The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  I caught Rink’s attention, pointing above me. Rink nodded and headed to my position. Without waiting for him, I entered the second passage and saw that it ended at the foot of some stairs. As soon as Rink was in place to cover my back I went up, treading softly to the outside edges of the stairs to minimise the noise.

  The stairwell kinked back on itself halfway up, and I made sure to stay close to the outermost wall, so I’d have a clearer view as I went round. My SIG was snug against my right breast – many people lead the way with their gun, only to have it knocked from their hand before they see their assailant and I wasn’t going to make that mistake. My caution was unwarranted because the stairwell was empty. I gave Rink the OK sign. As I went up the remaining flight he moved up to the halfway point, covering the lower ground as he came.

  The staircase met another landing. A room was directly opposite, the door partly open to reveal a playroom. Toys were discarded where a bored kid had dropped them. There was another room adjacent to it and from under its closed door flickered the blue/black shadows cast by a TV. Donald Duck was berating someone. I smiled back at Rink. He frowned, puzzled as to what had tickled me. I pointed down the hall to another closed door. Jorge Molina didn’t strike me as the fatherly type: Benjamin would have a nanny, and that room was likely hers. Rink moved to cover the door while also watching the stairs.

  It was still early in the evening; a nanny wouldn’t have gone to bed yet and the last thing we wanted was for her to discover us. Neither of us was prepared to hurt a civilian, least of all a woman trying to defend a child against abduction. I hoped she wasn’t inside Benjamin’s room with him.

  I inched open the door.

  The only voice to make a fuss was Donald Duck’s.

  The room was too big for a single child lying in a cot-style bed against the far wall. It appeared to have been adapted for a kid, but was too clinical to offer stimulation to a growing and fertile mind. There was only the bed, a sideboard on which the TV played, and a small wardrobe. More like a cell than a goddamn bedroom, I thought. Benjamin was stretched out on his bed in that abandoned way that small children have, his arms flung above his head, legs akimbo. He was wearing blue and red pyjamas, a Spiderman outfit without the facemask. In repose the kid didn’t look anything like his mother, but had the dark hair and complexion of his father. He whistled gently as he slept.

  I searched for something to swaddle him in, then decided on taking the boy from his bed, blanket and all. To do so, I had to put away my gun.

  Now came the difficult part.

  If Benjamin woke with a black-garbed stranger looming over him, face blackened and looking like a bogeyman fresh from under the bed, he would scream the place down. Yet he looked out of it. A quick glance towards the cabinet on which the TV stood confirmed a suspicion. There was a medicine bottle, a local brand that looked like the syrup you feed kids when they’re teething or need help sleeping. Jorge didn’t want his meeting interrupted by a needy toddler and had ensured Benjamin would sleep the night through. Though I didn’t approve of his parenting skills, he’d done me a favour. I picked up Benjamin, pulling the bedding round him, and held him to my chest. The boy murmured, his eyelids flickering, lips smacking faintly, but he didn’t waken. There was a teddy bear in the cot, but my hands were full, so we had to leave it behind. I turned quickly and exited the room.

  Rink led the way down the stairs, while I adjusted Benjamin’s weight to hold him in my left arm. We’d made it in, grabbed the boy, but we were a long way from safe. I took out my SIG but was careful to keep it well out of the way of the kid. The corridor at the bottom remained empty. We hurried to the next hall and Rink went ahead. My nerves were on edge, my breathing loud in my ears. I fairly ran up the last corridor that took us back towards the cleaning rooms and the exit door.

  We’d almost made it to the large, scuffed fire door when a figure emerged from an adjoining door to our right, obviously with no expectation of running into a couple of invaders. It took a moment for his brain to register what he was looking at and a second or so more to shout a warning. By that time it was too late.

  Rink launched himself through the air, his right arm cocked at the elbow. Marginally above the tall guard’s height, Rink drove his fist forward. He was still clutching the stock of his handgun, but it was his knuckles that went directly into the bridge of the guard’s nose. The sound was like someone driving a stake into the ground with a mallet, and the force smashed the guard down. Rink’s momentum took him on top of the man’s body, and he straddled him, taking him quietly to the floor. He knelt on the man’s chest, hand poised to deliver another crushing blow, but the guard was out of it, his face a ruined mess. He hadn’t had chance to let out a cry, but anyone within hearing distance must have been alerted to the concussive smack he took to the face.

  I sprang past Rink to the fire exit and hit it open with my shoulders, just as a voice was raised in query from deeper in the house. Rink jerked his chin to tell me to get going. This wasn’t part of the bargain: no one was staying behind.

  ‘Come on,’ I whispered harshly.

  ‘I’ll slow them down.’

  ‘I need you with me. I can’t fight my way past the other guards while carrying a kid.’

  That must have made sense because Rink lunged after me as I spun into the short corridor and raced for the exit.

  A number of voices – some Spanish, some English – rang out, and the chase was on.

  Chapter 19

  While it was only the two of us inside the grounds, we hadn’t come without back-up. Kirstie was safe at the base we’d set up in a motel on the east side of Hermosillo, watched over by Harvey Lucas, but Velasquez and McTeer were in position to aid us in our escape.The only problem being, they were still at the far end of the plaza beyond the front gates, waiting in the van they’d parked alongside the vehicles of the utility repair crew digging up the road. Hiding in plain sight was always better than trying to be furtive, and the gate guard had spotted nothing suspicious in one van among others.

  We hustled towards the front gate, shouts ringing out as Molina sent his men in pursuit. No one had fired on us yet, but the guards on the rooftops were swinging their flashlights to get a bead on us. I was thankful for Benjamin’s presence in my arms because I could hear Molina yelling at his people not to shoot. In the confusion I doubted that the message would be relayed to all.

  ‘Keep moving brother, I’ll cover you,’ Rink hollered from behind my shoulder.

  I kept moving.

  There was a rustle as Rink dropped to one knee, then came the repeated snap of his handgun. I cringed with every shot because as well as keeping the pursuers off my back, Rink was inviting return fire.

  Our back-up team must have heard the shots, because there was the sudden roar of an engine from beyond the gates.

  Powering on, I hugged the child against my chest, concealing him from those behind, but also using my body as a barrier.

  The guard came out of the gatehouse.

  He was holding a firearm.

  The only good in the scenario was that he was caught in a flux of indecision. Someone must have called him to bar my path, but without placing Benjamin in harm’s way. Jorge Molina was proving a more caring father than I’d thought. The guard brought up his pistol, shouting in Spanish, but he didn’t fire. I had no such constraints. As I ran, I held my SIG before me and rattled off bullets as rapidly as I could squeeze the trigger. Running and shooting is poor form. It’s highly unlikely you’ll hit a target with the gun jostling with each step. But that was fine by me. I didn’t intend to kill the guard, only to show him that he’d best get the fuck out of my way. He seemed the sensible type. He took a staggering run from my path and threw himself down on the floor. I fired another round, saw it strike sparks five feet or so from his head, and he dropped his gun, both hands over his head, yelling surrender. Maybe it would have been better if I’d forced him to open the gate, but there was no time for regret. I charged at the b
arrier, then swerved towards the gatehouse just as the familiar panel van reversed at speed into the gate. The gate was designed more for intimidation than to be a secure barrier, and it was forced open, the bolts buckling and then giving with a metallic shriek. The right-hand gate sprung wide while the other hung limp on its hinges. The back doors of the van were dented, the paintwork scratched, but the mechanism hadn’t been damaged. Velasquez threw open the doors, standing on the cargo bed with his arms out to receive Benjamin.

  ‘Get him inside.’ I thrust the boy into Velasquez’s hands. As he twisted round, racing for the far end of the compartment, he hauled up a steel sheet, and placed it between Benjamin and harm’s way. Velasquez propped his gun hand over the steel to offer cover. Already I was searching for Rink.

  My big friend was retreating slowly, targeting those rushing him from the direction of the house. Two men were already on the floor, groaning in agony. More than half a dozen others were strung out in the grounds, and because he wasn’t holding their boss’s child, Rink was fair game. Only because they were panic-shooting was Rink still alive. That wouldn’t last long. I released my depleted clip and slapped in a fresh one, racking a round into the chamber. Taking a few steps away from the van to divert fire from Benjamin, I laid down covering fire while Rink worked his way backwards. A clatter to my right alerted me to the guard who’d recently given up the fight. He’d decided he was back in it, and had picked up his gun; now that I no longer held a human shield he wasn’t put off shooting at me. Idiot should have kept his head down. I shot him through the throat.

  McTeer threw the van into drive, pulling away from the buckled gates. Velasquez shouted at us to get inside.

  ‘Go!’ I shouted. ‘Get the boy out of here!’

  ‘We can all get out now,’ Velasquez yelled. Little Benjamin wasn’t so doped up and began howling.

  ‘No. We have to slow any pursuit. Do what we agreed, guys. Get the fuck going. Take Benjamin back to Kirstie.’

  I moved deeper into the compound, targeting those trying to kill Rink. I was happy to hear the roar of the panel van’s engine as McTeer took it at speed down the plaza, the doors slamming shut and blocking Benjamin from harm.

  Molina’s men were seeking cover behind anything that could halt a round. Some were on their bellies on the ground, others concealed behind raised stone flower beds. We were out in the open, and it was a good job that none of the combatants had rifles or we’d be dropped in seconds. Their guns – like ours – didn’t have great accuracy over a distance, but we were better skilled.

  ‘Rink, to me, buddy.’

  He jerked his head to confirm he’d heard, but he was still kneeling, firing at those nearest him. To stand now would be suicide. I jogged away, zigzagging to avoid being brought down. Up on the roof one of the guards played his flashlight beam over me, and I began drawing fire.

  While I ran, skidded to a halt and then backtracked, Rink came up to his feet and began to backpedal, still shooting. I heard him grunt and knew he’d taken a hit.

  More people spilled from the front of the house. Had we come here with the express purpose of assassinating Jorge Molina then here was my opportunity. I could see his thick head of hair as he ran down the front steps, shouting orders. But that wasn’t my purpose – despite Walter’s none-too-subtle instruction – so I didn’t fire on him. He was too far away to ensure a hit, and others with guns in their hands warranted my attention. His face was rigid with anger. I spied another face in the open doorway. The light shining from inside cast the man in silhouette, but I recognised his bony countenance and the skull-like shape it made. I fired a round at him. It struck the wall to his right, but it was enough to make the bastard dive back inside.

  Engines began growling, and a vehicle nosed round the side of the house, until its softened tyres buckled and split and the rims settled to the ground. The driver threw open the door, using it as a shield as he drew down on us. Rink fired a grouping of three shots at the door and the man was forced to take cover inside, shouting in a mixture of agony and rage. Just then another car rounded the corner. It too came on flat tyres, but the driver was taking it cautiously, flanked by two more guards who were crouching behind the car and using it as a shield.

  ‘Time to move, Rink,’ I shouted.

  This time he was able to run back to the gate, covering me while I also moved towards the guardhouse. Gunfire forced me inside while Rink charged out and on to the open plaza. He swerved right, placing the gatepost between him and the rolling attack. More of those who’d been taking cover were emboldened by the actions of their mates and came out of hiding, moving across the compound in a skirmish line. Bullets began tearing the guardhouse to pieces, cutting through the open door and striking the office space inside. I had to take cover, as much from the ricochets as anything else.

  ‘Get the fuck outta there, before they corner you!’

  Rink’s shout motivated me.

  No way could I go back out of the door on this side, and it was the only open exit.

  So I took the other option.

  I turned my gun on the thick sheet of smoked glass that had been added to adapt the turret into a modern gatehouse.

  My rounds punched the glass, but only served to star the thickened pane. I required something with more mass to even hope to make it through. A chair and desk were situated below the window, neither of which would be any good to me: the chair was too light, the desk too heavy. A filing cabinet to the right of the entrance door was a more viable battering ram. Shoving away my SIG I hauled it up, grunting at the weight, before tipping it so the sharp angle of a bottom corner was lined up with the window. I heaved the cabinet, almost tearing the tendons from my shoulders with the effort. The cabinet struck the window, bursting free a chunk of glass the size of my head, then fell on to the desk with a huge bang. It was accompanied by the renewed wallops of bullets striking the inside of the room. Some of the rounds cutting inside the office helped weaken the window, but it remained a substantial barrier.

  Not that I was about to give up. Returning to the door, I fired at those advancing on my position from behind the cover of the slowly moving car. Then I turned my gun on the driver, firing through the windscreen. The slide on my SIG locked open. Grabbing for the final cartridge of ammunition in my belt, my hand fell on empty space. Son of a bitch, during my run with Benjamin the clip must have worked loose and fallen out there in the darkness. If I didn’t find a way out of the guardhouse in the next few seconds I was finished.

  I ran back to the cabinet, hauling it up and swinging it again at the place where the window was already broken, knocking loose another large shard. To my dismay I saw now that a plastic film had been added to the outside of the pane. It was going to be the devil’s own job breaking through. To remind me how precarious my position was, a fresh volley of rounds cut the air beside my shoulder, the bullets bouncing crazily around the room. A chunk of red-hot metal scored a line across my left forearm.

  In the next few seconds Molina’s men would be on me. My first thought was whether I could take the fight to them; perhaps snatch a gun from one before the others brought me down. My second thought: I hoped that my sacrifice had earned Velasquez and McTeer enough time to get Benjamin well out of the way.

  A sudden crash against the window brought me round. Rink’s figure had jagged edges, but that was only an effect caused by the shattered prism of glass. He kicked again, driving forward with his heel. The weakened glass was resisting my efforts from within, but pressure from the other side helped tip the balance. Rink – who I’ve seen snapping baseball bats with kicks during demonstrations of his karate skills – slammed the glass a second time. The lower half of the glass buckled inwards. There wasn’t room for me to get out without ripping myself to shreds, but it was enough for Rink to toss me a spare magazine of ammo.

  I snatched it up and replaced the empty one in my gun.

  The timing was just right, because the car was almost upon me, the driver angling
it to block me inside the room. I fired almost point-blank and got him in the chest this time. Using the car as a barricade, the others dropped out of sight, but only for a few seconds. Then they were up again and bullets tore through my sanctuary. I caught another ricochet, this time losing a strip of skin from my right thigh. Hurt like a bastard, but I couldn’t let it stop me. I returned fire, forcing the attackers down. Rink had given up on the window, returning to a position where he could fire at an angle from behind the far gatepost. His crossfire gave me the opportunity to go for broke and I took it.

  I ran the few short steps up to the desk, then hurled myself over it. Covering my skull with my elbows, I pounded into the weakened glass. There was no cinematic explosion; the film held the glass together in a gummy embrace, cocooning me. But the window was irrevocably damaged now, and my hurtling bodyweight was enough to rip it from its frame. I tumbled outside, the shards of glass enveloping me, a thousand prickles as they jabbed through my clothing. Thankfully my momentum helped me roll free of the vicious blanket, and I came out of the roll splattering droplets of blood. I dreaded checking the damage, but had to. If I’d severed an artery, then that was it. A quick run of my hands over myself told me I’d picked up dozens of tiny punctures and scratches, but the most significant cuts remained those made by the ricochets on my arm and thigh. The blood trickled from me, but at least it wasn’t pumping out.

  Rink was hurtling towards me.

  ‘Get the fuck outta here!’ He didn’t even stop to scream in my face.

  Then we were charging down the plaza.

  We were clear of the compound, but it was a long way back to the US border.