by James Hilton
Barcelo threw up his hands in surrender. “What is this?”
“One shot.” Golok spoke through clenched teeth. “Not my man’s weapon.”
“I don’t know who’s out there shooting but it’s not my men.” As Barcelo spoke the words, he knew. “The Brits!”
Golok’s men raced from the building, weapons high, shoulders rounded, bodies bent slightly forward as they moved. Their boss picked up the bag of cash and followed his team outside.
Barcelo turned to Babi Garcia, his face reddening. “Give me your pistol!”
Garcia didn’t move. He didn’t much feel like giving up his weapon.
“This is no time for your shit, Babi. Give me a fucking gun.”
Garcia drew his pistol from his shoulder rig. The Kimber Eclipse was both a beautiful and efficient weapon. He raised the weapon slowly until it pointed at his employer’s stomach then smiled.
The Bosnians were already out of the door.
Barcelo held out his hand. “Gun!”
Garcia clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth but rotated the pistol and handed it over butt first. “I want it back.”
His boss grunted an approximation of thanks and lumbered after the Bosnian outfit. The other four Locos followed close behind their boss.
Garcia drew his backup weapon: a compact Kimber Super Carry Ultra HD. Smaller and lighter than the Eclipse he’d given Barcelo, the SCU carried the same .45 ACP rounds. Both were deadly efficient weapons. He followed the Locos out.
The Bosnians had opened fire on a single vehicle; the rear and side windows had already shattered and it bounced wildly as it reversed at top speed. There were two men, both hunched low in the front seats of the fleeing vehicle. The man in the passenger seat was the same one Garcia had fought with outside the Woo Hoo Club. Garcia could see his face, growling like a pit bull in a death match. The illuminated sights of his Kimber lined up with the Brit’s head.
One shot. Boom!
The passenger-side window exploded and the man’s head snapped down and out of sight.
61
Danny cursed as he felt a bullet tug at the hair on the top of his head. He twisted and began to raise his stolen weapon. Shit, the sling had caught around something at the bottom of his seat. Danny leaned forward, tugging hard to extricate the assault rifle. The vehicle again bucked as Clay powered over an obstruction. Danny lurched low in his seat. The window next to his head exploded inward and he felt a scalding pain bite across the back of his head.
As Clay finally brought the car back under control and raced forward, Danny, ignoring the pain in his scalp, angled the Kalashnikov horizontally over his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The distinctive rattle from the AK74 added to the assault on his ears. He knew they would ring with tinnitus for hours, if he survived.
Clay wrenched the steering wheel to the left and raced down a side road. “Well, that went well.”
Danny reached around to the back of his head; his hand came away red. Clay reached for his brother.
“I’m okay. Hurts like a son of a bitch though.”
“Crap. What’re we doin’? Stayin’ or runnin’?”
Danny scowled at his bloody palm. The old axiom of not biting off more than one can chew sprang to mind. “I think we need to fuck off for now. They’ve got too many guns and they don’t look like half-arsed yahoos. We need to find an advantage.”
“Warp drive it is. Hang on to your jockstrap. We’ll have to drive past them again.” Clay kept the accelerator pedal floored as he swung the now perforated Toyota in a tight circle back towards the park entrance. Danny again pivoted in his seat and opened up with a series of three-round bursts with the AK74 at the Bosnian skirmish line.
The Bosnians scooted for cover but continued to return disciplined fire. The Toyota slewed to one side as one of the back tyres was shredded by bullets.
Danny felt the rear of the damaged car veer as traction was lost. The Toyota skidded wildly as the wheel rim bit into the road surface. Clay struggled to bring the fishtailing vehicle under control, dodging to one side as the driver’s window was shattered, tiny squares of glass peppering his face. Then the second rear tyre died with an angry exhalation. Bright sparks flew into the air as the wheel rims cut into the concrete and shale of the road.
“Holy crap! Plan B!” Clay’s voice was barely audible above the screeching vehicle and the bullets that continued to shred the car. “Shortcut.”
Clay drove through a gap between two of the nearest palm trees. The Toyota cut through the dying foliage, leaving a tell-tale swath behind them. The windscreen spider-webbed as a bullet ripped through the gap between the brothers.
Danny curled up his legs as he rounded his spine, scooting even lower in his seat. He stamped out with both feet knocking most of the ruined windshield clear. The wind whipped through the gaping hole. Danny swore under his breath. Cutting through the undergrowth was pretty dire as far as escape plans went but was preferable to offering their attackers a clear target.
They breached the side of one of the wide half pipes and suddenly the Toyota was airborne. The car crunched down into the concrete channel nose first with another ungodly squeal of protesting metal. More sparks, black smoke and the sound of shearing bolts, and the rear bumper was jettisoned as the vehicle set off down the steep hill. The Toyota traversed the incline like an out-of-control bobsleigh with a cascade of high-flying sparks in their wake.
Clay looked at his brother, the scars on his face crinkled by a tight smile. “Maybe we should have brought two cars?”
“You think?” Danny’s attention was focused to the rear as he watched for pursuers. The Toyota was peeling around a curve in the downhill raft run; the driver-side door buckled inward slightly as the vehicle met the concrete wall at an awkward angle, but kept on moving. The car slewed from side to side as it followed the predetermined path of the raft run. Clay wrestled to hold the steering wheel in place but even with his guidance the vehicle did its own thing. The car rode high on the wall to one side then came down with a shudder only to pitch up tight against the opposite wall. Each impact seemed to dislodge another piece of the vehicle, leaving a sporadic trail of motor parts behind them.
“I’m glad this ain’t a rental!”
Danny laughed despite the dire situation. “Yeah, you’d be shafted for getting your deposit back.”
“I hear that!” Clay replied through gritted teeth. “Oh, crap! Hang on.”
Danny pivoted and looked out the shattered windscreen. The raft run they were barrelling down split into two paths some forty feet away. When filled with a river of gushing water, a raft would bounce harmlessly against the dividing wall and continue on down one of the two available routes. The Toyota, however, was set in its course, heading directly for the V-shaped stanchion that served as a divider. Clay slammed his foot down on the brake pedal, wrenching the steering wheel hard to the left. The Toyota again fishtailed but the brakes had little effect as the weight and inertia carried the dying vehicle into the unyielding barrier.
The Gunn brothers hunched low in their seats, chins tucked tight into their shoulders. Danny snatched at the seatbelt. Too late. Brakes still squealing, the battered car smashed into the immoveable wedge. The airbag exploded in Clay’s face, which he protected by hastily crossing his arms.
The vehicle lifted off the ground and threatened to be catapulted up and over the barrier. Both men were slammed first into the roof then back into their seats with savage force. As the car lurched upwards, Danny, whose side of the car had taken the brunt of the crash, felt his shoulder crack hard against the passenger door as it buckled inwards. The ruined vehicle landed with a sickening crunch and what little remained of the windscreen was sent over both men as a shower of tiny squares of glass. Both the hood and trunk lids now sat open at strange angles. Black smoke escaped from the engine and the smell of burning oil and shredded tyres filled the interior.
Danny looked to his older sibling. Spitting out a square of b
lood-tinged glass, he asked, “You okay?”
Clay looked dazed but nodded in the affirmative. The Texan gripped the door handle and pushed, but the door moved less than two inches, the frame buckled into a closed position. Clay pivoted and stamped out with both feet. The jammed door opened six inches. He kicked out again, this time with a little more leverage. The door bent outward on his second kick and sprang fully open on his third assault.
Danny climbed through the shattered windscreen, sliding butt first over the crumpled hood, the stolen rifle tucked tight under his arm, pistol in hand. A fierce ringing filled his ears. He leaned forward and slowly shook his head in an effort to regain his wavering equilibrium. Blood seeped from a shallow laceration over his right cheekbone. He could taste the familiar copper tang of blood in his mouth. “Next time, I’m driving…”
Clay raised a finger in protest when the sound of racing engines interrupted. “Crap. They’re right on our tail.”
Danny passed the AK74 to Clay. “Watch my back.”
Clay crouched alongside the smoking wreck of the car as the sound of the approaching engines grew louder and louder. “Hurry!”
Danny began to pull items from the trunk: the shoulder bag he’d loaded earlier in the day and the two rifles. The long-barrelled SLR was wedged, the sling trapped between concertinaed metal. He pulled with all of his strength but it held fast and there was no time to cut it free. He abandoned the weapon. The older model Kalashnikov came free after a single tug.
Danny looked back up the course of the raft run. Debris was scattered as far up the slope as he could see. Spare ammunition flung from the trunk glinted, taunting him. Damn it. No time!
Clay shouted a warning. “We gotta move.”
As if to illustrate the urgency of the point, the first black Mercedes burst through the treeline fifty yards up the hill. Even with the necessary weaving between the palm trees the Mercedes would be on them in no time.
Danny’s voice was razor sharp. “Run!”
62
Golok and his Bosnians had decimated the old Toyota into Swiss cheese in seconds. But the Brits were tricky to be sure. No sooner had the rear tyres been blown out they surprised their pursuers by tearing through a gap in the treeline and disappearing into one of the wide concrete channels.
Barcelo’s face was crimson with rage. The Brits had again ambushed him, causing him untold embarrassment in front of the Bosnians. The look that Golok had given him was half dismissal, half contempt. Barcelo yelled at his men, waving in the direction of the raft run. “Get after them!”
The Locos stared back. They had no guns to fight with.
Golok’s team ignored the Spaniards and boarded their Mercedes SUVs as if they had practised the high-speed manoeuvre many times. Within seconds they had followed the damaged Toyota. But where the bullet-riddled car had plunged into the dry water run, the Bosnians stayed on the high ground, following the twisting path of the downhill slide easily. The boxy SUVs dodged the bigger of the standing trees but simply crushed any smaller shrubs under the wide wheels. Within thirty seconds of the Toyota careening into the channel there came an unmistakable sound of a vehicle crashing into something immovable. Barcelo yelled again at his men. “Get down there! Stay up above the slide. If the Brits try to climb out, you kill them!”
At this command the Locos split into two groups. Three followed Barcelo on one side of the channel while the other two followed Babi Garcia at a run on the opposite side.
Leaving the Locos behind them, the Bosnians closed on their target. The plume of black smoke emerging from the channel betrayed their location for all to see.
* * *
From the passenger seat of his Mercedes, Golok pointed to the Toyota, which was now little more than scrap. He could see two men. One, the smaller and darker of the two, had his head inside the trunk. A much larger man was crouched down at the side of the vehicle, an AK in his hands. The big man was shouting something. Then both men, now armed, took off at full tilt down the left fork of the channel. Golok’s vehicles were on the high ground on the far right of the path.
The second and third SUVs came to a stop and Golok barked new orders to his team. They obeyed without hesitation. The three Bosnians from the second vehicle and two from the third gave pursuit on foot, moving rapidly out of sight through the brittle foliage. Golok’s driver swung the sleek vehicle in a wide arc and drove back up the hill.
* * *
Trailing behind, Garcia plus one of the younger Locos vaulted to the far side of the channel. Two more slipped down into the base of the raft run while the two remaining men stayed at their boss’s side.
Barcelo was in pain. The fight with the biker had been a savage encounter and his injuries were now beginning to burn with a renewed intensity. As he set off he knew within seconds he would not be able to keep up with his team and certainly not with the rugged Bosnians who had disappeared down the hill in seconds. Each faltering step he took sent a new stab of agony through his knee. Staggering to one side, his joint nearly collapsing beneath him, he cursed loudly. The younger of the two Locos looked back at his boss, unsure of what to do.
Barcelo waved the men away. “Go. Get after them. I’ll be fine. I’ll circle back and make sure they don’t get behind us.”
“Yes, boss…” he replied. “Be careful.”
Raising the Kimber pistol in front of his face, Barcelo growled his response. “I’ll be fine. I’ll kill both of those bastards on my own if I have to.”
63
Clay ran ahead of his brother, his feet pounding loudly against the concrete of the raft run. Every five seconds or so Danny cast a glance over his shoulder but all he could hear was the echoing retorts from Clay’s heavy footsteps. Damn, he was big and strong but he could never be accused of being graceful.
Clay looked back at his brother, his face red and beaded with sweat. “I’m getting sick of running.”
Danny weighed their options as they continued to follow the course of the curving raft run. The path snaked one way then another. Some were lazy arcs while others were sharp cambers, each turn designed to send a raft full of soaking patrons twisting and turning unpredictably. But the unpredictable course worked in their favour as the direct line of sight was relatively short. If the enemy couldn’t see them, they couldn’t shoot them. That worked well if you knew the enemy was behind you. But the chance of running blind into an ambush was also a very real and deadly risk.
“There!” Danny pointed to an overturned wheelbarrow which lay discarded against the wall of a shallow curve. “Time to get off this hamster wheel.”
“Ay-men to that.”
Clay vaulted up the wall using the wheelbarrow as an impromptu step. He reached and hauled Danny up as if he weighed nothing. No sooner had they climbed from the channel than the distinctive metallic chatter of the Kalashnikov rifles began to sound again. Danny ducked low and returned fire with a tight three-round burst.
At the same moment Clay recoiled as a round from the Bosnians nipped a sliver of skin from his left forearm. He raised his AK and returned fire, dodging behind the bole of a wide palm tree.
Danny quickly stepped back when he felt a bullet fly uncomfortably close to his face but his right heel wedged against the raised edge of the raft run. For a second he felt weightless as his balance sought to correct itself. He reached out with his free hand, grasping at a nearby tree. The tinder-dry sapling disintegrated in his fist and he pitched backwards into the channel once more. Landing painfully with one knee folded beneath him and the other in the air, his back slammed hard into the unyielding half pipe. Only by keeping his chin tucked tight to his chest was he able to avoid knocking himself unconscious. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and sent an angry pain raging from his folded knee joint. His Beretta pistol, now tucked into his waistband, ground painfully into his hip. As he raised his head a man-shaped blur appeared in the channel.
The blur was raising his weapon. Danny fired from his awkward sitting positio
n. The short but deadly burst from his battered AK47 caught the man in the thighs. The Bosnian, still running full tilt, was pitched into a forward dive as Danny’s bullets cut through the muscles of his legs. The man landed heavily on his face and the momentum of his downhill run caused him to continue into an ungraceful forward roll, leaving him sprawled sideways across the base of the channel. Another tight burst from Danny’s rifle ripped holes in the man’s back.
Danny could hear the exchange of fire from above his position. He knew Clay could hold his own but both men were at a real disadvantage. They were outnumbered and outgunned. Forcing himself to his feet, he snatched up the dead man’s weapon. It was another Kalashnikov, an AK74. The same model he’d passed to Clay. It was a safe bet that the rest of the roughnecks were carrying the same. Even if each man had only one magazine, that still amounted to a lot of firepower.
Leaning his older AK47 against the wall of the channel, Danny ejected the 74’s magazine to check its payload. He was midway through slamming the mag back into position when another man sprang into view above him.
Time seemed to distort.
Danny turned, palming the magazine into place.
The man angled his weapon down at Danny.
Danny’s hand sought the trigger of the 74.
The gunman opened fire.
64
“Come get some!” Clay’s furious challenge was drowned by the deafening exchange of bullets. The palm tree had provided scant cover and he had been forced to sprint for the better option of a wide metallic box some fifteen feet away. The dark-green cube stood just short of four feet square and had a series of slanted ventilation slots near the top. A large yellow sign on the side, sun bleached like everything else in the park, warned of lethal electric shock if opened.
“Danger of death, story of my life.” Clay hunkered his bulky frame behind the substation. A series of rapid shots sent sparks flying from the unit. Clay angled to the right side of the cube and caught sight of the man chasing him down. No, two men. Another had appeared on the far side of the channel.
