by James Hilton
Then something dreadful occurred; the younger Loco snatched up one of the remaining petrol bombs with the rag still burning and bowled it towards both skirmishers.
Gunn had been in situations of abject horror before but that didn’t prevent the world from going into freeze frame. Micro-seconds flashed through his mind like a strobe light.
Petrol bomb…
Shit.
Fire…
Shit.
Burned to death…
Shit.
Psycho with the knife…
Shit.
“Kino!” screamed Garcia, who had clearly also registered the prospect of a fiery death. He swung his leg in a wild kick and sent the bottle skittering back out of range. Both men resumed their struggle for dominance.
Gunn was well versed in combat ju-jitsu but rarely went to the ground by choice. All it took was an unseen attacker to run in and catch you unaware and the fight (and your life) could be over. Danny felt lucky that out of the two gangsters only Garcia was a competent fighter, but the younger one— Kino—was certainly persistent. He grabbed the discarded cricket bat from the road and waded in with wild abandon.
Gunn could only tuck his head low in way of defence. Even though he had padded the bat so as not to break the petrol bombs on impact, it was still an effective bludgeon. Sparks of purple pain exploded across his vision as the bat hit the back of his skull.
Danny reversed his position by rolling sideways, taking Garcia with him.
As Kino tried another swing with the bat, Gunn hooked one of his feet behind the boy’s ankle and kicked out at his knee with the other. He flopped onto the road, howling in pain, all thoughts of fighting hopefully forgotten.
Danny felt the Spaniard’s muscles coil as he renewed his efforts to free himself and drive the blade into Danny’s chest. He realised Babi Garcia was grinning with the wild relish of a man berserk.
But Gunn had the advantage of training. He rolled fully onto his back and ensnared Garcia’s torso tight between his thighs. He then crossed his ankles for maximum leverage and squeezed with all of his might. The effect was much the same as a wrestler’s bear hug, but given that the legs are approximately four times stronger than the arms, the effect on the internal organs is horribly effective.
Garcia responded to the body-crush like most people do: he arched his back like a centipede caught in the cruel glare of a child’s magnifying glass. As the paralysing effect of the hold took effect, Gunn slammed his right palm with as much force as he could muster into Garcia’s unprotected ear. The Spaniard tumbled off him into an ungainly heap next to Kino.
A stamp kick into the side of Garcia’s face made sure the man stayed down.
Danny rose to his feet. He clenched his jaw tight and pushed against his teeth with his hand as hard as possible. None of his teeth moved, his jaw wasn’t broken, just hurting like hell from the slaps with the cricket bat. He rolled his neck and looked down with considered contempt at the two losers.
He picked up the one remaining petrol bomb that had survived the fight untouched.
“Well, boys, I’ll give you an A for effort, but a C for aptitude. Must do better,” Gunn said. The rag gave no resistance as he pulled it free from the neck of the bottle. Then he splashed the petroleum over the two prostrate bodies like an angry priest casting out demons during an exorcism. “Let’s see how you like it.”
Kino howled in fear, his eyes wide like a rabbit in a snare.
Garcia remained defiant, spitting out liquid. “English piece of shit.”
“See that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not English at all. I’m a Scotsman and proud of it. Mind, this has got nothing to do with you being Spanish and me British; more to do with you being a bunch of trouble-making arseholes. Big difference. I’ve met fuckers like you the world over. Being a fuckwit is an equal opportunities employer.”
“You’re all the same to me.”
“Well, take that thought with you to hell,” remarked Gunn as he produced a lighter from a pocket. He cast a glance around for spectators. There were none. A grim smile flickered across his face. The street scene was something akin to an apocalyptic tableau from the mind of Dante. Pools of flame burned with desperate ambition to spread their destructive capacity, but the cooling pavement offered little in the way of combustible materials. Danny turned his gaze back to the two fallen men, one shuddering in unequivocal terror, the other actually sneering as if daring Gunn to deliver the promised immolation.
The men were saved, not by any act of compassion, but by the blaring sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles.
Gunn and Garcia continued to lock stares. Neither man wanted to leave the encounter unfinished, but neither wanted any police involvement either. Danny gave a curt nod. “I’ll finish up with you later.”
“Next time it will be different,” Garcia replied.
Gunn could see the first hints of red and blue lights reflected in the windows further down the street. The police were only moments away. He pointed a finger at Garcia, turned, snatched up the cricket bat and ran inside the club. He locked the door behind him then checked it was secure.
* * *
Garcia pulled Kino to his feet, ignoring the yelps of pain from the younger man. “Can you drive?”
Kino nodded, his eyes wide.
“Then fucking drive,” ordered Garcia.
Kino slammed the car into gear, sped out into the street and slewed around the first corner. His wheels sent up a burst of sparks as he clipped the kerb. The car zig-zagged at each subsequent junction, right turn, left turn, so in a few minutes they were many blocks over from the burning crime scene. By the time he braked to a jarring stop, the flames that had decorated the side of the Mercedes had burned themselves out. The paint job was ruined. He looked at Garcia, the whites of his eyes stark against the soft dashboard lights. “Shit, what are we gonna tell the boss?”
“You leave the talking to me,” offered Garcia. “First we better get you cleaned up. How’s your leg?”
“My knee hurts like a bastard.”
“Don’t drive back to the boss’s villa just yet. My place is just a couple of miles away. We’ll get you patched up and get our story straight before we talk to Barcelo.”
“But we were supposed to call him as soon as the job was done.”
“And tell him what?” Garcia crossed his eyes and spoke in the manner of a simpleton. “Hey, boss, we just got our clocks cleaned and had to run for cover with our asses on fire, how about a bonus?”
“What will he do?”
“To me? Nothing… but to you? I don’t even want to think about it.”
Kino gulped in dire understanding. “Where do you live?”
Garcia smiled. “Take the next right.”
Fifteen minutes later Garcia called Barcelo.
“Is it done?”
“No, it is not. There was a problem. The hired help was waiting for us.”
“So? I told you to burn the club down and kill the Brit and the American if they were there.”
“The Yank wasn’t there, only the Brit. He is a tricky bastard that one. I will need a second shot at him,” said Garcia.
“Is the club still standing?”
“Yes. Things did not go as planned…” Garcia gave an abridged version of events to his employer. He could hear Barcelo swearing and the sound of objects crashing around the room.
“One other thing… that bastard Brit killed young Kino in a most horrible way. I’ll explain more when I see you later this morning.”
“Tell me now,” demanded Barcelo.
“He crushed the boy’s neck, but… it didn’t kill him straight away. He choked to death slowly. I tried to help but his throat had been stamped on.”
The line went quiet but he knew Barcelo was still there. Garcia looked down at Kino’s splayed corpse. The boy’s throat had indeed been crushed beyond repair. Garcia brushed the flattened cartilage with his toes. He then pressed his heel under Kino’s chin as he enjo
yed the quiet tension of the call.
Finally, Barcelo spoke and the message was music to Garcia’s ears.
* * *
Minutes later Danny peered at the two police cars and the fire engine from behind the club’s bar. The four policemen— Guardia Civil—were chatting between themselves and seemed to be taking turns to point at the pools of fire and scratch their heads in puzzlement. Two of the fire crew extinguished the flames in seconds.
After about ten minutes of shoulder shrugging and random gesticulations, one of the policemen made a rudimentary attempt at rattling a few of the surrounding doors. Another one of the cops stared straight up into the night sky as if aliens with arsonist tendencies might be to blame.
The first hints of dawn were creeping over the horizon by the time the street was finally silent again. Danny climbed the stairs back to his makeshift bedroom and flopped down onto the camp bed.
He stared at the ceiling.
Damn, was he really going to set those two alight? He had been on the receiving end of flames in times past and knew it ranked high on the worst possible deaths list. An act of evil to be sure. The only way he could square it off in his mind was that they had tried to do it to him first.
Was that reason enough?
Danny exhaled slow and easy, answering his own question. “Aye.”
He was asleep before the bedsprings stopped squeaking.
22
The sight that greeted the Dukes made them stop in their tracks. Danny’s eyes were dark with bruises and two horizontal scratches were etched deep into his chin.
“Danny?” Pam started towards him, her nursing instinct awakened again.
“Hey, I’m all right. Just a few more bruises that’s all; hazards of the job.”
“What happened?”
Danny led the couple outside and pointed out the scorch marks from the previous night. A few minutes of recounting had them up to speed on developments. A couple of passing pedestrians stopped to look at the scene so Gunn walked the couple back to the front door.
“What’s your insurance like on the club?”
“We’re fully covered for most accidents, fire and theft,” Larry replied.
“Bump it up this morning, even if you have to pay quite a bit extra. Get the compensation rate raised as high as possible.”
“Danny, are we going to lose the club?” asked Pamela. She reached for Larry.
“Clay and I will do our damn best to make sure not, but the game is cranking up now. The Locos have tried to grab me and burn down your club and failed on both counts. They’ll make their next move a big one. These gangs are like wild animals; if they show any weakness, the other gangs around here would sense that weakness and move in. I’ve been looking online this morning—there’s quite a few gangs operating in this area; some of them are nasty bastards as well. The two main threats to the Locos are the Rogue Angels and the Colombians.”
“Great. That’s just what we need, more gangs.” Pamela shook her head, her mouth turned down at the corners. The three sat at one of the tables near the front doors.
“Colombians? Like South American Colombians, here in Spain?” asked Pamela. “Really?”
“Aye, they’ve got tentacles everywhere. The Colombians arrived over forty years ago, with soldiers from both North and South America and they’re the most organised of all of the gangs in Spain without a doubt. They operate like a criminal secret service. Spain is an ideal location to conduct business for them, with the relaxed drug laws and easily manipulated legal system.”
Larry smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Colombians, eh? I like their coffee.”
“Most regular people in Spain don’t even realise they’re here apparently. They run their pipelines slick and quiet, beyond the reach of the American Drug Enforcement Administration.”
Pamela returned to the table with three mugs. “Not Colombian but it’s good coffee all the same.”
Danny sipped at the bitter brew. He nodded his thanks. “But the guys that caught my attention are a biker gang: the Rogue Angels. I saw them in town the other day.”
“I’ve seen them around as well. Bunch of tough-looking bastards,” said Larry. “They seem to have shown up out of the blue in the last month or so.”
“I googled them this morning. They’re a French gang, mostly from around Marseilles. They’ve been in the news quite a bit. Lots of violence. A turf war made the headlines a couple of years back. The Rogues went up against another outfit from Marseilles. Sixteen of the rival gang, the Red Wolves, were found murdered in their clubhouse. The bodies had been mutilated and then burned. They sent a very clear message to all the other gangs. They’ve been in the news quite a bit since too. Their reputation follows them wherever they set up camp.”
“And they’re French?” asked Pamela. “What are they doing down here?”
Danny took another sip of coffee. “A French undercover cop was murdered. The Marseilles police knew the Rogues were behind the killing and hounded the gang at every corner. A few of the bikers met with accidents of their own. I think they learned the hard way that killing cops is really bad for business. So now they roll from town to town, freighting guns, drugs and flesh into whichever marketplace is the highest bidder at the time.”
“Great,” said Pamela flatly. “So how the hell can these bikers be of any help to us? Are you going to hire them as backup?”
“No, that’s not my style. I like to handle things in-house. It’s all about trust and who you can rely on.”
“What then?”
“Trust me, Pam, it’s better if you don’t know the details. Let me do what I do. I’ll keep you informed if I need to.”
“Oh, I see, it’s on a need-to-know basis, right?” She shook her head. “You can take the man out of the army but you can’t take the army out of the man.”
“Come on, it’s not like that.” Danny put a hand on her shoulder. “You know how it is. If the police come around asking questions, it’s better if you don’t know what I’ve been up to. Politicians call it plausible deniability.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. Just be—”
“I’m always careful. Careful is my middle name.”
“That’s funny, Clay said it was Valentine. Like the saint,” Larry cut in. He smiled wryly.
Danny shook his head. His absent sibling could be a real pain in the arse sometimes. Nothing was sacred. Danny’s school years had been bad enough, living as an army brat, getting moved from country to country. As soon as you’d finally made some friends, you were on the move again. Then came the taunting. As soon as the other kids discovered his middle name, he would receive all sorts of tacky Valentine’s Day gifts, usually defaced with crude messages from the other boys in the school. Love hearts with an oversized penis drawn on, that kind of thing. He still gritted his teeth each time February fourteenth rolled around. How any woman found a cheap teddy bear with a red heart emblazoned on its chest romantic was still a mystery to him.
“Look, why don’t you two sit back out in the sun while we get ready for the day? Julie and Dez will be here in a few minutes,” said Pam.
Danny paid a little more attention when Julie was mentioned.
“You sure?” asked Larry.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You just get in my way.”
“Sheesh, nice to be wanted.”
Pamela leaned over and kissed Larry full on the lips. “You know I love you, you’re just a crap table setter.”
“Fine, have it your way. Now bring me one of your finest ales, wench. And make it quick!” Larry adopted a hilarious haughty tone.
“Strictly orange juice or coffee this early on in the day. You know what Dr Simmons said.”
“Dr Simmons: bane of my life,” Larry whispered from the side of his mouth. “Tried to get me into yoga. I ask you…”
But Danny wasn’t really listening. Instead his mind was moving through scenarios, cause and effect, retribution and revenge. Each action committed had a number of probable outcomes,
like moves on a chessboard. He visualised various options much like a safe cracker plays with the dial of the combination mechanism. Click, click, click. The pieces started to fall into place. The Locos, the Rogue Angels; light the blue touchpaper and stand well back…
Larry was still talking, heedless of his companion zoning out. “…and so I told him, there’s nothing wrong with my heart, it’s the rest of me that’s buggered.”
A large blue cylindrical truck rumbled past the club. The sewage tanker looked out of place in the picturesque street. Danny supposed that many of the surrounding rural houses and villas weren’t connected to the main network of sewers and had septic tanks that needed to be emptied regularly. It was an ugly truck that kept the rest of the town safe, sanitary and beautiful; the way of the world.
Danny smiled as click, the safe door in his mind opened.
23
The sun was reaching its zenith as Danny watched Clay reverse his vehicle into the parking zone at the rear of the club. High overhead, a gull traced a wide circle, gave one shrill caw and moved out to sea.
Clay switched off the engine and clambered out. He groaned loudly as he stretched. “Hello, wee one.”
“Hiya, Clay.” Danny then slipped into his best Sean Connery voice. “Well, you’re a shite for shore eyes.”
The Gunn brothers shared a quick embrace.
Clay pointed at Danny’s bruises and scrapes. “Been having fun while I’ve been away?”
“Oh, you know me, making friends and influencing people. I’ll tell you all about it later over a cold one.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“So are you all sorted on the home front?” asked Danny.
“More or less; I’ll explain over another of those cold ones you just promised.”
“Did you bring your toys?”
“You betcha, and I think you’ll like what I brought for you.”
“Okay then, so what did you get from Boy-Toys R Us?”
Clay opened the trunk of his car. “Lookie-lookie.”
“Shiny,” declared the younger Gunn, admiring a selection that included an AK-47 rifle, an old British L1A1 self-loading rifle, a pair of Beretta 92 pistols and a dozen or so packages wrapped and duct-taped in brown greaseproof paper.
