Fight or Die

by James Hilton

  Garcia watched intently. This was the part he loved the best: seeing the last sparks of defiance fade from their eyes as they realised that this was the moment. No reprieve, no stay of execution. The end. And they’d never even know Garcia’s identity or his reason for committing murder.

  In fact, the very act of murder was reason enough; to pick up a lone tourist in one of Ultima’s trendy bars, take them home and torture them to death. Garcia did not discriminate between the sexes, did not consider himself either gay or straight, as that implied there was a degree of emotion in his couplings. His sexual encounters were just another expression of his bestial nature. No love required, none wanted or ever given. Any sexual partner unlucky enough to fall for his tough-guy charm was sure to be subjected to several hours of sadistic ravaging. Some of these encounters ended with the slow strangulation of his partner. Babi especially liked bagging his victims, watching them thrash and fight, desperate for that one last breath.

  Unlike many of his ilk, Babi had been raised in a stable, loving environment. No abusive father, no dominating mother, no broken home, no bullying sibling or any of the other textbook justifications. But were any psychiatrist ever to examine him, they would quickly conclude that Babi Garcia was undoubtedly a sociopath. That didn’t bother him. No regrets and no remorse. Maybe someday scientists would identify a killer gene that would explain why Garcia existed. Until that day, Garcia knew that he would continue down the devil’s path for the reason he’d been doing it for the past twenty years: because he could.

  Only one man in all those years had come close to catching him. Pierre Loup had been looking for his younger brother who had vanished while on holiday in the bustling Costa del Sol. The younger Loup had ended his days as one of Babi’s victims and the Frenchman (thankfully acting alone, brave but stupid) had tracked Garcia down by some impressive amateur-detective skills.

  Pierre had tried to ingratiate himself with Garcia in order to determine if Babi was indeed behind his brother’s disappearance. But Garcia had cultivated a real talent for perceiving danger, a survivor’s skill. Playing the Frenchman at his own game, he invited Pierre out on his boat on the premise of a day of fishing for shark.

  Pierre ended up as the live bait, unprepared for the sudden onslaught by the smiling Spaniard. Garcia had slashed him open from breastbone to groin while offering him a beer, then tied a line around his wrist and dumped him into the dark azure waters of the Mediterranean. Within ten minutes the sharks arrived and after the rope snapped taut a dozen or so times, Babi reeled the bloody cable back aboard and set off home.

  The man on the floor had stopped twitching. Garcia looked down on the corpse with disdain. Getting rid of the bodies was no fun. Another run out to sea, he supposed, but it kept the sharks well fed and he was all for animal conservation. Gripping the polythene sheet, he folded it tight over the man’s chest and under his arm and buttocks. He rolled the body several times then tucked the loose ends of plastic by folding them back over the head and feet. Several strips of duct tape held the loose flaps in place and secure. He would dump the body later, after he’d finished the Barcelo job. That sounded more fun.

  There was nothing like a spot of arson to liven up a quiet night.

  18

  Danny entered the Woo Hoo Club by the back door and tried to make it upstairs without being seen. No luck. Pamela had been moving bottles of vodka from the storeroom to the main bar and despite his protests she fussed over him like a maiden aunt. She produced a bag of ice and proceeded to press it painfully onto the swelling under his left eye.

  “Pam, I’m okay, really. Not to sound like a cliché, but you should see the other guys.”

  “Oh, but look at your face. Danny, if you want to leave we’ll understand.”

  “Leave? No way. Things are just getting started. I told you this would escalate just by me and Clay being here. The Locos, they won’t just roll over and go away. Things may get worse before this is over.”

  Pam nodded but persisted in pressing the bag of ice to his face.

  “I hurt quite a few of them tonight and if I was in charge of the Locos, I would hit this place hard and fast to get my own back. They’ll be coming tonight or tomorrow at the latest. As soon as you lock up I need you, Larry and the rest of the staff out as soon as possible. If they come, I can’t be watching out for all of you.”

  Pam chewed her bottom lip but nodded in agreement. “Okay, if you say so.”

  “Did Larry bring his shotgun in yet?”

  “Yeah, he’s got it under the bar, just below the cash register. It’s wrapped in newspaper so it doesn’t spook the staff, although they all know what’s going on with the Locos.”

  “Good. How many shells has he got?”

  “A full box,” Larry interjected from the kitchen doorway. “I take it by your face that you met some of our local dignitaries.”

  “Aye, it was quite a welcome committee. They didn’t much care for my style of introduction though.”

  “Just make sure you sleep with one eye open. These fuckers won’t take it lying down, they’ll be out for blood now,” warned Larry.

  “I was just saying the same thing to Pam. When you leave tonight make sure you’re not being followed and if you think you are, get yourselves over to the police station as fast as possible.”

  “The cops aren’t interested in us, you know that.”

  “Aye, I know, but the Locos won’t try and roll you over in the station now will they? At least it will keep you both safe. Same goes for the staff: Dez, Julie and the others. Make sure they are keeping an eye out for trouble.”

  Larry nodded but his jaw was set in challenge. Danny held his gaze.

  “No heroics, Larry. Your only duty is to keep you and yours safe. Let me worry about the rest of it. Okay?”

  Larry flexed his hands and the muscles in his jaw bunched as he looked from side to side. Pam reached and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” he said.

  Danny climbed the stairs to his room. After first changing his clothes, which were spattered with both bleach and blood, Danny pressed the bag of ice tight against the knuckles of his left hand. Even after many years of training in various martial arts he knew it was still all too easy to damage the small bones of the hand in a real fight. He flexed his fingers, made a tight fist then flexed again. Nothing broken, not today.

  He examined the items he’d bought at the home improvement store the previous day, which were now spread across the bed, floor and windowsill. Then he set to finishing the work he had begun that afternoon.

  An hour or so later Larry poked his head into the bedroom. Danny looked up from the soldering iron, surrounded by dishes of coloured powders, liquids, lengths of wire and an assortment of small hand tools.

  “Dad never bought me a chemistry set when I was a kid,” said Danny as he motioned to the makeshift workshop.

  The acrid smell made Larry recoil. He waved a hand and retreated down the stairs. “I don’t want to know.”

  Danny worked on, assembling and constructing. He knew the shit storm was due on a westerly wind. He looked at the range of completed items that now lay on the bed and hoped it would be enough.

  The rest of the shift was akin to an endurance test for Danny. He loitered near the kitchen door, scanning the drunken crowd for any threat. The clock above the bar seemed to run in slow motion but finally reached closing time. Revellers staggered out into the night air, some with clearly amorous intent, others talking the usual drunken nonsense to each other.

  Finally, the club was quiet.

  As soon as he heard the music cease, Danny joined both Pamela and Larry at the front doors. Two young men dressed as Batman and Robin were half a dozen drinks past drunk and were weaving their way slowly up the centre of the road, clinging to each other for support. Robin had lost one shoe and Batman’s mask was perched on top of his head like a semi-deflated balloon.

  Danny laughed. “They don’t look so super now.”

  Pamela sm
iled as she threw the bolt on the front door. “Holy cocktail overdose, Batman!”

  Danny ushered the Dukes and their staff out of the back door. “Remember what I said: any sign of trouble and you hightail it to the cops.”

  “Be careful, Danny. Look after it for us; it’s all we’ve got,” said Pamela. She cast a look back into the club, clearly uncomfortable with leaving dozens of dirty glasses stacked on the bar.

  “Don’t worry, lass, the Woo Hoo’s in good hands.”

  Larry rested a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “You’ve got first watch then, soldier.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” replied Danny.

  “We’ll see you in the morning.”

  Danny watched the couple drive away. The bar staff and Dez the cook followed. Julie loitered for another few minutes after the others had departed, chatting about nothing in particular. When she eventually climbed into her car at his insistence she sounded a double toot of the horn and gave him a finger wave as she vacated the parking lot.

  Danny waited a few moments, inhaled slow and deep, then went back inside the club. A couple of trips later and choice items from his bed were arranged on the bar near the dirty glasses. He poured himself a Diet Coke and unlocked the front door, letting the cool night air waft in.

  19

  Babi Garcia didn’t do contract work for many people. Not many people had need of his particular skill set and he was selective in whom he worked for. Barcelo was one of the few exceptions. Babi had disposed of two of Barcelo’s rivals for him three years previously, two gypsy brothers who had tried to muscle in on some of the Locos’ protection rackets. The brothers had put the pressure on the owner of a jewellery shop in the old town of Vera. When they had returned for their money, they had met Garcia instead of the goldsmith. Garcia put two bullets in each of the young men’s faces without ceremony and then they all took the long trip out to feed the fishes.

  Barcelo had paid him very well and didn’t ask a single question after the event, caring only that it had been taken care of. Garcia appreciated the trust and offered his help on any future problems that required his direct response. He had helped several times since.

  One of the Locos had been sent with him to point out the club. The boy—Kino—was barely eighteen but Babi didn’t object. He was supposed to be a good driver. Maybe once the club is ashes, mused Garcia, I could have some fun with him.

  “You stay in the car when we get there.”

  The young gangster lifted his chin. “I’m not scared to get my hands dirty.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told. Keep the engine running and be ready to drive. If you mess this up, you might even live to regret it.”

  Kino pointed. “That’s it there. The Woo Hoo Club.”

  “Good, now slowly does it. Park up across from the front door. Keep the engine running.”

  Garcia slipped out of the car as soon as it had rolled to a gentle stop and opened the tailgate. He picked out one of six petrol bombs from the beer crate inside, clicked open his Zippo lighter and sparked it into life. The primed rag caught the flame immediately. He had mixed the incendiary bombs himself, getting the mix of petrol, laundry detergent and sand just right. Garcia gazed at the growing flame in admiration and threw the Molotov cocktail overhand at the front window. It traced a graceful flaming rainbow through the night air.

  But the petrol bomb never reached the window; instead a man appeared at the doorway, cricket bat in hand, and with one swing propelled the bottle down the street. The bat had what looked like a thick layer of bar towels duct-taped around it. The bottle smashed upon impact and flames spread out across the road in a violent burst of orange.

  Garcia realised he was both amused and angry at the same time. Who was this guy? He picked up another bottle. He grinned as he sparked the second bomb into life. Time to make this a little more interesting. Across the street the man with the bat moved gently from side to side, ready for the pitch.

  “Catch!” Garcia launched the bottle, aiming directly at the interloper.

  Dodging to one side, the man batted the bottle underhand and sent it back in an arc towards Garcia. It clattered along the street at a shallow angle, the bottle remaining intact, trailing a stream of petrol as it tumbled. The Spaniard kicked it further down the road with a snort of disdain and barked a rapid curse.

  A flash of raw anger erupted as Kino appeared at his side.

  “Let me help!”

  “Stay out of my fucking way,” Garcia hissed through clenched teeth. “He belongs to me.”

  20

  Danny inhaled, shifted his weight, feet spread wide, and readied himself for the next missile. He breathed out slow and easy. This was a game he’d played years ago with a bunch of bored specialists from the Special Boat Squadron. A lot of those guys had been adrenalin junkies and their off-duty games included blindfold shooting and tyre surfing—crazy, but great fun. Danny remembered sitting in an old truck tyre that was being towed behind a speeding car and hanging on for as long as possible. Other pastimes enjoyed by the SBS included Houdini-like escapology and the much loved Molotov baseball.

  Danny had enjoyed the reckless fun of some of the games but never thought that they’d prove to be battleworthy. As he deflected the third bottle with the aid of a fast lunge to his right, he gave a defiant scowl as the bottle erupted in an incandescent starfish along the side of the gangsters’ car. The younger man scrambled away from the flames, cursing.

  Although Gunn’s grasp of Spanish was good—especially compared to Clay’s—it still left a lot to be desired when it came to the more colloquial curses. But the expression on the face of the young Loco spoke across the linguistic divide.

  The furious boy, who looked to be in his late teens at best, drew a small-calibre pistol from the waistband of his urban-camo trousers. Danny glanced at the sidearm. A cheap piece of Russian crap, only really useful if it was pressed up against flesh point blank.

  Another petrol bomb streaked through the air, its tail blazing like a comet. Keeping one eye on the gunman, Gunn barely deflected the fourth bomb and it exploded in a pool of fire a mere six feet away.

  The young Loco inched forward with his pistol extended, his gun held sideways in the style of an American gangbanger. Then he pulled the trigger.

  Gunn dodged sideways as the pistol emitted its trademark tin-can bark. The shot went wide and a small puff of white adobe was all it scored as it impacted into the wall behind. The young boy continued to pull the trigger as fast as he could manage. Another four shots whined through the air. None came within two feet of Gunn.

  “You’re one piss-poor pistolero,” said Danny.

  The young man gawked down at the handgun as he pulled the trigger without result. Empty.

  “Get back.” The bomber shook his head as he regarded the boy with a baleful glare. He barked, “The donkey knows more than you.”

  But the boy had already scuttled back to relative safety behind the car. The bomber walked forward, his face a mix of self-confidence bordering on smugness and deep-seated anger, the two remaining petrol bombs in hand. He addressed Gunn in fluent English. “You can just walk away you know. This is your last chance to leave.”

  “What, leave when we haven’t finished our game?” asked Danny as he waved the cricket bat defiantly.

  “So let us finish it!”

  “Come on then.”

  “My name is Babi Garcia. Scream it as you die!”

  “My name’s Jackson Commando. Shove it up your arse.”

  The bomber curled his lip in a brief smile. He set one of the bottles down on the ground and went to light the other.

  Danny knew he planned to sling both bombs simultaneously. He charged. The bomber—Garcia—glanced up and faltered.

  He sparked the lighter.

  Danny raised the bat.

  Garcia touched the petrol-soaked rag, the blue flame springing to life.

  Danny closed in.

  Garcia drew back his arm to throw the bomb point b
lank.

  Danny launched the bat like a Viking casting an axe.

  Garcia ducked the projectile but lost the impetus of his own throw.

  Gunn slammed into him, knocking the Molotov cocktail from his hand with a sharp blow to the nerves on the underside of his wrist. He rammed Garcia’s back against the side of the car and thrust a fist into his face. But this Garcia was clearly not one of Barcelo’s rank-and-file Locos. He rolled back from the shot to the face and used the solidity of the car as a springboard to mount his counter. Danny tucked his chin low as Garcia clamped his hands onto his throat.

  21

  Garcia spun Danny in a tight arc. Danny’s head slammed against the roof of the car, once, twice. On the third attempt, Danny managed to pitch Garcia head first towards the ground. Both men landed heavily alongside the car, air forced from their lungs. Garcia thrashed underneath Gunn, still very much in the fight.

  Danny hammered the gangster with the heel of his right hand. Three rapid shots to the jaw sent the Spaniard’s head against the asphalt.

  Garcia retaliated by twisting and biting down on the hand that circled his throat, and the pain forced Gunn to relinquish his chokehold. Garcia slammed him sideways against the car again. Danny caught a painful boot in the ribs and realised the younger gangster had re-entered the affray. A quick elbow to the testicles sent the Loco back to ringside.

  Garcia didn’t waste the brief moment of respite and grabbed for a concealed knife. The blade was short and wide. Only the speed of Danny’s reflexes prevented the blade penetrating his chest more than the quarter of an inch it did. Gunn wrapped up Garcia’s knife arm in an entangled arm lock and pushed the stiffened fingers of his free hand deep into his throat. Garcia gagged.