Callsign: King II- Underworld

Pierce came over the counter a second later, his landing not quite as graceful as King’s, and together they dashed into the hallway, seeking the building’s emergency exit. Another staccato report hammered their senses as one of the attack squad unloaded a full magazine into the door’s latch plate.

For just a moment, King considered turning the tables on the attackers. It was plainly evident that they weren’t professionals. Even though he was unarmed, he felt certain of his ability to use the environment—in this case, the corridors and stairwells of the clinic—to isolate and overpower the men. If not for Pierce’s presence, that was almost certainly what he would have done. But he couldn’t take that chance with his friend…his brother.

He fixated on the overhead “EXIT” sign, and hastened toward it. Sometimes, as bitter a pill as it was to swallow, running away was the best option.





5.


Sokoloff spat a curse in his mother tongue as he saw his carefully laid plans disintegrate. Something had spooked the target; the damned impetuous junior Russian mobsters, so eager to spill blood, had probably jumped the gun. They might yet redeem themselves, charging into the brownstone with guns blazing like characters in a bad Hong Kong action movie, but it seemed equally likely that they would prove no more effective as the tip of the spear than they had as a diversion. With ten million dollars resting in the balance, to say nothing of his freedom, he had to see the target’s dead body with his own eyes, even if meant risking exposure.

The black Mercedes peeled out noisily, and raced down the street, turning at the corner, presumably to block the alley that backed the line of brownstones. At least one of them has a little sense, Sokoloff thought.

He left the rifle where it was, confident that its eventual discovery would never lead the police to him, and he sprinted for the stairs leading down from the roof.





6.


An alarm started shrieking as soon as King hit the panic bar on the emergency exit. There would be little question now as to where they were, but it couldn’t be helped. He burst through the door and with Pierce right behind him, raced into the alley.

He was immediately confronted with a choice: left or right?

Easy; right. The alley exited onto a cross street at either end, but the intersection to the right was closer.

He took off at a full sprint, and Pierce was right behind him. King was grateful that his friend seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation. The two of them had been in a couple of tight spots, and Pierce knew better than distract King with a lot of questions. Survival under the circumstances required quick decisions and instantaneous action; a single moment lost second-guessing one of those decisions, or worse, trying to explain them, might be the difference between life and death. That, and luck.

And sometimes, luck was just plain bad.

The black Mercedes cut across the end of the alley, screeching to a stop in a haze of rubber smoke. In his peripheral vision, King glimpsed Pierce’s stride faltering, and he almost did the same as, twenty feet ahead of him, the car door flew open and the driver half-emerged, reaching over the doorframe with his ?korpion pistol.

“Screw this,” King muttered.

As the muzzle of the submachine gun swung toward him, King lowered his shoulder and poured on the speed. Before the gunman could get off a round, King slammed into the door like it was a tackle dummy. The door crunched against the driver’s upper chest, driving the wind from his lungs. The man’s finger tightened on the ?korpion’s trigger and lead began to spray randomly down the alley. King slid a hand along the outer surface of the window and struck the man’s outstretched gun arm with the flat of his hand, deflecting it straight up into the air so that the last few rounds flew harmlessly skyward.

He rammed the door again. There was a satisfying crack as ribs broke under the assault and a spray of bloody spittle flew from the man’s lips. King threw the door open, ready to meet whatever counter-attack might follow, but the driver simply slumped to the ground.

Pierce had sought refuge behind some trashcans, but King hastily waved him over. “George. Let’s go. Our ride’s here.”

As if to underscore the urgency of the situation, the other three gunmen burst out into the alley, and immediately upon recognizing that King had taken down one of their number, opened fire.

The distance between the end of the alley and the rear exit of the clinic was just about the effective range of the short barreled ?korpions, but what they lacked in accuracy, they could make up for in volume. King didn’t bother with further exhortations to his friend, but instead slid behind the wheel of the idling Mercedes and shifted it into drive.