by Frank Lamour
Joel knelt, wanting to somehow assist the old dude, but wasn’t sure there was much he could do. As he leant forward to loosen Pinchas’s tie, he heard, now from outside in the garden, a screech of tyres accompanied by an almighty metallic clanging.
Chapter 64
Speeding west, the three-vehicle convoy had made it to the House of the Vegetable in reasonably good time—stopping only briefly to drop off de la Roche and Beppe at a petrol station along the way.
Lesley had given them a couple of bucks to get a taxi or call an ambulance. He still didn’t know how Ricky fitted into this whole thing—not really having gotten much of a coherent story—but decided it was the least of his worries at the moment. He’d deal with those two later.
Arriving at the address, Lesley had, as before, passed the gate and slowed to point out the property to the 4x4 behind. He hadn’t actually been to the house himself before but knew the address and had recognised the exterior based on Hamza’s description of it—although what hadn’t been in the description was the huge chunk of wall caved in to the right of the gate.
Lesley had been on the same side of the road as the house this time and had had to point to the place by throwing his hand over the roof of the car. He just hoped the driver behind had got the damn message.
As before, Lesley had pulled up to the side of the road ahead and had watched in his review as the 4x4, which was not only scratched but whose nose was now also scrunched in (both vehicles shot up with holes), had made its turn, headed back up the road, turned again, and then came barrelling down the hill at full bore.
The House of the Veg’s gate had looked a little more formidable than Pinchas’s, Lesley thought, and he hoped it wouldn’t be a problem.
His worry though was again unfounded as the black Merc tore through it sending it easily flipping once over the vehicle, landing thunderously on street (this time though it did manage to smash in the luxury SUV’s front windscreen on its path over the vehicle).
Lesley watched the second GLS follow close behind and then after doing a three-point turn down the road, (close to a familiar looking red Daihatsu, on the bonnet of which Lesley saw a couple of knuckledusters and what looked suspiciously like a picture of his mother that he’d been looking for), he headed back up, bringing up the rear, pulling to a stop behind the second Merc, just inside the gateway.
Chapter 65
Joel was torn between sitting with the old man and running to investigate the source of the noise. Pinchas was still on the ground, in the grips of the seizure.
Joel loosened the collar that had ridden up around Pinchas’s neck, other than that he was not really sure what else he could do.
Although having basic first aid, seizures were not something he’d had experience with.
From outside Joel heard the further screech of tyres, then shouts. It was a chatter of automatic fire that finally got him up and moving. Something bred in him, he supposed, to always run towards the conflict instead of away.
He didn’t think he could do anything for the old guy anyway except let him ride it out and there was no point them being caught like sitting ducks by who or whatever was starting WW3 out there.
Drawing the X9 (he’d reholstered it to loosen Pinchas’s collar) Joel made his way back toward the front of the house, leaving his boss still convulsing, but maybe over the worst of it.
Locating the tiny doorway again, Joel crouched, taking cover just to the left of it and carefully peering out and trying to work out just what in the fuck was going on.
By now sound of automatic gunfire dominated. The little door opened out toward the bottom of the drive, somewhat obscuring some of the garden but giving him enough view of the driveway.
Outside, behind the Volvo, were two black Merc 4x4’s, all doors hanging open, and back down by the gate, a white Corolla. The gate had been torn from its moorings—Joel couldn’t even see where it now lay—wall on either side of the gateway effectively mounds of rubble.
A motley bunch of characters in different coloured balaclavas had all taken up positions of cover. Some behind the two 4x4’s. Some out in the garden. Joel couldn’t count them all, over a dozen, maybe twenty, and all seemed to be wearing bullet-proofs, and armed with taped up double-magged, Kalashnikovs. There was one big guy in a black balaclava who appeared to be directing them, huge gold pistol in one hand, panga in the other.
All were now engaged in furious battle with Sunnyboy.
Joel’s ex-legionnaire companion had taken cover behind the front tyre of the Volvo. His kitbag was open on the ground next to him. He had an AR-15 out, some spare mags on the grass, and was laying down a hail of rapid fire.
Stay calm, Joel told himself. Take stock.
He took cover again behind the wall. He still had a total of—thirty-one minus three?—twenty-eight, rounds on him. Thirteen in the pistol, plus a second mag.
He didn’t think the balaclavas had still yet spotted him—all attention being on SB. So he still might have a bit of an edge. But he’d have to make his first shots count. Take out those that Sunnyboy couldn’t reach.
Joel turned again to take in the scene, took a few moments to plan his firing sequence, dropped a bead and then began blasting.
The two balaclavas taking cover behind the front and back doors of the nearest SUV, on the near side, took the first pair of double-taps.
The first, a kid in a red mask took two hits to the temple area, blood and brain matter exploding on to the passenger seat headrest behind him. The man let of a brief volley of rifle fire in no particular direction and then dropped to the gravel. The second guy in blue headgear, taking two shots somewhere in the lower jaw, after realising he’d been nailed looked like he’d decided to opt out of the action. He dropped his rifle, and went to take a seat against the left back tyre, applying pressure to the wound with both hands.
The next two were lying belly down in the garden. One was behind a tuft of grass the other behind an oak tree.
The one relying on the cover of grass took a two through the front of his orange balaclava. The bullets punched through where his forehead would be and he immediately slumped face first into the lawn.
The man behind the oak was in white, which should have helped but Joel still was a little off target, the first shot seeming to miss entirely, the second clipping the man in the back of the head and at least giving him something to think about.
It wasn’t unfortunately enough to keep his mind busy for long as within moments the orange balaclava had turned and was trying to determine the location of the second gunman.
Another two shots put paid to him and, although he did not slump forward into the dirt, his continued lack of any kind of animation seemed to give assurance that he was no longer a threat.
Three left in the pistol.
It took those three to take out a man in a yellow-and-blue striped balaclava, taking cover on the opposite side of the nearest SUV. Joel shooting out his foot, then putting two through the man’s head as he hit the dirt.
The rest, for now, were out of Joel’s line of sight.
Joel fell back again behind the wall, pressed the mag release, letting it drop to the dirt and tugged the spare from his holster.
Fifteen left and God knew how many more guys.
Joel took position again. He’d been spotted. Another white balaclava was taking cover behind the front passenger door of the far SUV.
Joel fell back, as a chatter of lead pitted plaster next to his head. A cloud of plaster dust pushed into the crawlspace, making him choke and cough.
Joel coughed, waited for the air to clear. Held the position of the target as he’d seen him before, in his mind’s eye, and emerged to fire.
The shots met their target, but not clean, hitting the man’s bulletproof and shoulder. Joel in a mild panic let off another four rounds, managing to get enough shots on the target of the man’s white mask to send him staggering backwards as though drunk for a few steps before collapsing down on the rubble of
bricks next to the driveway.
Six down. Shit, only nine left. How many bala’s left? And who the fuck were these guys? The last thing he’d expected was some kind of part-time paramilitary to show up.
He turned to see check on Sunnyboy.
Still behind the Volvo, SB had dropped the AR and was now in the process of reloading his shotgun. Joel saw that he was bleeding from both his head and arm. The wounds looked bad.
Joel had had the advantage of firing from a secret position, Sunnyboy unfortunately had no such luxury.
Joel scanned the drive. He had no more clean shots.
The AK’s although having slowed down a bit were still ripping up the far side of the Volvo.
Out of the noise Joel thought he picked out the familiar crack of the Mauser.
Joel scrambled over to the wall on the other side of the little doorway to get a better angle of the front of the house.
Up at the top of the small set of stairs leading up to the front door, rifle resting on the low wall that ran alongside them, Joel saw Mandrake, saw her pull back the bolt to chamber another round. Just behind her he saw the body of Nutmeg, clearly shot through.
In the distance, in the back yard, Joel caught a glance at a couple of the house members clambering over the back wall, obviously not worrying with tearing themselves up on the barbed wire.
Joel switched back to his previous spot, and again surveyed the drive. From behind the back of the furthest SUV he caught movement. A fat guy in a brown balaclava was stalking out from his previous position, trying to get closer, maybe trying to flank SB. He hadn’t yet seen Joel. Sunnyboy, and maybe Mandrake as well were still taking all of the attention. No one was looking at the tiny door on the side of the house.
Joel saw the brown balaclava was carrying a large long-barrelled Taurus Judge, rather impractical for the situation—or any situation other than hunting or scaring the crap out of someone.
Joel placed two rounds in through the stretched brown mask before the man could even make it to his new position. The fat man staggered for a step, lifted the revolver, fired a round up towards the house then collapsed, twitching.
Joel checked on Sunnyboy again.
The man now had a .357 out and was without looking to see where he was firing was simply holding the weapon up over the bonnet of the Volvo and letting off shots in the general direction of the opposition. He was losing.
A brief burst of rifle fire and saw Sunnyboy’s hand just about depart from his arm in a spray of gore, a bullet at the same time pinging off the pistol and sending the gun spinning off into the grass. Sunnyboy brought his arm down and looked the bloody mess of his hand with what appeared something like detachment.
After some time staring at his hand the ex-legionnaire finally lay down on his side, in a sort of foetal position. He tucked his good arm under his head and closed his eyes.
After a bit the gunfire slowly died down and Joel now heard shouting something like, “He’s down. They finished! They finished!”
He watched as figures emerged from the far side of the two vehicles, still a fair number of them, converging on Sunnyboy’s spot. The one in the black balaclava, wielding q panga and gold pistol mounted the bonnet of the Volvo, stared down at the curled-up figure of Sunnyboy. He switched the panga to his right hand, pistol to his left and then leaped down to strike a fatal blow.
Joel took cover again behind the wall not wanting to have to see witness the inglorious end of his old friend.
He had maybe seven rounds left if he hadn’t lost count. It wasn’t enough. What was he thinking? Even if he had one of the AK’s there were just too damn many of them.
He thought of Mandrake; he hadn’t heard the Mauser for some time. Was Mandrake down as well, or had she retreated into the house?
More shouts and then the clatter of boots on the driveway, moving past him and up the front steps. Footsteps clattering overhead. Moving deeper into the house. Another rifle crack. AK fire and screams.
Bedlam.
Joel considered his next move. What if he just waited here? Surely after not finding Thornapple—which was who they must be looking for—they’d end up searching down here? And then he’d be a sitting duck and it would be certain death. Maybe he could hold them off, but it was a gamble.
Joel moved across to the other side of the doorway, took a look up at the front steps. Clear. He shifted back to get a view down the driveway. Clear. The balaclavas all inside the house now. He could still hear the intermittent gunfire from above.
He was Pinchas’s bodyguard but that had never meant he’d said he was going to take a bullet for the guy. That was only secret service… or movie stuff. He was faced now with the possibly of dying with that old bastard or making a break for it when he could—maybe applying for that job in boutique clothing retail.
Joel stared down at the crumbled gateway.
Chapter 66
Pinchas lay on his side, listening to the sound of gunfire echoing in the rooms above.
There was still the unpleasant disoriented feeling Pinchas always got after a fit. Waking up on the dirt floor of a basement with some kind of military manoeuvres going on upstairs had not helped.
Despite having seized Pinchas felt somehow it had been different. Like this time it had been caused by something being torn loose. The last thing he remembered was seeing Thornapple hit the floor. No doubt dead. Had that shifted something? Was the mind parasite now gone? He did feel lighter in some way. Surely, surely, he was finally free.
Pinchas flinched as a couple of bullets tore through the hardwood floor above and kicked up earth a few metres from him and not too far from the Semtex or C4 object Thornapple had constructed.
What the fuck was going on up there? Somehow he knew it was Lam. Thinking about it, he supposed he shouldn’t have done the accent thing on the phone.
Another bullet kicked up dirt near him.
Not knowing too much about guns and explosives and stuff, Pinchas was still reasonably certain that a bullet, even a rifle bullet would not detonate plastique. The stuff had been designed to be extremely stable. So that was not something he would need to worry about. He began then to idly wonder though if one of the projectiles might be able to detonate a blasting cap…
Chapter 67
After Don had been taken down from the horse, he vaguely remembered having his trousers put back on and being carried through to the garage.
He’d heard Pinchas saying something like, “Let’s take the Volvo. He can ride in the back. Just put a cloth down.”
Don shortly learnt that back, in this instance, meant boot as he was carried over to the rear of the light metallic green sedan and rudely loaded into it.
He had to confess though, as the boot lid was slammed down, and he was thrust into darkness, that it was quite comfortable. His pelvic floor still hurt like hell, but the pain was at least receding. The damage perhaps not as bad as he thought.
He heard and felt doors open and slam and the car start up, the garage door then rolling open and the vehicle reversing.
For the first part of the journey Don thought he could feel the direction the car was moving in, reversing, or turning right or left, but after a very short time, it all blurred into a general feeling of movement.
It didn’t matter though, he knew the destination.
Laying on his side in the dark, as the pain in his groin subsided to a dull ache, he tried to calm his breath. Gather his thoughts. At least he was still alive and by a stroke of luck, Pinchas’s call had managed to avoid the meat of the torture. He had gotten this far, minus an earlobe maybe, with burst eardrum, mashed pelvis, whiplash maybe, several scrapes and abrasions, but he was still in the game.
But what now?
Get his hands free first he supposed.
Don began with an attempt to get his hands under his butt, so that he could bring his arms round to the front—like he’d seen done by guys in handcuffs done in numerous B-movies. But after some time wriggling and st
ruggling, cable ties cutting deep into the flesh of his wrists, he was forced to give up that plan. Any further attempts would only have succeeded in sawing the plastic back and forth till it met bone.
Don came to the conclusion that he was unable to achieve the movement because his wrists were bound too close together. Handcuffs had a little chain in between which would surely make the manoeuvre easier—either that or he just had short arms.
That plan scuppered, Don turned his attention to searching for a boot release mechanism.
With his face.
It wasn’t the best plan. His face did not really have an opposable thumb and even if he did manage to flip the boot lid up, how fast could he run with his hands tied behind his back?
(And thinking more about it, surely the driver would see in the mirror if the boot flipped. And if he did manage to roll out into the street and try make a run for it, or call for help, would anyone be able to help him? Pinchas’s guys would probably just pick him up again and pack him back in the car.)
Nevertheless, Don endeavoured to search for an interior boot release mechanism. He remembered seeing something on TV about it being law to have some kind of easy to access interior boot release. But was that idea on board in South Africa?
After some time searching he’d conceded it was pretty much a hopeless endeavour and collapsed back down on to his side.
He’d thought of maybe trying kick out the lights to signal the car behind, but the housings of both were covered. The lack of mobility made trying to get anything done impossible.
The plant drink had shown him that he always gave up. But what was there to do when there was nothing to do? He’d been pushing and pushing this whole time. Not giving up. Pushing more than he ever would have in the past. How much was enough? I mean, how much was enough?
It was not too long before the car reached its destination, Don feeling the Volvo on gravel, pulling to a stop and the hum of the engine falling silent. He waited for the boot to be opened and him roughly packed out again but nothing happened.
