Scorpio's Lot (120 page)

In the lucid stillness of the subterranean
world they heard a sudden noise that gave the impression of something being
dropped on a blue-stone corridor. There was a series of repetitive taps that
progressively became slower and finally fell silent. The echoing acoustics
implied stone being dropped on stone. Martin signaled to his compatriot in the
general direction of noise - their approach should be from opposite ends of the
passageway to minimise the enemy’s escape.

~ * ~

Determined
to maintain his accelerated pace, the Scorpio cohort had successfully ventured
one minute into reaching his objective. The air compressor was no more than one
intersecting corridor away. With each progressive step he grimaced in pain when
pressure was applied to the right leg. Time and the ability to remain undetected
had become paramount. He was acutely aware of his deception in throwing a stone
to the far end passageway that had momentarily diverted the Traffik pair. But
for how long could his charade maintain its trickery?

Forever forward he pushed,
punishing the body to the extreme with this newfound speed. His leg screamed of
unimaginable pain and was badly in need of rest and medical attention. He threw
a further stone to confuse his pursuers. As he turned his one last corner, the
hunted man could finally see an idle compressor resting up ahead.

~ * ~

The
Traffik thugs maintained their unrelenting pursuit. Both men were determined
not to leave empty-handed. Dave’s torch shone down on the loose stone that had
successfully worked its deception. Martin brought up the rear to inspect his
colleague’s discovery. They knew immediately their adversary had given them the
slip. So where had the son of a bitch disappeared to? The code of silence was
promptly dropped.

‘Can’t be far with a bullet in
his leg,’ Dave suggested.

‘We’ll start looking over -’
Martin was cut short by the sound of a compressor starting its laborious
beating sound.

‘Got the bastard! He won’t get
more than fifty metres from that machine. Make sure ya gun’s loaded.’

Martin and Dave were now in a
desperate frame of mind. Quickly they rushed toward the compressor with their
torches ablaze. If they returned empty-handed they would incur the full brunt
of Indigo’s raging antics. They had to present the elusive Piedpiper to their
awaiting leader. Excuses would mount to disciplinary measures if they were to
fail. Grudgingly Martin acknowledged the re-ignition of the compressor was a
clever ploy in distraction. Sensing the noise element would contribute to the
confusion and ultimately, assist with the felon’s escape, he quickly had to
find the stop button. Both men tore down the corridor, but were mindful their
adversary held the element of surprise.

The sight of the air compressor
had now come into view. Torches remained switched on to brighten an otherwise subdued
light. Whilst portable and commercial in appearance, the mechanical device was
quite a sizable unit, possibly producing in excess of 100hp where air was
compressed by either rotary or centrifugal operation. An elongated cylindrical
storage tank sat on a heavy-duty trolley, complete with four large metal wheels
that looked distinctly out of proportion. A cogwheel and wide belt positioned
high side, together with dryers, after-coolers and supply lines provided the
finishing touches. Martin wondered what purpose a compressor could possibly
serve Scorpio. Perhaps it was intended for cleaning, atomising or with
pneumatic tools in mind? He dismissed the likelihood of mining or tunneling,
given the immediate expanse of network.

Following a rotation of the compressor,
a conspicuous red button was finally located far side. Martin pressed the knob.
The mechanics immediately responded with their wind-down procedure. Silence
finally reigned again and they could recommence their search and find the
blighter for Indigo’s amusement.

The subterranean world at hand
was no different. Narrow corridors still intersected their larger counterparts,
where passageways gave way to occasional galleries and recessed chambers.
Communication for now would be strictly carried out by sign language. A quiet
and methodical approach was necessary. All was dead still as the Traffik pair
tried in vain to detect the slightest sound. Nothing stirred. Not even the echo
of water droplets could be heard in this vast and oppressive existence.

Martin thought about where the
man might hide. His options would be limited given their close pursuit and the
fact that the compressor had only commenced its operation some half minute
earlier. Logic told him the man’s refuge must be close at hand. A circular
network of eight corridors led from the central gallery housing the compressor.
Martin’s opinion was conclusive, for the man had to be hiding in one of these
passageways. Time didn’t permit for a greater distance with his apparent
handicap. The pair commenced their surveillance of each subsequent artery,
anxious to capture but mindful he still carried a gun.

Up and down each tunnel they
searched. Suddenly they heard a short but distinct sound up ahead. Dave pointed
to the direction of the source. The noise indicated a position around thirty
paces from where they stood. Unmistakably within the same corridor, the hunted
man had become clearly uncomfortable with their relentless advances. Torches
lit the passageway indicating a distance of fifty metres. A narrow side aisle
could be seen about midway. Shallow, recessed chambers were periodically
positioned every twenty steps and located both sides. No human outline could be
detected.

Following a series of hand
signals, Dave quickly and quietly slipped around the passageway block to enable
his approach to be made from the far end. With both exits of the subdued lit
corridor now controlled, they cautiously closed in toward the source. The
assumption suggested their adversary resided in one of two chambers. They
maintained their sign language but Martin suddenly signaled to stop. He
withdrew a cigarette lighter from his pocket, indicating to his accomplice that
he was about to throw it toward him. The sound landing on a stone floor would
make a startling and abrupt noise, possibly arousing the man into exposing his
whereabouts.

He threw the cigarette lighter.
Movement could be heard up ahead. A slight shuffle of feet gave the impression
there was a rearrangement of position following the sharp distinct sound. With
the Scorpio assassin moving around the recessed statue to improve his
camouflage, Martin caught the partial outline of the man holding a gun. Wearing
a balaclava, the fugitive appeared to be clutching his arm, suggesting he was
possibly carrying a further injury of some sort. Perhaps he’d fallen over in
his attempt to seek a quick refuge? Their two-way directional assault would now
have considerable advantage. With their nemesis only some ten metres away to
the left, Martin and Dave pounced.

A barrage of open fire was
immediately released by the fugitive to fend off his advancing foe. So intense
was the delivery, the Traffik duo quickly scrambled to the safety of the
recessed chambers. Their reaction in exchanging gunfire was distinctly slow,
made more difficult by Indigo’s direct order to bring him back alive.
Unexpectedly the fugitive’s Smith and Wesson jammed, its firing mechanism
refusing to release the intended ammunition. Realising the .38 calibre weapon
was now useless, he threw it down, narrowly missing Dave stepping forward from
a side chamber. Retreating via the side aisle, the Scorpio felon was now
desperate.

The Traffik pair now considered
the man to be defenceless, unless a knife was to suddenly manifest itself.
Martin and Dave were closing in, effectively forcing their archenemy to return
to the gallery. They observed the man continued to carry a limp, a major
hindrance in the context of things and undoubtedly a serious liability if he
chose to make a run for it.

Returning to the nearby gallery,
the man hobbled across to where the air compressor stood. No sooner had he
arrived than his assailants scurried through the same entry. On seeing the
Scorpio leader stand behind the sizable and now silent machine, the Traffik
pair slowed their pace and approached the man with caution. They were wary of
the fugitive still possessing a second gun. Martin and Dave stared at their
hooded adversary. Was this a trap of some kind? A compressor hardly qualified
as a means of defence. Martin issued the long-awaited directive.

‘Drop your weapons and step
forward with hands on your head!’

The Scorpio criminal immediately
looked across his shoulder. He made no effort to cooperate. Only two options
could be considered. Either he surrendered to face the humiliation and ominous
wrath of Indigo, or he risked the apparent threat and fight to the death. His
instinct dictated the latter.

Cautiously Martin and Dave
approached the man from either side. Within two arm lengths of securing their
runaway, the hooded criminal suddenly produced a knife and let out a
heartrending howl. He conceded his game was finally at an end.

Martin moved swiftly to secure
the arm holding the blade. He immediately realised that his adversary had
suicidal intentions. The struggle was intense. Despite his apparent injuries,
the shorter enemy was extremely strong and it required Dave’s intervention to
curb the downward thrust. Reminiscent of some arm-wrestling contest, the blade
descended close to the man’s heart, only to be then withdrawn with considerable
resistance from the Traffik pair. The seesawing effect fluctuated in
synchronous rhythm, at times coming precariously close to the man taking his
life. With the test of strength taking forever to maintain its status quo,
Martin threw a punch causing the desired effect. The knife was released and
thrown to one end of the gallery. A second and equally loud howl followed,
possibly more out of frustration in being denied hara-kiri.

Finally the elusive runaway was
brought under control. The man’s arms were placed behind his back and a thick
cable tie was then secured to both wrists. Martin decided to leave the
balaclava in place, realising this was Indigo’s territory to unveil. He
envisaged his leader to overindulge in the usual theatrics. Their captive then
unexpectedly roared his disapproval.

‘You deprived me of my final
wish!’

‘What, and deny Indigo the
pleasure of your company? Never!’

‘You bastards!’

‘Back to the main gallery, now,’
Martin ordered pushing his captive forward, ignoring the leg injury.

As a gesture of torment Dave
reignited the air compressor as they departed the room. The slow return walk
was without incident. Martin in particular saw to that. He didn’t underestimate
his prisoner, whose credentials were widely recognised by the fraternity. The
man had, after all, headed a regional operation, was quite possibly handy in
the art of self-defence and was definitely no fool. This was a prize catch and
one that Traffik would relish over given Indigo’s lust for revenge.

~ * ~

Their
sudden arrival brought an instant response of jubilation from Indigo. The
remaining attendance simply stared at the hooded captive, wondering whose
identity lay beneath the mask. His stature was of stocky build bordering
muscular in definition. Standing at around five-seven, his limited skin
exposure suggested a dark-olive complexion of possibly southern European
descent. He was brought to the centre of the gallery, placed before Indigo and
Arthur Simpson and instructed to remain standing. The Traffik leader commenced
his theatrics.

‘So, who lurks from behind the
three-hole hood? Perhaps Cosa Nostra, the Black Hand, or maybe my elusive
adversary? Off with his sock and let’s expose this son of a bitch!’ he taunted.

Ivan commenced to peel back the
tight-fitting balaclava. Its removal was more difficult than anticipated, for
as if like a second skin, the process could only gradually uncover the face.
Finally and with sufficient material to take a decent handful, he forcefully
pulled off the remaining part to reveal the man’s identity. The initial
response came from behind Indigo. It was a scream of disbelief released by
Martha Kellett.

‘Noooo ... no it can’t be!’ she
bellowed with her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

I looked on the man in utter
shock. Sam Vaccaro, Martha’s resident gardener-cum-handyman. How could this be?
He was a kindly and humble soul who was always willing to help Emily with the
garden chores.

Indigo was growing impatient with
the audience’s reaction. Being anxious to resolve the million-dollar question,
he turned to Arthur.