by James Hilton
Garnett was pushing the SUV as fast as he could without running down any slow-moving pedestrians. “Four blocks to Parker’s.”
“They’re still behind us,” said Andrea. Danny saw that she was gripping her revolver like a drowning man would a life preserver.
Garnett powered around another corner, losing one of his wheel trims as he clipped the kerb. The SUV bucked sideways for a second but did not lose any speed. On the kerb, a large Hispanic woman dressed in a bright floral dress shouted and shook her fist angrily at the speeding vehicle.
“There!”
Danny swivelled in his seat to see the entrance of Parker’s Yard. A high chain-link fence formed the perimeter and stretched out for hundreds of yards in either direction. A wide double gate was open and allowed easy entry into the yard. The layout reminded Danny of an army barracks. Two-storey sheds were arranged in long rows, each easily a hundred feet in length. Their walls looked to be constructed from old-style asbestos sheeting, the corrugated-iron roofs painted a dark red. Danny could see at least twenty sheds on each side of the main access road, many with colossal piles of clay-coloured sand against their walls, some higher than their roofs. “Turn off halfway down.”
“Left or right?” asked Garnett.
“Right. It looks like there’s a bit more room to manoeuvre on that side.”
The SUV whipped to the right between two of the sheds. “Slow just a bit.”
Garnett slowed the SUV to twenty and without preamble, Danny opened his door and tumbled out onto the ground. Tucking his head, he rolled smoothly and gained his feet in one practised motion. He sprinted back to the corner of a shed. Crouching, he pressed his back against the wall and lifted his pistol. As the pursuing minivan rounded the corner he squeezed the trigger four times in rapid succession. All four rounds punched through the windscreen. Inside the vehicle someone roared in pain. As the minivan sped past, Danny adjusted his aim and sent another three rounds into the target. One of the shots found the rear tyre, which blew out with a satisfying whoomph. He then emptied the rest of the clip into the rear window. Glass shattered and the vehicle slewed wildly to one side but continued to follow Garnett’s SUV.
Danny ejected the spent clip and slapped a fresh one into the butt of the Glock.
* * *
Clay held on as Garnett stamped down on the accelerator and swung the SUV left around the shed. Another tight series of gravel-spitting left turns and they were behind the pursuing vehicle.
“Got them now. I’ll ram them,” yelled Garnett.
Suddenly the already shattered rear window of the minivan exploded outwards. Two men, each clutching an automatic weapon, glared back at Clay and both weapons opened fire as one. He ducked as a hail of bullets ripped through Garnett’s body, shredding his head and chest as if it were made of paper. Clay’s roar was that of a wounded bear, beyond fury, beyond conscious thought.
The SUV skidded into the wall of the nearest shed, its hood punching through the thin wall. It came to a shuddering halt as it met one of the reinforced stanchions that formed the shed’s internal skeleton.
Clay pulled his Colt Python as the PMCs tumbled out of their minivan and approached the SUV, two men on each side of the vehicle, weapons pressed tight into their shoulders, fingers on triggers. He saw that the driver of the minivan was bleeding heavily, his right arm clutched to his chest. He was big, very nearly as big as Clay. He brandished a sub-machine gun left-handed across his chest, business end still focused on the stationary vehicle. The men approached fast but in strict formation.
Clay wrenched open the SUV’s door, knowing that staying inside was sure death. “Out!”
Andrea scooted forward into the front and followed close on Clay’s heels. He raised his Python. He received four muzzles pointed directly at him in way of response. He knew there was no hope of dropping all four before he too was turned to hamburger.
* * *
“You want him dead as well, Lincoln?” asked Washington.
Lincoln considered only for a moment. “I want to question these fuckers first, but here’s something to keep him occupied.” He fired a single shot from his Calico pistol. The lead projectile ripped into the meat of the big man’s muscular forearm. The Presidents laughed as the man dropped his hand cannon.
Lincoln nodded at the woman, Andrea Chambers. “You! Get your ass over here.”
But she did no such thing. In one fluid motion she pivoted to the side and leapt through the gap in the wall created by the impact of the SUV, into the shed beyond.
Bush darted forward, poking his head through the hole. Two sharp retorts sounded from inside the shed. Bush fell back cursing. A three-inch bloody crease along his chin told how close her bullets had gotten to punching him out permanently. “Bitch shot me!”
“Bush, get after her,” ordered Lincoln. “Bring her back alive.”
Bush nodded once. He unleashed a hail of bullets through the fragile walls, aiming high. He then kicked a larger hole in the wall and went through it at speed.
“The first man to move gets a bullet in the head.” The voice that rang out from behind Lincoln carried a cold lethal edge. “Drop your weapons and lace your fingers behind your heads.”
Lincoln turned his head to see a wiry man—the one who had shot Washington, he realised—levelling a Glock at him. He raised his chin. “I know the bleeding fella here is Clay Gunn, saw him on the news looking all shiny in uniform. Who the fuck are you?”
The man didn’t reply, narrowing his eyes at the big man. “You okay?”
Clay Gunn held up his damaged arm. “I might not be so good at Texas hold ’em for a while.” He locked eyes with Lincoln. “Meet my younger brother, Danny Gunn.”
Lincoln kept his Calico trained on Clay but looked over his shoulder at the new arrival. “You’re outgunned here, so to speak. You could shoot one of us, maybe two, but one of us will end it for you, that’s a guarantee.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Danny Gunn answered. Lincoln was surprised at his Scottish accent. It seemed so odd in the circumstances. How the fuck were these two brothers? “But one thing’s for sure. You get the first one, right in the back of the head, so even your mother won’t recognise you.”
Washington took a slow step towards Clay, his sub-machine gun aimed at his head. “Easy there, Highlander, or the cowboy gets it.”
Lincoln grinned without humour. “Looks like we have one of those Mexican stand-offs you hear about.”
A woman’s scream echoed from inside the shed.
“And it looks like Bush caught up with Chambers.” Lincoln spat his next words at Danny Gunn. “Give it up. You tried but you lost.”
He saw Clay Gunn’s eyes flick to his brother. “We’re dead anyway.”
The Texan went into Washington low and fast, ramming his shoulder deep into his ribs, driving the sub-machine gun up over his head. Both men went into the ground in a tangle of thrashing limbs. Lincoln rocked back as Danny Gunn put two rounds into his chest. He fell to one side, gasping from the impacts, and squeezed off a devastating burst from the Calico, the bullets ripping through the air where the man’s face had been a second earlier. He saw Kennedy open up on full auto, forcing the man to leap behind a large metal dumpster. The heavy trash receptacle bucked and shuddered as the impacts drove it back into the crouching Scotsman.
As Lincoln struggled to his feet, the man dodged out from behind the dumpster and loosed a three-round burst at him, higher this time. He’s trying for headshots. Kevlar is a real bitch. Lincoln squeezed off another round as a car roared into view.
Lincoln grinned in triumph as Chad Casey tore around the corner in his Dodge Challenger and sent the troublesome Scottish asshole bouncing off the front fender and clean through the wall of the shed behind. A ragged hole displayed a pair of boots, unmoving. Now there was only one of them. Lincoln turned to see Washington still wrestling with Clay Gunn. Washington was no common brawler, even injured. Both men were fighting more or less with one hand each, but
Washington twisted inside the Texan’s grip and slammed him in the throat with the stiffened edge of his hand. As Gunn reeled back from the severe blow, he received another two shots to the neck for good measure.
“Come on.” Lincoln motioned to Kennedy, who had been edging towards the Scot’s unmoving feet. Together they joined Washington and hoisted Clay Gunn to his feet, then dragged him to the trunk of the Dodge, Chad giving them a thumbs-up from the driver’s seat.
Lincoln pulled back his arm and smashed the stock of his Calico square on Gunn’s right temple. Then he and Kennedy pushed the unconscious man into the trunk.
45
The man chasing Andrea was fast on his feet. Every corner she turned he seemed to appear at the far end of her chosen avenue of escape. Her breath was ragged and strained. Her hands trembled. Pausing at the end of a large shelving rack, she waited for him to appear, her revolver at the ready. The racks stretched nearly the full length of the large hangars. The shelves seemed to contain every imaginable spare part for what she presumed were boats, trucks and cars.
Beads of fear-laden sweat trickled down her face. She tried to remember everything Tansen had shown her about shooting. Aim, squeeze the trigger, and don’t pull. Breathe. A shape moved off to her left. Pivoting and firing as one, she put two rounds into an oil drum that the man had dislodged from a shelf and sent rolling towards her. She cursed out loud. Then from an unseen vantage point the man fired three shots, one placed either side of her shoulders and the third into the ground at her feet. Her hands began to shake more violently. What chance did she have against this trained soldier?
Another shot creased her right arm. Fuck! He was trying to disable her. She was sure he could have put that last bullet through her heart if he’d chosen to do so. Frustrated, Andrea sent another two rounds back in return. The next time she squeezed the trigger nothing happened. Empty! She scrabbled in her pockets for the box of ammunition Tansen had given her. Then a dark shape flew through the air at an alarming speed.
* * *
Bush watched the bitch empty her chambers into thin air then start to rifle her pockets. God bless amateurs, he thought as he leapt from cover and booted the woman full in the stomach. She folded up coughing and spluttering. He kicked her peashooter pistol out of her hand, then wrapped his hand tight into her hair, yanking her to her feet. Finally, the job was underway.
He frog-marched her back into the sunlight and he smiled at what he saw. The big cowboy had been beaten down and was now in the cheapest of seats. The smaller man, the fucking nuisance who had shot at the minivan, was out cold, his hands and feet secured with silver duct tape, and he was being shoved unceremoniously into the back seat of Chad Casey’s Dodge.
Bush shoved the woman forward then pulled back on her hair. She nearly went to her knees. He pressed the muzzle of his sub-machine gun into the small of her back. “Look what I found.”
“Good job,” said Lincoln. He pointed to the flat tyre on the minivan. “Fix that double time.”
Bush nodded and thrust the woman towards Lincoln, who leant in close to her face.
“If you don’t do exactly as I say, I will douse these two fuckers in gas and make you watch them burn. Understand?”
46
When Danny awoke he feared he was paralysed. The pressure in his head and chest was excruciating. Something akin to a swarm of angry hornets buzzed inside his skull. A painful throbbing pulse racked his frame with every beat of his heart. He tried to sit up but realised something was very wrong. The world was upside down. He tried to shout for Clay but all that emerged was a stream of blood-tinged vomit. He spat the remnants from his mouth and took in his predicament.
He was dangling upside down, his feet encircled by a coil of multi-coloured mountaineering rope. His body traced a lazy arc as he swung from a rafter overhead. His hands were secured behind his back, and the muscles in his shoulder joints were strained almost to dislocation.
“That’s ten bucks you owe me.” The voice from behind carried a strong American accent. Northern. Maybe New York?
“Shit, man. I thought he was dead for sure. Oh well, now I get to make that so.” The owner of the second voice stepped into view. His right arm was bandaged and strapped in a sling across his chest. Danny recognised him as the driver from the minivan. He looked very big and very mean. “Lincoln’s got the woman secured upstairs and wants us to make sure that nothing has been passed to any unknown third parties.”
The first man laughed as he jabbed Danny in the side of the face. “You know what that means, boy? We get to play twenty questions. Hey, Washington, you want to place another bet? I bet this one’s spilling his guts before question five.”
“How much?”
“Go fifty bucks?”
“You’re on.” Washington tilted his head to look deep into Danny’s face. “This is my friend, we call him Kennedy. I’m gonna ask a few questions and if you don’t give the answers I want he will slice and dice you into filet mignon.”
Danny considered head-butting Washington, but he was just out of range. Not stupid, then. He gritted his teeth, pushing his mind into a different mode. He knew what was coming next. The trick to weathering torture was to try to focus on an object and blank out everything else. But it was much easier said than done. He cast his eyes around the sparse room, which was distorted by his perspective. It looked to be a double garage space, probably attached to the side of a house. Then he reconsidered. No, not a garage; there were no doors that he could see other than the one at the top of a short five-step staircase. Upstairs, they’d said: where Andrea was being held. No roller door for a car, just a small window near the ceiling, looking out to ground level. A basement then.
A grime-stained bucket sat in one corner, the kind a child would use to make sandcastles at the beach. A sticker showing the blue-skinned genie from Aladdin stared back at him, a wide smile and happy eyes.
Then the pain began.
“Who did you pass the package to?”
Danny stared at the blue cartoon face.
“I think I need to tenderise the meat before we get down to business.” Kennedy rolled his shoulders then slammed a punch into Danny’s exposed ribs. The punch was well thrown and blasted the air from his lungs. As Danny jack-knifed in pain, Kennedy battered him with another four rapid shots to the gut. White-hot jolts of agony shot through his internal organs.
The genie grinned back at him.
Washington’s voice now carried an air of amusement. “Let’s try that one again shall we? Who did you pass the package to?”
Danny locked onto the blue cartoon face. He knew that the truth would not serve him here. “Your mother’s clap-doctor. Why don’t you go ask him for it?”
Kennedy slapped down hard, catching Danny’s testicles perfectly. Despite his best efforts, Danny bucked against the explosion of pain.
“Tough guy, huh?” said Washington. “That slope out in the Vegas desert thought he was tough as well. Until we turned his ass into deep-fried wonton.”
Danny closed his eyes. Something red and vicious boiled in his head. He hoped it wasn’t true. Tansen Tibrikot was one of the bravest men he’d ever known. If they had killed Tansen he would carry that guilt to his grave.
Kennedy punched him again but Danny blanked out the pain. “Uh oh, I think you struck a nerve. What? Were you and the gook fags for each other? A bit of yin and yang action going on there?”
Washington stepped closer. “My turn. I owe you one for this.” He raised his bandaged arm. “Had to pick the bullet out of the bone.”
Kennedy grabbed Danny and held him steady as Washington sent punch after punch into his stomach, his left arm working like a piston.
“Let’s have this off him.” Kennedy ripped Danny’s shirt from his back. The seams around the arms ripped into his skin before giving way. “Fuck. Look at that. This boy’s been Kentucky-fried already. Now that looks painful.”
“Doesn’t it just.” Washington delivered a vigorous slap to
the lattice of pink scar tissue that decorated Danny’s flank. Then he did it again for good measure. And again. And again.
It went on for hours.
* * *
Clay awoke to the muffled but unmistakable sounds of violence from below. He remembered getting dumped into the trunk of a car, then a seemingly endless drive. The trunk had opened and then something that smelled like distilled camel piss had been sprayed into his face. Then it was lights out.
He was stretched out on the floor of a bathroom. His hands were secured above his head, the ropes that bound him wound around the base of a toilet. He could feel the wooden planking of the floor digging into his bare back. His feet too were bare, roped and fixed to the pipework of the sink. He shook his head; all that was missing was an approaching train, like in a silent film. He wondered where Danny was, hoping he was in a better situation. Then he remembered the sounds from below. He tried not to think about Garnett. His friend riddled with bullets… He would deal with that later.
He looked up to see two men gazing down at him with scorn. He recognised the taller of the two as the guy who’d clocked him with the butt of his pistol—Lincoln they called him. Clay felt the swelling tight on the side of his face.
“If we’re gonna have a hoedown, I hope you brought some chips an’ dip. I’m quite partial to guacamole.”
“No, but I did find this.” Lincoln held up a stun gun. “That little woman tried to zap me with it on the ride over here. Can you believe that?”
Clay added that to the growing number of reasons to like Andrea.
“Now, I’ve had a good long talk with the woman and she assures me that you haven’t passed on or sold any intel yet. And I believe her. But I also believe in being thorough, so we’re going to have a little conversation anyway. Also, you’ve got some payback coming for hurting my boys. The woman tells me you’re from Texas. So I guess you like barbecue ribs.” Lincoln scowled as he pressed the stun gun hard into Clay’s torso. Clay bucked and shuddered involuntarily in response to the raw electricity coursing through him. His jaws locked shut, teeth gnashing down. He couldn’t breathe. After a three-second hit Lincoln paused and addressed him again.
