by James Hilton
Clay wiped a dime-sized spot of blood from his face. “Never had a liking for one armed-bandits.”
Three more Locos stood between him and Ortega. More than had been standing outside the villa. Clearly they’d kept reinforcements back. Clay stared at the captain. “You know I’m going to save you for last. Make you watch your butt-monkeys get theirs first. Then I’m gonna axe you some questions.”
Wincing, Ortega spat out blood-tinged saliva. He gripped a Bushmaster knife. “I think it is you who will die today.” His remaining men fanned out into a loose skirmish line and moved towards their target. “Can you stop three at once?”
“Let’s find out.”
Clay never got the chance. A rapid series of six shots rang out in the kitchen as Danny burst through the door behind Ortega. The three men went down.
Ortega turned and stared at Danny. “But… you’re dead.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Danny’s voice was ice.
The bullet caught Ortega below his right eye. His head snapped back and for a second he stood with his arms outstretched like a child playing monsters. Then he collapsed face down, his knife clattering on the tiles.
“That them all?” asked Danny.
Clay shook his head. “I haven’t seen Barcelo. But there’s at least two more ass-wipes to get upstairs.”
“Let’s go and have a wee chit-chat. Maybe they know where the head honcho is hiding.”
Danny checked the mag in his Beretta. “Three left.”
“That’s enough for now.”
Danny turned, indicating the AK on his back. “Just in case.”
54
Danny ascended the stairs as quickly as possible while keeping the pistol aimed up at any prospective targets.
“Left or right?” asked Clay. The landing showed two doors off to their left and four more to the right.
“I’ll clear the left. You watch my six. Don’t want any nasty surprises.”
“Go.”
Danny scooted past the first door and reached for the handle with his left hand—when it turned easily he booted the door so hard it clattered against the interior wall of the bedroom beyond. He swept the room, his sight line and weapon moving in accord. Old habits learned long ago. Wherever the eyes go, the weapon goes.
“Clear.”
Danny entered the second room. “Clear.”
Clay stepped aside as his brother crossed the landing and made for the first of the remaining doors.
Repeating the procedure, the room proved empty of gangsters but was an impressive sight to behold. This was obviously Barcelo’s master bedroom. It was large enough to ballroom dance in and the entire ceiling above the massive sleigh-ended bed was taken up by a state-of-the-art plasma screen. Danny had never seen a screen so big outside of a cinema. Beautiful dark wood furniture—obviously antique— filled most of the space and a hot tub big enough for at least six people sat to the left of a balcony that overlooked the pool deck and the open sea beyond.
“Nice pad,” Clay remarked as he poked his head into the room.
“Three more doors. They’ve got to be up here somewhere. Let’s see who’s behind door number four.”
Danny moved to the door opposite but before he could do anything one of the remaining Locos burst out from the end door some twenty feet away.
Clay shouted a warning but Danny was already moving.
The attacker raised a Molotov cocktail; the rag stuffed in the neck of the bottle was alight with an orange flame.
Danny squeezed the pistol trigger twice.
The Loco opened his mouth in a silent scream as two crimson flowers bloomed on his abdomen. He faltered but tried once more to throw the incendiary bomb.
Danny’s pistol spat out its final bullet.
The bottle exploded, engulfing the bomber in a fountain of yellow flames. The man fell to the floor, scuttling like a crab in a tight circle, arms and legs thrashing, and a horrendous gurgling sound escaped from his throat.
Danny scowled at the sight. He knew all too well what flames did to fragile flesh. The pistol was empty; he reached for the AK to finish the job.
Clay grunted. “Fuck him. That could have been you down there playing crispy critter. Would have been if you hadn’t have capped him.”
A perfunctory nod from Danny signalled his agreement and he left the Loco to burn. “Let’s see if the other guy is a bit more agreeable.”
They found the last of the gang huddled in the far corner of a games room. He had hunkered down behind a pool table, his knife held out in front of his blanched face. Danny racked the slide on his battered Beretta pistol for effect. He moved to one side of the pool table as Clay shadowed him on the opposite side.
“Drop the knife or you get a bullet in the kneecap.” Danny dipped the muzzle of the pistol twice to illustrate his instructions.
The surviving Loco stared up at the two armed men, his eyes stark and wide. A film of cold perspiration mottled his face. The knife in his extended hand trembled as they drew closer.
“Hablas friggin’ Inglés?” Danny repeated the motion with his pistol.
The knife dropped to the floor. The remaining Loco soldier held out his hands in a position of surrender.
“Please. Don’t kill me!” The man’s voice was shrill and spittle flew from his mouth.
Danny kicked the discarded knife to the other side of the room. “I’m going to ask you some questions and I want answers.”
“Promise you won’t kill me and I’ll tell you anything.” The cornered man looked like he would sell his soul for clear passage through the doorway behind his two captors.
“You smell that? That’s your buddy out there. Kentucky Fried Chicken could serve him with a side of slaw an’ fries. He got off easy.” Clay raised his axe as he looked to Danny. “Just let me chop off one of his feet and he’ll be singing like a canary.”
The Loco pulled his legs in tight to his buttocks as if that would protect him.
“I promise I won’t kill you,” said Danny. He then added the caveat, “If you tell me what I need to know.”
“An Englishman’s word is his bond. Yes?”
Danny nodded, the edges of his mouth turned down at the corners. “Yes. An Englishman’s word is his bond.”
The Loco relaxed slightly, uncurling his legs. He avoided looking at Clay who loomed over him. “What do you want to know?”
“Where’s your boss—Barcelo?”
The young man took a long breath before answering. “He has gone to the place to meet with his… his…” He struggled to find the correct word in English. “Men who send girls. I don’t know who they are. Boss just calls them ‘the contacts’.”
“Girls?” Danny’s mouth turned down at the corners. “You mean the kids from the club?”
“Si, los pequenos pollos.”
Clay raised the axe again, his voice rumbling in his chest. “They’re not little chickens. They’re kids, someone’s daughters, you little fucker.”
“Where are they meeting these men?” Danny asked.
Clay’s knuckles turned white as he raised the axe. “Answer him.”
The Loco flinched visibly then mimicked a swimming gesture. “Waterpark.”
“Barcelo is having a meet at a waterpark?” Danny exchanged a look with Clay. “They’re meeting in a park full of tourists?”
“No. The park is…” The Loco waved his hands around in loose circles. “No terminado.”
“Not finished? You mean it’s still being built?” asked Danny. “So no tourists. Just Barcelo’s little gang and the men that he’s meeting?”
“Si.”
“Where is it?”
The Loco gave directions to the park in more broken English. When he was satisfied Danny pointed the Beretta at the man’s face.
The Loco threw up his hands. “Please! You promised you would not kill me. An Englishman’s promise is his word.”
“But I’m not English.” Danny shook his head slowly. “I’m Scott
ish.”
Click!
The Loco gasped as he realised the pistol was empty.
Clay brought the axe down into the side of the Loco’s head, ripping off half his face. The man’s mouth formed a tight O before he collapsed back, shuddering against the wall. A burst of arterial blood spurted in a brief explosion of crimson.
“That’s for Dez, you son of a bitch.”
Danny gritted his teeth, knowing the answer before he even asked the question. “Dez’s dead?”
“Never stood a chance. Asshole with the shotgun took him out as soon as we got out of the car.”
“He thought he was killing me.” Danny hung his head. The last thing he had wanted was any harm to befall Dez or Larry. “Shit! Larry and Adam.”
Both brothers rushed back down the stairs. They found Adam, blood-streaked but very much alive. He had made his way over to Clay’s car and was slumped with his back against the driver’s side. Both of his ruined hands were cradled in his lap and a dark purple bruise framed his left eye. A dark patch stained his trousers at the crotch. The expression on his face was one of abject shame.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought I could help.” Adam looked down at his hands then at Dez who lay nearby. “Jesus Christ, they killed Dez. This is all my fault.”
Danny took Adam’s bruised face in his hands, lifting his chin. “This isn’t the time for I told you so, but I told you to stay well away.”
“I know, I know.” Adam began sobbing again. “I got Dez killed.”
Clay knelt at Adam’s side. He pointed at the bodies of the first Locos that had been killed. “They killed Dez… not you.”
Danny and Clay lifted Adam to his feet. He emitted a low whine as he cradled his ruined hands.
“Where’s your car?” asked Danny.
Adam raised his blood-covered hand and pawed the air. “Up there on the far side of the hill.”
“Okay. You’re going to the hospital. Larry can drive you. Time for you both to hightail it,” said Danny. “I’ll call Larry down.”
Clay nodded in agreement. “Larry saved my ass back there. He got that fucker with the shotgun good.”
Danny grimaced at Dez’s bloody corpse. “Not soon enough though.”
“He was a stand-up guy but we should never have brought him along, or Larry.”
Danny began to wrap Dez in his jacket. “The best laid plans of mice and men…”
“Ay-men to that.” Clay scooped up Dez’s limp form and placed him with care across the back seats of the car. He touched two fingers to the cook’s cooling forehead. “May the next world be better for you than this one was, my friend.”
Danny dialled Larry’s number. It was answered after four rings.
Larry’s voice was little more than a whisper. “I’m down.”
55
Larry held up a blood-stained hand as the car screeched to a halt next to him, throwing up a plume of dust and loose stones. Clay was first out of the vehicle. In a second he was carefully cradling his old friend. “Oh shit, Larry.”
Larry hung like a child in Clay’s massive arms. “Look at the state of me! I’m bleeding at both ends. What a royal cluster-fuck!”
“Easy there while I check you over, see how bad you’re hurt.”
“I took one in the shoulder and one in the leg. It could have been worse but the little fucker decided he was going to beat me into paste.” Larry gestured towards the body of the Loco.
Danny dropped to one knee next to Larry. He pointed to the corpse. “What happened?”
“Guess he thought an old cripple like me didn’t have a leg to stand on.” Larry tried to wipe some of his blood from his face but only succeeded in wiping the congealed mess down his neck.
“He thought wrong then.”
Larry lay quiet as Clay continued to inspect his body for injuries. Blood had soaked both his shirt and trousers to a dark crimson. Larry winced as he was turned onto his side.
“The wound on your leg looks like a through and through but I can’t see an exit wound on your shoulder. The slug must still be inside. Can you move your fingers?” asked Clay.
“Crap… that hurts.”
“Yeah you got that right. Lie back down.” Clay pressed two fingers to the side of Larry’s neck.
Danny yanked open the trunk of the car and pulled out a first-aid kit. Ripping it open, he produced a large square of padded gauze.
Larry winced as Danny pulled his shirt down and pressed the absorbent pad against the hole in his shoulder. The blood that oozed from the wound looked like ink against the paleness of his chest. Danny tied a bandage tight around his upper thigh. Blood immediately soaked through the material.
“Ow…” Larry pulled a face.
Danny gave him a tight-lipped smile in response. “Oh shut up, you old hypochondriac. I’ve had worse wounds in stapler accidents. Keep that pressed tight against your shoulder. We’ll get you to the hospital and you’re gonna be okay.”
Larry gritted his teeth as Clay lifted him and sat him on the back seat of the car. Dez lay propped half against the opposite door; his limbs had a slackness only death can bring. An acrid smell filled the interior of the car. Larry knew exactly what the smell was. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his dead friend for more than a second. Larry glanced at Adam who was curled up on the centre of the seat. He too was blood-streaked, his face as pale as sour milk.
Larry nodded at Adam. “Well, here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”
The Laurel and Hardy reference was lost on the young man but caused Danny’s mouth to twitch. “Nobody studies the classics anymore.”
The moment of morbid levity was broken by Clay’s gruff comment. “We’ve gotta get these two to the hospital. That takes us in the opposite direction from Barcelo. Another chance missed.”
“Fuck Barcelo for now. Larry and Adam come first.” Danny gave the two injured men a sympathetic look. “We drop them at the ER then we’ll see if we can still catch el jefe on the hop.”
Larry leaned forward. “This car is an automatic. No stick shift to worry about. I can drive this with one hand. I’ll get us to the hospital, you need to catch Barcelo and end this.”
Clay did not look convinced.
Larry opened the door with his left hand and swung his legs to the ground. “I can make it, Clay. I lived through getting my leg blown off. A couple more bullets in the hide is fuck all.”
“What if you pass out while you’re driving?”
“You know for a gorilla-sized arsehole with a face full of scars you’re still a worry-wart. I’ll be fine. To tell you the truth I’m more worried about what Pam is going to do to me for getting myself shot up again. I can feel her teeth in my arse already.”
Clay helped Larry into the driver’s seat. “You’ve been shot. You need to get your stories straight for when the cops are called. This is a shit storm. The police are going to be all over it.”
Larry spat out a glob of blood. “Adam, Dez and I were out just driving around when these guys dressed in grey camouflage car-jacked us, took our wallets and watches. They left us for dead and took off to the south. I’ll make sure the cops aren’t looking anywhere near here. I’ll just play the amnesia game.”
Danny nodded slowly but his face was grim. “What about Dez? He’s got family, right?”
“A girlfriend and her seven-year-old boy. Maria and Lorenzo.”
“Shit. I should have never let you guys come with us.” Danny rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“We came for Adam. Dez knew the risks. I did too. He was a stand-up guy,” replied Larry.
“Yeah, but he died posing as me so I could come at them from behind. His blood is on my hands as much as the Locos’.” Danny clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. “This is why I work alone most of the time. People around me tend to die.”
“You weren’t getting Adam back alive on your own and remember why you’re here in the first place. Barcelo and his
Locos were going to keep on coming until they got exactly what they wanted.” Larry started the engine. “Adam, come up front with me.”
Adam did as Larry asked. He turned to Danny and Clay, then nodded at his vehicle, which was still parked further up the hill. “My keys should still be inside. Go an’ get that son of a bitch.”
Danny nodded in agreement.
“I’ll grab anything useful left in the trunk,” said Clay.
Larry watched as Danny sprinted to Adam’s car and was relieved to hear the vehicle start on the first turn.
“You sure about this?” asked Clay when he was done transferring what was left of their ordnance.
“Godspeed and the devil’s right hand,” Larry answered. He waved as the Gunn brothers drove off. The old soldier coughed as bile rose in his throat. “All I have to do now is get us to the hospital.”
56
Antoni Barcelo stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his weight resting on his left leg. He watched the three identical black Mercedes SUVs slowly wind their way from the front of the empty waterpark towards the visitors’ centre.
The approaching Bosnians were, in Barcelo’s eyes, a necessary evil. Spain, like the rest of Europe, was now one big open playing field. No one respected the old boundaries or territories any more. The important thing was to decide who to sit at the table with and who to feed to the fish. Outfits such as the Rogue Angels, though still dangerous in their own right, were not in the same league as the Bosnians. Barcelo had recognised both the very real threat and the opportunity presented by the Balkan mafia. They had first made contact nearly two years previously. The introduction had been anything but subtle. Their leader, Josef Golok, had arrived in Ultima with a small entourage of seven soldiers and promptly visited one of the red light houses that operated under the auspices of the Locos.
Barcelo had received a panicked call from Ali, the house pimp, to say that eight men were standing in the lobby of the whorehouse staring at him in silence. When Barcelo and a dozen of his men had come to investigate, the Bosnians were still there. They all had the same look. Thickset men, short and stocky, heads shaven—apart from a patch on the top of their heads that a cap would easily cover.