The Pretender's Gold

by Scott Mariani

  Hacker said to Ben, ‘You next.’ He stepped away to keep his safe margin of space as Ben approached the edge of the hole. Ben climbed down the ladder with two pistols pointing at him from above and a third from below. He was keeping his breathing slow and deep and steady, calming himself for whatever was about to happen next. Which could be a lot of things. Some of them bad, some of them worse.

  Step by step, he descended into the pit of hell where his old friend had spent the last several days incarcerated in deplorable conditions, sick and maybe injured, and now set to die a horrible death if the Dishonourables had their way. The stench in the hole grew more choking with every downward rung of the ladder. Banks was standing at its foot looking up, his face contorted in disgust at the smell.

  Ben stepped down one more rung and felt the solid floor underfoot. Banks backed away, keeping the pistol pointed at him and the light aimed in his face. ‘Move a muscle, twitch a finger and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out, get it?’

  Boonzie still hadn’t made a sound. Ben tried to peer past the dazzling light shining in his face so he could search for his friend, but could make out only shadow and darkness. Above him, Hacker’s footsteps were ringing on the ladder rungs, quickly followed by Carter’s; and seconds later all four of them were standing inside the pit of the dungeon. Hacker shone his lantern around the chamber. ‘McCulloch?’

  Ben stood very still with two guns pointed at his head. As he watched the sweep of Hacker’s lantern around the dungeon walls, he was steeling himself for the sight of his friend in God knew what kind of state.

  But then two things happened that Ben couldn’t have foreseen.

  The first was that Hacker’s lantern light completed its 360-degree sweep of the chamber without revealing anything but bare stone blockwork. Then it suddenly jerked to a halt and remained fixed and trembling on one spot. Not on the huddled and abject figure of a sick or dying prisoner – but on a neat rectangular hole in the wall where a stone block had been removed.

  Ben’s heart jolted as if defibrillator pads had been pressed to his chest. The dungeon was empty. Boonzie was gone. Stuart’s plan had just become half-unravelled.

  Hacker yelled out, ‘He’s not fucking here!’

  Ben suddenly wanted to burst out laughing. Go, Boonzie. Looked like there was life in the old dog yet.

  Carter and Banks still had their guns pointed right at Ben, but the muzzles were wavering with uncertainty. And that was when the second thing happened. Which was that Hacker’s phone rang. He thrust his pistol in his belt, ripped the phone from his pocket, slammed it to his ear and almost screamed, ‘WHAT?’ In the next instant his anger turned to alarm. ‘Graham? What happened?’

  Ben could hear the caller’s distressed voice on the line, hoarse and high-pitched. He couldn’t make out the words. But Hacker heard them up close and clear. His eyes popped wide and his jaw sagged. He gasped, ‘She what? What the fuck do you mean, she stabbed you?’

  In that moment, Stuart’s plan had suddenly unravelled all the rest of the way. Because somewhere up there inside the castle, Grace Kirk had just managed to turn the tables on her guard.

  And that was a game-changer, not just for her but for Ben as well.

  Hacker and his associates were stunned by the news. Only for an instant, but an instant was long enough for Ben to see his second and last window of chance open up in front of him.

  Banks and Carter were standing roughly three feet apart and five feet away from Ben, Banks to the left and Carter to the right, marking two points of an isosceles triangle with Hacker as its third point in the middle a few steps beyond. This time it was Banks who was closer to Ben.

  And so Banks was the target Ben chose now. In one lunge he slammed into him, twisted the gun out of his hand, felt the pencil-snap of finger bones as the weapon ripped free, turned it around and shot him square in the middle of the face.

  One down.

  Even as the 9mm bullet was still in the air and the spent case was spinning from the cycling breech, the muzzle of the gun was swivelling the three feet to the right to engage Ben’s second target. By the time it was pointing at the astonished Carter a tiny fraction of a second later, the next round was chambered and the trigger was reset, and before Carter could even flinch or crap his pants Ben double-tapped him, centre of the chest. Two down. Carter and Banks were always the weakest links. They’d never really had a chance, once the right moment came. And it had come.

  But Carl Hacker wasn’t going to be so quick and easy to take out.

  Chapter 54

  Hacker dropped his phone and clawed out his pistol, twisting and dropping into a combat posture with such violence that he let his lantern fall and it went out. He punched his gun out in a two-handed grip and let off a wild string of shots. Seventeen rounds in his magazine, all with Ben’s name on them.

  But Ben wasn’t about to let any of them find him. He dived to the hard stone floor and came lunging up in a fast, explosive forward roll to catch Carter’s corpse even as it was still collapsing. He clasped the dead man’s body against his own as a shield and felt the thudding impacts of the bullets slamming into Carter’s back. Ben had been willing to gamble that Hacker’s 9mm hollowpoints would mushroom to a halt inside the body and not penetrate all the way through. It was a hell of a way to put a theory to the test. He fired back over Carter’s shoulder, two rapid snapping rounds, but Hacker was already dancing away into the dark recesses of the dungeon, a flitting patch of darkness in the shadows that was hard to pinpoint in Ben’s gunsights. The shots ricocheted off bare stone and hummed all around the chamber like angry bees. Firing blind in this place was a recipe for getting hit with your own bullet.

  Now Ben had a problem, because he couldn’t see Hacker, but Hacker could see him by the light of Banks’s fallen lantern. Ben quickly crunched it with the heel of his boot; and now the whole chamber was plunged into blackness. He darted away from where the light source had been, merging into the shadows like Hacker.

  This was the moment Ben most wished he still had those damn night-vision goggles. There was dead silence in the chamber, apart from the ringing in his ears. He could sense Hacker slowly circling, watching, peeling the layers of darkness apart with his eyes to discern where his enemy was. A second later there was another deafening gunshot and a white spurt of muzzle flash from the other side of the chamber as Hacker let off another round at the spot where he thought Ben was lurking. He was six feet off target. The bullet struck sparks off the wall and carved its deadly ricochet trajectory all over the place, coming closer to hitting Ben than the original shot.

  Now Ben knew where he was, and fired back. But Hacker was fast, too, and in the instant it took for Ben to register the location of the flash and set his sights on it, Hacker had already skipped away and was lost in the darkness.

  Silence again. Both men waiting, watching, listening, each afraid to betray his position to the other. They could just keep playing this cat-and-mouse game until someone got hit, either by design or by chance, with their opponent’s bullet or their own. Ben didn’t like the odds much.

  Neither did his opponent. There was a sudden rush of footsteps and a furious metallic clatter as Hacker raced to find the ladder and started wildly clambering up it. Ben fired at the sound and his blind shot howled off an aluminium rung. He fired again. But Hacker was leaping up the ladder like a scalded wildcat and he made it to the top before Ben could get a fix on him. In two bounds Ben was at the foot of the ladder and ready to storm up after him, but a hail of gunfire blasted down all over the inside of the chamber, bullets bouncing everywhere and forcing Ben to dive away from the ladder, roll and take cover.

  In the next instant he heard the scrape of the ladder being withdrawn, and then the echoing clang of the iron trapdoor being slammed back down and the bolt being kicked home. More muzzle flashes lit up the mouth of the chamber as Hacker jammed his pistol muzzle through the iron grid and loosed off another five rounds. Ben came back at him with two, three, f
our return shots, aiming behind the flashes. Hacker’s gunfire ceased. Ben heard running steps escaping.

  Then nothing. He was alone again down here in the subterranean blackness, with the sudden silence and the sweetish tang of burnt powder mingling with the stench of the dungeon. He patted himself all over for injuries. In the heat of combat you could take a hit without even realising it. He was unhurt. Ben allowed himself a grim momentary pleasure at the rising enemy casualty toll. The score stood at three dead Dishonourables, plus a fourth incapacitated with a knife wound. The colonel would be happy. He’d be even happier by the time this was over.

  But it was a long way from over. Ben was still at a serious tactical disadvantage because now Hacker was heading back up there to go after Grace, and Ben was trapped down here with two corpses and unable to do a damn thing to help her. Not good.

  He took out his Zippo lighter and thumbed the flint, and the orange flame cast its halo glow through the darkness. Worried that it was low on fuel and would soon gutter out, he searched around for Hacker’s fallen lantern and found it, hoping that it wasn’t irreparably damaged. To his relief, after a few shakes and knocks it started working again. He put away the warm lighter and set the lantern down on the floor next to him as he took the pistol from Carter’s body and stuck both weapons in his belt. Carter and Banks each had a spare magazine in their pocket. Thirty-four more rounds of the same hollowpoints Hacker was using. Not sufficient ammo to start a war with, but plenty enough to put an end to Stuart’s operation. The dead men had phones, too, which Ben lifted as well. Next, picking the lantern up again, he made his way over to the mysterious hole in the wall that was all that remained of Boonzie’s presence in the dungeon.

  How Boonzie had managed to work the stone block loose, Ben couldn’t begin to imagine. With no tools to work with, it must have taken him dozens of hours and left his fingers raw. There were dried bloodstains on the block, which stood up on end near the hole with a jagged chunk broken off one corner.

  The bad smell was noticeably stronger over by the hole; Ben didn’t realise why at first, until he leaned in and examined it more closely by the lantern-light, and understood. Boonzie’s escape route was, literally, a tunnel: a large-diameter sewer pipe running through the castle foundations past the curve of the dungeon wall.

  Ben shook his head in amazement at his friend’s resilience. Boonzie must have been drawn to the spot by the sound of water gushing through the pipe. Maybe the mortar holding in the block had become weakened by moisture leaking from some small crack over time. A few well-aimed kicks might have been enough to start the process of loosening it, before the endless labour of doggedly working it back and forth and inching it from its space. After he’d finally managed to work the block all the way loose he’d smashed it down on the dungeon floor to break off the smaller chunk, which he must have then used to bludgeon a hole in the pipe big enough to crawl into. It had been a desperate gamble taken by a desperate man. His escape through the sewer pipe must have been indescribable.

  And now Ben was about to find out for himself. Because there was no way out of here except to follow in his friend’s footsteps. If it was good enough for Boonzie McCulloch, then it was good enough for him.

  Ben got down on his knees, took a deep breath and then poked his head into the shattered pipe. The smell of effluent made his eyes burn. His one consolation was that the castle would have its own private sewerage, so it was only the shit of its owner, henchmen and various staff that he would now have to go crawling through for an unknown distance. He pushed one arm into the pipe. His outstretched hand sank into the three inches of foul-smelling, icy-cold water running along its curved bottom. Then his torso, one leg, then the other, and he was in. Boonzie was a smaller man and would have fitted just a little more comfortably inside the pipe, if comfort was the word. But Ben could make it.

  He started to crawl, pushing the lantern along in front of him as he went. The light illuminated the rounded walls of the pipe for a few feet ahead, dissolving into a circle of darkness beyond. A terrible claustrophobia gripped him as he left the hole behind with nowhere to go but forwards. Where he was going, he had no idea. But anywhere was better than here.

  And so on he went. Hands and knees, head down, sloshing through the filthy water and the sediment of foulness that was accumulated in the bottom of the pipe, breathing through his mouth to minimise the stench that made him want to puke, trying not to think about Hacker hunting for Grace up there in the castle and what he’d do if he found her.

  Ben kept pushing forwards. Twice he found himself verging close to panic, becoming utterly convinced that there was no way out of here, and having to pause while he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing and thought of sunny green hills and wildflower meadows. Get a grip. Boonzie had made it out, and so would he.

  Soon afterwards, Ben realised that he could see a faint glimmer of daylight in the circular mouth of the tunnel ahead. Galvanised by the sight, he crawled faster towards it and the daylight grew brighter. It was shining down from a round aperture where the horizontal pipe was jointed at a right angle to a vertical outlet. Step irons were inset into the brickwork and led up to a manhole cover several metres above. Someone had left the iron manhole cover open. There was wonderfully fresh, cold air blowing down it, bringing little snatches of snowflakes that spiralled down and pattered on his face as he raised himself onto his knees and craned his neck upwards to fill his lungs. What must it have felt like for Boonzie, getting his first taste of fresh, beautiful air for the first time in days?

  Ben left the lantern behind and scrambled up the step irons. Pushing his head and shoulders out through the open manhole he looked around him to get his bearings. Wherever he was now, it was some considerable distance from the castle. He couldn’t see it at all, because during his time underground the snow had started again and was now blowing up into a blizzard.

  Ben clambered out of the hole and scooped up handfuls of powdery snow to wipe the filth from his clothes and hands. The strong wind tore at him and snowflakes whipped into his eyes and nose. He began to shiver violently and knew he had to find shelter and warmth before he froze to death out here. The afternoon was already fading fast into twilight and the temperature would soon start to drop like a stone.

  He staggered through the snow, sinking in up to his knees in drifts that piled up on the uneven ground. The whirling blizzard seemed to be gathering strength with every passing moment, becoming a near-total whiteout. Visibility was no more than a few metres ahead and his sense of direction was almost non-existent. But then, half-blinded by the force of the driving snowflakes filling his eyes, he saw the dark shape of a long, low building ahead and began to make his way towards it.

  At first he thought the building was a stable block or an animal shelter, but as he stumbled closer to it he realised it was some kind of groundskeeper’s hut or storage shed. The wind was drifting the snow high against its slatted wooden sides. He reached an end wall and worked along its length until he came to a flimsy wooden door, warped and weathered. He pushed through the doorway.

  It was semi-dark inside the hut, with only two small windows, both rimed with snow. The ambient temperature was noticeably higher than outside. There was a smell in the air as though someone had been using a propane stove or heater in here not too long ago.

  In the murky half-light Ben could make out piles of agricultural equipment, building materials and tall shelving units covered with paint cans, tools and assorted boxes. A large object stood draped with a tarpaulin in the middle of the hut. He tugged at the tarp and saw that underneath was a rugged Polaris all-terrain, two-seater utility vehicle. A cross between a golf cart and a military assault buggy, the kind of thing that estate keepers would use to patrol the grounds and lug trailers of logs and fertiliser around.

  So much for that. Ben let the tarp flop back down, and turned away. He was shivering so hard that his teeth were chattering, and his mind was suddenly on relighting that propane heater,
wherever it was. He needed to find warmth and get the circulation going in his numb fingers and toes. He started exploring the rest of the hut. The light was fading quickly as the blizzard outside intensified even more. Up on one of the shelving units was another rechargeable lantern. He reached out to grab it.

  And that was when a figure rushed up from behind and attacked him.

  Chapter 55

  Ben’s attacker wasn’t a big or heavy man, but he was hard and wiry. He launched into Ben with ferocious violence, knocking him off balance. In the next instant an arm wrapped itself like a steel band around Ben’s throat, threatening to crush the air out of him. Ben tried to wrench free of the stranglehold and throw the man off him, but he was clinging on tighter than a mongoose with a death grip on a cobra. Ben was fighting to breathe, and losing fast. In seconds he’d start to black out.

  He wheeled around and backed up hard into one of the metal shelving units, bringing down an avalanche of hardware and tool equipment. The impact drew a grunt of pain from Ben’s attacker and loosened his hold around Ben’s throat just enough for Ben to be able to get his fingers around the strangling arm and relieve the pressure so that he could snatch a gasp of air.

  The guy was unbelievably strong and tenacious. But now Ben had a solid purchase on his arm, and used it to throw his attacker over his shoulder and send him slamming to the floor. The man hit the boards with a crash that shook the hut and would have knocked most opponents half unconscious, but he was instantly starting to writhe back upright as Ben stormed in to launch a stamping kick to the guy’s face.

  If the kick had landed, it would have smashed his jawbone, rammed his teeth down his throat and been a definitive, spectacular fight-finisher. But just as Ben was gathering his strength and momentum for the killer blow, he hesitated. Stopped. Froze.