Darren Lemke - Gemini Man

Good for you, Monte.

It was about a thirty-foot drop to the ground, he estimated; a fall he could survive but not walk away from. Fortunately there was a fire escape that ran from the roof to the ground. It was pretty old but it didn’t look like it was falling apart and Henry couldn’t see any places where it had come loose. Still, there was a fair amount of rust; it was a gamble as to whether it would hold his weight.

Or he could just keep dithering until Junior Hitman caught up with him.

“Oh, hell no,” Henry muttered. He stuck his sidearm into his waistband, slung the rifle, clambered over the barrier, and climbed down the first length of the fire-escape ladder. It felt solidly attached to the stone and so did the first platform but he didn’t linger. The second platform, however, swayed as soon as he stepped onto it and he all but flung himself at the next section of ladder.

He reached the lowest platform to find that part of it had pulled out of the wall, along with the upper part of the last section of ladder, something he hadn’t been able to see from his vantage point on the roof. He was still too high up to jump without breaking something. He’d just have to move so fast the goddam thing wouldn’t have time to come apart under his weight.

The platform groaned but he made it to the ladder. Large flakes of rust on its rungs stuck to his palms, rubbed off on his shirt, fell into his hair. The ladder itself was a little shaky but it didn’t start pulling away from the building until he was halfway down.

He froze, clinging to the rusty metal while he scanned the wall in the vain hope of finding some kind of protrusion he might grab onto and pull the ladder back toward the building.

And thankfully, he found it—a bolt slightly thicker than his thumb, sticking a few centimeters out of the stone at the level of his waist. As he reached for it, the rifle slid off his shoulder and down his arm to his wrist, but he managed to grab the bolt. It didn’t give under his touch so he wedged his fingertips under the head and pulled.

The ladder tilted back against the building. Henry breathed a sigh of relief, then looked up, half-expecting to see Junior Hitman taking aim at him.

But he wasn’t there—yet.

Still holding onto the bolt and attempting to keep his weight forward on the ladder, Henry tried going down a rung. Immediately, the ladder started to lean away from the wall; at the same time, the rifle slipped from his wrist onto his hand. Henry tried to counter the movement of the ladder by pushing forward with his body. The rifle slipped farther, from the back of his hand past his knuckles to the first joints of his fingers.

Henry groaned. He could let go of the bolt, flip the rifle strap toward his wrist and then grab the bolt again, although he would have to do it fast, before the ladder could tilt backwards. But the moment he let go, the rifle slid over his fingers and dropped to the ground while the ladder leaned even farther back than before. He braced himself, thinking the ladder would yank itself free and fall to the ground as well. Then there was a dull clang and the ladder stopped short; Henry had all of a second to see that it had caught on the platform above him before he lost his grip and fell the last several feet to the ground.

His breath went out of him in a painful whoosh. Damn, he kept getting the wind knocked out of him today. At least it wasn’t another grenade. Nonetheless, it took every bit of effort in him to roll over and get to his feet. As he reached for the rifle, something zipped past his hand and kicked up some dirt. Henry didn’t bother looking up before he dove behind a mango tree. Junior Hitman, right on cue—or maybe just ever so slightly late. Two seconds sooner and the round would have gone through his chest. After a few moments, he risked taking a peek around one side of the tree.

Gunfire shredded the foliage, took chunks out of the trunk. Junior Hitman was now coming down from the roof by way of the fire escape and shooting all the while. Henry decided not to stick around to see how he managed the last ladder. As soon as there was a break in the gunfire, he vaulted over the rough-hewn stone wall behind him and landed in a cluster of bushes on the other side.

Thorn bushes, of course—was there any other kind? Henry tore himself free and ran forward, into yet another square. Damn. Squares were definitely the big thing in Cartagena, squares and cafés, Henry thought. This one was paved with red clay tiles that were surprisingly clean and bright. Henry wondered who took care of them. Maybe all the café managers—Cartagena was a tourist destination, after all. Which was no kind of a damned thing to be thinking about right now. He looked around for something, anything that might help him—

Behind him a motorcycle engine suddenly roared into life. Henry felt his heart leap as he turned to see a small cluster of bikes parked under a mango tree between two buildings. A man was sitting astride one of them, strapping on a helmet while he chatted to a woman sitting in a car beside him. In spite of everything, Henry broke into a broad grin. The colors and design told him the bike was a Honda Enduro—just what he needed. It would go from road to off-road and back without missing a beat. Henry rushed at him, ignoring the pain in his legs and his ribs and every other part of his body.

The guy was saying goodbye to the woman and preparing to roll forward when Henry leaped, planting both feet in his back and sending him over the handlebars in a clumsy somersault. The woman gave a shocked screech and grabbed Henry’s arm as the rider scrambled on the ground, shouting furiously in Spanish. He started to get to his feet, then suddenly cut off. For a moment, he goggled at Henry with an expression of fear and astonishment. Still trying to get out of the woman’s surprisingly strong grip, Henry turned to see Junior coming over the stone wall without landing in the thorn bushes, rifle in hand, and that dumb baseball cap still on his head. Henry drew the Glock and squeezed off a shot. The woman gave him a hard yank; the shot ripped through the bushes and hit the wall, well wide of the kid.

Dammit, he just couldn’t get a break, Henry thought. He twisted out of the woman’s grip, gunned the engine, and sped away.

As he flew down a narrow alley, Henry was as grateful for the Enduro’s bark busters as he was for its maneuverability. The hand guards saved the skin on his knuckles as he swerved around cars and trucks driven by people who apparently took street parking literally—i.e. stopping wherever they were. They didn’t seem to notice him zigging and zagging around them at high speed.

But now he really wished he’d paid better attention to the streets. Once he lost his lookalike assassin he wanted to get back to Baron’s, if for no other reason than to put together another burn bag. With any luck, Baron and Danny would have left for parts unknown by then so he wouldn’t be putting them in the line of fire. Although now Baron had to find somewhere else to live; Henry was going to feel bad about that for the rest of his life. Baron had made a beautiful home for himself, and he’d still have it if Henry hadn’t dragged him into his problems.

Meanwhile, it was the start of the business day in Cartagena, which meant more traffic on the streets. Even as the thought crossed his mind, Henry spotted an incline leading up to a sea wall that seemed to be as wide as a lot of the alleys he’d been through, if not wider. He just hoped every other biker in Cartagena hadn’t had the same idea. Also, that it was too early for tourists—he had a sudden mental image of people in straw hats and Bermuda shorts toppling over like bowling pins as he zoomed past them.