Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  Carlos watched in disbelief as the gringo at the bar brought his left foot up in a motion so fast it was a blur. The knife that had been in Mateo’s hand a second earlier spun end over end and bounced off the wall at the far side of the bar. The gringo’s right foot whipped across Mateo’s face, spreading his nose into a shape it was never meant to be. Another kick snapped between his legs. Mateo folded at the waist and pitched head first onto the floor.

  Three men down in as many seconds.

  Santiago, his face red with fury, picked up a chair and swung it at the giant’s head. The big man ducked low and rammed a fist hard into Santiago’s stomach. The chair catapulted from his grasp as a second punch ripped up from below, catching him under the chin. The sound of breaking teeth was unmistakable. Santiago, who had won many street fights in his time, dropped to the ground as if devoid of life.

  Carlos and Jesus were the only two left standing— they made a headlong dash for the bar. There was a small storeroom at the rear of the bar—they might escape that way, if they were lucky.

  The big man caught Jesus by the hair and body-slammed him through a table. Jesus lay groaning, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle.

  As Carlos vaulted the bar the gringo did the same, blocking his path. The barman skidded backwards on his ass like a crab, yelling that he didn’t want any trouble. The gringo silenced him with a short backhand swipe across the jaw.

  “I guess you win the prize,” said the smaller gringo. “You’re the last man standing. Now you get to spend some quality time answering my questions. Now, the answer to my next question better had be ‘Sí, señor,’ or you’re gonna get it worse than any of these dickwads. Habla inglés?”

  Carlos nodded vigorously. “Sí, señor. I speak very good English.”

  “That’s good. Now we’re gonna have a wee chit-chat. Sit your arse down and tell me what you know about the missing kids we’re looking for.”

  Carlos was propelled back to one of the few upright tables. He sat without resistance. A sideways glance at the big man was all it took; his face was deeply scarred and chilled Carlos to the bone. Who the hell were these men? Not tourists, that was for sure.

  The smaller man pulled up a chair of his own. He produced a photograph from his pocket, unfolding it carefully. Carlos stared at the picture. It showed a portrait shot of a young woman. She was very pretty and her deep brown eyes carried both intelligence and a curious innocence.

  “Have you seen this girl?”

  Carlos shook his head. The smaller gringo was difficult to understand, his accent now thick with anger.

  “Take another look! She would have been with another two women and a young man.”

  Carlos glanced around the room at his friends, all lying in various states of desperation. A couple groaned, clutching their faces. Mateo and Diego lay so still he feared them dead. He turned back to the picture. “I have never seen this girl. I would have remembered someone as pretty as her. I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

  The big man clamped his hand around Carlos’s neck, his fingers digging deep. “Let me break his arm, then we’ll find out if he’s telling the truth or not.”

  To Carlos’s relief, the smaller of the two held up a single finger. The big man released his grip and shoved him away. The low bestial growl he gave caused Carlos to squirt a little urine into his underwear.

  “Okay, so you didn’t see her.” As the smaller man leaned closer to Carlos he could see a cold ferocity in his eyes. The big guy was a beast, crashing in and tearing up the guys like a wild animal, but the smaller guy was truly unnerving. “You and the rest of the gang… you’re the local bad boys, I get that. You must have heard the stories about kids going missing, right?”

  “I…”

  The big man stepped over to Jesus, who had managed to make it back onto his hands and knees. The punch that the big man dropped onto the back of his head sounded like a pistol shot. Jesus dropped face down, unmoving.

  “You were saying,” said the smaller man.

  Carlos closed his eyes and, after crossing himself, leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “Sí, I have heard the stories. People go missing. Not very often. They say the Devil takes them.”

  “Well we both know that’s a pile of shite, so what else have you heard?”

  “It’s not just kids who are taken.”

  “No?”

  Carlos shook his head. “No. Sometimes older men and women, too. But mainly we hear about the younger ones.”

  “Go on.”

  “Someone sets out for school or to go to work but they never get there. It’s the same with the touristas, they head out onto the old paths and don’t come back.”

  “Who do you think takes them? And don’t give me any bullshit about el Diablo.”

  Carlos held his hands up in supplication. “I don’t know. I know that more than one has gone missing near the Mayan site that was found recently.”

  “That’s the one north of Chacchoben?”

  Carlos was about to correct his pronunciation but thought better of it. “Sí. There is a bar not unlike this one on the roadside near the ruins. The people there may know more; we don’t go there much. We don’t like each other.”

  “Show me where it is on my phone.”

  Carlos pointed to the map display. “I think it is around there.”

  “Okay. Is this anything to do with cartels?”

  Carlos rubbed his face with both hands. Talking about these things could only bring about more bad luck. The Devil, the bad places and now the cartels. All three sent shivers down Carlos’s spine. “No, I don’t think so. That is not how they work. If you are unlucky enough to be caught by the cartels you would probably end up hanging upside down from a road sign full of holes, or your head would be left out for everyone else to see. No, I do not think that this is cartel business.”

  The smaller gringo sat back in his seat. “One more thing.”

  “Sí?”

  “Your man there.” He pointed to the unconscious Rodrigo. “When he wakes up, tell him next time someone asks a polite question, he should bloody well answer it!”

  15

  Her first attempt to stand up resulted in her landing in an ungainly tangle of limbs. Her knees folded beneath her again as she tried a second attempt to right herself. Groaning, Celine reached out and grasped the end of the camp bed, leaning on it as a geriatric would a walking frame. The curved metal was cool beneath her fingers. A small squeak, like that of a trapped mouse, caused her to start. It was just the bedframe. She stood up. This time her legs held true. The room tilted like a carnival ride as she took several deep breaths, pursing her lips as she exhaled.

  How long had she been in the room? Her wristwatch was gone. A quick pat-down of her pockets showed that her cell phone was missing as well. There was no clock visible in the dormitory-style room. The plain white walls were unadorned: no clock, no posters, nothing to suggest her current location.

  Five bunk beds lined the room. Ten beds, four more of which were occupied. Celine moved to the closest of the beds and stared down at the young woman lying there on top of the plain sheets, her legs straight with her knees together. Her arms were pressed to her sides as if a stage hypnotist had just mesmerised her and laid her down. Her face was relaxed and her mouth hung open a fraction of an inch. A soft whistle issued forth each time she took a breath. Her honey-blond hair was loose, and several darkened strands clung to the beads of perspiration on her face.

  Celine took a step closer. Her face seemed familiar.

  “Where the hell am I?” A sense of unease began to worm its way down Celine’s spine. “Where am I? How did I get here?”

  The girl in the bed continued to snore softly.

  She knew this girl. Her face, her hair. What the hell was her name? Celine shook her head to clear what felt like heavy spiderwebs that muffled her capacity to think clearly. She had suffered her first real hangover on the second morning of the vacation. The various cocktails that sh
e had tried for the first time had been wild, but had left her throwing up most of the night. The next morning had been even worse, her head throbbing with an intensity she had never imagined. She had learned her lesson and eased back on the margaritas and mojitos. But this fog that filled her head was different. It felt like she was deep underwater, the pressure pushing at the back of her eyeballs. It hurt to blink.

  Like a page being turned rapidly, a scene flashed into her memory. Four friends at a roughly-hewn wooden table. The music thumping. Drinks with umbrellas and straws that curled into odd shapes. Four friends…

  The identity of the sleeping woman hit her like a slap in the face. “Gillian!” How could she not have recognised her best friend? What the hell was going on here?

  Dropping to her knees at the side of her friend’s bed, she shook her vigorously. Gillian Cole’s head lolled from side to side, her eyes flickering open for the briefest of seconds, then she lapsed into unconsciousness once more.

  “Gillian, wake up. Wake up!”

  Gillian’s mouth opened, but only for her tongue to run once over her lower lip.

  Celine shook her friend violently but failed to elicit any further response. Looking once more around the room she noticed another three forms huddled in the beds, all as still as Gillian. Moving as quickly as her unsteady legs would allow, Celine tried to wake the next person.

  The girl in the bed had mocha-coloured skin and a close-cropped hairstyle. She too was unresponsive to Celine’s efforts.

  Celine bent at the waist as vomit forced its way from her mouth. Waves of panic swept through her. She stumbled to her knees as foul-smelling liquid splattered onto the floor. Tears streamed down her face as her body was racked with powerful heaves.

  “They drugged us. Poisoned us,” she whispered as the remnants of her stomach dribbled from her mouth. But who were “they”?

  Staggering on unsteady legs, Celine made for the only door in the room. The handle turned a quarter-turn, but the door held fast. A heavy sob escaped from her chest. She had known it would be locked even before she had tried, yet the barrier added a tangible weight to her diaphragm. Gasping for breath, she pushed and pulled at the handle and when that proved fruitless, tried ramming her shoulder against the door.

  Pain shot through her upper arm as she rebounded from the unyielding barrier. Celine staggered back, clutching her shoulder. Her legs seemed determined to conspire against her and again she found herself on the floor, her left knee bent painfully beneath her.

  A surprised yelp caught in her throat as the door opened suddenly. A man filled the doorway. He was tall and heavily muscled, his hair so blond it looked bleached. He wore an expression of mild amusement.

  “You’re awake again, huh?”

  Celine stared up at the man from the floor. “Where am I?”

  The man gave only a sneer in response.

  “Who are you? Where are the rest of my friends? What the hell do you want from us?” Each question was delivered with an increasing intensity.

  But in answer the big man reached down and clamped Celine’s arm in a vice-like grip, yanking her unceremoniously to her feet. His other hand closed around her throat. Dark spots whirled in her vision as the big man lifted her up. The arm that she wrestled with might as well be a steel girder. As she stared back at her captor, a vague sense of recognition flared inside her head. She’d seen this man before… but where? His hands all over her… inside her? Bile rose in her throat with the thought. No.

  Before she could reach any definite recall, the man threw her back onto the floor. The air exploded from her lungs as she hit the ground.

  “If you’re going be trouble you won’t last another day here.” He sounded European, the way he flattened his vowels.

  Coughing and fighting the urge to vomit again, Celine sat up as best she could. Darts of pain assailed her. The big man took a step forward, looming over her.

  “Get back onto your bed and shut up. If you make me come back in here, you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

  Celine thought for the briefest of moments about trying to run past him but knew she would never make it. The guy just about filled the doorway and despite his size, moved as quick as any one she’d ever seen.

  She trembled with fear as she held out a placatory hand. Celine received a glare that chilled her blood. The big man pointed a single finger at her bunk.

  “Move!”

  She limped back to her bed. As she lowered herself onto the firmness of the mattress she dared another look at the man. He had moved to one of the other girls in the room. With little care of causing injury, he opened her eyelids. His rough hands. Seemingly satisfied that she was still unconscious, he again pointed at Celine.

  Words were unnecessary for the warning to be clear.

  He closed the door behind him and Celine heard the distinctive click as a lock was engaged. The sound of despair.

  Sitting on the bed, Celine scrutinised the room again. The ceiling was solid, no tiles or vents to be loosened or removed. The only window was a simple rectangle, the glass reinforced with a check-pattern of wire. She remembered seeing similar glass in some of the doors at the dance studio she attended a few years earlier.

  Above the locked door, a small inverted dome caught her attention. She knew what it was the moment she saw it.

  A camera.

  Somebody was watching. They were watching.

  16

  As the Jeep bumped along the uneven road, Danny regarded his brother with an air of amusement. “You know, even I got a fright when you burst through that door, and I knew you were coming. Very nearly put streaks in my breeks. Stripping to the waist was a bit over the top, though.”

  Clay, now back in his shirt, returned a wry smile. He flexed the muscles of his right arm. “I thought it might add a dramatic flair, get their attention.”

  “Get their attention? They damn near shat tacos!”

  Clay raised both palms along with an eyebrow. “Then I guess it worked.”

  Danny laughed. “Subtle as a sledgehammer, but yeah, it worked.”

  “There’s a time for the stiletto and there’s a time for the wreckin’ ball. I didn’t think the Pancho Villa fan club would appreciate my subtle side.”

  Danny made a show of looking behind his brother. “You mean you’ve got one?”

  Glowering at his younger brother, Clay huffed, “Watch it, doofus, or I’ll knock the haggis right out of you.”

  “Nice, more subtlety. Who said that, Mother Teresa?”

  Clay reduced his voice to a rasping whisper. “Steven Seagal. You’re playing with the big boys now.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “Not if you pass me one of those candies off the back seat.”

  Danny reached his hand into the grocery bag and retrieved a bar. “Butterfinger okay?”

  “I never met a candy bar I didn’t like.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

  Clay held out his hand like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel. He accepted the candy bar and devoured it in three bites. Running the tip of his tongue across his lips he motioned for another.

  As Clay began his second snack, Danny used the time to take in Clay’s rugged profile.

  “What?” asked Clay, without taking his eyes from the road.

  Danny gave him an easy smile. “I know we’re down here on serious business but it’s good to be on the road with you again, big bro.”

  Clay nodded once in agreement.

  “You know, we need to talk about worst-case scenarios before we happen upon one,” said Danny. “I know there’s a good chance of Celine and the other kids being alive and well, but we’ve got to consider the crap hand as well.”

  Clay’s voice was like sleet on a tin roof. “If anyone has hurt a single hair on Celine’s head I’ll bury them and piss on their grave.”

  “I know, but we’re deep in cartel territory down here. Even if it’s not them we’re up against, they’ll probably want to hunt u
s down if we start levelling buildings and such. You know how the cartels do business; they kill people for looking at them the wrong way. If they get wind of a couple of white boys raisin’ hell in their backyard, they’ll definitely want to add our heads to the collection.”

  Clay flushed red, the lattice of scars on his face standing out in angry contrast. “I can’t go home without her.”

  Danny placed a hand on Clay’s shoulder. The muscles below felt like plate armour. “Don’t worry, Clay, we’ll find her and her friends.” He didn’t add, “If they’re still alive.” The unspoken words hung in the air between them.

  “Jeez!” Clay slammed his foot hard on the brake pedal. Dust and gravel flew. Danny thrust out his hand against the windscreen to keep from being thrown forward against the glass. A dog had taken up residency in the middle of the road. It didn’t seem bothered by the screech of brakes.

  “What is it with the dogs around here? They all got a death wish?” asked Clay.

  Danny puffed out his cheeks. “I’ll move him. It may cost another packet of crisps, though.”

  “Put your foot in its ass and it’ll move quick enough.”

  Danny ignored Clay’s grouching. He knew Clay too was a sucker for a pooch and would never knowingly hurt one.

  “No way!”

  “What is it?” asked Clay, his head poking from the window.

  “The dog. The dog from Chacchoben… I’m sure this is the same one.”

  “That’s crazy. They all probably look the same down here,” said Clay.

  “Not unless they all have the same bullet holes in their ears.” The mutt gave him a look of recognition. Danny reached out and stroked the dog between the ears. Its skull felt like a coconut beneath his fingers. Looking around, he saw no evidence of the dog hitching a ride on the back of a truck. “How the hell did you get down here?”

  The dog nuzzled his hand with a dust-encrusted nose.

  “Here!”

  Danny caught the packet of chips that Clay cast towards him like a circus knife-thrower. The dog responded to the lure of food, tottering after Danny on legs as thin as saplings.