Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  “Enough of your crap,” said Weiss. “You’re going back to your cell. Tonight I will watch you spill your blood in the pit, and I will laugh as you fade away like the little man you are.”

  Danny reached down and hauled Michelle into a sitting position. She flopped against the desk. Glancing at the computer screen, he was surprised to see how late it was. He’d been unconscious twice. Damn it, where the hell was Clay?

  “Okay, back to my room it is.” Holding out both hands in feigned submission, Danny moved away from the groaning woman. “Do you have Netflix in any of the rooms? I wouldn’t mind catching up on an episode or two of Jessica Jones while I’m waiting around for your goon squad to get their shit together. I figure it may take a while.”

  The guard with the Taser looked first at Danny, then at Weiss.

  “If the rest of your team is as sharp as this one, I’ll be back in my room in five minutes or less. A bit of binge watching will help pass the time.”

  “Enough!” said Weiss. “And put those cuffs back on right now.”

  Danny looked down at the restraint dangling from his left wrist. He slipped it free and sent it spinning across the room. “Nah, I never liked jewellery anyhow.”

  44

  Ezeret inhaled deeply, enjoying the many distinctive flavours contained within the cigar. He studied the results of his internet search. He did this regularly, searching for any giveaway clues from his previous life to his present incarnation. He had told the troublesome Scotsman that his name was Sean Ezeret-Dunn, but that was a lie.

  As with many lies, there was a kernel of truth hidden within. He had been born Sean Bolivar Swan, a native of Panama City, his parents both respected professors. He had a natural aptitude as a scholar, excelling in languages and philosophy. But it was the more esoteric subjects that piqued his interest. The human mind or, more specifically, the manipulation of the mind proved fascinating to the young man. He made a study of neurolinguistic programming. After becoming adept at reading and controlling the non-verbal response patterns of his subjects, he moved on to the deeper study of hypnosis and mind control. First, he mastered the techniques of stage hypnotism, the basic but essential skills to access the subconscious mind. As he gained success, he discovered the darker applications of his craft.

  Was it possible to shape a mind, turn it into the instrument of his own will and desire? With a little experimentation Ezeret had found not only that it was possible, but that it was relatively simple. In the months after his graduation he had attracted a core group of followers. As his skill in hypnosis grew, so did the level of influence he could exert upon his subjects. He quickly realised that although some of this was due to the power of suggestion, much was simply capitulation. His followers wanted to please him. Like many before him, he seized upon this attraction with zeal. He began to study the lives and methods of cult leaders who had come before, especially Charles Manson and Aleister Crowley. Different men in different times, yet both attracted willing followers to their dubious cause. Ezeret selected words and teachings from both, and combined them with his ever-expanding knowledge of mind control to fashion his own flavour of dark philosophy.

  The Scotsman had surprised him by recognising Crowley’s words. They were hardly a secret, yet Ezeret found that most educated adults had not heard of him.

  Ezeret entered the words “Daniel Gunn” into the search bar of his laptop. A dentist in Minnesota, an ice hockey player, a tennis pro… He scanned the other results on the first page. None of them matched the roughneck he had in his cells. Ezeret clicked on the “images” option and scrolled down the page. There he was! Ezeret recognised the look in his eyes. The photograph showed a much younger version of Gunn, but those same intense eyes were unmistakable.

  “Found you,” said Ezeret. The photo showed Gunn dressed in an army uniform, a rifle held across his chest. Ezeret clicked on the “view page” button below the image. The page loaded to show a collection of snapshots of different soldiers. All of them were Royal Green Jackets. Ezeret read the brief block of text below the pictures, explaining that the Green Jackets were one on the highest-regarded regiments of the British Army. Ezeret smiled, then took another long draw on his cigar. “How is it every soldier in the world thinks their unit is the toughest and best?”

  Ezeret cared little for military men. So many lived in the glory of their past, even when their service was uneventful. Yet he acknowledged that many of them were mentally tough, men to be reckoned with. If they could be turned to his way of thinking they could be useful. Weiss exemplified that to the full. He had served with the German KSK, an elite special forces unit. He was ruthless and cruel and Ezeret loved him for it.

  Pausing to remove a tiny fleck of tobacco from his lip, Ezeret heard the distinctive ping from his cell phone. He opened the text message. There were no words, only a smiley face emoji. The delivery would arrive tonight, as expected.

  He had first encountered Devil’s breath on a visit to Colombia. The seeds of the borrecherro tree, powdered down and ingested, turned the user into a zombified puppet, with little or no memory of what had taken place while they were under its influence. His followers, and more recently his clients, required a continual supply of victims to satisfy their desires. The Devil’s breath allowed them to apprehend targets without violence and reduced the chance of failure almost to zero. Once the victim had ingested the drug, they were powerless to resist. They were brought back to the compound and interned while still completely docile and compliant.

  Ezeret thought again of Danny Gunn. Should he simply dose his food and drink and control the unruly Scotsman that way? No. That would be too easy. Besides, he wanted to see what he could do in the trials tonight.

  The Scot would no doubt add to the spectacle his followers loved. Of course, he would never be allowed to prevail unless he joined the ranks, and Ezeret knew the chances of that conversion were almost non-existent. He had met men like Gunn before, men of principle, men of renown. But his death in the trials would allow the guards who’d suffered at his hands to celebrate. Ezeret glanced at the clock. Late afternoon. The cartel would be here soon.

  The couriers from Los Espadas delivered a package of the white powder once every six weeks. As a goodwill gesture, Ezeret encouraged them to stay the night at the compound, free to enjoy any vice their hearts desired. He was sure they, too, would enjoy watching the Scotsman spill his guts into the sand.

  45

  Clay cradled the shotgun loosely across his chest. The buzzing in his ears had subsided, but the ache behind his eyes was proving more stubborn. Ghost moved before him, always in a semi-crouch, never making a sound.

  She scooted to one side, drawing her pistol in a fluid motion. Clay dodged against a tree. Something had moved on the path ahead. He exhaled slowly as he raised the shotgun into a firing position.

  Ghost held her left arm out to her side, palm down. Then, as slow as melting ice, she extended one finger and pointed to a position to the left of the meagre path. The foliage shuddered.

  Clay sighted on the bush, his finger tightening on the trigger, then stopped as he saw what it was.

  “You again!” said Ghost.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” added Clay. “That damn dog is like a bad debt.”

  The mangy canine looked back at Clay and Ghost in turn.

  “You seen him before too?”

  “More than once. Something ain’t right with this picture.”

  Ghost raised one eyebrow.

  “Danny and me nearly ran over it in a town miles and miles from here, then he turned up large as life a couple of hours later. There’s no way he could have run after us and kept up.”

  “You sure it’s the same dog?”

  “Yep. See those scars on its flank and that hole through its ear? Same each time.”

  “I spotted him just before you and your brother arrived at the compound. Nearly plugged him then, too.”

  “It wouldn’t do to shoot the messenger.”


  Clay snapped the Remington in the direction of the new voice. “Damn it, Jak! You nearly got a gut full of buckshot.”

  “Please don’t do that,” Jak said. “I like my internal organs right where they are.”

  Clay moved his weapon away from the old Mayan. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were heading for the hills.”

  “You thought wrong,” Jak said, smiling like an aged Mona Lisa. “I came back to see the next part of the story unfold.”

  Ghost looked at Jak, her eyes narrowing, then to Clay. “You know him, then?”

  “We ran into each other last night. Jak led us to the compound,” explained Clay.

  “I was waiting for the brothers to arrive,” said Jak.

  “You knew they were coming down here?” asked Ghost.

  Clay gave out a low grunt. “Jak thinks Danny and I are some kinda heroes reborn and he’s our spirit guide or something. A load of hooey, if you ask me.”

  “The hero twins were sent by the gods to face the trials of the underworld,” said Jak.

  “And you think Clay and his brother are what, reincarnations of these twins?” Ghost’s eyebrows curved into high arches.

  “Maybe,” said Jak. “The twins were helped on some of their trials by a princess who had returned from the realm of the dead. She was, like the brothers, scarred by her many adventures. Her skin was the colour of the darkest night and the brothers considered her an equal.”

  Ghost ran her fingers across the deep channels in her face as Jak continued. “The princess came from a faraway land and her heart had been cut from her chest by the dark lords of the underworld. The princess was clever and used trickery and guile to take on the dark lords.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson. So why are you here?” asked Ghost.

  “We all have a part to play in the game.”

  Clay exchanged an impatient look with Ghost. “Just stay well out of the way when the bullets start flying.”

  Jak brushed a speck of dirt from his left hand. “I trust the great blowgunner not to shoot me.”

  “Is the mutt yours?” asked Clay. “He keeps turning up like an ugly cousin.”

  “Well, let’s just say that Chaac and I are friends. At times, he is my eyes and ears.”

  Clay grunted something unintelligible.

  “Chaac and Jak?” asked Ghost. “Sounds like a bad rap duo.”

  “I’ll be near when you need me,” said Jak.

  “Stay safe, dude,” said Clay before turning back to Ghost. “Daylight’s a-burnin’.”

  Clay followed close behind Ghost, their voices barely above a whisper as they drew closer to the compound.

  “Is he for real?” asked Ghost.

  Clay gave her the flat-eye. “Just because he believes, it doesn’t make it real.”

  “Hmmn.” Ghost slowed her pace. “The compound is just through the next line of trees. How do you want to do this?”

  “I’m going through the front door. The time for subtlety is past. If I’d just shot those assholes that were chasing down the girl, I wouldn’t have got my ass blown up by a grenade. This time it’s shock and awe.”

  “Shock and awe. I like that sound of that. How can I help?”

  “When he scouted the perimeter, Danny said there was a power generator at the back of the main house. Could you knock it out?”

  Ghost’s eyes flashed as she answered. “Consider it done.”

  “When we get to the camp you go wide, and when you get my signal, cut the power.”

  “What signal?”

  The lattice of scars on the left of Clay’s face crinkled as a cold smile spread across his face. “You’ll know it when you hear it.”

  “And then what?” asked Ghost.

  “Then feel free to kill any asshole that crosses your path. This is all or nothing. I’m not leaving without Celine and Danny.”

  “Shock and awe.”

  “Shock and awe,” said Clay.

  46

  There were other people being led past the door as it opened. Looking over the guard’s shoulder, Celine recognised a couple of faces from the chamber under the main house. Some had the now familiar vacant expression, a few gave fearful glances as they were ushered past by more guards.

  Sometime after they had returned from the chamber, food and drink had arrived via a stainless-steel trolley. The man who brought the food pointed to the meagre offerings, then at Celine and her friends. The sandwiches were bland, sliced ham on white bread, cans of soda. That had been how long ago? Celine wasn’t sure.

  The new guard at the door beckoned them to follow him. Celine was sure that it would lead to nothing good. “What’s happening?”

  He looked Celine up and down, his gaze scathing. “Follow the others. Shut your mouth.”

  We need to be ready…

  Gillian walked alongside her as they moved along the enclosed passageway. Celine wrinkled her nose at the pungent smell. Body odour and fear. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she lowered her nose and inhaled. Ugh.

  “Keep moving,” said the voice from behind.

  Keeping her chin lowered, Celine inspected every part of the corridor, desperate for something that could be used to their advantage. There was nothing. No fire extinguishers to be sprayed in the faces of the guards or used as bludgeons, no window latches that could be snapped off and used as impromptu daggers. Nothing.

  The group huddled together as they passed through the doorways. The temptation to sprint for what she thought was the front of the main house was hard to resist. But it stood to reason that if the guards were this diligent at keeping the corridors securely locked, the front door would be too.

  Her heart was hammering against the inside of her chest as they again descended the stairs to the underground chamber. As they entered the amphitheatre for the second time that day, she noticed that there were faces she had not seen before. More captives sat in rows on the bleacher-style seats. Celine counted the others. Eighteen. Eighteen more captives in addition to Celine’s immediate group. That made twenty-three captives in the room. There could be more elsewhere. How the hell did they manage to get away with the continual abductions? Yet they did. Rebecca had told her as much. New faces appeared, familiar ones vanished. She was afraid to imagine their fate.

  On the opposite side of the pit, guards had begun to assemble. The door by which they had entered slammed shut, the sound echoing ominously around the chamber.

  Several more guards entered at the other side of the pit. But not just guards. One of the burlier men propelled another captive in front of him. The burly guard held a long pole, the kind used by dog catchers to secure dangerous animals. The long silver pole ended in a noose, which was pulled tight around the man’s neck.

  “That’s Danny!” Celine clutched at Gillian’s leg. “That’s Danny. What are they going to do to him?”

  “How is he going to help us?” asked Marco in a whisper.

  Celine ignored him. “Where the hell is Clay?”

  Danny was forced to the edge of the pit. Only then was the noose loosened and two men armed with pistols drew down on him. One of the men dipped his pistol to the pit. Danny levered himself into the space below. Spotlights shone into the pit, throwing the bleachers into shadow.

  Danny’s Scottish accent echoed around the chamber. “Well come on then, what are you waiting for? Let’s get the show on the road. Which one of you tools is going to fight me, eh?”

  Celine stared at Danny with hope welling in her heart. Clay told stories of how Danny was the meanest streetfighter he’d ever seen. She hoped that wasn’t just one brother bigging up the other. She’d already watched one man die in the pit.

  Ezeret stepped into the chamber on the opposite side. He held his arms out level with the floor. The chatter in the room fell silent. Next to her, Gillian stared at her feet.

  “If I tell, will you listen?”

  The men closest to Ezeret clapped their hands as they had before. “We will listen.”
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  “If I show you, will you see?”

  “We will see.”

  “If I challenge, will you rise?”

  “We will rise.”

  “Who here is ready to be challenged?”

  One of the men separated from the group. He sported a series of facial piercings. “I am ready.”

  “Will you risk death yet not turn your face away?” asked Ezeret, pointing at the volunteer.

  “I will not turn away.”

  Ezeret gave a single nod then beckoned the man forward. “Then enter the pit, if you dare.”

  “Is that the best you could muster?” asked Danny. He shook his head. “Come on down you little skid mark, it’s your funeral.”

  Celine smiled despite the promise of impending violence. “Get him, Danny,” she whispered, “smash him up.”

  Ezeret spoke again, his words echoing around the chamber. “Are you ready to face the trials?”

  “I am ready.”

  Ezeret pointed to Danny, who was now leaning against the wall of the pit with his arms crossed, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Are you ready to face the trials?”

  “Enough of your shite, get your man down here,” replied Danny.

  Ezeret produced a rectangular case as he had at the previous trial. He slowly opened the lid. “You may choose your weapon.”

  The guard reached out and took hold of a long-bladed machete.

  Ezeret turned to look down at Danny. He tossed a small black object into the pit. “You had that on you when Weiss brought you here. I hope that will suffice?”

  Danny stooped and picked up the object. A blade a few inches long sprang from his fist. “You found my Fox. I thought I’d lost that for good.”

  Celine’s earlier smile seemed like a distant memory as she watched the guard drop into the pit. His machete looked massive compared to the stubby little blade that Danny held along the side of his leg.