The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  Before the lights of the last car had been lost to sight, Rink was on the road in a vehicle commandeered from the ambushers. Those he followed had no idea that he could have survived the odds stacked against him, or that he was so close behind. Luck, it seemed, was in Rink’s favour when he discovered bottles of spring water, a bag of corn chips and some pistachio nuts in a cooler box. He drove, sating his thirst and hunger, if not his need for revenge. That was something to be savoured for later.

  Jorge Molina and Howell Regis had gone on ahead, taking the more direct route over the mountains in the helicopter. Hunter’s old pal, James Lee Marshall, had overseen the transportation of their prisoner in the large SUV that led the pack. Not for the first time, Rink considered gaining on the caravan of cars wending their way through the passes, with the intention of launching some kind of rescue. He knew his chances of a successful result were nil, so he held back, waiting patiently for a better chance. Damn your misguided loyalty, Joe, he’d thought at first. What the hell were you thinking? Hunter had given himself up so that Rink could escape. They should have stuck closer together, and they’d have found a way out of the shoot-out. But he soon realised that Hunter’s selflessness was for another reason. Hunter knew he’d be captured, probably savagely tortured, but he’d drawn the focus of the search from Rink, allowing him this opportunity to free his friend when the odds of both of them escaping with their lives were higher. Joe probably thought that by giving Molina a target for his fury, he’d be distracted from his pursuit of Kirstie long enough for Harvey and the guys to get her and the child safely over the border. Hunter had been wrong in this: from what Rink had understood from the conversations he’d overheard while lying in hiding, Kirstie and the others had already been captured. Molina and Regis had gone on ahead so that the punks could enjoy quality time with her before Hunter was delivered to them.

  The drive to Agua Prieta had taken a few minutes over an hour, and it was the longest, most nerve-racking sixty-three minutes of Rink’s eventful life. Each second was a lifetime as he thought about what pain Harvey, McTeer and Velasquez must already be enduring. Thankfully – during the drive at least – Joe wouldn’t have to tolerate much suffering, because the blow he’d taken from the rifle stock would put him to sleep all the way back. Rink’s hope was that he could release his buddy before he was delivered to Molina, but it was a hope dashed, because the SUV was driven directly into a warehouse building on the outskirt of Agua Prieta and a roller shutter closed behind it. The other vehicles in the rolling column had parked, some of the men going in, others remaining in the yard, standing guard or toking on cigarettes they passed around in celebration of a good night’s work.

  The warehouse turned out to be the workshop at the rear of a butcher’s shop. How freakin’ apt, Rink had thought. He didn’t linger on the connotation of his discovery, but considered the best way in. Full-frontal attack was out of the question. Too many frog-giggin’ punks were between him and his friends to take them on, though it hurt to admit as much. Face on, guns blazing, numbers’d simply overwhelm him. So he had but a single recourse. Cut the freakin’ numbers.

  And so it had begun.

  This was the third man to fall beneath his blade since arriving in Agua Prieta, and still he hadn’t made enough of an impact on those blocking his route inside. So get the hell on with your job, he admonished himself.

  He was collecting weapons as he progressed, but there were only so many handguns he could shove into his pants before they became an encumbrance. He left the latest gun lying beside the dead man and moved off, heading for an alleyway that ran the length of the warehouse. Parked cars and vans offered some cover, but there were gaps between each. Across these spaces he’d to time his runs, but he made it to the corner of the building undetected. The sun had come up, but in the alley, the second wall of which was formed from a furniture storage unit, day was yet to arrive. Rink still wore the black garb in which he’d first assaulted Molina’s compound at Hermosillo, having discarded the more colourful clothing stolen from the rooftop laundry. He was practically invisible as he cat-footed down the alley and checked for the fire exit door he’d expected to find. But it was obvious that people who tortured and murdered had no care for rules, let alone fire safety regulations: the door was locked and barred with chains. It offered no ingress. Above him was a row of narrow windows, but they looked as if they hadn’t been opened in decades. In any case, even if they did open, he’d need to lose fifty pounds in weight and many inches off his shoulders. He searched higher; saw that the roof overhung the supporting walls by about a handspan. There was no guttering, only the bare edges of tin sheets that formed the roof. If he could find a way up there then he could possibly force a sheet from the joists and climb inside the attic space, then downward to where his friends were held. But there were no downspouts or ladders that he could see.

  Pointless groaning; you had to make your own luck in this business. He continued along the alley, pausing at the front corner. Listening. He counted three voices, but there could easily be more men guarding the front; more obtuse guys who had nothing good to say. Holding a gun in his right hand, his knife in the left, he moved out from the wall far enough that neither would make contact with the hard surface and betray his position. Then he slowly leaned out, checking numbers and positions of sentries.

  There were four guys and one woman.

  Ordinarily women were off Rink’s killing radar, but this bitch was heavily armed and looked as cold-hearted as the men she stood guard alongside. He’d prefer not to kill her but if the choice was between her and his friends, then to hell with her. Females weren’t known as the deadliest of the species for nothing.

  As he considered his best course of action another man emerged. Unlike the rest, who were all Mexicans, this man was Caucasian, and probably one of Marshall’s mercenaries. The guy had a machine-gun across his chest, his hands clutching his webbing vest as he stood near to the others. They didn’t invite him into their conversation or to share a cigarette, but eyed him with open belligerence. They were allies, but only loosely, Rink recalled.

  The white man was obviously ex-forces, maybe even an armed cop; from the way he stood he’d been on sentry duty more than a few times during his career. He’d be dangerous. Then again, so could any of the others. Many cartel fighters were soldiers or police who’d switched sides. He had to treat each as a potential danger, including the woman. He had decided against a full-frontal attack earlier, but now, armed with a pistol in each hand, he fancied his chances. Fuckers wouldn’t know what had hit them until he’d dropped at least four of them; then he’d do the others while they were still trying to aim their weapons at him. He put away his knife, replacing it with a gun he’d taken from an earlier victim. He took a calming breath, centring himself, finding that Zen tranquillity necessary for cold-blooded slaughter.

  A shout rang out from the far end of the alley.

  Through the gloom he was happy he couldn’t be seen, but he could make out the forms of two figures moving beyond the back wall, near to the row of vehicles. Apparently the last man he’d knifed to death had been discovered. He didn’t concern himself with that. He had to ignore what was going on back there, concentrate on what was ahead. He straightened, his chest swelling as he prepared to go into action. But something stayed him, a subtle instinct for caution.

  He’d seen the white man place a hand to the side of his head.

  He was receiving a message over an earpiece, and Rink recognised the change in the man’s demeanour. This wasn’t good. The man was receiving a warning, most likely that an enemy was nearby, and that worsened the odds. The guy stiffened, and his gaze flicked towards the group of cartel foot-soldiers. Rink cursed under his breath, losing the recent calm in a wash of adrenalin that set him on fire.

  Shoot now or abort, those were his only options.

  He began to move, swinging out from the corner of the building, both guns coming up.

  But he was a second too l
ate.

  The soldier was already sighting his machine-gun and he let rip with a burst of rounds that tore through flesh and bone.

  Stunned by the impacts, Rink staggered.

  His brain was edged in scarlet, the flash of gunfire causing mini-explosions in his vision.

  The five cartel footsoldiers, grouped so closely together, were torn to shreds by the soldier’s bullets. Three men went down, and another, knocked backwards by the impact, caromed off a parked car before sinking to his knees and butt as though praying for mercy. A burst of bullets tore his chest to ribbons. The woman had also been hit, and she was holding up the palm of an empty hand, as if it were enough to halt the jacketed rounds. The next burst of gunfire picked her up, made her dance a maniac-jig and then she slapped the ground as a wet tangle of shredded limbs and clothing. The soldier strode forward. One of the first three to fall writhed on the floor. He was dying, but still attempting to bring up a gun. The soldier calmly executed him with a short volley of bullets that smeared his cranium across the dirt.

  Rink was confused by this sudden turn of events, but he was committed now to forward movement. His enemy’s enemy was not necessarily his friend. He levelled both guns at the soldier, who was still not aware of his presence. Yet still he held fire.

  A sixth sense warned the soldier of impending death and he spun quickly, sighting along the barrel of his rifle.

  He didn’t fire.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ Rink didn’t relax a mote. His index fingers were flexed on the triggers of both guns, a hair’s breadth from shooting.

  The soldier checked him out, eyelids pinching.

  ‘You’re the one that was with Hunter,’ the man said. ‘We thought you’d be dead by now.’

  ‘Do I look dead?’

  ‘Do you want to be?’ asked the soldier. His finger was also tight on the trigger.

  ‘Do you?’

  The soldier relaxed almost imperceptibly, and the gun lowered a touch. ‘I’m not your enemy, pal.’

  ‘I take it you ain’t buddies with Molina no more?’ Rink nodded briefly towards the steaming corpses piled nearby.

  ‘Never was friends with the bastard,’ said the soldier. ‘Glad I finally got the order to take these fuckers out.’

  Rink had no idea what was going on. There was some sort of double-cross in play, and he wondered if Marshall’s team had been preparing for this moment all along. It didn’t matter. Just because the man had turned on the cartel fighters didn’t mean he’d become Rink’s ally.

  ‘The fuck you gonna do now?’

  ‘I’m going to go inside,’ the soldier said, ‘and help get your friends free. You’re welcome to join me, I could do with someone watching my back in there.’

  Using the gun in his left hand, Rink waved the man towards the door. ‘Right behind you, buddy.’

  Chapter 42

  James Lee Marshall drove in with the commando dagger a second time. His first cut had parted the rope and dropped me to my knees, but it required some sawing to free the loops from round my wrists.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I managed, my brain swimming as I clawed back from unconsciousness.

  ‘What have you been told about looking a gift horse in the mouth?’

  ‘Believe me, I’m grateful, but I wouldn’t mind an explanation.’

  ‘Shut it.’ Marshall held me in place while he cut through the final strands of rope. My wrists popped wide as the stress went off them. The rush of blood to my previously constricted muscles brought new levels of stinging agony. But the pain was something I’d endure without complaint, because it was a good sign that my bindings hadn’t cut off the blood completely. Worst-case scenario was that my hands had necrotised while bound. I brought my arms to the front, my hands forming claws close to my chest. The returning circulation made my fingers numb, then sore, but the sensations wouldn’t last.

  ‘Can you stand?’ Marshall toed me with his boots.

  ‘I’m not dead yet.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. Molina gave you a severe beating; has he broken anything?’

  ‘Only the record for being the world’s biggest arsehole.’

  ‘Knocked you off your perch then?’

  ‘Ha! Funny, Marshall. Just give me a second or two. Can’t feel my legs yet, and my hands are still asleep.’

  ‘We don’t have a second. If we’re caught in here, we’re fucked. Get up.’

  Marshall gripped me under my right armpit, lifting me to my feet. I tried to help, but I was numb from the waist down, my feet skirting clouds instead of firm ground. Marshall steadied me, his left hand offering support. His right held the dagger, its needle point an inch from my liver should I try anything stupid.

  ‘Relax. I’m in no shape to do you harm.’

  ‘Why would you when I’ve just saved your arse?’ Marshall allowed the knife to drop away, but I could feel the tension in him, knew that he was still evaluating his decision to free me.

  ‘If you’d cut me loose the first time you paid a visit you’d have saved me a fuckin’ beating.’

  ‘Thing was, back then I had no idea that we’d be joining forces.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Marshall twiddled the blade around in his fingers. ‘Unless you have other ideas.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Hold on. I’ve something to do first.’ Without waiting for an answer, Marshall released me and I swayed in place, stumbling to find my footing. Marshall tapped an ear/throat mike. ‘Code Red.’

  It had to be a prearranged signal. Muffled by intervening walls came the rattle of a machine-gun.

  From nearer still a double pop of a handgun.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I asked.

  ‘You know who I am.’

  ‘Don’t be a dick. You know what I mean.’

  ‘Military Intelligence.’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You’ve been playing both sides? Molina and the CIA?’

  ‘Not the CIA; only a rogue faction within it.’

  ‘You were sent here to derail Regis’s plot to set Molina on the cartel throne?’ The tingling in my extremities was growing to a buzz that had me twitching, but the signs were good that I’d be able to move within seconds. ‘Or was there more to it than that?’

  Having learned that Regis – under orders from someone higher up in the Agency – had been guiding Molina like a puppet, ensuring the CIA gained influence with any fledgling government should the impending takeover occur, it wouldn’t surprise me if MI6 had similar designs.

  ‘Does it matter why I was originally here? Things’ve changed, Hunter, that’s all you need to know. Now if you want to free Kirstie and the others, I suggest you get your act together. The fighting’s started and will be here any second.’

  ‘Back on the road . . . first time you saw me when you launched that ambush . . .’

  ‘Yes. I recognised you and backed down. I’ve been protecting you ever since.’

  ‘What about McAdam? He seemed determined enough to kill Rink and me. Is that what you call protecting me?’

  ‘I couldn’t control him the way I wanted to. McAdam went ahead of the rest of us, and, yeah, don’t forget he had a boner for you, Hunter.’

  ‘Over knocking his teeth out all those years ago?’

  ‘No, it was for fucking him up in that alley in Hermosillo. He didn’t know I was Six, or what the real mission was. He was a merc, and he was in it for the money. Far as he knew he was going to earn a large bonus from Regis if he managed to kill you guys. He wanted to shoot you that time on the hill above Molina’s place, but I stopped him. Couldn’t do much with him when he got ahead of the pack. It was unfortunate.’

  ‘For him, yeah.’

  ‘When I knocked you out in the mountains? Believe it or not I was trying to save your life. Regis was going to blow you away so I had to act quickly. Hope you don’t hold that egg on your skull against me.’

  ‘
It’s small payment for letting me go now.’ I touched the raw swelling on the back of my head, surprised to find sensation in my fingertips. My feet too could feel the floor beneath them. The downside was that I could also feel every other inch of my frame and there weren’t many places where it didn’t scream in pain.

  ‘I’d have released you last time I was in here, but we weren’t ready. I had to wait for the right opportunity.’

  ‘So . . . like I asked earlier . . . what’s going on? Why turn on Molina and Regis now?’

  ‘Regis received word that his boss – Thomas Caspar – has been found dead. Someone almost took his head off his shoulders with a wire garrotte. Regis’s line to the CIA has been severed as effectively as his boss’s throat. He’s fucked, Molina knows it, and it’s only a matter of time before that mad wet-back fucker turns on us all.’

  ‘Hold on. You’re not telling me that Regis ordered you to free me?’

  ‘Regis doesn’t give a damn for anyone but himself. He doesn’t even know I’m here. Right now he’s trying to distract Molina from killing him by urging him to take out his frustration on Kirstie and your mates.’

  ‘I understand why you might want to help an old friend. Your team could have walked away though. Why help us now when they could all get killed?’

  ‘Regis was their direct line to Thomas Caspar’s wallet, but Caspar’s dead. Now that none of them is going to get paid, they owe Regis nothing. The lads took a vote and agreed that getting you all out might just hold some sort of reward.’ Marshall winked at the cleverness of his ploy.