could be seen on deck.
“Hey!”
The black-clad figure turned and took in the situation. He would know Dahl had taken out his two mates. He fired. Dahl didn’t move. The shot ricocheted off the boat’s white railing. Dahl ran forward, taking aim. He needed to wing this one and draw some answers out of him. He fired once. The merc half turned, looking surprised, and stared at a ragged, red streak that had just been made along the top of his shoulder. Close.
In another moment he was turning, running back up the quay. Dahl pocketed the guns and took off after him, breathing easy, conscious of their surroundings and what lay further ahead. If the merc continued in that direction, he would head toward an outdoor market. Dahl increased his speed, but the soldier was pretty fast, maintaining the gap. They passed several gawping locals and two fishermen, who just shook their heads in bemusement before casting another line. Dahl yelled at the man to stop, but may as well have saved his breath. They darted across the harbor, cutting across to the left toward the market. Maybe the merc thought he could lose Dahl there.
The merc barged through the pedestrians, pushing them aside and into the wooden stalls. Dahl closed at first, but then found his way hampered. He hurdled several rolling individuals, one injured, and leapfrogged over a damaged stall. The merc charged on, heading for a set of stairs. He glanced back, his look of surprise apparent as Dahl got closer. Up the steps he dashed, at the top rebounding off the side wall, using it to jump higher and attain an almost unreachable ledge.
Then he ran across the narrow ledge, arms out for balance, forty feet above the market, until he managed to grab on to a rail at the far side and leap over, accessing another level.
Dahl emulated him with ease, using the side wall to give him lift and landing feet first on the ledge without needing to steady himself. Five seconds and he was across it, leaping atop the rail itself and then leaping again, instantly breaking into a sprint.
The merc stepped out from behind a corner, launching a series of hand strikes which Dahl deftly blocked. The Swede used elbow and shoulder to catch the blows, then struck back. When the merc started kicking up close, Dahl stopped him with a raised knee, jabbing constantly and snapping his opponent’s head back every time he landed a blow.
It didn ’t take long for the merc to realize he was outclassed. With a last flurry, he managed to break free and dart away, rushing toward a far set of steps that led down to the street.
Dahl hurried after him, unable to keep the grin off his face.
The mad Swede hadn’t had this much fun since he’d been forced to give back that Shelby Mustang.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Dahl slipped down the handrail that bordered the steps, rapidly gaining on his quarry. At the bottom he managed to deliver a boot to the man ’s spine, sending him flailing head first, but through skill or pure blind luck, he managed to arrest his fall and keep running.
Dahl ’s phone rang. He fished it out. Akerman. Bollocks.
“Are you okay? What is it?”
“Just wondering how you were doing.”
“Make your way back to the café, Olle. I ’ll meet you there. And stay out of sight!”
Dahl ended the call as Akerman started to question the aptitude within those last few sentences. The merc loped straight across a road and over a big roundabout at its cent er. Cars swerved and honked horns, a driver leaned out and waved a fist. Dahl followed in his wake, finding the way blocked by two cars that had ended up so close together they were literally touching bumpers. He leapt feet first, slid along a nicely polished bonnet, and hit the road even faster. The roundabout was bordered by block paving, enabling Dahl to get a good grip. At the top he hopped from upraised block to block, hitting the slope hard and skidding part of the way. The merc caused havoc again, crossing the next road before he
“Hey!”
The black-clad figure turned and took in the situation. He would know Dahl had taken out his two mates. He fired. Dahl didn’t move. The shot ricocheted off the boat’s white railing. Dahl ran forward, taking aim. He needed to wing this one and draw some answers out of him. He fired once. The merc half turned, looking surprised, and stared at a ragged, red streak that had just been made along the top of his shoulder. Close.
In another moment he was turning, running back up the quay. Dahl pocketed the guns and took off after him, breathing easy, conscious of their surroundings and what lay further ahead. If the merc continued in that direction, he would head toward an outdoor market. Dahl increased his speed, but the soldier was pretty fast, maintaining the gap. They passed several gawping locals and two fishermen, who just shook their heads in bemusement before casting another line. Dahl yelled at the man to stop, but may as well have saved his breath. They darted across the harbor, cutting across to the left toward the market. Maybe the merc thought he could lose Dahl there.
The merc barged through the pedestrians, pushing them aside and into the wooden stalls. Dahl closed at first, but then found his way hampered. He hurdled several rolling individuals, one injured, and leapfrogged over a damaged stall. The merc charged on, heading for a set of stairs. He glanced back, his look of surprise apparent as Dahl got closer. Up the steps he dashed, at the top rebounding off the side wall, using it to jump higher and attain an almost unreachable ledge.
Then he ran across the narrow ledge, arms out for balance, forty feet above the market, until he managed to grab on to a rail at the far side and leap over, accessing another level.
Dahl emulated him with ease, using the side wall to give him lift and landing feet first on the ledge without needing to steady himself. Five seconds and he was across it, leaping atop the rail itself and then leaping again, instantly breaking into a sprint.
The merc stepped out from behind a corner, launching a series of hand strikes which Dahl deftly blocked. The Swede used elbow and shoulder to catch the blows, then struck back. When the merc started kicking up close, Dahl stopped him with a raised knee, jabbing constantly and snapping his opponent’s head back every time he landed a blow.
It didn ’t take long for the merc to realize he was outclassed. With a last flurry, he managed to break free and dart away, rushing toward a far set of steps that led down to the street.
Dahl hurried after him, unable to keep the grin off his face.
The mad Swede hadn’t had this much fun since he’d been forced to give back that Shelby Mustang.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Dahl slipped down the handrail that bordered the steps, rapidly gaining on his quarry. At the bottom he managed to deliver a boot to the man ’s spine, sending him flailing head first, but through skill or pure blind luck, he managed to arrest his fall and keep running.
Dahl ’s phone rang. He fished it out. Akerman. Bollocks.
“Are you okay? What is it?”
“Just wondering how you were doing.”
“Make your way back to the café, Olle. I ’ll meet you there. And stay out of sight!”
Dahl ended the call as Akerman started to question the aptitude within those last few sentences. The merc loped straight across a road and over a big roundabout at its cent er. Cars swerved and honked horns, a driver leaned out and waved a fist. Dahl followed in his wake, finding the way blocked by two cars that had ended up so close together they were literally touching bumpers. He leapt feet first, slid along a nicely polished bonnet, and hit the road even faster. The roundabout was bordered by block paving, enabling Dahl to get a good grip. At the top he hopped from upraised block to block, hitting the slope hard and skidding part of the way. The merc caused havoc again, crossing the next road before he
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