Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  “We can get some Cheetos, Ring Dings and chocolate milk.”

  “I know you’re being sarcastic, but none of those items upset me in the least.” Clay thumbed his nose.

  Danny pointed to the weapon in Clay’s hand. “At least you got a Texan-sized knife to play with.”

  “Damn right.” Clay held up the oversized weapon. “I’ve got one like this back home. Sturdy blades, won’t let you down in the field.”

  Danny held out his hand as Clay passed him the knife. The outer box was eighteen inches long. The picture on the case showed a classic bowie design. The blade was more akin to a machete than a regular knife. Danny discarded the box. The smell from the leather sheath was a welcome aroma. “They didn’t have anything bigger?”

  “Well, there was a barbarian battle sword, but I thought that might look a little conspicuous.”

  “Hmmn. What’s that?” asked Danny, pointing to a smaller box.

  “Backup.” Clay showed him the smaller weapon.

  Danny again inspected the packaging. “Smith & Wesson tactical, spring-assisted opening. Nice.”

  “You never know when you’re gonna need a toothpick.”

  “Or to chop a tree down,” said Danny, pointing to the bowie.

  “Exactly.”

  “You okay driving for a while? I’ll be navigator.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Clay opened the packaging on a pair of Motorola two-way radios. The batteries came ready charged. He set the channel to three, then keyed the mike twice on each walkie-talkie. With all the newly procured kit unpacked and secured in the trunk space, both men climbed back into the Jeep. Clay started the engine as Danny brought his phone awake with a tap. The map screen still showed Chacchoben highlighted with a red pin. Danny wedged the phone into a holder on the dashboard. “Just keep heading south until I say otherwise. That should get us to where we need to go.”

  “Wagons ho!” Clay guided the Jeep into the light traffic.

  As the tourist-filled splendour of Cancún faded in the rear-view mirror, a new and raw natural beauty took effect. Thick bushes with spiky leaves replaced the cultivated palm trees and the land lay flat and even in every direction.

  Clay slowed the Jeep as they approached a traffic checkpoint. A dozen or so vehicles queued in the two lanes ahead of them. Tail lights blinked on and off as each vehicle was waved through in turn by guards armed with M16s. All the guards, without exception, looked as bored as mall security. Clay nodded as he in turn was waved through the checkpoint with little more than a cursory glance.

  A rusting moped sped past, its engine protesting as it struggled under the weight of three riders. The rider alone looked well over two hundred pounds. The other two girls on the back were hardly bikini models either. The bike cut in front of the Jeep, then without signalling veered off onto a side road. A cloud of dust marked their highway exit. None of the riders wore a helmet.

  Clay’s thoughts turned again to Celine. Where in hell was she? He glanced at an overhead signpost for Playa del Carmen hoping they were heading in the right direction. Clay looked over at Danny. He was sound asleep.

  * * *

  Clay pressed a button on the radio and almost immediately the lively rhythm of a guitar solo filled the vehicle. He looked across at his brother as he began to stir.

  “How long was I out?” asked Danny, stretching within the confines of his seat.

  Clay glanced at his watch. “Long enough to miss half of Quintana Roo.”

  “How’s the driving?”

  Clay shrugged. “Easy going now that we’ve left the tour buses behind. There were quite a few of the road-blockers back up near Tulum, but after that it’s been pretty clear.”

  Danny woke up his phone. “We’re about sixty clicks from Chacchoben.”

  “I better put my foot down then. Daylight’s a-burnin’.”

  The traffic was sparse as they continued south. Dump trucks and cement wagons seemed to be the vehicles of choice as they reached a collection of streets and ragged-looking cinder-block houses that pretended it was a town called Limones.

  “This is where we turn off,” said Danny, as he consulted the map on his phone.

  They turned onto a dust-encrusted strip of asphalt. The track stretched off into the distance, long and straight. Occasional unfinished buildings, low rectangular frames without roofs or doors, dotted the approach to Chacchoben. The town itself was little more than a dozen or so streets arranged in neat square blocks. Pedestrians strolled along the streets and gave the Jeep and its occupants looks of mild curiosity as they passed. Several children pedalled by on ramshackle bicycles, laughing and chattering as they passed.

  “Stop here,” said Danny, pointing to a low building. A series of six columns formed a shaded portico. “The shopkeeper might know something about Celine and her friends.”

  Clay let the Jeep roll to a stop.

  “Maybe you should wait out here,” said Danny. “Don’t want to scare the locals.”

  “Don’t forget your Spanish phrase book,” said Clay.

  “Hey, my Spanish is better than yours and you live in friggin’ Texas!”

  Clay rubbed the back of his hand against his chin. “I know, I know. I really should make the effort to learn some more.”

  “Especially with Salma and Sebastian living with you.”

  Clay nodded. Danny was right. It had always been easier not to learn. Conversations with the Chavez family fluctuated rhythmically between Spanish and English without a pause; they had only ever spoken to Clay in English.

  “I’ll go and see if they know anything about missing kids,” said Danny.

  When Danny returned some fifteen minutes later, Clay was still leaning his bulk against the steering wheel, arms crossed with his chin resting on his forearms. Only his eyes moved as Danny climbed back into the Jeep. Danny dropped a grocery bag behind his seat.

  “Anything?” asked Clay. Dark thoughts swirled in his mind.

  “Yeah, the folks in the shop were a little cagey at first, but once I convinced them I wasn’t a cop they opened up a bit. It turns out there’s two Chacchobens.”

  “What do you mean, two Chacchobens?” A nerve twitched in Clay’s left eye.

  “This is the town, and there’s also the Mayan ruins of the same name quite a few miles further into the jungle.”

  “They know anything about the kids? Did they remember seeing Celine?” asked Clay. The heat in his face was not all due to the Mexican humidity.

  “Yes and no.”

  Clay sat upright in his seat. A single bead of sweat rolled slowly down the side of his jaw. He forced himself to breathe slow and easy.

  “Yes, they’ve heard rumours about people going missing down here and especially closer to the Belize border, but no, they don’t remember seeing Celine or her friends. The chances of Celine passing through the first place we try were slim, you know that. What the guy in the store did tell me was that there’s a bar between here and the ruins where some of the local desperados hang out. The bar’s a good call, I reckon. You fancy getting acquainted with some of the shady locals?”

  “Damn right. It stands to reason that the local bad boys would know something about missing kids, even if they’re not directly involved.”

  “Then let’s go ask some questions. It’s about ten miles on the south road out of town. The guy in the store said we can’t miss it, the bar’s got a statue of a big red cow outside.”

  “Did he say which road to take?”

  “Aye, back two blocks and turn right. Then it’s a single-track road all the way to the bar. The same road goes all the way to the ruins and back to Highway 293.”

  The engine rumbled as Clay steered the Jeep in a tight arc and sped to the required corner. He slowed to allow another kid on a bicycle to cross the corner, then made the same turn.

  A mangy-looking dog with a dime-sized hole in its left ear stood impassively in the middle of the road. The bedraggled canine made no effort to e
vade the oncoming vehicle. The road was too narrow to drive around the stubborn animal. Clay tooted the Jeep’s horn twice. The dog stared back with eyes like marbles but refused to move. Its tail moved in slow motion, tracing a lazy arc in the air.

  Danny reached into the bag of assorted of snacks in the rear footwell. He stepped out of the Jeep. “Give me a second.”

  Danny opened a packet of potato chips and held one towards the immobile mutt. “Come on, boy. You want some? Come on, then.” Danny threw the chip towards the dog, who snapped it up before it landed.

  Danny held out another. The dog took a single slow forward step, its eyes fixed on the treat. Danny moved back to the roadside and squatted down. The dog hobbled over on tired legs but accepted the remaining chips with apparent gratitude, its tail swishing in a tight motion. Clay watched as Danny ruffled the fur between its ears and the dog rolled over onto its side. A jagged line of scar tissue marked the dog’s ribs. The mutt had certainly been through the wars. Danny climbed back into the Jeep.

  “You owe me a packet of chips.”

  “Quit your jiving and let’s get driving.”

  “Wow, poetry. This trip just gets better and better. Quit your jiving… who said that, Keats?”

  “Will Smith, I think. Big Willie style an’ all that.”

  Clay pointed below the steering wheel. “I’ve got your big willie style right here.”

  “Just get driving or I’ll use those nuts of yours like a boxer’s speedball.”

  Clay shook his head in mock hurt but kept his foot on the gas.

  13

  The statue of the red cow was the only thing about the bar that looked like it had seen a lick of paint in the previous century. The building was a simple single-storey structure; like many others they had passed it was constructed from cinder blocks, with a corrugated tin roof. A wooden stand near the entrance was decorated with remnants of weatherworn bill posters. A screen door obscured the interior.

  Two Isuzu pickup trucks sat side by side, one dust-free and in showroom condition while the second looked like it had been rescued from the crusher. To the left of the trucks stood three battered motorbikes.

  The brothers exchanged a glance as Clay shut off the engine.

  “Is that the same dog that you gave my packet of chips to?”

  Danny followed Clay’s pointing finger and smiled as he spotted a nearly identical pooch as the one in Chacchoben. Same sad eyes, same mangy fur, same hole in its ear. “Can’t be the same dog. Maybe they’re cousins.”

  Danny climbed from the vehicle. He stretched his legs and back then rolled his shoulders, enjoying the sensation in his muscles. “You ready to dance?”

  “Shined my shoes especially.”

  “Alrighty, then. Give me a couple of minutes, then you can come in.”

  It was something they had done several times in the past. The reaction that they received was always worth the price of admission. Whenever trouble was brewing the would-be antagonists usually felt quite secure when facing only Danny, wrongly assuming his wiry build was of little threat. The looks on their faces when Clay entered the fray were priceless. Danny pressed a button on his cell, and as soon as Clay answered left the call open, so he could hear everything said inside the bar.

  Danny entered the building and walked to the bar. He returned the stares he received with a friendly nod. As he perched on a bar stool he took in the details of the room in one practised sweep. One barman, seven patrons: one table of four and another of three, all male. The men looked to range in age from early twenties to mid-forties; all had the look.

  The bar was little more than a rectangular cinder-block enclosure with a stained wooden floor. A single ceiling fan turned in lazy circles but failed to provide any hint of a breeze. Like everything else in the bar, it was close to giving up the ghost.

  Danny held up a finger to the barman. “Una cerveza, por favor.”

  The barman scrutinised his unexpected customer for a few seconds then looked to the table of three. Danny watched one of the men tilt his chin in a vaguely dismissive gesture. Only then did the barman reach under the bar and produce a bottle. He removed the cap with a practised flick of the wrist, then he set the stubby bottle of Negra Modelo down in front of Danny.

  “Gracias.” Danny took a long pull on the brew. As he took a second sip he glanced again at the mirror behind the bar. One of the three men stood up.

  The man was dressed in jeans and dirty sneakers with a tight-fitting vest that had maybe been white, once upon a time. He carried no obvious weapons; no knife on his belt, no pistol on his hip or tucked in his waistband. He spoke in heavily accented English. “You’re a long way from the tourista trail. You lost?”

  Danny turned to face the man. “Nah, I’m not lost. I’m looking for a few of my friends, who I think may have come through here.”

  The man gave a lopsided smile. One of his front teeth was missing. He smelled heavily of cigar smoke and stale sweat. A lock of black hair dangled past his eyes. “What would friends of yours be doing way out here? This is hardly party central.”

  Danny held his gaze. “Three young women and one man, all college kids from the States.”

  The man shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  Danny addressed the barman. “What about you? You remember seeing them? Three girls, one boy. One girl is Mexican descent. The boy looks Italian; the other two girls are white. One blond, one a little darker.”

  The barman looked to the man at Danny’s side but said nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Danny. “This guy got you on a leash? These kids have disappeared and I need to find them.”

  The man poked Danny’s shoulder with a stiffened finger. “He’s never seen them. They were never here. There’s nothing here for you.”

  “How do you know they weren’t here? I haven’t showed you a picture of them yet.” Danny kept his voice to a low and non-aggressive tone.

  The barman looked first at Danny then at the man. “Rodrigo?”

  Rodrigo shot the barman a brief warning look.

  Danny turned to face Rodrigo, the edge of his hand resting lightly on the surface of the bar. “You the man here, Rodrigo?”

  “Sí, I’m the man. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “Hey, take it easy. I’m willing to pay for information. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The muscles in Rodrigo’s face twitched. “You got money? How much?”

  “That depends on what you can tell me about my friends. Did they pass through this way or not?”

  “Maybe they did. Tres chicas, un chico, eh?”

  Danny blinked slow and easy, repressing the urge to slam Rodrigo’s face into the bar. “They’re college kids. I think they were down here looking at the ruins near Chacchoben. You know where they are?”

  “Show me your money,” said Rodrigo.

  Danny reached into his front hip pocket and pulled out a roll of US twenties. “They’re yours if you can tell me something worthwhile.”

  Rodrigo smiled as he tilted his head to one side. “I have another idea. What if me and my friends tell you nothing, kick your ass, and take your money anyway?”

  Danny returned the smile before he spoke again. “That’s not going to happen, but I can tell by the look in your eyes that maybe you did see my friends after all. So, we can do this a couple of ways.”

  “Yeah?” Rodrigo shifted his weight.

  “Yeah. Option one, the sensible one: you tell me what you know and I give you this fistful of dollars. Option two, the one I don’t recommend: you and your glee club try to roll me for the money and all end up breathing through tubes for two weeks.”

  Rodrigo flicked his fingers as if strumming an invisible guitar and the six other men stood up in unison. “I like you, you’ve got cojones. But you are one against seven and you are not carrying a pistola.”

  “Let me enlighten you, while you’re still able to speak. Three of your seven are looking as nervous as turkeys
at Christmas, so you can’t rely on them.”

  The six men shuffled closer.

  “Balls but no brains,” said Rodrigo. Two of his men laughed at his joke.

  “Let me finish option two. You and your boys get to take a trip to the local emergency room but not before I break your wrists and ankles. Believe me when I say that you will tell me what you know about those kids, one way or the other.”

  Rodrigo faltered. He paused, his eyes flitting between Danny and the closest of his gang. A switchblade snicked open. Another man brandished a hunting knife with a saw-back blade.

  Rodrigo spoke again. “Put the money on the bar and get the hell out of here while you can. You piss me off and we’ll skin you alive and bury you out in the big green.”

  “I hope your boys can use those blades, because I’m going to take them away and stick them in some very sensitive spots.” A humourless smile crept across Danny’s face. “Just remember I tried to be nice but you wanted to do the tough guy dance.”

  As the six men moved towards their target, something akin to a force of nature exploded through the door with a roar so bestial it froze the gang in their tracks.

  “KILL ’EM ALL!”

  14

  Carlos Larriva had watched the interchange between the lost gringo and Rodrigo with mild curiosity. He’d felt the tension shift in the room as Rodrigo gave them the signal, his fingers making that familiar strumming action. Carlos had left his knife in the glovebox of his truck, but he’d stood up all the same.

  But a bare-chested giant of a man had burst through the flimsy door of the bar, tearing it free from its hinges. The cords on the giant’s neck stood out as he roared with berserker fury. “KILL ’EM ALL!”

  The gringo at the bar kicked out sideways, catching Rodrigo full in the chest. As he landed he curled into a tight ball on the floor, wheezing for breath.

  Then the giant was among them.

  Diego screamed as the marauder grabbed him by the arm and the testicles. His switchblade clattered to the floor, forgotten like a child’s discarded toy, as he was picked up and his body slammed into the wall next to the ruined door. The whole bar shook from the impact.