The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  While I was waiting for the helicopter to crash and burn, there was a sudden lull in activity while everyone apparently checked out the re-emergence of the craft in the sky. Rink didn’t wait. Following his attack, he’d leaped from hiding and charged nearer those in the rocks. As he hurtled past me, I saw his free hand come out with his KA-BAR and I understood he was going for broke. I jumped up and went after him.

  The lull was shattered.

  Bullets began scorching the air around me, from front and back. My mind was set in the red zone of battle and I didn’t give a fuck for bullets. All that was left to us was to go balls to the wall, and the devil take the hindmost.

  Rink was running and dodging between boulders, projectiles missing him by a hair’s breadth, but he went on, undeterred. I couldn’t see his face, but I guessed it wouldn’t be pretty. Not for those that he was coming for. As brutal or tough as those guys were they would be on the back foot when facing something like Jared Rington bulling towards them. I went after him, ducking and diving to different boulders, trying to confuse the shooters, giving them a choice of elusive targets to further confuse and disarray them. I caught another stinging wound, but it was more likely to be a fragment of bullet or rock chip that scored my shoulder because it didn’t slow me.

  A man rose up directly in front of Rink. My heart was in my throat, because I thought he had the drop on my friend, but that wasn’t so. He’d depleted his bullets and was fumbling to get a spare magazine in his gun, torn between the advancing behemoth that was Rink and the job at hand. Caught between the two tasks, he could concentrate sufficiently on neither. Rink capitalised on the situation by driving his KA-BAR into the juncture of the man’s neck and shoulder. It was a killing blow and the man went down without a sound. I continued to sprint for Rink’s position, and saw him duck, and come back up with the dropped gun. He slapped the fresh mag in place, and then tossed it back to me. I caught the gun, but shoved it away in my belt for now.

  Behind us the shooting had been curtailed. Friends were loath to shoot at us for fear of hitting those beyond us. Either that or they were simply racing after us to corral us again, but I didn’t have time to check. Our unspoken plan was basic: storm the enemy position, kill them or force them to flee. It was the only way that we could reach the vehicles they’d arrived in. They hadn’t come here in the earthmover, but by fast car, and had utilised the excavator as a more effective roadblock. Their vehicles had to be parked within the service road from which the attack had come. If we could reach a car we still had a chance at escape.

  Rink went down.

  I wasn’t worried.

  His sudden movement had been controlled, smooth and without a loss of forward momentum. I imagined him scuttling between the scatter of boulders like a huge lizard on all fours. Giving him an opportunity to gain a good position, I yelled to draw fire at me. Madness, but that was what the situation required. The bullets did come my way and I was forced to duck down among the rocks. Bobbing up, I returned fire, picking my shots. Three rounds, not a single kill. I fed the SIG into my waistband for safekeeping, and took out the gun liberated by Rink moments before. I double-checked that the mag was secure and racked the slide, arming the gun. It was an old Browning, with thirteen bullets in the magazine if memory served correctly. The nine-millimetre rounds would fit my own gun, but there was no time for messing around. Taking a moment to press my back to the rock, I looked back towards where the cars had drawn up in a ragged barricade to block our route back towards Imuris – like we’d ever contemplate going back! Silhouettes moved before the glaring lights, and one of them appeared taller and broader of shoulder than most around him. Marshall was here. I felt no rancour towards my old friend, just then. My mind was in a killing place, and it didn’t think ill of any individual: each man out there was an enemy to be killed without favour or discrimination.

  Up until now Molina’s men had proved less capable than I’d been led to believe, but I guessed they had been run-of-the-mill footsoldiers, recruited from the criminal gangs. Marshall and his mercenary crew were a different kettle of fish. Now that the ‘specialists’ were on the scene I could expect a tougher fight. The blood pounded in my head at the thrill of the situation. But I couldn’t give in to the base sensation that flared through me; this wasn’t about sating my need for bloody competition with worthy opponents, but about ensuring a woman and child made it safely home.

  It was also about not allowing my friend Rink to get cornered while I took a break to catch my breath. I moved out, staying low as I went forward. Gunshots rang out, but they had slowed in intensity, and I was sure that those crouching among the loose rocks of the landslide had no idea where Rink had got to. A hollow croak punctuated the gunfire, and the shooting lessened. Rink’s blade had taken another of them.

  There was some shouting. It was in Spanish, the words so garbled that I couldn’t make any sense of them. I took it that those facing us were hollering for assistance from their pals who’d fallen idle while they waited to see how the battle would turn out. In response I heard an English accent yelling, ‘Hold your fucking fire, I told you.’

  Marshall wasn’t commanding me to lay down my gun, but the men with him.

  The chopping racket of the helicopter swooping in covered whatever words came next.

  I ignored everything, moving for the nearest of Molina’s men, pinpointing him by his panicked yells. I made it to the boulder behind which he was sheltering. He had no experience in guerrilla warfare. He was struck by fear and doing very little to assist his cause. Despite his terror, he remained a threat if I allowed him to live. Exhaling quietly, I braced my legs, lowering my centre of balance, then quickly tilted my upper body so that I could see round the boulder. The man had his body pressed to the stone, as he tried to look round the far side. He was unaware of my presence, and died with no clue as to where the bullet had come from. Three of the original six were now dead, and things were beginning to sway in our favour once more. But that was only while Marshall held his own and the rest of Molina’s fighters back. I could hear nothing for the battering wind from the rotor downwash, and wondered if there were killers moving among the rocks behind me. It was highly likely, so my best move was to go on.

  Two shots rang out.

  A man yelled.

  There was a single crack of a bullet striking the rock face.

  Then a figure broke from cover and ran out into the road.

  He went down on his face among the debris from the wrecked Subaru. In the confusion one of his own had brought him down, no doubt thinking I was the fleeing man. Again Marshall roared an order to hold fire.

  That left only two men to block our escape route.

  A solid thunk! of steel through flesh marked the demise of one of them.

  Only one man stood between a vehicle and us.

  Minutes ago, in an unsavoury manner, I’d stated that we were finished. Now I was beginning to fancy our chances of surviving the ambush. Though others on the scene had other thoughts on the subject, and they were putting them into action.

  Bullets began pounding the floor all around me.

  Unbeknown to me, while I’d been engaged in the running fight among the boulders, the helicopter had put down, and one man on board had been handed an assault rifle. Now that gunman was leaning out of the open door of the chopper as it hovered over me and was trying his damnedest to finish me off. I had no place to hide from an aerial attack.

  My original idea re-formed fully in my mind.

  ‘We’re fucked,’ I thought as I curled in a ball to avoid the flying bullets and the shower of rock chips cutting through my clothing.

  Suddenly the chaos ended.

  The helicopter still hovered overhead, the gunman leaning out, but he had held his fire on someone’s instruction. I doubted that the command had come out of pity. Molina would rather torture me to death than offer a clean bullet through the skull.

  ‘Hunter? Can you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you,
Marshall.’

  ‘Toss your gun away, mate.’

  I considered shooting at the helicopter, gambling everything on the off chance I could hit the man with the rifle before he tore me to ribbons.

  ‘You don’t stand a chance,’ Marshall yelled. ‘You’re surrounded. Don’t let the fuckers shoot you while you cower in the dirt. Throw down your gun, stand up like a man, and show these bean-eaters what kind of men the Paras turn out.’

  ‘Turncoat arseholes like you don’t do much for their reputation,’ I shouted.

  But he had a point. I didn’t want to end up torn to pieces without having stood up and faced death.

  ‘I swear, Hunter. You’ve about three seconds before we start shooting again. I’ve men surrounding your position; so don’t even think about trying to run. That gunner up in the air, he’ll get you in seconds. I’m giving you an opportunity to save face before you’re torn a new arsehole. Throw away the gun, stand up and walk out here.’

  So I did.

  I made a show of tossing the gun on to the road, and watched as it slid across the gritty surface until checked by a piece of mangled metal.

  ‘That’s a start,’ Marshall called. ‘Now the other gun.The one with the bullets.’

  Bastard had realised I was too quick in giving up my only weapon. The first gun I’d thrown down was my empty SIG.

  ‘Can’t blame me for trying,’ I said.

  ‘The gun, Hunter. Then show me your hands.’

  Reluctantly I also threw the Browning on the road.

  ‘Stand up. Slow and easy like.’

  I stood, holding my hands high overhead.

  ‘Now walk out. Stand in the road where I can get a good look at you.’

  ‘You going to shoot me down like a dog, Marshall?’ I moved out, placing myself a few yards out on the shoulder of the road. Marshall was a good twenty feet away, moving closer, covering me with the barrel of an AK-47.

  ‘The way you did to McAdam?’

  ‘That was a fair fight. You know it.’ I didn’t mention that it was actually Rink who’d killed McAdam. The less they thought about Rink the better.

  Marshall chewed his bottom lip as he approached. He was caught briefly in the chopper searchlights and his glass eye twinkled like a star in its death throes.

  ‘Is that what you’re looking for now?’ Marshall said. ‘If it was my decision to fight you, then I’d oblige. I wouldn’t mind going hand to hand with you; always thought I could take you, Joe.’

  ‘It looks as if we’ll never know. What happens now? You hand me over to Molina then walk away counting your blood money?’

  ‘Yeah, that pretty much sums it up, Joe.’

  The helicopter had moved away, but only so the pilot could find a place free of wreckage to set down. Ignoring Marshall’s gun I watched as Molina stepped down from the open door. He was wearing a steel-grey suit, black shirt, grey tie and buffed shoes. His hair was coiffed and oiled. Looked like he was on his way to a business meeting. Only the machete he gripped said otherwise.

  A moment behind him came Howell Regis. He was cradling the machine-gun across his middle, looking mighty pleased with himself for capturing me. Watching them approach, I wasn’t sure which of them I wanted to kill first.

  Except it appeared I was going to precede them both to the grave. Molina came at me, and with each step the machete rose a few inches higher. It was the end of the road for me, but I wasn’t going out without a fight. If I could cause enough confusion, then Rink could slip away. I hoped my friend would find it in his power to avenge me.

  I advanced to meet Molina, opening my arms to invite a wild slash at my neck. Come on, I challenged with my stare, try and take my head. I was so focused on him that I missed Marshall as he lifted the stock of his rifle and slammed it against the back of my skull.

  Chapter 37

  The river foamed wildly, a dull roar that had faded to white noise inside Walter’s head. He paid the river sounds no heed, and had zoned out from the background noises of windblown trees, birdcalls and splashing of jumping fish. He listened for only one thing: the trill of a phone.

  He had two distinct ringtones programmed into the cell phones he held. Both were old-time numbers by Elvis Presley, the first a cover of ‘Since I Met You Baby’, originally performed by rhythm-and-blues pianist Ivory Joe Hunter, and a bit of an in-joke at the younger Joe’s expense. The second was a track from the movie King Creole, and aptly titled ‘Trouble’ considering the identity of the man on the other end of that phone.

  Walter waited. The gentle strains of the first track would mean that his granddaughter and her son were safe, the more bluesy intro that she was only partly in the clear, but that Hunter’s job would have been made slightly easier.

  He continued to wait.

  A man called out from up at the fishing lodge, one of Walter’s bodyguards checking on him. Without replying, Walter merely waved an arm, indicating the man should go back inside. A second enquiry didn’t follow and Walter trusted the man had obeyed.

  The swish of water over rocks became a singular buzz that no longer had definition or clarity, and Walter was lulled into a trance-like state as he sat on the damp rocks, his heels locked so he didn’t slide from his perch into the river below.

  He didn’t know how long he’d waited. He was loath to check the time, for counting the seconds would make the wait all the more interminable. He merely sat, a phone in each sweaty palm, urging either to ring by bobbing each cell up and down in turn. Anyone watching him would think he was crazy, but Walter could care less.

  When the horn section intro kicked in Walter almost dropped the cell in his hurry to answer.

  He offered no preamble; no enquiries concerning the good health of the caller or anything else trivial, but went direct to the point.

  ‘Is it done?’

  ‘It’s done.’

  Walter breathed out, long and loud.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ Walter said.

  ‘Good enough. But there’s also another matter. You owe me, right?’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t enjoy the task you were set.’

  ‘I enjoyed it. In fact, it felt real good to get back in the saddle again. But that’s beside the point.’

  ‘I’m a man of my word. I’ll speak to my superiors on your behalf, have you reinstated.’

  ‘Thanks. Since I was made to look a fool, it has been a little difficult to reassert my position. I’ve been stuck in goddamn limbo for the best part of a year.’

  ‘You’re back now. You’ve proved your abilities and I’ll recommend that you are returned to full field duties with immediate effect, plus recompense for what you’ve lost through being sidelined.’

  Now it was the caller’s turn to sigh.

  ‘Who’d have thought that by assisting the very man responsible for ruining my career, justice would be done?’

  ‘Yes.’ Walter considered how the caller would take his next words, but chose to say them anyway. ‘You owe Joe Hunter.’

  ‘Yeah. I owe him.’ No clarification of the statement was offered, but it was loaded enough to send a shiver of unease through Walter.

  Walter was almost done talking; he had another call to make. Yet he preferred to know the details that would ensure the man he was about to call would pay attention.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Garrotte. What else? Would be a shame to waste the opportunity this time. Never did get the chance to take off anyone’s head last time I played Vince Everett.’

  Chapter 38

  ‘No, no, no, no . . . this can’t be happening now!’

  Kirstie Long buried her face against her son’s chest, as if by breathing in his scent, feeling the beat of his heart against her cheek, she’d never be forced to let him go again. The very real possibility that he would be taken from her made her cry, but they were cold tears of rage. After everything that they had gone through, what the men assisting her had done on their behalf, s
he would die before willingly handing Benjamin over to his father. But she could not allow her child to be harmed.

  They were at stalemate.

  Harvey Lucas, McTeer, Velasquez, all of them were willing to sell their lives to give Kirstie and Benjamin a chance at survival, but should they fight, they would invite a storm of bullets to shred the car, and those bullets would be indiscriminate about whose flesh they tore apart.

  The men and women surrounding the car were prepared to dispense death at a heartbeat, but they understood the consequences of harming Jorge Molina’s boy. They held their fire, but there was no allowance for Velasquez to steer the car out of the cordon that surrounded them.

  Everything had gone reasonably well since Benjamin’s impromptu escape and recovery up in the hills, and they’d made progress, both in miles to the border and in Kirstie reassuring the boy that he was safe and loved. Perhaps as fatigue began to set in, as the border crossing came into their sights, they had made the mistake of relaxing their guard and had allowed themselves to drive directly into a trap. Recrimination would have to wait. It was no one’s fault that they had been surrounded, or that they had not recognised the ambush for what it was until the vehicle in front had slammed on its brakes, forcing Velasquez to take avoidance tactics, only to be rammed by another vehicle that had lain in wait on a cross street. A utility van had driven into the rear fender of their car, pinning them between the three ambush vehicles and a row of steel bollards set into the edge of the sidewalk.

  Harvey was cursing himself for missing the vehicles closing in on them. Had they been out in the empty tracts they’d easily have recognised what was coming, but here in Agua Prieta it was edging towards dawn and already numbers of cars were about, people heading off to work, or making an early start across the border.

  ‘What are we gonna do, Harve?’ Unofficially Harvey had taken on the mantle of leader, and McTeer, a man capable of making his own decisions in a pinch, still deferred to his better judgement.