Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  The woman at the rear was still firing in short bursts and roaring through gritted teeth. Matthews had his head back down and reached to open the side door of the van, away from the second car and the ramp.

  The hand pressed against his neck was sticky and wet with blood.

  No time to worry about that, you can still move.

  Matthews laid down cover fire for himself towards the back of the van and then he was out of the open door.

  The woman edged to the side and fired, but swerved away and missed as Matthews also fired. He pulled the trigger again a click told him the Browning was empty.

  Matthews cursed and knew he had to move to make a last-ditch attempt.

  He rounded the van and threw the empty pistol at the woman, pleased to see she avoided the object rather than fire, and then just before taking aim Matthews was on her.

  At the moment of their contact a thunderous crash came from behind them that Matthews’ brain told him was the second car driving into the front of the van.

  The woman aimed a high swinging hit with her automatic gun.

  Matthews ducked underneath and slid towards her back, but the wound to his stomach made him stumble as he moved. He didn’t fully get out of the way of her gun, the tip catching him in the nose.

  Blood erupted into the air.

  White stars engulfed his vision.

  A few metres away the driver of the second car was out and helping the injured man off the ground, who was holding his left shoulder. Mr Proud stepped forward out of the car, opened the van door and pulled Assia out by her hair. She managed to wriggle free and reached out for the gun of one of the dead men.

  Grabbed it, spun and pointed it up at Mr Proud.

  Assia only had one second, and in that second she hesitated. Mr Proud reached down, knocked the gun from her hand, and dragged Assia up by the hair again. He aimed with his other hand at Matthews, struggled to get a clear shot because Matthews had the woman’s back.

  Matthews grabbed at her Glock 18 and tried to point it in the direction of Mr Proud. His vision was gone. A short burst fired aimlessly to the left. Mr Proud ducked out of the way and he and Assia disappeared into the car. Just like that, the wheels spun and they set off.

  Matthews secured his forearm across the woman’s throat, initiating a choke. She raised her hand behind to Matthews’ face and dug her nails deep into his cheek like a clawing cat.

  Both of them fell backwards to the floor.

  Matthews let out a guttural roar that echoed off the walls. His forearm was tight across the woman’s throat now. He knew when the windpipe is being crushed closed, a person can stay conscious no more than half a dozen seconds or so.

  So he held on a moment longer. The woman’s eyes rolled back and her body went limp. Then he pushed her off him and stayed on the floor, gulping in breaths of air.

  He leaned over the woman and searched her, feeling a Kevlar vest. Finding a knife on her hip, Matthews unsheathed it and drove it into her eye up to the hilt, right through the brain. Then, confident she was finally dead, he sat up and did a physical assessment.

  First he checked the blood on his neck from the bullet. After looking at the reflection in the nearest car window he saw it wasn’t his neck but in fact his ear, the left one, which was completely missing the lower part where it’d been shot off.

  Looking at himself he remembered he’d also broken his nose with the blow from the woman’s Glock, his face covered in blood as a result. He used both hands to snap the cartilage back into place and resisted the urge to blow his nose, as he knew it’d only result in a swelling that would close up his eye.

  On top of that, three deep scratch marks ran down his cheek from where the woman clawed at him, he was dripping in sweat, and overall looked like the walking dead. His stomach hurt like hell and he could hear distant police sirens from above.

  Then he switched his mind to tactical thinking.

  He’d estimated a minimum of eleven.

  So far he’d seen eight in the two cars here.

  He’d killed three of the four from the first car, the fourth having been taken away, wounded. He’d also taken out the two from the second car when he’d started the shooting. This was confirmed as he glanced over to see their bodies lying where they’d fallen. That left the driver, Mr Proud, and the wounded guy who’d been at the bonnet.

  So five down, one injured, two others remaining.

  Which would all have been fine, terrific in fact, assuming there wasn’t a third car with four guys in reserve somewhere. Plus, they had Assia.

  They had Assia. And they were gone.

  On the positive side, by some miraculous turn of events Matthews, with blood covering his face and neck, half an ear missing, his broken nose, his cheek burning from being clawed by the woman, and his stomach in severe pain from his previous injury, was still breathing.

  How in the hell was that possible?

  61

  In the car the man in the back was going wild, cursing about what happened and who the hell was that old man and how he was going to rip his head off and all kinds of crazy things. Assia, her ears screeching from the gunfire, fought him furiously for a moment as they set off, but with a single swift blow to the head from the base of the man’s gun she felt like her cranium was going to crack open and this made her vision swirl. Now she lay still next to him on the back seat, terrified.

  Assia watched as the driver drove them out onto the road and into afternoon traffic at a swift but steady speed, avoiding a swarm of police cars and general chaos. The eeeeeeeeeeeeeee in her ears now subsided enough for her to distinguish some of the sounds around her.

  Whilst navigating the chaos the driver talked into a CB radio. ‘Frank, meet us back at the garage right now. And make sure no one else gets in. Mr Proud’s alright, but we’ve taken a lot of damage.’ The driver was doing well to concentrate, not only despite the wild man ranting and raving in the back seat, but also because next to him another guy was grunting through clenched teeth like a wounded animal, and clutching his collarbone.

  They didn’t drive for long, and only once was Assia paid any attention. The wild man, who Assia assumed was the Mr Proud the driver referred to, said he was so angry he needed to hurt something. He needed blood. Then he looked over at Assia, and without warning struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The pain was intense, but Assia refused to cry out.

  ‘You’re in so much trouble, little bitch. You picked the wrong day to meet me. I’m gonna use you to make me feel good again,’ he said, looking back at Assia, his voice now strangely calm and no less terrifying. He wrung his hands over and over again. ‘Yes. You’ll calm me down, you’ll calm me down.’

  Assia made a clumsy grab for the door handle and Mr Proud pulled her to him. As she fought, he grabbed her in a tight headlock. She kicked and screamed. He tightened the grip with his left arm and slowly began shushing her like he was protecting a frightened child. Then his right hand stroked her head as his shushing turned into a song.

  ‘Hush little baby, don’t you scream,

  Papa’s gonna slice you and it won’t be clean.

  And if you don’t slice clean in two,

  Papa’s gonna chop you till you do.’

  After that Assia wasn’t sure whether or not she’d passed out from total fear.

  The next moment they stopped moving and Mr Proud grabbed a big chunk of her hair and started dragging her out of the car and into a large, empty office connected to what looked like an empty mechanics garage.

  Assia kept trying to fight her way free. Twice she stumbled, unable to keep up, and felt hair tearing free from her scalp. Inside the garage office Mr Proud dumped her on the floor next to a desk. Assia crawled to the nearest corner and curled into a ball.

  Mr Proud turned to face the room with his hands on his hips, so bubbling with rage he appeared to be hyperventilating. The driver entered the room with his arm around the man with the bullet in his collarbone.


  ‘Take him to the bathroom, Slater,’ ordered Mr Proud, pointing the way. ‘Fat idiot’s bleedin’ everywhere.’

  The driver redirected his path and aimed them for the door in the corner. ‘And where the hell is Frank and the other car?’ Mr Proud asked as the driver and the wounded soldier went through to the bathroom.

  ‘WHERE THE HELL IS HE?’ he screamed at what was now, save for Assia, an empty room.

  Then the door opened and three guys marched in. One of them looked up. ‘I’m here, Boss.’

  ‘About time, Frank.’

  Frank spoke like they’d run the whole way there. ‘We’re here, I mean,’ he added through gulps of breath. Assia watched him, gesturing to the other guys around him as if eager to share the blame for what was to come.

  ‘Joey and Chunky Phil?’

  ‘They’re outside keeping guard.’ Frank looked around like he was expecting to see more people. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Slater’s in the bathroom with Karl; he took a slug in the shoulder,’ Mr Proud explained to his man.

  Frank looked like he was waiting for something more, and then threw out his hands. ‘And?’

  ‘And. AND! AND EVERYONE’S FUCKING DEAD!’

  Mr Proud’s whole head went a deeper shade of tan and a blue vein throbbed on his forehead. Frank already looked like he regretted speaking. ‘If you’re missing them then their bodies will still be on the floor of the car park, feel free to go over for a chat. Although you’ll have to wade through all the fuckin’ cops that’ll be there by now.’

  Frank opened his mouth and closed it a few times, like a goldfish.

  Mr Proud pointed a finger at Frank. ‘Don’t you even think about saying anything to make me angrier, boy,’ he warned.

  Frank did the goldfish thing again. Then said, ‘I just can’t believe they’re all dead. How many were you up against?’

  ‘God dammit, boy! I just told you... there was only... but that doesn’t matter... and now it’s, it’s...’

  Frank waited. ‘It’s...?’

  Mr Proud just screwed his face up. ‘Aaaahhh! Just bring me the girl,’ he said, pointing in Assia’s direction.

  They got her in position on her knees with her arms straight over the coffee table. The driver returned and he held Assia’s arms tight and outstretched. Frank stood behind Assia with all his weight down on her shoulders, forcing Assia to stay in position.

  Mr Proud stood in front of them all, looming large over Assia, a giant meat cleaver now in his hand.

  ‘Get off me!’ Assia cried. ‘Let me go! I didn’t do anything!’

  Mr Proud turned the knife over in his hand. He waited as the driver lost his grip on Assia and she hugged her hands to her chest. The driver fought to stretch her arms back out.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘You know, I was told to keep you alive–’ his voice was calm now. And no less terrifying.

  ‘So let me GO!’

  ‘–but no one tells me what to do. So I’ve decided you will die a painful death–’

  ‘No! Go to hell!’

  ‘–piece by piece–’

  ‘No!’

  ‘–to make me feel better.’

  Assia roared and spat up at Mr Proud, defiant till the end. She fought with her wrists that were slick with sweat and almost wriggled free again. The driver told Mr Proud to hurry. She felt all the weight of Frank on her back.

  Mr Proud raised the cleaver.

  ‘Oh, God. No, no, no.’

  Be Strong. Be strong, she tried to tell herself.

  Frank tightened his grip.

  ‘No, no, no, no, Matthews, help me. MATTHEWS!’ Assia yelled as she tried unsuccessfully to fight.

  ‘So that’s his name, is it?’ Mr Proud said, grinning wildly.

  Suddenly he brought the vicious knife down in an arc. There was a loud crack.

  ‘Nooooo!’

  The knife sank deep into the wood of the coffee table.

  Frank stood back and straightened up, confused. Assia fell to one side, checking both her hands were still attached.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Proud,’ said the driver who’d been holding Assia’s wrists, sheepishly. ‘That was my fault. My hands are sweaty and she’s impossible to keep hold of.’

  Mr Proud rolled his eyes. Everyone momentarily relaxed and Assia used the opportunity to make for the office door and crawl out onto the garage floor.

  ‘Frank, go and get her.’ Mr Proud sighed.

  ‘Will do, Mr Proud.’

  Assia knew if she didn’t get away now she was doomed, but she had no energy left to make a real break for it. Frank caught her halfway across the garage floor, and for the first time she almost cowered in submission.

  He grabbed her and punched her in the stomach. Assia made a strange noise like a lot of wind going through a small tunnel as all the air left her. There was a loud spat. Frank’s grip on Assia suddenly loosened. She just had time to see the red dot appear in the centre of his forehead before she was sliding backwards across the floor, and then down lower than the floor somehow. Her vision went dark and she hit something hard and heavy and dusty – and then she stopped.

  Reinserting the pistol in his waistband and reaching up, Matthews replaced the floor panel he’d just slid Assia through. ‘Hold on to me,’ he said, and Assia never thought the voice she’d hated could sound so good. She looked at his face and fought to hold back a gasp. Matthews looked a mess.

  Her mind felt broken, elsewhere, but her body was able to wrap itself around his back and they crawled like a giant cockroach under the floor panels towards the far end of the garage.

  ***

  Mr Proud came out of the office door, feeling his blood rising again. Needing to satisfy his desire for violence. ‘Why are you taking so…’ He stopped short when he saw Frank lying face-down on the ground.

  ‘What the hell?’ Mr Proud looked around the garage. It was empty. The girl was gone. She’d vanished into thin air.

  62

  Maryland, USA.

  Roger Clayton didn’t drive back to his own home that afternoon. One Saturday or Sunday of each month, as often as he could make it, he did his duty and drove the extra half an hour to his parents’ house in the suburbs. He’d already been once recently, but this month he felt more obliged than usual.

  He’d just come from a meeting with his Deputy Director at the NSA headquarters in Fort Meade on Route 32. The DD was Clayton’s old colonel in the military and thought a lot of Clayton, having hand-picked him for his advanced and unique role at the NSA.

  This meant Clayton was privy to an enormous amount of classified information and from the beginning his old Colonel allowed him far more rope than any new agency man would ever normally be granted. A part of that was because it usually took people time to adapt to the work. Clayton took to it like he took to everything else.

  During this meeting the colonel only seemed interested in how Clay was coping with the news about a recent family tragedy rather than going over current events. Clayton acted suitably affected, breezing through any additional questions. Still, all in all it was another tough day.

  He turned onto the long brick driveway and rolled down toward the house. His parents moved here about ten years ago, once they felt certain their children had flown the nest, as it offered fewer rooms but more space. Clayton’s younger sister was working in Canada, although she was trying to gain some holiday time so she could take a few days off and fly home.

  He passed the mail box at the top of the driveway with the family name scribbled on it. At the house door, he didn’t knock, just opened up and stepped through, nearly barging straight into his father.

  ‘Roger,’ his father greeted him excitedly, sporting – amongst his usual attire – an apron, and holding a colourful silicone spatula. He threw his big arms around his son, gave him a tight hug and a wet kiss on the cheek. ‘So good to see you, son. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Good. Nice to see you too, Dad.’

  His dad to
ok Clayton’s coat and hung it on the banister, then led him into the big family kitchen where Clayton’s mother, Clayton’s wife and Clayton’s two sons were all gathered.

  ‘Roger, wonderful to see you,’ said his mother. She smiled happily and dropped everything to hug her son as enthusiastically as usual, but he could see she was tired and trying hard to hide the strain of recent events.

  ‘I’m good, Mom. How’re you?’ Roger Clayton pulled back and looked searchingly into his mother’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine. How’s work?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘What would you like to drink? Beer?’ his dad asked.

  ‘Alice has been telling me about Jake’s new friend,’ added his mother, referring to Clayton’s wife and their youngest son, who was two.

  ‘We’ve got wine or soda as well, but I got some extra beers in specially,’ said Dad, although Clayton didn’t know why. They always had beer and wine and soda in, but his dad seemed to like reminding him of this every time he came over.

  ‘It’s so good to see you, love,’ said Mom.

  ‘It is wonderful to see you, son,’ said Dad.

  Clayton felt exhausted already, but he couldn’t complain about having such loving parents. So he took a beer from his dad, gave his wife a kiss, ruffled his son’s hair, and helped his mother set the table while answering all questions. She told him his cousin Tom was joining them for dinner and bringing a new girlfriend. Tom was older than Clayton, in his early forties, and arrived shortly afterwards with a woman named Crystal.

  Crystal seemed nice and polite, and she was soon dragged into the lounge by the women to discuss family and politics, whilst the men finished off the roast in the kitchen.

  The modern household.

  Much of dinner seemed to float by for Clayton. He switched from beer to club soda, ate slowly, and said little. His wife, Alice, sat across from him and mostly chatted with Crystal. Clayton watched her from time to time, and smiled whenever their eyes met. He suddenly realised how little he’d seen of Alice and the children lately. Work took all of his time these days. Nicholas, his eldest son at four years old, appeared to have grown a lot recently, and didn’t look like a baby any more. Jake, at two, had finally discovered his voice and was using it at every opportunity.