by James Kent
32
Pedro wasn’t used to being made a fool of. He was more used to intimidating someone, especially in a knife fight where he usually excelled, so it galled him that his opponent was anything but intimidated. Swann was calm and composed as though it was nothing out of the ordinary, like he’d just ordered a ham sandwich for a picnic and was waiting for it to be made. He stepped back, away from where Randall was laying on his side holding his ruined leg.
And then Pedro moved. He was very fast on his feet as he attacked, waving his knife in a deadly, sweeping, semi-circular action. His arm movements were spectacularly quick and even graceful to watch as the stainless-steel blade glinted repeatedly in the reflected Moonlight like an out-of-control shredding machine; extremely intimidating and threatening, but also very impressive. Swann backed away and allowed Pedro to have his moment, while he kept his own knife ready to engage him, blade for blade. Then Pedro closed right up and their arms and hands and blades met, flashed and swept against each other; their heads ducking and moving to avoid the cuts and the stabs. They slashed at each other in a lightning fast choreography. Steel blade clinked against steel blade. It took all their focus and concentration to avoid being cut; their stressed grunts and fast breathing were clearly audible to Randall who watched on mesmerized by the spectacle of frenzied violence.
Pedro suddenly reached out and swung his knife toward Swann’s abdomen in a lightning-fast upwards diagonal slice that would easily have gutted him had he not stepped back out of the way in time. Pedro was very quick and light on his feet, but Swann saw it coming; he could tell what Pedro was aiming for even before he moved because he could read all the signs; the way his feet were planted, where he was looking, the way he held his knife, where his other arm was poised for balance and the way he suddenly broke off the blade-on-blade fight that was not getting either of them anywhere. He processed all these signs in a split second without even being aware that he had. He stepped back on instinct, in the nick of time. Pedro’s lethal blade swept past Swann’s midsection, cutting a jagged tear in his jacket.
The instant Pedro’s knife arm had completed its wide slashing arc upwards and his arm raised as a result, Swann jabbed him in the exposed armpit, sticking the Black Tanto blade in deep, four or five inches, and then just as quickly he pulled it free; a rapid thrusting jab like a jerking piston. A deep stab to the armpit is one of the most devastating and disabling of injuries to a limb. It was a move invented by the British and used against the Scots Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden. The British soldier was trained to jab his bayonet deep into the exposed armpit of the attacker to his right, not the man directly in front of him who would get the same treatment from the side – the attacker’s sword arm being raised to strike the British soldier directly in front. It required extreme discipline by the British, but it was very effective.
Pedro’s weapon arm immediately became paralyzed and useless. He looked stunned and shocked. He dropped his knife as the searing pain hit him like a sledgehammer. It felt as though a white-hot poker had been thrust deep into his armpit. He yelled out in agony and clasped his shoulder with his other hand as though trying to clamp the wound from the outside. Swann wasted no time and stabbed Pedro repeatedly in quick succession in the chest and kidneys; fast, lethal quick-fire stabs. Too many, too fast for Pedro to deal with. Then he punched him full in the face purposely to knock him off his feet, his armored knuckles made solid, brutal contact with his already broken nose. Pedro was knocked backwards and collapsed in a heap of burning agony. He started squirming on the ground as blood began to pool around him, pouring from his multitude of deep wounds. His squirming movements spread it wider. Swann squatted down beside him and spoke quietly, even gently to him, soothing his panic. ‘You shouldn’t play games with the Devil bro! It never ends well.’
Randall lay a few feet away watching in horror, watching the death throes of his friend. He started to cry. ‘Who the fuck ARE you?’ he called out between his fear and sobs and tears.
Swann turned to look at Randall and put his forefinger up to his lips, motioning for him to be quiet, ‘Shh!’ he said. Then he looked back down at Pedro and wiped the blade of his Ka-Bar clean on Pedro’s coat and slid it into its sheath.
Pedro started shivering as the injuries to his kidneys and chest, and to the lymph glands in his armpit seized his entire system. He looked up at Swann and repeated Randall’s question, ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Swann didn’t answer.
Then shock seized control of Pedro’s senses and a dam-burst of panic overwhelmed him. He suddenly felt cold and desolate and alone; he knew he had only a few minutes to live and started whimpering, his teeth started chattering as though from the cold, but it was more from shock than anything else. And then suddenly nothing else in the universe mattered and he became calm and still. Strangely and incongruously he had a fleeting childhood memory of being near a waterfall one summer holiday with his parents, picnicking on the shingle beside a river somewhere, with the roar of the waterfall in his ears; a distant, happy memory which made him smile like it was only yesterday, yet an unfathomable sadness filled his mind with loss as his life slipped away into the dirt like the receding tide racing toward the horizon.
33
Swann reached over Pedro’s body and picked up the fallen stiletto. He slipped it into one of the spare knife slats on his vest. Another one for the collection. Then he undid Pedro’s belt, pulled it out of the hoops and tossed it over towards Randall who stared back at him in resignation, his eyes wide like a man expecting the end of the world. Swann turned Pedro’s body over and went through all his pockets, removing his wallet, cell phone, car keys and any weapons, plus a small folding pair of eight-power binoculars. He pocketed everything except the wallet. He checked the ID inside it then, like the belt, he tossed the wallet over towards Randall. It landed with a slap in the dirt beside him, beside his face, raising a small puff of dust that made him turn away.
Swann stood up and walked over to where Randall was lying. Randall turned back and stared up at him, fearing the worst, fearing that he was about to be stabbed himself, bracing for a blade in the kidneys. But Swann just squatted down beside him and tightened the two cable ties around his ankles. He took two more ties and re-secured his wrists, tying them again to the base of the small tree so that he couldn’t move anywhere. Then he took Pedro’s belt and wrapped it tightly around Randall’s left thigh as a tourniquet to staunch the blood loss. Randall moaned at the pain. ‘You can’t leave me here for the snakes and coyotes!’ he cried, panicking.
‘I’m leaving you for the Feds pal. But hey, if the coyotes and bobcats get you first, well that’s just too bad,’ he said with a wink.
Swann stood up and retrieved the Glock he’d kicked away earlier. He dismantled it like before, pocketing the ammunition clip and tossing the other parts far out into the scrublands. Then he turned and nodded at Randall who looked back at him. Swann melted back into the shadows and made his way quietly, in a round-about route, over to Pedro’s Jeep to remove anything from inside it that might be of use. There wasn’t much there other than the usual junk that’s normally accumulated in a well-used off-roader. Nothing of value. Nothing of use. He briefly considered torching it, but there was no point. And besides, a burning vehicle would merely be a beacon drawing unwanted attention. So instead, he closed the driver’s side door quietly and walked back to the Raptor, keeping out of sight of the bar windows. The muffled music was still thrumming from inside Fatso’s, its patrons unaware of the drama that had just unfolded.
*
Back at the Raptor, Swann took off his jacket and vest and put all his gear on the passenger seat. The vest still had Pedro’s knife in it so he slipped it out and tossed it into the glove compartment of the vehicle. Just another captured weapon to add to his growing arsenal, although keeping a nice blade like that in the glove compartment could be useful. He reached for the secure satellite phone which he preferred using over a cell for its better
security. He dialed Sally’s number.
Despite the late hour, she answered on the second ring, happy to hear from him. Swann gave her a broad rundown on what had happened, avoiding any mention of Eddie. He gave her the GPS coordinates of where he was precisely, adding the description of the property including the shipping container so that the Feds can take over and clean up the mess.
‘Hope you got all that.’
She had.
‘So, tell the control freak there’s one Tango down. Permanently. He’s leaking into the dirt and will need a body bag. There’s one other disabled and tied to a small tree for pickup and processing. He’s not happy, but hanging in there. Could have been worse for him so he should be grateful. Both IDs are lying in the dirt beside him. Better get onto it before the coyotes move in on the leftovers . . . The disabled guy might expire in the next few hours because I shot him twice in the leg for misbehaving. And tell Poirot I’m heading a few clicks north of here to tidy up the other loose ends. I’ll ring in when done.’
She scratched all the salient points down on a pad and said she would brief Simms in the morning.
Swann was just about to ring off, but then another thought occurred to him. ‘Oh, and Sally, don’t worry about that other small job I asked you to look into for me . . . it’s taken care of. Thanks anyway.’
She knew what he meant. The “Lavinia” thing. Swann decided he would deal with her when he got back, maybe string her along for a while to see what he could find out about her pet project and who the asshole was who put her up to it, whether she’d planned all along to “bump into him” in that bar, accidentally on purpose like. Maybe the Ferret could do some more digging into who’s behind it . . . and then delete all her damn files while he tracks down the asshole in charge and puts his feet to the fire “. . . who do you think you’re dealing with here pal? Who do you think keeps your fat ass safe in bed at night?” Yeah, that could be fun! he thought.
Swann started the Raptor and backed out of his hiding place and headed out to the main road. He Swung right aggressively onto Stockton and headed north. It was now very late. But he needed food and sleep so he decided to pull over again. He swung the vehicle around and headed back south, back into Kingman to find a fast food restaurant and a place to lay up for the night. He’d also promised to ring Eddie, but decided to leave that till the morning.
It had been a long day. Besides, he also wanted to sort out his gear for tomorrow’s project: Killing Diablo and the rest of his gang.
34
Kingman.
Despite the long day it had been, Swann still made time to grab a bite at a greasy-spoon, find a place for the night then clean and check his weapons so that he could head back north first thing in the morning. He had a feeling that things were going to get ugly and very messy, but with three of Silva’s main heavies now out of commission, two permanently, it should be plain sailing. Silva’s remaining team were just loose ends that needed to be squared away is all. No big deal.
And so was Lavinia. She too was a loose end. Who the hell was she anyway? he wondered. Was she just playing him? He seemed to be surrounded by enemies and deceivers. He was no longer sure how he felt about her after what Sally and then Eddie had told him. He felt used. And that angered him. But everything depended on how far she’d got.
By eight in the morning, Swann checked out of the cheap, no-account motel he’d found on his way back into Kingman. The motel was a dive, like it had no future worth spitting on. The same could be said about its craggy owner; the disinterested proprietor who didn’t seem to care whether anyone stayed there or not. That suited Swann. It meant anonymity. But the place was comfortable enough as such things go. The room had a bed and a bathroom, all straight out of the late sixties. Swann had slept in worse places, that’s for damn sure. Who needs more than an anonymous, musty dump to bunk down in for the night after a day of murder and mayhem? Well, technically it wasn’t murder. It was just a question of justice. Swann Justice. Nothing more, nothing less. Who could argue?
Swann headed back north along Stockton Hill Road. He could see Fatso’s bar in the distance, on the right. He pulled over a half mile away so that he could check to see if there was any activity after last night’s mayhem, or redemption, or atonement - depending on which side of the fence you were on, depending on where your head’s at when talking about wet jobs. Whatever. Two assholes down. Period.
He reached into the glove compartment for the powerful Nikon binoculars and focused on the vicinity around the old shipping container out there in the vacant desert scrublands. There was no sign of anyone, no tell-tale black vehicles or police units, no sign of either Pedro or Randall. He could see the small copse of gangly mesquite trees where he’d secured Randall. Be interesting to see if he’d survived the night, he thought. But then who cares if he hadn’t? He carried on glassing the area, but there was nothing there other than bugs and varmints by the look of things. No sign either of their Jeep Cherokee with the shot-out tires. The “cleaners” had obviously been and gone during the night or the early hours of the morning and taken out the trash. Those guys were seriously creepy and sinister but incredibly efficient, resourceful and useful. Nothing seemed to faze them. The nastiest of messes from previous “wet” jobs had been cleared away with the utmost precision, speed and attention to detail. Not the kind of guys you’d invite to a party, or allow to meet your mother. Maybe Simms was a “cleaner” in a previous life? That thought amused Swann as he studied the area, the old rusty shipping container and Fatso’s bar shimmering in the distant heat haze. But the Jeep would have been a problem. They would have had to replace all four tires, or hoist it onto a flatbed and take it away. Either way, it would hardly have gone unnoticed by the bar patrons, or by random people pulling in for cheap beer. Someone would surely have seen or heard it and come to investigate. Who cares? Not my problem.
Satisfied, Swann put the binoculars back, then he reached for his prepay phone and rang Eddie to fill him in on what had gone down, and to find out what he’d been up to in the meantime. He also had another job for him.
Eddie picked up immediately. ‘Boss!’ he said by way of a greeting.
‘What you up to?’ You still up there sitting on your lazy ass?’ asked Swann.
‘Yep. Haven’t moved, like you said. Just been “practicing”, if you know what I mean, as in honing my skills.’
‘Good because I’ve got another job for you. I’ve sorted out the two thugs sent to find you, so now I’m on my way north to finish off the rest of the crew,’ explained Swann. ‘While I’m doing that, see if you can bust back into the “you-know-what” and disrupt the program by “you-know-who”,’ he added cryptically. ‘I don’t care how you do it, just see if you can bury or kill off whatever she’s managed to dig up; like personal records, names, dates, whatever she’s got stockpiled if anything, but don’t leave behind any clues. And don’t be tempted to do anything more than that or I’ll break your legs and feed your ass to the pigs!’
‘Sure thing boss! I’m bored sitting here anyway. There’s nothing in this shithole of a place. It’ll be fun.’
‘Good. But they’ve probably increased their security even more since you last broke in. Do you think you can still do it?’
‘Is the Pope a catholic?’ he replied. ‘Of course I can do it! Like I said, it might just take me longer is all. No big deal. First thing you learn in hacker school is . . .’
‘There’s a hacker school?’ asked Swann incredulously, interrupting.
‘Well no. I mean like “hacker one-oh-one” type thing . . . first thing you learn is that there’s always a way in, regardless of how secure it is. That’s a given.’
‘Why?’
‘Because, to put it simply, there has to be an open portal somewhere for legitimate dataflow . . . so a smart hacker figures out where that is and how to ride into town the same way without being noticed, kind of like a barnacle on a ship’s bottom, or a stone in a tire tread. You have no idea you’re
giving it a nice ride home,’ explained Eddie. ‘I’m the stone in the tread . . . or the barnacle.’
‘Why don’t you just say “Trojan horse”? Because that’s what you mean isn’t it! Everyone knows what that is! Whatever. Makes sense,’ replied Swann. ‘I’ll ring you again in a day or two to see how you got on.’ He paused and then said, ‘If you manage it, and don’t fuck it up, I’ll consider taking you on as a useless sidekick. I’ll give you all my shitty little bum jobs only an asshole would want. If you’re interested. We’ll deal with the details later.’
‘Of course I’m interested!’
‘Good. Well it’s that or the pigs! So you don’t have much choice.’ added Swann. ‘I’ll call again later . . . and by the way, why the hell would the Pope be a catholic? He’s the chief dude isn’t he? He’d have to have pictures of himself on the wall in his own bedroom which is a bit goddam creepy don’t you think?! Who does that?’ He snapped the phone shut before Eddie could reply, and threw it back on the seat. Then he put the Raptor into gear and pulled away from the curb, heading north to sniper territory and Diablo’s ranch, thinking it was time to send a lead message, like some large rounds into engine blocks and through walls from a distance.
35
In the desert. Foothills of the Cerbat mountain range.
The hot sun beat down on the desert and blazed into the Raptor’s interior. Swann felt its dry heat on his face, making him squint as he headed north. The aircon was turned up to maximum, keeping the cab cool. He had his favorite music on again, the same tracks he’d been listening to on his way to Boulder. It was making him think of Lavinia again, distracting him. Now, every time he thought about her, he got annoyed. He felt betrayed. He turned off the music. We’ll see if the Ferret can crash her program, he thought. And then he’d have to deal with her somehow.
