Search and Destroy

by James Hilton

  “What the hell happened to you?” His voice a Texan drawl.

  Danny just shakes his head and goes into his uncle’s house. Clay is staying there while on leave in the UK and Danny is there for a month, rather than following his parents to Germany again. One last attempt at reconciling their marriage would only be hampered by having Danny under their feet. Clay follows him in.

  “Danny, what happened?”

  Danny doesn’t want to look at him; tears well up in his eyes, shame plucking at him.

  “Hey, it’s all right, little brother. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

  Danny lets himself be led to the bathroom. Clay washes the blood from his face.

  Clay is six years older and has been a US Army Ranger for two years. To Danny he seems like the toughest man in the world.

  “At least your nose isn’t broken. Mind you, it’s swollen pretty bad. You’ll feel like death tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for that.” Danny tries to smile but his teeth hurt too much.

  “Now, who did this?”

  “Steve Grayson, Cindy’s boyfriend.”

  Clay frowns. “He’s a big fucker for you to tackle. What happened?”

  Danny hangs his head. “He saw me trying it on with Cindy and put the head on me.” Danny’s pronunciation of “head” comes out “heed” in his broad Scottish accent.

  “And…?”

  “When I tried to go back at him, he put me down and then his friends joined in…” Danny sweeps his hands down his face and body to indicate the results.

  “So it wasn’t one on one.”

  “No’ for long,” Danny spits a glob of congealed blood into the sink. “Truth is, Steve had already fucked me over before they joined in.”

  “That makes it worse, not better, in my book. Anybody can get beaten in a straight fight. But spineless pricks who put the boot in afterwards, they’re the ones that really get me riled.”

  “I just want to go to bed.”

  “You can’t, not yet.” Clay stares deep into his brother’s eyes. “We’re going to go and sort these fuckers out.”

  “Clay, I feel like shite.”

  “You’ll feel ten times worse in the morning. Every muscle will be as tight as Uncle Adrian’s ass and your face will feel like it’s been run over by a truck.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “If we don’t go tonight, you won’t want to go tomorrow. Then you’ll regret it for years to come.”

  “It’s all right for you. You’re bigger than me, tougher than me…”

  “None of that matters. It don’t matter how big or strong you or your opponent are; it’s how you handle him that makes the difference.”

  “How?”

  “By not doing what he expects you to do.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  Clay sighs. “Danny, you know this already. You don’t go toe-to-toe with a big lump like Grayson, you outflank him; hit him when he’s least expecting it. The only time a fight is fair is in the ring. Outside, anything goes.”

  “So what are we gonna do?”

  “Go get changed. Put on your boots. Where do these boys normally hang out?”

  “Down at the car park by the river.”

  They leave the house, Danny’s legs unsteady.

  “If they’re there, just wade into Grayson as hard and fast as you can. Aim for his eyes and his balls. Don’t worry, I’ll be watching your back this time.”

  “He’ll just kick my arse again.”

  Clay stops dead, holds Danny’s injured face in his big shovel hands. “That’s not going to happen. He was in charge last time. This time you’re in charge. When we get close I’ll slap your back. That’s your signal to attack, and you don’t stop until it’s done.”

  Danny sighs, but with a newfound resolve. Butterflies dance the rumba in his stomach and he feels bile in the back of his throat. As they walk at a brisk pace, Clay repeats his simple instructions several times.

  Ten minutes later, Danny sees them, nearly twenty young men, clustered together. Some are drinking beer from cans while others are just loitering and jostling. One of the gang seems intent on giving every passing motorist the finger.

  Danny spots Grayson in the crowd. He’s sitting on a bench eating chips from a takeaway carton, laughing and gesticulating. Cindy is nowhere to be seen.

  Danny begins to walk faster. Takes a deep breath and holds it.

  Grayson glances up but doesn’t register the young man stalking towards him.

  He doesn’t wait to feel Clay’s hand on his back—the signal. Danny has already exploded forward.

  Grayson looks up again, just in time to take a boot in the face.

  Danny watches his own foot slam into Grayson’s face with a strange detachment. An alien sensation takes hold, a cyclone of channelled rage possessing his limbs. They start to rocket into Grayson with a vengeful will of their own.

  The heavier man struggles to rise but can’t cope with the sudden onslaught of savage punches and kicks. Danny lets out a guttural roar with each blow.

  The gang scatters, surprised by the sudden violence. Then some return, circling Danny.

  Clay fells the first comer with a right hook to the side of his jaw. Then a second tumbles away, holding his nose, unable to contain the fountain of blood. The third grabs at Clay’s throat. The two men each lock grips upon the other’s neck. Clay twists and throws the man to the ground.

  Then a beer bottle is pitched from the crowd and smashes into Clay’s head. The glass fragments into a welter of countless shards. The older Gunn brother keeps fighting. Seeing blood, more of the gang run at Clay. Danny knows they don’t really want to fight; they just want to punch or kick an easy mark.

  Grayson tries to push Danny away but his legs are kicked out from under him. His mouth is open and slack, his eyes glassy.

  “You had enough?” yells Danny, his fist raised for another blow.

  Grayson struggles to answer. “Aye. I’ve had enough.”

  Danny steps back, his breath ragged and angry. Grayson springs, his fingers clawing at Danny’s eyes. But this time he is ready. He smashes an elbow full into Grayson’s face. The big man goes down. Flat on his back, he paws the air. Danny looks down at him, then looks for Clay.

  Four men lie at Clay’s feet. Another hobbles away clutching his groin. The rest have retreated to a safe distance. A few shout promises of retribution but Clay ignores them. His face is a crimson mask, blood streaming from a deep gash on his forehead. His eyes warn of more violence.

  “You all right?” asks Danny.

  “Better than these fuckers.” Clay grins, showing bloodstained teeth. “Come on, time to vamoose.”

  The brothers walk home. None of the gang follow. Danny stops to vomit but Clay pays him no heed; just everyday business for the Ranger, new business for his brother.

  Danny Gunn became untouchable. One month later he was wearing the uniform of a British soldier.

  * * *

  Danny smiled at his recollections and held his beer aloft. “Here’s to easy livin’ and big-titted women.”

  “A big Ay-men to that.”

  Both men jumped as a bloody hand slapped against the window.

  6

  Andrea’s hand slid down the window, leaving a smudge of crimson. She could hear curses from the occupants of the RV, then silence. As she drew level with the side door, it flew open with force. She tripped over her own feet as she tried to avoid getting a face full of aluminium. As she sprawled in the dirt, a man’s silhouette filled the doorway—a large man. A huge, silver-plated revolver reflected the light from within as it was pointed directly at her.

  Andrea, her voice barely audible, managed only a weak “Help…”

  The man stepped out into the cool night air, bulging arm muscles tensed. Over six foot, he had close-cropped blond hair over a deeply tanned and weathered face. Andrea watched, frozen, as he dropped into a slight crouch. He took his eyes from her, sweeping the gun slowly o
ver her head, eyes darting, as if he was straining to see into the darkness, to find a threat. After nearly ten seconds he once again dropped his eyes to her, then lowered his weapon towards the ground at an oblique angle.

  “What the hell happened to you, gal?”

  The only response she could give was to point into the darkness.

  The man slipped the revolver into the waistband of his jeans and scooped her up as if she weighed no more than a child. As he turned to the Winnebago, another man appeared from the shadows to the rear of the vehicle. He was far shorter and leaner, and held a knife in one hand.

  The first man spoke. “What have you got there?”

  “Steak knife. Snagged it from the kitchen and came out the side window. Done a sweep—seems clean. Didn’t want us falling for the ‘damsel-in-distress-turns-hijack’ ploy.”

  The first man grunted with what sounded like approval, then carried Andrea into the Winnebago, putting her gently down on a plush seat alongside a dining table. She looked up at her rescuer. Dark-blue eyes, intense but not unkind, stared back at her from a deeply weathered face. The man towered over her, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the motorhome. The smaller but equally intense-looking man stood behind him, dark-haired and lean, a first-aid box open in his hands.

  The larger man brushed hair slicked with drying blood from her face. “What’s your name? Can you tell me what happened to you?”

  She tried to talk but the only sound that escaped was a high-pitched whine. Her throat felt like it was filled with gravel and broken glass.

  “Here, drink some of this,” the smaller man pushed a tumbler of water towards her. Andrea gulped down the liquid, spilling a large quantity down her chin.

  The big man spoke again. “I’m Clay. This is my brother, Danny. Now I need to lift your shirt to check where all of this blood is coming from. Okay?”

  Andrea nodded, her face a mix of fear, shock and confusion.

  He peeled back the fabric of her shirt. The material was crusted with blood and dirt and clung to her skin like an old Band-Aid. Andrea winced as a sliver of pain shot across her ribs. She looked down at countless scrapes and bruises that decorated her midsection. A deep laceration covered a four-inch patch below her right breast. Splinters of wood were embedded in the flesh from the tree she’d encountered halfway down the hill. The big man gently removed her laptop bag from around her neck and lowered it to the floor.

  “Damn, girl, you’ve been banged up real good. I’d better call 911 and get you to a hospital.” He gave her the once-over again, his eyes stopping when he saw the gash in her jeans over her right thigh, the blood seeping from a long graze beneath. He gently pulled back the torn denim. “This looks like a bullet wound… not deep…” His eyes narrowed. “What happened out there?”

  “My brother and his boyfriend… somebody killed them…”

  She saw the brothers exchange a quick glance.

  “We need to leave,” croaked Andrea. “Those men might still be after me!”

  “Which men? Why are they after you?” asked Clay.

  “I don’t know who they are. They just appeared out of nowhere. They…they shot Greg and Bruce.”

  “Did you see these men? What they looked like?” Clay’s deep voice rumbled like desert thunder in her ears.

  “Not really, just one of them. With a machine gun. He had some kind of headset on. Like a…” She cupped both hands in front of her eyes.

  “Night-vision goggles?”

  Andrea nodded. “I think so. He looked like a giant bug in the dark.”

  “Where were you when this happened?”

  Again she motioned vaguely towards the hills. “Up by the Power-lines Overlook.”

  Danny looked at his brother, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “A few miles up into the hills,” Clay responded.

  “What were you doing up there?”

  Andrea looked at Danny. She suddenly realised that his accent was Scottish. He was as far away from home as she was.

  “My name’s Andrea Chambers, I’m a journalist. I’m doing a story on the saucer community.” She almost laughed at how ridiculously inane it sounded.

  “Have you been trying to sneak into Area 51?” asked Clay.

  Andrea winced as she shook her head. “No, we were just on the tourist trail. I talked to a few of the sky-watchers this afternoon, that’s all.”

  “You’re talking about someone with military kit. The only military out here are the camo-dudes. They guard the perimeter of Groom Lake and Area 51. Those guys just shoo you off the land. The most anyone has suffered at their hands is a trip to the sheriff’s office and a hefty fine.”

  Danny moved in and began wiping dried blood from Andrea’s face with a wet dishcloth. “What if it wasn’t military? There are plenty of whackos out there. What if they came to the desert to off a few of the saucer-heads for fun?”

  Clay shrugged, noncommittal. “Back home in Texas you hear about locals killing Mexican border jumpers. Maybe this was the same thing—Nevada-style. But…”

  “What?”

  Clay turned to Andrea. “They shot the men you were with? I’m sorry to ask, but was it professionally done?”

  Andrea swallowed. “It was quick, if that’s what you mean.”

  “And they only winged your leg? Sounds like maybe they didn’t want you out, just down.”

  “You thinking collection team?” Danny grimaced.

  “Whatever they were after, we’d best be moving on. Just in case. We can make the town of Rachel in about forty minutes. We can call the police from there.”

  “What about your cell phone? We can call from here…”

  “There’s hardly any reception, but I’ll give it a go.” Clay tapped in the three digits, then shook his head, turning the phone so Andrea could see the NO SERVICE error message.

  “It was worth a shot. You drive and I’ll keep trying with the phone,” said Danny.

  Clay nodded. Andrea watched as he slipped his bulk into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The diesel motor rumbled like an agricultural machine but moved out smoothly onto the blacktop.

  Danny came and sat beside her, and began cleaning her wounds. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning, in detail.” His eyes were not unkind, and there was a palpable strength in his demeanour that made her feel suddenly safe.

  She sobbed as she recounted the night’s events.

  “I know it’s hard, but the more we know, the more we can help you.” Danny continued to wipe detritus from her face. He checked the large gauze pad he’d placed below her chest. Crimson dots now decorated the bandage, but the bleeding had definitely slowed.

  “The man came at me, I ran, he shot me in the leg. But I fell backwards over the edge of the outcrop. I must have fallen about twenty or thirty feet down the hill. I ended up wedged under the trunk of an old tree. I don’t think they could see me from the top.”

  A thought barraged its way to the front of her mind. “We need to go back there. Maybe Greg or Bruce is still alive!”

  Danny shook his head sadly. “Andrea, if those men were as professional as you’re saying, there isn’t much chance that they’re still alive up there.”

  Andrea curled up into a ball, sobs racking her frame. She felt Danny place a light blanket over her. She closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Clay turned his head from the road as Danny slipped into the passenger seat beside him. The two-lane blacktop stretched out into the darkness ahead of them. Clay held the large RV at a steady fifty miles per hour. He could have coaxed more speed from the vehicle but saw no sense in the risk involved. The large Winnebago, his “road-blocker”, was built for slow and steady transit, definitely not for speed. On most trips he enjoyed the looks of other frustrated drivers as they finally passed the bulk of his bus, usually ready to give him the finger. Then they would see the battle-scarred face staring back at them, grinning; the finger usually went back to their steering wheel as they sped
away.

  Tonight there were no other motorists as far as the eye could see.

  “How far to the next town?” Danny asked, tapping keys on Clay’s cell phone. After the fourth unsuccessful attempt he let the handset drop into the inset cup-holder in the arm of his seat.

  Clay shrugged. “About thirty miles, I reckon.”

  An occasional sob issued from the rear of the RV, but Andrea’s grief was muted by the rumble of the engine and the echo of the tyres on the asphalt.

  The two brothers glanced again at one another. Neither smiled, but Clay felt something akin to a ripple of excitement. “I guess we’re on the roller-coaster again, little bro.”

  Danny nodded. “And I didn’t even buy a ticket.”

  7

  The Iridium 9600 satellite phone buzzed on the mahogany desk only once before the deeply tanned hand snatched it up. “Is it done?” No preamble, no pleasantries.

  “Two targets down.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes sir, one of the targets is still in play.”

  “Which one?”

  “The woman.”

  “Are you telling me that the main target is still out there?”

  “Sir—”

  “Tell me that you at least recovered the package!” The anger in the voice was not reduced by distance.

  A deep breath sounded over the airways. “No sir, the package is still in play at this time.”

  “I was assured that your team could handle this, no sweat.”

  “They can sir, it’s just a matter of time. The woman is injured. One of my men tagged her, but she fell over the edge of a steep incline and—”

  “Well get your lazy arse down the steep incline and make sure she’s taken. Make her talk. We need that package secure. Now get it done.”

  “As I say, it’s only a matter of time. I’ve got operators sweeping the area as we speak.”

  “Good, call me as soon as it’s confirmed.”

  * * *

  The man known to his team as “Matthew” folded down the stubby aerial of his satellite phone and slipped it into a pouch on his chest webbing. Under his breath he muttered, “Limey asshole.”