Diablo

by James Kent

  Swann preferred not to kill him if possible, but he would if he had to. He really wanted to take the guy alive, hand him over to the Feds in nylon cuffs as a valuable source of information on Silva and all his contacts, but these things very rarely worked out that way. Pride got in the way of good sense. But if he could talk him into surrendering, all well and good; a “bird-in-the-hand” type thing. A live specimen like Randall would know a lot more than Eddie could ever share; and he would be more useful than Silva’s junk cell phone contacts list, many of whom would no longer be viable. After Randall spills his guts to the Feds, well who cares what happens to him? thought Swann. Fifteen years as someone’s prison bitch. Whatever. So, ok, he needed to make a half-decent effort at arresting his ass considering he hadn’t actually killed anyone, at least according to Eddie the Ferret’s (probably useless) testimony.

  Randall knew that a very sharp knife was being pressed firmly into the soft flesh of his neck. He could feel its scalpel-like threat, making him squint his eyes shut in expectation. He understood intuitively that his life was in peril, that the smallest wrong move could end it. He had only one chance at survival. The risk was amplified by the fact that he was still slightly addled from the concussive impact to his neck and from the whack on the side of his head.

  ‘Drop it!’ Swann said again, ‘Or you’re a dead man!’ Randall dropped the Glock. It hit the ground with a thud and Swann kicked it aside. Randall kept his arms down and out slightly to help his balance as he was forced to lean backwards and unable to take a step because of Swann’s planted boot. To lift his other foot was to fall onto his back, arms flailing like a rag doll. Undignified and ridiculous. But he still looked like he had fight left in him. His long leather coat hung open, exposing the knife that Swann could now see in his thigh scabbard. Evil-looking piece! he thought.

  ‘Who are you?’ Randall asked through clenched teeth as Swann still clamped his jaw right back. He had a death grip on him.

  ‘The Grim Reaper, pal!’ replied Swann in his right ear. ‘Give it up, or it’s over for you!’ Swann pressed the knife in slightly more, cutting his neck and causing blood to stream down Randall’s neck into his collar.

  There are not many things you can do in a situation like that, at least not without gambling on your life. But there are well known high-risk moves that sometimes work if the guy behind you isn’t trained in a similar way, or if he lacks certain skills. What Randall couldn’t know was that Swann knew exactly what these moves were and was trained to deal with them too. You learn them in most of the military-based martial arts like Krav Maga and Systema practiced by the Israeli and Russian Special Forces, and by the British SAS and US Navy Seals who utilize a variety of similar styles. Swann was an aficionado of Krav Maga and had learned enough Russian Systema which enabled him to develop his own lethal blend of hand-to-hand fighting. Normally, of course, he didn’t need it because of his height and strength advantage over the average fighting-age male.

  Despite his bruising and disorientation still, Randall was poised to move. Swann could sense it so he increased the pressure on Randall’s twisted jaw and neck, and on the Ka-Bar. Randall got the message and decided the gamble wasn’t worth it. Executing a left twist away from the knife, while dropping a few inches to release Swann’s grip, would take a lot longer that it would for Swann to plunge the knife all the way into Randall’s neck. On top of that, Randall would have to go for his own knife at the same time and be guaranteed not to fumble it, which was unlikely in his current condition. He wanted to swing around with an upwards thrust of his knife into Swann’s abdomen or groin, a move perfected by the Romans to devastating effect. Some things never change because human anatomy never changes. However, Randall knew instinctively that he would lose the race to the finish so he nodded to Swann that he wouldn’t do anything rash. He didn’t move a muscle, allowing Swann to consider removing his Ka-Bar from the side of his neck. But he didn’t remove it. He kept the pressure on, just enough for Randall to feel its imminent threat. Randall’s blood continued to trickle into his collar.

  ‘If you move a muscle before I tell you to, or make a threatening gesture, even blink in a way I don’t like, you’re dead. Got that pal?’ he asked him. Randall nodded. ‘I want you to reach down and take out that knife of yours, nice and slow, using only your forefinger and thumb. Just forefinger and thumb on the pommel! Then hold it out at arm’s length, dangling from your fingertips and let it drop into the dirt. Got that too?’ he asked. Again, Randall nodded and said nothing. ‘If I see your hand close around the handle, I’ll stick you in an instant!’

  Swann increased the pressure on the Ka-Bar slightly more as a warning and said, ‘Ok, do it!’ Randall reached slowly for his Bowie and slid it out of its leather scabbard, using his finger and thumb as instructed. He held it out and let it drop. He heard it thunk! into the ground a foot or two to the side where Swann could see it. Then, without warning, Swann stepped aside and allowed gravity to deal to Randall’s compromised balance. He helped gravity out by kicking Randall’s feet out from under him. He fell hard to the ground onto his back with a thump. Swann stared down at him. Randall knew it would be the easiest thing in the world for the big guy to bend down and stab him in the kidneys as he lay there prone. He’d never felt so exposed and vulnerable. How the hell did that happen? he wondered. He’d never been caught napping like that before.

  Swann tossed a pair of wide, nylon cable ties on the ground beside him and told him to loop them around his ankles and pull them tight. Randall sat up, reached over and slipped the ties around his ankles; one then the other. They made a fast, high-pitched “zipping” sound as he tightened them. Swann dropped two more and told him to cuff his own wrists as well and to pull them tight as best he could with his teeth. One tie is generally enough for binding wrists behind your back, but two for when they are in front, especially for a big guy with plenty of arm and upper-body strength. Randall did as he was told. Once he had the wrist cuffs pulled tight, he sat there as helpless as a tethered goat with a wolf watching over him while his neck leaked blood into his collar.

  He looked up at Swann who slid the Ka-Bar back into its scabbard. Randall watched it with wide eyes. ‘Nice piece!’ he said. ‘Better than my Bowie.’ He looked defeated and hopeless. Swann ignored the comment and asked, ‘Where’s the other guy, the one called “Pedro”?.’

  ‘How do you know who we are?’ replied Randall. Swann squatted down beside him and pulled all the cuffs as tight as he could to make sure there was no chance Randall could wriggle free. ‘Never mind that!’ he said in answer to the question. ‘Where’s the other guy? What’s he using as a weapon?’

  ‘A dirty knife is all he’s got on him . . . keeps it in his boot. He’s got a nine-mil in the Jeep. I saw him before, over by the dumpster.’

  Swann said nothing more. He took the roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket and peeled off a long length which he wrapped tightly around Randall’s head, covering his mouth. He pressed it all down onto his flesh so that it was firmly stuck in place and unlikely to move. Then he peeled off another long length and wrapped it tightly around Randall’s already cuffed wrists as added insurance. Randall looked at him as if to say ‘Really?’ Swann just smiled at him and ruffled his hair. ‘Can’t be too careful pal!’ he said, still smiling.

  He pushed Randall over onto his side so that he could feel in his jacket pockets for any ammunition and whatever else, finding his phone and two spare ammo clips all of which he pocketed. He reached into Randall’s back jeans pocket for his wallet. Pulled it out, opened it and studied the ID: “Tyler Leon Randall” he repeated, then he folded it again and tossed it roughly back at Randall who lay there compliantly. The wallet landed on his hip and slipped off onto the dirt. Swann wasn’t interested in the money inside the wallet; around two hundred dollars in twenties. He didn’t need it. And besides, he wasn’t a thief. Then he took his Ka-Bar out again, sliced Randall’s pants belt in half and slid off the leather scabbard for the huge
Bowie knife. Randall stared back at him and shook his head at the indignity of having his pride and joy stolen like that. ‘Thanks for the Bowie!’ Swann said and winked. But in his view, he wasn’t “stealing” the knife. He was “confiscating” it. There’s a difference. ‘I might use it on your friend!’ he added with a wink.

  Swann dragged Randall across the dirt to a mesquite tree where he secured his bound wrists to its base with two more large nylon cuffs and pulled them tight; tight enough to make him wince. Randall’s trousers had slipped partway down his backside because they lacked a belt to keep them in place. Then Swann walked over to where the Glock lay and picked it up. He released the full clip which he slipped into a pocket on his armored vest. He racked the slide of the pistol to release the last round still in the chamber, then he dismantled it and threw the two sections as far as he could, out into the dark desert scrublands in two different directions. He had no need of the Glock either. Besides, he preferred the SIG and he didn’t want a pistol that was probably stolen and had its serial number filed off.

  After disposing of Randall’s Glock, he went to retrieve the Bowie knife which he wiped clean and slid into its leather scabbard. He undid his own belt and threaded the knife onto it, on the opposite side to his Ka-Bar.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere!’ he said to Randall who looked up at him.

  ‘Funny guy!’ mumbled Randall thickly through all the duct tape around his mouth. He watched Swann melt silently into the shadows like a phantom.

  ‘Jesus!’ mumbled Randall to himself behind his taped gag. ‘Who the hell is that guy?’

  31

  Pedro was impressed when he found Randall, yet he didn’t like what had happened to him. It enraged him because it had obviously happened very quickly and quietly which meant they were dealing with someone who knew what he was doing. They’d come here to deal with Eddie the goddam Ferret, an easy job you would think. And then suddenly, out of the blue, comes this other pain-in-the-ass who managed to put Randall out of action with hardly a sound and in a matter a few seconds, maybe a minute at the most, realized Pedro. A whole different ball game. But why didn’t he just kill Randall? he wondered, knowing that if the tables were turned, that’s what he would have done; no question. That fact alone meant only one thing: the big guy was some kind of law enforcement. But what’s his connection with Eddie?

  After having circled cautiously around the old shipping container from out in the dark scrublands, Pedro found Randal lying on the ground with his arms pulled back above his head and secured to the base of a mesquite tree. ‘Damn!’ he said to himself. Randall’s ankles were bound with nylon cable ties, his mouth gagged with duct tape, and his trousers were down around his backside like the hipsters and bums you see around town. Pedro put his Glock in his coat pocket then he knelt down and started unpeeling the tape from around Randall’s mouth so he could speak.

  ‘The big guy do this?’ Pedro asked pointlessly once Randall’s mouth was free.

  ‘Who the hell else could it be?’ he replied. ‘Cut me loose for Chrissakes! He’s still out there somewhere!’

  ‘Who the hell is this guy?’ asked Pedro as he pulled the knife from inside his boot. ‘Which direction did he go?’ he asked as he reached over to cut through the ties securing Randall’s arms to the tree.

  ‘I dunno who he is. But he just kinda disappeared into the darkness. I think he headed in that direction, towards the far end of this here steel shed,’ he added, nodding toward the shipping container. Pedro looked over in that direction for a second or two, then he sliced through the tape and the two other ties binding Randall’s wrists together. The blade cut through it all like a hot knife through butter. Randall brought his arms forwards and moved them around to relieve the numbness as he still lay there on his back. His neck was still sensitive and sore from being whacked from behind. He felt the blood flowing back into his shoulders. Then Pedro leant over to cut through the ankle ties too.

  ‘You looking for me pal?’ That was the second time he’d asked that question. ‘You cut that tie, I’ll shoot you in the head!’ Swann was standing just a few yards behind Pedro, in partial shadow from the container, the shadow cast by the Moon. He had his pistol drawn and pointing right at Pedro’s head. Another knife at a gun fight scenario, thought Swann. ‘Step away from the corpse!’ he ordered Pedro with aggression.

  “Corpse”? Pedro stopped what he was doing, his stiletto knife poised beneath the first nylon tie around Randall’s ankles, ready to cut through. He got the hint and didn’t move a muscle as he assessed the situation. Randall craned his neck over towards Swann. He raised his eyes and let his head drop back onto the ground in exasperation. ‘You’re a real pain in the ass, dude!’ he called out to Swann who smiled at the unintended compliment.

  ‘Good to know!’ replied Swann.

  Without moving his head, Pedro whispered to Randall as quietly as possible, ‘Get the Glock from my right pocket.’

  Randall slowly reached around into Pedro’s coat pocket for the Glock and pulled it out, somewhat clumsily because of the awkward angle. He hoped like hell his movements hadn’t been noticed and that there was a round in the chamber. But his movements were noticed. Swann saw what Randall was trying to do. He shifted his aim slightly, from Pedro’s head to Randall’s left knee and pulled the trigger twice. The harsh “thwack!” of the suppressed weapon split the air between them as two nine-millimeter slugs were sent into Randal’s knee joint. They sounded like two loud cracks from a rodeo whip in quick succession.

  Randall convulsed and yelled out as though he’d just been electrocuted, his knee blown apart. He panicked and fumbled Pedro’s Glock, dropping it. But it was more from the brutal shock than any pain that caused him to cry out; the agony would come a minute or two later. Until that pain arrives like a freight train, the brain scrambles the senses with shock and disbelief. But it is a fleeting reprieve.

  Randall’s blood, tissue and small fragments of bone spattered Pedro’s face; he was still in the same position, too close to avoid the fallout. He squinted his eyes shut at the ugly feel of someone else’s blood, bone and tissue residue all over his face, on his lips and in his eyes. He felt insulted somehow. He felt the rage again and his grip tightened on the stiletto knife, his knuckles white from the strain.

  *

  Swann corrected his aim, back to Pedro. But as he did so, Pedro suddenly launched himself at him. It was a powerful, fast and unexpected move that caught Swann off guard. Pedro’s massive bulk slammed into Swann and knocked him off his feet. He dropped the gun in the process and they both lay sprawled on the ground, in a furious mêlée of flailing limbs. Swann landed awkwardly, with the bulky roll of duct tape pressing into the small of his back as his jacket pocket lay twisted around and underneath him.

  Feet and arms and fists went flying as they fought like wild animals, each trying to get the upper hand, each scratching at the other’s eyes and face. Swann had to use all his martial arts skills to avoid the flying stiletto as Pedro slashed and stabbed at him. He tried repeatedly to grab for his Ka-Bar, or Randall’s Bowie, but each time Pedro knocked his hand clear. And then, in the blink of an eye, Swann saw his chance and head-butted Pedro full in the face. He heard cartilage break so he jammed his thumb right into Pedro’s right eye and then he head-butted him again in the same place as before. Pedro was momentarily dazed and blinded while blood poured from his broken nose. Swann finally managed to push him off him and reach for his Ka-Bar.

  Despite being injured and dazed, Pedro was still fast. He got to his feet at the same time as Swann. They took a breather as they faced off, each now with razor-sharp fighting knives held ready to kill the other. Randall still moaned in pain from his smashed knee joint and he lay there on his side watching the spectacle, unable to get to his feet to help Pedro. Swann saw him attempting to reach out for the Glock that he’d dropped earlier, so he took a step towards him and kicked him in the shot knee. Randall screamed in agony and doubled up on his side, almost in the fet
al position; he held his damaged leg in both hands, trying to protect it from further assault. He lay still and moaned, drenched in sweat and blood from his wounds. His ankles were still shackled together, but now slightly loosened. Swann tried to pick up the Glock himself just as Pedro attacked him again, but he realized he had no time to bend and retrieve it before Pedro came crashing into him. He kicked it well clear instead and then stepped aside in one fluid movement, allowing Pedro’s forward momentum to carry him on. Pedro tripped over Randall and almost fell, but he managed to stay upright. Then he turned and faced Swann, holding his stiletto in the back-handed dagger hold while blood poured from his nose. He kept squinting to clear the blurred vision in his right eye.

  ‘Kill the bastard!’ moaned Randall. ‘Just bloody kill him for Chrissakes!’ he repeated and started sobbing. He had had enough and wanted it to end. He lay still, bleeding profusely from his leg, a pool of blood darkening the ground around his legs.

  Pedro said nothing in reply. He stared at Swann who calmly stared back, his arms down by his side, the Ka-Bar held firmly in his right hand. They stood a couple of yards on either side of Randall who tried to hold his head up off the ground, watching to see who would make the next move. He trembled with the effort as sweat poured from his face and neck, and blood oozed from his destroyed knee joint.

  Swann’s calm, relaxed demeanor infuriated Pedro. Then Swann smiled at him. ‘Here’s your only chance pal,’ he said. ‘Drop the knife or I’ll gut you like a fish.’

  Pedro continued to stare back at Swann, saying nothing. Then he took a step to the side, moving around to avoid stepping over Randall. Swann stepped back slightly and maneuvered to face Pedro who approached with his knife ready to slash out at him. Swann still kept his hands down, holding the Black Tanto in the blade-out “sabre” grip. He was relaxed and calm, and kept smiling at Pedro like it was all a sad joke, like he couldn’t take him seriously. It served only to infuriate Pedro more.