Galíndez turned the key in the door. ‘Go and lock the back door, Inés,’ she gasped, trying to catch her breath. Inés hesitated. ‘Now,’ Galíndez shouted.
Inés scuttled away. She returned a few moments later, pale-faced. ‘It’s locked, Ana.’
‘Good girl. Now, let’s look in your dad’s wardrobe.’
‘Can’t.’ Clari was sitting on the floor. She shook her head. ‘Gun.’
‘Vamos.’ Galíndez picked up Clari and carried her upstairs. Inés sighed and followed them to her parents’ bedroom.
Capitán Fuentes had clearly taught his daughters about the danger of firearms since the girls stood on the far side of the room, watching unhappily as Galíndez opened the wardrobe door and rummaged inside. The pistol was in a cardboard box behind some shoes. Inside was an Star BM 9mm semi-automatic in a scuffed leather holster. Fuentes must have been issued this back in the day, she guessed. Despite its age, the pistol was solid and reassuring. She went to the window and looked up the drive.
‘Is it there, Ana?’ Inés asked.
‘I can’t see it,’ Galíndez said. ‘Maybe they’ve gone.’ She ruffled Clari’s hair in a clumsy attempt at reassurance. When she turned back to the window, the car was about forty metres up the road, nestled against the hedge, the setting sun glinting on the metallic paint.
Inés fidgeted nervously. ‘Do you need Dad’s big gun, Ana María?’
‘His big gun?’ Galíndez turned to look at her. ‘What’s that?’
‘The one he uses for rabbits.’ Inés pointed to the wardrobe. Galíndez leaned in and saw a long metal box set flush into the rear panel. She tugged at the handle. ‘Where’s the key?’
Inés retrieved a key from a drawer in the bedside table. Galíndez took it from her and unlocked the box. Inside was a shotgun, glistening with dark threat in the faint light. She lifted it out, checking it was unloaded. ‘Joder,’ she muttered, weighing it in her hands. This was real firepower.
‘If Dad says a rude word, it’s a euro in the swear box,’ Inés said.
‘Rude,’ Clari echoed.
‘Sue me,’ Galíndez muttered. In the bottom of the wardrobe she found ammunition for the pistol and a carton of shotgun cartridges. She took another peek out the window. The sun was setting, dazzling her with a few last shards of light. The car hadn’t moved.
‘Inés, take Clari, put some pizza in the microwave and then bring it back up here.’
Once the children were downstairs, Galíndez loaded both weapons. A few minutes later, the girls returned and sat on the bed, eating while she stood guard at the window, watching the car slowly blend into the shadows along the hedge.
Inés watched her intently, the slice of pizza never quite reaching her mouth. She was scared, Galíndez realised. It was time to do something.
‘Eat your pizza, Inés,’ she said firmly. She went along the landing, retrieved her phone from the spare room and dialled 062. There’d be an instant response to an Officer in Trouble call. If it turned out to be a false alarm, they could put it down to nerves or her hormones, she didn’t care. Fuck them.
She glared at the phone as she went into the bedroom. ‘Mierda, there’s no signal.’
Inés shook her head. ‘You can’t always get one out here.’
Galíndez went to the bedside table and tried the landline. No dial tone. She felt her stomach tighten. That was too much of a coincidence.
The girls watched, waiting for her to make things right, knowing that was what adults did. The kids needed calm and reassurance and here she was, clutching a pump-action shotgun. The girls’ faces were already pale and tense. If things kicked off, they would be hysterical. She couldn’t deal with the men in that car with the girls at her side. It was time to make a decision. Be the grown-up. She needed a plan.
‘Do you two have a hiding place when you’re playing?’ Galíndez asked.
‘Tree house,’ Clari said, sucking a string of cheese from the end of her pizza.
‘It’s not really a house,’ Inés said. ‘You cross the stream and there are some thick bushes growing near the trees. Underneath them, there’s a space where no one can see you.’
Galíndez glanced out of the window, seeing the detail of the car melding with the darkness. She made her decision. ‘I want you to go to your tree house and stay there. You have to be quiet, no matter what you hear. If anything frightens you, put your fingers in your ears. And whatever happens, Inés, don’t come out until I tell you it’s OK.’ She saw Inés’s lip quiver. ‘Be brave, Inés. Please.’
‘I’ll try.’ Inés put a protective arm round her sister.
‘Vamos.’ Galíndez led them downstairs and shepherded them out of the back door. She helped them across the stream, gave them a last quick hug and then watched as they wriggled into the narrow gap in the bushes that led to their hiding place. She took out her phone and tried the guardia again. Still no signal. She was on her own. She shrugged that thought away. This wasn’t the time to feel sorry for herself.
She went into the house and locked the back door again. As she went along the hall, she pumped the slide of the shotgun, putting a round into the breech. Babysitting was over.
She searched the kitchen, looking for the main power switch. If anyone broke in, the darkness would be to her advantage. Near the door to the veranda, she saw the row of gas cylinders, waist high, and heavy. Very heavy. Laying the shotgun on the table, she wrestled the cylinders against the door, one after another, a solid barrier against anyone who tried to force the door open.
She found the power switch on the wall near the sink and flipped it, filling the house with the night. Cautiously, she made her way back upstairs to the bedroom. Through the window a thin band of light on the horizon signalled the end of the day.
Galíndez stared into the garden. She could no longer see the car. For all she knew, it might have driven away. Maybe in half an hour she’d be laughing about this.
Something moved in the shadows by the hedge and Galíndez watched the dark shapes come stealthily across the lawn fifty metres from the house. Five men, dressed in black, two carrying sub-machine guns. She took the pistol from the window ledge and pushed it into the waistband of her jeans, wishing more than ever she had a plan. Through the window, she glimpsed the men with sub-machine guns crouching several metres apart, peering towards the house. No sign of the others. They’ve got a plan.
A sudden noise downstairs. Someone trying the handle of the back door. And then the sound of glass breaking. Galíndez turned from the window and ran across the landing to the stairs. Below, she saw pale shards of glass scattered on the floor, the jagged hole in the pane and, as she took another step down, she saw a gloved hand reach through the broken pane, fumbling for the key. Galíndez groaned, wishing she’d taken it from the lock. She sat on the stairs and aimed the shotgun, wondering whether to shout a warning as the key turned.
The shotgun blast was deafening. Ears ringing, Galíndez stared at the ragged hole in the door. Without thinking, she ejected the cartridge and raised the shotgun again.
‘Da eba.’ A man’s shout outside. Angry.
Galíndez saw him, outlined in the doorway, swearing as he tried to drag the wounded man away. She went down a couple more stairs, the shotgun at her shoulder. The stair creaked and the man looked up, raising his pistol. She saw the sudden muzzle flash. Heard the muffled impact of the bullet somewhere behind her. She pulled the trigger.
There was no door left now, only shredded fragments of wood clinging to the hinges. Galíndez ran forward, pumping the shotgun, scanning for movement. There was no need, she realised, seeing the bodies. Neither of these men would move again. She turned and raced back upstairs to the bedroom, hoping to get a shot at the men in the garden before they came to investigate the shooting. But she was too eager. As she reached the window, the men were already raising their weapons, seeing her pale silhouette through the dark glass.
Galíndez dived for cover as the window atomised in a white m
ist of fragmented glass. She lay, protecting her head with her hands as bullets impacted on metal and brick in wild flurries of sparks; pillows exploding in demented snow-bursts of feathers, the doors of the wardrobe swinging crazily on broken hinges, shredded by the rattling waves of gunfire.
The house echoed with the sound of random destruction as she crawled on her belly out onto the landing. She sat on the top stair and eased herself down, one stair at a time, raising a hand to protect her face as a mirror exploded, sending a stream of jagged silver shards tumbling noisily down the stairs. She kept going, manoeuvring over the broken glass as the firing continued, a clamorous staccato hammer punctuated by the agonised sounds of the bedroom being torn apart. The gunmen clearly thought she was still up there, since only a few stray bullets hit the ground floor, tearing into the walls with a sibilant whine, ricochets veering along erratic trajectories of destruction through the darkened rooms.
At the foot of the stairs, she paused, seeing the ruined door and the crumpled bodies on the step. It was time to get outside, before the others came in after her. Outside, she could hide in the shadows and plan her next move.
Holding the shotgun upright, she checked the hall, peering through the gloom into the kitchen, seeing the door to the veranda wedged firmly shut by the line of gas cylinders. The important thing now was to get away from the house and she hurried to the back door, ready to dash outside. A slight movement in the shadows made her glance back. The tips of a man’s shoes, protruding from the lounge doorway a metre away.
He came flying at her, big and heavy, eyes glinting in white fury through the holes of his black ski mask as he slammed her back against the wall, the air exploding from her lungs. She struggled to keep her grip on the shotgun as he wrestled it sideways, forcing the stock towards her, hammering her against the wall as he tried to push the weapon against her throat.
Galíndez’s fighting was based on pitting skill and guile against brute force. For that, she needed to keep him at a distance. He was too close to kick so she tried to put pressure on his knee but there was no room for that in such brutal proximity as she fought for breath, feeling his massive strength forcing the cold metal of the shotgun against her throat. Her feet flailed against the sides of his legs as he pressed harder, pinning her against the wall. Strange noises, a feeling her eyes were about to burst. Thoughts jumbled, fleeting and random. Should have had a plan.
Her right hand scrabbled at her waistband, her fingers closing around Fuentes’ semi-automatic. Strange lights burst across her vision. She was starting to lose consciousness. She tugged the pistol from her belt, pressed the muzzle into the man’s side and pulled the trigger.
The gun didn’t fire.
Galíndez felt the world around her dissolving. Soon she would sense nothing, just the sound of her own death rattle in the growing darkness. Her thumb moved over the rigid contours of the pistol, fumbling with the safety, pressing the hammer back. She made a final attempt to breathe and failed. Her left hand lost its grip on the shotgun and she sagged limply against the wall. Sensing victory, the man stepped back to let her fall, easing the pressure on her throat. She didn’t fall.
Galíndez raised the pistol to his belly and fired. A sudden crack, the smell of scorched cloth. The clatter of the shotgun on the floor. She fired again, sending him lurching backwards, clutching the smoking holes in his combat jacket as he fell against the wall behind him and slid to the floor, his left hand clutching the wounds in his gut. Galíndez raised the pistol in a two-handed grip, shaking as she gulped air, trying to contain the rage surging through her. Wondering what happened now.
The man looked up. Seeing the uncertainty in her face, he reached into his jacket, scrabbling with bloody fingers for the pistol under his left arm. She pulled the trigger. A dry percussive report. His head rolled back, the hole in his forehead leaking blood. A mess on the wall behind him. And then, above her rasping breathing, she heard another noise. They were trying to force open the door to the kitchen.
She picked up the shotgun and stumbled down the hall. As she reached the kitchen, she heard the men outside swearing as they threw their weight against the door, trying to push the heavy cylinders back. Galíndez raised the shotgun and fired, blowing a hole through the door at chest height. The swearing stopped. A moment later, a vicious spray of sub-machine gun bullets swept the kitchen, raking the shelves of crockery on the wall in a deafening wave of destruction.
Galíndez pumped the shotgun, sending the spent cartridge rattling away across the tiles. And then the kitchen table erupted in a storm of ragged splinters as automatic fire raked across it. She threw herself to the floor, pressing herself flat as bullets ricocheted off the gas cylinders, embedding themselves in the wall above her head in violent staccato impacts, spilling plaster into her hair.
The shooting stopped abruptly and Galíndez looked up, dazed by the fragile silence. Despite the ringing in her ears, she heard another sound, a strange hissing. By the door, she saw a mist of liquid gas spouting from the damaged nozzle of one of the cylinders. She pulled the pistol from her waistband.
The kitchen window smashed and Galíndez saw a gloved hand clutch the window frame as a man started to climb in. Movement in the doorway, another man forcing back one of the gas cylinders, using his weight against the ruined doorframe as he pushed his way in, his dark shape blurred by the pale gas fumes. He glanced round, saw her lying outside the kitchen door, holding the pistol in both hands. Aiming.
Galíndez fired into the escaping gas. The bullet hit the cylinder in a flurry of sparks. And then the world exploded in fire.
She rolled away from the door, her hair scorching in a shower of sparks and embers as the fireball raged down the hall. And then a second deafening blast as another cylinder exploded, bringing down large sections of the ceiling in a rain of plaster and shattered tiles.
Beating at her smouldering clothes, she crawled down the hall, keeping her head beneath the dark choking smoke until she reached the back door and dashed out past the dead men to take cover in a patch of ornamental shrubs.
Inside the house, the remaining gas cylinders exploded and Galíndez pressed herself to the ground as the massive incendiary fury of the blast erupted up through the roof, launching an angry column of fire into the night sky, souring the air with the stench of gas. Within moments, the house was enveloped in flames, illuminating the surrounding garden with wavering red light.
The heat was intense, and Galíndez moved away, sneaking through the shadows back to her car. She opened the boot and found her hi-vis vest, feeling a renewed sense of authority as she pulled it on. She tried her mobile again but there was still no signal. Cautiously, she crept further up the drive towards the gate and tried again. This time, she got a signal and dialled 062.
‘Guardia civil. How can I help?’
‘Emergencia, officer in trouble, requesting immediate assistance.’ Her voice was hoarse as she gave the operator the address. ‘I’ve been attacked by a gang of armed men. There are fatalities and the house is on fire. We need the fire service.’ When she tried to swallow, the pain made her wince. ‘There are children here.’
The operator took her details and reassured her that help was on the way. Drained, Galíndez leaned against her car, shaking with cold as the adrenalin rush faded. And then, sirens in the distance, growing louder. Pushing the pistol into her waistband, she went out into the road to wait for the guardia and police units to arrive. Ten minutes later, she heard the rumble of approaching vehicles.
The white dazzle of a searchlight blinded her and she turned away, shielding her eyes. A loud voice from behind the light, a man with a loudhailer. ‘Identify yourself.’
‘Galíndez. Guardia civil.’ She kept her hands raised as she turned to let him see the reflective lettering on her vest.
‘Put the gun on the ground and raise your hands.’
She knew what to do. Slowly, she laid the pistol on the ground, straightening up with her hands open and high. Shadows
moved towards her through the headlights. No half-measures here, she realised, seeing the dark-clad figures of the UEI. They’d responded to her call for help by sending in an elite special ops team.
The men frisked her and confirmed her ID before listening to her description of events. When asked about casualties, she estimated there were probably five dead. Distracted, she didn’t notice the expressions on their faces.
The special ops commander patted Galíndez on the shoulder. ‘Go and get yourself checked out, señorita. There’s an ambulance over there.’
Galíndez glared at him, her dark eyes reflecting the light of the burning house. ‘I left Capitán Fuentes’ daughters hidden in some bushes down by the stream,’ she said, straining to make her injured voice heard. ‘I need to go and get them.’
He nodded. ‘OK. Machado, you and Tolosa go with her to get the children.’
The two men followed her, taking a detour around the blazing house before making for the dark outline of the trees where the children were hiding. ‘Call them,’ Machado said, gripping his machine pistol.
Galíndez paused by the stream with the two special ops men on either side of her, weapons raised. ‘Niñas? Soy, Ana María.’ The pain in her throat was getting worse.
She stepped into the stream and splashed across. I told them to stay put no matter what. God damn it. The two special ops men followed. Machado was talking into his radio mike. ‘Command, this is Alpha Dos, no sign of the children. We’re going into the bushes after them now. Cambio.’
A hiss of static. ‘Alpha Dos, this is Command. Go ahead, but keep me informed. Cambio.’
Galíndez knelt, fumbling in the bushes for the entrance to the girls’ tree house.
Machado came after her. ‘Hold on, where do you think you’re going?’ He moved forward and grabbed her arm, trying to pull her back. Galíndez spun round and flew at him, hitting him under the chin with a blow from her forearm, unbalancing him. She was a good six inches shorter than Machado and less half his weight, which probably accounted for his surprise at being sent sprawling into the grass.
The Exile Page 39