by James Kent
She had left him a note on the back of an expired library card the other morning, telling him to call her. Hoping he would. But he hadn’t. Maybe he was busy. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested. Everything had changed after that night with him. Why? she wondered. And yet something wasn’t right. She could sense it, smell it. The very air at the FBI offices across the road reeked of conspiracy. But she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe it was the political origins of the case in the first place. She hated it when some damn politician got a flea in his ass over something and conspired to have professional investigators like her work the case on their behalf, just so they can look good. Even though she agreed that it was a legitimate case to pursue, it still had a political stink attached to it. Why don’t they just stick to politics and leave us professionals to do our damn jobs?
‘Where’s Nick when you need him?’ she whispered to the unhearing occupants of the cemetery.
46
Diablo’s ranch.
Swann approached the devastated end of the ranch first. He was quiet and quick on his feet, crossing the open ground in a few seconds, negotiating the debris as carefully as possible as he ran. He held the SIG nine-millimeter in the classic two-handed combat style, always pointing where his eyes were looking, his finger lightly on the trigger. He got to what was left of the western wall, alert for the slightest sounds from inside the building as he climbed silently over the rubble, being careful where he put his feet. Glass crunched under his boots. The floor was covered in plaster dust, debris and shattered window glass. The place reeked of propane gas. There was a well-stocked kitchen and a bathroom at the back which is what the gas had been for; hot water, cooking and heating. He checked them first. They were empty of people, and badly damaged from the exploding gas tanks.
The huge lounge was in front, facing south and commanded a spectacular view of the mountain range. Swann stopped and listened, heard nothing but silence. The place also smelled lightly of whiskey, like a distillery. It competed with the smell of propane. He looked over towards the shattered drinks cabinet. Smashed bottles and tumblers lay all over the floor around it. A polar bear rug lay trapped beneath a dust-covered coffee table, its black eyes looking up vacantly at Swann. A polar bear rug? Really? He raised his eyes. Swann recalled what Eddie had told him; said it was a bear skin concealing a floor safe. The coffee table had a long gouge across its wooden surface; a bullet had obviously hit its front edge and carved a furrow along the top. Swann looked across to the wall opposite and saw a large hole where the round had gone next; it had been tumbling in the air and left a jagged wound in the plaster; the worst kind of wound if you get hit by one. The sofa was also holed and covered in plaster dust and glass fragments. The remains of a stogie lay on the floor and an empty whiskey tumbler lay on its side nearby. Silva’s no doubt.
Swann moved silently on towards the door in the far wall, beside the ruined drinks cabinet. He saw the scattered remains of bottles and tumblers on the floor, and the unbroken bottles of fine malts still in the cabinet. Good taste in single malts, I’ll give him that! he thought. Swann decided to confiscate the remaining bottles before he left. Spoils of war. Can’t have them going to waste!
The door to a hallway was partially open. He stopped again and crouched down, away from the doorway, and listened. Still no sounds. Then he detached two flashbang stun grenades and pulled the pin on one, holding in the leaver ready to toss the weapon in through the open door. There were supposedly three people left in the house, all potentially holding weapons and waiting for him to appear. So he had to be careful. He listened again, pushed the door open a little more, using the SIG’s barrel, and tossed the first stun grenade hard and far into the dark void. He turned his head away and shut his eyes to minimize the effects on himself. He heard it clatter and bounce metallically along the wooden floor until it came to rest, then the sound of someone panicking, moving fast, ducking for cover. A second later, an ear-splitting bang pierced the air as an extremely bright flash of light lit the place up like lightning; a sudden, deafening crescendo that would burst any nearby eardrums and totally disorient the victim. He pulled the pin on the other grenade and tossed it in behind the first as he looked away again. It clattered along the wooden floor and stopped. Two seconds later, it too split the air with a deafening, crashing crescendo and a searing, bright flash of light.
Swann instantly moved into the hallway holding his gun up ready to fire. His eyes darted everywhere, alert for the slightest movement. The place was full of smoke that obscured his vision, but he saw a guy lying on the floor in a doorway at the end of the passage, holding his ears and groaning. The room at the end looked like a computer room or an office that was crammed with gear. One of the monitor screens was on, sending out a bluish light. Eddie’s old computer room, thought Swann. Now Cricket’s. The guy was smallish, like Eddie. Cricket, no doubt! He had his hands clamped over his ears like he was trying to shut out the ringing. A bit late for that! Swann stepped over him and checked the office, ready to shoot anyone else inside. The other two were fair game for a bullet between the eyes. But, other than piles of computer gear and empty cans of high-energy caffeine drink, the room was clear so he retreated, back out into the hallway, stepping over Cricket again who was still lying there on the floor moaning incessantly. Swann looked down at him. Cricket looked back briefly then he shut his eyes again and carried on rocking side-to-side with his hands still over his ears. ‘They’ll be ringing for days, pal!’ Swann said quietly. ‘Hope you got insurance!’
Then he ducked into another room, sweeping it with his weapon for any potential threats. It was clear except for damage to the walls and fittings from a few of his fifty-caliber rounds crashing their way through everything in their path. The windows were smashed and glass littered the floor; Swann’s boots crunched on the fragments. He moved back out quickly, again sweeping ahead with his pistol, eyes alert for movement, ready to fire at anyone standing or posing a threat. He heard more noises coming from another room off to the side, around the corner at the end of the hallway and out near the main entrance so he moved fast in that direction.
Diablo was sitting on the floor, leaning back against a wall near the main entranceway. He had plaster dust and bits of debris in his hair and all over his clothes, making him look dirty and disheveled as though he’d been sleeping in a dumpster. Like Cricket, he had his hands over his ears, and he was rocking backwards and forwards, mumbling to himself. He had his eyes clamped shut. The concussive effects of the flashbangs had deafened and disoriented him, and temporarily blinded him. Must have been right near them when the grenades had gone off, thought Swann. His ears too would be ringing like a bell. Sometimes people are so affected by the concussion and the bright flash of such weapons, they vomit from the dizziness and the shattered eardrums which result in a loss of balance. Silva however had managed to keep it together and sat there rocking by himself with his ears covered. He was muttering and mumbling like someone who had lost his mind. Swann looked down at him, pointing the gun at his head, and assessed his threat level. He considered it negligible at that moment because Silva clearly had other things to deal with, like his sanity and his ringing ears. But just in case, Swann crouched down beside him and checked him for weapons. He found a Glock nine-millimeter in the right-hand suitcoat pocket. What a disgusting suit that is! thought Swann as he felt in the pockets. It doesn’t even fit! ‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ he said, ‘wearing a disgusting piece of crap like that!’
Silva opened his eyes and stared at Swann, giving him a sneer of contempt. His top lip curled up to reveal his front teeth as he continued mumbling something unintelligible. Swann looked back at him, shook his head slowly from side to side and tut-tutted with his gloved index finger as though telling off a naughty child for hiding a nasty weapon and for wearing such an ugly suit. He patted Silva on the right cheek and said, ‘I’ll be back for you, pal! Don’t go anywhere!’ He stood up, removed the magazine from Silva’s Glock,
racked the slide to make sure the breach was empty, then he dismantled the weapon just like before. He threw the main part out through the windows beside the entrance door, smashing the glass in the process, then he tossed the remaining slide down the hallway. The barrel and main spring fell out as it impacted the floorboards. Silva watched him all the way, but he didn’t respond. The main part of the weapon landed in the dirt outside, kicking up dust and sand and filling the trigger mechanism with grit.
Swann considered shooting Diablo in the head right there, just to save time later. It would be tidier, less complicated. No paperwork. A no-brainer. Literally, in Silva’s case. Besides, he was getting tired of dealing with these assholes. And he was getting hungry. But then he thought better of it; he really needed to ask a few questions of him first. The least he could do for Simms who was currently paying his wages. Dammit! Ok, whatever. Stick with the plan.
So, instead of shooting Silva, Swann went back quickly to find Cricket who was no longer lying on the floor outside his office. He needed Cricket as an anchor, something to tie Silva to, like a useless deadweight. He found Cricket in the computer room, sitting in his chair with his head in his hands and his elbows on the desktop. He had his eyes closed. The computer monitor was off. Maybe the glare was too hard on him for the headache he now had. But why hadn’t he just hightailed it outta there when he’d had the chance? wondered Swann. Ok, probably too scared he’d be shot from behind by mistake. Or on purpose. And he was probably useless out in the open desert anyway, miles from anywhere. He’s the kinda guy who downs sweet high-energy caffeine drinks all day instead of water, so he’d die of thirst before he got half a mile. And he was probably scared too that the coyotes and bobcats and rattlers would get him if the thirst didn’t.
But he would have been safe enough, at least from Swann.
Staying put was a calculated risk for Cricket, and since the big guy with the gun hadn’t hurt him before, when he’d stepped over him, Cricket figured that he probably wasn’t there for him. He was probably there for Silva and the other guys. Safer to stay put then. Cricket decided to wait it out and hope for the best. His best chance, he figured. After all, he could talk his way out of anything. He could spin a pretty good yarn, as he had always managed to do. That’s how he’d ended up with the job in the first place. Silva had believed in him, believed he had value to add. Cricket figured he could employ the Nuremberg defense; something like “But what could I do? I was just following orders. It was comply or end up with a bullet in the head!” Who would know otherwise? And besides, it seemed that that’s what Eddie had done. But who would believe it? No one. So ok, it was either die slowly out in the desert or the big guy with the gun would shoot him in the ass. Sixty-forty. Not the best odds . . .
Swann saw him sitting there looking hopeless. There was clearly had no fight in him, so he grabbed him by the collar, from behind, and hauled him up out of the chair, pulling him backwards as he went. Cricket was startled but complied and went with it, tripping over backwards, out of his chair, but held up by Swann’s powerful grip. He tripped over cables and empty cans of caffeine drink that lay all over the floor. Swann pushed him through the door and then back out to where Silva was still sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the main entranceway. Silva’s ears were leaking fluid from his ruptured eardrums. One of them was bleeding. Swann pushed Cricket roughly to the floor beside him, then he crouched down and cuffed both of their wrists together with the last two nylon ties; Silva’s right to Cricket’s left. Their arms felt limp and weak. He pulled the nylon ties hard and tight, making fast zipping sounds as they closed. They were tight enough to make it impossible to wriggle free or to loosen with their free hands. Then he removed their shoes and socks, like he’d done to Lucas outside, and tossed them back down the hallway towards the main lounge. The shoes clunked and bounced along the floor and against the plaster walls. Bare feet would discourage them from attempting to get up together and walk out while Swann was dealing with Decker and Knox. Broken glass everywhere would see to that, he knew. But it was a comical sight; a skinny little twerp cuffed to a short, fat bastard in an ugly suit. Swann chuckled to himself as he looked at them both. Silva looked back at him and sneered again. His ears were still leaking. He curled his lip up, revealing his front teeth. Then he tried to spit at Swann, but it had no force behind it so his saliva just hooked out and down his own chin and dribbled into his lap.
Swann laughed then he got up and continued toward the far end of the building, checking rooms as he went. He needed to locate Decker quickly. Silva and Cricket could wait. Finding Decker couldn’t. He was the last man standing in Swann’s way.
And then he felt a double sledgehammer blow to his chest. He stopped dead in his tracks and stumbled backwards from the impacts, the breath knocked out of him.
47
Swann felt the fast hammer-blows from two close-quarters nine-millimeter rounds to his chest. They came out of nowhere, unexpected. But why should they be unexpected when he knew the guy he was hunting was armed and dangerous and probably waiting for him in the shadows? Still, being shot always catches you off guard, even when you know it’s a distinct possibility. Swann took a couple of clumsy steps backward, but he managed to stay upright. His Kevlar armored vest had stopped the bullets dead, but at the cost of massive bruising to his torso. He hoped his sternum hadn’t been fractured. Deal with it later, he thought. But he was winded by it. It gave him a fright to be caught off guard like that. He hated making elementary mistakes that could cost him his life. There was no excuse. Bloody fool! He was angry with himself. ‘Sort your damn shit out Swann!’ he whispered. And then he refocused.
The instant Swann felt the impacts, he caught sight of the guy who had fired them. It was instinctive; he knew exactly what had just happened and who had just fired the shots, he even saw him. Clear as crystal. And yet it had all happened in the blink of an eye. Decker! He saw him dart into another room along the short passageway that came off the main entrance foyer. It led to more bedrooms and workspaces, and gave access to the attached garage on the east wing. Swann noticed that Decker wasn’t carrying the AR15 that he’d seen him with before; he must have decided the Glock was more useful to him, easier to manage while stalking someone indoors. Perhaps he’d hidden the rifle somewhere, where he could retrieve it later.
Swann crouched down low in case a few rounds came through the plaster walls, then he cautiously followed Decker. He unclipped the last flashbang from his vest, pulled the pin and tossed it in through the doorway, into the room he’d seen Decker enter. He heard the weapon clatter across the wooden floorboards and stop. A second later it exploded, delivering a shatteringly loud bang that made his own ears ring even though he was protected behind the wall and looking away. He stood and quickly swung through the open doorway to his right, holding his gun up ready to fire. A blurred movement caught his attention through the smoke and haze. He fired at the dark mass, allowing for the target’s motion towards the left. Then he heard a yelp of pain. Suddenly the dark mass attacked him out of the smoky haze like a demon from the gates of Hell. It was Decker coming at him with a knife in a frenzied onslaught. He no longer held his Glock. Swann realized he’d shot Decker in his right hand, which was bleeding profusely, but he had recovered fast enough to pull the knife from his belt holster with his left. Decker was still a formidable opponent due to his physical size and strength, and despite the fact that he held the knife in his left hand.
Swann instinctively backed away and brought his gun to bear again, but Decker knocked his forearm downwards before he could point it directly at him. He tried to stab Swann in his right side, aiming for his kidney. Swann side-stepped the blade and instantly punched Decker in the side of the head with a massive armored, gloved fist like a battering ram, which knocked him backwards into the wall. Stunned and dazed, Decker shook his head to clear it, then he launched himself at Swann again, sweeping the air between them with his blade, slashing like a scythe as he closed th
e gap as fast as possible. His intention was to rob Swann of the space and the small amount of time he needed to use the gun on him. Aiming a gun required more control and precision, and therefore space and time than a slashing knife fight up close and personal. Swann tried again to bring the pistol to bear as he avoided Decker’s flashing steel, but again Decker was too quick. He kicked out at Swann’s wrist with his hard boot, knocking the gun from his grip. It clattered onto the floor, leaving Swann defenseless unless he could draw his own knife in time. But before he could do anything, Decker was at him again, slashing and stabbing at him with the blade while Swann parried it. He was impressed at how proficient Decker was with a knife held in his weaker hand. It reminded him of the close fight-to-the-death he’d had with Pedro. Almost a repeat.
Then Swann saw the fleeting chance he’d been waiting for. He gave Decker’s left forearm a hard, numbing chop which resulted in him dropping the knife. Decker’s nerves tingled from the impact. His hand and fingers suddenly felt numb. Instantly, Swann delivered a series of lightning-fast hits and rapid piston-like punches into Decker’s face, neck and torso like machinegun fire; moves he’d learned from his days practicing martial-arts. It was always devastating. Decker was beaten like a punching bag, forced backwards by the savage onslaught which went on for nearly half a minute without relent. The blows were so fast and powerful, he was unable to process what was happening. Swann’s hands and forearms were a blur of movement and power, giving Decker no time to defend himself or to dodge the punches. Concussed, bleeding and dazed, he was piston-punched backwards into the wall and he collapsed in a heap, his legs folding out beneath him. He was breathing rapidly as snot and blood bubbled from his nose.
There was silence for a few moments. Decker’s head was wobbling on his shoulders, his arms had fallen slack along the sides of his body and his hands lay useless on the floor, the palms turned upwards. His right hand was bleeding profusely from the bullet wound. Then Swann asked quietly, ‘Where’s your rifle at, buddy?’
