by James Hilton
Wasting no time, Danny climbed out of the pool. He knew it could take up to thirty seconds to die of asphyxiation. The Bosnian was clutching both hands to his throat as his legs folded slowly beneath him; he tipped face first into the water, sending out wide ripples in every direction.
Water dripped from Danny, his clothes clinging to every inch of his body. The muscles in his jaw bunched as he watched the Bosnian submerge. He felt no remorse for the dying man but the swarming rats still caused an instinctive sense of revulsion.
After a few seconds Golok floated to the surface. He was face down and motionless. A rat, leathery tail swishing from side to side, mounted the dead man’s back. It regarded Danny briefly with its black marble gaze then began gnawing at the soft flesh at the back of Golok’s neck.
78
Clay pressed a hand against the back of his neck, rubbing it slowly from side to side. A painful tightness had crept into the surrounding muscles. The wide triangular slabs of his trapezoids were tense and sore, the nerves in his neck raw. A raft of lesser pains seemed to take effect at once. He knew that the heat of combat was wearing off and his adrenalin levels were dipping. The burning sensation returned from the bullet that had creased his upper back.
Bunching his hands into tight fists, Clay flexed the muscles in his arms, chest and legs. Then he fixed his gaze on the roller door.
Skirting the SUV he found Barcelo’s Kimber pistol lying on the ground. He ejected the clip to find that only two rounds remained. “There’s never enough bullets,” he huffed.
With a grunt of determination, he started towards the base of the volcano. As he jogged towards the entry point he stopped focusing on the pain. He knew that he would hurt like a son of a bitch tomorrow and probably for the rest of the week, but tomorrow didn’t concern him. Danny did.
Choosing the right side of the portal, he pressed an ear against the corrugated metal. There was no noise from within. That could mean many things.
They could all be dead, Danny included.
They could be deeper within the structure, still stalking each other.
Or the Bosnians could be standing over the body of his dead brother.
He knew there was only one sure-fire way of finding out. He also knew there was a very good chance of being shot dead if his gamble failed to pay off. But Danny was inside and maybe in mortal danger.
“Aw crap!” Clay gripped the bottom of the door, the edge of the metal digging deep into his fingers and palms as he began to pull upwards. A harsh screech of protesting metal answered his exertions. The door raised slowly, inch by inch until he’d created a gap sufficient to roll under.
Clay was about to do so when a very familiar voice brought a smile to his face.
“Stay there, ya big ape. I’m coming out.”
Danny scooted beneath the door and nodded at Clay who was giving him the once-over.
“Three questions,” said Clay.
“Just three?”
“For starters.”
“Fire away.”
“One, are they all dead inside?”
“As disco dancin’ dodos,” Danny replied. He drew a finger across his throat to illustrate the point.
“Two, why the hell are you so wet? Did you stop off at the wave pool for a quick dip while I was doing all the real work?”
In response, Danny flicked some of the water at Clay and laughed. “Yeah, that’s it exactly. I clocked off early and thought, what the hell. Doofus!”
Clay raised his eyebrows.
“If you must know I ended up going all UFC inside a drainage sluice. Tough son of a bitch. Didn’t go down easy. I’m sure he was the leader of the Bosnian crew.”
“Ah, my ‘phone a friend’, I think. We had a chit-chat earlier. I’m not sure he really warmed to my telephone manner.”
Danny smiled. “That probably accounts for his foul mood. I’ve heard you on the phone. You could make Gandhi drop the F-bomb.”
“I know, it’s a talent. But don’t be so envious, you can be an irritating little jerk in your own right.”
“Bugger off.” Danny faked a punch at his brother. “Isn’t it time you went to New York and climbed the Empire State Building again?”
Clay thumped his chest gorilla-style. The muscles in the back of his neck sent out a brief flash of pain in way of protest.
“You said three questions,” said Danny. “Ask and be done with it.”
Clay frowned as he waited for the ache in the base of his skull to subside.
“You okay?” Danny reached out for his brother.
“Yeah, took a couple of knocks is all. Okay. Question three. How did you know it was me lifting the roller door? Could have been one of the bad guys.”
Danny shook his head. “In answer to question three of three, I’ll give you a two-part answer.”
“Please elucidate.”
“I will. Item one: who else is strong enough or dumb enough to rip a friggin’ steel roller door out of its moorings?”
Clay shrugged.
“Item two: I saw your boots. Nobody else I know has got feet that big, apart from Godzilla. Put two and two together and got you.”
“Nobody likes a smart ass.” Clay wiped a smear of blood from his eyebrow. “Anyhow, you can’t hit me with both King Kong and Godzilla jibes in one conversation. That’s just not right.”
Exchanging grimaces, Danny nodded at the pistol in Clay’s hand. “Nice Kimber. Don’t see so many of those around.”
“Yeah, nice piece of kit. Spanish Elvis had ideas of shooting me with it.”
“Barcelo? How did that work out for him?” asked Danny.
“Elvis left the building. And there won’t be a comeback special, that’s for sure.”
“Another member of the dodo club?”
“Unless they’ve perfected head transplants and I didn’t get the memo.” Clay made a popping sound with his pursed lips. “You think there’s any more left before we leave?”
“Dunno. I think it’s time we blew this popsicle stand anyway. Even out here in the sticks a local might have seen all the smoke and heard the gunfire. I don’t want to be here when the emergency services arrive.”
“I hear that.” Clay gave a mischievous smile. “Do you think it would be acceptable if we borrowed a vehicle from this fine collection of fellows?”
Danny cupped a hand to his ear. “I don’t hear any objections.”
“Alrighty then. Let’s mosey.”
They made their way to the Mercedes SUV. Danny paused for a moment as he took in the scene of carnage. “Jeez, Clay. What the hell?”
“Shit needed kickin’.”
“You don’t say.” Pointing to the impaled Locos, Danny added, “It’s probably best if we lose the hood ornaments.”
Without preamble or ceremony Clay gripped the rear of the two dead men by the shoulders. With one sharp tug and a brief screech of metal the two corpses dropped to the ground.
Danny cast a look at Barcelo. “He looks like he’s been dropped from a great height without a parachute.”
Clay shrugged. “You know what they say, can’t make an omelette…”
“Nice, the keys are still in the ignition. At least that worked in our favour.”
Clay climbed into the passenger seat. “You can drive.”
“I was planning to. Look what happened last time you were behind the wheel.”
79
Danny parked the stolen SUV several blocks from the Woo Hoo. When it was found he didn’t want any easy connections to be made that would lead back to Larry and Pamela. Both men sat in rare quiet reflection. The engine of the Mercedes cooled slowly, emitting lazy tink-tink-tink sounds.
His clothes were still wet and clung to Danny’s skin uncomfortably. As he twisted in his seat the leather upholstery squeaked in protest.
Clay broke the easy silence. “Why do we do this? I mean why the hell? We’re both easy-going guys, so why do we always end up with blood on our hands?”
Danny gave
a short laugh. “What, are you asking if we’re closet psychopaths with a hero complex?”
“I’m not sure I want that as a logo on my T-shirt. There were a couple of times back there I didn’t know if you were dead or alive.” Clay dropped his chin close to his chest. “You’re the only person that I really love in this whole damned world. If you were gone I don’t know what I would do.”
Danny shifted in his seat again. “Agreed, but we’re both still alive and kicking, so let’s worry about our fragile mortality another time.”
Clay gave a single short nod. “I could kill a beer or ten.”
“Yeah, I hear that, big bro’. I think we’re gonna need them and probably a new arse apiece after Pamela gets through with us.”
“Oh, crap.”
“Yeah, we’ve still got to face the lioness before we get to call this jaunt finished.”
Clay grimaced as he recalled their last conversation. “She’s going to go ballistic. I don’t envy Larry when she catches up with him. I hope he’s okay.”
“He’s a tough old fucker, he’ll be all right.” Danny looked down at his knuckles, several of which were missing chunks of skin. “It still grieves me that Dez is dead. We should never have agreed to let them help us. He died because they thought he was me.”
Clay puffed out his cheeks. “I know. I feel the same.”
“Well, we better go back and face the music. Pamela must have heard from the hospital by now. We’ll go and check the status quo.”
“Wow. Are they playing a gig at the club?”
“They should invent a new dance: the Texas Dipshit. You could lead it.”
“The Texas Dipshit. I think I’ve done that already. You just add beer and a bottle of tequila.”
Danny held up a hand as they climbed from the vehicle. “Hey, give me a second. I just want to have a nose in the trunk, see if there’s anything worth taking.”
Clay nodded. “You can take the boy out of Scotland, but you can’t take Scotland out of the boy.”
“Put a sock in it, you big Yeti.”
“You’re going all out with the monster insults today, ain’t ya?”
“If the freakishly big shoe fits…”
“You’ll be wearin’ it up your ass in a minute.”
“Nothing of worth in the trunk space.” Danny moved to the rear passenger door. He lifted out a jacket, quickly checked the pockets but again turned up nothing. Wedged behind the passenger seat was a sports bag that took up most of the footwell. Danny lifted the bag onto the seat and pulled on the zipper. “Bingo!”
Clay looked inside. Thick wads of euros, each secured by an elastic band, filled more than half of the bag’s capacity. “That’ll buy a taco or two.”
“Damn right. I’ll consider it our severance bonus.”
“You keep it, Danny. Spend it wisely on wine and women. I don’t need it.”
“Coolo mondo. It’ll help tide me over during quiet times.”
Clay thumped him playfully on the shoulder, almost knocking him back into the SUV. “Since when do you have any quiet times? Look at the shit you’ve caused since you got here.”
Leaving the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked, the Gunn brothers began the short walk back to the Woo Hoo Club.
They were still a block away when they heard the yelling and smelled the smoke.
80
Babi Garcia gave little more than a fleeting thought to the fates of the Locos and the Bosnians that he had left behind at the waterpark. They were not his people, or his concern. Barcelo paid well and provided some interesting interludes but he would never be his jefe. No one would be. Babi was his own boss, his own man and in no need of a gang to do his bidding or to provide him with protection.
He looked around the club. It was past dawn—posters outside had advertised an all-night fiesta with half-price drinks—but it was still half full. The exhausted specimens on display were a perfect example of everything he detested about humanity. Men that thought they were way more handsome and funny than they really were, strutting around like idiotic peacocks. The women were either hags that thought that a face full of heavy make-up and a short skirt would hold back the effects of time, or young girls wearing next to nothing, with their over-exaggerated facial expressions while taking endless selfies.
“I’ll wipe those stupid grins off your faces in a minute,” Babi said under his breath, his voice thick with intent.
The staff seemed a little on edge, a tinge of worry behind their smiles. Babi fixed his gaze on one in particular. She was flitting back and forth behind the bar, mixing drinks and working the cash register with practised hands. Her brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail, seemed to constantly change colour as it caught the glow from the multicoloured lights arranged above the expansive display of bottles behind her. She would do nicely.
Back to business. Work first then play, Babi reminded himself. He moved around the club slowly. The customers were way too preoccupied with their own idiocies to notice what he was doing before their very eyes. In each hand he held a can of lighter fluid and as he traced his way from the front to the rear of the club in a circuitous route, he squeezed the cans in a slow but steady rhythm.
At the rear corner he stepped into the men’s toilets. The music was a little less intrusive behind the door. One man stood facing a urinal. He held the pose familiar to drunken men the world over, left hand high on the tiled wall, supporting his weight, as the other directed his stream into the ceramic pan.
The man gave a brief glance over his shoulder as Babi entered the room, then went back to emptying his bladder.
Babi allowed a small pool of lighter fluid to form next to the door. He then walked towards the urinals. Aiming at the man’s back, he directed the twin jets of fluid at his back and shoulders.
The man turned as the cold liquid soaked his shirt against his skin. Babi dropped the cans to the floor.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?”
Babi kicked him hard between his legs, making him double over. Garcia pulled out a Zippo lighter, sparked a flame, then extended his hand in a casual motion. He smiled as the man’s back was engulfed in an instant. The man began to scream as the flames devoured his shirt and started on his flesh. He spun in wild circles, his arms beating with little effect at his back.
Babi watched the burning man fall against the sinks then collapse to the tiled floor.
“La Flambé Flamenco.”
Garcia grabbed three toilet rolls from a shelf near the cubicles and rubbed each one into the pool of fluid next to the door. He sparked the lighter again, this time waving it near the floor, and the pool of lighter fluid ignited instantly. Twin lines of fire raced under the door. A few seconds later the yelling and screaming began.
When he walked back into the bar area the patrons of the Woo Hoo Club were doing a very different dance than earlier. Bodies crashed into one another as they tried to escape the flames, which had sprung up all over the club within a few short seconds. Tables and chairs toppled to the ground, spilling drinks and bodies.
Garcia knelt and touched the first of the paper rolls to the flames before throwing it overhand into the middle of the club. The screams intensified as bodies flailed at each other. He set the second roll alight and watched it arc through the air like a miniature comet. A pot-bellied man in an oversize tie-dye shirt yelled out in fear as the ball of fire landed in his arms. He cast it away, losing his glasses as he did so. It landed behind the bar, sending the staff scattering for safety.
The third roll Garcia tossed at the back of a woman who had squeezed into a Lycra dress that looked two sizes too small. She shrieked, spinning a full circle as the burning wad hit the bare skin of her back.
Garcia grinned. A young man appeared in front of him brandishing an unopened bottle of whisky. The man looked to be mid-twenties at most. Not a member of staff. No uniform, no name badge, just some have-a-go hero. With the bottle cocked high at his right shoulder the man ran at Babi, yelling
as he rushed forward. The bottle passed within a couple of inches of Garcia’s head but failed to make contact.
Garcia swayed back, moving his head away from the bottle’s trajectory. Before the young man had time to try another swing, Babi stepped in and with a simple push on the man’s shoulder sent him toppling off balance. As the challenger straightened up and moved for another swing, Garcia drew his pistol from his belt and backhanded the weapon across his face. The young man went down to his hands and knees, the bottle rolling across the floor, and Garcia sighted his pistol on a point between the man’s shoulder blades.
He was about to squeeze the trigger when a young woman crashed into him from behind. The single shot that exploded from the Kimber missed the man’s back but drilled a hole into his forearm just above the wrist. He screamed.
Garcia had wanted to leave the have-a-go hero paralysed for the rest of his days and now some bitch had ruined his fun. Garcia rounded on the woman, to see it was the brown-haired girl that he’d eyed earlier. He grabbed at her, his fingers winding tight into her ponytail, and she yelped sharply as he pushed the Kimber under her chin.
“Hola, chica.” Garcia blew her a kiss. “Scream if you want to. You think any of these pendejos will come and save you? Look at them run, like the bloated drunken rats they are.”
The fire crept closer to the main bar. Garcia pushed his captive towards the rear of the club, not caring to be near the countless bottles of flammable spirits when they went up.
“What is your name, chica?”
The woman stared back at the man with a stricken expression. A sharp tug on her hair and a jab with the pistol elicited a gasping answer.
“Julie.”
Garcia repeated the name back to her several times like it carried a sour taste. He knocked the Kimber against her chest. “Another English puta with her tetas on display. You are like mould on bread. Everywhere you go, you spoil the country. Drunken, loud and vulgar. If I had my way I would kill every single one of you.”
Julie tried to pull away and for a brief moment almost wriggled free of his grasp. Then his arm coiled around her throat, pulling her tight against his body with the pistol pressed painfully against her spine.