The kite, p.1
The Kite, page 1
THE KITE
N.R. WALKER
CONTENTS
Blurb
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
About the Author
Contact the Author
Newsletter Sign-Up
Also by N.R. Walker
COPYRIGHT
Cover Artist: Book Cover Zone
Editor: Posy Roberts, Boho Edits
Publisher: BlueHeart Press
The Kite © 2022 N.R. Walker
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED:
This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events or locales is coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only.
WARNING
This book is intended for an adult audience. It contains graphic language, explicit content, and adult situations.
TRADEMARKS
All trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
BLURB
Ex-Australian Specialist Response Group leader, Tim “Harry” Harrigan, has been running covert ops for almost a decade. A lone wolf, he’s single-handedly taken down terrorists and national security threats, or so he thinks. He’s been in the game far too long, and when he sees a familiar threat, he knows his time is up.
Asher Garin is a dangerous man. A man without loyalty, a man without a nationality, without a country, without a home. He’s also a mercenary for hire to the highest bidder. His next job is a face he recognises, and after a tip-off, he learns he too is a marked man.
It’s a different game now, and Harry and Asher have a better chance at surviving if they stick together. But it’s not just the game or the rules that have changed. The stakes have too.
Because on their own, they had nothing to lose. Together, they do.
ONE
GHARDAÏA, ALGERIA
Harry looked through the scope of his rifle and exhaled. It was midday, the Saharan summer sun was scorching hot, the air still and stifling. The desert city had narrow streets with sand- and mud-packed walls; a clustered oasis in the middle of a sea of baking sand. Somewhere nearby, children laughed, a baby cried, a woman yelled, cursing.
He was so far from home.
It had been so long since he’d set foot on Australian soil, he’d almost forgotten what home felt like. He longed for a life that wasn’t his. Wasn’t this. At first the longing was fleeting, no more than a whisper, but it sang a little louder now. In the quiet darkness of night or the patient wait for a kill.
Like now.
Harry had waited in the darkened room, at this window, for two days. His patience never waning.
He never moved. Stock-still, measured breaths.
Dirty sweat ran down his spine. He ignored it.
His mark appeared at the front of the building in the street below.
Harry took another breath. Deep, controlled. Patient.
This was it.
Confirm the mark.
It was him. No doubt. His intel had been spot on. It always was.
Harry inhaled. He moved his finger to the trigger.
The target turned around, as if he knew his time was up. Harry never much cared for the whys of his job. He was simply sent the information, photos, video if they had it. And he did whatever needed doing. Why that person was marked for removal was none of his business.
Their removal was.
The target turned to speak to someone. A small child, a boy, laughing as he ran.
Harry considered waiting but he couldn’t miss this opportunity.
Another breath in, slow exhale.
He was going to lose his target at this rate.
Piss off, kid. You don’t want to see this.
Another bead of sweat rolled down Harry’s spine.
Somewhere off in the distance, a car horn sounded. Harry’s mind threw him back to his teenage days of endless summers with mates, driving old cars and drinking by the river. The smell of possibilities and optimism floated in the hazy afternoon sunlight, memories of a simpler life . . .
Movement on the street below snapped him back to the dark and dingy room, to the blistering heat, and to his purpose. The small child ran ahead, disappearing inside a house. The man began to follow, alone and exposed.
This was his one chance.
The mark’s head fixed in his crosshairs. The perfect shot.
Harry pulled the trigger.
MADRID, SPAIN
Harry pulled his coat collar up against the cold. He kept his head down, though he was aware of everything around him.
Always alert.
He’d needed to leave his apartment for bread and coffee and felt eyes on him the second he stepped foot onto the sidewalk.
Someone was watching.
Following.
He saw no one. Not even a shadow, but he felt them as if their breath was on his neck.
A class of young school children were on the sidewalk being ushered by teachers in lines of two. The children laughed and chatted despite the cold, and Harry considered keeping pace with them.
Using them as protection.
The people after you don’t care if the kids die, Harry.
Harry crossed the street. No one crossed after him, but whoever was after him was closer now.
He could feel it.
That cold stab of dread, sixth sense, gut feeling. Like icy fingers down his skin.
And if someone was after Harry, it wasn’t good. He was the hunter, never the hunted. If he was the mark . . .
Christ. He was the mark.
Harry ducked past two women, slipping through a narrow utility alley, and he ran. He was being chased now, silent and fast. At the end of the alley, he turned left and went through an open door, up a set of stairs to the roof, his heart hammering.
He ran along the roofline, exposed but faster than on the street. He heard footsteps chasing behind him but didn’t dare turn around, and as the muted whirr of a bullet pinged past his head, he jumped.
He knew the sound of that gun. It was a SIG Pro 9mm with a suppressor.
French special forces, standard issue.
He landed on a first-floor balcony, using his momentum to leap again, this time to the ground. Pain shot through his ankle but he kept moving, down another alley, and through an open door and into a darkened hall.
Hands grabbed him, spun him and pinned his back against the wall as the door closed behind him. In half a disorienting second, Harry pulled his gun to his assailant’s head at the same time he realised he had a pistol pressed against his.
Eyes flashed in the dark, familiar and close. A man’s body pressed him hard to the wall, their chests heaving. A hand covered his mouth.
“Shh.”
Harry didn’t dare breathe, his finger on the trigger, still aimed at the man’s head. The cold press of metal against Harry’s temple told him to wait.
The sound of feet outside came running. The crackle of a radio, a French voice just outside the door. “I’ve lost him.” The footsteps faded, and only after a long moment did the man move his hand from Harry’s mouth.
Harry could see then who it was.
Asher Garin.
Asher fucking Garin.
Adrenaline exploded through Harry’s veins and he started, pushing his pistol harder into Asher’s temple. Asher gnashed his teeth. Anger and defiance flashed in his eyes. “Keep quiet or you’ll kill us both,” Asher hissed, barely a whisper.
His words didn’t make sense.
Asher had saved him?
If there was anyone on the planet sent to kill Harry, it would be Asher. He was the only other man good enough. They were the top two government assassins in the world. Yet Asher had just saved him from the French?
Keep quiet or you’ll kill us both.
Both?
After an eternity, Asher released him, though he kept his pistol aimed at Harry’s head. “We need to get out of here,” he murmured.
Harry’s heart was thundering. His finger itched to pull the trigger. Itched. “The fuck?”
Asher held up his phone to show Harry the screen. “Sent to all agencies.” An assignment, just like any other. Just like any of the thousand he’d received in the last decade. Locations, dates, names, and photographs.
Two photographs.
Harry’s blood ran cold, and his eyes met Asher’s.
Asher nodded, his stare intense. “You and me; double hit. They want us dead. You’re a kite, and your government just cut you loose.”
Harry grappled with his fight or flight instinct, his heart hammering, his ankle throbbing. But given two men had just tried to kill him and the fact Asher hadn’t killed him—and the assignment on his phone screen—Harry could assume what Asher said was true.
Asher must have seen the realisation in Harry’s eyes because he slowly lowered his gun. Just an inch. “We need to trust each other,” he whispered. “The only chance we have is if we stick together. Can you do that?”
Trusting any other person went against every cell in Harry’s body, but what choice did he have? If he said no, one or both of them died right here. If the assignment was sent to all agencies, there wasn’t a country or government anywhere in the world that could protect them.
Harry had no choice.
Answering without a word, he took his finger off the trigger.
TWO
“We cannot go back,” Asher said through clenched teeth.
“I have to,” Harry replied. Going back to his apartment was high-risk, but if they were going dark, it made sense.
“They’ll be waiting for you.”
Harry met his gaze, their faces a little too close. “Let them come.”
Asher growled and mumbled something in Romanian. Maybe it was Croatian or a mix of both. Harry thought he heard the word suicide, but it was hard to tell when Asher grumbled under his breath.
Asher held up two fingers. “Two minutes and I am gone, with or without you.”
Harry gave a nod.
He was torn about trusting Asher, turning his back to him, giving him any kind of advantage.
If he was here to kill you, you’d be dead by now.
“My apartment is—”
“I know where it is.”
Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. Asher rolled his eyes and pointed to the door he’d come through, but Harry grabbed his arm. “This way.” He led him to the other side of the stairs and cracked the narrow hidden door.
Silence. Empty.
Harry was about to open the door when he remembered he was no longer on his own. “It’s a utility corridor,” he murmured. “Fully enclosed. One hundred metres. Stairwell on your left.”
Asher shrugged like he couldn’t care less, and Harry slipped through the door. He crouched as he ran, past pipework, boxes, garbage, a clothesline. This city was full of back alleys, some open to the sky, some enclosed, and he’d chosen his apartment because there were three exit options, relatively hidden.
The stairwell was clear, though Harry knew his luck would have to run out soon. He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the shooting pain in his ankle, and took his pistol in hand. He got to the door at his floor and stopped to listen.
More silence.
He cracked the door open and glanced down the hall.
Shit.
“You know,” Asher mumbled, right behind him. “It would have been quicker if we’d walked up the main fucking street.”
“Shh,” Harry hissed. “My door’s open. Ten metres on the left.”
Asher sighed and stepped around him, slipping into the hall and into Harry’s apartment. Harry had to hurry to keep up, but he’d heard the quiet pops of two shots fired before he’d even got inside.
Fuck.
One man lay dead just inside the door and another near the kitchen. Both wore French military boots, both armed with SIG Pro handguns. Both had headshots, not perfectly neat but effective.
Harry stepped over the second body just as a dark figure came out of the bedroom. Harry saw the pistol first and raised his, only seeing it was Asher a split second before pulling the trigger.
Both he and Asher stood there, guns pointed at each other. Harry’s heart was thundering, his adrenaline pumping. They were seeing each other in the daylight now. Asher was six-foot tall, dark buzzed hair, olive skin, and hazel eyes. He was dressed in black cargo pants, boots, a black shirt under a charcoal grey windbreaker.
He was incredibly good looking, Harry realised, and Asher could have easily been on some Milan runway if he hadn’t found himself in the job of killing people. The fact he was pointing a gun at Harry’s head didn’t help. Harry shouldn’t have found that so hot . . .
“Apartment is clear,” Asher said, slowly lowering his gun. “Two minutes.” He went and closed the front door before he went to the first dead French guy and began patting down his pockets.
Harry didn’t wait to see what he was looking for, exactly—cash, ID, more weapons—and he went into his room and pushed his bed to the side. He lifted up the makeshift trapdoor and pulled out the backpack within it. He dashed into the bathroom and emptied the contents of the cabinet into his bag, and as he turned to leave, he heard a noise.
A thud, a stunted groan, and finally another muted ping of a suppressor. Harry pulled out his pistol, his heart thumping painfully, blood rushing in his ears, and he went into the hallway fully expecting to be met with a spray of fists or bullets.
But no, it was Asher, now standing over another body sprawled on the floor. A man in blue, a bullet hole in his left cheek. Asher waved his hand at the bodies. “No, please, take your time,” he said sarcastically. “Did you want to freshen up some more? Maybe grab a bite to eat? Let me be a good host and take care of your guests.” He gestured to the dead men on the floor.
His guests . . . Harry almost smiled. Until he actually noticed the guy in blue’s face. He couldn’t have even been twenty years old. “Christ. He’s a kid.”
“They’re all kids,” Asher grumbled. “Two French, one Russian.” He took the knife from one guy’s thigh holster; it was a Russian army knife. “Fuckers get younger every year.”
“Let’s go,” Harry said. He had no idea where they were going or just how much he should trust Asher.
He needed answers.
He walked out the door and straight into another young guy in blue who let out a startled curse in Russian and swung at Harry’s head.
Harry took one hit to the cheekbone, grabbed the guy’s arm as he swung through, spun him, took his head in his hands, and snapped his neck. Harry pushed the man’s body into his apartment where it splayed on the floor next to the others. Asher gave Harry a curt nod, relieved the man of his knife and pistol, pulled the door closed behind them, and they walked back down the hall.
Harry’s ankle protested, though he tried not to let on. “We need a ride,” he said.
“I have one,” Asher replied.
They went the way they’d come and, thankfully, encountered no surprises. After assessing the street, they walked quickly down the alley to the next block, where Asher pressed a key fob and a new model black Jaguar car unlocked. Asher drove, expertly manoeuvring them through traffic, heading south through the city.
“I hope whatever is in that bag was worth it,” Asher said.
Harry unzipped his backpack. “Passports, weapons, about 60K cash in different currencies. And now four hitmen we no longer need to worry about.” He pulled out a white pill bottle and threw back two tablets, swallowing them without water. “Where are we going?”
“Gibraltar.”
Which meant next stop would be Morocco.
“Who put out the hit?”
Asher shrugged. “I don’t know. Your people is my guess.”
My people?
“Who tipped you off?” Harry pressed. “Who sent you the assignment? And why would they send you an assignment when you’re the mark?”
Asher gripped the steering wheel and he clearly debated whether or not to answer. Harry wondered whether he’d answer at all, but after a few blocks, he did. “I have . . . someone. An informant.”
“Not your handler?”
Asher shook his head. “Sort of. What I showed you is a screenshot. My informant sent it to me and told me to get the fuck out of town.”
“So you came to Madrid to warn me?” Harry was having a hard time believing that.
“I was already here.”
Wait.
He was already . . .
Harry understood at the same time Asher snorted. “I was already here for you. I’ve been watching you for three days. Could have killed you a dozen times. You really should be more careful.”
