by James Hilton
“Breathe, slow and easy,” he whispered into the stock of the rifle. He angled his body slightly to one side and dug the toes of his good leg into the hard-packed dirt. The rifle felt comfortable in his grip. It was the same model as he had trained with as a young soldier a lifetime ago.
The turning sensation in his stomach subsided as he exhaled again, slow and easy. A semicircle of men stood in front of the villa. One of them carried a shotgun. The other men brandished knives and clubs. He smiled. If they had more firearms it was a safe bet they would be flashing them instead of the baseball bats and cleavers. He lined up the man with the shotgun in his sights. There was no scope fitted to the rifle but the “iron sights” would serve just fine at this distance.
Larry had insisted on playing his part in Danny’s plan. He had promised to stay out of sight and only open fire if the situation necessitated it. Pamela had, of course, had a screaming fit when he told her he was going with the brothers. That had been the whole point of asking for their help she had argued: so Larry would not be harmed by the Locos. The heated argument had raged for five volatile minutes before Larry had shouted at her: “What would you do if it was me that they had taken instead of Adam?”
Pamela had cried and argued back some more but Larry had left grim-faced with the rifle locked and loaded.
Clay had dropped him off shortly after turning the car onto the access road that led directly to Barcelo’s villa. Larry had jogged the remainder as quietly as possible. He was breathing hard as he reached the long incline that overlooked the villa grounds. Adam’s car sat abandoned close by. Bitter bile rose in the back of his throat as he struggled to complete the brisk run. Bent almost double, he traversed the slope and selected his vantage point. Clay had driven slowly to buy him a little time to get into position. He had needed every second of that to reach his spot. He knew that physical fitness was the first thing lost from a soldier’s skill set.
Out of habit he licked the tip of his index finger then rubbed the saliva into his right eyebrow. He had picked up the trick many years earlier during his time at sniper school. It allowed the shooter to feel the direction of the wind as he prepared to shoot. It had become an unconscious ritual within him. Position, acquire target, lick, squeeze.
The sound of an agonised scream drifted up from the villa. Adam was face down with some guy ramming his foot into his back. Larry shifted his aim to the man punishing Adam. It would be an easy shot to put one in the guy’s chest, see who was in charge then, but the plan was no shooting unless necessary. Then the shotgun boomed, a brief tongue of flame and Clay was roaring.
“Jesus Christ!” Larry instantly adjusted his aim and snapped off a shot. The man with the shotgun froze mid action and looked down in disbelief. The 7.62mm round had entered his body just above his waist, ripping through his liver with deadly efficiency as it went. Larry watched the man stagger and he squeezed the trigger again. The second shot was more precise than the first. The round caught him directly between the shoulder blades, centre mass. As the man dropped, Clay snatched the shotgun from his hands.
With a collective howl the Locos scattered and raced for the front doors of the villa. The shotgun boomed again and one of the grey-clad gangsters was pitched off his feet with his arms thrown out behind him.
The Locos raced through the doorway in double time. Clay racked another shot but only succeeded in blasting the doors. Larry realigned and sent a tight three-round burst through the closest of the windows. The chances of hitting a body were slim but it would keep their heads down and allow Clay some breathing room. He sent a second tight burst through another window. As he sighted up on a third he heard the voice behind him.
“You Brit bastardos never learn. Keep trying the same tricks over and over.” The voice was thickly accented. Larry had lived in Spain long enough to know a Barcelona accent when he heard one. He closed his eyes in self-reproach. Rookie-fucking-mistake. He’d been so intent on the villa he had not monitored his six.
Larry began to turn to face the new threat as a pistol barked twice.
50
Timo watched Ortega scramble to his feet, his hand pressed to the side of his face. The boss looked like he was in serious pain. As the Locos moved away from the front doors, the windows to the right of the portico exploded and bullets ricocheted from the tiled floor. Ortega covered his head with his good arm and ran deeper into the lobby.
A second window shattered and Timo ducked low to avoid the cascade of falling glass. A large Chinese vase next to the door exploded into a thousand blue-and-white pieces. The other Locos made to follow Ortega, but Timo hesitated. He clutched a fire axe tight with both hands. He had been with Barcelo for many years. As a child he had lived through the dismal latter days of Francoist Spain and decade by decade since he had watched his beloved country become ever more polluted by foreigners. His once great Spain was now barely scraping through each year, seemingly at the brink of financial collapse. He knew that Barcelo was right; they had to take back what was rightfully theirs piece by bloody piece. And these Brits were proving hard to get rid of. At least the smaller one was down for good, his guts spread across the driveway. But that big American bastard was still very much alive and raising hell.
No, he would not run from this marauding cowboy. Timo would kill him and take another piece of Spain back.
The doors shook again at another blast from the shotgun. The doors swung open and the big man stepped into the house. He worked the pump-action and a spent cartridge was ejected onto the tiles.
Ortega and another Loco sprinted through a door and slammed it behind them. Two other Locos ran for the stairs.
Timo scowled at the big American. He raised the axe high. He would not run and be shot in the back. He would die like a man with his weapon in his hand. He watched as the shotgun was pointed at his chest. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Empty.
An evil grin spread across Timo’s face. He stepped towards the big man, hefting the axe. “Te mato! What is your name, before I kill you?”
“What? You weren’t paying attention outside? The name’s Clay Gunn if you gotta know. You gonna kill me, huh? Then you better get to hackin’ instead of yakkin’.”
Timo sprang forward with a curse and brought the axe down in a wide sweep aiming for Clay’s neck. Clay dropped to one knee and caught the blow on the stock of the shotgun. He twisted the weapon to one side in an effort to wrench the axe from his grip. Springing back, Timo angled the axe head to one side and swung again. The second blow whistled past Clay’s head and rebounded off the doorjamb.
Timo again stepped back, beckoning Clay forward. He needed room to swing the axe and did not want to risk it sticking in the wooden door. He timed the next swing as Clay stepped forward. The impact detached the pump-action grip and sent it spinning across the room. Timo dodged as the rest of the ruined shotgun flew towards his head like a javelin. The stock of the weapon grazed the side of his face and clattered to the tiles.
“Now you are mine.” Timo moved forward double-slashing with the axe. The first traced a horizontal path at head height, which Clay dropped below as Timo knew he would. Without a pause, Timo whipped the axe around in a tight arc and brought it down towards the top of Clay’s exposed head.
But the blade never connected. A heavily muscled arm shot out and caught the axe handle mid swing. Timo locked eyes with Clay. He tried to pull the axe away but it felt like the weapon was embedded deep into a tree trunk.
Clay’s voice was like a wolf’s growl. “This ain’t my first rodeo, chump.”
Clay didn’t try to wrestle for the weapon but kept it locked out and away from his head. His right hand shot out like a piston and seized Timo by the throat. The Loco enforcer gagged as Clay’s fingers dug deep into the soft flesh behind his trachea. Timo tried to pull free to no avail. In desperation he grabbed at Clay’s throat in return. The man’s corded neck felt like a wooden fence post. Timo was left clawing ineffectively at the a
ir between them as Clay straightened out his right arm.
“Know this before you die”—Clay crushed the soft tissue of Timo’s throat between his fingers—“I’m going to kill every last one of you.”
Timo dropped to his knees as Clay twisted his neck in a tight circle. He struggled desperately to inhale but the pressure was unbearable and his vision began to narrow and blacken. The cartilage in his throat ruptured as Clay suddenly reversed the rotation of his grip.
The last thing Timo heard was Clay’s voice. “I’m going to kill every last one of you motherfuckers!”
51
The man guarding the staircase flinched as he heard the distinctive booms of the shotgun. Mateo wanted to run to the front of the villa and join in the action. Yet he had been given very clear orders by Ortega: Watch the back of the villa! Guard the staircase that leads from the pool deck to the waterfront, thirty feet below. Do not leave it unguarded.
Mateo jabbed the point of his knife into the top of the wooden corner post. He gave another cursory glance down the staircase. Nothing but sand and sea and shit down there. Barcelo owned a mid-sized boat but it was presently moored five miles up the coast at La Tortuga Marina.
Mateo was one of the newer members of the Locos. He had joined with his cousin, Kino, a few months earlier. Kino had gotten himself killed just a couple of days ago when he and Babi Garcia had tried to petrol bomb the Woo Hoo Club. Mateo was determined not to end the same way as his cousin.
A couple of hollow pops that could have been more gunfire brought his attention back to the front of the house. Damn it. What was happening? The shotgun rang out another couple of times. Shit! All the action was at the front of the villa and he was left guarding an overturned truck and a swimming pool that was filled with more shit than a Greek debt agreement.
Agitated, Mateo slammed the point of his knife deep into the post again. He did not see the arm that snaked between his legs from behind. But he did feel the hand as it closed around his testicles in a vice-like grip. Mateo opened his mouth to scream but the arm that passed around his throat in a blur of motion cut off all sound. He grabbed at the arm that was squeezing his neck like an anaconda. The pain in his groin was horrendous. He needed to breathe! Mateo felt his feet lift from the ground as his unseen assailant hoisted him swiftly into the air. Then he was tumbling head first down the wooden staircase. He thrust out his hands in an instinctive effort to break his fall. Something snapped in his shoulder as his body jack-knifed into the wooden planking. Then his legs passed over his head and he felt something twist free in his lower back. Mateo continued to tumble all the way to the sea. Face down, he was already unconscious as the salt water began to fill his throat.
* * *
Danny watched the sentry bounce down the staircase. He knew as the man’s legs passed over his head like a scorpion that he wasn’t coming back. Danny had approached the rear of the villa as planned by following the rugged coastline and emerging up the dockside walkway.
Dez had bravely volunteered to pair up with Clay and, posing as Danny, attended the meeting demanded by Ortega, in order to give Danny an opportunity to launch a surprise attack from the rear. But as some old soldier once said: The plan was working great until the first shot was fired. Clay and Dez had gone in unarmed as demanded. They knew the risks, but knew also that Adam was dead if they did otherwise. It was up to Danny to turn the tables by ambush.
Red flashes of fury erupted in Danny’s mind as he heard shotgun blasts. The time for subtlety had passed. Either Clay or Dez could be dead!
He wrenched the sentry’s blade free from the corner post and drew his Beretta pistol. He would need precision shots inside the villa. He had an AK47 across his back. The pool deck still reeked from the ruptured sewage truck and was deserted. Moving rapidly to the wide patio doors Danny tried the door handle. The door opened silently and Danny stepped inside.
52
A pistol barked twice. A searing pain cut through Larry’s upper thigh and a second impact ripped into his right shoulder. Despite the blood pumping across his chest he struggled to bring the rifle around and aim at his attacker. But the younger man was a lot faster and a boot cracked into the side of Larry’s face.
“I know you…” The Loco stamped down on the rifle barrel, pinning it to the ground. “You’re that old man from the fucking Woo Hoo! You recognise me? Aspanu Perez?”
Larry struggled to free his weapon. Aspanu responded by grinding his other boot heel into Larry’s bleeding shoulder. As he writhed in pain the young Loco sent the rifle clattering away with another kick. “All you Brits think you’re so tough. Well you don’t look so tough now.”
Larry closed his eyes momentarily. He had survived multiple conflicts in some of the most turbulent countries in the world. He had survived a devastating roadside bomb and now he was going to die at the hands of a boy who looked no older than twenty.
Aspanu sneered before he swiped his pistol hard across Larry’s face. Larry slumped onto his back as the next blow caught him square between the eyes. As a boxer in the army, he had been hit much harder, but that was nearly two decades earlier and he had been two decades fitter. He felt something sting his eyes, obscuring his vision, and knew it was his own blood. Another blow snapped his teeth together, sending his head bouncing off the hard-packed dirt. He felt the younger man plant a knee in his chest, pinning him to the ground.
Larry felt his attacker shift his weight for a brief moment and he saw that the barrel of the pistol dripped blood. His blood.
“Now, I think it is time for you to die.” Aspanu spat in Larry’s face and pushed the pistol towards his open mouth.
Larry batted the pistol to one side and in a desperate move swung his knees upward and scissored the boy’s neck tight between his legs. Larry’s prosthetic right leg folded at the knee, tight against the side of Aspanu’s throat. Wrapping his left knee around the prosthetic ankle Larry caught the boy in a “triangle choke”. The pistol discharged and Larry felt the heat from the muzzle as a bullet whistled past his face. Larry clamped both of his hands around the younger man’s wrist and forced the pistol away from his head. He watched the colour of the boy’s face change as the blood supply to his brain was cut off. Larry increased the pressure by drawing his heel towards his buttocks. The titanium prosthetic joint proved far more robust than Aspanu’s neck. The pistol bucked twice more. Aspanu stared into Larry’s face. His panicked eyes and downturned mouth begged for release but Larry held his grip tight, squeezing until his thighs ached. Aspanu’s face turned a darker purple and his tongue jutted from his lips. Only after the pistol dropped from his lifeless fingers did Larry Duke let him slip free.
With a last effort Larry rolled the corpse onto the hard-packed earth. He flopped back into a foetal position. It took several attempts to wipe the blood from his eyes. His left hand probed the gunshot wounds at his shoulder then at his leg. Both hurt like a son of a bitch.
Shit! He had taken two bullets and had his face rearranged. He cast a glance at Aspanu’s lifeless face, which stared back accusingly. He spat out a mouth full of bloody saliva. Still, things could be worse.
He hoped the Gunn brothers were faring better.
53
Clay regarded the door with contempt. Two Locos had followed their captain through it. Another two had sprinted up the wide sweeping staircase situated at the far left of the lobby.
Clay tried the handle. Locked. He looked at the door, hinges and lock. It was made of solid wood and it would open towards him. That would make it a real bitch to kick down.
With an angry grunt of resignation, he swung the axe. The blade bit into the wood six inches above the handle. Twisting the blade free he swung again and again, with each impact echoing in the tiled lobby. He heard someone yelling; a warning that the American was nearly through the door.
“That’s right, you dickwads. I’m coming for you.” Clay knew the danger of assaulting the door. If one of his targets got their hands on another firearm they
could easily shoot him through the breach. With his pulse hammering in his temples he continued.
A chunk of wood ripped clear from the door, leaving a tangible hole. Clay slammed the axe down several more times until the gap was large enough. Squatting low for a brief moment, he checked that there was no one ready to impale his arm with a blade on the other side. He pushed his arm through the hole and found the simple lock; no bullet or blade found his flesh. A quick twist and it opened.
Through the door, one of the Locos stood at the far end of a hallway. He held a meat cleaver in his raised hand and visibly flinched when he saw the man he’d have to fight. Clay roared and his voice amplified in the confines of the narrow passage.
The Loco launched the cleaver in an overhand throw. Clay dropped low, almost onto his hands and knees, as the heavy blade cut the air above him. The cleaver flew out into the lobby, and Clay grinned maliciously at the now unarmed gangster. He charged forward, axe thrust out, and covered the length of the passageway in a couple of seconds. The Loco attempted to dodge out of Clay’s path but the stout wooden handle rammed into his shoulder, knocking him clean off his feet and into the room at the end of the hallway.
Clay followed and the Loco scooted away like a crab on hot sand. They were in a kitchen, which had a large utility island with an oversized sink and gleaming marble work surfaces. Ortega and his men were waiting for him.
On command, two of the younger Locos rushed Clay, armed with knives. One charged straight for him, knife raised high for a downward stab. The other came in low and fast from Clay’s right side.
Using the axe handle again as a stave, Clay skipped to his left and rammed the shaft against the first Loco’s downward swing. As the blow was blocked he continued the motion and ploughed the stout handle into the base of his skull. The man pitched forward into the path of the second attacker, his arms grabbing out for support. Clay brought the axe down across the back of his head. Both attackers went down. With a roar of fury Clay brought the axe down in another savage blow. The second Loco looked on aghast as his right arm was severed at the elbow.
