Blood & Tacos #2

by Ray Banks

  I’ve been killing for so long it’s like a second skin. Got my start fighting Communist insurgents in the rubber plantations of Malaya in the late fifties; then I was in the Special Forces in Vietnam. Stayed until the end of the war, didn’t even bother going home to Australia. Now I sell the skills acquired in her majesty’s armed forces to the highest bidder.

  I don’t have anything personally against the reds. Capitalist, Communist, I’ll happily kill whoever if the price is right. Christ, the whole stinking world can blow itself up for all I care, as long as I have a cold beer in my hand and get paid in cash before they push the button.

  Lefebvre’s information put Scorpion’s base in an old warehouse compound on the banks of the Chao Phraya that runs through Bangkok before emptying into the Gulf of Thailand.

  The warehouse was also the headquarters of an aggressive club of body chasers. A lot of Bangkok is still made up of tiny sois or side streets on which most of the city’s residents live their lives. But as the country’s economy has grown, freeways have begun to crisscross the city, and the number of traffic accidents has risen. Without much of an ambulance service, the job of picking over the carnage is left to clubs of young men, often affiliated to Buddhist temples, who prowl the city looking for accidents. Their exploits are depicted in grisly colour photographs of mangled bodies and twisted metal prominently displayed on public notice boards. Thai friends tell me the photos are meant to reinforce the Buddhist precept that all physical matter eventually decays.

  Yeah, it’s strange, but no more so than a lot of the shit I’ve seen in Asia. I’ve watched a wizened old shaman possessed by a spirit so strong he could bend a steel bar. In central Vietnam, I’d seen a detachment of hardened Montagnard soldiers refuse to attack a hill they thought was inhabited by evil spirits. Hell, it’s no different to the Dreamtime stories told by my father, an Aboriginal bare-knuckle boxer who’d worked a travelling circus in the Queensland outback and died broke and alcoholic years after my white mother left him and took me with her.

  Besides, a gang of body chasers was the perfect cover for Scorpion’s trafficking operation. What better way to move the drugs than through groups of young men who came and went at all hours of the day and night and moved across the city without arousing suspicion?

  I thought all this as I stood on the deck of the sampan moored in the middle of the Chao Phraya, before turning my attention to the final weapons check being undertaken by my unit.

  Getting to Lefebvre had been a solo mission. Taking down Scorpion’s headquarters required more firepower.

  I’d come across O’Connell hiding out in Bangkok after he had killed a high profile Republican commander in Belfast. In addition to his favourite weapon, a World War Two British commando knife, tonight he packed an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. Compact, able to fire up to six hundred rounds a minute. Fitted with a silencer like all our weapons, it was perfect for the kind of confined space we were about to enter.

  Tiger Lily didn’t just tend bar at the Sunrise, she was also a professional killer who’d learned her lethal skills from her father, one of Thailand’s most renowned hit men. That’s saying something in a country where having someone whacked is as acceptable a business practice as phoning a lawyer. She made the last-minute adjustments to her weapon of choice, an M21 semiautomatic sniper rifle, 20 rounds in the magazine, accurate over a remarkable distance.

  I picked up my weapon from the deck, a Smith and Wesson M76 submachine gun. Yank Special Forces had used the M76 for covert ops in Vietnam, which is where I’d first come across it. The magazine held 36 soft point rounds, for maximum impact. A six-shot Colt Cobra .38 Special, also loaded with soft points, was in a leather holster strapped to my left ankle.

  I had one other surprise for Scorpion. My boomerangs. Dad had taught me how to use them when I was a kid. Holstered in a leather bandolier across my chest, mine were custom-made out of lightweight carbon fibre reinforced plastic, edges inlayed with razor-sharp metal.

  The game plan for tonight was simple. Tiger Lily would be stationed at the entrance to deal with unwelcome reinforcements, while O’Connell and I went in and killed everyone we could find. Then we’d lay some Czech Semtex, acquired through O’Connell’s contacts, set the timers, sit back and watch the fireworks.

  I cocked the M76, looked at my team of killers. "We all set?"

  "Roger, boss," said Tiger Lily.

  O’Connell flashed me a mouth of bad Irish dental work. "Aye, nay worries."

  The three of us stepped into an inflatable Zodiac tethered to the sampan. I waved to Tiny, the dwarf captain of the sampan, that we were ready. The red dot from the Krong Tip cigarette permanently hanging from his mouth bobbed up and down, indicating we were good to go.

  We cut through the black, foul-smelling water, the purr of the Zodiac’s outboard motor smothered by the buzz of traffic in the distance. As we approached, I could see two guards on an old wooden dry dock leading to the warehouse. Tiger Lily dispatched both of them before they even had time to unsling their weapons.

  A couple of minutes later, O’Connell and I were over the brick wall surrounding the warehouse and into the compound. A row of vans used to ferry corpses was parked on one side of the main warehouse. The accordion door to the warehouse was open. We entered, our flashlights illuminating a large storeroom full of wooden coffins and other tools of the body chasers’ trade.

  Suddenly, the overhead lights bathed us in harsh fluoro. As I adjusted to the light, I saw at least two dozen men—Thais by the look of them, clad in pale blue body chaser uniforms that made them look like hospital orderlies—emerge from behind the neatly stacked coffins. They held an assortment of weapons: knives, machetes, crowbars, nunchakus.

  The wave of blue rushed at us, faces snarling like rabid soi dogs. Instinctively, Connelly and I covered each other’s backs and opened fire. Short controlled bursts mowed down the closest members of the pack, but they kept coming, clambering over their fallen comrades to get to us.

  I’d been in this situation before, a trench in Vietnam, firing at wave after wave of North Vietnamese regulars, until the barrel of my machine gun had glowed red hot. But ferocity is no match for firepower, and soon O’Connell and I were surrounded by a harvest of corpses.

  "Bloody eejits, that was a turkey shoot," said O’Connell as he slit the throat of a wounded body chaser.

  "Something tells me that’s just the start." I changed ammo clips. "Stay sharp, mate."

  We moved down the only corridor, checking the rooms as we went. More coffins, a makeshift morgue, sleeping quarters. The air stank of disinfectant and we could hear the roar of the crowd from a Thai kickboxing match on a black-and-white TV that had been left on.

  A set of stairs descended into a large chamber. O’Connell and I paused on a mezzanine halfway down. It was like stepping into a science fiction film: rows of large stainless steel vats, tubs of chemicals, the hum of machinery. Wires and tubes ran everywhere.

  O’Connell whistled. "Now that is a shite load of fucking scrag."

  I nodded. With this set up Scorpion could produce enough dope to keep every junkie in the States on cloud nine for a long time.

  Two men in white lab coats emerged from behind the machinery. Lab technicians. The one closest had a pistol. His partner, a few feet behind him, raised a beaker of noxious-looking purple liquid above his head, ready to douse us.

  I aimed the M70 from my hip and fired. The front of the first technician’s coat exploded in a mass of red blossoms. He stumbled backwards onto his colleague, who dropped the beaker, the contents spilling over his own head and shoulders. I watched with grim fascination as the man writhed on the ground screaming, the purple liquid eating his flesh.

  "Okay, enough bloody bullshit." I handed O’Connell blocks of Semtex and timers. "Let’s get this over with."

  We walked down the aisle, affixing Semtex to the vats. As O’Connell set his last charge, he turned to me and opened his mouth to speak. Before the Irishman could
say anything, the top of his head disappeared in a crimson blur and he crumpled to the floor.

  A huge, bald Oriental stepped out from between two vats, stood over O’Connell’s body. He was naked from the waist up, his torso a patchwork of muscle and steel surgically grafted to his skin. His right arm was completely metal and in place of a hand was a ball covered in sharp spikes. Shreds of O’Connell’s skull and tufts of his unmistakable carrot-coloured hair dangled from it.

  I hesitated, transfixed by the horrific creature and the red star tattooed on his forehead. Savouring my fear, machine man’s beady eyes narrowed and his face split into a malevolent grin. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

  I snapped out of my inaction, raised the M70, fired. The bullets ricocheted off his metal hide. I squeezed the trigger again, heard a succession of metallic clicks. The magazine was empty. Before I could reload, a swipe from machine man’s metal hand twisted the barrel to one side like it was made of cheap plastic. Another swing knocked the gun from my hands.

  The monster stepped toward me, raised his deadly appendage. I dodged the blow. The spiked ball missed my head by inches, tore a chunk from the nearest metal vat. Steam hissed angrily from the gash. The Oriental walked through the boiling vapour without flinching. Whatever surgical procedure he’d undergone had obviously robbed him of any sensitivity to pain.

  As he walked machine man swung his metal attachment from side to side. Although I easily avoided each blow, I could feel myself tiring, while machine man, powered by an inhuman energy, showed no sign of slowing.

  In an effort to lose my attacker and buy a few moments to regroup, I ducked between two steel vats, ran straight into a metal trolley loaded with glass beakers and technical equipment, tripped over it and hurtled forwards.

  I don’t know how long I lay stunned on the ground. I heard the crunch of glass underfoot, felt one of my legs latched into a vice-like grip. The Oriental dragged me along the floor like a carcass being delivered to the butcher’s block.

  He stopped in front of the damaged vat, released my leg. I waited for the spiked metal ball to reduce me to hamburger like it had O’Connell. Instead, machine man picked me up by the neck and lifted my face towards the jet of steam escaping from the jagged hole in the metal.

  I tried to prise his grip off me with both hands, but it was like trying to manipulate concrete. The skin on my face burned as it neared the boiling steam.

  "Halt."

  The harsh female voice echoed through the laboratory. Machine man let go. I rolled, came up in a combat stance.

  A tall, athletic-looking Asian woman stood on the mezzanine above me. She was clad in tight-fitting khaki cheongsam. Her long black hair was tied in a bun underneath a khaki Mao cap.

  The Oriental giant stood still, stared at me, an attack dog awaiting his master’s next command.

  She threw back her head and laughed. "I can tell what you are thinking, imperialist scum." Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked at me. "You think it is not possible Scorpion is a woman."

  I had to give the reds points for cunning. No wonder Bannister and his people had had so little success locating Scorpion. I stared at the creamy white skin of the leg protruding from the split in her dress, the blood red lips, the pistol in the holster nestled in the curve of her hip, as I figured out my next move.

  "For decades we have spilt blood in the struggle against capitalism. Then we realised, it would be simpler if we used the West’s own decadent craving for narcotics against itself. In this laboratory are the means to make that plan a reality, as your paymasters will soon realise."

  Scorpion looked around the room proudly before returning her gaze to me. "Lefebvre was a fool to lead you here, but you will not live to brag of your discovery."

  She barked something in Mandarin. As if a switch had been flicked, the machine man resumed his slow advance towards me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Scorpion lick her lips in anticipation as he swung his metal fist.

  I dove. The deadly wrecking ball sailed over my head, struck another vat. This time the metal fist remained lodged in the hole. The Oriental emitted a moist grunting sound as he tugged, a confused expression on his face, but he couldn’t dislodge himself.

  Scorpion shrieked in anger, undid the clasp on her holster to reach for her gun. With no time to go for my pistol, I grasped one of my boomerangs and threw. She raised a hand to shield her face. The boomerang struck, severing it clean off at the wrist. Her lips trembled as she stared at the blood spurting from the severed stump.

  I quickly switched my gaze to machine man, still straining to free himself. I pulled out the Colt Cobra, held it in both hands, aimed, shot the creature between the eyes just as he was about to rip himself free. Machine man swayed as the hollow point round bounced around his skull. He crashed to the ground with the meat and metallic sound of a car accident.

  I raised the pistol to sight the woman, but she was gone. When I reached the spot on the mezzanine where Scorpion had been, all that was left was a delicate female hand in a pool of blood.

  At least I’d left her something to remember me by.

  I stood on the sampan’s deck, the orange glow from the burning warehouse receding in the distance.

  Tiger Lily smiled, handed me a beer. Later, when I was not around to cause her loss of face, I knew she’d light incense and say a prayer for O’Connell at the rickety wooden spirit house on the pavement outside the Sunrise Club.

  I pulled on the beer. The glow had almost disappeared beneath the skyline. I turned away and savoured the cool breeze of the headwind against my skin.

  O’Connell knew the risks and I didn’t have time to mourn.

  I had the rest of my money to collect.

  THE END

  Andrew Nette is a writer based in Melbourne, Australia. He is one of the editors of the on-line magazine, Crime Factory. His short fiction has appeared in Crime Factory: The First Shift by New Pulp Press and The One That Got Away, an anthology of crime stories released in 2012 by Australian independent publisher Dark Prints Press. His debut crime novel Ghost Money will be published by Snubnose Press in 2012. His blog, www.pulpcurry.com explores crime film and literature, particularly from Asia and Australia.

  FROM AMERICAN VIKING TO ZANE: A Brace Godfrey Chrestomathy

  With Commentary by Johnny Shaw

  In the summer of 1998, I was fortunate enough to sit down with the immortal "King of the Three-Shots," Brace Godfrey, and talk to him about his life’s work: over six hundred novels published between 1969 and 1988 that comprised more than two hundred individual adventure series. There is no complete bibliography for Godfrey’s work, but I asked him to pick his favorite "Three-Shots."

  He presented me with 26 series, using the alphabet as his limitation. "Wrote so damn many, forgot more than I remember," Godfrey told me, "And I ain’t got the time to dick around with this kind of bullshit."**

  I, personally, may have included such fan favorites as Mafia Berserker, The Expunger, and Blonde Squad, but I think this list makes a strong case for the wealth of Mr. Godfrey’s imagination.

  AMERICAN VIKING – Erik Leifson’s family has lived in the United States since before the country existed, the descendants of a Viking expedition in 700 AD. For hundreds of years in rural Maine, Erik’s people remained isolated from the rest of the world. The last of the line, Erik must find a new path, leading him to the chaos of New York City. Ragnarok & Ragnaroll, Midtown in Midgaard, Norse Force.

  THE BRAIN – After his release from prison for a crime he didn’t commit, super-scientist Quentin Maxwell uses his genius to develop a pair of high-tech boxing gloves. Taking to the streets, he uses his brain to punch the lights out of the criminal organization that framed him. Cerebrawl, A Present for Mandy, The Brain vs. The Brain.

  CODENAME: BLACK BELT – Ex-stuntman and martial artist Lance Horner is recruited by the CIA to help battle the rise of N.I.N.J.A., an evil cabal hellbent on reclaiming Asian treasures from the American museums that are now th
eir rightful owners. Dojo of Death, Karate Chop Chop Shop, Lady N.I.N.J.A.

  DINGO (written as Linden Miles) – Some claim that Australian Aborigine Hozzle Adlinga is part dingo. That’s only a legend, but what is true is that he is the best tracker alive, and his often mysterious powers are sought after worldwide. Fair Dinkum, The Boomerang Brigand, Didgeridon’t.

  THE EXORCISMIST – The Vatican has entrusted Father John "Mac" MacNeish with one vital job: to cast out demons wherever they surface. But the real question is, is he possessed himself? Second to Nun, Satanarchy, A Child’s Garden of Pit Fiends.

  FIFTEEN WARRIORS – Fighting throughout Europe during World War II, they were known by their fellow soldiers as "The Fifteen Warriors." The Nazis only knew them by one name: Certain Death! Join Sgt. Stone Steel and his men, Rocco Angelino, Mickey O’Herlihy, Olaf Swedenson, Max Dumkowsy, Ivan Crushski, Ching Chang, Cholo Garcia, Abraham Goldbergstein, Chief Flying Bear, Pierre Fageux, Jethro Hickson, Nappy Roosevelt, "Fancy Tommy" Sparkles, and their trained gorilla, Private Gorilla. 500 Divided by 15 Equals Death, The Nazi Princess, Hitler Island.

  GHETTO FORCE (written as Fillmore Cleveland) – They grew up fighting for survival on the mean streets of Harlem. Now they are the deadliest mercenaries-for-hire in the world. Maldives Jive; A Turkey from Turkey; Phuket, It’s Thailand.

  HAWKSHAW – When not nursing Old-Fashioneds at his local watering hole, private eye Cain Hawkshaw is usually peeping in windows and following soon-to-be divorcees. But one thing is sure: when Hawkshaw is around, trouble can’t be too far behind. The Delivery Man Usually Knocks Four Times, Triple Indemnity, Body in the Urinal.

  I, CAVEMAN – Oong feels different than the rest of the cavemen in his tribe. He is smarter and his posture is more upright. His thumbs are fully opposable. He feels like there is some kind of link missing between him and his people. But that’s the kind of thing that takes backseat when saber-tooth tigers and rival tribes threaten. Valley of the Cannibals, Fire of the Dinosaur God, Insectosaurs from the Chasm.