Red Strike

by Chris Ryan

  Bald, doing his bit for the environment.

  The front of the garage was the showroom. Sales counter to the left, with stacks of sun-faded colour leaflets detailing the various tours Bald offered. To the right of the counter stood the rows of motorbikes: BMW F700s, Harley-Davidson Softails, Ducati Monsters. A handful of scooters for the older clients who just wanted a convenient way of getting around town. There were racks of bike leathers, shelves piled high with spare parts, helmets and tyres. The walls were lined with memorabilia left behind by the previous owner: faded photographs of tour groups, vintage US licence plates. A classic Triumph X-75 Hurricane – Bald’s pride and joy – hung from a pair of metal chains looped around the ceiling crossbeams.

  There was no front door. The garage opened out directly on to the cracked pavement. A steel roller shutter came down at night to protect the place. Outside, a street dog lay sprawled beneath the unrelenting sun. There was a nail salon opposite and a convenience store a few doors further along. It wasn’t the glitzy end of town. Few tourists wandered this far away from the main thoroughfares along the seafront.

  This place looks exactly like what it is, thought Bald. A business that had seen better days, half-forgotten, struggling to make ends meet. Surviving, but only just.

  Story of my life.

  He tried to ignore the anger simmering in his veins and put on his winning smile. Approached the two customers.

  They were standing just inside the entrance. Both in their late thirties or early forties. Not in the prime of their lives. They had the kind of bulky, heavyset physiques of former professional footballers who had let themselves go in retirement. The taller guy was pale, with long black hair flowing down past his shoulders and a scruffy goatee. A dog tag necklace hung from around his neck. Some sort of fashion accessory, Bald presumed. He didn’t know. He wasn’t big on European fashion.

  The smaller guy gave away about six inches in height to Dog Tag. He wasn’t much taller than Hector, five-six or seven, heavy in the arms and neck. He had a round freckled face, with narrow eyes like a pair of stab wounds in a torso and a neatly shaven jaw. He wore a stained graphic T-shirt with the Harley-Davidson logo splashed across the front. Together they looked like the tribute act for a late-nineties thrash metal group.

  ‘Help you lads?’ asked Bald.

  Dog Tag and Harley both turned to greet the ex-Blade. Dog Tag looked him up and down, visually screening him. The guy had a tear-shaped scar beneath his left eye, Bald noted.

  ‘You’re the owner? John Bald?’ Dog Tag asked. His Eastern European accent was as thick as cement.

  ‘Aye. That’s me, lads.’

  Bald hadn’t bothered to change his name when he’d quit Britain. He considered it unlikely that Six would be actively looking for him on the other side of the world. And besides, living under an assumed name in the era of social media and data harvesting was fraught with complications. Easier to just go with the flow.

  Dog Tag pointed to himself.

  ‘I’m Kristians. This is my brother, Ritvars. We’re booked on the tour. To Palenque. The email said to report here when we arrived in town.’

  Bald nodded. Although he rented out a few motorbikes, most of his business came from selling tour packages through the company website. Bald led the groups personally as the road captain, charging a hefty fee for the privilege of guiding the tourists through the Mexican countryside, taking care of all the hotel bookings and logistics. A chase vehicle, driven by Hector, carried any luggage the customers might have with them.

  ‘You’re the Latvians, right? The Pahars brothers?’

  Dog Tag nodded.

  ‘First time you fellas have been riding in these parts?’

  ‘First time in Mexico, full stop.’

  Bald was looking at Dog Tag, but in the periphery of his vision he noticed the other guy sweeping his eyes round the garage.

  ‘It’s just you here?’ asked Harley.

  ‘Me and the kid, aye. Just the two of us.’

  ‘What about the others? We’re not the only ones on the tour, no?’

  ‘Not here yet. You lads are the first to check in.’

  The Latvian nodded slowly, as if this was somehow vital information. He glanced sidelong at Dog Tag. Said something in his native tongue. The two of them were having some kind of debate. Haggling over what bikes they wanted to take on the ride, maybe. Or perhaps they were debating whether to abandon this rundown joint altogether and try their luck elsewhere.

  Dog Tag slid his gaze back to Bald and smiled. He seemed the friendlier of the two. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘All your documents,’ Bald said. ‘Passports, licences. Credit cards and payment, cash only.’

  Dog Tag and Harley exchanged a knowing look. The latter glanced over his shoulder at the street outside. Still empty, except for the street dog and the rubbish drifting like tumbleweed across the pavement.

  ‘No problem,’ Dog Tag said.

  He reached for something in his rear jeans pocket.

  Just then Bald heard a voice from further down the street.

  Dog Tag paused. So did his brother. They simultaneously turned towards the street, Bald looking in the same direction as two guys swept into view.

  They were decked out in matching dark jeans, Salomon Gore-Tex trail boots and plain dark T-shirts. Both of them were carrying brown leather holdalls, talking in low voices as they marched purposefully towards the shop entrance. One of the guys looked a bulked-up gap-year traveller. He had cold blue eyes, long dark hair, unkempt beard and a deep suntan. Not the reddened sunburn from a few days roasting on a lounger, but the kind of all-over brown acquired from months of working outdoors. He looked sinewy and lithe, like a triathlete. Bald guessed that his body fat was somewhere in the low single digits.

  The other guy was the bigger of the two. A serious-looking black guy in his thirties, also thickly bearded, with a freshly shaven head. He had the broad build of a middleweight boxer, six-foot-plus of explosive power and fast-twitch muscle fibre. He said something to his mucker in a distinctive North London accent, aggressive and flat.

  The blue-eyed guy stepped into the garage with his mate, scanning the building, examining every nook and cranny, as if he was looking for a security camera.

  Bald watched them carefully. Blue Eyes glanced quickly at the Latvians before he settled his gaze on Jock.

  ‘Is this the place for the bike tours, mate?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Bald said, shifting his attention to the new customers. ‘You lads are booked in for the Zipolite trip?’

  Blue Eyes nodded and thrust out a hand. ‘Phil Lyden. And this is Jordan Rowe,’ he added, gesturing to the middleweight boxer standing next to him.

  Bald glanced at Rowe, taking him in properly for the first time. His muscles were huge. His shoulders were the size of rock formations. His hands were calloused, Bald noted, and there were tiny pinkish scars on his cheeks and above his eyebrows. He looked like someone who had been in a lot of scraps in his time and had an unbeaten record. Maybe he was in the fight game, thought Bald. A fighter in the amateur ranks. Or perhaps he was a mixed-martial-arts teacher.

  Lyden and Rowe. Bald recalled the names from the online booking. Sounded like a high-end cosmetics firm, the kind that supplied complimentary bars of soap to Park Lane hotels.

  ‘Got some luggage for the trip,’ Lyden said, patting the holdalls. ‘Thought we’d drop the bags off before we check into the hotel, like. Save us some time.’

  Dog Tag and Harley had been watching the exchange in silence, glaring openly at the two Brits as if they were a bad smell that had just wafted in from the streets. Which was weird, Bald thought to himself. They didn’t appear to know one another. So why were they acting as though the Brits had pissed them off?

  ‘Be with you in a minute,’ Bald said. He nodded at the Latvians. ‘Just let me get these lads sorted first.’

  Lyden set down his holdall and held up his hands. ‘Don’t mind us, mate. Take your time
.’

  Bald looked back towards the two Latvians. ‘You got them documents? Won’t take more than a couple of minutes.’

  Dog Tag glared at the Brits for a moment longer before he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a burgundy-red passport with the Latvian coat of arms emblazoned on the front. Dug out his faded leather wallet, plucked out his licence and credit card. Took out a roll of bills from his other pocket, counted out two thousand dollars in US sterling, handed everything over to Bald. Harley did the same.

  Bald gave the passports and licences a cursory glance. He ducked back into his office, made copies of the passports and licences, retrieved a sheath of carbon-copy documents from a tray on his desk. Gave the Latvians a pen and asked them to fill out the forms, returned their passports, swiped through the credit cards for the damage deposits. Took the four thousand dollars in cash and paced over to the back office. A small grey safe had been fitted to the rear wall, next to the metal filing cabinet. Bald punched in the eight-digit code and pressed the Unlock button. A green light above the keypad lit up. He flipped the safe open, stashed the money inside, next to several bundles of petty cash, the company books and the sets of keys for each motorbike. Then he shut the safe again, locked it and returned to the front of the garage.

  The two Brits were inspecting the bikes, pointing out various features. The Latvians lingered beside the sales counter, keeping their distance. Dog Tag stared at them with narrowed eyes. Harley was still giving the Brits the screw-face.

  Bald handed the Latvians back their passports, cards and licences. Gave them a receipt for the damage deposit and a carbon copy for each of the forms they’d signed.

  ‘That’s you lads processed,’ he said. ‘See you tomorrow. Nine o’clock sharp. Don’t be late, or we’ll set off without you. No ifs or fucking buts. Got it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ Dog Tag replied. ‘Okay.’

  The brothers snatched their documents and paperwork, stuffed them in their jeans pockets and turned to leave. Harley shot a final fuck-you look at the two Brits and muttered something to Dog Tag. The latter grunted.

  Then they left.

  Lyden watched them slide out of view, Rowe by his side, his huge arms crossed in front of his chest. The bulging veins on his forearms were as thick as tautened ropes.

  ‘Where did they say they were from?’ Lyden asked, turning to Bald.

  ‘Latvia,’ Bald said. ‘Riga. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’ Lyden shrugged. ‘I bet you get all sorts in here, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s an interesting crowd.’

  ‘Been doing this for a while, have you?’

  ‘Something like that, aye.’

  Bald didn’t want to get drawn into a question-and-answer session about his dodgy past. He changed the subject. ‘Where did you lads say you’re from?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ said Lyden. ‘I’m from Stretford. Jordan here is a Tottenham lad, born and bred.’

  Rowe nodded but said nothing. Bald formed the distinct impression that the guy wasn’t one for small talk.

  ‘Been travelling for a while?’ he asked.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘The long hair.’ Bald shrugged. ‘The beards. You look like you’ve been getting some good rays.’

  Lyden shook his head. ‘We landed in Cancun a couple of days ago. Came straight from Nigeria. Me and Jordan work on one of the offshore rigs down that way.’

  Which explained the guy’s deep suntan, Bald thought.

  They chatted some more while Bald checked their documents and took their luggage. The Brits were friendly enough, he decided. But something wasn’t right about them. Something about the way they carried themselves. The way they oozed confidence and were totally aware of their environment, absorbing every small detail. It almost reminded him of the lads in the Regiment.

  Bald shook his head. No. These lads aren’t SAS. Lyden’s long hair, their unkempt beards: that wasn’t part of the Regiment look. The guys at Hereford took pride in their appearance. No self-respecting Blade would go around looking like a scruffy fucker.

  Your mind is playing tricks on, Bald thought. They’re oil-rig workers. Nothing more.

  Later that afternoon, Bald was getting ready to close up. The day had passed quickly. In addition to the Brits and the Latvians, Bald had to process the other customers booked in for the tour the following day. A middle-aged German couple from Dresden, a Canadian dentist who’d turned up dressed like he was auditioning for Easy Rider, and an obese retired cop from Montrose, Georgia with a MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN T-shirt, on honeymoon with his equally overweight wife. There had been luggage to load on to the chase vehicle, checks to carry out on the bikes, hotel reservations to double-check. At five o’clock sharp Bald had pulled down the roller shutters and called it a day.

  He was ready for a beer. Or ten.

  He had his evening all planned out: a few hours at one of the bars along the beachfront, sipping ice-cold Modelo Negros and watching Sky Sports. Then a nightcap with the American woman he was currently shagging. Terra, a twice-divorced Californian from Long Beach. Bald had met her a few months back at some local dive bar. Stupid fucking name, but great in the sack. She was forty-four but with the body of someone twenty years younger, toned and slender, with curves in all the right places and tight everywhere else. The benefits of clean living and Californian sun and spin classes. Terra had a cracking daughter as well, an undergraduate at Stanford who was visiting her mother for the spring break.

  Bald’s dirty mind visualised various pleasing scenarios. He was sure he could work something out.

  Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

  He powered down the piece-of-shit PC, switched off the overhead fan and stepped out of the back office. Hector was over by the workshop, sweeping the floor, still grinning. As if working a broom was one of life’s great pleasures.

  ‘Almost done, Mister John.’

  ‘That’s enough for one day,’ Bald said, itching to get down to the beachfront. ‘Finish up, mate.’

  ‘One minute.’

  The kid usually left just before Bald, returning home to the gang-infested slum where he lived with his extended family of uncles and cousins. Getting him to leave on time was always a test of Bald’s patience.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Hector reluctantly set aside the broom, like it was a punishment. He flashed his gap-toothed grin at Bald. All that sugary crap the kid drank. ‘You need me to do anything else? Clean the bikes, maybe?’

  ‘Not tonight, fella. I’m on the clock.’

  Hector grinned. ‘You go to the bar tonight? Drinks with the chicas, maybe?’

  ‘More than drinks, I hope. A lot more.’

  ‘You a dirty man, Mister John.’

  ‘Go home, kid.’

  The kid took the hint. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag and made for the entrance. Ducked through the small door built into the shuttered front. The door slammed shut as Hector set off down the street at a gentle trot.

  Finally, thought Bald. A few more tasks and he could get stuck into half a dozen pints and Terra, in that order.

  He emptied the cash register, turned off the garage radio and packed away the tools left on the workbench countertop. He was halfway through the job when the shutter door opened again with a loud grating rasp.

  Hector, he figured.

  Kid was always forgetting something. His phone, maybe. Or his keys.

  He looked over. Saw two burly figures stepping through the door.

  It wasn’t Hector.

  The Latvians.

  SIX

  The Latvian brothers were both decked out in the same gear they had been wearing earlier that day. Bald’s first thought was that they had returned to drop off some extra luggage ahead of the trip. A bag they had forgotten about, discovered only when they had returned to their hotel room after a day of sightseeing and drinking. Then he saw that neither of them was holding
a suitcase or holdall.

  Dog Tag was first through the door. He breezed past the sales counter, slanting his gaze across the interior, as if searching for something. Or someone. His mean eyes settled on Bald. Harley, his overweight mate, closed the shutter door behind him and moved alongside his brother.

  Second thought: maybe they didn’t understand the instructions he’d given them. Some of the customers Bald dealt with had a fairly limited grasp of English.

  Idiots probably think we’re leaving tonight.

  ‘You’re too early,’ Bald said, trying not to sound too irritated. ‘We don’t leave until tomorrow morning, lads.’

  Dog Tag didn’t reply.

  Neither did Harley.

  Bald stepped forwards from the workbench, struggling to mask his irritation. All he wanted to do was get down to the bar and get some beers in him and relax. These two idiots were beginning to piss him off.

  ‘You hear me, fellas? I said—’

  The first punch caught Bald by surprise. He wasn’t expecting a physical confrontation. His posture was all kinds of wrong. He was standing square-on to Dog Tag, hands by his sides, presenting a whole shopping list of targets to his opponent. Kidney, abdomen, throat, jaw, groin.

  Dog Tag didn’t go for any of those. He went off-piste, aiming for the solar plexus. The bread basket.

  The Latvian was fast. He didn’t so much move as blur. Dog Tag shifted his weight to the right, bent at the knees and then pushed up off his feet, rotating his hips as he drove his balled fist up into Bald’s stomach at an angle. Minimum back lift, all the kinetic energy from the punch generated by the explosive twist of his hips. An expert uppercut, delivered to the spot just below the sternum. No time to block the attack. Bald felt the bony ridge of the guy’s knuckles slam into his midriff, driving the air from his lungs. Nausea surged up into his throat. A billion nerve endings flared up and he folded slightly at the waist, gasping for oxygen.