Diablo

by James Kent

  Decker was totally spent. He tried to look up at Swann to say something; his lips moved slightly like he was whispering, but nothing came out. He tried to move his left arm, but it dropped back down again. Then he looked down and his head fell forwards. A long stream of dribble mixed with blood fell from his mouth into his lap.

  There was silence again. Then Swann kicked away the fallen blade and bent down to pick up his gun. He looked at Decker and said, ‘This is what you asked for pal, when you hooked up with the creep out there! You made your bed.’ He racked the slide, aimed the weapon at Decker and shot him once through the heart, killing him instantly. Decker fell forwards and rolled sideways onto the floorboards.

  Swann picked up the spent brass and the ejected, unused round which he pocketed. He slapped a fresh magazine into his weapon, then walked out of the room.

  No one left standing.

  48

  Knox was sitting on the ground near the north wall of the building, leaning against it and trying to use what little shade there was. He was alive but clearly weak. His right leg was a torn and sodden mess and lay at an acute angle to his body. A bloody trail stretched away a few yards indicating where he must have been standing when the bullet had smashed through the wall. He’d obviously dragged himself across the ground to the house, maybe to get out of the sun or maybe instinctively heading towards safety and cover. Swann saw a large tarpaulin that was clearly covering two other bodies. A pool of blackened, congealed blood lay around them. He walked up to Knox, holding his gun on him all the way.

  Knox moved his head as he heard Swann draw near. Looked up at him, processing what was happening, wondering who this huge dude was who was pointing a weapon at him. ‘Who the hell are you man?’ he asked quietly, almost whispering. He was trembling as though from cold. Shock, thought Swann who looked down at him, pointing the gun at his head. But said nothing.

  ‘Who are you?’ Knox whispered again; his voice raspy.

  ‘People keep asking me that.’

  ‘Well why’re you shootin’ at us then? What we ever done to you?’

  ‘You guys never learn. I know all about you and your murdering past with that asshole in there,’ said Swann. ‘And the others just like you . . . Pedro and Randall and Decker. And Sanchez there,’ he said, motioning towards the two bodies under the tarp. You fools think you can live out your shitty little lives of murder and mayhem in peace and quiet, with no consequences, relying on fancy lawyers to keep your asses out of jail so you can slink off like reptiles to someplace else and carry on murdering and kidnapping and raping. Sorry pal, but no deal!’ Then he lowered the gun and shot Knox in the heart, just like he’d done to Decker. Knox fell forwards, then sideways onto the ground.

  And then everything was silent.

  Swann holstered the gun and looked around at the scene. It was still hot. A faint breeze still blew from the west. The sun was still high enough, but well past its best. He looked out towards the desert scrublands and saw a dust devil far in the distance making its silent way across the earth, heading east and minding its own business. It was indifferent to everything as it swept up sand and dust and the dreams of evil men. And then the words of the poem came to his mind as he stood there watching it,

  Ideas outlive the man, who dies –

  Forgotten in the Rivers of Time;

  His tempests and torrents and dust storms of lies,

  Are swept away on the Ancient Tide

  He had no idea who wrote the poem, but he always liked the words.

  Then he looked back down at Knox and the bodies under the tarp and wondered about their dust storms of lies that had ended right here.

  Three bodies lying there on the ground. Holes in the walls where his rounds had come through. Another body inside. Decker. Two more dudes out by the tin shed; at least one of them was still alive. Lucas. Maybe he’d cut him some slack. You’re getting soft Swann! he thought. Or maybe not.

  Cricket and Silva still to deal with.

  Diablo! thought Swann. Time for a fireside chat!

  49

  After dealing with Knox, Swann went back inside to check on both Silva and Cricket. They were exactly where he had left them, sitting up against the wall near the entrance foyer. They were still cuffed together, but leaning as far apart as possible. A personal space issue. Their hair was full of dust and small bits of debris. Cricket looked dishevelled, yet he was still bright and alert. Probably still buzzed from all that sweet caffeine shit he drinks! Swann thought. Silva on the other hand was pale and sweating profusely. His ears were no longer bleeding, but he had that “thousand-yard stare” that some people get when staring death in the face, or when their entire universe has collapsed around their ears, or when they’ve been traumatized by something horrific that they didn’t see coming. Probably all three in his case.

  Cricket watched Swann fearfully as he approached. Swann wasted no time. He reached down and grabbed Cricket by the ankle with a crushing grip, then he dragged them both bodily along the floor on their backs, Cricket’s other leg askew and freewheeling. His left arm swept out until it took up the slack and pulled Silva along behind him. The sudden action jolted Silva from his torpor and he squealed at the twisting pain in his cuffed wrist as it was yanked outwards by Cricket’s body mass sweeping away from him, along the floor like in a flood.

  Their tethered bodies swept debris and dust and random shoes out of the way as Swann dragged them along effortlessly back towards the lounge. The nylon cuffs bit into their flesh. Silva tried to claw at the walls and door frames with his free hand to halt the progress, but Swann’s power and their momentum tore loose his grip. He became enraged at the indignity of being hauled along the floor like a trussed-up hog. ‘UNHAND ME YOU FIEND!’ he yelled. Swann ignored him and dragged them both across the lounge floor to the sofa. He kicked the coffee table out of the way, liberating the polar bear rug that lay beneath it.

  ‘Cut them off!’ he ordered Cricket as he tossed his knife onto the floor beside him.

  Cricket picked up the knife and eagerly sliced through both cuffs, being careful not to cut his flesh, or Silva’s. Silva watched him, encouraged him. ‘Come on you damn cretin! Cut me loose goddammit!’ he demanded. Once free, Cricket handed the knife, handle first, back up to Swann who took it and slipped it back into its scabbard. Cricket and Silva rubbed their wrists and arms to restore the circulation and alleviate the friction pains. They both had red welts. Swann motioned for them to sit on what was left of the sofa. It was covered in glass fragments, wood splinters, plaster and dust. They got up off the floor, swatted themselves down to dislodge the dirt from their clothes then they stepped over and swatted the sofa seats as well. A cloud of white dust rose into the air. They sat down side-by-side again as though the habit had already formed. Swann shook his head and said, ‘An end each you morons!’ They did as they were told and moved apart. Cricket to Swann’s left. Silva to his right.

  ‘You know this place has shit Feng Shui, right? It’s all over the damn place!’ said Swann, still standing. Silva and Cricket looked at each other and frowned. Eh? They were confused by the comment. They looked back at Swann with blank expressions.

  No one said anything for a few moments. The tension in the air increased.

  ‘You’re Cricket, right?’ asked Swann looking down at him.

  ‘Yes he is!’ interrupted Silva, ‘Who cares who he is? Who the bloody hell are YOU?’ he asked in an angry, threatening tone. ‘I know a lot of very powerful people so you better be careful mister, whoever the hell you are! You need to let me go!’

  ‘Am I talking to you?’ replied Swann, giving him dagger eyes. ‘Interrupt me again and I’ll shoot you in the face!’ Silva said nothing more and looked away, getting the message.

  ‘Yes,’ Cricket said. ‘I’m Cricket. And he’s Silva. The boss . . . Or was the boss.’ He nodded to his left. Silva looked back at him with muted disgust; his eyes were saying, “Was the boss?” Then he looked away again. Cricket suddenly felt
all alone and vulnerable, surrounded by two killers; one insane and the other powerful, ruthless and in control of his fate. He was terrified. His teeth chattered. He trembled as though he’d just climbed out of an ice bath. Yet it wasn’t cold. It was stress and fear. He’d never seen anything like it; never seen anyone quite like this guy before. Sure, Diablo scared him, no question, especially when he was wound up in one of his crazy moods and waving his gun around. But this guy was something else. He was huge, fearless and ruthlessly efficient. And he clearly didn’t believe in taking prisoners. He could scare the Devil out of Hell! thought Cricket.

  ‘Yeah, I know all about the fat boy,’ said Swann. ‘You vegan too?’ he asked, staring down at Cricket with intensity, like it was a serious question.

  ‘Eh?’ replied Cricket, frowning again, confused, looking sideways at Silva who sat slumped and slouching like he was bored. He turned back to Swann. ‘Vegan?’ he asked with emphasis.

  ‘What I said.’

  Cricket frowned. The weird question made him even more unsettled. It was creepy. There was no context for it. ‘What do you mean? No, I ain’t no vegan,’ he said still frowning.

  ‘Good! Because the Ferret is. You know, Eddie the useless ferret. Who knows why he is? I thought maybe all you hacker types were. You all seem to drink that sugary caffeine shit and nothing else. And yet you’re all scrawny and pathetic. What’s that all about? I thought all you guys were fat and greasy and ugly, whereas you an Eddie are just greasy and ugly. Ok then, go make me a sandwich. And a coffee, black and strong, while I talk to the fat bastard here,’ ordered Swann, looking across at Silva and smiling.

  Swann sat down on the other sofa, crossed his legs and prepared to grill Silva. And then I’ll shoot him in the head! he thought. Or maybe I’ll just drive his fat lazy ass a hundred miles into the desert, and then cut him loose, naked . . . let the bobcats and cayotes deal to him.

  Swann studied Silva who sat there disinterested, then he said, ‘I need to get something off my chest fat boy . . . what the hell is with the polar bear rug?’ He pointed at the imitation white pelt on the floor. Its long, black claws still reached out looking for toes to pierce. The question caught Silva off guard and gave him a kind of fleeting hope that all was not lost. This big guy is really odd, he thought. He’s concerned about the Feng Shui of the joint, then he asks Cricket if he’s a vegan, then he asks about the bear rug! What the hell is that about? Maybe he’s insane! But there was also something unnerving about it. It was unusual. Unsettling. It made him difficult to read, unpredictable. He came across as unstable. Exactly what Swann intended. Silva suddenly needed a cigar, a whiskey, something to calm his nerves, to mask his fear. He looked over at the destroyed drinks cabinet with longing. There were still a few unbroken bottles in it. And glasses. He could see three glasses there. One on its side, ready to roll off the shelf if the other broken door swung any further open. A lingering aroma of single malt Scotch still hung on the air from the broken bottles on the floor, intensifying the longing. Troubling issues can always be sorted out over a Scotch, thought Silva. So, he ignored the question about the bear rug and changed tack.

  ‘Perhaps a wee tipple? And then all shall be revealed!’ said Silva with a smile and a flourish of his hand towards the cabinet.

  Swann looked to his right and realised what Silva had been staring at. He pulled the nine-mil out and plugged the unbroken bottles with a round each. Then he re-holstered the weapon and looked back at Silva. ‘You were saying?’ he said. Shit! thought Swann. Change of plan on the whiskey front. But he got a kick out of plugging the bottles in front of Silva, so it was worth it.

  Silva watched horrified as the last of his golden nectar collection poured out onto the carpet. ‘You stupid, arrogant sonofabitch!’ he exclaimed.

  Swann laughed. Said nothing.

  And then Cricket came back into the room with a large cheese sandwich on a plate and a mug of black coffee. He placed the plate on the armrest of the sofa beside Swann and stood there holding the coffee mug. ‘I’m sorry. It’s cold. There’s no gas left, so no hot water!’ He looked a bit scared. His hand was shaking, threatening to spill the coffee.

  Swann said, ‘Who gives a shit?’ And took it anyway.

  Relieved, Cricket went back to the other sofa and sat down and waited.

  50

  Swann was in a quandary. Maybe he was getting soft. Or maybe it was the renewed vigour from having eaten Cricket’s sandwich and drunk his crappy coffee. It had lifted his spirits, put him in a good mood. He decided not to shoot Diablo as originally planned. Well not yet at least. He didn’t feel right about plugging the fat little bastard right there in front of Cricket who had seen enough for one day and didn’t really need to witness bloody trauma like that up close and personal, despite his shitty attitudes about busting into other peoples’ servers to cause chaos. It would traumatise him if it was done in cold blood, even though Diablo deserved nothing less. Cricket was just a stupid, naïve thief. And that was it. He was young enough to change course, like Eddie the Ferret. Another chance was in order. Of course, he could just tell Cricket to take a walk while he did the deed, but there was no need. So, in Swann’s calculation, that meant Silva owed him one.

  Swann had another plan for disposing of Diablo. A plan that was kind of like putting the trash out. But first, he had a few questions for him. ‘This is how it’s gonna go fat boy,’ he said.

  Silva bristled at the epithet every time Swann used it. “Fat boy!” He hated it. It wasn’t respectful. He sneered back at Swann, but said nothing in reply. Just waited.

  ‘First off, you’re gonna write down all your contacts and associates, especially the dudes you were planning your stupid nation-wide hacking attack with, your contacts in Korea. Names, addresses, phone numbers. Everything. We know most of them already, but there may be others. And then I want the combination to your safe which I’m guessing is set in the floor there under that hideous polar bear rug.’

  Silva was stunned. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about!’ he said. ‘Korea? Safe? What safe? What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘Yes, you do know what I’m talking about. That’s why I’m here, you idiot. How do you think I managed to track you down so quickly? And yeah, every self-respecting asshole like you has a safe hidden somewhere. Unless you hide all your stolen loot in your mattress. So, what, did you get the sledgehammers out and bust the floor up yourself, then set the safe in concrete, or was it here already?’

  ‘The Ferret!’ said Silva quietly to himself, ignoring Swann’s question. He looked away, thinking about how everything had crashed and burned after Eddie the Ferret took off. Maybe we shouldn’t have killed his damn girlfriend after all!

  ‘Yeah. Eddie the Ferret. He left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow, right to your door. He’s working for me now,’ said Swann with a chuckle. ‘Ironic isn’t it?’

  ‘We knew he was up to something. The little bastard rat, mucking about with my old phone. Wait till I get my hands on his scrawny neck!’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ replied Swann. ‘So that’s what you’re going to do. And then you and I are going for a nice drive into the country. Or I could just shoot you in the face right here and now and be done with it. Your choice.’

  ‘You must already have all my contacts from Eddie,’ said Silva, delaying the inevitable.

  ‘Some, but probably not all. And the combination to the safe would save me time smashing it out with a bulldozer after I’ve shot you in the head.’

  ‘I need a pen and some paper then,’ replied Silva in a shaky voice that betrayed his panic and fear. And a drink. I need a drink. He knew he had no choice but to comply with Swann’s wishes. He knew his days were numbered if he didn’t cooperate. Maybe he could talk his way out of it and make some kind of a deal. Why not? It had always worked in the past when he’d found himself in similar tight spots. Nothing new there then. Delay, delay. Think, think. ‘I need a drink,’ he repeated.

  Swann said
with a laugh, ‘Help yourself to the drinks cabinet!’ Then he nodded at Cricket who got up off the sofa and went down to his computer room for a pen and paper for Silva to write on.

  Cricket came back a minute later with a ream of printer paper and a couple of pens. He righted the coffee table, moved it closer to Silva and dropped everything on top. One of the pens rolled into the groove that had been gouged out by the fifty-caliber bullet. Then he went back into the kitchen and made Silva a cold coffee like he had for Swann. Silva looked pathetic and broken. He stared at Cricket as he walked off to the kitchen. Swann watched, waiting for Silva to focus on the task.

  ‘Get on with it!’

  Silva bent over the coffee table. He picked up the pen that lay in the groove. Moved a sheet of paper over and started writing down names and other details, as well as the combination to the safe. Cricket reappeared with his cold coffee. He put it down on the table beside the ream of paper then he sat on the sofa again without saying anything. Silva finished his scribbling and put the pen down, back in the bullet groove as though that was where it belonged. Then he sat back and set his eyes on Swann. He had the thousand-yard stare again. The cold coffee was ignored.

  Swann looked back at Silva, studying him. Then he said, ‘Funny how things change . . . funny how you’re suddenly nothing without your henchmen around to protect you from people like me. You’re very compliant when on your own, like a fat little coward. Don’t you find that funny?’

  Silva looked away, said nothing.

  Then Swann turned to Cricket and said, ‘Ok, your turn. Pass me fat boy’s notes, then move the table out of the way and check that combination. The safe’s right there in the floor, right?’ Cricket nodded as he got up off the seat. He passed the notes across to Swann who briefly looked at them, then he folded the sheets and slipped them into his pocket. Cricket shoved the coffee table away and lifted the bear rug. Its long, curled black claws flapped backwards as it folded over onto its back. The cold coffee spilled and spread across the table top, soaking the rest of the paper and the rug. The pens rolled off onto the floor. And there was the safe, buried in the floor, in a large concrete plinth. It was a big safe, big enough to contain a million secrets and the deeds of a devil.