by James Hilton
“You all think you still rule the British Empire. Truth is you never ruled anything of worth for long.”
“Speaking of rules, here’s one for you. Pay more attention to what you’re walking in.”
Golok glanced down. There was now a layer of murky liquid on the concrete floor. For a split second he thought of gasoline, but the smell from the liquid was still that of stagnant water not fuel. He strode forward onto a raised square of concrete upon which sat a tangle of pipes and hand wheels. In a split second he saw the trap below and shouted out a single word of warning to his enforcer.
A flash of blue and yellow sparks cascaded from the ground as the cable connected with the pooled liquid. The gunman went rigid as the electricity coursed through his body. He tried to launch himself away from the pain but was paralysed. A strangled whimper whistled from his throat, more the escaping of air than a tangible sound.
Golok tumbled over the curving pipe as a lesser shock was conducted through the continuing drizzle from the sprinkler system. The pain was still enough to knock him off his feet. He landed flat on his back, the breath knocked from his lungs. His hands and feet were numb as he struggled to right himself. Turning first onto all fours, he looked around for his pistol, shaking his head in an attempt to clear his vision. The pistol lay some ten feet away. With a pained grunt, Golok forced himself to stand. As he moved to retrieve his weapon he looked over to his man. He lay motionless curled into a semi-foetal position, knees drawn towards his chest; his mouth hung open, tongue lolling to one side like an animal. Golok knew that he was now on his own.
He raced forward and scooped the pistol from the floor.
75
Clay rolled his shoulders as he looked at the two men he had just killed. Like a scene from a slasher movie, both men hung limp and lifeless, impaled. Blood had begun to pool at their feet.
Running a hand through his hair, he slowly exhaled through his nose. He imagined how this would look in a court of law: Yes, Your Honour, I felt in fear for my life so I whacked them both and left them dangling like human butterflies!
The roaring of a car engine brought him back from his legal ponderings in short order. The car had been approaching slow and steady while he had been occupied with the Locos. Now it raced straight for him. He recognised the man at the wheel: Barcelo.
Clay leapt to one side and avoided being crushed against the SUV by mere inches.
The rear of the car whipped around as Barcelo wrenched the steering wheel and the tyres struggled to maintain traction on the road. The tailgate of the sedan crashed into Clay with enough force to pitch him off his feet.
Barcelo threw open the car door and leaned out, pistol in hand. The first shot ejected a brief cascade of sparks from the grill of the Bosnians’ SUV, inches from Clay’s head. Biting down against the new pain in his left knee and elbow, he forced himself to move. The second shot cut the air between his upper arm and his chest. Too damned close!
Gaining momentum, Clay tucked his head and combat-rolled out of the line of fire, coming up onto his feet at the far side of the SUV. He circled away, using the body of the Mercedes as a shield.
Cursing in Spanish, Barcelo shot three more bullets through the open windows of the SUV and heaved himself free from the car as it was blocking most of the road, leaving him no option but to follow on foot.
Using his free hand for support, he inched his way around the side of the Mercedes, pistol extended at the ready. Moving with a pronounced limp Barcelo rounded the hood of the vehicle.
“There you are, you American bastard!” Barcelo shouted and raised the pistol.
Clay spotted the Loco’s knife on the ground and snatched it up like he’d won a prize. Now he just had to get close enough to ram it between his ribs.
Barcelo’s voice was thick with contempt as he spoke. “Just like an American to bring a knife to a gunfight.”
Clay stood to his full height and weighed the distance between them. Maybe fifteen feet or so but Barcelo had a clear advantage. His pistol was level and aimed straight at Clay’s heart.
“Drop the blade!” Barcelo flicked the barrel of the Kimber briefly at the knife. “Drop it or I—”
Clay snapped his wrist forward in an overhand throw and the knife catapulted towards Barcelo’s neck.
The Kimber spat fire twice as Barcelo recoiled away from the flash of silver.
The bullets hit nothing but air.
Clay raced at him, moving low and fast, and driving him into the side of the Mercedes. The SUV bucked on its suspension as the combined weight of the two men struck.
The Spaniard grabbed at Clay’s throat with one hand and tried to bring his pistol round. Both men rolled across the side of the vehicle, struggling to remain upright. Clay seized Barcelo’s gun hand and twisted it up and away so the barrel pointed back over the boss’s own shoulder. Another two shots rang out, the retort from the weapon hurting both men’s ears.
Clay yelled out in pain as Barcelo latched onto his arm with a savage bite. In response, Clay rammed his thumb deep into Barcelo’s eye socket, grinding it from side to side in a corkscrew motion. The Spaniard bellowed and released his grip.
Clay used the brief moment to knock the gun hard against the roof of the Mercedes. Once, twice, three times did the trick and it tumbled from Barcelo’s numb fingers. Barcelo tried to drive a headbutt into Clay’s face but instead received a forearm smash under his chin. Both exchanged punches to the face and body like seasoned heavyweight boxers, yelling out in effort as they launched each blow. Dodging an overhand right, Clay straightened Barcelo by way of a palm heel shot under his chin. The Spaniard reciprocated by grabbing Clay’s throat with both of his hands. This time his headbutt scored, opening a shallow gash over the Texan’s right eye.
Clay reeled back, sparks of pain flashing across his vision, and in one motion brought both of his arms up on the inside of the chokehold. A rapid series of palm heel thrusts loosened the grip and Clay threw an arm around the back of Barcelo’s bull neck. A quick pivot and the Spaniard was pitched off his feet in a winding hip throw. Clay followed him to the ground adding his full weight to the already severe impact.
The leader of the Locos thrashed as Clay straddled him, his knees pressing tight into his ribs. As Clay began to throw his next punch, Barcelo bucked his hips and twisted to one side. Clay was thrown off balance, and Barcelo reached up and gripped his head, one hand on his chin, the other at the nape of his neck, and wrenched his hands in opposite directions. A sound like knuckles cracking and the big Texan fell off him to one side.
With a triumphant roar Barcelo struggled into a kneeling position. He had killed the French biker with the same neck breaker. Barcelo flopped to the ground, laughing out loud at his moment of triumph.
“That hurt!” Clay glared at the Spaniard with pure malevolence.
“Que chingados?”
“This ain’t my first barn dance, Elvis.”
Yelling out something incomprehensible to Clay’s ear, Barcelo tried to stand. Clay leapt at him, ramming his fingers deep into his nostrils. Gripping the Spaniard’s head like a bowling ball, Clay smashed the back of his skull into the ground. Barcelo shuddered and jerked as fingers were rammed even deeper inside his face. Clay smashed him down again. A splash of blood escaped from his thick black hair.
Clay lifted Barcelo’s head to his shoulder then smashed him down a third time. A brutal cracking sound and a final brief convulsion told him that Barcelo was finished.
Clay stood to full height and rolled his head around in a circle. Nothing felt broken despite Barcelo’s best attempt. Looking down at the fallen gangster, thoughts of Dez and the little girls from the club flashed into his mind.
He stamped his boot heel deep into Barcelo’s throat. “Yeah, and stay down!”
76
After the first shots had been fired inside the maintenance bay, Danny had quickly deduced that the sprinkler system had deployed. The building hadn’t gone up in flames as planned and a cascade of stagnan
t brown water quickly began to form pools upon the concrete floor, years of dust forming a scum on the expanding surface. He moved under a raised walkway similar to the one he had used to enter the building and noticed it was unaffected by the falling water. Looking to his left he spotted another of the many electrical conduits; the same thick black rubber cables that he had seen earlier snaked from floor to ceiling and a plan was quickly formed.
His actions had taken only a few seconds, but as he wrestled the wires free he feared that a bullet would take him in the back. Using his boot to pull the cable taut along the floor he fired a single shot from his AK74. The 5.45mm round cut through the wire with ease. Raw strands of copper wire poked free. An angry flash of blue and yellow sparks confirmed the wire was live. A handy wooden crate would isolate him from the shock. He sat on it.
He checked his phone. The call to the smartphone he’d placed in the oil drum—the one taken from the Bosnian he’d killed in the woods—was still open.
“No smart remarks? Is that because you realise that you have painted yourself into a corner?”
“No, I was just ruminating a while, you know, chewing a couple of things over.”
Danny watched the pair step into view. The enforcer was creeping forward like a jungle cat, his head slowly swivelling side to side as he sought a target. Both gangsters were soaked to the skin. Both were less than twenty feet away. As soon as they moved around the next sub pump they would see him.
At the right moment Danny pressed the free end of the cable into the half-inch of water pooled on the floor.
A dull whoomp was followed by another flash of sparks as the electricity supply grounded and both Bosnians were sent sprawling. The leader was on a low podium and sheltered from the worst of the shock, but still emitted a sharp gasp of pain as he tumbled over a mess of pipes and wheels. The remaining gunman bucked and shuddered, the raw current causing every muscle in his body to spasm simultaneously. Spittle flew from his mouth as his body was racked by convulsions. He toppled to one side, twitching in a forced seizure. His hands locked around his rifle, fingers forming rigid claws.
Knowing that the longer the exposure lasted meant a higher chance of a lethal shock, Danny continued to hold the cable to the water for as long as he could after the Bosnian gunman had ceased twitching. Then, after gathering up the slack in the wire, Danny threw the whole tangle onto the dry area under the walkway. He got off the wooden crate, his boots sending out ripples in the pooled water.
He fixed his AK74 on the tangle of pipes over which the Bosnian leader had fallen. As he rounded the corner of the pumping mechanism, the scar-faced Balkan gangster was straightening to his full height, pistol in hand.
“Not dead yet!” His lip curled to one side in a sneer. He slapped his chest with his free hand. “Golok!”
“Danny Gunn, pleased ta kill ya!”
Both men opened fire.
Danny felt a slug bite a chunk of skin from his shoulder as he clamped down on the trigger and emptied the remaining rounds into the Bosnian’s chest, knocking him off his feet. The pistol flew from Golok’s grip as he was pitched backwards onto a wide drainage grate. With a loud clang of protesting metal, the grate buckled inward, then the ground seemed to open up and swallow him whole.
Danny sprang forward, his rifle aimed into the unexpected chasm. Some eighteen inches below the level of the floor whirled a pool of murky brown water. The grate was around ten feet square and constructed from a much flimsier material than he would have expected; perhaps just one more thing left unfinished in the waterpark.
The brown water sloshed violently in the drainage channel. A hand broke the surface for a second or so then disappeared back into the murky liquid. Unable to see the gangster clearly, Danny peppered the channel with a series of single shots, tracing the pattern of a number five on a dice. One of the shots was sure to find a target. As the rifle went silent, the bolt locking open, Danny discarded the Kalashnikov and drew his Beretta from his waistband.
A strange growling sound came from behind him and he quickly turned.
“What the hell?” Danny realised he had heard the sound before; a dead man’s rattle. The last vestiges of air escaping from the electrocuted gunman’s lungs. He turned his attention back to the open drain.
Golok burst from the water, screaming as he grabbed at Danny’s legs.
After a brief moment of weightlessness, Danny was dragged into the swirling water, yelling out in pain as his back crashed against the edge of the drain. The Beretta pistol bounced from his grip and was instantly swallowed by the water. Then with a grip like an anaconda, Golok dragged him down.
Danny clamped his mouth shut as liquid sloshed over his face. The foul-smelling water was the colour of weak coffee. A hand gripped at his collar and forced his head under the surface. Bubbles rolled up and over his face as he struggled to hold his breath. Danny tried to find the bottom of the channel but was twisted to one side by the Bosnian, and a thumb was gouged into his eye. He thrust out again with his legs and struck against a solid surface. Using the bottom of the channel for leverage, Danny let the Bosnian push him down even further, then with his legs tucked beneath him straightened up with as much power as he could muster.
Breaking the surface amid a huge cascade of water, Danny sucked in a great lungful of air. With barely enough time for one breath he felt Golok’s arms encircle his neck. Before he could be dragged under again, Danny pivoted into the grip and backhanded Golok across the face; not the prettiest strike but it did loosen the grip enough for him to turn and face the Bosnian. As Golok brought his hands to his injured face, Danny slipped free and put a little distance between them.
Blood seeped from Golok’s nose, a darker red against the dirty brown of the water. “Jebi se!”
Danny didn’t understand the curse but intuited the sentiment behind it. He rolled his shoulders as he appraised his opponent; the guy looked like a walking nightmare. The scar that divided his face was etched deep into his skin and eyes as hard as flint stared back. Danny realised the Bosnian must be wearing some form of body armour under his shirt and jacket. It had to be top end to stop a full burst from the AK at close range. “Every arsehole wears Kevlar these days.”
Golok wagged a finger. “Not Kevlar. Dragon Skin. The best!”
“Figures. Money’s no problem, right?”
Golok shrugged, the corners of his mouth turned downwards. He moved a little closer. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”
Danny shrugged back and pointed to the side of Golok’s head, indicating the remnants of the Bosnian’s ear, which was little more than a nubbin of skin around his exposed ear canal. “You really need to take care of your eyes. If you ever need glasses, you’re fucked.”
Golok sprang at his throat.
77
Danny wasted no effort in body hits. The Dragon Skin body armour was designed to stop high-velocity rounds. There was little chance of a punch or kick doing any damage.
Golok was incredibly strong. Danny felt himself tugged violently from side to side, his feet skidding along the bottom of the channel. With one hand on his collar and clawed fingers in his face he was forced below the water again. With the Bosnian bearing his full weight down on top of him he could not find the leverage to repeat his previous escape and the water was slowing Danny’s movement so that it felt like molasses. Sharp fingernails raked across his face as he tried to break free from the hold and he was crushed tight against the channel wall.
Golok yelled. Danny had bitten down on his thumb, catching it securely between his back teeth in the struggle. In a wild cascade of frothing water Danny broke the surface. Cursing at the top of his lungs, Golak began to rain punches down with his free hand. Danny still held the captured thumb tight between his teeth like a blood-filled Cuban cigar, unwilling to relinquish the advantage. He shook his head from side to side, savaging the Bosnian’s hand like a pit bull. As the gangster began to club at his head Danny effected the Crazy Monkey guard, moving his ha
nds as if brushing his hair with his fingers, his forearms providing a constantly moving shield. The blows thumped into his arms with little effect.
Golok raised himself up, his mouth wide in an agonised yell, and brought his fist down like a hammer. Danny shifted to one side, catching the heavy blow on his left arm, and drove the tip of his right elbow up under the Bosnian’s chin. His head snapped back and his feet slipped out from below him.
Danny followed immediately with a straight punch to the gangster’s jaw. As the Bosnian was knocked backwards, Danny felt the end of the thumb detach from the rest of his hand and he spat the severed digit into the water. Blood filled his mouth. “I wouldn’t try hitch-hiking for a while…”
The Bosnian looked down in horror at his hand. Then he scrambled back, his face twisting in a new expression. “Rats!”
Danny too looked down into the murky water. There were dozens of long dark bodies writhing on the surface. Black eyes like miniature marbles fixed on him with malevolent intent.
Several of the creatures had latched onto Golok and were biting him as they climbed up his shirt. Danny felt a sharp nip on the inside of his elbow. Catching the vermin by its tail Danny sent it spinning through the air. Forcing himself to ignore the swarming rodents he surged forward.
The Bosnian was swiping his hands in wild patterns, dislodging the rats and spraying blood in various directions. Danny loathed the creatures but the Bosnian was clearly terrified of them. A water-slicked rodent clambered over his shoulder and nipped at his neck. Danny grabbed the creature and pushed it into the Bosnian’s face.
Desperate to escape, Golok went down below the murky water, which was now filled with hungry rodents that twisted and scrambled in every direction. “Upomoć!” Golok shouted as he broke the surface, rats still clinging to his chest and arms.
Danny snapped out his right hand in a tight piston motion and an iron-hard fist slammed into Golak’s throat, crushing his trachea into his spinal column and splintering the fragile cartilage. A rat tumbled from the man’s chest as the blow struck home.
