by James Hilton
Gunn dodged back just out of range and caught the man by his extended hand. A sharp rotation of his wrist snapped his locked fingers back on themselves to breaking point. The man dropped to his knees in an effort to escape the terrible pressure in his hand, just in time to receive a knee full in the face.
But credit to Señor Peroxide, it took three more knee blasts and a shot with the baton to put him down completely. Danny knew one big difference between real fights and the movies; not all the bad guys will fall down unconscious after one high kick.
A door opened and a teenage girl stepped into the hallway as Gunn hit Peroxide a final time. Her eyes went wide and she stopped talking into the cell phone that was pressed to her ear. She staggered back into the apartment and slammed the door. Danny could hear her calling for her father in a voice laced with panic. Maybe it was time to leave before a Loco caught him with a lucky shot or any of the residents got caught in the crossfire.
14
Juba watched the team split into two groups and race into the building. He considered following them but decided to wait at the front.
He had learned the skills of a hunter a long time ago. When you were preying on a wild beast, you could use your energy stalking it or you could send in lesser men, the beaters, to flush it out of the bush and be ready to take it down.
Juba touched a hand to his lip, which he’d split during his tumble down the stairs. The painful throb only added to his eagerness to lay hands on this hired man; it would be a pleasure extracting information from him. He would have been much happier if he’d brought along a shotgun or his Ruger 9mm. That would have saved a lot of this running around but Barcelo didn’t like the boys waving guns about—he believed they were for killing, not displaying. Maybe he was right.
* * *
Danny waited in the hallway for the next party of Locos to clump their way up the staircase. He lifted the telescopic baton with his right hand and held the knife along his left forearm in a reverse grip, ready. He crept towards the stairwell door knowing that this was an optimum location to engage the enemy. The narrow doorway forced them to bottleneck, which meant there was less chance of them surrounding him. More voices drifted up the stairs, betraying the direction they were coming from.
Danny crouched to the side of the door and tried to calm his breathing to its resting rate. He exploded into action as the first of the gangsters opened the door.
The baton cracked into unprotected shins with bone-splintering force and a wide-shouldered Spaniard went down with a howl, clutching at his legs. This left his head unprotected, and Gunn whipped the steel cudgel across the back of his skull. The blow resounded with a satisfying crack.
The second man lurched at Danny as he began to rise from his crouch. The guy was on him in a second, pushing Danny into the wall. Instead of trying to force him back, Gunn gave ground, dropping back to one knee. He jabbed the knife into the soft cavity behind the man’s knee and pushed down hard into the structure of the joint. The blade wedged deep between the two large bones, instantly immobilising the leg. The Loco dropped like a sack of wet washing and his face began to contort into a parody of a kabuki mask.
The third gangster proved wily. He backed off from Danny and snapped out a baton of his own.
Danny inched forward in a semi-crouch and dropped his knee across the neck of kabuki-guy, putting a crushing pressure on the carotid arteries. The remaining Loco lunged in with a slashing blow to Gunn’s face, followed with a kick and a wild flurry of strikes—any one of which could have ended it for Danny if they had landed cleanly.
This was the most skilled fighter Gunn had faced from the Locos. He was fast but he knew not to charge in blind or hesitate for too long either; the fine line for any fighter. He had a wrestler’s build and a face to match… a real bone-crusher type. His flattened nose told of countless fistfights, and the deep scars around his face told of more than one encounter with an unfriendly blade.
Danny blocked with his own baton, each strike sending a shockwave reverberating down into his hand. Both men exchanged blows. Danny’s thigh stung from a whip just above the knee, which would have cracked his kneecap if timed a split second earlier. Bone-crusher winced from a palm heel to the ear and a numbing slash across the fingers. Danny feinted left then another diagonal whip sent the steel club tumbling from bone-crusher’s broken hand. The man cursed, clutching the damaged hand to his chest.
“Espero que no tocas el piano.” Danny doubted that the man had ever played the piano but grinned at the resulting look of hatred on his face. Danny skipped back over the two fallen Locos.
As bone-crusher started to advance again, Gunn reversed his direction and blasted into him, aimed a headbutt full into his face and scored a direct hit to the bridge of the nose. A noise akin to a coconut being cracked against a wall resounded down the corridor but the Loco remained on his feet. A knee to the face, a baton strike to the head and another open palm to the ear followed but still he rolled with Danny’s blows and scored with a raking headbutt of his own. A kidney punch staggered Gunn and he almost went down on his knees. The heavyset brawler was still proving very dangerous, despite his broken hand, as he seized his chance and surged forward. He caught Gunn in a tight grip from behind, throwing his injured arm around Danny’s waist and the other around his throat. The intense pressure on his torso forced the air from Danny’s lungs but he was unable to escape.
Danny knew if any more Locos arrived now he’d be finished. This fight had lasted way too long at the twenty or thirty seconds mark. He dropped the baton, knowing it was useless at this range. Danny then grabbed at the arm around his throat and focused all of his strength into bone-crusher’s fingers. The hands were slippery with sweat but he managed to secure a tight hold. The gangster’s arm felt like a steel band around his neck. Danny twisted his wrist in a tight arc. Two of bone-crusher’s fingers snapped back further than they were designed to and the grip was broken. Sucking in a welcome breath, he felt his vision swim momentarily as his equilibrium sought to right itself.
Gunn pivoted, fully reversing their positions, so now he could apply his own counter-choke from behind. Gunn’s knotted arms bit deep into bone-crusher’s neck, cutting off both oxygen and blood supply to his brain. But Danny knew to wrap his hands in deep to prevent his own fingers being prised and broken. Squatting as he applied the hold, Danny then levered the man backwards so only his toes were touching the ground.
Bone-crusher tried to claw the choke away but with both hands now broken and Danny pulling him off his feet, the attempts were brave but futile. He tried to throw Danny over his shoulder but Gunn again blocked the move by dropping his weight and stamping his heel hard against the back of bone-crusher’s knee. The brawler finally slumped to the ground, limbs completely slack, but Gunn kept the sleeper hold tight a few more seconds just to make sure. When he did release the hold the man dropped face down like a corpse.
Time to go.
Danny moved more cautiously; if he encountered another of bone-crusher’s ilk he might not make it out. He trotted silently down the stairs and emerged onto the ground floor. He paused to spit out a mouthful of blood and saliva and wipe his eyes clear of sweat, then peered out of the entrance doors. He spotted another Loco sitting with his back to him on a low wall, smoking a cigarette. A ribbon of thin smoke wafted up and over his head. He was dressed head to toe in the required urban camouflage but stood out like a Buddhist monk in a bordello. Danny scowled; whoever thought that vibrant greys and blues provided camouflage needed a slap with a sock full of gravel.
Danny slipped off his belt as he closed silently on the gangster. One quick motion and the leather strap ensnared the man’s neck. Gunn pulled sharply and the garrotted Loco was snatched backwards over the low wall. He landed on the back of his skull and shoulders with a telling crack and Danny didn’t need to employ his raised fist to finish him off. The young man pawed once at the air then lay still. The glowing ember of his cigarette emitted a weak shower of sparks
as it landed on the ground next to him.
Danny pulled his belt free and walked away.
15
Juba watched the lone man walk out into the evening air, making sure that he was hidden by the bulk of the minivan. The target seemed to be fastening his belt back around his waist. Juba clicked his tongue in satisfaction. The hired man had gotten past the rest of the Locos. He started towards his target with violent resolve, curling his fingers around the blade that was tucked discreetly in the small of his back. He favoured the “Black Bear” combat knife. He was just as comfortable with a machete but the smaller knife was easier to carry and conceal. The knife was finely crafted and Juba was especially fond of its sub-hilt feature that eradicated any chance of his hand coming into contact with the blade. The eight-inch blade was long enough to fully impale if a killing stroke was required, but just as devastating if used in a slashing attack.
Then Juba reconsidered; it would be too easy to gut this man in the heat of the moment, and where would that leave him with the boss? Barcelo had given clear orders that he wanted to interrogate this newcomer. He released the knife with a snort of derision and reached back into his vehicle.
* * *
Danny reached the small topiary gardens that surrounded the apartment building. The decorative iron railing gave the whole front façade a Spanish-colonial feel that looked even more alluring in the failing evening light. He glanced up at the apartment block, wondering how many of the residents had called the police. He smiled as he thought of the bodies he’d left littered around the stairwells. The Guardia Civil, the cops, would have their hands full for a while trying to make sense of that tableau. More than one Loco would spend the night handcuffed to a hospital bed—
Danny turned to see the large black man thundering towards him with what looked like a long black walking stick in his hand. Gunn recognised it as an African knobkerrie. Generations of Zulu warriors had used these fighting sticks to great effect and the running man looked like he was adept in its use.
The club whistled towards Danny’s unprotected head.
Gunn felt the iron-hard cane brush his face as he turned into the attack. He went in low and felt the strength of the man slam into his frame. Danny pivoted in a half circle, catching his antagonist in a classic ju-jitsu manoeuvre known as the “full shoulder throw”. With the African’s clubbing arm captured, Gunn pitched the top half of his body forward and catapulted him head over heels into the iron railings.
The gangster’s long legs folded over the decorative spikes, leaving him hanging upside down, impaled by the legs and screaming in pain.
Danny glared down at what he hoped was the last of this crew. He stooped and picked up the club, then brought the weighted end down across the underside of the man’s chin. A sickening crunch told of a broken jaw.
Danny nodded, then turned and made for the street at a jog. He could hear the approaching wail of police sirens. No matter, he would be long gone by the time the Guardia Civil arrived. A block later he realised he was still carrying the fighting stick. Seeing no convenient trash cans nearby, he dropped it into a storm drain. He rolled his neck to relieve the building tension there. A tightness was beginning under his left eye. Great, he thought, I’ll look like Rocky in the morning. “Yo, Adrian, I did it,” he whispered to himself.
16
Antoni Barcelo sat behind his solid-teak desk. The leather of the high-backed executive’s chair creaked in response to his slightest movement. A flat-screen computer monitor blinked through pictures of almost naked supermodels yet he paid it no attention. Sipping red wine from an ornate crystal goblet, he viewed his bloodied congregation with unblinking shark-like eyes. His team relayed the details of the night’s unsuccessful encounter. As he listened, he swirled the full-bodied Rioja in slow concentric circles.
Six Locos stood in a semicircle like errant schoolboys summoned to the headmaster’s study. None dared hold his gaze directly. The beaten underlings shifted nervously as the boss sidled around to the front of his desk. The clock on his desk emitted a low warble and the digital display briefly illuminated to announce the turning of another hour. Bleep-bleep. 23.00.
“You…” Barcelo singled out one of the group at random. “Tell me again how one piece of shit Brit not only got away from nearly a dozen of you, but managed to fuck most of you up as well?!”
The man winced as he stammered the beginning of his defence. His eyes were dappled with bruises and he still couldn’t open them fully due to the corrosive effect of bleach.
“It… it was like Juba said. This guy must be a pro—a qualified man,” he offered, blinking one eye then the other in rapid succession.
“Juba? Juba is lying crippled in hospital; it will be weeks before he’s walking again. Don’t mention Juba to me again!”
“But, boss—”
Barcelo launched his considerable frame at his man. The leader outweighed his underling by at least fifty pounds and he pounded him down onto the marble floor with ease. The Loco waved his hands in front of his face in a weak defence, but Barcelo clubbed his face with punch after punch. The man’s nose exploded in a shower of crimson.
The other Locos stared on aghast. All had heard of the boss’s notorious temper but few in the room had borne witness to its full savagery. Finally, one of the men took a half-step closer. “Boss, you’re going to kill him.”
Barcelo stopped and turned his head to inspect the speaker. Blood dripped from his raised fist. Beneath him, the man’s face was unrecognisable, but the small bubbles of blood that popped around his nose and mouth indicated that he was still breathing.
Barcelo gripped the desk and levered himself back to a standing position. His cream-coloured jacket now resembled an early Jackson Pollock. “Get him out of here and down to the hospital. He can keep Juba and the other idiots company.”
Two of the group lifted the fallen man from the blood-spattered marble. A gelatinous rasping escaped from the man’s lungs as he was hoisted upright. The two men carried him out of the room without further comment.
The remaining gangsters bunched together in front of the desk. “So what’s the next plan of action, boss?” asked one of the three.
“Well, if this man came from the Woo Hoo Club, it stands to reason that they are the ones who hired him. Don’t forget that the guy that messed Ortega up was in the Woo Hoo as well.” Barcelo sat on the edge of his desk. He took another sip of wine. He gave a single nod. “I think that the Dukes better have up-to-date fire insurance, because by tomorrow morning it’ll be ash.”
“You want us to burn the club down?”
“No, I’m praying for a kitchen mishap of epic proportions!” spat Barcelo. “Yes, I want you to burn the fucking club down. That will send a message to the other foreigners. Show them what happens when they try to get clever. Hit it half an hour after closing. Make sure that this simple thing does not go wrong. The next time I want to hear about these Brits is when they’re scurrying home with their tails between their legs.”
“Who do you want to lead?” asked one of the men.
Barcelo considered this for long moments. Vincenzo was one of his best but he was still recuperating at home, arm broken and his jaw wired shut. Juba had showed real promise but had gotten himself done like a shish kebab by the second hired man.
Who to send?
It was child’s play to toss a petrol bomb, but it should also have been child’s play for a full squad of men to bring back one man in a simple snatch and grab.
“Get Babi Garcia on the phone. Tell him I’ve got a special event I need him to look after. One of you will drive him by the club, and he can go back tonight and put this thing to bed.”
17
Babi Garcia, like many in his select line of work, was a man of stark contradictions. Born and raised a strict Catholic like most Spaniards of his generation, he attended Mass and read the scriptures regularly. He also attended confession, although the material he confessed was subjected to more selective cre
ativity than a politician claiming expenses. While he confessed to the odd lustful thought or taking someone’s parking space (and was duly granted absolution) he chose never to mention the murders, assaults, the robberies or the rapes that he had subjected on other members of God’s flock. While priests were forbidden to speak of anything imparted in the confessional, he was never going to pressure-test that maxim.
Garcia looked up from his work, his attention caught by his cell phone vibrating. Annoyed at being disturbed at the late hour, Babi glanced at the caller display. He picked up. “Hola.”
Antoni Barcelo’s baritone voice cut into his ear as if he were standing shoulder to shoulder. He listened to the head of the Locos spit concise details down the phone.
An interesting job offer.
“Okay, I’ll meet you in two hours,” Babi agreed. He ended the call and turned back to the matter in hand. A cold smile crept across Garcia’s face.
The man lay curled on the floor, completely naked upon a large square of black polythene sheeting. His hands were secured tight behind his back with silver duct tape. His ankles were similarly bound. His genitals had shrivelled to resemble a vol-au-vent nestled in a mess of curly black hair. A clear plastic bag partially filled with urine was fastened over his head and held in place with more tape. It sloshed around the man’s face as he thrashed. The apple-sized bruise that decorated the centre of the man’s chest was red and angry.
Garcia dropped to one knee and jabbed a single extended knuckle into the centre of the bruise. He knew that the nerve cluster, crushed against the flat bones of the sternum, would send darts of raw agony lancing through his victim’s body. As expected, the bound man bucked against the pain. The knuckle strike was one of the simplest yet most effective torture methods ever used.
After glancing at the time displayed on his phone, Babi stepped over the man’s supine form and stamped his foot deep into his unprotected stomach. The man, already close to death, emitted a strangled scream of pain, but only succeeded in swallowing a mouthful of urine and stale air. Garcia dropped to his knees, straddling his victim like a willing lover. The nameless man’s eyes bulged as the breath rattled in his throat.