He froze at the door between the hall and the kitchen and stared open-mouthed at the back door. It hung open, swinging gently back and forth in the breeze he’d felt a second ago. A pane of glass in the door was shattered. They hadn’t even needed to kick the door in, just break the glass, reach in and turn the key. From the basement he might not have heard it even without all the noise he was making.
It didn’t make him feel any better.
He held his breath, cocked his head. Nothing. Not a creak of worn floorboards flexing as someone walked carefully over them, not even the restless groans of an old house. From where he was standing he could see out into the yard, saw a familiar dark shape. Last time he’d seen it, he’d stood on its hood and kicked one of Vasiliev’s men full in the face. In a least worse-case way, he was relieved it was them and not Floyd and his dog—until he remembered McIntyre’s left hand, the dressing where his finger should have been.
He smelled stale cigarette smoke before he heard the soft footfall behind him.
You don’t often get a warning like that. He didn’t waste it. He ducked, threw himself to the side, into the wall, as a massive fist whistled past his ear into the door frame. The whole house shook. Rebounding off the wall, he spun around in one movement. He saw a strapped-up nose, bloodshot eyes—the guy Narvaez had head butted. Vasiliev’s man, Anton. His body was twisted away, his side exposed, as he yelped in pain and shook his hand wildly in the air.
Evan drilled a vicious right hook into his exposed kidney, felt the bottom rib crack, followed it up with a left before the first grunt was out of his mouth. Anton staggered forwards into the door frame, his knees giving way. Evan grabbed the wrist of his rapidly swelling hand and jammed his fingers into the crack between the door and the frame on the hinge side, slammed the door shut.
Anton screamed and tried to pull his fingers out. Evan hauled on the door handle with all his weight, heard and felt bones cracking, joints popping. If he didn’t hate McIntyre with such a passion he’d have dedicated those fingers to him in memory of his lost pinkie.
Anton was twisted away from him, flailing backwards at him with his left. Evan ducked the flying fist with ease. He had to do something, and do it soon. He couldn’t hold the door on his fingers all day until the other one turned up—wherever he might be. Through the gasps of pain as Evan crushed his fingers to a pulp, the guy yelled a name—Mikhail—then shouted it again, louder.
Mikhail’s answering shout came from the other side of the door. He’d been outside. Now he was in the kitchen. The door handle turned in Evan’s grip as it was grabbed from the other side. Mikhail was strong and he was fresh. The door pulled open a fraction. Evan couldn’t hold it much longer. On the other side Mikhail had both hands on the handle, his feet dug in, leaning backwards. Any second now Anton’s trapped fingers would burst free. The hand wouldn’t be a lot of good. Still, they’d have three good hands between the two of them. He’d be caught between them, nowhere to run.
He let go of the door handle.
On the other side, Mikhail flew backwards across the kitchen with a surprised yelp as the pressure he was pulling against disappeared. He hit the kitchen table and tumbled over it, arms windmilling as he tried to stay upright. His feet skidded and went out from under him. The back of his head slammed into the hard, sharp edge of the kitchen cabinet with a bone-jarring thump. The piled-up pots and pans and dishes on the counter tumbled down onto his head, dirty water and leftover food spilling into his hair and eyes.
In the hall, Anton staggered the other way as his fingers popped free, stumbling towards the open door to the basement. Evan lunged at him, got both hands on his chest and shoved him through the opening. Anton slipped backwards, threw out his good hand and caught the handrail, his body twisting as he tried to pull himself upright. Evan grabbed the piece of lumber wedged under the door handle. He hefted it and jabbed it straight in Anton’s face, smack bang on the nose Narvaez had broken.
Anton howled as his nose flattened and spread further across his face, his hand coming off the rail to protect himself. Evan jabbed him again, hard in the chest and drove him down the stairs, threw the lumber at his head. He slammed the door and locked it.
In the kitchen Mikhail was still on the floor. He was moving now, throwing pots and pans off him, the bang on the back of his head already forgotten. He looked up at Evan, his eyes still not in focus and pushed himself onto all fours. Evan kicked him in the face, snapping his head to the side, and leapt past him towards the door.
Behind him, the door to the basement bulged outwards, the wood splitting like someone hit it with an axe as Anton rammed it with his massive shoulder, over and over. How was it possible a guy he’d pushed down the stairs was back already? Anton leaned backwards, hanging onto the handrail, drove his heel into the door. With a sound like a rotten tree snapping in a storm the lock ripped out the frame, the door flying open.
Outside, the wind gusted, caught the back door. It slammed shut in Evan’s face, costing him a split second. That was all Mikhail needed. He dived at Evan’s legs, two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle and anger flying across the room. It was like a freight train hit him, scooped his feet up off the ground as the pair of them crashed into the door, a tangle of legs and arms, Evan on top.
Anton was in the kitchen now, the length of lumber Evan hit him with in his left hand, his right a swollen, misshapen mess hanging at his side. He swung the lumber at Evan’s head. Left hand or not, he was still a big, powerful guy. Evan got his arm up to protect himself and took the first blow just above the elbow, the flat side smacking into his flesh with a solid thwack.
He swallowed the pain, ducked to the side as Anton swung his makeshift club again at the tangled bodies in front of him. The lumber whistled past Evan’s ear and caught Mikhail on the side of the head, sounding like two trees collided.
Mikhail cried out, a mixture of pain and anger, let loose a stream of Eastern European abuse. Automatically he raised his arm to protect his head from further attack, letting go of Evan. Anton stared stupidly, not sure who he’d hit, his vision blurred by the jab in the face Evan gave him, blood pouring from a gash above his eye.
A primeval scream, straight from the gut, erupted from Evan’s mouth, filling the room. He kicked wildly, feet and knees trying to connect with anything or anyone in reach. He rolled away, pushed himself onto his knees, not realizing his mistake—he just made it easier for Anton. Blood in his eyes, vision blurring or not, Evan was now a distinct target, no longer part of one writhing mass of bodies on the floor.
Anton swung again as Evan knelt before him like a penitent on the steps of Heaven awaiting the Lord’s judgement. It caught him a glancing blow on the back of his head and everything went as black as if the good Lord himself had kicked him off the steps into the abyss.
Chapter 45
FLOYD SAW THE CAR backed into the dirt road and smiled to himself, his grip tightening on his bow.
Buckley.
He’d been expecting him, just not so soon.
At his side, Marlene sensed his excitement. Together, they followed the exact same route Evan had taken and stopped in the same stand of trees a hundred yards out. Then Floyd saw something he wasn’t expecting that changed everything—a black SUV parked in the yard behind the house. He wasn’t sure—there are a lot of black SUVs around and he didn’t have much interest in cars anyway—but he bet it was the same one he saw two thugs jump out of and kidnap the guy who was following Buckley—McIntyre they’d called him.
The SUV was facing away from him. If there was anyone still in it, they’d have to look in the mirror to see him creeping up. Floyd had a lot of experience creeping up on people, people who’d have killed him on the spot if they saw him. That tends to concentrate the mind and hone the skills. Keeping low, in his hunting camo jacket with the stand of trees as a backdrop, he was almost invisible.
Thirty yards out and everything changed again. And not in his favor.
The back door
was yanked open from inside. He was right. The same two big guys he’d seen abducting McIntyre came out dragging a comatose body after them. The head was hanging down limply as they pulled him along, a hand under each armpit. But Floyd knew who it was. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
Buckley.
Damn.
They’d beaten him to it. He couldn’t let them haul him away, ruin all his hard work and preparation. They weren’t the kind of people who let you go after they’d got what they wanted from you. They were like himself—no loose ends sort of people. And since they were unlikely to hand over their prize to Floyd, however nicely he asked, what they were now was collateral damage. Sometimes life just deals you a bum hand.
He dropped to one knee and fitted an arrow to his bow. It was fitted with a fixed three-blade broadhead, the same setup he used to kill the deer a few days before. He’d spent the previous evening sharpening the blades to a razor edge. He wanted maximum penetration—to reach vital organs and arteries in his prey, however large.
He touched Marlene on the shoulder, feeling the anticipation in her, the strength in her solid body. How he loved this dog. He rested his forehead on the back of her neck, then put his lips to her ear.
Go.
She covered the distance in a matter of seconds, her muscles rippling under the sleek coat, teeth bared, flashing like knives, a low growl in her throat as she sped towards her prey—real prey, the sort she was bred for.
If a dog has an imagination, she was already sinking her teeth into the soft, exposed flesh of a man’s throat, ripping it open.
Behind her, Floyd admired her beauty and grace for the last time.
One of the men had seen her.
He leapt to his feet and stared in horror. It was as if time slowed for him, watching helplessly as she raced to her death.
He raised his bow, already drawing back the string. It was as if he was pulling it through molasses. As his arm drew back agonizingly slowly he saw one of the men drop Buckley, put his hand under his jacket and pull out a gun.
Floyd watched his gun arm rise and come around until it was pointing directly at Marlene as she covered the last few yards that separated them. He let out a silent scream as she leaped.
No.
The guy fired once, the sound like a slap in the face to Floyd. The bullet slammed into Marlene’s body as her front legs left the ground, throwing her backwards across the yard, cartwheeling through the air. She landed with a thump Floyd felt in his gut, an untidy, bloody heap by the rear wheel of the SUV. She lay there whimpering, trying gamely to get up as the blood pumped out of her body.
The guy’s gun arm tracked her as he readied for a second shot. Floyd saw the smirk of satisfaction on his face, felt his blood boil.
Then time resumed its normal pace.
Floyd was calm. For now. He had to be. All hell would break loose later.
Ignoring the pitiful sight of Marlene as she twitched on the ground, closing his ears and his mind, he concentrated on the man with the gun, aiming by instinct, opening his fingers to let the arrow fly.
The guy jerked backwards as the razor blades of Floyd’s broadhead arrow buried themselves deep in his stomach. His gun slipped from his hand, the second shot never taken. He screamed and stared uncomprehendingly at the arrow shaft sticking out of his body.
Floyd felt a hot, mean satisfaction right in the belly. He’d seen a lot of men die, been responsible for a lot of those deaths himself. He’d heard grown men scream and cry and beg and pray but never in his life had he heard a sound so sweet as that scream. He wanted to hold that sound in his head forever, take away his pain.
The guy sagged, dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over the arrow shaft, not knowing what to do, to pull it out or leave it.
Floyd knew what he had to do.
Die.
In unspeakable agony.
Floyd would see to that.
The second guy stared at his partner, not believing what he saw. Gunshot wounds he understood, knife wounds, yes—but a bow and arrow? It was the stuff of bad movies he’d watched in cheap motel rooms. It wasn’t real life. But there was no denying it was more than real enough for his partner. His head whipped around. He stared straight at Floyd. Even from the distance away he was, Floyd saw he had something wrong with his right hand. It was swollen and twisted. He was protecting it, dragging Buckley with his left.
Floyd fitted another arrow to his bow.
The guy dropped Buckley in the dirt and tried to get his gun out. Trouble was, he was right-handed, his shoulder holster under his left arm. Floyd watched him fumbling awkwardly to get at his gun with his left hand. He had all the time in the world. He drew back the bow string almost leisurely as the guy got hold of his gun by his fingertips, pulled it out the holster.
Then Buckley stirred, shifted at the guy’s feet. The guy lost concentration and dropped the gun. Floyd let fly his arrow as the guy dipped to pick it up again.
Never had anyone had such a lucky break.
It wouldn’t happen again.
The arrow passed a foot over his head, sailed away into the fields behind. He came back up with the gun in his hand. In his left hand, and he was still right-handed. He let off a wild shot. Floyd stood his ground as the bullet pinged away harmlessly, fitted another arrow.
Then Buckley joined in the fun. He pushed himself onto all fours at the guy’s feet, shook his head.
Suddenly everybody wanted in. The back door of the SUV opened—the man in charge Floyd reckoned. He wouldn’t be armed. Why have a couple of goons and carry yourself?
On the ground, Buckley was still woozy, swaying from side to side. He tried to kneel upright, toppled over again, falling into the guy’s legs at the exact moment he fired again. The shooter’s arm swung around towards the SUV as he fired, the bullet burying itself in the front fender. Whoever was in the back pulled the door shut fast, ducked out of sight.
Floyd let his third arrow go as the guy with the gun kicked Buckley off his legs. He didn’t miss a second time. The guy had his head turned to the side. The arrow went in the side of his neck, a blade severing his carotid artery and came out six inches the other side. He dropped his gun and stood there, the arrow in his neck looking like some weird African tribal decoration. He dropped to his knees like his partner before him, then fell forwards onto Buckley, knocking him flat. Buckley heaved and tried to throw him off as blood pumped out the guy’s neck, spraying him like a hot red geyser, drenching him.
Floyd jogged across to where Marlene lay, still alive, barely breathing, her blood soaking into the dirt. He knelt beside her, stroked her muzzle gently as she whimpered. He looked over at the man who shot her. He was on his back now, the arrow sticking straight up in the air as if he was pinned to the ground by it. His left leg shook uncontrollably, a low moan on his lips.
Floyd smiled as he watched the man suffer.
You don’t know what pain is yet.
Marlene twitched one last time and then lay still. Floyd patted her shoulder, rested his hand on her matted fur a long moment, then stood. If anyone had dared say they saw a gleam of wetness in his eyes, he’d have dug theirs out with a broadhead arrow, shown them what wetness in the eyes looks and feels like.
He walked slowly, calmly across the yard to where the guy lay. He looked down on him and spat in his face. By the time the guy died, he’d have prayed to whatever merciless God he worshipped, asked him why he hadn’t let Marlene rip out his throat with her teeth.
***
EVAN FELT LIKE HE was losing a wrestling match in a slaughterhouse. He was still woozy from the blow to the head, couldn’t get the guy off him. He was a dead weight—literally. Meanwhile his blood soaked into Evan’s hair, into his clothes. He lay still for a long moment, conserving his energy.
It was a good move.
Floyd chose that exact moment to stand up and walk past him to reach the other one of Vasiliev’s men, the one who was still alive—for the moment. Through eyelashes
coated with blood from the man on top of him he caught sight of Floyd’s face, a picture of old testament spitefulness. He closed his eyes again, hoped Floyd thought he was still unconscious. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of anything a man with a face like that might do.
From his position half-underneath the exsanguinated body on top of him he watched Floyd calmly approach Vasiliev’s man and spit full in his face. Then he put his heel on the man’s belt and flicked the arrow shaft with the tip of his boot. The guy screamed as the razor-edged blades of the broadhead moved through his intestines, cutting, slicing. Evan’s gut tightened in sympathy—an involuntary reaction because he felt not one jot of sympathy for these men. If Floyd hadn’t come along, they’d have done the same to him as they did to McIntyre—with added cruelty for ruining the guy’s hand.
‘You killed my dog,’ Floyd said, in a voice that made the yard colder, bleaker.
The guy on the ground tried to talk—what the hell he thought he might say Evan couldn’t begin to imagine because sorry wasn’t going to cut it—before Floyd cut him short with another flick of the arrow shaft. The man screamed again, his whole body convulsing under Floyd’s boot, a pool of urine soaking into the dirt, mingling with his blood.
Evan had to make a move soon.
Once Floyd was finished with Vasiliev’s man, he’d turn his attentions to him. Who knows what twisted path his train of logic might follow? It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to argue the only reason Vasiliev’s men were here in the first place was because of Evan, ergo, the death of Floyd’s dog was Evan’s fault.
Floyd was explaining in exquisite detail, his voice calm, patient, almost soothing if you ignored the words themselves, exactly what he was going to do between now and when the guy died. If he’d been a more educated man, he could have saved himself a lot of talking and summed it up in a single word—evisceration. Whatever you called it, it sounded like it was going to take a long time. And hurt a lot.
The man would die in the end. Evan needed to be long gone by then. He didn’t want to be around once Floyd got into his stride, had a chance to see what worked, what didn’t, find that fine balance, the sweet spot between pain and passing out.
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 82