Fight or Die

by James Hilton

  Stepping away from the ruined vehicle, Garcia waved his hand in front of his face. “You’re the closest thing I have to a friend, but that doesn’t stop me finding humour in the misfortune of others.”

  “Babi…” Barcelo growled. He lifted his chin as he registered Garcia’s hand moving smoothly to his belt, towards his pistol. Both men stood motionless for long seconds, neither willing to break the deadlock. Finally, he spat out, “Are you going to help or stand around and laugh at me?”

  “Like I said earlier, just let me know what you want from me.”

  “I want you to find whoever did this and either bury them or better still bring them to me and I’ll kill them myself.”

  Garcia pointed to the Mercedes convertible, which was full of the same brown odious sludge. “I think they’ve left a calling card.” He plucked a metallic object from the windscreen of the second car and handed it to Barcelo, who examined it. The screaming skull flanked by black crow’s wings had been featured on the news over previous weeks linked to various violent incidents. “I know who these fuckers are. Rogue Angels. French pieces of shit bikers.”

  “You know where to find them?” growled Barcelo.

  Garcia nodded and pointed north. “They hang out ten, fifteen miles out. They’ve got big camper vans, and bikes. Quite a few of them.”

  “How many men do you need?”

  “I’d rather scope them out on my own.”

  “Why? You need a backup man.”

  “Like the last one? The boy who got himself killed?”

  “Yeah.” Barcelo fumed again. “That guy needs to be opened slowly with a rusty blade but we’ll get back to him soon. He’s just one man.”

  “Two men. There’s the big American at the Woo Hoo as well.”

  “Yeah. Two.” Barcelo scowled at the ruined vehicles. “But these Rogue Angels are a bigger threat. We need to take them down first.”

  “That could work too,” Garcia agreed. “Breaking big bad biker boys sounds like a lot of fun. Then I can turn my sights back on the Brit. I’ve got something special in mind for him.”

  “I still want you to take someone with you.”

  “If you insist,” grumbled Garcia. “But this will cost you extra.”

  “You were hired to get rid of the Brit.” Barcelo’s temper flared to a new height. “Not only did you fail in that task, but you dumped a dead body on my kitchen table.”

  The tone of Garcia’s voice changed subtly. “The boy was reckless and the Brit caught him good. This is what happens when you send a boy to do a man’s job.”

  Again the two men locked gazes, then Barcelo gave a nod of begrudging agreement. This was why he liked having Garcia around on occasion. He wasn’t like the rest of the yesmen. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind. But he was proving to be a real pain in the backside when he was right. “Okay. Now, drive me home.”

  34

  Sitting in the rear office of the Woo Hoo, Larry and Pamela Duke looked bemused as Clay related the previous evening’s events. Jacks padded happily between them, clearly enjoying having his ears and the top of his head scratched by everyone he passed.

  “So let me get this right, you smoke-bombed his club, he lost a truckload of girls, he was carted off by the cops—” Larry counted off on his fingers.

  Pamela finished his statement. “And you filled his cars full of shit!”

  Larry began to laugh. “And you managed to piss off a whole gang of bikers as well.”

  “With a bit of luck the Rogues and the Locos will soon be knocking the living crap out of each other. That’ll keep them occupied at the very least,” said Danny as he sipped on a chilled Cruzcampo beer.

  “How do you know the bikers won’t just up sticks and leave?” asked Pamela.

  “Nah, Danny trashed those rides real good,” Clay said. “They’ll be frothing at the mouth to get back at someone. Those boys looked as mad as mad can be. We left their Winnebago a couple of miles down the road. It may need a valet and a respray before they’re happy with it again.”

  “But how will they figure it was the Locos?” asked Pamela, frowning.

  “Because Danny boy here monogrammed his works of art on the sides of the Winnebagos. Then we scooted back to the club and Danny left a Rogues crest on Barcelo’s car.”

  Pamela held her face in both hands. “You know, Danny, for someone who looks as nice as you, you’re a real Tasmanian devil in disguise.”

  “Why would you say that?” deadpanned Clay. “He looks nice? In which alternate universe? He’s got a face like the asshole end of a haggis.”

  “Shut it, Yankee boy, or I’ll teach you the Texas Two Step like it should be done.” Danny mimicked his version of the Ali shuffle and snapped two lightning-fast jabs to within an inch of Clay’s nose.

  Clay jerked his head back. “Ya little shit. Speed isn’t everything you know.”

  Danny continued with a fair impression of his boxing hero. “Ain’t nobody faster than the master of disaster. Clay’s gonna come out smokin’, and I ain’t gonna be jokin’. His eyes are gonna be meetin’ when I’m finished givin’ my beatin’.”

  Clay stood up and flexed his muscles. “You better sit down or I’ll kick you so hard your lungs will pop out your ass.”

  “Who said that? Socrates?” Danny held his guard.

  “Chuck Norris.”

  “Ah, profound…”

  The levity was interrupted by the warbling ringtone of Larry’s phone. He glanced at the caller display before answering. As he listened he shook his head, rubbing his hand across his face in obvious distress. The conversation was brief and Larry ended by promising to see the caller soon.

  “Those dirty bastard bikers you’ve just been on about ransacked old man Torres’s shop last night.” Larry shook his head again. “They kicked the living daylights out of the old guy. Frightened young Alonzo half to death as well. They’re both in hospital; Alonzo isn’t so bad but Torres is in a bad way.”

  Pamela looked shocked. “Old Papa Torres has got cancer. He’s struggling just to keep his grocery store open. What the hell sort of people are these?”

  Danny spoke slow and quiet. “The kind that’s going to get what’s coming to them. Big time.”

  “Ay-men to that,” added Clay. “Like Danny said, with a bit of luck the bikers and the Locos will knock the living crap out of each other for us. But we’ll make sure and finish the job.”

  Clay looked at Danny. His eyes had changed somehow. A subtle change, but it was there. The look was one of promised violence; Clay had seen it many times before.

  Danny leaned towards Clay. “I’m going to grab a few hours of shut-eye. I want to be fresh for tonight.”

  “Go for it, bro. I’ll hold the fort down here, then we can swap over.” Clay rubbed his stomach as he gave Pamela a beseeching look. “Any chance of a bite to eat before I lay my head on the saddlebags? I’m kinda hungry.”

  “You’re always hungry. The Texas economy is probably on the slide since you’ve been over here.” Pamela punched his arm playfully.

  Clay shrugged sheepishly. “I can go elsewhere. I don’t want to be a burden.”

  Larry leaned forward and adjusted his prosthetic leg. “While you and Danny are under our roof you have free run of the place. Eat and drink as much as you want. Don’t give it a second thought. Dez will rustle up anything you want.”

  “Coolo mondo.” Clay stood to his full height and stretched. “I’ll go and have a word with him then.”

  As Clay sauntered off in search of sustenance he was followed by Jacks, his tail wagging. Pamela watched them leave.

  Danny broke her moment of reflection. “I know what you’re thinking. Aren’t dinosaurs supposed to be extinct.”

  Pamela shook her head. “For a guy so big he moves like a tiger. Kind of smooth and casual. I’ve seen professional wrestlers close up and Clay looks as big and dangerous as any of them. Only you could get away with calling him a dinosaur.”

  “He’s a pain-i
n-the-saur-ass.”

  Pamela laughed. “You remind me of my own brothers back in England. Rough and ready, but good people.”

  “How do you know the old guy who got beat up?” asked Danny.

  “Papa Torres?” Pamela asked. “We’ve known him for years, since we first started coming over here on holiday. Most of the Spanish locals are great, easy to get along with as long as you learn a bit of Spanish out of courtesy. Some of the older locals don’t speak much English, but at the end of the day we’re in their country. Papa really helped us find our feet when we first bought the club. He showed us the best places to buy our supplies, all the little but important things. He introduced us to Dez, who turned out to be the best cook in the whole town. Papa’s a tough guy, but the cancer has hit him hard. He should know better than to fight.”

  Larry sat forward quickly. “What is he supposed to do? Just let them come in and make a fool out of him? Fuck that. I would have done the same.”

  Pamela’s cheeks flushed red. “And get yourself smashed up or killed in the process. What good would that do? What then?”

  “I was just saying.”

  Danny interjected to calm the rising tension. “So what’s happened to the old guy?”

  Larry gave out a long sigh. “Like I said, he’s been taken to hospital. They’re keeping him in for a while. Young Alonzo took a smack in the face as well. One of the bikers clocked him as they were leaving. Bastards.” Larry gave out a long sigh. “I better go and let Dez know. They’re old friends too. Friggin’ biker arseholes dishing out the pain to an old man.”

  “Don’t worry,” Danny reassured. “We’ll pay it back tenfold.”

  35

  Barcelo stood in front of his desk and commanded the gaze of every man before him. They numbered just short of forty. Ortega and the two drivers had arrived back at the villa minutes earlier and sat at the front of the gathering. Many in the room sported cuts, bruises and other injuries. The more senior members sat while the younger soldiers stood behind them.

  When Barcelo finally spoke his voice was uncharacteristically quiet. This sent a ripple of unease through the ranks. His men were used to his outbursts and knew to keep their heads down, but this was different. A chill seemed to emanate across the room.

  “Who are we?”

  The men in the room exchanged glances.

  “Who are we?” he asked again.

  “We are the Locos, boss,” replied one of the soldiers.

  “The Locos? The Locos?”

  “Yes, boss. The Locos.”

  “And why do people call us that?”

  “Because they think we’re crazy.”

  Barcelo nodded his head slowly. “Do people fear us? Do they respect us?”

  “Yes, boss. Fear and respect.”

  Barcelo pointed at the soldier who had answered him. “Step forward.” The soldier clenched his jaw but did as requested. “And what do you think of me?”

  “I fear and respect you,” the man said, without hesitation.

  Barcelo closed his eyes. He gave the man a slow nod and motioned for him to step back. “But what do others think of us? If we are feared and respected would foreign pieces of shit have the balls to tear you up? Would we have French motherfuckers riding into our town and robbing businesses on our doorstep? Taking money from our pockets and food from our mouths? Ruining my cars, my property?”

  Ortega hissed his question through wired teeth. “So what’s the plan? We hit the Rogues tonight?”

  “No. We hit them now!” Barcelo opened his eyes. “I want every able man in this room armed and ready to roll in the next half hour. Bring everything you’ve got. Back here in half an hour!”

  The Locos left the villa in a nervous rush. A few did not own guns but knew there would be enough to go around. Despite Barcelo’s general dislike of everyday firearm use he knew some of the soldiers had amassed their own personal armouries over the years.

  When the soldiers had dispersed, only Barcelo, Ortega and Garcia remained. Barcelo addressed his captain first. “Ortega, you up to this?”

  Ortega drew a pistol from his hip and rested it on top of his cast. “I can still shoot just fine with my left.”

  “And you?”

  Garcia sniffed at the question. “You keep paying me and I’ll skin every last biker.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll be back in a little while. I want to pick up some toys before we go play,” said Garcia.

  Barcelo waved him away. “Go get your bag of tricks.”

  As soon as Garcia left the room Ortega spoke. “I don’t trust Garcia as far as I can spit. That man would stick a knife in your back just as quick as the one you sent him to kill. And he would wear a smile while he did it.”

  “I know what he is, but he stays on the payroll for now. At times like this it’s handy to have a psychopath to hand.”

  “Well, you’re right on both counts. He’s as odd as a two-legged goat and makes Norman Bates look normal.” Ortega tapped his fingers to the side of his head.

  Barcelo growled. “Loco, you might say?”

  36

  Vartain palmed a full magazine into his pistol, taking comfort from the metallic ratcheting sound. The bastards that wrecked his bikes would pay dearly. Those gangster wannabes, the Locos, were in for a shock. They were used to dealing with drunken tourists and timid shopkeepers. How would they fare when faced with road warriors ready for battle?

  He shouted across the bar so all of his men would hear him. “Tool up. I want to know where these shit-heels hang out and I want them buried.”

  This brought a roar of agreement from the Rogues. One of the gang, his nose thick and swollen, stood next to Vartain. The tall guy now sported two black eyes and looked like an angry panda, but the shotgun he waved was a pump-action and no joke. “I want the little bastard who clocked me.”

  Another roar of agreement.

  “And ruined half our rides.” The roar that went up at the mention of the damaged bikes was like that of a barbarian horde.

  Vartain had no particular dislike for the Spanish, disliking most races equally, although the English and Russians were below shit on the ground in his book. Both thought they were superior to everyone else. But these Locos had it coming, and from what he had heard about them, they were a ragtag bunch: blacks, whites and mulattos all in the same outfit. Vartain didn’t care much for the blacks either. Paris was overrun with them.

  “You,” said Vartain, pointing at the two closest bikers. “Go into town, knock the heads of a few shopkeepers and get them to tell you where these Loco dick-pullers hang out. Call me as soon as you have anything. The rest of us will meet you there. We’ll hit them back before they expect it.”

  The two scouts armed themselves and the taller of the two grinned maliciously as he cut the air with a machete. “Won’t take long. Be ready.”

  Vartain holstered the revolver and looked back at the rest of his men. They looked ready. The scouts had just left but Vartain glanced down at his phone as if willing it to ring. With a deep inhalation he forced himself to relax; he rolled his shoulders, tensed and relaxed his hands. He had felt like this many times; it was the burning anticipation of the fight to come and part of him relished the feeling. As a younger man in Marseilles he had studied the French kick-boxing style of savate. It was a rough sport that employed many devastating kicks and punches. Vartain had never become a champion but had won a lot more bouts than he had lost. Savate had been developed by the roughest sailors and stevedores in Europe and it could be deadly when used in its raw combat form. He looked forward to putting his savate, his boot, into the Locos.

  “How many vehicles have we still got on the road?” he asked.

  “Nine,” said one of the older bikers, fat and grey and mean-looking. “The three big vans, one pick-up truck and five bikes. We had to change tyres on the camper vans but it’s done now.”

  Vartain scowled again. How many thousands’ worth of damage had been caused? Most o
f the bikes were custom works of art like the RVs. Ruined at the hands of some dip-shit outfit in a holiday resort. His hands again strayed to the two guns at his waist, the Ruger LCR revolver and his Ruger LC9, old friends that never let him down. He liked the LC9 pistol as it was designed as a concealed carry weapon and sat comfortably in the small of his back. The stubby revolver was perfect for putting down a target for good. A couple of .357 rounds tended to do the job nicely.

  “Get them all ready to roll. I want two men per bike, one rider and one shooter. The rest in the pick-up and RVs. When we find out where they are, we hit them hard and we make sure they know why.”

  The Rogues busied themselves feeding shells into shotguns, drinking liquor and sharing promises of violence. An hour slipped by, then another. One man sat in a corner, sharpening a serrated combat knife. The blade was as long as his forearm.

  Vartain’s cell phone warbled. “About time.” He answered with a perfunctory, “What?”

  A slow approximation of a smile crept across his face like an evening shadow. He clicked his fingers twice to get the attention of his men, then moved a raised finger in a tight circle. “Let’s go!”

  The Rogues moved as one towards the exit. Weapons were held at the ready even before they knew their destination. One of the bikers kicked a table over on his way past, sending empty bottles and glasses crashing to the floor. The bar staff just kept their heads down, avoiding eye contact and saying nothing, as they had for the previous week.

  Engines roared to life as the bikers clambered on to their vehicles. Vartain’s Triumph Bonneville had survived with only cosmetic damage. The mirrors had been mangled but the handlebars, wheels and engine were still intact. He powered his bike to the front of the makeshift convoy and waved the rest of his men forward.

  37

  Danny opened his eyes to see his big brother standing over him.

  “All quiet?” asked Danny.

  “As the Western Front,” replied Clay. “Just came to wake you up.”

  Danny swung his legs to the floor, stood and stretched. Then he bent at the waist and while keeping his legs locked straight, placed his palms flat on the floor. After holding the stretch for a few seconds he slowly returned to standing.