of the screen there ran a scrolling news bar as footage was shown of several witnesses being interviewed earlier that night.
A trace of emotion played across Kurtis' face as he watched the proceedings flash across the screen. The last witness to appear was a familiar woman with dark hair who spoke hurriedly into the microphone.
Kurtis leant forwards in his seat as he strove to catch what she was saying. The word American was mentioned several times throughout her testimony, and footage from a CCTV image was then shown, although the image was indistinct and quite shaky with static. It showed a man as he emerged onto the stairwell and then descended out of the camera's range. The station showed this footage on loop as the woman spoke before freezing it and zooming in on his face. Kurtis was already slipping out of the lobby before anybody in the vicinity could put two and two together.
As he returned to his room Kurtis turned around and slowly closed the door behind him, resting his forehead against the jamb and giving an irritated sigh.
Great, he thought, As if I needed any press coverage today of all days.
He knew that he had had a very lucky escape today, and that many others at the hospital had not been so fortunate. The mercenary he had tackled near the elevator was right – he did have their blood on his hands.
As he turned away from the door Kurtis slowly pulled off his shirt, revealing his heavily bandaged torso as he sank down upon the edge of the cot. One of the nurses had sewn his shirt back together after it had been run through by Boaz's skewer, and he admired the hasty patch job as he slung the shirt across the nearby chair. Along with a first aid kit he carried several changes of clothes in the bedroll he kept tied to his motorbike's handlebars, but back at the hospital he had been forced to dress in something of a hurry.
Kurtis unfurled his bedroll and took out the first aid kit. Inside there were several rolls of bandages, some painkillers, disinfectant and a small pair of scissors; with halting movements Kurtis used these scissors to cut away the layers of bandages wrapped tightly about his abdomen.
He grimaced as he peeled away the last few strips. A jagged scar now ran from his navel down past the waistband of his pants, still slightly pink and latticed with row after row of stitches. They had been due to be removed the next day, but Kurtis decided to leave them in place for a little while longer. He was relieved to find that he had not reopened the wound after the stunts that he had pulled tonight, although there was some minor bruising at the sight of his injury. Using the disinfectant Kurtis carefully cleaned the area before redressing the wound with a fresh set of bandages.
When he was finished Kurtis took some of the painkillers and moved the contents of his bedroll onto the chair nearby. Then he gently lowered himself down onto the cot, his body a little battered but otherwise still intact. As he laid his head down upon the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling Kurtis tried his hardest to ignore the faint throbbing of pain in his abdomen.
Inevitably his thoughts drifted back to Lara, and he hoped that wherever she was at that moment she was faring a hell of a lot better than him.
XXX
Sorry about the lateness of this chapter; my computer decided to break for the second time this month, meaning it has been impossible for me to post... Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I hope this latest update makes up for the delay :)