Diablo

by James Kent

  51

  He told him to haul everything out. Cricket was on his hands and knees bending over the open safe door which leant back at a severe angle. It certainly was a large safe, in Swann’s estimation, judging by the size of the door which must have been gas or spring-assisted to counter its weight. A commendable item. No question. Diablo clearly had secrets to protect, a lifetime’s worth of loathsome exploits. Cricket made an untidy pile of the items; documents, files, six black notebooks, passports – real ones, stolen ones and forged ones, rolls and rolls of cash wrapped in rubber bands, more cash in thick stacks of banded bricks. It kept on coming, stacking up until the pile of cash alone stood nearly two feet high and looked like it would amount to many hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not a million or more. Cricket kept going, hauling out more and more rolls of greenbacks, bearer bonds and other valuables. Finally, he pulled out two boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition and one silver-plated Glock. Probably stolen, thought Swann. Silva sat there refusing to watch the spectacle. He couldn’t bear the sight of the desecration of his personal valuables. He felt violated. He'd lost everything in such a short time that it left him reeling, feeling sick.

  Then Cricket sat back on his haunches looking at the huge pile. He turned and looked at Swann with a wide grin on his face like a Cheshire cat. ‘Safe’s completely empty,’ he said.

  ‘Good job,’ said Swann. ‘Now close it, lock it and put the stupid bear rug back on top, then go and get two big heavy-duty trash bags or whatever you can find strong enough to carry it all in.’ Swann didn’t want Simms to know that he’d emptied out Silva’s safe, especially if the Feds descended on the place later, after another “anonymous tip-off”. He might suspect it of course, but there was no point making it obvious. Plausible deniability. Lack of evidence. Who would really care anyway? An asshole’s loot got stolen. Big deal. Who’s going to complain?

  Cricket carefully lowered the hefty safe door back in place and spun the dial. He covered it up with the polar bear rug and put the coffee table back on top. Then he went out to find a couple of large sacks or bags. Swann turned to Silva and asked, pointing at the pile on the floor, ‘How much money is that?’

  ‘None of your damn business!’

  Fair enough point I guess, thought Swann. Can’t fault the logic. It is what it is. Shitloads, is how much. Good enough.

  Cricket came back five minutes later with two large heavy-duty black bags with red drawstrings. He stood there waiting for instructions, holding a bag in each hand. Swann said, ‘Right, so put all the cash in one and everything else in the other. But take one roll of cash for yourself since the fat boy here owes you. And besides, you might need it later.’

  Silva and Cricket looked confused. They both frowned at Swann. ‘So, what are you waiting for?’ said Swann. ‘Do it before I change my mind.’

  ‘That’s my goddam money you damn thief!’ yelled Silva. ‘And why the hell do I owe him?’ he asked with emphasis, pointing at Cricket with his thumb.

  ‘It’s because of him that I haven’t shot you in the head yet!’ replied Swann. They both looked at him questioningly. Cricket took a roll of cash and put it in his pocket. Then he hurriedly filled the two bags with all the items, the cash in one and everything else in the other. When finished, he pulled the draw strings tight and dragged the bags over to Swann.

  ‘Time to go!’ said Swann with finality. He wasn’t comfortable hanging around the place for too long in case all the smoke had been noticed by someone on the distant highway. They were remote, but there was still some risk it would eventually be called in. So it was time to wrap things up.

  Cricket was just about to sit down again, but Swann interrupted him. ‘Go get your shoes, and the fat boy’s,’ he ordered. Cricket left the room and retrieved their shoes which lay scattered in various places. He didn’t bother trying to match up socks so he left them there. He came back into the lounge, dropped Silva’s shoes on the floor in front of him, then he sat on the sofa and put his own back on his sockless feet. Silva looked down at his shoes and snorted with contempt, like he suddenly hated them. Then he gave up the charade and bent to put them on. Sockless feet. He hated the idea. Made him feel like a vagrant, a delinquent.

  Swann stood up and pulled out the rolled-up laces that he’d ripped out of Lucas’s boots earlier. ‘On your feet fat boy!’ he ordered Silva who looked startled. Silva sat there bewildered, looking up at Swann with his small black eyes full of hatred and fear. He was annoyed at having to wear his shoes without socks. ‘On your feet already!’ ordered Swann again, getting annoyed himself. Silva got up off the sofa slowly and stood there mute, yet there was so much he needed to say, things he needed to get off his chest. He felt time was slipping away. It was too soon; things were happening too fast and he no longer had any control. He felt the panic rise inside him like bile. His thin, white ankles looked too exposed in his shoes.

  ‘Turn around and clasp your hands together, behind your back,’ demanded Swann.

  Silva turned around, but he started protesting. ‘This is barbarism! It’s uncivilized!’ he said. ‘You won’t get away with it! I have friends. Powerful friends. So, let’s discuss it, make a deal. I have plenty more where that came from!’ he said, nodding toward the two black bags. ‘We could share it, just you and me. We could form a partnership. You won’t regret it. You don’t need to do this.’ He was rambling, panicking. Grasping at straws.

  ‘Yeah whatever,’ replied Swann unmoved. ‘Clasp your hands and put your thumbs together.’ Swann stood there waiting with Luke’s long boot laces dangling from his hand. Silva tried his best to comply, but he had trouble clasping his hands together because of his bulk. His arms were too short. The stupid suit he always wore wasn’t helping. But he got there by bending over slightly. He looked ungainly and ridiculous. He was still rabbiting on about making deals and sharing the loot and making friends and looking out for each other, ‘. . . just me and you . . . and Cricket can go to hell! We don’t need him! Whatta ya say?’

  Swann said nothing in reply. Just let him drone on. He was bored. He hooped a double-hitch loop with one of the boot laces around Silva’s two thumbs, then he pulled it tight like a noose around a goose’s neck. Silva winced and squealed as he felt the tightened boot lace bite hard into his knuckle joints, pinching his flesh. Then Swann looped the lace back around on itself again, with another reverse loop that automatically self-tightened when pulled through. It was an effective method of securing someone’s hands; sometimes better than tying wrists because there’s insufficient strength in the thumbs to work against a tightly pulled thong. However, it requires a compliant client, or if not compliant, another armed person available – one guy to tie the subject’s thumbs and another to ensure his compliance with a weapon held ready. The method was sometimes used by special forces in the field who would usually go the next step of having the subject lie on his stomach, bending his legs back and crossing the ankles. His crossed ankles would be pulled back, pushed down and the tied thumbs hooked over the outer crossed-over foot, still with its laced boot on. The body’s natural springiness would ensure there was no escaping from being so trussed. The practice had been officially banned after World War II because victims left in this configuration would nearly always go into convulsions if not released within half an hour. It was a favoured method used by the British Royal Marines and SAS regiments and it solved the problem of what to do with prisoners you couldn’t take with you, and whom you didn’t want to kill.

  Silva, however, just got the thumb treatment. Good enough. Once secured, Swann grabbed hold of Silva’s right arm and propelled him forwards, towards the door. On the way, he grabbed one of the bags, the heavier one, the one with all the money. He told Cricket to get the other one and follow him outside to the Raptor.

  Diablo led the procession somewhat meekly, his eyes downcast; Swann’s powerful hand gripped his right arm tightly, directing him as though helping a blind man cross the street. Outside, Silva noticed the destro
yed cars, the large holes in the walls of the building; the smashed windows, the glass fragments all over the verandah. The glass crunched under their feet. Silva stopped momentarily, with Swann still holding his arm. He stared at the remains of his prized Cadillac. It was still smoking slightly. He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, then he carried on walking across the dusty ground with his head bowed. He was lost in thought and whispered something to himself, not loud enough for anyone else to catch. ‘Omnes occisus!’ he said quietly, under his breath. Then he started laughing like it was an in-joke. It kind of was.

  ‘What was that you said?’ asked Swann. ‘What’s so amusing?’

  Behind them, Cricket wondered what they were talking about.

  ‘I said, “Omnes occisus!”’ repeated Silva loudly.

  ‘You got that right pal!’ replied Swann.

  Cricket said nothing as he followed up the rear. He too was quiet and subdued, and he found Silva’s laughing upsetting. He carried the other bag in his arms, struggling under its weight. He wasn’t sorry to be leaving the place, except for all his belongings. Then he suddenly exclaimed, ‘But my computer gear! I can’t leave it here! It cost me a fortune!’

  ‘Too bad!’ said Swann. ‘You won’t be needing it.’

  Cricket swore under his breath. Then he suddenly stopped in his tracks with another thought. ‘What about Decker and Knox? And the others?’ he asked. ‘Where are they? Are they all dead?’ Silva laughed again, thinking about his little in-joke.

  Swann ignored him. Said nothing in reply. It was all Cricket needed to hear.

  52

  Lucas was more or less where Swann had left him. He had managed to drag himself the few feet to the old tin shed where he sat up against the wall in the shade. His leg was still bound with his belt, his wrists still cuffed together, his feet were cut and scratched as though he had managed to get up and hobble, but then given up on it and sat back down again. He looked up when he heard footsteps and voices and was startled to see Diablo emerge around the corner of the shed. His hands were tied behind his back and he was being held by the big guy who had a large black bag hanging from his right hand. It looked full and heavy with something. Then he saw Cricket. He too carried a large bag, but in both arms. It also looked heavy, thought Lucas. What the hell just happened in there? he wondered. Where are the others? Are they all dead? Where’s Decker? He had heard a few loud bangs earlier, probably flashbangs. He knew the sound they made. They’re probably all dead, he thought, answering his own questions.

  Swann stopped and looked at Lucas. He asked cheerily, ‘How you hold’n up there pal?’ Then he turned to Cricket and said, ‘Go get some water for old Lucas here. And a can of that sugary-sweet high-energy caffeine shit you morons like drinking.’ Silva frowned at that, but remained quiet and compliant like a dog on a leash. He was still stooped forwards with his hands behind his back, the jacket sleeves riding up his short, pale arms. He looked tired and uncomfortable, kept his eyes on the ground in front of him.

  Cricket too frowned, wondering who wanted the caffeine drink. It was a strange request. He dropped his bag. It landed with a heavy thump and raised a cloud of dust, then he ran back to the house, through the main entrance, stepping over all the broken glass. He was back in less than two minutes with a large gallon flask of cold water and the can of drink, both of which he put down beside Lucas. He unscrewed the plastic cap off the water container and tossed it aside. ‘Thanks,’ said Lucas as he reached for the water awkwardly with both hands. He drank greedily, then he put the flask down again beside him, wiped his mouth on his arm and dropped his cuffed hands back into his lap.

  ‘The caffeine drink is for me,’ said Swann. Cricket nodded and went to retrieve it. He handed it over, still wondering about it. It seemed pretty odd. Whatever! he thought, and shrugged. Swann put the can of drink in one of his pockets, then he turned to Lucas, ‘Don’t go anywhere Luke! The Feds’ll be here soon!’ he said, winking at him.

  Lucas looked back at him and said croakily, ‘So you’re a goddam Fed! I figured you was somethin’ like that!’ Swann smiled and winked at him again, but said nothing in reply. Lucas continued, ‘I ‘aint never seen no goddam Fed like you before! And that’s a fact!’ He went quiet for a few moments and looked away to the distant mountains, thinking. Then he said, looking back, ‘I think he croaked.’ He nodded towards the other guy who was still lying in the dirt exactly where Swann had left him, where he had shot him in the upper arm. He hadn’t moved at all. Swann let go of Silva, put his bag down and went over to check. He crouched down and put his fingers on the guy’s carotid artery, feeling for a pulse. Sure enough, he was dead. Bled out from bullet wounds. A large pool of congealed blood had stained the dirt around him like an oil leak from a cracked sump. Swann stood up again and motioned for Silva to walk over to the Raptor. Then he fished out his keys and unlocked the vehicle with its remote. It beeped a couple of times and its headlights flashed. Silva did as he was told. He walked quickly, slightly hunched over, to the Raptor and maneuvered his way down onto the ground to wait. He sat leaning with his back against the front-right alloy wheel; his short legs stuck straight out on the dirt. He was covered in dirt and dust and sweat stains.

  Swann told Cricket to put both bags inside the vehicle, on the back seat, and then start walking. ‘Head for the main road. Turn north or south, I don’t give a shit.’ Cricket stared back at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Walk?’ he asked.

  ‘What I said,’ replied Swann. ‘The Feds are looking for your ass too boy, so you’d better get going!’ Both Silva and Lucas watched on, wondering who the hell this big guy really was. Some kind of lawman? But what kind, they had no idea. He didn’t seem to be anything in particular. Maybe some kind of hitman then? Who knows? they both wondered.

  ‘Me? Why are they looking for me? How do they know anything about me? No one knows who I am, ‘cept you!’

  ‘You’re known as “MORDOR” right? They think you busted into their servers recently, twice in fact, and disrupted one of their investigations. You caused havoc apparently. Deleted all their shit. They’re not very happy about it, to put it mildly, so I’d get going if I were you. I’ll be ringing them soon so I’ll give you an hour’s head start. Grab a bottle of water before you go.’

  Cricket was perplexed. He stood there staring at Swann trying to figure it out. ‘Who are you?’ He was clearly terrified. ‘How do you know my online alias?’ Then a lightbulb went on in his head. Eddie! he suddenly thought. Eddie’s been helping him!

  ‘Why do people keep asking me that?’ replied Swann. ‘Go on, get lost! Or I’ll shoot you myself.’

  Cricket panicked. He hurriedly put the bag full of Silva’s stolen loot in the back of the Raptor then he went back to get the other one, the one with all the money. He put that in too, beside the first bag. He took a full bottle of water from the cab, and closed the door. Then he stood there for a moment, confused and uncertain what to do. He was terrified of being alone out there in the desert, miles from anywhere. He looked back at Swann, hoping he was just joking around. But he wasn’t.

  ‘Tick, tock! Tick, tock!’ said Swann, looking back at him.

  Cricket started crying. He turned and took off for the main road, carrying his water bottle, and running in his flat-soled, indoor shoes without socks on his feet. Not ideal. Swann could hear his sobs as he ran, and the slap, slap of his soles on the hard earth, on the stones and gravel. Silva and Lucas watched him go. Lucas felt sorry for him and hoped he’d make it. Silva didn’t care either way.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Silva. ‘Thank God he’s gone! He was fucking useless! Now we can make a deal! Just you and me. Luke can go to hell! We don’t need him! Look at him sat over there, all shriveled up and pathetic like a dried up old goat! Just another useless fucker!’ He spat in the dirt as though to emphasize it, but again part of his spittle landed in his own lap.

  ‘Yeah, you’re a real comedian! Now it’s your turn fat boy!’
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br />   Swann turned to Lucas and said, ‘See you around pal!’ Then he walked to the Raptor and kicked Silva in the leg. ‘Get up fat boy. We’re goin’ for a ride. Just you and me, like you said.’

  53

  Arizona desert.

  It was getting late in the day. The shadows were long, reaching out across the desert. The breeze from the west was slightly stronger, but still hot. The dust devils were still doing their thing away in the distance, minding their own business. Swann waited patiently until Silva had managed to climb up and maneuver himself into the passenger seat of the Raptor. An ungainly sight, in Swann’s estimation. Comically awkward. Like watching a handicapped hippo climb a tree.

  Silva had to sit in the seat with his back against his thumb-tethered arms which forced him forwards. His head nearly touched the dashboard. His short legs didn’t quite reach the floor of the footwell. Swann realized it would be lights out if the airbags suddenly deployed; they’d go off right in his face. Pointblank. Probably break his neck.

  Swann shut the door on him once he was settled, then he went around to the driver’s side, took off his armored vest, his knife and gun holster and threw it all in, onto the back seat beside the bags. The can of caffeine drink followed. He climbed in, started the engine and swung the wheel to head back out to the main road. The rear wheels kicked up a rooster-tail of dirt as he floored it, flinging stones and gravel outwards as the vehicle fishtailed out and onto the access road west. Lucas, who was sitting there against the old tin shed with his wrists still bound, copped a shower of stones and grit as he watched them go. He shut his eyes against the dust. He coughed and spluttered, then he dropped his head in despair to wait. For what, he didn’t really know.