by James Hilton
Tansen allowed his head to sag, then answered after careful consideration. “They’re called John Wayne and Richard Widmark. I hear they’re hoping to cause a spot of trouble at some place called the Alamo.” Tansen gave Bush the widest grin he could muster. Bush stepped in close and delivered three brain-numbing slaps to Tansen’s left ear. The open-handed blows were savage and hurt more than the punches.
Tansen closed his eyes involuntarily as Bush held the tip of his knife a quarter-inch away from his right orbit. Then he reopened both eyes and stared directly at Bush.
Bush grinned. “Now that’s more like it. I think Charlie Chan here wants to cause me harm.”
The other men in the room laughed. All except Lincoln, who studied the prisoner intently.
Bush spoke again. “Look Kwai Chang, I really don’t care how long this takes. I want you to play the tough guy. Let’s see how much of a samurai you are when I cut off your balls and put them on that God-awful table over there.”
Tansen silently recited a prayer to the Hindu Lord Ganesh. Then he raised his head. “Look you ignorant shit. I’m not Chinese. I’m not Japanese. I’m Nepalese. Do you even know where that is? NEPAL! Home to eight of the world’s tallest mountains.” He paused to shake blood from his face. “I’ll tell you nothing about the men you are seeking, only that they are far better men than the ones who pursue them.”
Bush slapped him hard again, then bent down so their faces were level. “I don’t give a shit if you’re from Middle Earth. You will talk. I promise you that.”
Tansen shifted his gaze to the picture of Raj. She smiled back at him. He allowed himself a brief genuine smile, then addressed Lincoln, ignoring Bush entirely. “No. I will be dying today, but I will not be talking.”
“You Gurkhas are stubborn little bastards aren’t you?” Lincoln said matter-of-factly. He replaced his Calico in its hip sling, then nodded at Bush.
* * *
Bush rolled his neck. He was going to enjoy this. Then he stabbed down savagely into the muscle of Tansen’s right leg. The resulting scream was more a roar of animal rage than pain.
Washington levelled his weapon. “If this fucker starts to turn green I’m outta here.”
“I’ll bet this against the Hulk any day.” Roosevelt shouldered his Saiga assault shotgun.
Bush looked down at the two inches of blade that protruded from his prisoner’s lower thigh. He looked theatrically around the room, then strode over to a side table and picked up a bronze statuette of a Native American on horseback. He weighed it in his hands, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Do you have ‘knock-knock’ jokes in the high and mighty kingdom of Nepal?”
Tansen said nothing.
“Knock knock!” Bush brought the statuette down in two sharp taps on the hilt of the knife. The blade sunk in deeper. Tansen ground his teeth but stayed silent.
Roosevelt joined in. “Who’s there?”
“Bette.”
“Bette who?”
“Bet this fucker is talking within two minutes.” The two men laughed.
Bush was enjoying the interrogation. It had been years since he’d been let off the leash. Few assignments required the questioning of subjects and if they did, the government had their own specialists for the job. He knew from experience that a tortured man would say anything in order to survive, if only for a few extra minutes. The information was usually useless. But getting it was fun. Another two taps drove the knife in to the hilt. “Knock knock.”
This time Washington answered. “Who’s there?”
“Dan.”
“Dan who?”
“Dancin’s out! I can’t feel my legs!” Bush grabbed the handle of the combat knife and ripped it free. Another defiant roar.
Lincoln spoke again, his voice calm. “Who are the men with Chambers? How are they linked to the package?”
Tansen gave him a look that was half fury, half contempt. “By Ganesh, remover of obstacles, and Kali, goddess of time and death, I will see you all dead—in this life or the next!”
Bush smirked. He’d heard it all before. Another few minutes and the noodle-eater would be singing. He allowed a couple of drops of blood to fall from the tip of the Teflon-coated blade. He swung the knife like a pendulum in front of Tansen’s face, making soft tick-tock sounds with his tongue. “Ready for some more? Good.”
Lincoln’s voice was as slow as melting ice. “The names of the men?”
Bush counted to three, then stabbed the blade deep into Tansen’s right thigh muscle, careful to avoid the femoral artery. He didn’t want him bleeding out.
“Now you’re ready for some more.” He raised the statuette. “Knock knock.”
Lincoln’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered after glancing at the display, raising a hand to Bush to wait. “Kennedy? Go ahead.” A brief pause. “Negative. Let him come.” He ended the call. “We’ve got a police cruiser heading our way. ETA three minutes.” He turned to Tansen. “Anything you’d like to share?”
Tansen swallowed. “It’ll be Jimmy Walsh, the sheriff. It won’t be police business. He comes by regular.” For the first time, Tansen’s voice broke. “Don’t you hurt him.”
Lincoln’s expression didn’t change. He turned to Roosevelt and motioned towards the bathroom. “Take him in there and keep him quiet.”
Roosevelt moved behind the chair, tipped it onto its rear legs and dragged Tansen away.
“Let’s have some music,” said Lincoln.
Bush nodded and picked up the television remote. He found a music channel playing James Brown’s “Living in America” and cranked up the volume.
“Open the door an inch or two.”
Bush took up a position to the left of the door. He peered through the gap, and saw a man in a sheriff’s uniform climb out of the cruiser and make his way towards the entrance. He braced.
“Afternoon buddy, it’s Jimm—”
The greeting was cut mid-sentence as Bush pressed the barrel of his Kel-Tec PMR-30 to the man’s temple, then pulled the sheriff’s service weapon from its holster.
“Did you call in your location?” Bush asked.
The sheriff shook his head.
“Good.” Bush reversed his PMR-30 and slammed the stock of the gun into the nape of the man’s neck. Walsh went down onto all fours with a grunt. Another blow sent him fully to the ground.
“Hard-headed old goat, aintcha,” said Bush as Walsh tried to climb his way back up the furniture. “Stay down.” Another hit laid the man flat.
“Cuff him and tie his feet.” Lincoln nodded to the bathroom. “And bring him back out. We need to finish this quick.”
27
They stopped off at a shopping mall on the outskirts of Vegas. Clay purchased a basic laptop from a Walmart, and another half-hour drive south found them at the Aces High Motel. Danny affected a Texan accent as he paid for the room in cash.
“Do you have a credit card?” asked the young man behind the check-in desk.
“I’d rather not. I’m here with my—” Danny made a show of thinking about his next word “—secretary. My wife goes through my statements. You know how it is.”
The clerk, whose T-shirt declared Chet Rocks!, nodded as if he indeed knew how it was.
Danny straightened an imaginary tie, giving Chet a conspiring wink. “We’re stopping off to go through some sales figures.”
Chet smiled knowingly, and handed Danny a key. “Enjoy your sales figures.”
Danny made double finger pistols. “You know I will.”
Danny left the reception building and made his way back outside, to where the motel rooms were housed in bungalows around a central parking lot. He walked to the door of room 25, turned the key in the lock, and with a hand on the butt of his pistol, entered.
The room proved to be a clone of every other motel he’d ever seen. A queen-sized bed and a small bedside cabinet with a telephone perched on top. A television with a finger-smudged screen faced the bed, and a small circular ta
ble with two chairs sat in the corner furthest from the door. The room smelled of old food, stale smoke and pine disinfectant. The bathroom was a simple three-piece in white porcelain. A nest of old hair sat in the shower trap.
“Clear.”
Clay shouldered past him to get to the bathroom, dumping the duffle bag of looted weaponry on the bed. “Gotta go.”
Danny and Andrea shared a look of brief amusement. “Doesn’t do to get in the way of a charging Texan,” said Danny.
Andrea moved to the table. She unpacked the laptop, letting the plastic packaging fall to the floor. She turned the main unit upside down, snapped the oddly shaped battery into the rear and after turning it back to its proper position, opened the screen. She handed Danny the power cord without looking at him.
Danny smiled. He remembered learning to field strip his rifle in his days with the Green Jackets. First with eyes open, trying each time to perform the actions faster without error. Then with eyes closed, feeling the components of the weapon with dexterity and purpose. Andrea had assembled the laptop with the same determination. He unwrapped the power cord from its twist tie and poly bag and handed it back to her.
She plugged the cord in the wall and then into the laptop. “It’ll take a little while for the battery to take enough charge so we can power up.”
Clay emerged from the bathroom. He winked at his brother. “Well, that’s lightened the load a bit.”
“Too much information,” said Andrea under her breath.
“I’ll go down the street and pick up some food and drinks.” Danny slipped his pistol into his waistband and moved to the door.
“See if they’ve got any Cheetos,” said Clay.
Andrea glanced up from the USB flash drive she was inspecting. “Toothbrush and paste?”
Danny made his way back to the grocery store he’d spotted on the way to the motel. As he picked up various items from the aisles, his attention was drawn to the wall-mounted television behind the cashier’s desk. It was set to mute but the news report images were unmistakable.
The screen was filled with Clay’s burned out RV. CSIs in dark jackets with the famous three letters blocked in bright yellow moved amidst the carnage. The ground was covered with yellow evidence markers. Officer Ryback’s picture sat in the top left of the screen as a suited detective gave his professional “no comment at this time” routine. Another scene, more CSIs, two more sheet-covered bodies. The police had connected two of the crime scenes, found all four hitmen. There were no shots of the rental Jeep that Andrea had described, so it appeared that her brother and his partner hadn’t been found yet. That was good—the police wouldn’t be looking for her. A new image flashed up along with a BREAKING NEWS banner and Danny stopped in his tracks. His brother’s driver’s licence photograph, then a shot of Clay in his Rangers uniform.
Danny paid for the supplies. The cashier was an elderly Asian woman dressed in an old-fashioned floral jumpsuit. He nodded at the television. “Helluva thing. I don’t know what this country is coming to.”
The old woman gave him a smile and nodded. Danny pointed to the screen. “You ever seen anything like it?”
The woman gave him a blank stare. “Rambo 3?”
Danny didn’t know what else to say.
* * *
Andrea looked up in alarm when the motel room door opened, then was instantly relieved to see Danny, a grocery bag under his arm. Clay sat next to her on the end of the bed, and he nodded at his brother before pointing at the news show on the television.
“I know.” Danny set down the bag of groceries on the table. “That means we have to assume the second team will know soon enough, too.”
“They’ve got my driver’s licence. Traced the plates from the RV, no doubt. I don’t know how they got a hold of my old service picture so quick though.”
Andrea’s voice was flat. “Google. You just search on Google Images. Has the picture ever been used on the news or a social networking site?”
“Well I’m not on Facebook, if that’s what you mean.” Clay paused. “I was on the news when Diana was killed. They showed a few pictures of us. I think they may have used my service portrait then.”
“That’ll be it. Once it’s out there, it’s out there for ever.” Andrea rubbed the USB drive between her thumb and forefinger like a lucky coin. “Still no mention of Greg or Bruce.”
“No.” Danny had nothing else to offer.
Andrea moved to the laptop and powered it up. The brothers began to spread the food out on the nearest bed.
“Cheetos!” Clay sounded like he’d won a prize.
“I got some subs and fruit as well.” Danny unwrapped a ham salad sub, a full twelve inches long. He tore it in two halves and worked his way through the first. “Andrea. Food.”
She looked at the Scotsman. “I don’t feel much like eating. Too nervous at what’s on this drive.”
“You should eat now, while we have time. Don’t know when our next meal might be.”
Clay agreed, touting his family-sized bag of snacks by way of encouragement. “Damn right.”
“A wise man once told me, when you’re in the middle of it, eat when you can, sleep when you can and shit when you can. ’Cos there may be no time later.”
Clay held up a finger thoughtfully. “Sun Tzu, The Art of War?”
“Jason Statham, Art of Being a Mean Mother-trucker.”
“Deep.”
“Indeed.”
Andrea smiled despite the knots in her stomach. She picked an apple and a can of Sprite from the assortment. It wasn’t diet but given the situation she decided to risk it. They shared the moment, three friends eating their chosen food group. The silence made her think of Greg. The late night snack-attacks. Junk food and beer, talking about their day, their hopes and dreams, jokes, opinions… The mouthful of apple proved hard to swallow. A long pull on the soda helped.
She wiped her mouth and moved to the table. “Laptop’s ready.” She took a seat in front of the screen, Danny and Clay standing either side. She inserted the flash drive into the USB port. Two mp4 video icons appeared.
She clicked on the first.
The grainy picture showed what looked like a basement, with no visible windows or doors. The camera panned slowly to the left. A tall pole with a single wire-protected bulb illuminated the area. By the convergence of two pools of light, she assumed there was a second lighting pole out of shot to the right. The video footage was clearly old. A date in the corner of the screen stated 03-07-94, the numerals white blocks; this must have been filmed on an old VHS camcorder.
The light shifted, illuminating one side of the room, the wall made of stark grey breeze blocks stained with patches of damp. A low ceiling with evenly spaced wooden beams was visible, a series of thick chains hanging motionless from the beams. Voices drifted in from off camera. The words were muffled and coarse and the resulting laugh was tinny in quality but clear. The light shifted again, as if someone off screen were dragging the crude lighting pole forward into a more advantageous position. The camera pivoted again. The bright arc now cast its glare over a scene that made Andrea grit her teeth with dread.
A young woman was secured to a bare metal bedstead. She appeared to be in her early twenties, slightly plump, and she would have been pretty if her face had not been contorted with fear. Her dark-brown hair was in disarray, and sweat beaded her face. She was naked apart from a stained pair of once white panties. Her wrists were bound with fencing wire, wound four or five times then twisted into an unbreakable spiral. Her arms were tethered above her head. Her ankles were likewise bound, her legs stretched out at angles to each corner of the metal frame. A red stained cloth cut into her face, acting as a gag. The lower half of her face was slightly distorted as the rag stretched her mouth into an unnatural shape. Dark rings had formed below her eyes where her mascara had run. Her upper lip was darkened with dried blood.
“I don’t think I can watch this.” Andrea’s voice seemed small and distant.
>
Clay put a hand on her shoulder. “This is probably what got your friend and his wife killed. And whoever ordered their deaths also hired the kill squads to deal with you. You need to watch.” His words made sense but that didn’t make them any easier for her to hear.
The image momentarily changed to a blurred white as a man stepped into view. The camera refocused gradually as he walked slowly towards the tethered woman. Her screams were dulled by the restrictive gag but her eyes were stark and bloodshot with terror. The camera zoomed in on them; clearly the camera operator wanted to capture her fear.
Clay spoke. “At least two men. One to operate the camera and the one on screen.”
The man moved to the top of the bed. He bent and said something in the woman’s ear. The words were too low for the camera’s audio to pick up. Whatever was said sent her into a desperate convulsion. The skin at her wrists and ankles appeared stretched to tearing point as she sought to free herself. The man patted her head, patronising, as an adult would calm an overexcited child.
The man took one of the dangling chains that hung from the ceiling beams in his hands. He pulled down and the top of the bed rose slowly from the floor. The small block and tackle unit squeaked as he worked the action. The man moved with a leisurely pace. He was in no hurry. The woman’s head turned away from the camera as she and the bed were pulled inch by inch into an upright position.
The man turned to the camera, hands on hips, posing. He gave a casual wave to his future viewers. He wore only trousers and boots. His upper body was bare. His arms, shoulders and back told of an athlete. His were not the oversized muscles of a body-builder. His physique was more akin to that of a seasoned oarsman or professional boxer. Toned, tight and precise.
But the effect of his flat stomach and taut muscles was offset by the mask that covered his face.
“Jesus Christ…” Andrea’s voice trailed off. She felt the Gunn brothers tense either side of her. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped several degrees.
The masked face smiled directly into the camera. A lecherous, sick and deadly smile. It was an anthropomorphic combination of animal and human qualities covering the man’s entire head, with only his piercing blue eyes and lower jaw exposed. Gnarled horns curled like those of a ram, the “skin” of the mask etched with folds and wrinkles, each one overlapping and blending with the next. The colouring was a mottled green/grey around the eyes and brow while below it resembled a port wine stain. The nose was wide and cruel, somehow simian and lupine at once. Random needle teeth dotted the upper jaw.