The shadow network, p.38
The Shadow Network, page 38
Against Sal Gallo it was more likely do and die.
The thought did not occur to Dempsey in the bare instant between seeing and engaging the Italian. He had no time to consider the physical mismatch between them; no chance, even, to wonder why one of his own team had betrayed him. Instead his every instinct was focused on staying alive beyond the next few seconds.
And to stand any chance of that, he needed Gallo disarmed.
If Gallo had been holding a pistol, Dempsey would have been dead. Instead it was a rifle that Dempsey now saw in the Italian’s oversized hands. A much superior weapon in so many ways, it was longer and more cumbersome. And so it took just that little more time to be turned.
Gallo almost made it. He was quick enough to open fire, but not quick enough to take aim first. The two discharged rounds sailed just inches to Dempsey’s left as the Englishman came crashing down hard into a man he had trusted with his life.
Dempsey had no time to think as he made the first violent contact and so he did not consider the freakish physical strength of Gallo. If he had, he would still have been surprised by the Italian’s reaction to his attack.
The collision should have done something. It should have staggered him, at least. Dempsey was two hundred and twenty-five pounds of taut, practical muscle, and every ounce of that had hit Gallo from above, as fast and as hard as Dempsey could manage.
Any normal man would have been knocked down by the impact. Most would be rendered helpless for at least a few moments. Maybe more than that.
But Gallo? The Italian stepped back just an inch or two, his own footing never anything but solid. It was like hitting an immovable rock face, only this was a mountain that came equipped with tree-trunk arms it could use to fight back. He halted Dempsey’s forwards momentum as if he were nothing more than a rag doll, before throwing him off with what seemed to be zero effort.
Literal explosions aside, it was a physical force beyond anything Dempsey had ever felt. There was nothing he could do as his trajectory was changed for him. Helpless to resist, he felt himself propelled backwards through the air, his lungs emptied by the impact of Gallo’s palms against his chest and his momentum beyond his own control.
It took the hard metal of the car behind to halt his backward movement and his legs buckled as his feet finally hit the floor, a bolt of intense pain firing up his spine as he fought to stay upright, his pistol smashed free from his hand.
The source of his agony was instantly apparent. The car’s wing mirror had snapped as it drove into his back, but what was left had pushed deep into his kidney. Somehow it did not pierce the skin, but Dempsey knew that internal damage had been done.
He felt a sudden need to vomit – an involuntary response to his injury – but somehow he fought it off. There was no time for that. Not if he was going to live through this. Not if he was . . .
Dempsey’s survival instinct interrupted his own thoughts. It was screaming at him. There was something his conscious mind had missed. A moment more and he had it.
Sal caught me and he pushed me with open hands.
If he did that, he must have dropped the rifle when we collided.
Sal’s unarmed.
The realisation gave Dempsey hope and with it a surge of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. It nullified both the searing pain in his lower left side and the immobility of his rotator cuff. He would pay a price for the masked pain. Dempsey knew that. In fact, he welcomed it.
Because future pain means I’ve survived this.
He stopped thinking as he saw Sal begin to lean downwards towards the floor, reaching for his rifle. The weapon had dropped between the back of the nearest car and the trunk of the vehicle behind it. It would take him least two seconds to reach it, Dempsey figured. He could not be given that time. The fight was going badly enough already. Add a firearm into the mix and Dempsey was a dead man.
It was all the motivation he needed.
Gallo looked up at the sound of movement. Soon enough to see Dempsey’s rushed approach but too late to do anything to stop it. He reeled backwards from the impact of Dempsey’s right knee to his face; it was the first time he was made to stumble by the physical force of the smaller man. He was not impervious to pain after all.
The sight of Gallo’s stumble spurred Dempsey on. He could give the Italian no time to recover. Instead he would keep fighting – punching, kicking, striking, attacking – for as long as his already damaged body would allow.
The knee strike that had sent Gallo backwards had also sent him upright and exposed his head, allowing Dempsey to follow it up with the most powerful left cross he had ever thrown. It landed clean and was joined an instant later by a right that was every bit as hard, then a perfectly executed left hook to finish the combination.
All three blows hit with every drop of the desperate force Dempsey could find; the last punch was so hard that he felt two of the knuckles on his left hand shatter with the impact. Each one should have been enough to stop even the strongest fighter, but Dempsey did not forget who he was up against.
He was not going to stop now.
Lunging forwards one more time with his right knee, his open hands reached upwards to grab Gallo by the back of the head. The intent was another knee strike to the face but somehow the Italian was still able to fight back, retaining the presence of mind to rush forwards as Dempsey lifted his leg.
Keeping low, Gallo drove his shoulder deep into Dempsey’s gut, the impact like a train. It forced the oxygen from Dempsey’s lungs and sent yet another crippling shockwave through his insides.
And neither the movement nor the pain stopped there.
The sheer force of the blow sent Dempsey careering backwards and, before he could recover his footing, Gallo grabbed him and lifted him clean from the floor. Dempsey could do nothing to resist as his body moved higher into the air, his equilibrium turned inside out as he was slammed spine-first onto the roof of the vehicle to his right.
The force of that collision was staggering, enough to sap every ounce of strength his body could hold. But still Dempsey had his wits. A moment of helplessness against a man like Gallo was a moment too many; it could only end in death. And so, against the roaring objection of his body, he forced himself to move.
Intending to lift his damaged left side away from contact with the dented roof, he twisted his body onto its right. It did little to help – the effort of movement matched the agony of physical touch – and he realised now that he was moving far too slowly for what lay ahead. But still he was ready to react. Ready to defend himself from Gallo’s next onslaught.
He could not understand, then, when the Italian did nothing.
For the briefest instant Dempsey questioned if Sal was gone; a thought brought on by nothing but desperate, irrational hope. He dismissed it as quickly as it had arrived and replaced it with the obvious truth:
Sal’s not hitting me because he’s reaching for the floor.
He’s reaching for his rifle.
Dempsey’s last few drips of adrenaline fired through his veins as he realised Gallo’s intentions. Enough for one last shot at survival. He knew he had no more than a moment.
Using his grip on the edge of the roof and every muscle in his torso that still worked, he flung his lower half outwards and his right foot around in a long and powerful sweep that was timed to coincide with Gallo’s rise.
Sal came up with his rifle in hand exactly as Dempsey had predicted, which allowed the Englishman’s boot to collide cleanly with the weapon. The impact ripped it from Gallo’s grip and sent it hurtling across the garage and out of sight.
Dempsey wasted no time watching it go. He had next to nothing left and so what he did have, he had to make count.
With Gallo momentarily distracted by the loss of his weapon, Dempsey took advantage of the bigger man’s hesitation. He brought that same leg sweeping up and back, ramming the thick, hard heel of his boot into Gallo’s nose.
The feeling of shattered bones kept him moving, fuelling Dempsey as he launched himself from the edge of the car roof. He knew this time that Gallo was strong enough to catch him.
In fact, he was counting on it.
Sal halted the leap in mid-air, just as Dempsey had anticipated, and so his head was defenceless as Dempsey began to rain down blows with his fists and with his elbows. He targeted Gallo’s skull and neck, landing hit after hit from above until, finally, the Italian’s legs began to give way.
Gallo staggered backwards, slinging Dempsey aside as he did.
The throw was almost an afterthought from a badly injured man but still had enough force to send Dempsey careering into the same car he had leapt from less than a minute earlier. He landed in the spot where the two men had first collided and this time there was no way he could stay upright. With nothing left to keep him on his feet, Dempsey slumped to his knees, his insides on fire; only the frame of the car next to him prevented a total collapse.
It was to Dempsey’s relief, then, when he saw Gallo do much the same. With his rifle out of sight and with injuries of his own, the giant staggered backwards and slumped onto the boot of a car parked in the row behind. It seemed that he, too, had little left to give.
Dempsey did not allow Gallo’s condition to give him false hope. He suspected that his own injuries were much worse than Sal’s. It left him needing to find some new advantage. But for now, as they both tried to regain their strength, there were things he needed to know.
‘How long’s it been, Sal?’ he finally asked. His injuries made it difficult to speak, but he was determined not to show it. ‘How long you been working for the Monk?’
‘You think . . . you think I am a traitor?’
Gallo’s voice sounded pained. Perhaps he was more injured than Dempsey had realised. The blows to his neck, most likely.
‘It’s kind of hard to think anything else right now, you know?’
‘I am no traitor. I am loyal.’
‘So all this?’
Gallo missed a beat before he replied. When he did, he cast his eyes to the floor.
‘I am loyal to my family first of all.’
Dempsey frowned at the answer. In that moment, he understood.
‘He threatened them?’
‘He has them.’
‘The Monk?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he showed me proof.’
‘You spoke to him yourself?’ Dempsey was stunned. ‘In person? Do you know who he is, Sal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘What good will it do you? You can’t survive this. You are too hurt to fight.’
‘Humour me. For old times’ sake.’
Sal sighed sadly as he looked at his friend.
‘You will not like it.’
Dempsey felt his blood run cold at the answer. Because it suggested that Dempsey had met him too.
That it was someone who had been under his nose the entire time.
‘Tell me,’ he said.
‘The CIA agent,’ Sal said quietly. ‘The Monk is Sean Sutton.’
SEVENTY-NINE
Dempsey stared at Gallo, too shocked – too lost in his own disbelief – to respond.
Sutton.
Sean Sutton.
That sonofabitch. He’s played us for fools. He’s played . . . Jesus Christ, Kincaid. That man . . . all his life, searching for a ghost . . . for a legend, who was right beside him the whole time. Probably throwing him off track at every bloody step.
He looked back towards Gallo.
‘But . . . How?’
‘I do not know. Once he had my family, I was only concerned for them.’
Gallo’s words brought him back to the reality of his situation.
Of Gallo’s situation.
‘Where is he keeping them?’
‘If I knew that I would be there. Not here. It’s because I do not know . . . That is why this has to happen.’
‘What’s the deal, then?’
‘You are.’
Gallo indicated towards the Audi. Towards the still hidden Frankowski.
‘You and him. If I kill you both then my family go free. If I do not . . . you know what happens if I do not.’
‘And you? What happens to you?’
‘I don’t matter. As long as they’re safe.’
‘Jesus, Sal.’
Gallo said nothing, but Dempsey could see his strength returning. The Italian was putting less weight on the car and becoming steadier on his feet. It was the opposite for Dempsey. As much as he was hiding it – as much as he tried to ignore it – his injuries were making him weaker by the moment. Whatever had happened to his kidney, it required medical attention.
That knowledge made his heart race. He needed to think fast. He needed . . .
Dempsey shifted his right hand on the floor – an attempt to move his weight and take some pressure away from his injured side – and as he did the feel of cold metal on his fingertips derailed his thought process. It gave him a surge of hope.
He kept his expression blank. He had to keep Gallo talking.
‘When?’ he asked. ‘When did he take them?’
‘Today.’
‘But how did he even find them? How did he . . .’
‘I know as little as you, which is why I have no choice. If this man can act with such speed, what chance do we have? What can I do but obey?’
‘Sal, I could have helped you. You didn’t . . . you didn’t have to . . .’
‘You know that’s not true. Could you save them? Maybe. You have done many things that make me think maybe. But would you risk your family for that? Everyone you love for a maybe?’
‘I . . . I don’t know, Sal. I just . . . I just wish you hadn’t done this.’
‘So do I. But I have no choice. It is you or it is them.’
Gallo’s voice grew stronger as he spoke. More determined. Dempsey knew what that meant.
‘And so it had to be you.’
He began to push himself upright. His unnatural power was back. This was going to happen.
‘I promise you, Sal. Whatever happens now, I will stop him.’
‘You can’t stop anything. You can’t even stop me.’
He stood to his full height and looked down on the still-kneeling Dempsey. From his face alone, Gallo’s inner conflict was unmistakable. He did not want to do this.
And neither did Dempsey.
‘Can’t you trust me? We know who he is, we have Frankowski. We have the upper hand. Come on, Sal. How often have we gotten through impossible situations together?’
Gallo shook his head. He believed he had won. He believed the smaller man was too injured to fight on. And in those circumstances, that made Dempsey a dead man.
When he spoke, his deep voice broke a little.
‘I cannot take that risk. That life is gone now.’
Dempsey could see that Gallo’s mind was made up. There was only one way this could end and it had to happen now.
The Italian managed just two determined steps and then he stopped, his eyes now fixed on the Glock 19 that was held rock-steady in Dempsey’s right hand.
The gun Dempsey had used to cover his sprint just minutes earlier.
The gun that had fallen beneath a car after their first collision.
The car that was now holding Dempsey upright.
Dempsey did not blink as he aimed the weapon at the centre of Gallo’s forehead.
‘You don’t need to do this, Sal. Whatever happens next, I’m going to stop him. He won’t hurt your family. I promise you that.’
Gallo shook his head.
‘The gun. It is empty. You fired too many.’
‘It’s not.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Then you’ll die, Sal. I’ve got one shot and I can’t aim to wound, not when it’s you. So please, don’t make me do it.’
‘I have no choice. The only guarantee for my family is your death.’
Gallo moved again. Fast and determined, he managed two more steps.
He would never take another.
EIGHTY
Dempsey struggled to his feet, his legs unsteady under his own weight. As he pushed his ravaged body upright, he looked down at the corpse of Sal Gallo.
He had always thought of the Italian as being so much more than a man, physically speaking. It was an opinion that had now only strengthened. Gallo had completely outmatched Dempsey, in a way no one had ever done before. Not even close.
If Dempsey had ever considered it, he would have expected to be the underdog in that particular fight, yet he was still shocked by just how wide the gulf between them had been.
It took him a full three minutes just to build the energy to stand upright. The damage Gallo had caused in their short exchange had left him literally broken. The injury to his kidney, if that was what Dempsey was feeling, made every movement an ordeal. He found himself having to steady his body against the nearest parked car, swaying as waves of nausea threatened to bring him back down.
He fought off the weakness, determined to put even the thought of it out of his mind. The sight of Sal’s corpse helped with that. It was one of the most terrible images Dempsey had seen in a life coloured by death and by loss.
More sobering right now, however, was Gallo’s betrayal. Both its speed and its cause.
Dempsey had been double-crossed before. More than once and sometimes by men who had meant even more to him than the Italian. But never before had a friendship gone from absolute trust to a fight for survival in just a matter of moments.
When Kincaid had driven into the parking garage less than ten minutes earlier, Gallo had been Dempsey’s lifeline. The one-man army on whom he could rely through whatever lay ahead. Not even a quarter of an hour later and that lifeline was dead, his very existence snuffed out by a single round to the centre of his forehead.
That turnaround alone was difficult to take, but it was made immeasurably worse by Gallo’s motive. Because unlike others in Dempsey’s past, his reasons were understandable. Gallo had done what he had done for his family. He had tried to guarantee their lives, even at the cost of his own.
