by Dan Fletcher
Patience bundled Alan inside and put the suitcase in the back before getting in on the other side of him. John was unceremoniously pushed in next to Alan. Happy then put the second bag with the other and got in, sandwiching them for the sixth time in a little over three days.
‘This is getting to be a bit like bad fucking déjà-vu,’ said Alan.
‘Shut up! You think I like it,’ grumbled Patience, squashed against the door, the handle digging in his ribs.
‘There are more seats,’ Alan said, looking over his shoulder at the empty row.
‘That’s enough,’ Happy said, reaching across John and punching Alan in the face viciously. The attack was so quick it was like a serpents strike. Alan’s head snapped back against the seat and blood started to trickle from his angry nose.
‘Fucking hell, no need for that is there,’ Alan said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
‘Keep talking and I’ll make you forget all about it,’ Happy replied, through his teeth, shaking with rage.
John nudged Alan to distract him. No point antagonising them, things were bad enough as it was. The trucks followed the same route out to Malibu as they had the evening before. The friends were lost in their own thoughts and hardly noticed the magnificent scenery passing by. The convoy pulled up outside the boat house just as dusk was setting in, ethereal colours dancing on the waters of the Pacific. The palm fronds rustled in the breeze overhead, offering a quiet drum roll.
The driver and two other armed members of los Sombreros jumped out of the first truck. Two of them mounted the small wooden porch and took up positions at either end, covering the corners of the building. The other held the car door open for Santiago and the Chief, ushering them into the front door. Tunge got out of the other side of the vehicle with another armed gang member and walked in to join them.
John and Alan were dragged from the SUV by Happy and Patience, pushing them ahead of them up the small flight of steps and through the fly-screened entrance. The driver and passenger retrieved the suitcases and took them inside.
They found themselves in a large open lounge with the kitchen area off to the right. There were two closed doors on that side, most likely a bedroom and bathroom. The whole end wall was paned glass with sliding panels in the middle, overlooking the jetty and Santiago’s boat.
‘Make sure it’s all there Paco,’ Santiago said, indicating the breakfast bar separating the two rooms. The driver of the SUV swung the suitcase up onto the worktop and tried to open it.
‘It’s locked boss,’ he said, noticing the combination locks.
‘It’s 747,’ said the Chief, grinning, ‘for both of them.’
He scrolled the numbers to their correct positions and the clasps popped open. Throwing the clothing out Paco found nothing.
‘There’s nothing here,’ he said, holding up the empty suitcase in his muscular arms, which was surprisingly heavy.
‘Give it to me,’ said the Chief, bursting forward and snatching the case. He put it back on the breakfast bar and opened it. He lifted the protective panel that ran along the back of the suitcase, under the hinges. It revealed a zip running all the way along three sides of the bottom of the suitcase. Unzipping it he peeled back the false bottom, revealing five kilos of heroin in clear plastic packets.
‘The other one is the same,’ he said, showing it to Santiago. ‘You won’t find any problems with the merchandise.’
‘Excellent! Put them by the door.” Paco closed the suitcase, and picking up the other walked out of the patio doors towards the jetty, placing the suitcases down next to them. Paco turned back to face the room with his back to the window and his hands clasped in front of him.
‘I look forward to doing a lot of business together,’ said Santiago, turning to the Chief and shaking his hand, holding on to it afterwards.
‘I’m sure we have many profitable years ahead of us,’ the Chief replied, pumping Santiago’s hand in return, ‘now, to take care of my other business.’ He turned to Alan and John ‘Bring them over here.’
Tunge and Happy brought them to the centre of the room, pushing them to their knees in front of the Chief. There was a wild look in his eyes as he addressed them, with his back to the wall.
‘You two made a big mistake. In my country there is only one punishment for stealing, death,’ the Chief said, pulling out the revolver Santiago had given him in his stubby hand. He pointed it at John, kneeling before him.
‘Well this aint your bloody country is it,’ Alan said, not wanting the last thing he saw to be his friend getting shot.
‘Shut up!’ screamed the Chief, swinging the gun to Alan. ‘I’m going to kill you first, but not quickly. Maybe I’ll just shoot you in the stomach and watch the sharks do the rest.’ This was more for Santiago’s benefit than his victims. He wanted the American to know just how ruthless he could be.
Tunge watched on in silence. Witnessing his father commit another sadistic act against helpless victims brought back the memories of previous brutalities.
‘Why don’t you stop fucking talking and just get on with it?’ said Alan, pushing the Chief over the edge. He cocked the gun with his thumb, the noise piercing the silence in the room. The Chief started squeezing the trigger. Something inside of him snapped and Tunge leapt at his father, howling as he did.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The DEA agents were slowly converging on the house, having witnessed the exchange take place. Mendoza and Dayo climbed over the meter high fence, trying not to alert the two guards at the gate. They would be taken out by one of the snipers, as soon as Mendoza gave the order.
They crawled through the sand and spiky grass on their bellies, wriggling towards the front of the building. They found a position where they could see into the living room, through the gap between the SUV and the DODGE parked in front of it. The guard stationed to the right was smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wooden balustrade and staring out into the night. The other paced up and down between the front door and his corner of the building, scanning the surroundings nervously.
Mendoza watched through his binoculars as the two friends were pushed to the floor in front of the Chief. It looked like a few heated words were exchanged and the massive Nigerian pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the bald one.
‘Are you getting this Delta seven?’ said Mendoza, quietly into his headset.
‘Yes sir,’ was the curt reply.
‘Take him down if you’ve got a clear shot, do you copy?’ said Mendoza.
‘Copy that sir,’ replied the second sniper, on the dune overlooking the boat house. He had a clear sight of the Chief and was reporting events as they happened to the agents overseeing the operation in the van.
‘As soon as you do, I’ll give the order to go, is everybody else reading this?’ said Mendoza. Acknowledgements came through his earpiece from the other agents.
Squinting through the telescopic sights of his CAR A4 rifle, Agent Gonzalez saw the Chief aim the gun at the other hostage. There was hardly any wind, just the odd gust. Allowing for the twenty meter drop, he took in a deep breath and steadied himself, gently squeezing the trigger slowly. As he fired someone lunged from the left, blocking his view of the target. The .56mm bullet ripped through the man’s back between his shoulder blades. Agent Gonzalez could clearly see the large crater it left on impact, just before the man was jack-knifed to the floor. He fired again, but the target was already crouching for cover, the bullet missed his head by inches.
The sniper covering the gate from the car park shot the first sentry between the eyes, killing him instantly. The second turned around to face the shot and was met by two high velocity rounds. They pierced his upper chest, sending him flying to a heap on the floor, the life gone from him.
‘Two targets down,’ reported Delta Eight into his headset.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Tunge felt the lead tear into his back and explode out the front of his chest, taking with it parts of his lung
tissue and spine. It narrowly missed the Chiefs shoulder as it glanced off rib bone, altering its course slightly, before punching through the beach wood cladding and into the sea. He was thrown to the ground on his face, the last thing he saw, as his life ebbed away from him, was his father’s blood stained shoes.
The Chief dropped to the floor behind the sofa, as a bullet whizzed over his head and through the wall behind him. Using the furniture as a barricade he fired a couple of shots through the front window, returning fire but unsure where the shots had come from. Happy and Patience released the friends and dropped to the Chief’s side, ducking beside him with no weapons to use.
‘Give me a fucking hand then!’ Alan said, pushing himself from the floor. John stood and looping his arm around Alan they instinctively made for the exit to the beach. They bent forward to avoid the hail of bullets that was now aimed at the three hiding behind the sofa.
Santiago was dragged to the floor in the kitchen by the man who had ridden in the front of the SUV with Paco. They both crouched behind the sink and started firing out the window randomly. Paco had turned to look out the sea-front windows, and was preparing to open the doors to go outside, gun at the ready in front of him.
Alan and John came up behind him in their bid to escape, seeing the suitcases on the floor, Alan grabbed one and hit Paco as hard as he could. The impact sent him head first through the sliding glass doors, which were only open a couple of inches. His face and hands were shredded by shards of falling glass, causing him to lose his weapon. The two friends hurdled over him, heading for the boat.
‘Do you know how to drive one of those fucking things?’ said Alan, looking over his shoulder to towards the beach house.
‘I think so,’ gasped John. He had owned a small speed boat out in Spain. How different could it be?
They were being slowed down by Alan’s leg and John struggled to support his weight. Slowing to a walk they started making their way along the jetty towards the boat.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The first shot from the sniper rang out. Mendoza sprang to his feet and took a steady stance, aiming at the man who still had the cigarette between his lips. Santiago’s gunman was holding his rifle in front of him, blindly trying to source where the shot had come from.
‘Go, Go, Go!’ shouted Mendoza into his microphone, letting off two shots. The first deflected off the man’s hand, ripping into his shoulder and jerking him backwards. The second went through his chest, embedding in his lung. He fell to the porch, clutching his chest before rolling forward, unmoving. The last thing he heard was a strange gurgling sound that seemed to come from within.
Dayo started shooting at the man on the left, who was ducking behind the balustrade. The wooden uprights didn’t offer much protection, and one of the bullets hit the man in the leg, splinters flying as it did. He staggered back against the wall of the house, and slumped to one knee, with his bad leg outstretched before him, pumping blood. He returned fire in Dayo’s direction, but the truck in the middle was blocking his shots.
Dayo and Mendoza made their way to the DODGE and crouched behind it.
‘Cover me,’ mouthed Mendoza moving towards the tail of the vehicle. He gave Dayo the thumbs up. Dayo peered over the bonnet and let off three shots in the direction of the man on the porch. As he returned fire, Mendoza leant around the back of the truck and shot him twice, once in the head and another time in the chest for good measure. The man dropped lifelessly to his side, with his knee bent at a strange angle in front of him.
Staying behind the truck, Mendoza could hear a barrage of shots coming from the right hand side of the building. There were two officers on that side firing at the kitchen window.
‘Everybody hold your positions. Cease firing. I repeat cease firing,’ Mendoza instructed into his microphone. The shots slowed until only one or two could be heard, but they were coming from inside the kitchen.
Mendoza took a quick look at the front window, and hid back quickly, nothing moving. Two other agents were approaching from the left of the house. They joined Mendoza and Dayo behind the car.
‘Dayo you stay here,’ Mendoza said, who wasn’t going to argue as he had run out of bullets. ‘You take the left hand side of the building and try and get round to the back,’ he said to one of the agents, ‘you come with me.’ The other DEA agent followed him to the back of the truck at a crouch, with his COLT 933 rifle held with both hands in front of him.
‘When I start running follow me in. We’re gonna get them to hit that kitchen with a stun grenade and then we’ll hit the front door. Got that?’ Mendoza said, the agent nodded behind his goggles and protective helmet.
‘Who’s on the north side?’ said Mendoza, into his microphone.
‘Delta Four and Delta Five sir,’ was the quick reply.
‘When I give the signal I want you to fire a couple of stun grenades through that kitchen window, copy that?’
‘Copy sir.’
‘Are you in opposition at the back Delta Three?’ said Santiago.
‘Yes. I’m waiting at the corner for your order sir,’ replied the Agent, who had been listening in.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The shooting had ceased and the Chief looked around behind him. His two hostages had disappeared, and Tunge was dead on the floor beside him. Paco had risen to his feet, confused he staggered back into the room over the shards of glass.
‘Where are they?’ bellowed the Chief. He ran past Paco surprisingly quickly, bumping him to one side. The Chief shot out into the cool night air and looked around for his intended victims. He saw them walking down the badly lit jetty towards the boat and chased after them. He let off a shot that ricocheted off the planking near John’s feet.
‘Shit!’ said John, gaining some extra speed from somewhere. They zigzagged up the jetty, dodging another bullet from the Chief. Reaching the boat, Alan threw the suitcase onto the deck at the back.
‘Well fucking get on with it,’ he screamed, starting to untie the first of the two ropes holding the boat to the jetty. John ran through the saloon into the cockpit of the boat. It looked like the controls of a bloody plane, there were so many switches and dials. Most of them were to do with sonar and side thrusters, which didn’t interest him. John found the ignition switch and turned the key to the ‘ON’ position. As he pressed it and the twin Volvo Pentium engines sprang into life he said a quiet prayer of thanks. There were two pops followed by two large explosions from the beach house.
John looked towards the sound, and saw the Chief running towards them down the pier. He let of a shot at John through the cockpit, shattering it, one of the shards ripping at John’s face. Ignoring the pain he slammed the boat into reverse and hoped that Alan had managed to undo the last rope. The boat shot backwards, roaring alongside the jetty.
Delta Three rounded the corner as the explosions went off and he heard Santiago’s shout in his ear. Some shots were fired to his left and he saw the Chief running down the jetty. He fell to one knee and looked down the sights of the COLT 933. Delta Three carefully squeezed the trigger on semi-automatic. The bullets missed the Chief, falling behind him. He adjusted his aim slightly, aiming in front of the running figure, and let off another burst. They ripped into the Chief’s torso, sending him over the other side of the jetty and into the water with a splash. His colossal body bobbed against the wooden strut of the jetty, the fishes were in for a big fat treat.
The agent got to his feet and ran through the doors to the beach house, his intended target. Mendoza and Delta Two burst through the front door at the same time. He shot Paco in the back twice who fell forward onto the floor. Happy and Patience stood up and were caught between hails of bullets from both sides. Happy fell forward over the back of the sofa, and Patience slumped down beside him trying to hold in his intestines with his hands. He looked down in disbelief and his heart stopped, his head slumped forward, his eyes wide open.
Completely dazed by the grenades that landed right next to them, Sant
iago and the last man alive surrendered their weapons. Mendoza and Delta Two pushed them to the floor and left them lying there, hands handcuffed behind their backs. With all the shooting over, Mendoza heard the boat revving its engines and ran outside. It had already turned around and was heading out to sea.
Alan joined John in the cockpit and looked ahead at the moonlit waters, which were still and unmoving.
‘Looks like we made it!’ exclaimed John, beaming at his friend.
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ Alan replied, looking over his shoulder.
Further up the beach, hidden behind an outcrop of rock, a boat could be heard spluttering into life. Rounding the darkened headland, the sound of the engine increased as it sped towards them.
‘Who do you think it is?’
‘I don’t know, just keep going,’ Alan replied.
John looked back through the broken cockpit window, the wind ruffling his hair. He pushed the throttle to maximum and headed the boat out to sea, directly away from the beach house and the pursuing boat.
‘Que Sera, Sera.’
Don’t forget to watch out for the next in the series by Dan Fletcher
CONCRETE JUNGLE
And his latest work,
SWAHILI SUNSET