Search and Destroy

by James Hilton

  The man’s mouth was wide open in a silent scream when Danny stepped through the doorway. He gagged as the barrel of the M4 was inserted deep into his open mouth, the flesh of his tongue and throat sizzling from the heat of the weapon.

  “Where’s the girl?” Danny’s voice was like a blade on a whetstone. The man tried to speak but the bullet that tore the back of his head free from the rest of his body ended that intent in a fraction of a second. “Don’t bother, I’ll find her myself.”

  Scowling, Danny moved on. So much for the element of surprise. He had no way of knowing how many enemies were in the house. In way of testimony three more faces appeared at the far end of the entrance hall that was divided by a large central staircase. Each man held a Glock pistol and all three commenced firing at the same time.

  Danny scooted sideways using the base of the stairs as cover. The men spread out in a loose curving line, moving forward constantly. Two of the men kept on firing as the third reloaded his pistol.

  Danny knew they would be on him in moments. With a defiant roar he returned fire with the M4. The three men dived for cover of their own as the fearsome carbine spat death in their direction.

  Danny risked a glance upwards and saw that the stairs led up to a long landing with a balustrade running its length. Shit, if any shooters were up there then he was a dead man. The landing gave an ideal vantage point. He needed to move. But the three men were disciplined and were keeping him pinned down by their constant rate of fire. The only option he had was to backpedal into the kitchen.

  The harsh stutter of the M4 was drowned out by an explosion of wood, masonry and glass as the front of the house seemed to disintegrate.

  The three men tumbled away from the carnage, their faces masks of surprise. The scoop bucket of a JCB rose to its full height then smashed down again, obliterating the wall to the left of the front door. Through the dirt-covered window of the mechanical beast, Clay’s face was an angry white smear.

  The closest of the men raised his pistol, targeting Clay. His shot went high into the doorway as Danny emerged from his cover and sent another volley at the trio. The JCB powered through the rubble, its heavy caterpillar tracks crushing the bricks and mortar easily. Then the cab of the machine was inside the house. Its hydraulic arm rose high, sending out another shower of debris, then again crashed down into the midst of the three men. All three scattered in different directions. The teeth of the scoop shattered the ornately tiled floor.

  * * *

  Inside the cab of the JCB, Clay growled and muttered curses as the three little bastards dodged and sent a hail of bullets into the machine’s windshield. The toughened glass held for the first half-dozen shots then hot lead began to get through. A ricochet cut a long furrow down his chest before drilling into the thick muscle of Clay’s thigh.

  Two of the men were now to his left and were reloading their weapons while the third had scrabbled backwards away from the machine. Clay steered the metal behemoth in the direction of the two to his left. Both men continued their assault, sending shot after shot into the cab. He saw the third shooter send a wild shot in Danny’s direction then jump onto an ornate armoire and using this as a platform, vault high onto the side of the staircase, taking the upper ground above Danny. Both men fired simultaneously, and Clay saw Danny stumble as a bullet bit through the flesh of his right hip. His opponent crumpled back onto the stairs gasping for breath. His pistol dropped from his hand and clattered down several steps. He was doing a fair impression of a crab on its back, arms and legs waving in the air. Danny squeezed the trigger of his own weapon but it didn’t fire. Empty!

  The man on the stairs grinned and ripped a combat knife from the sheath at his waist, launching himself bodily down the stairs before Danny could reload the carbine. Clay gasped, but his attention was then firmly drawn back to the two other men, who had reloaded and resumed their assault on the JCB. He tried to crush the little fuckers with the bucket of the earthmover but they managed to evade the saurian jaws by continuously dodging back and forth while keeping up a constant rate of fire with their pistols. Then both clambered onto the body of the JCB. Clay managed to dislodge one man at the front of the cab with a desperate jerk of the steering wheel. The machine lurched forward and the man tumbled from view. The second man swung the cab door open, clearly hoping for a clean shot to end the fight. As the JCB pitched to the right he struggled to maintain his balance and clung to the door handle for support.

  Clay launched himself out of the cab at the gunman, sweeping the man’s Glock up and away with the edge of his hand. Both men bumped painfully over the heavy segmented tracks and landed in a heap amidst the rubble. Clay secured a hold on his opponent’s throat and began to squeeze. A noise from behind made him turn his head. The second man had rounded the cab and was rushing at him, a knife held high.

  55

  Jensen Strathclyde was considering his options. He was sure that the contents of the flash drive had not been posted online. He’d searched the web relentlessly as soon as he’d received the call from Stewart. And even if it made it to YouTube or CNN, it would likely be dismissed as a fake. On the off chance questions were asked, other versions with obvious CGI manipulation would be posted online, discrediting the original. It had worked many times before and was standard practice. And everyone knew that snuff films were an urban legend.

  So it came down to business as usual. He had carried out many interrogations on behalf of TSI, some of which had ended in termination, but this time it was different. This time he was going off script; he would have some fun. Stewart had always run the show during their joint exploits, taking the dominant role and only letting Jensen participate after most of the real fun had been had. Jensen had operated the camera on six of their kills but had only taken the lead once. This was his time to shine. Stewart was on the other side of the Atlantic, reduced to the role of voyeur via video-streaming. Sure, he would get to see all the action but this time he would not get to dictate it. And he could see what his brother had learned…

  Jensen looked over Andrea’s exposed torso. He leaned in close and slowly inhaled. A faint perfume and a slightly acrid aroma combined. It was often said that animals could smell fear. Jensen felt sure he shared that ability. The bitch in front of him reeked of it. He tapped the cold blade of the scalpel against her nipples in an alternating rhythm. He inspected the trails of blood that still trickled from Andrea’s brow and chest.

  “You ever play ‘eeny meeny’ as a child?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Eeny, meeny, miny moe, catch a bitch-whore by the toe.”

  “You fucking insect. What’s wrong? Your mother never loved you? Your father abused you?”

  Jensen smiled. “If you think I’m going to lose it and kill you quickly you’d better think again. And forget being rescued. Those two cowboys are already dead.”

  From below came the unmistakable sound of gunfire. Jensen turned, the blade in his hand momentarily forgotten. Then a deafening crash shook the floor beneath his feet. Jesus, had a bomb gone off?

  The woman’s lip curled back in a snarl. “Dead already, eh?”

  Jensen raced to the bedroom door, the flaps of his executioner’s cap bouncing as he ran. He crossed the short landing and peered over the balustrade at the carnage below. A mixture of fear and fury swept through him. The front of the house was in ruins. This was not how it was supposed to be! He turned and stalked back to the woman. It just wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be his day, his time to step out from Stewart’s shadow.

  * * *

  Andrea’s heart beat hard against her ribcage. Dare she hope she might survive after all? She felt a mixture of relief and vindication; Clay and Danny were not only still alive but fighting to rescue her. Strathclyde burst back into the room, swearing. “You’re fucking dead, bitch.”

  Andrea closed her eyes involuntarily as he raised the gleaming blade as if to slash her throat open. But no lethal blow came. She released her breath. The executione
r’s cap swivelled from side to side in indecision.

  “You’re my insurance if those fuckers manage to make it past my men.” He wrapped his hand through Andrea’s hair, wrenching it as he pressed the scalpel against her neck. “You as much as twitch and I’ll gut you from arsehole to breakfast time!”

  He sliced through the bonds that held her limbs, then used her hair and the blade at her throat to steer her out of the door and onto the landing. Andrea wrapped her now free hands over her exposed breasts as he tightened his grip on her hair. Her hand came away crimson. She tried to turn and drive her knee into his groin but the scalpel at her throat sliced into the underside of her chin as Jensen hissed a warning. Her legs felt like they were being controlled by some external force as she was guided puppet-like to the balustrade that overlooked the entrance hall. Her hands and feet tingled painfully as circulation resumed.

  “Want to see your friends die?” Jensen wrenched her hair to emphasise his question. He forced her forward, pressing his groin tight into her backside and pinning her legs against the railing.

  The sight that greeted her was unbelievable. A huge bulldozer had crashed through the front of the house. Bricks, mortar, splintered wood and glass lay everywhere, and a cloud of grey dust hung in the air. Bullets cut the air and sparks flew from repeated shots aimed at the cab of the bulldozer.

  One of Jensen’s men leapt over the rail midway up the stairs, pointing his pistol at Danny. Boom! Both men went down.

  “Danny!” Andrea screamed.

  Jensen laughed in her ear, then kissed the side of her bloodied face. “One down, one to go!” Despair gripped her heart as Danny staggered. Jesus Christ, could he really be dead?

  On the far side of the bulldozer, Clay was on top of one of Jensen’s men. Another was on his back, stabbing over and over with a knife.

  All is lost.

  Jensen was still leaning over her. “Well that was an entertaining interlude. Now, back to business.”

  As he pulled on her hair, Andrea went with the force and slammed the back of her head into his face. Caught off guard, he stumbled back, loosening his controlling hold. The scalpel dragged across the side of Andrea’s jaw, cutting deep as it glanced off the bone. She continued to turn, swiping her fingernails at his eyes. She missed as he staggered back, holding his nose. A kick directed at his groin connected but only her toes made real contact as he dodged. He grabbed at her hair again but she lunged first one way then the other. A wild sweep with the scalpel cut the air where her face had been a second earlier. Lurching after her, Jensen stumbled, going to his knees as he tried another desperate grab for her hair.

  Andrea yelped as she tore along the landing at full tilt. She pushed through the first door she found, which opened onto a steep set of wooden stairs leading upwards. With no other choice available to her, she kicked the door closed behind her and raced up the steps. She emerged into a room very much like the one she’d just been dragged from, filled with dustsheet-covered furniture. But there was a window, its glass battered by the relentless rain. As she wrestled with the latch she heard the door to the stairs wrenched open below. He was coming.

  There was no time to force the latch. She picked up a small stool and smashed the window out of its frame, then climbed out. She felt like she’d stepped into an industrial carwash, such was the force of the pelting rain. She was on a flat walkway that encircled the uppermost part of the roof, the only barrier between her and open air a set of iron railings. A quick glance over the edge left her in no doubt that a fall from this height would leave her broken on the ground far below. Steadying herself by placing one hand on the railings and the other against the sloping roof tiles, she scooted away from the window.

  * * *

  Jensen Strathclyde held out the scalpel, ready to stab or slash if the woman tried to blindside him. The bitch had got lucky with that head-butt but no way was she going to get him twice. He padded up the stairs light and easy at first, then the crash of breaking glass spurred him into a run. He reached the top of the stairs and entered a room just in time to see the bitch’s naked back disappearing through a window.

  If she was on the walkway she could get to the fire escape. But there was no way this cow was getting away from him now. He’d catch her on the roof and either drag her back inside or, if needs be, just gut her and call it quits. Jensen ran to the window and poked his head out, then immediately retreated in case the woman had a weapon. But even the quick glance revealed the woman clambering along the widow’s walk like some terrified child. He felt himself grow stiff at the thought.

  He climbed out into the storm. Out of sheer instinct he grabbed for the railings. The force of the wind and rain was savage, and he found himself struggling to stay on his feet. The sky had turned a battleship grey and the lights from the town in the distance were reduced to indistinct blotches of pale orange. He swore as he saw his target turn a corner and vanish out of sight.

  Strathclyde started after her, then paused. He looked up at the sloping roof. If he could get over it he could cut her off as she made her way around the circumference of the house. With his scalpel clenched in his teeth, he began to climb.

  56

  Danny Gunn raised his empty carbine as the man armed with a combat knife launched himself down the stairs. The blade glanced off the M4 but the man immediately twisted and stabbed at Danny’s exposed hands. Dodging the blow by mere inches, Gunn used his weapon as a stave and jabbed the barrel into his opponent’s face. The M4’s front sights clattered against the man’s teeth, rocking his head back, but still he fought on. The man’s arms were a blur of motion as he tried to grab the carbine with his free hand and slash with the other. In response Danny swung the M4 like a baseball bat, climbing the stairs one by one. Swing, step, swing, step.

  After a few exchanges Danny waited for the man to surge forward. He didn’t have to wait for long. His opponent kept up a blistering pace and was not to be underestimated. As he sprang forward with a slash to Danny’s throat, the Scotsman used the additional length of his carbine to his advantage, swinging it in a wide horizontal swipe. The man ducked low under the M4 and kept on moving—into Danny’s stamp kick. The heel of his boot caught the man just below his nose, smashing nasal bones deep into his skull. The man toppled down the stairs and Danny followed, making sure he stayed down by driving the butt of the M4 repeatedly into his ruined face. Unbelievably the man raised his knife as if to throw it. Danny kicked out one last time, this time driving the man’s head back against the edge of the bottom step. Vertebrae crunched and the knife dropped from lifeless fingers.

  * * *

  Clay was fighting for his life, one man beneath him and another coming up fast behind him, knife in hand. The blade tore a ragged line across his shoulders. Clay roared and struck back with an elbow, turning his whole body as he did so. The man on his back forced the blade deeper into Clay’s flesh, but the point became wedged against his shoulder blade. The man lost his grip and was sent sprawling as Clay clipped him hard in the face with another elbow jab.

  The pain in Clay’s broken feet was almost intolerable yet he forced himself forward. He grabbed the first man who was reaching for his fallen Glock and caught him mid-motion, one hand around his throat and the other tightened into a vice around the man’s groin. Hoisting his screeching opponent like a power-lifter, Clay raised him above his head and threw him at the second man. Both went down amidst bricks and shattered timber.

  Charging forward, Clay caught both men up in one massive sweep of his arms, their backs pressed together. A couple of violent shakes and Clay had them in the classic bear hug wrestling hold. The Texan felt his vision swim momentarily but held on tight, his arms like a steel band around the operatives. One of the two had an arm free but his blows were delivered from an ineffective angle and were little more than backhanded slaps. Clay wrenched with all of his remaining strength. Both men struggled furiously, kicking and thrashing, but inch by inch Clay’s arms constricted, crushing their ri
bcages. He felt bones snap beneath his corded muscles. He stumbled, his back grinding painfully against the tracks of the JCB, but he held on.

  Clay felt his legs fold beneath him and all three men slumped to the ground. The two killers slipped from his grasp. One lay dead, pink bubbles trickling slowly from his mouth. The other stared up at the Texan with hate-filled eyes. His hand closed around a ragged spar of wood. Clay slashed the edge of his open hand across the man’s throat, crushing his trachea into his spine. Then all three men were silent.

  * * *

  Danny’s head snapped up at the sound of a woman’s scream. It seemed to be coming from above, but there was no sign of Andrea. He risked a glance over to Clay, who had snatched up the two other men and was shaking them like rag dolls.

  Switching from the now empty M4 to the Glock at his waist, he slung the carbine onto his back and raced up the stairs. He paused on the landing. Several doors stood to either side of the main staircase. He was faced with a simple choice: left or right.

  The choice was made for him when yet another jumpsuited man stepped out onto the landing A space of ten feet or so separated the two men. Danny brought up his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Twin holes appeared in the wall as with surprising agility the man pivoted the top half of his body then in one continuous motion leapt forward in a combat roll. Danny had never seen anyone move as fast. One second he was standing motionless ten feet away, the next he was coming up under his guard and pushing Danny’s weapon towards the ceiling. Danny felt his heels teeter on the edge of the stairs. Rather than go down backwards, he broke the hold and ran down the steps, turning at the bottom, gun raised.

  A hand slammed into Danny’s throat like a piece of iron. The man was fast! Danny struggled to take a breath as his trachea constricted in response to the tiger mouth strike. But his opponent pressed home the attack with relentless determination. Danny felt the man seize his wrist and twist it to breaking point in an effort to disarm him. Instead of resisting the wristlock, Danny dropped to one knee, his gun hand now above his head, drawing his adversary over his back. As the man was sent tumbling over his shoulder, Danny’s pistol spat out another three shots. He scowled as the slide bucked back; the magazine was empty.