by James Hilton
Danny gave Clay a smile. “Not the nicest wake-up call I’ve ever had.” Clay opened his mouth—no doubt to launch into a well-rehearsed tirade of mock insults—when Julie appeared at the door.
“Hey, you’re up,” she said.
Clay tipped a non-existent hat. “Hi. Clay Gunn.”
“Julie Keen. I work downstairs.”
“Pleased to meet you, Julie,” said Clay. “I’m trying to peg your accent. Manchester?”
“Close. Huddersfield. Not a million miles away.” She smiled briefly at Clay who towered over her. “I… just wanted to catch up with Danny for a few minutes.”
“Hey, I know where I’m not wanted. I’ll leave you to it.”
Julie flushed a little and stepped aside to let the big man leave. She didn’t speak until she heard Clay’s footsteps halfway down the stairs. “I worried about you all last night.”
“It was pretty busy,” Danny replied, adding a little velvet into his voice. “But I’m fine.”
“Good. You know…” She paused, then seemed to find her courage. “I’ve got a couple of days off work next week.” She closed the bedroom door behind her. “I thought if you were free…”
Danny pulled her close, his lips finding hers. She smelled of coffee and lemons. She didn’t get to finish her thought.
* * *
Downstairs, Clay passed an easy half hour with Larry. The old soldier recounted happier times spent with his regiment, telling the exploits of his squaddies without once making the story about himself. Clay too had many stories from his time in the Rangers but was happier listening to his old friend.
Larry was halfway through a tale involving a Komodo dragon, an improvised fishing rod and a can of Spam when Danny joined them. Clay first checked that Julie wasn’t nearby then leaned towards his brother. “You’re looking pleased with yourself.”
Danny raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you know, just making new friends and influencing people.”
“Huh?” Larry looked bewildered for a moment.
Clay blew him a kiss. “Julie, darling.”
“Ah. Nice one.” Larry gave his nod of approval. “Be careful. She’s a lovely girl but falls for all the wrong fellas.”
Clay chuckled. “Well that’s a match dot com right there. They don’t get much more wrong than Danny boy.”
“Shut it.” Danny raised a fist playfully.
“Sigmund Freud could have founded a whole new school of thought if he’d looked into Danny’s brain pan. It’s part Bruce Lee, part Machiavelli, part Daffy Duck.”
“You’re too kind.”
Danny leaned in and tapped Larry on the shoulder. “You know they classified Clay’s brain as solitary confinement.”
Larry took the bait. “Why?”
“It’s comprised of a single cell.”
Clay’s response was as flat as a ruined tyre. “Oh, please call a doctor. I think my sides are going to split.”
Larry’s phone rang. “Hello?”
As he listened his expression changed to one of concern. “How long ago? Okay, thanks.”
“What?” asked Clay.
“The bikers are on the move. They all just stormed out of the bar they’ve been hanging around. Armed to the teeth by all accounts.”
“Who called you?” asked Danny.
“The barmaid at Valentino’s. She’s good friends with Pamela. Married to a Spanish guy who works there as well. Do you think they took the bait?”
“If they’re coming out in force, yes. They’re either gunning for the Locos or for us. I’m betting on the Locos. They’ve no way of knowing about me or Clay.” Danny sat back and pursed his lips. “If the Rogues know where Barcelo’s villa is, there’s a good chance that’s where they’ll be heading. What do you think, big bro, shall we saddle up and join the party?”
“I like parties,” Clay nodded. “Do you think there’ll be chips and dip?”
“You never know. Come on then, let’s lock and load. See if we can’t mix it up a wee bit.”
“I wish I was coming with you guys. I’d love a chance to put the hurt on a couple of those bastards,” said Larry.
Clay squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, compadre, we’ll bring you back a couple of scalps. You’ve got us on speed dial if anyone should show up here, right?”
Larry tapped his phone. “Yeah, I got your number.”
“Come on, time to rock and roll.” Danny nodded his respect to the old soldier then again at Clay. “After you. Rangers lead the way, right?”
38
Vartain pulled over to the side of the road as they reached the turn-off to Barcelo’s villa. He waited until the other vehicles had parked alongside him before he spoke. “Normally we would scope out the joint fully before we hit it, but I want this finished as soon as possible.”
One of the two scouts who had been tasked with locating the Locos’ headquarters pointed down the road. “There’s a high wall around the house and a main gate. We need to get through that before we can hit them.”
Vartain nodded to the oversized RVs. “If we need to I’ll smash right through with one of those.”
The scout looked at the Winnebago as if it was a ridiculous idea but this only drew a scathing look from Vartain. “Let me do the thinking. You just be ready to put these mongrels down.”
The scout began to reply, “I was born r—” but Vartain had already turned away. The revving of the Triumph’s engine drowned out any further conversation. Keeping his bike close to the right border of the road Vartain waved over his shoulder. The convoy split to allow the biggest of the RVs to lead the way. The line of vehicles quickly crept forward like a swarm of angry cockroaches.
After less than a quarter mile the driver of the leading vehicle slammed on his brakes and one of the bikes rear-ended the Winnebago, toppling both rider and pillion to the ground.
Vartain sped forward to see what the hold-up was.
Another procession of vehicles was speeding up the narrow road straight towards them—the Locos!
Vartain snatched the pistol from his belt. “They’re coming. Lay them out!”
The Locos’ convoy consisted of several low-slung pick-up trucks and six large SUVs. As Vartain shouted his command, three men with automatic rifles lurched into view from behind the cab of the leading truck. Ribbons of fire sprang from the stubby black rifles. Vartain wrenched his bike sideways, the rear tyre skidding momentarily as it lost purchase and his pistol bucked in his hand as he returned fire. The shots went wild as he fought to control the bike and shoot simultaneously. Realising the folly of his actions, Vartain gripped the handlebars and slewed his bike away from the kill zone. He could hear the bullets tear through the outer skin of the big RVs.
The Locos quickly moved their vehicles into a tight V formation, effectively sealing the road. Men in urban camouflage sprang from the vehicles and surged forward, ducking low as they came, using the vehicles as cover. Then the world seemed to explode as both sides opened fire.
The windscreen of the leading RV was shattered as a Loco sprang into view and worked the pump on his shotgun. The driver of the RV gunned the engine and raced forward, crushing the man against the stationary pick-up truck. The shotgun bucked once more before the Loco’s ribcage and spine were crushed. The twelve-gauge obliterated the face of the Winnebago driver in a crimson explosion. The three men in the back of the pick-up were sent tumbling; two of the three Locos landed in a sprawl on the road whilst the third slammed face first into the roof of the cab then went down on his back in the truck, his weapon sending countless rounds into the sky as he clamped down on the trigger.
Vartain watched the first of his men die and exploded with rage. With a roar he emptied his pistol into one of the Locos who had fallen from the truck. The man slumped face down, three bullet holes decorating his back. As another Loco sprang from cover and started to shoot, Vartain threw himself clear from his bike but a bullet had already found the calf of his right leg. Twisting even as he la
nded, he drew his revolver and sighted on the Loco. The Ruger spat once and the gangster pin wheeled to the ground as the .357 slug punched through his chest.
Vartain used his fallen bike as cover as he looked for his men. Many had also taken cover, using the vehicles as shields while they exchanged sporadic fire with the Locos. Most of the shots were hitting nothing but air. Someone was screaming from behind the Locos’ vehicular barricade. Vartain grinned in satisfaction as a man lurched into view. It was the screamer. The man clutched the bloody remains of his left hand to his chest, only his thumb and forefinger intact.
One of the Rogues dived down next to his leader. The man raised his shotgun over the bulk of the bike and with a boom knocked the screamer off his feet. No more screaming.
Vartain smiled despite the returning fire sending sparks into the air as it impacted the engine block of his bike.
The impacts lessened as the Locos chose new targets. Vartain scooted to one side and risked poking his head from cover. Two of the mounted bikers had looped back around from the rear of the convoy and broken through the Locos line of defence. The bikers were now acting like cavalry. They kept on the move, attacking the Spaniards as they tore back and forward between the blockades.
The Locos were now forced to fight on two fronts. For a few desperate moments some of them stopped shooting, frozen in indecision, until a bear of a man strode forward. He ignored the bullets zipping past his head and roared a command: “Fight, you bastards!”
39
Barcelo stared aghast as one of his men went down in a spray of red mist. His men were beginning to falter; the constant exchange of fire began to abate. He knew if they did not hit back hard and fast all would be lost. He lurched from his vantage point and strode forward. He put a single bullet into the body of the closest of the Rogues. The biker folded at the waist and pitched to the ground. He turned to his men. “Fight, you bastards!”
The crack of pistols, boom of shotguns and sporadic rattling of rifle fire again tore the air between the two groups. As Barcelo stalked forward, picking his targets accurately, Ortega covered his back.
A biker dropped to one knee less than twenty feet away and Ortega snapped off a shot. The bullet caught the Rogue Angel high on his left side, then Barcelo put a bullet of his own into the biker’s throat. The Rogue dropped his weapon and clutched at his neck. Streams of crimson pumped between his fingers. Ortega shot him again and the biker stayed down.
Both men moved as one, efficient and deadly. Another Loco appeared at their side, then another. Within a minute they had created an effective skirmish line and began pressing the Rogues back. Then the ammunition began to run out.
As each man’s weapon ran dry they scooted back, seeking cover. The same began to happen with the Rogues. Shots became more infrequent but also more carefully chosen. More men fell in the final minute than in the first.
Barcelo, still furious and defiant, strode forward. Posing like Christ the Redeemer, his empty pistol dangling from one finger, he shouted, “Now what? Is that it?”
Men on both sides rummaged through pockets, hoping for a spare clip.
A wolfish-looking man emerged from behind his bike. He looked at both gangs before remarking in broken Spanish, “Well this is awkward.”
“So now what?” Barcelo handed his spent pistol to Ortega. “Sticks and knives?”
“If that’s what it takes,” replied the biker, his voice returning the disdain delivered by Barcelo. “Are you the leader?”
“I am.”
“Your name?”
“Barcelo. Yours?”
“Vartain.”
Several men on both sides drew knives from their belts. More than one machete was waved in threat.
Barcelo took a step closer to his adversary. He looked the biker up and down and curled his lip, unimpressed. “You man enough for the old way? One-on-one, hand-to-hand?”
Vartain rolled his neck, then stretched his chest by swinging his elbows back sharply. He grinned, confident. “Just you and me, old man? Sure. Winner takes all.”
“Winner takes all. I win, your boys fuck off back to wherever you came from.”
Vartain allowed himself another smile. “And when I win?”
Barcelo opened his hand towards his villa.
“That’ll do nicely.”
Barcelo shrugged off his tailored jacket, which was now ruined, streaked with blood and dirt. Turning to his men, he shouted, “One-on-one. Nobody interferes.”
Clenching and unclenching his fists, he moved his bulk into a boxer’s crouch and motioned Vartain forward. Circling as he studied his opponent, Barcelo knew you didn’t ascend to the head of a biker gang without being able to walk the walk. He forced himself to breathe slowly. His fingers felt numb as fresh adrenalin surged. Barcelo held the advantage of size and muscle but the biker looked mean and wiry, certainly dangerous.
Both men inched closer.
Barcelo cut the air with a big right hand.
Dodging to one side Vartain launched himself forward and planted a heel kick that buckled Barcelo’s knee. His hands moved like pistons as he followed his kick with a blistering series of straight punches.
Caught off guard by the speed of the biker’s attack, Barcelo nearly went down under the flurry of fists. He felt the cartilage in his nose snap. He clubbed the biker with his forearm as he struggled to stay on his feet. Shit, the French fucker is fast.
Barcelo reeled back as the biker continued his assault, driving forward with each punch; his vision started to blur as he tried to land a solid punch of his own. An iron grip suddenly latched on to his throat, fingers digging deep behind his trachea as his legs were knocked from beneath him with a savage roundhouse kick. Vartain followed the Spaniard to the ground and continued to smash at his face mercilessly with his right hand. A cheer came from the Rogues.
In an instant, Barcelo reached up with both hands and wrenched Vartain’s head a full one hundred and eighty degrees. The cheering stopped abruptly. The terrible sound of snapping vertebra was unmistakeable.
Slowly, blood streaming from his nose and a gash over his left eye, Barcelo regained his feet. “Vete ala chingada!”
One of the Rogues stepped forward, hands outstretched, his eyes on his fallen leader. “It’s over. We leave.”
Barcelo spat a mouthful of bloody saliva to the ground and gestured at the body. “Take your shit with you.”
* * *
Less than four hundred yards from the combat zone Danny and Clay watched the fight unfold with muted interest. The gunfire had already begun when they arrived so they had moved quickly to one of the few higher vantage points and watched as the carnage played itself out.
They stayed low and out of sight as the vanquished Rogue Angels passed by, their RVs pockmarked with bullet holes in addition to Danny’s graffiti.
Clay gave his brother the thumbs up. “Well, that worked just the way you thought it would. Next?”
Danny glanced at his watch. “We’ll give it an hour or so. They’ll be on the beer by then.”
“Then we can wind them back up.”
“Come on. I need you to drive me back for the sewage truck.”
“Huh?”
“Time to give the Locos some more shit to deal with.”
40
Danny hot-wired the sewage truck as easily as the first time. He was mildly surprised that it hadn’t been found and claimed by its owners. This was probably because he’d parked it out of sight; he’d left the vehicle at the rear of what looked like a boatshed on the outskirts of town. The engine protested briefly as he inserted the shim into the ignition and twisted. A lot of newer models could be ruined by such a crude hot-wire hack but the truck was old enough that it lacked sophisticated electronics. The engine rumbled into life.
Danny kept Clay in view as they retraced their journey back to Barcelo’s villa. As arranged, once they reached the turn-off Clay sped ahead to make sure that the road was clear.
“I’m in place
. No lookouts to be seen,” said Clay, his voice tinny through the phone.
“Cool, just keep me informed if anything changes. I’m only one minute behind you,” replied Danny.
“You sure this’ll work?”
“As long as I get up enough speed, yeah. It should.”
“Okay, I’ll be ready and waiting.”
“You got the spikes out?” asked Danny.
“Doin’ it as we speak.”
“Thirty seconds out…”
“I can hear you coming. That engine is wailing some!”
The truck tore past Clay as it sped up the hill overlooking the villa.
Danny had noted the position during their surveillance. Timing was of the essence. Five. Four. Three. Two. Jump!
Danny leapt from the truck a second before it reached the edge of the overlook. Tucking his head and shoulders he rolled in a fluid motion and was back on his feet as he heard the first crash. The truck soared through the air for a few seconds then began tumbling as the wheels struck the sharp incline. The sound of twisting metal combined with the roaring engine sounded unearthly. The tanker skidded to one side and began to spin sideways down the last quarter of the hillside. The distance between the incline and the rear sundeck of the villa was less than ten feet. The truck crashed across the tiled patio area, wrecking the ornate furniture and large barbecue range as it continued its chaotic descent. A large double swing seat with a striped sunshade was sent spiralling into the swimming pool. One of the freestanding gas bottles attached to the grill was catapulted high into the air and disappeared over the edge of the wooden stairs that led down to the sea. The tanker came to an abrupt halt as it smashed down onto the pool deck. The engine gave a defiant rattle then died.
Within seconds a rabble of startled-looking men appeared at the rear of the house. Hands were pointed first at the ruined truck, then at the top of the hill as they realised where it had come from. Danny stayed low, not willing to make himself a target, just in case they had managed to lay hands on any fresh ammo. Shrill voices cut through the air but no shots were fired.
