Chapter 5

The gate quietly rumbled open, the white paint flaking off it as it trembled out of his way. A light breeze blew across his face, and Caradoc took a step onto the gravel, which crunched under his feet.

Almost instantly, there was a gunshot.

The gravel a few feet from his was kicked up by the force of a bullet, along with some of the dust underneath.

"This is private property!" a megaphone-amplified voice called out from between the short, white buildings.

"I'm here to see Harker!" he shouted back.

Automatic fire tore through the air, creating small geysers of shattered rock and dust around him.

"Leave or we will use lethal force!"

"Joe sent me!" He closed his eyes, expecting another burst of gunfire.

It didn't come.

"Come here."

Caradoc took one step at a time, towards the where he felt the megaphone holder was. As he rounded the corner, he saw a large man of African descent, standing with two Hispanic-looking men who trained their HK416s on him.

"What is your business?" he asked through the megaphone.

"Purchase of weapons." Caradoc held his hands above his head sheepishly. "Please, I need to see Harker."

"Mister Harker is busy." Without the megaphone, the man's voice had a thick accent to it. "Come back tomorrow."

"It's an emergency."

"I know where Joe is!"

The African man pulled a pistol and pointed it straight at Caradoc's head. "Leave now. Or die."

Caradoc took a step back, but didn't turn around. They could shoot him in the back if they wanted to. And they seemed like the type.

"You have three seconds."

Caradoc backed around the corner.

The African and his men followed him around it, their weapons aimed as he walked backwards toward the gate.

"Two."

"Stop!" A voice rang out from the PA speakers mounted on the outside walls of the largest building. "Let him in."

The shutter on the building creaked, and moved up to the hum of motors. The African grabbed Caradoc by the collar, and shoved him towards the entrance.

"Take it easy, man." Once he regained his footing, Caradoc walked through it. He felt the mercenaries' eyes burn into his back like lasers.

Inside the warehouse, he saw more mercs with M416s, perched on the walkway above and around him, all surrounding the man with the greying hair and deep blue eyes who was sitting on a large crate. Harker.

"So, where's Joe?"

"I don't know ex-"

Harker picked up a revolver from the crate he was on and before Caradoc could dodge, fired it straight at his chest.

The impact sent a wave of pain rippling through the front of his torso to his spine. There was a clinking as the crumpled slug fell to the concrete floor, having failed to penetrate his suit.

Harker powered his gun. "What do we have here? A bulletproof suit?" He clicked the hammer into place, engaging the safety, and put the revolver back down on the crate. "Who do you work for?"

"Joe."

"You're lying."

Caradoc said nothing.

"I could order my men to blow you to pieces, but I want that suit of yours. So make this easy for me and I'll make it quick for you." Harker smiled. To Caradoc, it was like seeing a shark grin.

"I know who Joe works for."

"Oh, do you? Come closer, will you?" He made a wagging motion with his left index.

Caradoc wearily took a few steps towards the arms dealer. "I can't tell you unless you can give me something."

"What's to stop me from...Nassor, come here."

The big African man walked over to Harker.

"Look, this is Nassor. I hired him from Africa half a year ago. He does everything I say. Which includes torturing the hell out of you so I can find Joe. Nassor, you name means victorious in...in what language again?"

"Swahili," Nassor boomed.

"Exactly. Swahili. Point is, he always wins. So he will get it out of you. Even if he has to rip your limbs off and force you to eat them."

"Oberon, do the shoes work?" he muttered.

"They do. Or at least I think they do. 99% sure," he said over the glasses.

"Oh, great."

"What did you say?" Harker grabbed his pistol again.

"I said...hell no."

Harker aimed the pistol at him. "I thought you were smarter than this. We could have settled in a better way. Now, nothing personal, but you've Jo-"

Caradoc clicked his heels together, and with a thump, a massive cloud of smoke blossomed out of them, obscuring him. He dived to the left just as Harker's men opened fire at where he was standing, their muzzle flashes lighting up in the smoke.

Harker shouted something incoherent among the gunfire. Everyone stopped shooting.

Caradoc pressed a button on his spectacles, bringing up the infrared camera. He spotted Harker standing a few metres away, waving his revolver about blindly.

He broke into a sprint, and got low, ramming his shoulder into Harker's legs, then wrapping his arms around them. The revolver clattered to the floor, just as the smoke cleared.

Caradoc flipped Harker out in front of him, holding his own pistol to Harker's head. "I know someone hired your men to take out my friend."

"My men get hired a lot. Right, guys?" Harker laughed. "How do you know I'll remember?"

"Because you also sold him a Barrett M82 sniper rifle. Now, I can turn that into the police and you'll stay in prison for the rest of your life being someone's bitch, or you can tell me who he was."

"...Jesus fuck, I'll tell you. Stand down!"

There was a rustling as all the mercenaries lowered their guns, a confused look on their faces.

Caradoc held on to Harker for a minute more, and then threw him on the floor, kicking the revolver away and holstering his own gun. "Talk."

"It was a guy named Quinn, okay? Didn't give a last name, and that one was probably fake. I was going to shoot him."

"Why didn't you?"

"Just let me finish, okay? I didn't kill him because he agreed to pay my inflated price. Like, the one I put upfront. Guy has a lot of money for some reason."

"Do you have a picture of him?"

Harker furrowed his brow. "You know what? I do. Nassor! Get me the pictures I took on Friday."

The big man lumbered over, grimacing at Caradoc, and handed a digital camera that was miniscule in comparison to his palm to Harker. The arms dealer turned it on, and flicked through pictures taken from unusual angles, from behind bushes and around corners, all of different clients.

He stopped at one of a man with a crew cut, in a biker jacket and carrying a briefcase. "This is Quinn. Best picture I could get."

Caradoc stared at the picture for a long moment. "Yeah, that's him." He flipped the camera over, and ejected the SD card.

"Hey!" Harkey pulled the card out of his hands, and the mercenaries flicked the safeties off on their weapons again. "You can't take that."

"You saw me muttering, right?"

"Yeah, and?"

"That's my colleague. He's got my position, and he's got a pretty juicy recording of you guys here right now. Give me the card or that tape goes to the police."

Harker cursed under his breath, and tossed the card at Caradoc, who caught it in one hand. "Thank you." He handed the camera back, and straightened his suit.

"How do I know that's still not going to the police?"

"Because I'm a gentleman, that why." Caradoc slipped the SD card inside his jacket. "And gentlemen keep their promises."

Without another word, he strode out of the warehouse.

Jonas' phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. Harker. "Yes?"

"One of them came to me today. My boys couldn't do shit to him. I want compensation."

"You're not getting anything. What'd he say?"

Even over the phone, he could hear Harken fuming. "Tried to get your name. I gave him the false one, but he asked for a photo."

"You had a photo of me?"

"Yeah, and I gave it to him. Sorry about that."

"You idiot."

"Guy like that, he'd see me lying a mile away. Give me protection at least. If he comes back…"

"And then you'll die for being the idiot you are." Jonas hung up, and pocketed his phone, turning the key in the elevator.

The doors opened into the penthouse. Klaas was nowhere in sight, but Jonas didn't bother searching for him, his eyes on the shiny chrome silencer pressed against his forehead.

"Bonjour," the Frenchman said.

Jonas was led to an armchair and seated, the gun still pointing at him. "Who are you?"

"A friend," Garth said, walking out of the bedroom. "And if you're worried about Klaas, don't be. He's running an errand. You've one to do too."

"Fuck you."

Garth took a piece of paper out of his pocket, and unfolded it, revealing a black-and-white photograph of a young woman. "Look familiar?"

Jonas went stiff. "Don't you fucking touch her!"

"Then do as we say." He folded the paper and put it back in his pocket. "Jonas, I've really, really high hopes for you."

He could do nothing but listen.

"You didn't call the cops," Oberon said.

"Not worth it. And we might need something from him later."

"From that bastard? I highly doubt it."

"Just find the guy in the picture, okay? I'm heading back."

"Just one more thing you need to do, actually. Tristan is waiting for you at one of the cafes in town."

"Tristan? From Sweden?"

"Yeah, that Tristan. He didn't say what he wanted. You think it's important?"

"For the only field agent in Sweden to fly all the way here? I'd say hell yes. Can you patch me through?"

"Give me a second."

Caradoc opened his car door and sat inside, engaging the forward gear and pulling out of the parking lot, heading into the city. Oberon had already put a GPS marker on the map for him, to one of the more expensive cafes.

"Oberon?"

"Yeah, I can't seem to get through. You'll just have to ask him. My guess is he's flirting with some girl he just met."

"That doesn't sound like Tristan. Did he tell you anything else?"

"No. I mean, he didn't even talk to me, jut sent me an email saying he wanted to see you and Gawain."

"That's worrying. Disable the traffic cameras."

"Okay...done."

Caradoc stepped on the accelerator, his car shooting through the rush hour traffic, way past the speed limit. He screeched around a corner, and slowed to a stop beside a white building in the middle of the city.

He spotted Tristan, almost immediately, sitting at one of the tables far away from the windows, looking pale. Caradoc entered the shop, ignoring the cashier's greeting, and sat down with Tristan.

"Oh my god, you're actually here. Thank goodness." He was visibly shaking, one hand digging into the arm of the chair he was sat in.

"What's wrong?" He looked down at Tristan's half-eaten fruit cake. Probably comfort food. "Why didn't you talk to Oberon?"

"I-it's my team." His eyes were wide with fear. "T-they're all dead."