Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  “Where?”

  The person she was following never reacted. A diamond-shaped patch of sweat marked the back of her T-shirt. Another girl. Her shapely hips filled the shorts she wore, long tanned legs, honey-blond hair. A small tattoo was visible between her hair and the collar of her shirt. She stared at the inkwork, then reached out to touch the bold pattern. Dots and dashes. Dots in red ink, dashes in black. Dash, dash, dot. Dash, dot, dash, dot. The pattern held meaning but the significance eluded her.

  Something shifted, opening behind her eyes, like curtains in her mind, the sensation alien and nauseating. Then she was aware of the cold tiles beneath her feet. Bare feet. Cold. Where were her shoes?

  She turned in a half-circle, her hand reaching for the wall for support. The world skewed for a moment, the ceiling becoming the floor.

  Strong hands grasped at her shoulders and she was hauled to her feet.

  “Keep moving. First door on the left.”

  She looked up at the owner of the hands that propelled her forward. Tall, muscular, white rock-star hair.

  She heard the words again. “First door on the left. Keep moving.” The man shoved her again.

  “First door on the left.” The voice was her own. Disembodied to her ear, but her own.

  “Move it.”

  “Celine?” Something surfaced in her mind like a pocket of air in liquid. She rolled the name around on her tongue. “Celine.”

  The girl with the tattoo stopped, wobbling on unsteady legs. Her eyes were empty, dark pools of confusion. “Celine?”

  The man grabbed both young women by the backs of their necks, fingers digging into flesh. “Keep moving, you two. I haven’t got all day. Back in your hole you go.”

  This room smelled of sweat and perfume and confusion. She had been here before. A simple rectangle, plain white walls, fluorescent lighting, five camp beds arranged on each side, evenly spaced like a barracks. Celine smiled as she was guided to the bed, pushed down to the softness beneath. Home…

  “No, not home.” This wasn’t home. What was this place? Celine looked at the girl she had been following. She knew now that the girl was her friend. What was her name? This was wrong. This wasn’t home. What was her friend’s name? Celine? No, I’m Celine.

  Thoughts danced like sparks from a damp campfire. Celine tried to stand.

  The same man who had guided her earlier issued a barking command. “Lie down and shut up!”

  Celine reclined onto the bed and lapsed into silence. Lie down and shut up. That was what was important.

  “Lie down and shut up.” Celine’s voice was one of acceptance.

  “Lie down and shut up,” the girl on the next bed echoed, her voice devoid of emotion.

  10

  “That filled a small gap,” said Clay, patting his stomach in satisfaction.

  “A small gap? You just ate your weight in chicken tacos and potato salad,” said Danny as they waited in the harsh sunlight for Giorgio to bring their rental car.

  “And very nice it was too. I’m keen to get going but you never know when you’re getting your next proper meal.”

  “I know what you mean, big brother. This line of work, each meal could be our last.”

  Clay’s rental, a sturdy Jeep Wrangler, arrived quickly. Giorgio grinned as he jumped out, leaving the engine and air-con running. “Nice wheels, man.”

  Clay nodded in agreement. “It’s only a rental but it gets the job done.”

  “A lot of visitors just rent the cheapest car they can get, which is fine for the main roads around Cancún, but if you venture a bit further out the roads are not so good. I’ve seen a lot of people get stuck out near the Mayan sites.”

  Danny agreed. “I went out to Chichen Itza twenty-odd years ago, and I remember the road wasn’t much better than a farm track. More potholes than road.”

  “The main roads out to Chichen Itza and Tulum are fine now, long and straight, no problems,” Giorgio explained, “but when you get out into the jungle to the smaller villages and the sites that haven’t been opened yet, that’s when the roads become an adventure.”

  “An adventure, that’s one way to put it,” said Clay.

  Giorgio shrugged, a wry smile creeping across his face. “Mexico is not just a country, it’s a state of mind. Every day is an adventure.”

  “Scotland is much the same,” said Danny.

  “You’re Scottish… that’s what your accent is,” said Giorgio, snapping his fingers. “I would love to go to Scotland one day. I love watching the movies from there. Highlander, Rob Roy, Braveheart, some of my favourite films. Do they still have the real castles to see?”

  “Aye, there’s a lot of them still standing. The countryside is beautiful too. If you like the rugged outdoors, you’ll like Scotland.”

  Giorgio clapped his hands together. “I must save my money and go one day.”

  Clay rested a hand on Giorgio’s shoulder. “Hey, I wonder if you could help us out?”

  “Sí, Mr Clay, anything, ask.”

  “One of the housekeeping girls was telling Danny about the kids from the States who went missing recently. They were staying here before they disappeared.”

  Licking his lips before he answered, Giorgio talked in a slightly hushed tone. “They were here. Four of them. Three women and one man. I spoke to them a few times, nice guys, not too loud.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious with the kids before they disappeared?”

  “No, señor, no one like that. They were just kids on vacation.” He looked at Clay apologetically. “They rented a vehicle to visit one of the Mayan sites. My friend Miguel spoke to them a lot more than I did. He works at the poolside bar.” Giorgio paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you ask? Do you know them?”

  Clay answered. “One of the girls, Celine, is a close friend. More like family, really.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know which one she was.”

  “She was the darkest one. Her parents are Mexican. The other two girls are fairer. One blonde and one brunette.”

  “Sí, sí, I remember her now.” Giorgio held up his pinky finger. “Very small and slim.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. I always joke that a Texas wind is going to blow her clean off her feet one day.” Clay’s face hardened as he turned his gaze fully upon the valet. “We’re here to find them and take them home. Anything you can find out to help us would be very much appreciated.”

  Giorgio reached inside his uniform jacket and retrieved his cell phone. “I’ll call Miguel. He may know something that could help you.”

  “Did the police speak to him already?”

  “I don’t think so. They only spoke to the hotel manager and Carolina from personnel.” Giorgio wrinkled his nose in obvious disapproval. “Like they would know anything. The manager has his nose so far in the air he only ever sees the ceiling, and Carolina doesn’t know half our names, so what could she know about a couple of guests?”

  “The cops didn’t dig any deeper?” asked Danny.

  Giorgio’s negative answer confirmed what they had guessed already. The police officers who had attended the hotel had paid lip service at best.

  “It’s ringing,” said Giorgio, tapping the phone with his index finger. “Hola, Miguel…”

  The call was in rapid-fire Spanish and ended quickly. As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, Giorgio told them, “He only knew what they had told him the day before.”

  “Which was?” asked Clay.

  “The group rented a car so they could visit some Mayan sites off the beaten track.”

  “Did they say which ones they were going to?”

  “He said they mentioned a site somewhere just north of Chacchoben. That’s a long drive south from here. They could have got lost out there. The roads are… not good.”

  “What’s Chacchoben? A town?” asked Danny.

  “No, it’s an old Mayan site. But Miguel thinks they were looking for a newer site that one of the girls had
read about online.”

  “Any idea where that might be?” asked Clay.

  Giorgio held his palms up in supplication. “I’m sorry, Miguel did not know.”

  “Hey, we know more than we did five minutes ago. Thank you, Giorgio.”

  Danny had his phone in his hand. “How do you spell Chacchoben?”

  Giorgio spelled it out for him as Danny typed the letters into the search bar of the phone’s browser. Seconds later, Danny tapped one of the results. A map filled the display with a small red pin highlighting the site’s location.

  Clay nodded at his brother. “That’s a good place to start, I suppose.”

  “Damn right. Chacchoben, here we come.”

  11

  Do they even know the last guy is missing yet?

  Probably not, Ghost answered her own question. Otherwise this dickhead wouldn’t be swanning around on his own.

  She had followed him, unseen, to the ramshackle gas station some five miles away from the compound. What was he doing out here? She knew they had a free-standing gasoline tank at the rear of the camp, so he hadn’t come for that.

  She settled her weight against the gnarled trunk of a tree, relaxing into a half-sitting position, keeping one leg tucked under her, ready to move rapidly should the need arise.

  She could see the storekeeper inside, filling a wire stand with oversized bags of potato chips. But where was the guy she had followed? The store looked to be no more than about fifteen feet square. Not many places to hide. He had parked his truck to the side of the two pumps out front.

  “But that don’t mean you went inside…”

  The area surrounding the gas station was devoid of flora, all plant life long since poisoned and trampled into oblivion. The road she had followed the man in on was barely wide enough for two vehicles, a narrow scar cut through the emerald canopy. To the left of the cinder-block store, a collection of used oil drums was stacked in a haphazard manner like a child’s fort.

  Uncoiling from her seated position, she flitted from tree to tree, keeping the man’s truck in view as much as possible. If he returned to his vehicle she would need to sprint back a hundred yards to her own truck to continue her pursuit.

  As she crossed the hard pan of the road she stayed low, and was swallowed by the various shades of green within seconds. Cutting a wide semi-circular path around the gas station, she could see the remnants of a small tractor and trailer behind the arrangement of oil drums. The tyres of the tractor had long since perished and the heavy wheel rims bit deep into the earth. Another assortment of empty crates, the kind that held soda bottles, formed a mini pyramid on the back of the listing trailer. An old soccer ball sat atop the uppermost crate. A dog lay curled in the cavern of shade below the rear of the trailer, its ears twitching against the flies buzzing around its narrow head. A hole marred its left ear. The dog followed her progress but remained in the shade.

  A square enclosure built from rusting corrugated tin sheets and timber stood at the rear of the main building. She chose the door that held the legend “Caballeros”. She could hear two different voices. Beneath the soft fabric of her mask, her lip curled in resolve. She didn’t know who the second man was, but anyone who consorted with her target was likely to be cut from the same cloth.

  The two men stared at her with wide eyes as she entered the restroom, weapon drawn. The one she had followed, with his goatee and pork-pie hat, was just taking a roll of banknotes from the younger man. A bag lay open on top of a stained sink.

  The younger man’s hand moved towards the pistol on his hip.

  “Don’t!” ordered Ghost. She angled herself so she had a clear shot at both men.

  “Drop the gun. Two fingers! Do it slowly! Kick it over here.” Ghost’s voice brooked no argument.

  He took the pistol from his waistband as ordered, thumb and index finger forming a loop through the trigger guard.

  “Now drop it and kick it over.”

  “Do it,” said the other man. Beads of sweat dappled his face, his cheeks flushed red.

  The pistol clattered against the grime-encrusted floor tiles.

  “Now you!” barked Ghost.

  The man she had followed held his hands up in surrender. “I’m not armed.”

  “Lift your shirt and turn around slowly. Go easy!” she warned, her own weapon never wavering.

  The younger one stared at her intently. His voice was full of accusation and contempt. “What’s with the mask? What are you, a ninja?”

  “Get on the floor with your hands behind your head. And you in the hat, keep turning.”

  The younger one half-turned and spat on the floor. “You’re shaking me down? Do you know who my uncles are? You’ll pay for—” Then he launched himself towards her, a wild punch ripping towards her masked face.

  Ghost dodged the uppercut, but her weapon discharged high above her head. The suppressor fitted to her Glock 19 took some of the roar from the shot, but in the confines of the bathroom it still sounded like a telephone directory being slammed against a tabletop.

  Then he was on her. Clamping tight onto her wrist with both hands, he forced the pistol up and away from his body. Another shot punched a hole through the tin roof. Ghost grunted as she was slammed back against the wall with enough force to send yellow sparks dancing across her vision. The wall buckled behind her, the corrugated metal screeching. He had no real skill but plenty of savage intent. He slammed her gun hand into the wall repeatedly. Behind the two struggling combatants, the man in the outdated hat stared on, motionless.

  She knew better than to try to match her attacker in strength. Instead she brought her knee up, aiming for his groin. As he dodged her initial blow by jerking his hips back, she wedged her shin high against his chest. For a moment, their bodies strained against each other, then she brought up her other leg so both her knees were perched high on his muscular chest.

  Too late, he realised his mistake as the barrel of the suppressor angled down towards his startled expression.

  Blooomph!

  The single shot punched a neat hole through his face just below his left eye. As the man dropped dead beneath her, she fell with him. Her head hit the wall as she landed hard on her butt.

  The man in the hat, her real target, made a lunge for the door then realised it was stuck. “No, no, no.”

  The dead man lay in a tangle of limbs, a crimson halo decorating the tiles beneath him. His dead weight wedged against the inward swing of the door. Grasping one of the dead man’s arms, the man in the hat tried to pull him clear from the door. “Move, damn it!”

  Ghost climbed to her knees and reached for her fallen sidearm.

  With a yelp, the man abandoned the idea of trying to move the dead body. He turned, his gaze fixing on the dead man’s pistol. His shoulder bounced off the stall door as he lunged for the fallen weapon. Then the porcelain cistern exploded just above his head. He turned onto his side, his hand frozen, dithering a mere six inches from the pistol.

  “The next one goes in your head!”

  Water began to flow from the ruined toilet, the ballcock bobbing like a feeding bird. Large triangular shards of porcelain lay scattered like toy boats in the spreading water.

  “What do you want with me?” asked the man.

  Ignoring his question, Ghost took a step closer. Her pistol never wavered from his face. “I guess with that hat, you’re a fan of Breaking Bad. But how would you like a bad break?”

  The pork-pie hat flew from his head as Ghost stamped down with her boot heel. The bones in his left ankle separated with an audible snap.

  He howled, clutching at his ruined leg. A spray of vomit added to the grime of the bathroom floor. He tried to scoot deeper into the stall but had nowhere to go. She stared on, her brown eyes framed perfectly between the folds of her face mask.

  “Why are you doing this?” the injured man demanded between frantic gasps of pain. “Who the hell are you?”

  Ghost crouched, her pistol lying across her thig
h. She spat her next words as the man stared at the business end of the suppressor, the small but deadly black hole. “I’m the last person you’ll ever see.”

  “Take the bag. There’s money and pills in there. Please, take them and go.”

  Ghost glanced at the bag perched on the sink top. Six bags lay next to a small wad of cash. Each of the bags contained various coloured capsules. She picked up a bag of pinks. “I’m betting these aren’t antibiotics in here.”

  “Take them,” cried the man. “Just take them and leave me be.”

  She threw the pack of pills at the man. She slowly pulled aside the fabric of her mask then turned her face to show the side that remained free of scars. “You still don’t recognise me?”

  “Please… I don’t know who you are.”

  “That just makes it worse.”

  “Please. My leg.”

  “You want something for the pain?” She pointed the pistol at the bag of pinks. “Start eating them. All of them.”

  “What? No! Wait!”

  Ghost put a bullet through his other ankle. “Eat the damn pills or the next one goes in your balls!”

  The man with the pork-pie hat managed half of the bag before he began to convulse.

  12

  They found all the supplies they needed in the first store they visited. As they packed the items into the trunk, Danny busied himself removing any tags or packaging while Clay checked over a couple of climbing ropes. While he didn’t foresee scaling any mountains in Mexico, he knew how handy and versatile they could be. A compact mess kit and two lightweight backpacks containing spare clothing and some ready-to-eat meals went in next. Clay groaned at the prospect of consuming vacuum-packed fare.

  “Quit your whining, ya big ape. They’re better than nothing when you’re chin-strapped and starving. There’s some proper food in there as well,” said Danny. “And I’m sure we’ve time to pick up some candy bars on the way down.”

  “Sounds more like it.”