by James Hilton
The masked man pursed his lips and blew a kiss, then moved towards his prisoner. He was clearly enjoying her terror. The man behind the camera began to sing. His voice was low and slightly out of tune. “I faaaaall to pieces…”
The masked man turned, his mouth twisting in irritation.
“Each time I see you again…”
The resulting hiss from between clenched teeth silenced the song.
The masked man turned back to the woman and produced a wide-bladed butcher’s knife from behind his back. He angled the blade so that it reflected bright spots from the pole-mounted lights. The woman’s eyes bulged as he loomed closer, exaggerating each small movement for maximum effect. Then in contrast to his slow theatrical posturing, he executed three rapid slashes with the butcher’s knife, catching her just above the top of her underwear. The soft skin of her stomach split. She arched her body backwards into the wire springs of the near vertical bed frame, making them creak in protest.
The masked man plunged his hand deep into the crimson gash that gaped in the woman’s lower abdomen. He withdrew his hand, a bloodied coil of intestine stretching far from the wound. There was a joyful laugh from behind the camera.
28
“Any more visitors due?” Lincoln’s tone was weary. Tansen shook his head. Lincoln pointed to the picture of Raj. “That your wife?”
“Yes.”
“She coming back any time soon?”
“No. She’s dead.”
“She will be if she shows up here unannounced,” Bush smirked.
Tansen craned his neck to see where Jimmy lay on the floor. The sheriff was coming round. Blood had formed a viscous covering over his upper lip. A crimson bubble formed at his nose as he strained to control his breathing.
Bush hefted his combat knife, cutting the air with an audible zip. He then handed it to one of the other men.
“Here, Roosevelt. Enjoy.”
Roosevelt moved close to Tansen, and whispered in a mock conspiratorial manner. “I wonder if Deputy Dawg here is up to hearing many knock-knocks?”
“He doesn’t know anything. He couldn’t give you answers if he wanted to.” Tansen spoke through gritted teeth, ignoring the taste of copper in his mouth.
“I know he can’t tell me what I want to know, but I’m wondering how long you can keep your mouth shut once I start cutting off his fingers.” Roosevelt took a single threatening step towards the sheriff.
Sheriff Walsh, known to many in Castillo as simply Jimmy, spat out bloody saliva that covered the toes of Roosevelt’s Gore-Tex boots. “Tell them nothing. They’re going to kill us anyway.”
There was silence. Lincoln broke the moment by a single word to Roosevelt. “Proceed.”
“Tell you what, seeing as you’ve been a sport with my buddy’s jokes, I’m going to give you a two-for-one special.”
The knife bit deep into Tansen’s deltoid muscle, jarring against the bones in his shoulder. The pain was so severe that the Gurkha felt his consciousness momentarily desert him as the blade withdrew. He snapped back to full awareness as Jimmy filled the room with his own howls of pain. Roosevelt left the knife protruding from Walsh’s arm. “How many knock-knocks has the old boy got in him?”
Tansen considered his next words carefully. “The men helping the girl are regular Joes. They caught your guys off guard and got lucky. The bigger of the two caught a bullet and is in a poor state. He’ll be needing medical treatment pretty damn quick or he’ll be finished.”
“And?” Lincoln prompted.
“The other guy is an ex-con. He can pick your pocket with the best of them but he’s no threat.”
Bush rubbed his jaw. “He’s full of shit. The smaller guy has training. He’s good with hand-to-hand and firearms.”
Roosevelt made a show of looking disappointed. Then he kicked the hilt of the knife. Walsh writhed and began to hyperventilate, trying desperately to draw oxygen into his strained lungs. Tansen struggled against his bindings. “Help him! He has angina for Christ’s sake!” The men looked on impassively. Walsh managed only one word before his ragged intakes of breath ceased.
“No!”
Tansen Tibrikot watched the last spark of life drain from his friend’s rheumy eyes. A tear traced a path down Walsh’s face before mingling with the congealing blood around his mouth. Insurmountable rage built in Tansen’s core. The wash of adrenalin that coursed through his body numbed the pain in his injured limbs. Before that moment he had quietly accepted the inevitability of his death; it was his last moments of life that he now chose to spend differently. In one huge desperate burst of energy he rammed down with his legs. Bracing his chest, arms and back, he drove himself upright. The frame of the chair fractured into a loose tangle of wood and wire. With his arms and legs effectively hobbled, he jumped forward and clamped his teeth down on the only target that presented itself.
* * *
Roosevelt was bending to retrieve the knife from the dead sheriff’s body when Tansen’s jaws closed over his nose and a portion of his upper lip. Caught off balance, he toppled over the corpse with the prisoner on top of him. He tried to push the man away but the suffocating grip on his face held fast. They sprawled and thrashed, faces locked together, one man grabbing wildly at the other. Tansen’s fingers scrabbled at the pouches on Roosevelt’s belt. Something popped loose.
Bush drew his pistol but as he was about to put a bullet into the prisoner he received an unexpected boot in the knee. The pistol bucked in his hand and the round punched a hole into the sheriff’s back.
Roosevelt rolled on top of the Gurkha and began to punch at his throat, effectively blocking the remaining Presidents from taking a shot. Tansen managed to free one of his hands and brought it to his quarry’s neck in a savage motion. Roosevelt fell back, his nose all but ripped from his face. A long sliver of wood from the back of the chair now protruded from his throat just below his left ear.
Washington and Lincoln both had their weapons levelled and ready but it was Bush, from a closer position, that fired first. The bullet punched deep into Tansen’s chest, catching him high in the right pectoral. Another round smashed through his clavicle, the collarbone no match for the parabellum round.
As Bush centred on the Gurkha’s face, a cylindrical object rolled towards him. He screamed out a single word. “Grenade!”
The blast shattered the windows into a thousand flying shards of glass. Bodies were flung back. Lincoln and Washington had both launched themselves behind the couch, which provided meagre cover but did save their lives. Bush had made a desperate dive, skidding on his stomach into the kitchen. The blast had propelled him head first into the corner of a kitchen unit.
Lincoln struggled to his feet, the ringing in his ears hardly bearable. He pulled a triangle of glass from his scalp. He looked around the room for his Calico, then realised he was still holding it. The room smelled of fire and brimstone and death.
Lincoln walked over to the remains of Roosevelt. Strips of blackened flesh flapped where his face had been. The Gurkha was gone.
Washington joined his team leader.
“Shit.”
29
Clay rose as Andrea peered around the motel bathroom door.
“I can’t watch any more.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve heard of snuff films… but I thought they were just urban legends. This is murder.”
Clay nodded. “This is some serious business.” He looked at Danny. “I know someone that can help us disappear while we decide what to do. It’s time to get out of town.”
“Disappear? Where are we going?” asked Andrea.
“I know a guy in the Keys who can help us. He runs a private charter company out of Florida. He’s got a few small jets and twin props. He used to run guns and weed back in the day. But he’s mellowed.”
Danny frowned slightly. “Do I know him?”
“No, but he’s a good friend. He’ll get us out of here and off the radar in no time. We can watch the sunset in Key West w
hile we figure this all out. I’ll call him now.”
Clay walked out of the hotel room, pulling his Motorola from his pocket and dialling a number. Three minutes later he was back. Andrea was still looking green. “It’s sorted, but we’ve got an hour to kill before we head to the airport. Care to take a walk? Danny-boy can watch the rest of the video.”
Clay held the door open for her, then shared a brief look with his brother. He knew better than most that Danny could detach himself from horrors on the screen. Almost like the way a mortician would view a mangled corpse, an unpleasant but necessary part of the job. Although they shared the urge for justice, the younger Gunn could hold the vendetta spirit far longer than any Sicilian could dream of. Many Texans were known for their supposedly stubborn ways, yet Clay felt Danny was capable of wrath of almost biblical proportions when suitably aggrieved. The glower in his eyes and the thrust of his jaw was a look that he’d only witnessed on a couple of previous occasions. Neither of which had ended well for the target of his brother’s anger.
* * *
Andrea heard the video begin playing again as soon as Clay closed the door to the motel room.
Outside, she took a long slow breath. She shuddered, trying to rid her mind of the terrible images she’d just seen. The Nevada sun burned above and she felt its searing effect immediately.
“Can we go and get a drink somewhere?”
“A drink drink?” asked Clay, tipping an imaginary glass.
“Yes, a real drink. I could do with one right about now.”
“Damn, woman. I’m liking you more and more. I noticed a bar two blocks over.”
The walk helped steady Andrea’s nerves, but there was a part of her that was sure she’d never be able to feel completely safe again. Especially after what she’d just seen. Clay seemed to read her thoughts, and when he slipped his arm around her shoulders there was no sexual charge to the act. It felt like a big brother looking out for his sister. Andrea let her arm snake around his waist as he pulled her close. They walked the rest of the way without speaking.
The bar had a central door flanked by two plate-glass windows. Neon signs in flickering red and blue told potential customers that both Bud and Miller were served, like there were many bars that didn’t offer those American staples. Above the door, a curved sign declared that Ronnie’s Bar had been open since 1985. In Vegas that just about qualified as an historical site.
The barman looked up as they seated themselves at the long counter. He was no more than thirty with black hair that hung in floppy curtains over his forehead. He flashed a pleasant smile and poured two beers as requested. They drank them quickly, without speaking. Clay ordered another round and scanned the room. There were only three other customers. A man in a fluorescent vest sat at the other end of the bar, his face and forearms deeply tanned from outdoor labour. The other two patrons looked to be a couple. The man was short and overweight. He looked like he spent a lot of time in places like Ronnie’s. The woman with him was much better looking. She gave Clay a quick appraisal and Andrea an envious half smile.
“I still can’t believe it. Shit like this doesn’t happen to nobodies like me.” Andrea took a long pull on her beer.
“Two things: shit like this does happen, and you’re not a nobody.”
“I’m screwed. My brother murdered in front of me. My friends murdered in London. I’m on the run with you two to God knows where, and now we’ve got footage of some maniac slaughtering a girl in a Fritzl basement.”
Clay turned in his seat and held her gaze. “Look Andrea, I won’t pretend this is an easy fix. It isn’t. We need to keep moving and stay off the radar as much as possible. If it helps any, I’ve never seen a situation that Danny and I couldn’t turn around and use against the bad guys.”
“And that’s another thing; how does Danny know how to do the things you say he can do? And more importantly why does he?”
“I’ll answer the how first. He knows how to do what he does because he’s a tenacious little shit who was born in the wrong century. He believes in a code of honour. You know he was a soldier, but that’s not it. He learned to shoot and fight in the army but most of what he does comes from in here.” Clay tapped his head then his chest, over the heart. “There’s something inside him that won’t let him back down. He’s intense, but even if he wasn’t my brother he’d still be my best friend.”
“So is he some kind of vigilante?”
“Not in the way you mean. He doesn’t cruise Gotham City looking for criminals or any of that crap. But he will do everything in his power to put right what he thinks is wrong. Men like him are called ‘fixers’.”
“And he fixes the bad guys, right?”
Clay raised his glass in salute. “He fixes them good.”
“So why does he do it?”
“He’s just got something inside him that won’t let him sit by. He sometimes gets paid for jobs but most of the stuff he’s done is out of his own warped sense of justice.”
Andrea grinned. “I’m glad he’s on our side.”
“So am I.” Clay looked deep into her eyes, holding her gaze. “So am I.” He drained his beer. “Come on, time to go.”
The flirtatious woman made a show of smiling provocatively at Clay as they stood to leave. Her male companion turned angrily. After seeing the Texan he turned back to his drink without challenge.
“I bet you get that a lot,” said Andrea, blinking as they stepped out of the bar into the sunshine.
“Get what?”
“The look that the Lycra princess in there was giving you.”
Clay shrugged. “I do okay, I guess. A lot of the girls are put off by these.” He ran his fingers over the scars on his face.
“Their loss if they can’t see past a few war wounds.” Andrea scowled at the imaginary females in question.
“I’m used to it now. They see someone as big as me with a scarred face and they think ‘desperado’.”
“They’re hardly disfiguring. If your hair was a bit longer you would hardly see the one on your forehead.”
Clay gave another dismissive shrug.
“How did you get that one?” Andrea ran a finger down the narrow white line that began at Clay’s right eye and continued down to the corner of his mouth.
“I was working as a bouncer at a bar in Austin. I went to put a guy out for getting too fresh with the ladies. He was only a little guy but he had a straight razor hidden up his sleeve. My fault for not paying attention.” Clay shook his head in self-admonishment. “Never made that mistake again.”
* * *
Danny opened the motel room door upon hearing two sharp taps near the base, then positioned himself behind the door. One look at Clay and Andrea, and he put down the pistol he’d been holding.
The screen of the laptop was showing the Windows logo. Andrea gave the screen a sideways glance. “Horrible.”
Danny nodded. “It is. But remember, there are two mp4s on the drive—the other one is quite different. Your reporter friend, he did most of the work for us. I think we can use this.”
He tapped the touch-pad and the screen displayed two videos paused side by side. The left-hand one was clearly a still from the torture video. The masked man was turned, with most of his back to the camera. A puckered semi-circular scar was clearly visible. It looked at first glance like a shark bite. The curving scar ran from the base of his shoulder blade to the waist of his trousers.
“Quite distinctive,” said Danny. He then pointed to the right-hand still. A handsome man with thick dark brown hair and a strong chin. He was dressed in expensive board shorts and was surrounded by smiling children in swimsuits and sportswear. The man had his back turned and was looking over his shoulder in a candid pose.
“Look.” Danny pointed to the faded scar on the man’s back. “Pretty sure that this is the same guy maybe fifteen years on. Just to be sure, look at the moles at the top of his arm.” Danny pointed out the three blemishes that formed an isosceles triangle
on the subject’s right deltoid muscle.
Clay squinted at the screen. The two pictures displayed the same scar, the same geometry of moles. “Fucker, they are the same.”
“Now all we have to do is put a name to this guy.”
“Any ideas how?” asked Andrea. She stared at the unmasked face. “He looks vaguely familiar.”
“Well, your reporter friend—”
Andrea looked pale. “Jeremy. His name was Jeremy Seeber.”
Danny nodded. “Jeremy thought the man is or was a government minister. That must mean he’s British. I was just about to start googling the details from the second video.”
“Which are?” asked Andrea. She sat on the end of the bed and stared with contempt at the smiling face on screen.
“It’s a local BBC News report on a charity event—a London school raising money for a new swimming and sports centre. The guy with the scar was one of the celebrities enlisted to help with the fundraiser. The fact that he’s a politician means it will have been well publicised. I’ve never met one that didn’t like mugging it for the camera.”
“Doesn’t it say who he is?”
“No. He’s just in the background, no interview, no specific reference to him on the voiceover.”
“Damn.”
Clay laughed. “You said it.”
“So once we find out his name, we send the video files to CNN, right?” said Andrea. “Once he’s exposed, he’s finished and this will all be over.”
Danny tilted his head. “Let’s find out what we can on this guy; then we’ll figure out what to do and how best to handle it.”