Search and Destroy

by James Hilton

“One last try. What has the girl got? Why do you want her so bad?”

  “Fuck you! Burn in hell. Burn in hell!”

  “Are there any more of you out here?”

  “Burn in hell!” The man repeated the fiery mantra over and over.

  Danny saw his hand feeling for the switchblade and hauled the man to his feet by the throat. “You’re going to the electric chair for this.”

  The gunman’s left hand snaked to his collar and another blade flashed, but this time Danny was ready. He pivoted into a classic combat throw. Locking his opponent’s extended elbow over his own shoulder, Danny snapped the top half of his body forward. The man was pitched bodily into the blacktop. His head and neck snapped back with a crunch of separating vertebrae as the rest of his body tumbled over in a loosening of limbs.

  Clay sauntered over and regarded the twisted body. He looked into Danny’s eyes but said nothing. Sometimes no words were required.

  “Are they both dead?” asked Andrea. She had appeared at Clay’s side.

  “As disco-dancing dodos. Serves them right for what they did to my bus.”

  “What do we do now?”

  Both men turned to look at her. She was covered in blood and dirt. Her pale-blue eyes reflected the flames licking out of the Winnebago.

  “Two choices: stay and wait for the cops, or put as much distance between us and them as possible,” Danny replied. He tapped the dead man’s face with his foot. “I thought heading for Rachel was best, but if there are more of these out there, I vote for heading south as fast as we can hustle.”

  “What about the police? Won’t they be after us as well?” Andrea asked.

  “For questioning? Definitely. But I think that once they see the video from Ryback’s car they’ll know that we weren’t the bad guys here.” Clay pointed back down the road. The red and blue lights still flashed in the distance.

  Danny touched the bloody nick on his cheek. “I’d rather explain from another state. Just in case we meet any overzealous troopers before this gets sorted out. Jail time in Nevada is no joke. Not something I’d like to sample while the lawyers duke it out.”

  “Prison? Why would we…” Andrea gripped Danny’s arm, her eyes wide with dismay.

  “Because they’d bang us up in the state pen while they sorted through all of this, just to be on the safe side.”

  “But they did this to us…”

  “We know that, but the investigation could take months,” warned Danny.

  “Years, even. These Nevada boys aren’t the quickest out of the stalls,” added Clay.

  Andrea’s expression was one of incredulous disbelief. Then she shook her head. “No, I’m not being locked up for any of this. No way! Once they see what those lunatics did, the police will understand.”

  “Yes. Eventually. That’s my point. In the mean time we’ll be wearing orange jumpsuits and hiding our valuables up our arses.”

  “But I’m English—” she turned to Danny “—and you’re Scottish, aren’t you? Are they allowed to put us in an American prison?”

  Clay laughed at her naivety. “There’s people locked up in this country for looking the wrong way at the judge. Besides—” he gestured at Danny “—we’re both half-breeds. Dual citizens. He’s just got a dumb accent.” Danny’s expression made Clay laugh louder.

  “But…”

  “But nothing; trust me, you do not want to spend any time in a Nevada clubhouse. They make Shawshank look like the Marriott.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?” asked Andrea, her face contorted with worry. “I’m just here to do a story for a magazine. Now I’m supposed to go on the lam with two men I’ve just met?”

  “Two men who’ve just killed the four men that were trying to do God knows what to you!” spat Danny. He felt the muscles in his jaw bunching in annoyance.

  “I know I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t picked me up. I know that. It’s just that this is fucking crazy.” Andrea wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m just a features journalist. Film reviews and the odd city guide, for God’s sake. I’m not an investigative reporter. I don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt me!”

  Danny relented. “He said that you had something that didn’t belong to you. Have you taken anything that you can think of… stolen anything?”

  “Stolen? I’ve never stolen anything in my life.” Andrea’s voice rose in pitch. “I never did anything to those men.”

  “Okay, look we can thrash this out later. First we better hit the road and get somewhere safe,” Danny cut in, placing a hand on her shoulder. He looked deep into her eyes, and could imagine what she saw—his face streaked with blood, probably almost as terrifying as the men they’d just killed. If she was smart she would be thankful that he and Clay were on her side.

  “So where can we go?” asked Andrea. “And how do we get there?”

  Danny pointed to the gunmen’s abandoned quad bike. “Did you ever see that old cartoon The Hair Bear Bunch?”

  Clay shared the joke and nodded. “Three on a bike, right?”

  “Not the most comfortable wheels ever, but it’ll get us on our way. We can boost a car further on down the road.” Danny dropped to one knee and rolled the dead man, relieving him of his backpack and searching through his chest webbing. “Clay, go see what the other joker has on him. We can’t carry more than two of the subs on the bike, but any extra ammo or pistols could come in handy.” As Clay walked to the other body, Danny took a Glock 37 and its holster from his dead opponent’s hip, pulled its twin from his waistband, and put both in the backpack, along with the spare ammunition and satellite phone. He pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt and tossed it to the ground, then picked up the man’s MP5K and slung it across his back with his own. Clay returned, carrying another Glock and two MP5K magazines. He was chewing a Butterfinger.

  “We should send these guys a thank-you letter for all this free hardware,” he said between bites, putting his haul into the backpack.

  “Not to mention the candy.” Danny grinned.

  “So again, where can we go?” asked Andrea. “All I have is my MacBook, for all that’s worth. I left everything else, my phone, my passport, my money…” There was a hitch in her voice. “My brother…”

  “But you’re still alive,” said Clay. “That means you’ve still got a chance to put things right.” He turned to Danny. “I say we head for Tansen’s place. He lives so far out no one will find us. It’s a long haul but he has a lot of resources. If we need to, I’m sure he could set us up to fly down to Mexico until we get this sorted.” He grinned wryly. “Let’s just hope he’s forgiven me for that incident with the bowie knife.”

  Danny grinned at his brother. “Agreed. And I think you should go up front. Be our windbreak.”

  Clay mounted the bike and revved it experimentally. “Three-quarter tank. We’re in luck.” Andrea took her place behind him, and slipped her arms around Clay’s wide torso. Finally, Danny, with the backpack and looted weapons slung over his shoulders, took up the rearmost position.

  Slowly at first, then accelerating rapidly, Clay took the road south.

  12

  Tansen Tibrikot watched the approaching car with a detached interest. Almost no one drove out to his house; at least not on purpose, and not this early. From the red stone boulder upon which he sat, he had followed the vehicle’s progress along the single-track road for most of the four miles that it stretched from the main highway. Tansen’s only regular visitors were UPS drivers, and the deep-blue saloon didn’t much look like it was in the parcel-delivery business. The morning sun provided a pleasant warmth on his back and he was loath to leave his position. The surface of the rock had been eroded by wind and rain over millennia into a natural curve that served as a perfectly comfortable seat.

  Ten minutes later the battered Honda Accord rolled to a stop next to Tansen’s own vehicle. The dirt-encrusted import looked like a thrift-store reject next to the gleaming bronze o
f the H1 Hummer.

  Tansen tipped his tan Stetson back on his head and spat out a chewed matchstick. From his vantage point he looked down on the three occupants of the car as they disembarked and approached his home. The single-storey house was built in the style of an old cattle ranch but no livestock had ever been kept there. The original nondescript building had once served as a way station for Wells Fargo Bank, but Tansen had done extensive renovation work, transforming it to resemble the idealised structures he’d seen on Bonanza and The Virginian.

  He squinted at the three figures. One was a woman he didn’t recognise, with blonde hair and a trim figure. She was clutching a rectangular padded bag, and even from a distance, Tansen recognised the expression on her face. He knew fear when he saw it. The other two he knew all too well. Clay Gunn, tall and broad, his hair close cropped. He’d have words with that cowboy. And behind him the smaller figure of Danny. He grinned. He’d first met a young Daniel Gunn while serving with the British Army as part of the Royal Gurkha Rifles, alongside the Royal Green Jackets, Danny’s regiment. The Green Jackets were skirmishers, frontline shock troops like his own Gurkha brothers. Under a blazing African sun the two men had stood together, low on ammunition, against a superior force, yet neither had backed down. Gunn had dropped target after target, choosing each shot with care. One bullet, one kill. Tansen too had made each and every shot count. Between them they had killed seventeen enemy combatants. The last two Tansen had cut down with his kukri, the fearsome curved knife carried by every Gurkha soldier. Both had held their nerve. Both had lived to fight another day.

  He slipped down the weathered rock.

  * * *

  Clay’s spirits rose as he saw Tansen approach. To a casual observer, his old friend might pass as a Native American, with his broad flat face and brown skin. But Tansen had been born and raised on the other side of the world.

  “Howdy.”

  “Right back at ya, Tan-man.” Clay stepped forward, hand extended in greeting. He stood immobile for long seconds before Tansen’s hand met his. Behind him, he heard Danny let out a held breath. Although rather portly in stature and standing no taller than five-three in his cowboy boots, both brothers knew that the man before them, when pushed, was a stone-cold killer.

  Tansen’s features softened and a smile not unlike that of the Cheshire Cat spread across his face. “You look like a bear ate you up and shit you out!”

  “Well, we’re trying for the grunge look. I hear it’s all the rage with the kids these days,” replied Clay.

  Tansen removed his hat revealing his jet-black hair, cropped short as always. “Did you bring it?”

  “No I haven’t got it with me.”

  “Shame. We could have settled it once and for all.”

  Clay shrugged. “It’s already settled in my mind. You won. I was being an ass.”

  “Yes.”

  “Call it national pride. You know how patriotic we get… and I guess Texans are the worst of all.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tansen, old buddy, we need your help.”

  The smile crept into Tansen’s deep-brown eyes. “Come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee if you want to sit awhile.” Andrea hung back as Clay and his friend went into the house, Clay’s arm slung around the shorter man’s shoulders. The older Gunn brother towered over the other man, yet Tansen’s presence easily matched that of the muscular Texan. She whispered to Danny, “Is it going to be okay?”

  “Looks like it. They just needed a minute.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Tansen, an old Gurkha friend of ours.”

  “Like in the army?” Andrea had a vague mental picture of dark-skinned men in green fatigues. “Are they the ones from Nepal?”

  “That’s right.”

  They followed the others into the house. Andrea noted that Tansen was dressed like an extra from an old Western, in dark jeans, a red check shirt with a faded leather waistcoat. Intricately embroidered cowboy boots with ornate steel caps at the end of the toes completed his ensemble. Inside, the house was a shrine to the Wild West. Dozens of vintage revolvers sat in display cases both free-standing and wall-mounted. Andrea knew very little about guns but stared with interest at the nearest weapon. The small brass plaque at the base of the weapon told her it was a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver. The barrel was the longest she’d ever seen on a handgun.

  “Tansen has got the biggest collection of Old West memorabilia that I’ve ever seen. The museum in Dallas could learn a thing or two from this man.”

  Tansen grinned appreciatively at Clay’s comment. “Best in the West…”

  Andrea smiled a hint of a smile, not knowing quite how to respond.

  “We’re sorry to land on you Tansen, but we’re in a real hole,” offered Danny.

  Tansen waved his hand to dispel the apology. “Now, who is your lovely lady friend?”

  She stepped forward. “Andrea Chambers.” She smiled, caught unawares as their host kissed her hand as she extended it to shake.

  Tansen waved for them to sit and then busied himself in the kitchen area. Minutes later he placed four steaming mugs of coffee on the table, which was made from an old wagon wheel capped with a sheet of smoked glass. The cavities between each spoke of the wheel were filled with spent bullet casings. Andrea tried not to smile, thinking of When Harry Met Sally. She thought it best not to ask if he’d gotten it from Roy Rogers’ garage sale.

  “Now then, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  Andrea sank back into the sofa as Danny told their story, letting it wash over her. Tansen did not speak until Danny was finished, only nodding occasionally, his face stoical.

  “So what can I do to help?” he asked. Andrea noticed that his Nepalese accent was hardly perceptible.

  “We need to lie low while we figure out who these guys were and just what they were after,” Danny said. “They were well trained and well equipped. I’m sure if they had just wanted to kill us and not take Andrea alive, we’d all be taking the longest dirt nap in the desert. One of the shooters said Andrea had something that didn’t belong to her but she’s got nothing.”

  “Could you have had this ‘something’ and lost it?” asked Tansen, turning his dark eyes to Andrea.

  Andrea sat up. “I really don’t know. They came out of nowhere and started shooting. They could have just pointed their guns at us and we would have given them anything they’d asked for.” The memory of Greg’s dead face made her fall silent again, her stomach churning.

  “Well, let’s look at what we know.” Tansen counted off the points on his fingers. “One: They were well trained. That probably means military or ex-military. Two: they had the latest professional equipment. That means they are well financed. Three—” he turned to Andrea again “—they killed at least three people that you had contact with, one of them a cop. And they tried to kill Clay and Danny too. So they are prepared to do anything to achieve their goal. Four: whoever went to the trouble of employing a fire team to capture you will not just give up. Whoever is behind this probably has the resources to send out more teams.”

  Andrea brushed her fingers distractedly through her dirt-encrusted hair. “I still don’t understand why this is happening to me.”

  Danny finished the dregs of his coffee. “Well, if we come across any more of these fuckers I’ll be sure to find out.”

  “You can all lie low here for as long as you need. You can get cleaned up and Danny and I will go into town and get some new clothes for you all. It’s probably best if the pair of you—” he nodded at Andrea and Clay “—stay here.” Andrea saw Tansen eye Clay’s considerable bulk and was suddenly keenly aware of her torn and dirty clothing. “You two are more noticeable.”

  Danny smiled. “Are you saying that I’m a plain Jane?”

  “No, I’m saying that people are more likely to notice beauty and the beast if they wander around in Castillo.” That made Andrea feel a little better.

  Tansen pointed the way to the bathroom, han
ding her a towel and first-aid kit. Accompanied by the steady timpani of running water, Andrea let the last of her tears fall to mingle with the blood and dirt. The water was the colour of weak tea as it swirled down the plughole. She rubbed scented shampoo deep into her hair, enjoying the smell of apples, rinsed and repeated. She examined her scrapes and cuts, which stung sharply as the hot water and shower gel made contact. The wounds on her leg and ribcage were still so painful she could barely touch them. The torn skin on her ribs was red and puckered and her leg burned in a strange numb way. After long minutes of standing immobile, head bowed, she turned off the water.

  She towelled herself dry, taking extra care around the more painful areas. She delved into the industrial-sized first-aid kit Tansen had provided and wound a new length of bandage around her leg, then added a couple of large Band-Aids to her ribs. Her thoughts crept to her parents back in England. Had the news of Greg’s death reached them yet? Probably not. How would they cope when they did hear? Her mother cried at Red Cross commercials, for God’s sake; this would break her. Maybe she could phone home and at least let them know she was still alive. She decided she would ask Tansen later.

  She didn’t want to dress in her soiled clothing but had no alternative. Everything she’d brought with her was in the rental Jeep. All she had left was her MacBook, which was probably broken anyway, and thirty bucks plus change that had been stuffed in her trouser pockets. She didn’t even have her phone, for God’s sake.

  Shit. What a nightmare. Again she found herself looking down at her countless scrapes. She would have been dead for sure if she hadn’t found the Gunn brothers. The two men had proved very resourceful.

  Yet what did she know about them? Next to nothing. They called each other brother yet Danny was clearly Scottish and Clay was Texan through and through. Even when they’d had time to talk they had not revealed much about themselves. All that she’d gleaned was that Danny had recently been in the Middle East. He hadn’t elaborated as to which country. Her journalistic instinct stirred. Maybe she’d get more information now they were safe at this strange ranch.