by James Hilton
Danny walked forward as all eyes in the room fell upon him. He could see doubt and disappointment on some of the faces; probably expecting some Stallone clone in his Rambo costume. If Clay had been here he was sure the reaction would have been a very different one.
“I’m Danny. I’m here to help, but there are a few things I’ve got to make clear to you all. I’m not here as a bouncer or a bodyguard in any of your businesses. I’m here at the behest of Larry and Pamela Duke, whom I’m sure most of you know. They own the Woo Hoo.” He paused and scanned the sea of faces. Most were overweight and blotchy from too much food and not enough sunscreen. A chair squeaked on the tiled floor. Someone coughed.
“What I need from you all tonight is anything you can tell me about the Locos. Any names that you know would be useful. Let’s start with you.” Danny pointed to an older couple sitting to his far right.
The man introduced himself simply as Steve. He was big and bald and his eyes twitched as he spoke. The woman next to him remained silent but nodded along with his every word. He owned a small café near the beach called The Pit Stop, and had experienced visits very similar to the Dukes. As he talked, the heads around him bobbed in agreement and mutual concern.
“We had a fire last year. Now we pay two hundred euros a week to make sure we don’t have another one. Two hundred bloody euros!”
“Same gang? The Locos?” asked Danny.
“Yeah, same ones.”
The subsequent stories were much the same, but Danny processed the crowd systematically, drawing out information and clarifying details where needed. At times the chatter became animated as the anger in the room threatened to take on a sentience of its own. He allowed them to blow off some steam but moved the conversation on with a few curt words.
After all the business owners had given their stories, Danny glanced at his watch. Time was getting on but he had collated a much more detailed sketch about the outfit he was going up against. He pocketed his small notebook and drained the bottle of San Miguel beer that he’d nursed through the evening.
The crowd of Brits vacated the Winrows’ apartment slowly in small groups of twos and threes. Some chatted amiably while others still gave Danny dubious looks as they said their goodbyes. They’d talked through their fears and concerns for nearly two hours and as they returned to their targeted businesses and homes the mood was understandably sombre.
Danny hadn’t given any false promises and hadn’t tried to whip them up into defending their businesses. These people weren’t soldiers, but publicans, caterers and shopkeepers. Everyday people caught in a dire position. In a few previous situations that Danny had helped with, it had been necessary to instil a militia mentality into the group, but this was different. A war zone tended to wipe out the very premises that you were trying to preserve. No, a different strategy was needed with this one.
“Thanks for coming, Danny,” said Phil Winrow, closing the door behind the last visitor. “Look, I know a couple of boys from London. They might be able to lend a hand.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “They did a few armed robberies back in England. They’re a couple of hard nuts.”
“Why didn’t they come tonight?”
“Ah, well, they’ve caused some trouble of their own in a few of the bars.”
Danny shook his head. “I think I’ll pass. The last thing we need right now is loose cannons.”
“All right, you know best,” Phil agreed.
Danny turned to Sally. “I’m stopping at the Woo Hoo if you need to reach me in a hurry. What’s your phone number?”
Sally plucked her phone from her pocket. She held out the display so Danny could key in her number.
“Got it. Call me if you think of anything else,” said Danny.
“We will.” Sally kissed Danny on the cheek and hugged him like they were old friends. Danny was thankful Phil settled for a handshake and a manly clap on the shoulder.
Danny turned in the doorway just as he was leaving and glanced back at the couple. They looked good together in a working-class Ken and Barbie sort of way. He’d never been close to settling down. Had he missed out? They seemed so suited to each other, so in tune. Common logic professed that you never missed what you’d never had but Danny was undecided.
Instead of following the rest of the crowd out—and risk getting buttonholed by one of the business owners—Danny climbed up two flights of stairs and found a bench on the rooftop garden, which Sally had told him about earlier in the evening in one of the rare breaks between questionings. She’d said it was where she went to be on her own and watch the stars at night. It was as nice as she had described it. Sculptured topiary displays gave off abstract silhouettes. The small planters of multi-coloured flowers were arranged in a geometric grid that resembled the streets below.
Danny rubbed his eyes. They still stung from the cigarette smoke in the apartment. His clothes stank of it. He cupped his hands in front of his nose. Yep, those smelled too.
He looked out over the town, at the million pinpricks of light that looked like an inverted firmament. The traffic was light; Larry had explained earlier that most of the locals used the low-cost electric buses that trundled almost silently along the main streets. Of course there were still plenty of cars to be seen, but only a fraction of those found in most resort towns.
Yeah, it certainly was nice in Ultima, but again Danny found himself wondering how it would appear to him by the end of the game. Moving to one of the curved benches, he took out his notebook, angled it to one side in order to catch the light, and read through what he’d written.
Antoni Barcelo—leader
Vincenzo Ortega—soldier. Captain?
20–25 active soldiers?
Usually use knives but some of the soldiers have used shotguns and pistols to threaten. Always travel in groups of 3 or 4.
Known businesses taken over:
The Hot Pink Club
Merryweather Tavern
Ultima Fotoshop
Felicidad Fashions
Jerry’s Spanish Fried Chicken
The Black Panther Club
El Sid’s Bar & Grill
Danny keyed the second number on his speed dial. After a few seconds Larry’s gruff voice answered. “Hello.”
“It’s Danny. Everything quiet with you?”
“Yeah, they only come calling in the morning when there are fewer witnesses.”
“That’s good. I’ve just finished the meeting at the Winrows’ apartment.”
“How’d it go?”
“Well, I know a bit more about the fuckwits we’re up against. It seems there’s plenty of them to contend with.”
“Yeah, one or two. So what’s your plan of action?”
None present at the meeting had known where the gangsters called home. Phil had mentioned that Barcelo had a villa and estate up the coast, but was unable to give any specifics. But Danny knew that they would return to the Woo Hoo eventually. There was more than money at stake now. They had lost face.
“I’ll be back at the club in a wee while.”
“Okay then. Watch your back out there,” offered Larry.
“Always.”
Danny put away the notepad and phone then closed his eyes and let his mind relax. He’d found that during his long hours spent on night patrol that this relaxed state of mind was nearly as good as sleep. He breathed in the aroma from the unknown flowers. They were very pleasant. A nice alternative to cordite, smoke and blood.
He was making his way down the staircase when he stopped at the sound of hushed but angry Spanish voices echoing from below.
12
“Something must be going on. We followed the guy from the club here, and two hours later half the Brits in town come marching out of the same building.”
“But where’s the one we were following?” asked a different voice.
“He must still be up there. Juba was right—he must be a qualified man.”
Danny descended silently and risked a furtive glanc
e onto the landing below. Five men were standing in the corridor: three Spaniards, a black man who stood head and shoulders over his companions, and a man who looked Middle Eastern to Danny’s eyes. All wore the grey urban camouflage that the Locos were known for. The Arab held a straight-bladed knife along the side of his thigh. The rest appeared unarmed.
Danny was about to make a stealthy exit when the five men approached the door to the Winrows’ apartment. One of the Spaniards raised his hand to knock at the door. Danny cleared his throat loudly, then feigned an expression of both surprise and fear as the Locos swung around at the noise.
All five men sprinted towards Danny, whose only option was back up the stairs. Adrenalin flooded into his system, causing a slight numbness in his hands and face. He’d felt the same sensation countless times before. He knew not to fight the fear; instead, he used it, turned it to something more productive.
“Don’t kill him, we need him to talk first,” shouted one of the five.
On the next landing up, Danny’s survival instinct kicked in, hyper alert to anything that could be used as a weapon. The doorways to each apartment were arranged in an alternating pattern. The first door on his left faced a blank wall then the next door on his right was located some twelve feet down the corridor, no doubt designed so that the occupants wouldn’t need to look at or talk to their neighbours while opening their front doors.
A child’s discarded bucket and spade lay next to one of the first doors, sand still clinging to the plastic. Danny snatched up the spade and raced back towards the stairwell door.
The first Loco was just starting to emerge as Danny crashed into it, utilising all of his weight and momentum. He heard a strangled yelp and the gangster was sent careening backwards into those behind. At least two of the unseen Locos lost their footing and tumbled back down the concrete steps. Their harsh curses told of a painful landing.
On the landing, Danny wedged the blade of the toy shovel under the door with a sharp kick. He knew it wouldn’t hold for long but it might buy him precious seconds. The old military axioms flashed into his mind: Divide and conquer. Search and destroy. He set off at full tilt and covered the fifty yards of hallway in a respectable time. At the end of the corridor, a door was marked with a yellow sign that displayed a mop and bucket. Danny tried the door, and it opened with the faint squeal of a rusty hinge. Danny grabbed a couple of items from the shelves then started down the staircase at the opposite side of the building.
The door he’d wedged moments earlier clattered loudly as it was kicked open. He judged by the heavy footsteps and raised voices that at least three of the five were still in pursuit. Knowing never to rely on luck, Danny presumed the other two men, maybe more, were still in the fight, probably moving along the floor below him to cut off his escape.
Danny spent a couple of tense seconds opening the plastic bottle he’d procured. Damn child safety lids. Working as quickly as possible, he tore a cleaning cloth into two strips, emptied the contents of the bottle over the fabric, then tightly wound the strips of soaking fabric around his hands, tucking the free ends into his palms. The acrid smell filled the enclosed passageway.
The three hoodlums rounded the corner, their faces masks of fury. Looking surprised to see Danny poised and waiting, they faltered for a brief moment, but then surged forward as one.
Danny skipped to the right, causing the three men to bunch together in the narrow hallway. The closest grabbed at him but a snappy straight punch sent the man rocking on his heels. The Loco started to regain his balance then clasped both hands to his face and screamed, “Mis ojos!”
Danny grinned; the old bleach trick worked wonders.
The two other men closed in. The Arab had his knife out, and another—one of the Spaniards—snapped out a telescopic baton and lunged forward to attack.
Gunn had been beaten with riot batons a few years back and knew how nasty they could be in close quarters. He ducked low and barrelled in to meet the attack. The baton cut the air a mere inch above his head. The Spaniard was rammed back into the knife-man and all three fighters went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs. Danny tried to stamp down on the hand holding the knife but missed. He grabbed at the Spaniard’s face with his left hand then delivered a series of punches to both men. The baton-man succumbed to the bleach in his eyes and dropped his weapon. Danny was quick to snatch it up. A hard slap with the telescopic steel and the guy’s nose found a new position on his face. A shot in the throat with the back of Gunn’s elbow landed the Spaniard in a semi-foetal position. His mouth worked like a fish out of water as he struggled to breathe.
Lurching up from the floor, the Arab tried to stab at Danny’s legs but two quick strikes, forehand and backhand to the jaw with the baton, put him out of the picture. A final whip across the side of his head made sure he stayed down.
Three down… how many more to go? He’d seen five in the hallway but were there more elsewhere?
At least they’re trying to capture me, not kill me, he thought. This gave him a distinct advantage against the superior numbers.
Danny picked up the fallen knife, and then with a cold detachment stabbed both of the men through the tops of their feet. This brought fresh howls of agony from the downed gangsters. Not fatal wounds, but they wouldn’t be giving chase any time soon.
He strode over to the first Loco he’d dropped and pressed the steel baton to the hoodlum’s face, raising his chin. Tears streamed from the man’s reddened eyes, both of which had begun to bruise and swell.
“Who sent you here? Barcelo?” He cracked the man’s collarbone with the baton to get his full attention. “Where does he live? Eh? Out with it, ya wee shite.”
The Loco was just emitting a pained mewling sound so Danny tried again.
“Mis ojos.”
“Stings a bit doesn’t it,” replied Danny. He looked down at the gangster’s mottled face. Not a pretty sight. “You’re a waste of friggin’ skin.” The Loco scuttled butt-first away from Danny, yelling loudly for help. “And you try to be nice to some folks…” A hammer strike with the base of the baton knocked the blinded Loco cold. A single rivulet of blood trickled from the man’s scalp, tracing a path down his slack features.
A door opened in the hallway and a resident poked his head out, his mouth hanging open. He glanced at the three injured gangsters and the man standing over them, bloodied knife and baton in hand. The door slammed shut quicker than it had opened.
Time to move. Another disabling foot-job then Danny was up and running again. He tucked the knife into his belt. Better to have a free hand than to over-rely on weapons.
* * *
Juba had recovered from his spill down the stairs and hit the first speed dial button on his cell phone. Barcelo’s drawling voice greeted him.
“Boss, we’ve followed the man from the Woo Hoo Club to a building on Second and Santiago. There was some kind of meeting with the British and now the man is trying to escape.”
“Bring him to the warehouse when you’ve got him,” Barcelo commanded, as if capture was a foregone conclusion. “Alive, so we can have a little chit-chat!”
“This man might be a little slippery to catch.”
“There are five of you, yes? You better catch him.” Then, as an afterthought, “I have men nearby. I’ll send a few more down to you to be sure; I don’t want this one getting away.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, and, Juba…”
“Yes, boss?”
“Five hundred to the man that takes him down.”
Juba grinned; he could do a lot with five hundred euros right now. The boss had said he had to be taken alive, but hadn’t said anything about him still being able to walk. Barcelo was a man who rewarded both loyalty and obedience, neither of which Juba had a problem with. He was making five times what he used to make in Africa and the chances of being killed were much lower. Juba looked down impassively at the smaller Spanish man that had taken the brunt of the impact from the door. Someone else could c
lean that up.
13
Danny wasn’t quite ready to make his getaway. He discarded the drying bleach wraps from his hands and thought momentarily about going back to the Winrows’ apartment but decided against it; he was better off on the move and he didn’t want to put the couple in unnecessary danger.
He glanced out from the corner stairwell window, which gave him a clear view down onto the street below. A white minivan screeched to a halt outside the main entrance to the apartment building. Another half-dozen Locos piled out in a disorderly rush.
They looked like they were ready to fight.
Danny didn’t like to disappoint. He grinned and ducked back into the corridor. From his vantage point, he could see the tall black man—he now realised it was the same man he’d spotted at the club earlier—standing in the street gesturing to his left and right. The corners of Danny’s mouth twitched into the briefest of smiles. He’d been right about him after all. Danny figured he was directing the backup team to both sets of stairs in an effort to cut off his escape. If the situation was reversed Danny would have done the same. With both groups climbing the stairs at the same pace, on each floor they would make visual contact and then move on to the next.
He got to the third-floor hallway and adapted his plans, snatching something from the window ledge. As he moved, he heard the group of Locos pounding up the stairs just behind him. He picked up a little speed as he moved towards the sound of voices and pounding feet, snatching a potted cactus from a small veranda outside number 309.
As the first Loco bounded into the hallway, Danny met him with a kick to the stomach and followed through by thrusting the cactus hard into his face. Cactus barbs were embedded into the man’s cheek, and he howled. Another kick, this time to the back of his knee joint, sent him crashing to the ground.
The second Loco appeared, this one sporting a mane of peroxide-white hair, and grabbed for Danny’s throat.
