by James Hilton
The shoulder throw would have at least stunned most men, but Danny’s opponent landed not on his back but in a crouch, and again sent a killer blow at his throat. Danny blocked the throat shot with his right elbow and slashed his pistol backhand across the man’s face. The open slide of the pistol gouged a deep furrow into his cheek, sending him reeling towards the kitchen area. It was Danny’s turn to press the attack as the operative snatched his own Glock from the holster at his hip. Using his empty pistol again as a club, Danny brought the weapon down on the man’s hand. The thumb snapped with an audible crack. Without losing any momentum Danny seized the broken hand with a vice-like grip and smashed his empty pistol into the man’s upturned face.
Yet the man did not fall, and the barrel of his Glock inched closer to Danny’s body as they butted and gouged at each other. With a last effort Danny charged, picking the man up bodily and propelling him backwards, through the doorway where his first opponent lay dead, and into the kitchen beyond.
57
The cold took Andrea’s breath away as she clambered along the narrow platform of the widow’s walk. She felt herself slip towards the edge of the roof as rain blasted into her face. Her numb hands found the wrought-iron railings and she clung motionless until she felt steady again. Squinting against the downpour she turned in time to see Jensen Strathclyde emerge from the window onto the walkway. She silently wished for a bolt of lightning to fry the bastard. She continued to claw her way along until she turned the corner of the roof and the storm seemed to reach a new level of intensity, the rain slapping into her like a solid wall. Forcing herself forward she inched along at what seemed like a snail’s pace. The wounds on her face and chest buzzed with an angry life of their own. Her mind flitted momentarily back to the overlook at Area 51, where this nightmare had begun. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Were Greg and Bruce lying in some mortuary cold room? Had her parents read her email? Did they even know that their son was dead yet?
Her mind snapped back to the present as she spotted a point thirty feet along the walkway. A pair of curving handrails indicated the top of a fire-escape ladder. Andrea, spurred on by the real chance of flight, renewed her efforts.
Her moment of hope turned to one of horror as Jensen Strathclyde slid down the rain-slicked roof onto the walkway in front of her. He looked like a ghoul, in his bizarre black bodysuit and mask. Only twenty feet or so separated her from the safety of the ladder. The twenty feet might well have been a thousand. He advanced towards her, but, more intent on reaching her than his footing, Strathclyde slipped and clung to the railings for support. Andrea started to backpedal, went round the corner again, and then turned and ran back towards the shattered window. She heard him curse behind her as she threw herself through the window frame, ending up on all fours with a wide sliver of broken glass in her hand. Her legs wobbled as she forced herself upright.
Andrea began to pick her way through the maze of covered furniture when she felt an icy hand grip her neck from behind. She was spun around in a tight circle to see Jensen’s leering face above her. He raised the scalpel.
“No escape this time, bitch.” He gave a contented sigh, then stabbed down at her unprotected throat.
58
Danny wrapped an arm around his opponent’s legs and drove his shoulder deep into his midsection. Powering forward, both men crashed through the kitchen and into the utility room beyond. After bouncing painfully off the top of the washing machine, the man was momentarily airborne, then Danny slammed him down to the floor. As the man reeled from the impact, his head bouncing sharply on the tiles, Danny’s kick sent the Glock spinning from his grasp. The gun slid under a shelving unit at the far side of the room. A second kick, this one aimed at the man’s face, was partially blocked by his hastily crossed forearms. Without pause the man kicked out in return, his feet striking Danny painfully in the shins. Springing back in order to avoid being upended, Danny snatched up a large bottle of bleach and used it as an impromptu bludgeon to beat the man around the head, landing three solid shots before the man rolled to one side and drew the knife from his belt. He held the knife point-down in his left hand with his injured right close to his chest.
Danny intercepted the first stab with a swipe of the plastic bottle. The second strike pierced the plastic with a solid thump. As the knife was pulled free Danny squeezed the bottle, sending a stream of bleach at the operative’s face. The man ducked to avoid being blinded but liquid saturated his hair and ran over the back of his head, causing him to screw his eyes tight shut as he raked his sleeve across his face. Danny raised the bottle and sent it bouncing off the head of the man, who swore. The language was alien to Danny but the sentiment was all too clear.
Danny aimed another kick at his opponent’s groin, and as the knife descended, twisted his leg in a tight arc away from the knife and snapped a roundhouse kick into the side of the man’s exposed jaw, sending him crashing into a shelving unit. Cans and bottles were sent flying, rolling around the floor at their feet. The look on the man’s face as he righted himself was one of unbridled fury. His skin was burned red from the bleach, and his lips were curled back, exposing his teeth.
“Come on then you little fuck-nut.” Danny’s challenge sent his opponent into a blind rage. Calculated attacks gave way to wild slashes with the blade, each less considered than the last. Danny let a slash pass over his head and moved closer. As the momentum of the swing caused the man’s body to twist, Danny drove him to the floor and clung to him like an alligator wrestler. He repeatedly knocked the knife hand against the side of the washing machine until it dropped. The operative bucked and thrashed, trying desperately to throw Danny off him, his free hand scrabbling under the shelving unit, reaching for his Glock.
Danny snatched up the nearest weapon: an aerosol can of spray starch. He smashed the can into the side of his opponent’s face, sending the cap flying, then inverted his grip so the can was upside down. He shook the can vigorously as he depressed the spray button, holding it tight against the man’s face, expelling the propellant agent difluoroethane as a freezing liquid rather than a gas.
The effect was devastating. The operative thrashed like a man possessed for long seconds then succumbed to the poisonous effects of the spray, his nasal tissues frozen, his lungs in spasm. He managed to reach out and take hold of Danny’s collar but there was no strength left in his grip. A frosted coating of white residue covered the lower half of his face and protruding tongue as he gave a last choking shudder, then lay still. The Glock spat out a final impotent shot as the dead man’s fist tightened. The bullet drilled a neat hole in the white enamelled front of the washing machine, the retort deafening in the small room.
Danny continued to press down on the aerosol until it was empty and only then did he climb to his feet with a disgruntled sigh. “You stay there and chill out.”
59
Andrea watched as the scalpel stabbed down towards her, almost in slow motion.
Yet the razor edge of the scalpel never reached her exposed neck. Jensen’s face contorted as he tried to push Andrea away, but she had one hand wound tight into the fabric of his Lycra bodysuit. The scalpel fell from his grasp. Looking first down in disbelief, he then locked gazes with her. “No…”
Andrea gripped the base of the long shard of glass that she’d snatched up as she’d tumbled through the window. The rest was buried deep in Strathclyde’s gut. She twisted it, the edge cutting into her hand. Jensen screamed, a high-pitched and extended wail of agony. Andrea pushed him back against a wardrobe. His legs began to buckle but she pressed him harder.
“From arsehole to breakfast time!”
Andrea spat his earlier threat back in his face as she pulled up on the glass shard with all of her remaining strength. The Lycra of his bodysuit parted as if being unzipped, the glass cutting upward through his entrails. It took a full five seconds for the shard to become wedged under his ribcage. Pink blood frothed at his lips as he offered a pleading, “Stop…”
&nb
sp; “It’s because of you and your motherfucking brother that my brother is dead. See how you like it!” Andrea wrenched her hand to one side and felt the shard splinter deep inside his torso. The glass that remained in her hand was barely the length of her thumb. She let it fall from her lacerated hand.
Taking two steps back, she watched Jensen drop first to his knees, his blood and entrails spilling from the front of his suit, then topple face down. He lay motionless. She cradled her bleeding hand; only now did the pain begin to creep from the cuts on her palm. Staring at the dead body, days of pent-up emotion washed over her like a tidal wave. Deep, racking sobs shook her and tears spilled freely down her face. Then she bent over and vomited.
When the heaving had finally subsided, she looked back at the corpse, and experienced an irrational fear that he would sit up like some monster from a slasher movie. She felt both horror and revulsion that she’d taken a life, which conflicted deeply with the euphoric sense of victory over her would-be murderer. Her legs felt unsteady as her adrenalin levels began to recede. With a deep tremble taking hold of her limbs, she became aware of her semi-naked state. Wrapping a hand over her breasts, she ran down the stairs, through the door and onto the landing that overlooked the entrance hall.
And straight into Danny Gunn.
Danny was battered, bleeding and looked slightly dazed. He was holding a pistol in a preparatory position, but lowered it as soon as their eyes met.
“Andrea!”
She could do little more than give a slow blink in way of response.
Danny covered the distance between them in three loping strides and pulled her close. Their lips pressed tight against each other. The kiss and long embrace were of comfort rather than passion.
“Are they all dead?” she asked.
“I think so, but we’d better get out of here just in case.”
“Okay.”
Suddenly his eyes darted around urgently. “Where’s the guy they delivered you to?”
“Dead.” Andrea grimaced. “I killed him.”
Danny embraced her again. “Good on you, girl.”
“He was another Strathclyde.” She took a deep breath and explained the relationship between Stewart and her torturer.
“Two psychos in one family. Shit, that’s bad. I bet their parents are proud. And he was the cameraman on the video? Fucking unbelievable.”
Andrea wiped a hand along the line of her jaw. The skin was raised and slightly puckered where Jensen’s blade had cut her. The wound was raw and painful and the blood that came away on her palm was thick and beginning to coagulate. Her whole body ached.
“Where’s Clay?”
* * *
Danny released Andrea from his embrace and stared over the balustrade at the hall below. A cold hand gripped his heart as he spotted Clay lying amid the rubble of the ruined portico. He lay face down, arms spread out either side in a crucifix position, on top of the two men he had been fighting.
“Clay!”
Danny tore down the stairs, taking them four at a time. The three bodies were unmoving. The two jumpsuited men were lying twisted into shapes that spoke of death. A wide gash had opened Clay’s back along the length of his shoulder blade. Danny felt dread spread through his body at the thought of losing his brother. He pushed the Glock into the waistband of his trousers and crouched by his brother. Clay had fifty pounds on him, and Danny struggled to turn the limp body over. Clay’s face was covered with a thick coating of brick dust, darkened in places to a sticky blackness where it had mingled with blood.
Danny pressed two fingers to the side of his brother’s throat. The pulse he felt was like a drumbeat against his fingertips. A whisper escaped Danny’s lips. “Thank you, God.”
Danny began vigorously shaking Clay, who eventually opened his eyes. Cracking a half smile, Clay groaned, “Did I miss the end of the party?”
“’Fraid so, big bro.”
Danny helped Clay sit up. The Texan looked around at the carnage. “Sorry I was a bit late. The JCB wouldn’t start.”
“No problem. You did just fine.”
Andrea crouched by Clay’s side, hugging him with one arm and covering herself with the other. “Clay.”
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Hey yourself.” She planted a kiss on the side of his face, which elicited a tired wink and a smile. “What are you doing lying down on the job?”
Clay frowned in mock insult, slapping his palm against the track of the JCB. “I was doing okay but I seem to have banged my head on the side of this jalopy.”
“With a head like yours I’m surprised the JCB is still standing.” Danny cuffed his brother lightly.
Clay rose on unsteady legs, assisted on both sides by Danny and Andrea. “Are they all dead?”
Andrea effected a fair imitation of Danny’s thick Scottish accent. “As disco-dancing dodos!”
All three were still laughing as Lincoln and another man stepped into view, weapons levelled and ready to fire.
60
“Does this shit never end?” groaned Andrea.
Lincoln looked around the entrance hall, a Calico assault pistol pointed at Danny’s head. “You really made a mess here.”
Danny snorted and cocked his head at the man next to Lincoln. “Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, this is Chad. You may remember him. He ran you over.”
Danny curled his lip. “So, what now?” He eased away from Clay, slow and steady, as he spoke.
“I came back to end this. I got a call from my boss. The assignment is cancelled.” Lincoln stared hard at the trio, his face like stone. Hard and professional.
“Cancelled?” asked Danny.
“Aborted. Terminated. Cancelled.”
“So someone finally showed some sense. This was a clusterfuck from the start.”
Lincoln gave a nod. “The man that initiated the contract did so without official sanction. He used the company for his own interests.”
“Well, that’s never happened before.” Danny’s retort was drier than Sahara sand.
“Seems he was found dead in a London hotel room.” Danny heard Andrea give a short gasp. If both Strathclydes were now dead, perhaps her life could now return to some sort of normality. “Seems he died while taking part in some sort of sicko sex game. He was found hanging in the closet with ropes around his neck and genitals. And a lot of electrical burns on his junk.”
Danny remembered what had happened to Andrea’s friend, Jeremy Seeber. It was not the first nor would it be the last time a sex-game scenario was used to tie off a loose end.
“So Strathclyde’s really dead.” Danny bent forward slightly, hands on hips and let a gobbet of bloody saliva drip from his mouth to the floor. “So where does that leave us? Are we done?”
“The job is,” replied Lincoln coldly. “But I went back to the safe house. Saw what you did to my men. And I also got a hold of Clinton. You remember him? The injured man you beat the living shit out of in Nevada? He sends his regards, as does Chavez.”
Clay grunted. “I remember Chavez. That one was me. Bendy fingers, that doc had.”
Lincoln ignored him. “I was going to walk away, y’know? A job is only a job, right? But you made it personal.”
“I take it personal when people try to torture me to death and kill my friends. Kinda grates on my internal ethos,” growled Danny. He looked hard at Lincoln’s face. He looked a lot like Clint Eastwood had during his Spaghetti Western years. Craggy but still kind of handsome. He smiled to himself as a line from one of Clint’s old movies came to mind.
Lincoln extended the Calico, its unusual top-mounted cylindrical magazine full of promised death. “So I had to come back. Put an end to you for my men.”
As Danny bent forward again, letting more crimson-tinged spittle fall to the ground, he growled his own version of Clint’s words. “Well, are you fuckers gonna shoot those pistols or whistle ‘Dixie’?”
The blur of motion as Danny pulled the Glock from his wais
tband was as fast as he’d ever moved. Then the room exploded with the sounds of death.
Lincoln pitched backwards as a bullet punched through the centre of his face. His finger squeezed the trigger of the Calico as he fell, shots pounding into the ceiling above. Beside him Chad went down on his knees, both hands coming up to his ruined throat. He tried to speak but only a high-pitched whistle sallied forth. He reached out a hand towards Danny.
Danny shot him again without comment or deliberation.
Danny stripped Lincoln’s jacket from his body without ceremony and handed it to Andrea. She turned away while she slipped on the garment.
Danny waved a hand at the storm beyond the ruined portico, which still showed no signs of abating. “Come on, then. We need to get out of here. We’ve still got a pile of shit ahead of us. Too many bodies around here for my liking.” He turned to Clay. “I hope your lawyers are as good as you say they are because we’re gonna need them.”
“Don’t you worry Danny boy. They got O.J. off. We’ll be a walk in the park.”
61
The next three days passed as a blur for Andrea. Countless faces talked at her relentlessly, despite the protestations of the hospital staff. The nurses were great. The cops were dicks. They asked the same things over and over again. Two agents from the FBI showed up on the second day, spouting jurisdiction over the Florida State Police due to the fact that the crimes had crossed many state lines. The locals were pissed but succumbed to the federal gravitas.
She was kept separate from Clay and Danny, but a lawyer provided by Clay harangued the FBI agents whenever they became too forceful with her. Jacob Silverstein was the first lawyer she’d really talked to. She liked him despite his dubious choice of ties. After the first session he could control the agents with little more than a cough and a raised finger. She was very glad he was on her side.
