Den of Snakes

by Damian Vargas

  Den Of Snakes

  An Action Thriller

  Damian Vargas

  Contents

  1. The Gypsy Woman

  2. Impressing the Locals

  3. Los Hermanos

  4. Flashbacks

  5. A Not So Small Gathering

  6. Bad investments

  7. The Copper With A Suntan

  8. The Gentle Art Of Persuasion

  9. No Gangster

  10. It's Party Time

  11. The Morning After

  12. Democracy In Action

  13. Tooling Up

  14. The Road To Mérida

  15. Back In Blighty

  16. Scoping Out The Joint

  17. The Big Day

  18. The Victors Return

  19. Keeping Up Appearances

  20. Someone's Out To Get Us

  21. Stones

  22. We Need To Talk

  23. Twist Some Thumbs

  24. Walking On Egg Shells

  25. Done A Bunk

  26. Going All In

  27. Fucking Cockneys

  28. Not Enough Dough

  29. Caught With Their Pants Down

  30. Going All In

  31. Moroccans

  32. Roadtrip

  33. This Is Gonna Hurt. You

  34. Can Lucian Come Out To Play?

  35. Sex, Lies & Videotapes

  36. All Is Not What It Seems

  37. A Man With A Plan

  38. The Price Is Right

  39. The Devil You Know

  40. Family Come First

  41. The Crown Jewels

  Also by Damian Vargas

  Amazon book reviews

  About the Author

  Social media

  Dedications

  I am grateful to everyone that has supported me in any way, be it big or small, in the creation of this novel. As with any creative endeavour, producing a finished work of art is inevitably 20% inspiration and 80% perspiration, and the encouragement of others is often the difference between getting a project to fruition, or abandoning it.

  In particular I must thank my beta readers whose early feedback brought benefit to both myself, as the author, and all subsequent readers of the book. In no particular order they are; Igor Gakalo, Lisa Corti, Kathy Bryan, Joe Towey, Andy Visser, Adam Brierley and Rob James.

  Lastly, the culmination of this book happened in early 2020, a time in which the negative forces of uncertainty, divisiveness, anger and fear threaten to send societies back several generations. This book is therefore dedicated to anyone that has worked at any level to heal, educate or support others, to bring people and communities together, and to make our planet a better place for everyone and everything that inhabits it.

  Damian Vargas, June 2020.

  “Quaking boughs above my head,

  In morning wind the sky was red.

  I could have stayed at home today,

  But wisdom comes to those that stray.”

  [Unknown poet]

  Chapter One

  The Gypsy Woman

  Salamanca, Spain. July 1985.

  The well-travelled Citroen 2CV van trundled to a temporary halt outside the roadside cafe. The old car would have been lost from sight to anyone nearby, hidden as it was amidst the cloud of yellow dust that it threw up as it left the tarmac road and encountered the strip of rough land that passed for a car park. There were, however, no observers. At least, none that Eddie Lawson could see.

  He thanked the vehicle’s driver - a spritely octogenarian who had been kind enough to give Eddie a lift for the last forty kilometres. The old man had talked at Eddie at a rapid pace, and in an impenetrable Spanish accent for the entire journey. The man had appeared grateful for company, even if that company had been unable to respond with much more than a smile or an embarrassed grunt.

  Eddie opened up his beleaguered wallet and attempted to offer his talkative driver some recompense. ‘For your troubles,’ said Eddie, but the man dismissed the offer with a wave and a chuckle.

  ‘Bien viaje,’ the man cackled through the open passenger window as he pulled away. Eddie waved, then slung his khaki backpack over his left shoulder and made his way towards the cafe.

  The building was more than a little ramshackle, but it was well-lit and inviting. The whiff of smoked meat and strong cheese entered his nostrils the moment that he walked in, making his stomach rumble. He had not eaten for many hours. He surveilled the interior, then selected a table in a shaded corner, grateful for the respite from the relentless sun outside. The only other people he could see were two male youths sitting at a table in the middle of the cafe. They were both dressed in a worn denim and a dirty tee-shirt combo.

  ‘Hola, qué quieres chico?’ Eddie looked towards the source of the female voice. A waitress was stood just three feet away. How had he not heard her approach? He rubbed his eyes. She seemed to be in her late-twenties like him. She wore tight stonewashed blue jeans and a sleeveless tee-shirt that was plain black except for a small smattering of little pink stars. She had long brown hair tied into a neat bunch, and a thin gold necklace adorned her perfect neck. She was beautiful.

  ‘Sorry, luv,’ Eddie mumbled. ‘No hablo Spanish’.

  The woman fought to control an involuntary laugh then repeated her question, this time in English. ‘I said, what do you like?’ Eddie felt as if he was being drawn up into her brown eyes. The waitress cleared her throat. ‘We have good tortilla,’ she said. His face must have shown some sign of confusion, as she followed up with, ‘Is omelette in English, no?’

  Eddie nodded. ‘That would be spot on…I mean, that’s perfect, thanks. And a black coffee. Please’.

  The waitress smiled, spun around on one heel and headed off towards the counter. As she passed the young men, one of them sat back on his chair with his legs in a provocative pose, put one hand on his crotch and said something in Spanish. His friend snorted with laughter, spilling beer on the table. The woman retorted in an angry tone and with a vigorous shake of her hands, before striding away. The first Spaniard noticed Eddie’s terse stare and muttered something to his compadre, who snorted once more. The uncomfortable exchange seemed to be over and, not wanting to attract attention, Eddie leaned against his rucksack and closed his eyes. He had been travelling for nearly two weeks now, and had not slept in a bed for several days.

  The sound of a plate and cutlery being placed down shook him out of his sleep in, what seemed to Eddie, only a few seconds later. The waitress stood at his side, smiling. Before him, on his table, sat a plate loaded with tortilla, chips and salad.

  ‘You were snoring, Inglés,’ she said chuckling and walked away.

  Eddie rubbed his eyes again and picked up his cutlery ready to tuck in, but then heard the waitress shouting from across the room. The taller of the two adolescents had trapped the woman up against the wall, pinning her hands above her head. His hand was making its way down from her face to her breast.

  Eddie dropped his cutlery, rose and burst towards the man. His route, however, was blocked by the second man who stood facing him, holding a small rusty blade. The Spaniard barked something unintelligible in his mother tongue, phlegm emitting from his mouth as he shouted. The first man pushed the waitress down onto a seat and stood behind his friend, grinning.

  ‘You leave, or Amos stick you with knife. Like pig,’ he said in a sneering tone.

  Amos, the man holding the knife, laughed, releasing yet more saliva. Eddie took a step back but glanced at the trembling waitress. She looked away, seemingly sure that the foreigner would not risk his own safety to come to the aid of a stranger. The Spanish men sneered as Eddie motioned to retreat, but as the blade-wielding Spaniard looked away towards his companion, Eddie saw his chance. Like a
cat, he sprung forward, curled one hand around the blade, and side-clubbed the jaw of the man holding it with his other. As the Spaniard collapsed to the floor Eddie took another step, grabbed the tall goon by the neck and shoved him up against the wall. He leaned in, putting all of his weight against the Spaniard’s throat and angled his elbows to prevent his opponent from escaping. Eddie stared deep into the man’s reddening eyes as his face turned a pastel blue, but then he felt a gentle touch on his arm. It was the waitress.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said in a soothing voice. ‘You can let him go’. Eddie relaxed, and the man slid to the floor, gulping for air like a freshly-landed salmon. Eddie pulled back. ‘You are cut,’ she said. She was pointing at Eddie’s hand. He looked down and realised that it was bleeding from where he had grabbed the knife. Both his hands were shaking. She pulled a cloth out from her pocket, grasped him and dabbed at the wound.

  ‘It’s okay. It’s not bad,’ said Eddie.

  ‘It could have been,’ she said in the same way his mother used to speak to him whenever she found him doing something stupid. ‘Thank you’. She turned towards the cowering man before her and screamed at him in Spanish then kicked him so hard on the shin that even Eddie cringed. The man lifted himself up and backed away, his hand on his Adam’s apple. Amos too picked himself up from the floor and followed his friend’s example. The waitress screamed at them both again, and they hobbled away towards the door. She turned back towards Eddie, who stood gawping at her, his mouth wide open. ‘Your food is going cold,’ she said, pointing to his table. She adjusted her hair then walked away, disappearing from view behind the counter.

  Eddie devoured his meal, then sat back in the chair. The cafe was quiet, save for the intermittent humming sound coming from a tall drinks fridge. The two Spanish men had driven away in an old Renault. There had been no sign of the waitress for ten minutes.

  He pulled his wallet from his pocket and took out the faded photo of Mary, his daughter, holding it before him with both hands. It was frayed at the edges, and the colours had worn in patches from frequent handling. Eddie had snapped the image on Mary’s third birthday, two years ago. He had only seen her a handful of times since, the last over a year ago. How much, he wondered, had his little angel changed since then.

  The sounds of light footsteps caught his attention. It was the waitress coming to collect his empty plate and cutlery. She glanced at the photo and smiled.

  ‘Ella es muy hermosa,’ she said, following up in English with, ‘I said that she is very beautiful’.

  ‘She is,’ said Eddie.

  ‘Your daughter?’ He nodded.

  ‘Her name is Mary’. He held up the photograph.

  ‘That’s a nice name. It was my grandmother’s name, also. Well, Maria. The Spanish version’. She smiled at him. ‘But she is no longer on this earth’.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eddie, carefully tucking the photo back inside his wallet.

  The waitress pointed at his empty plate. ‘The tortilla. It was good?’

  ‘It was, thank you’.

  ‘You would like something else, maybe?’

  Eddie was still hungry, but he had precious little money remaining, and he was still over four hundred miles from his destination. ‘No, I’m good. Thanks’. He hoped that his stomach would not rumble at that precise moment to expose his lie.

  ‘More coffee perhaps? Refills are free,’ the waitress offered with a knowing look.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he said.

  A large truck turned off from the road and into the empty parking area outside the roadside cafe, its tyres throwing up a cloud of dust. The sound caught Eddie’s attention, and he stared at it, forgetting for a moment that the woman was still standing next to him.

  ‘You need to get somewhere?’ she asked, following his gaze towards the lorry as it pulled to a halt outside.

  ‘Yes, I need to get to the Costa del Sol. To Marbella’.

  She nodded towards the white signage on the side of the truck. ‘I think that truck goes to Málaga. I can ask the driver if you like?’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ Eddie replied.

  ‘It is no problem,’ said the waitress. She smiled again, picked up his empty plate, then headed back to the kitchen.

  Eddie watched the driver as he clambered down from the dirty cockpit. He was a large bull of a man, dressed in dirty denim jeans, and a red and black chequered shirt. The man slammed the lorry door shut, then ambled towards the cafe door, pulled it open and came inside. He wiped his brow with a dirty-looking handkerchief, studied the building’s interior and then sat down at the nearest of the red, faux leather-covered benches.

  ‘Buenas, chica’, he mumbled to the waitress in a gravelled voice. She hurried over and greeted the man in Spanish. After taking his order, she gestured over towards Eddie. Eddie nodded at the man and smiled, but it elicited no response from the big Spaniard who switched his attention back to the woman. A protracted conversation then ensued, with much waving of arms, after which the waitress came back over to Eddie.

  ‘He says he can take you to Málaga, but he wants ten thousand pesetas for his troubles. He has a wife and four teenage daughters who spend his money quicker than he can earn it. Or so he says’.

  Eddie opened his wallet and sighed. He had eight thousand pesetas left. ‘Do you think he would accept five thousand? This is all I have, and I still need to pay for my food’.

  She shot him another of her warm, reassuring smiles. ‘I will see what I can do’. She touched his hand, then turned back towards the kitchen.

  After another half an hour and, after finishing his tostada and coffee, the lorry driver rose from his chair - wincing as he did so - rubbed his back, muttered something to the waitress, and then wandered off towards the toilets. She came back over to Eddie’s table.

  ‘How much do I owe you for the food?’

  The woman pulled the seat opposite him from under the table and sat down. ‘There is no charge,’ she said.

  ‘But I must -’.

  She stopped Eddie mid-sentence by clasping his hand. Her skin felt warm and smooth, her grip strong. ‘I come from a line of gitanos. You say “gypsies” in English, no?’ Eddie nodded, the energy in her hands preoccupying his immediate thoughts. ‘I can tell if a person has a good heart’. She was examining his palms now. ‘Why do you go to the south?’ she asked. He looked up from his hands to her thin, lightly-tanned face and her penetrating brown eyes.

  ‘A relative of mine lives down there. Somewhere near Marbella’.

  ‘You have not seen him for some time?’ she said, more like a statement of fact than a question.

  ‘Not for a few years, no,’ he replied. The waitress continued to hold his hand, pressing her thumbs into his palms. Eddie thought he detected a look of concern on her face. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  She lifted her gaze up to meet his. ‘I do not know. Not for sure. But you must be careful when you get to Marbella. It is a town full of criminals’. She held his stare for a moment longer, then let go of his hands and glanced back towards the lorry driver who had just emerged from the toilets. ‘His name is Gonzalo, and passes through here often. He has the look of a mean old bear, but I believe him to be a good person. I think he will look after you,’ she told him.

  ‘You know him?’

  She laughed. ‘Only as much as I know you’.

  Eddie lifted himself up from the red bench, the plasticky material peeling of his sweating legs, and put his wallet back into his pocket. ‘Can I ask your name?’

  ‘You can, and it is Rosalita,’ she said grinning. ‘And before you ask, yes. You can come and visit me when you are next passing. I work here on most days’.

  ‘I now go. You come?’ said the barrel-chested lorry driver in pidgin English.

  ‘Yes. I mean...Sí,’ said Eddie.

  The woman smiled again. ‘And work on your Spanish before you see me again, Sergeant Eddie Lawson’.

  His face betrayed his bewilderment. ‘How do y
ou -’.

  She pointed towards the khaki green army backpack that he had just slung over his shoulder. ‘Because it is written on your bag, soldier boy’.

  The lorry driver was at the door holding it open. He said something in Spanish.

  ‘He said that he can take you to Malaga,’ said the waitress. ‘Then you must find your own way to Marbella’.

  ‘Ah, gracias,’ said Eddie to the driver.

  The woman stared at him for what felt like ten seconds, gave him one last smile then turned and walked back to the kitchen.

  Eddie stood for a moment watching her as she disappeared from view. He longed to stay in the cafe, but he heard the lorry’s engine start. He grabbed one of the small menus, checked that it had the cafe’s address on it, then stuffed it into his pocket and darted for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Impressing the Locals

  The offices of Sinmorales Aseguró Partners, Marbella, Spain. July 1985.

  Charlie Lawson stood peering through one of the toughened glass windows in the law firm’s conference room, looking down at the entrance to the office building on the ground floor below. His guests were arriving. He downed the rest of the brandy he was holding, then hid the empty glass on the windowsill behind the green velvet curtain. He tightened his tie and patted his slicked-back hair once more, then turned to address his associates.