by Matt Hilton
Po wasn’t there.
Most likely he had never been there.
She turned back to retrace her steps and almost walked directly into a huge figure who’d stepped around the corner. He towered over her, a massive blot of darkness defined by a wild mop of hair that shrouded his broad head. The wash of floodlights set him in shadow, but a nimbus of light played around him, adding to his weird and startling appearance.
Tess emitted a yelp, and took a step backwards.
The giant grunted, almost as surprised as she was, but then he bent at the waist towards her and she could see clearly enough as his mouth opened in a wide grin, ambient light sparking highlights on his slab-like teeth. ‘Who are you, sweet girly-girl?’ he rumbled.
Snatches of the conversation Po had had with the thug outside Emilia’s apartment streaked through her mind.
‘Who is Cleary?’
‘Zeke’s brother, man. He’s not right, you get me? He’s scary wrong.’
As his words came back to her, Tess almost echoed more of the thug’s sentiment as she stared at that horrid mouth that widened in delight: Cleary will eat me alive.
Too late she brought up the barrel of her gun, silently commanding him to back off.
To anyone else, the Glock 20 would dictate immediate respect, but Cleary Menon swatted it aside with one hand, while his other reached to grab her.
TWENTY-NINE
Miles away, Po took the jab of Leon’s axe handle to his gut. There was little he could do, other than fold over the handle in a paltry attempt at absorbing some force from the blow in his clenched abdominals. It didn’t help, and left him exposed to the whack dealt across his right thigh by Francis. The strike to his leg was worse by far, and he buckled. The next smack of wood came across his rounded shoulders.
‘Sons of bitches,’ he growled at them, and fought to yank his hands free of the ropes.
Leon jabbed him in the chest, and it brought him back to his toes, his teeth clenching. Leon laughed in derision. One of the cowardly cousins behind him kicked Po in the backside. The pain that flared down his leg was white-hot. He used the pain to energize him, turning quickly and throwing a kick of his own, but it fell short and earned him a hoot of laughter at his ungainliness. It also left him vulnerable to another smash of a handle alongside his thigh. He suffered the most intense Charley Horse he could ever recall, and no way could he remain standing. He collapsed sideways. The boots of several of his baiters rained in, and he wheezed with the effort to breathe. He should have stayed down, taken the kicks, but it wasn’t in his nature. Impulse forced him up again, and he limped to one side. An axe handle was whipped into his ribs, and he felt something give.
‘Bastards!’ He bent and retched up his last meagre meal.
He won an extra round of taunts for his noisy vomiting. But also a few seconds of respite from the physical torment.
He snapped his bleary gaze around on Darius. The old man’s mouth was turned up at one side, as much a sign of derision as pleasure at seeing his enemy beaten. Young Rocco took Po’s inattentiveness as his opportunity to deliver a dig. He slashed the palm of his right hand across the side of Po’s head, splitting the skin where his ear met his jawline.
‘Don’t hit ’im in d’ fucking head!’ Darius roared.
Rocco was furious, but equally cowed. He stepped back, and good job because Po swung for him, hoping to drive him off with his shoulder. Again he was vulnerable to the axe handles and took two solid clumps to his sides. Absurdly, Po was thankful in that moment that his arms were still bound, because his forearms saved his kidneys from terrible punishment.
The eldest of Darius’s sons, Francis, glanced at his father for further instruction.
‘Keep at him, boy. I want that piece of shit beggin’ for forgiveness before he’s done.’
‘Isn’t … going to happen …’ Po’s face was twisted up in agony, but his denial was greater. ‘Roman murdered my father and got what was coming to him. You, Darius … you sent Lucas after me in Angola. The fucking coward tried to blind me with a shiv, and we know where that got him. Their deaths are on you.’
None of the extended Chatard clan – especially Darius – was ready for the truth. Po’s words only encouraged a renewal of the attack, and this time it was driven by more ferocity. However, the scramble to punish him was oddly to his favour. There were too many of them trying to get kicks, punches, and whacks of the axe handles in for any blow to land cleanly. Against Darius’s commands some of the fists and elbows scuffed his face, and the back of his skull, and blood dripped from both nostrils and one eye began to swell. The kicks to his body hurt like hell, but his legs were so numb they were almost immune to further punishment. If he got through this, walking was going to be a chore for the foreseeable future. He went down on his side on the decaying concrete of the jetty. The crowd skipped around, pushing and shoving at each other for clearance. Po tucked in, his hands beneath his backside, heels pulled up, protecting his vitals. He took more scuffing kicks to his back and legs, but nothing was as debilitating as before.
‘Let me see!’ Darius moved in, pulling and shoving his younger kinfolk aside. Reluctantly, they backed away, still forming a circle around the viciously beaten man. Now that Po was sufficiently softened up Darius wanted to eat his slice of the revenge pie. He bent over the beaten dog, grabbed him roughly by his chin, and twisted Po’s face towards his. ‘Are you ready to beg yet, asshole?’
‘No,’ said Po, his jaw working against the crushing fingers holding it in place. ‘Why would I? You’re the one who’s gonna be sorry …’
He abruptly wrenched around onto his back so he was staring up at his would-be tormentor. Darius no longer had control of his head, unless he bore in closer. He didn’t. He snapped upright, stunned to see Po’s hands free, trailing the cut rope. From Po’s right hand jutted the blade of the knife he’d surreptitiously slipped from his boot to sever his bonds while seemingly cowering from the beating. One man with a knife, against nine armed with a collection of clubs and even a shotgun should be at a total disadvantage … and Po was. But he was no longer constrained, and now able to begin swinging the odds in his favour. With a wordless shout he stabbed down.
Darius roared at the burst of agony, and tried to wrench away. Momentarily he couldn’t move. The knife driven through his foot effectively pinned it to the decaying concrete. When Po yanked it out trailing blood, Darius went over on his back with a holler of dismay. Po swarmed over and climbed the old man’s body. Cutting Darius’s throat at that instant would have been simple, but it was never his intention. Neither was using the man as a hostage. He stayed close to Darius because nobody dared attack when they could inadvertently harm the Chatard patriarch. Po used him as a springboard to launch up at the nearest men. They were too stunned by the sudden turn of events to react effectively.
Po’s body was racked with pain, and his limbs were leaden, but he was driven by white-hot rage that commanded obedience from his tortured frame. He made a wild slash at the nearest men to get them moving, and they scattered. The next few seconds were dominated by chaos, as those who moments ago were engaged in the assault now feared for their lives. Francis grasped his dad’s arms to try to pull him clear, and in the shambles dropped his axe haft. Leon stood over them both, swinging his club as protection, but doing nothing to halt Po. Po ignored them for now. He went after the man with the shotgun, who couldn’t shoot for fear of tearing holes in his kinfolk. Po jabbed the blade at the man’s face, and as he reared away, dropped his line of attack in an unexpected fashion and kicked the man’s ankles out from under him. Before he’d fully sprawled on the gritty floor, Po wrenched the shotgun out of his grasp. He grasped it by its shortened barrel, a heavy club in his left hand. He snapped his attention on Rocco.
The young man tried to throw a punch into Po’s throat but missed, and was rewarded by the stock of the shotgun rammed into his mouth. Teeth, and jawbone, shattered. He fell to his knees, cupping his face, trailing strin
gs of bloody saliva. Po kicked him over with a boot to his chest. He lay on his back, moaning through his ruined mouth. Perhaps in that instant he thought about the threat he’d aimed at Po only minutes ago: Try saying that again when you’ve no teeth left in your face. The thought didn’t occur to Po, but Rocco’s punishment was karmic.
Po kept moving, slashing with his knife, swiping at skulls with the stock of the gun. The others fell back, gasping for breath, eyes red hot, all of them still dangerous but wary now their victim was mobile and armed.
Leon screeched and came at Po, his axe handle scything the air. Po ignored the handle, swung for the hands grasping it. The shotgun stock smashed Leon’s right thumb to pulp and impacted fully on the fingers of his left. The handle jumped from his grasp. Po stamped on it, pinning it to the floor, even as he used another clubbing blow of the shotgun to knock Leon aside.
Francis stood guard over his father. He looked ready to die in Darius’s defence. Po juggled round the shotgun, so it was now in his right hand, and the barrel pointed directly at the two men. All around him, men barked curses and threats, the injured moaning and trying to crawl clear. Po ignored them, fixing his stare on Francis even as he aimed at Darius, who wasn’t flexible enough to reach his injury, so lay grimacing, and trying pathetically to kick the pain out of his impaled foot.
Blood streamed from both Po’s nostrils, got in his mouth. He dashed his lips clear with a swipe of the back of his left hand. It still held his knife. He spat, so he could speak. ‘I could kill you now, you sons of bitches.’
‘So fucking do it!’ Francis snarled. He had tears of frustration dripping down his cheeks. ‘You’ve already murdered two of my brothers, why stop now? You’ve hurt my father, my little brother …’ He looked for Leon, who was sitting abject and forlorn, cradling his broken hands to his chest as he rocked back and forward. He snapped a glance at Rocco, but didn’t linger on him long. He looked for Jean, his other closest relative, but Jean was standing off to one side with his mouth hanging open in dread: after all, he had led them to this moment where nothing had ended as they’d planned. ‘There’s only me left to get your revenge on,’ Francis went on. ‘So if you’re going to shoot, shoot now, or go an’ fuck yerself.’
‘Trust me,’ said Po, ‘I’m tempted. But if you stupid fucks stopped and thought for one second, you’d have realized I came here to speak.’ He used the barrel of the gun as a pointer at the others still milling just out of his immediate striking range. ‘Y’all got your licks in,’ he returned this aim to Francis and Darius, ‘and so did you. Then again, I got in some of my own too, so I’m happy. What happened before was a fucking lifetime ago, d’you really want to take this fucking feud to your graves? If so then so be it. I’ll kill you, use up both barrels, and then your kin here might get me … might not, but more of us will be killed f’sure. But if you’re ready to see sense, this can be the end of it.’
Francis swore, but his words were unclear. But Po noticed Darius’s hand grasp his son’s leg, urging caution. Po held the younger man’s gaze. ‘My mother’s dying,’ he announced. ‘Yeah, I’m talking about Clara, the woman who has also been your mother for the best part of a quarter-century. You think she wants any of her children to die? When she left me, I hated her. I’ve held onto that hatred for decades. But y’know, for her and somebody else’s sake, I’ve put that hatred aside.’ He couldn’t help the sneer on his face as he made his next announcement, but it was aimed inward rather than at the Chatards. ‘I’ve even given up hating you assholes.’
‘Help me up,’ Darius commanded.
Francis glared expectantly at Po. The gun barrel jerked up and down.
Francis hauled the old man up, with much grunting and straining from both. Darius supported his weight with an arm around Francis’s shoulder, his injured foot held off the floor. Blood dripped from the sole of his boot. ‘I gotta take some weight off. Can we go over dere and speak?’
‘F’sure. Was my intention to speak all along.’
‘And you expected us to sit round playin’ happy families?’
‘Not for a second. It’s why I let your boys give me a beating first, so’s you could get some of that pent-up anger out of your systems.’
‘You’re a smug son of a bitch,’ Francis said, but his father patted his shoulder.
‘Can it, son,’ Darius warned.
‘Look what the bastard did to Rocco and Leon, Papa: we going to just let that go? Look at what he did to you!’
‘I don’t need reminding; my foot hurts like a sumbitch. But things coulda turned out much worse. So, hush now. Let d’ man with d’ shotgun speak.’
‘I’m hoping I don’t need this at the negotiating table now,’ Po said, with a nod at the gun, ‘but I’m not about to throw it away either. Drop the attitude, Francis. And these others, they need to get the fuck outta here. Would offer a place for Leon at the table, but I think he needs to go see a medic. If y’all want another able-body with you, Jean can stay. The others, our business has fuck all to do with any of them, so they can leave.’
Darius nodded, and against Francis’s whispered advice, the old man overrode him. ‘You lot. Git d’ fuck outta here. You’ve had yer fun, and now it’s over. Take Rocco and Leon home, and make sure they’re cared for, y’hear?’
Po followed as Francis assisted his father to one of their pickup trucks and Darius thankfully lowered his butt on the flatbed in the rear, his knee bent to lessen the pressure on his injured foot. Po had put away the offending knife, but still cradled the shotgun. He ensured he could see all three of the remaining Chatards, and that the others were leaving now that they’d helped their injured kin into the SUV. It reversed away, leaving only Jean’s Toyota Camry parked on the raised dais they’d used for a makeshift arena.
‘OK. Now that we can speak without all the posturing for their sake, let’s get down to it,’ Po said. ‘I want to know what interest Zeke Menon has in our Emilia.’
‘Whaddaya mean, our Emilia?’ Darius demanded.
‘I always thought you were an asshole, Darius, but I never took you for a fool.’
Darius frowned. ‘So you know?’
Francis squinted sideways at his father, but Darius didn’t explain.
Po said, ‘First time my mother showed me a picture and I saw Emilia’s eyes, I knew they didn’t come from you. Emilia has turquoise eyes like mine, like my father’s.’
Now Francis was scowling, his mouth working silently. Darius laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘It don’t change a thing. She’s still your sister, son.’
‘She’s also my sister,’ Po emphasized.
Darius scowled, but then his face worked on what else Po had just asked about, his eyelids twitching, his nose scrunching up. ‘What was dat about Zeke Menon? The fuck would dat lunatic have any interest in my daughter for?’
‘That’s what I was hoping you could tell me. I’d have preferred to dispense with all the drama, but that was never going to happen. Hopefully we’ve cleared the air now and can get down to what’s really important. There’s a frightened young woman out there, and I mean to find her before Menon gets his hands on her.’
THIRTY
If Tess could have heard Po’s words, she would have shaken her head at the irony. Cleary Menon was so huge that one forward step had brought him directly over her, and she shrank beneath him. His left hand still warded off her Glock, while his huge right hand teased and plucked at her hair, lifting the curls and allowing them to slide silkily from his fingertips. ‘Pretty girl,’ he murmured under his breath, ‘pretty hair.’
Tess didn’t know what to do.
She could probably lurch away, get a bead on him, and pump a few shells into his massive body. But two things stayed her. First, she wasn’t confident that even 10mm Hard Cast ammo would be ample stopping power to fell such a brute, and mainly because she had no reason or justification to shoot him. Being touched unbidden in such an intimate manner caused a qualm of mortification to run through her fra
me, but at the same time Tess could sense no lasciviousness in his fascination with her blond locks. His attention wasn’t sexual; she felt more like a yellow Labrador being petted. Surreptitiously she moved the gun aside and hid it behind her right hip.
When first he’d appeared from the gloom, she had assumed the worst, that Cleary had recognized her as an intruder and was intent on capturing her. Yet he didn’t appear suspicious, and the gun in her hand didn’t alarm him. Either he was always around weapons and had become desensitized to them, or the presence of the weapon – and her reason for carrying it – hadn’t registered in his mind. His grin, which at first had reminded her of the maw of a predator, had begun jumping up and down before it set again, and his gaze had darted and finally alighted on her pale hair. Tess knew her hair must be a mess, snagged with Spanish moss and tree litter from the copse and likely dotted with mud from jogging and crawling around in the dirt, and yet Cleary appeared mesmerized by it. At any other time the flattery might have caused her to blush, and yet nothing about his innocent-sounding compliments felt genuine. An unwanted compliment often felt dirty, and that was how his words made her feel.
‘Pretty hair,’ he said again, and this time tugged a lock so it stood high above her forehead, he allowed it to drop and it curled on her brow. His fingers flicked it up again, and Tess lifted her own hand, and pressed his to his chest.
‘Please don’t touch me,’ she asked.
‘Pretty girl.’ Her request must have fallen on deaf ears, because he immediately reached out again and his fingers stroked up the side of her head. Tess moved aside, but the giant barely shifted his stance to keep her within the circle of his reach. His face was still set in the same grin, but his gaze lowered, tracing the slope of her nose, and the slight up-tilt in it at the end, before it settled on her mouth. In the ambient reflections of the floodlights she watched him studying her, but felt as if his focus was elsewhere, seeing more than what she physically presented before him.