The Lawless Kind

by Hilton, Matt

  ‘Don’t let him take my boy!’

  ‘Quiet, Kirstie,’ Rink hissed.

  ‘You. Bitch. Come over here.’

  Kirstie would have gone to her ex-husband, offering herself as a human shield in place of her son, but Rink shook his head savagely. ‘No, Kirstie. Don’t give him a way out of here.’

  ‘But if I go to him then maybe . . .’

  ‘Maybe nothing. He’ll kill you both. Get here, behind me, out of the way. Now, Kirstie, goddamnit.’

  She moaned at her inability to help, but she obeyed Rink’s instruction. Rink made her turn away and used the blade of his knife to snick through the cords binding her. She crouched behind him, rubbing the circulation back into her fingers, all the while never taking her gaze off her son. Molina began edging his way round them. Rink followed, the gun barrel never wavering from its target.

  Molina gained the door, and now their positions were reversed in the room. He grinned at his small victory. He mimed cutting Benjamin’s throat. ‘Don’t try to follow me. You know what will happen.’

  What happened next stunned Kirstie by its speed and violence.

  Rink barked a command, and lurched forward.

  A bare arm snaked out from beside Molina and grabbed his knife-wielding hand, yanking it away from Benjamin’s neck, while another encircled his throat and pulled him backwards and off balance. Startled, Molina shouted out, his grip on the boy loosening as he fought to gain balance, grabbing at the doorframe for support. Rink swooped in low and snatched the boy out of the air, cradling him in his big arms, his gun and knife held clear of Benjamin’s body. Without pause, he turned and offered her son to Kirstie. With a croak of relief Kirstie clutched at the boy, hefting him up against her chest. By the time she blinked over the crown of his head, Molina was gone from sight, but she could hear the scuffle of a short and brutal fight in the hallway. She pulled Benjamin to her shoulder, covering his ears so that he couldn’t hear what became of his father.

  Chapter 48

  ‘Brother, you look like crap.’

  Those were Rink’s words of welcome when I’d finally caught up to him as he stalked the corridors of the office wing attached to the large warehouse. But they were said with affection, and he enfolded me in a hug that threatened to finish the job that Jorge Molina had started on my ribs.

  ‘It’s good to see you alive, Hunter. Barely alive, I should say.’

  ‘It looks worse than it is,’ I lied.

  ‘You look like you’ve been whupped by an ugly stick, and they didn’t spare the rod.’

  ‘Trust me, Molina got his licks in.’

  ‘Where’s the frog-gigger now?’

  I shrugged, and even an innocuous move like that hurt.

  ‘How the hell did you manage to escape?’ Rink asked.

  I told him about Marshall, and his change of heart.

  ‘I still don’t trust him, brother.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong, Rink. Harve and the boys are with him.’

  I didn’t leaven the details about the beaten condition I’d found our friends in. It pained Rink to hear of their suffering. For such an adept killer he’s a sensitive guy. ‘Marshall took them to the SUV I was brought here in. I don’t expect him to double-cross the guys, not now there’s nothing left in it for him.’ I explained that he was an MI6 plant, and that his mission was counter to that of Howell Regis. It actually suited Marshall that Rink and me were about to complete the task he’d set out to do.

  ‘I knew there was more to this than met the eye. Wouldn’t put it past Walter to have known about Marshall all along.’

  I shook my head. ‘Walter doesn’t have his fingers in every government plot . . . just most of them.’

  We continued to move through the corridors, alert to ambush, but most of the fighting had died down. Either the cartel fighters had fled before the impending arrival of the police, or Rink had been more successful than any ninja assassin. As we progressed, I related Marshall’s tale of how Regis’s boss, Thomas Caspar, had been throttled to death by a garrotte, and how that had broken the alliance between Regis and Molina.

  ‘Like I said: it stinks of Walter and his conniving.’

  ‘Well, on this occasion, I’m happy that he’s a sneaky old bastard,’ I said.

  That was when we’d heard the screaming and crying and knew that we’d found Kirstie and Benjamin. Moving very slowly, gaining distance on the room where the prisoners were held, we formulated our plan. From Molina’s threats, we understood that he was controlling mother and child by brandishing a knife. If the two of us went inside, then he’d be cornered and desperate enough to follow through on his promise to stab them to death. So I hid, waiting my time, while Rink played dumb and allowed the bastard to back out of the door. Thankfully when Rink had tossed a female Border Control official out, she’d been too intent on escape to notice me lurking. I shoved both my guns away, freeing my hands. On pins, I waited until Molina appeared in the doorway, then I struck, my intention of freeing Benjamin uppermost. Killing Molina would have to wait a minute.

  Tearing the knife away from Benjamin’s throat, I looped my other elbow round Molina’s throat. Rink grabbed the boy as Molina reacted to my attack, and I bucked backwards, to take him clear of the doorway. I’d got his chin wedged in the crook of my elbow, and ordinarily by bracing my muscles on his carotid arteries he’d have been rendered unconscious in seconds. Molina proved quick and greasy, though. While I struggled to contain his knife hand, he slipped his chin to one side and dug under my forearm with it, negating the strangling effect. Then he pushed backwards, knocking me off balance, and we both crashed against the corridor wall.

  The fatigue, the hunger and thirst, the prolonged chase, and finally the recent beating all conspired against me. It felt as if my strength had failed, and my limbs were perished rubber. Molina twisted in my grip and turned a shoulder to me, using it to force me against the wall a second time. He snatched his knife hand free, and tried to jab the blade into my abdomen. Luckily his angle was off and the sharp edge only raked my skin. I kneed him in the groin, turned and used the arm round his neck to toss him over my hip. It was no fancy judo move, more desperation than anything. Molina didn’t go down on his back as I hoped; he managed to keep one foot on the floor and pivoted on it. The result was that he was off balance, and I’d made some clearance between my body and his knife, but I’d also lost my hold on him. Plus I was now between him and Rink, who – handing over Benjamin to his mom – came out of the doorway to help. Molina took a stab at my throat, forcing me to jerk back, and I further encumbered Rink. Then Molina took off along the corridor, disappearing round the first corner before either of us could get a steady footing.

  Rink tried to get past me, but I held him with a bent elbow against his chest.

  ‘Get Kirstie and Ben out of here,’ I told him. ‘Leave this bastard to me.’

  ‘You’re in no condition for a fight,’ Rink argued.

  I drew both guns. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t intend playing around with him.’

  Before Rink could object, I sprinted after Molina, my bare feet slapping heavily on the floor. Going after Molina was a stupid move, but I was incensed and the red haze of anger was on me. It’s a fault that I’m aware of, being far too reckless for my own good. The trait was somewhat tempered by military indoctrination back in the day, but it had returned to me over the past few years. Back then a team relied on me and there wasn’t room for maverick action. But right then, right there, it was Molina and me, and the rules no longer applied. Molina was a dead man; he just didn’t know it yet.

  Molina didn’t get far before he switched knife for gun.

  As Rink had progressed on his mission to thin out the opposition, he’d left their weapons to lie where they’d fallen. Molina had found one such weapon. I almost ran on to a burst of jacketed rounds from a machine-gun, and if Molina hadn’t been so impatient he’d have killed me. He fired too soon, responding to my footsteps before I’d cleared the co
rner of the passage. Chunks of Sheetrock and plaster almost blinded me, as the corner of the wall was cut to pieces. I went to my knees, then my belly, and slithered across the floor. As the gunfire stopped, I leaned out, but had no target for the dust cloud hanging in the air. I fired a couple of rounds simply to provoke a reaction, but Molina didn’t oblige. His retreat was marked by the snap of his leather soles on linoleum.

  I went after him, running more smoothly now that my body had warmed to the chase.

  The warehouse was somewhere to my left, the corridors and office spaces an annexe to the original construction. There were likely escape routes from this addition to the building, but I sensed that Molina was retracing the route he’d followed earlier when visiting me in the cold room.

  I chased after him, listening for his footsteps to slow. He couldn’t run full-tilt and shoot with any accuracy. Within thirty seconds, I was back at the room with the work cubicles. Molina chose to make a stand there. His machine-gun flashed yellow, spent brass shells dancing from the breech and tinkling on the desktops. I went to ground behind a solid desk, which was actually poor defence against his bullets. But I chose it more for concealment than protection, and while out of his line of sight I crawled rapidly for a different position, using the separating walls to block him. Once I was safe, I came up, targeting the racket of his gun and fired a close grouping of four shots – two from each handgun. Molina barked, a sound of agony. His subsequent curses meant he wasn’t dead, but I’d winged him sorely. His gun fell quiet as he fled the room, and I went after him.

  A seasoned warrior wouldn’t have run away like that, he’d have returned fire, and torn the cubicles and me to pieces. A warrior might also have waited just outside the room and cut me down as I came after him. Molina was a killer, a murderer, but he wasn’t skilled in this kind of battle. He continued to run along the passageway I’d earlier traversed with Marshall. Taking a stance, I aimed and fired and Molina went down, screaming.

  As I approached, he made it to his knees and began crawling to where his machine-gun had fallen, leaking blood from his backside. I shot him in the opposite buttock, making it two for two. I’d always been loath to shoot a man in the back, but for this murderous piece of shit I was happy to make the exception. I lined up a shot on his skull.

  That was when Howell Regis stepped up behind me and placed the muzzle of his gun to my head.

  Chapter 49

  Howell Regis had already proven his willingness to shoot a man cold-bloodedly in the head. Why he chose to come to Molina’s defence I could only guess, but he was possibly of the opinion that his only way out of this mess was to gain the cartel boss’s favour once more. His CIA command structure was severed, and he likely understood that a return to the US might see him at the mercy of a garrotte one dark night. Perhaps he was looking for new employment, or protection, or maybe even reward. Whatever his motivation, I wasn’t going to wait around for him to collect.

  Immediately the gun nudged my skull, I spun counter-clockwise, batting his pistol aside with the barrel of mine, so that his round was redirected and cracked into the wall instead of my brain. My other hand came round, and the muzzle of my SIG jammed against his ribs. I was already squeezing the trigger, and three bullets tore his lungs to pulp. I swore savagely as he fell away from me, and in my anger I kicked at his body, thrusting him clear. Following the trajectory of his fall, I fired two more bullets into him: one into the heart, and one in the head for good measure. He died without a word, but that suited me fine. Sprawled in the corridor, he no longer reminded me of the Grim Reaper; for a start he’d lost his malicious grin.

  With no time to spare on him, I returned to the job in hand. Good that I did, because Molina had laid hands on the machine-gun and was trying to find his target. Dodging into the room from which Regis had just come, I avoided the bullets. Molina’s uncontrolled shooting stitched holes in the ceiling and walls, shattered a striplight, took some bloody lumps from Regis’s carcass, but all missed me. Staying out of sight, I could hear Molina struggling to back his way along the corridor. I didn’t chase him, but charged across the small anteroom, heading for a connecting door. The door was flimsy, cheap wood and Perspex. I booted my way through it and into a room adjacent to Molina’s last known position. The walls were thin enough that I could detect his painful progress beyond. Letting loose with both guns, punching holes in the dividing wall, I yelled at him to die.

  He didn’t comply.

  He fired back.

  That was the result I’d been aiming for.

  Now with a true target I aimed more accurately and this time was rewarded with a strangled curse.

  There came a wet slapping noise of his palm against the wall. The bumping of the rifle stock against the floor followed as he used it to propel himself away. I glanced right to where I’d come in the room, and left to where another door presented access to the next room. I went left. Unfortunately I found myself in a short vestibule that led to an outer door, with no access to Molina. Cursing my bad luck, I ran back the way I’d come, through the two anterooms and into the corridor. By then Molina had made it into the space that gave access to the warehouse. A bright ribbon of blood showed where he’d clawed his way out of the firing zone. Handprints decorated the wall at the corner, vivid crimson against the dull grey paintwork.

  Give Molina his due; he had proved himself resilient, or a reluctant corpse. I moved after him, my bare feet sliding through blood. At the corner I paused, recalling that a doorway stood only a few short yards away, and beyond it the open expanse of the warehouse. Ducking low, I took a quick look. Molina was waiting for me, wedged in the doorframe, his trousers dark with gore, the gun held tight to his side. He saw me, and his mouth came open in challenge. He was ready to shoot, and I wasn’t. I ducked away, back-pedalling a few steps to avoid the bullets blasting through the wall.

  He had a better shooting position than me, and until his ammunition ran out, there was no way to meet him head on. I prepared myself, waiting with both guns extended, should he decide to follow me into the corridor. When he did come it wasn’t in the fashion I’d expected.

  Over the racket his gun was making, I didn’t hear the engine, and I guess Molina didn’t either. Marshall’s SUV slammed into him at speed, catapulted him through space and he crashed face first into the angle made by the ninety-degree turn in the corridor. The impact itself would have been enough to kill him, but the SUV came on, crashing through shelving, wall and doorframe alike. It tore out the wall and debris was thrown into the corridor where I was, making me stagger back in surprise. The SUV still didn’t halt: it struck Molina, scooped him up on to the hood and drove him through the next wall and into the vestibule I’d recently been in. I could no longer see Molina, but the SUV had become wedged in the collapsing walls, and peering at me from the back seat were Harvey Lucas and Jim McTeer. They were grinning in victory. If Velasquez was in any fit state, I believed he would have been grinning too, but I took it he was slumped on the back seat between my friends.

  Kicking my way through shattered drywall, broken beams and collapsed ceiling tiles, I forged my way to the SUV. Making it to the driver’s door, I caught a glint of Marshall’s glass eye and knew I was on his blind side. But he knew I was there.

  ‘If you can find a way round, get in,’ he said.

  I checked beyond the blood-smeared hood, and could see where Molina’s pulverised corpse lay among the rubble in front of the exit doors. Jorge Molina would never trouble his ex-wife or son again, that was certain.

  Throwing Sheetrock and beams aside, I ploughed a way round the back of the SUV. Harvey and McTeer followed my progress. On their way through the warehouse and annexe buildings, they’d scavenged clothing from the dead. I remembered that I was barefoot and bare-chested, but it was no major concern – I often went that way while at home in Florida. Making it to the passenger door, I tugged it open and slipped inside.

  ‘Couldn’t get the damn roller shutter to open,’ Marshall s
aid by way of explanation, ‘so I had to look for another way out. These walls aren’t as flimsy as they look though.’

  ‘Not as flimsy as that fucker,’ I said, indicating the half-buried corpse.

  In the back the guys were laughing, but truth be told it was more like hysteria. I looked round to check on them, saw that Velasquez was out, but breathing naturally now. Harvey reached over and gripped my shoulder.

  ‘Did you see Rink?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. He’s as ugly as ever.’

  ‘He’s OK though?’

  ‘More than OK, he has Kirstie and Benjamin.’

  ‘Thank God,’ Harvey said, and sank back in his seat.

  McTeer was lost for words, just sat giving me that half-insane grin. I gave him a gentle nudge with my fist. ‘You OK, buddy?’

  ‘Could do with a cold beer,’ he said, and laughed as if it was the funniest quip ever.

  ‘Come on,’ I said to Marshall. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’

  He took it slowly, the SUV in four-wheel drive, and ploughed a route through the collapsing corridor. None of us bothered to move Molina out of the way. He was churned beneath the heavy tyres, but there was enough junk on him that his body fluids didn’t cause any loss of traction. Marshall crashed the doors open and we were outside the building at last.

  If any of Molina’s footsoldiers remained alive, they’d had the sense to make off. Some police were bought and paid for, but not all. The Federales would be arriving in force before long and we couldn’t be found at the scene. Marshall drove round the office building towards the front of the structure, watching keenly for his men. As far as I recalled Paulson and Mitchell had survived the battle and were out here somewhere. So, I hoped, were Rink, Kirstie and Benjamin. Arriving at the front, I heard a horn beep.

  ‘There!’ I pointed towards where Rink had commandeered an abandoned vehicle. Kirstie and her boy were in the back.

  Another vehicle approached, and though I didn’t know Mitchell or Paulson from Adam, Marshall sighed in relief. He looked at me. ‘Are you up to driving? Those lads are still my responsibility . . . I should go with them.’