Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  “Now you stay off the road, little fella. The next car that comes along may just run right over the top of you and then you’d be dead tyred.”

  As Danny slid back into the passenger seat Clay gave him a sour look. “That’s the last animal that gets any of my stash.”

  “Yeah, ’cos you’ve only got about fifty packets of crisps left back there. Don’t want you starving to death in the next half-hour, that would be a real tragedy.”

  Danny watched the dust-covered dog in the rear-view mirror as they drove away. It turned a circle and flopped down at the side of the road. Soon it was little more than a dark splotch in the distance. “You get a chance to call home yet?”

  Clay wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I called Sebastian while you were talking to the folks in the grocery store. They’re both terrified that their baby’s not coming home. We can’t let that happen.”

  “We won’t.” Danny looked at the scars on his brother’s face. What would this job cost them? Would they add to the scars that they both already carried, or would it take a heavier toll?

  17

  Shadows played out like a puppet show above her head. The tent was big enough for half a dozen campers but Ghost sat alone, a gauze pad pressed to the seeping wound on her lower back. The pain was a low but annoying sting. The pain wasn’t the problem. She knew better than to leave even a minor wound open and untreated. The Yucatán jungle was unforgiving. Once the hotels of the coastal resorts were out of sight, nature took over with a savage vengeance. It pushed ever forward, a legion of thickly leaved branches, creepers and tendrils. In the four weeks since she had set up camp the encroaching green canopy had started to take over. She would have a go at it with her machete tomorrow.

  Her lips puckered as she removed the gauze from above her belt-line. A constellation of bloody spots dappled the fabric. The wound was little more than a deep scratch, but it stung like crazy as she dabbed it again with the Bactine-soaked pad. The bugs would find it irresistible if she left it untended. She didn’t mean to get sick, unable to continue her path.

  “Just a scratch. I’ve had worse,” she told herself. “Must have caught it on the wall when that dickhead body-slammed me.”

  Outside, an animal emitted a harsh squawk. A spider monkey, maybe? Don’t see many of them anymore.

  Satisfied that the wound on her back had finally stopped seeping, she tore open a square packet and pressed the adhesive sterile pad to her skin.

  A quick glance at the clear plastic jerrycan showed it still held about eight of its ten-litre capacity. She twisted the cap open and after plucking several foil packets from her backpack, added the water purification tablets to the tepid liquid. She tightened the cap of the drum and gave the whole thing a vigorous shake.

  Now that her first aid and water duties had been taken care of, she lay back on her sleeping bag and thought about the day’s events.

  “Siddown, chile… tell your mama ’bout today’s happenins.” She smiled briefly as she heard her mother’s sing-song voice. Memories of homemade gumbo and jambalaya made her stomach rumble. Mama had always been a bit heavy with the Tabasco but that was okay. It gives a tingle on the tongue, not a kick in the pants.

  As she opened a packet of trail mix, Ghost licked her lips in memory of the fat fingers of okra, plump shrimp and rich red bell peppers. The dried mixture of nuts, granola and fruit tasted like flecks of cardboard as she recalled her time at home. That seemed so long ago, almost unreal, like a life she had watched in an old movie.

  She turned on her side and gazed at the various deadly items in her tent. Rope, knife, machete, pistol, Taser, shotgun and rifle all within arm’s reach. Dried food, water, wind-up radio, backpack and her boots. All utilitarian items, so different to the things she had treasured in her previous life. She had nothing, now, without a purpose.

  “And what’s your purpose, you broke-ass bitch?” she asked herself. As often happened, the sound of her own voice surprised her.

  Closing her right eye, she focused her attention on the small radio, its perforated case and folding handle. Allowing her vision to drift in and out of focus she confirmed what she already knew. She had pronounced blurred spots in her left eye. They weren’t going away. They weren’t getting any better. Were they getting worse? She wasn’t sure. Would she go blind?

  “You won’t live long enough to go blind. Save your worries for something that matters a damn.”

  She picked up a compact from a small bag at the foot of her sleeping bag. The clamshell opened to reveal the circular mirror. The ruined features that stared back seemed to mock her in their severity.

  “They thought you were dead. But you’re not. Not yet.” A tear rolled down the raised mesh of scars that was once flawless ebony skin. Discarding the mirror, she lay down and forced the tears back. “Too much left to do, but I won’t stop. They’ll have to kill me for real next time. Don’t worry, Lauren, I’ll take as many of them with me as I can.”

  Another extended squawk sounded through the canopy. “Yeah, spider monkey.”

  Ghost reached for the shotgun, a pump-action Remington. She laid the weapon across her chest, hugging the blued barrel as a child would cuddle a soft toy. Sleep crept upon her like a thief in the night.

  Outside, the spider monkey gave another vigorous hoot before falling silent.

  18

  The trees and foliage that encircled the bar loomed around the single-storey structure like a sentient beast from a Lovecraftian tale. Long curving branches pointed accusatory fingers as if in silent and sinister warning. Shades of dark emerald intermingled with dried leaves and fronds the colour of late summer straw. The area in front of the bar was bare earth, hard packed and spotted with chunks of weathered limestone. A pothole deep enough to break an axle in lay like a punji-trap for unwary drivers. No red cow offered a greeting at this bar, but the bass line of rock music that cut through the humid air with a steady boom-boom-boom told them this was the place.

  Clay avoided the pothole and parked the Jeep to the left of the doorway. The door to the bar was open, wedged by a chunk of limestone that looked like anaemic coral.

  “You want to play it the same as the last place?” asked Clay.

  Danny stared at the open doorway. A faint tingle ran its way down the length of his spine. It was a feeling he had experienced many times previously, a feeling he knew better than to ignore. The men in this bar would be armed. Armed and more than willing to use their weapons. “I’ll go in first, but we need to step lightly here. I think these boys will be bigger fish than the Red Cow brigade.”

  The scars on Clay’s face crinkled as he grimaced. “I could just ram this Jeep through the wall and then we could speak to whoever is left standing.”

  Danny knew Clay was only half joking. He’d done the very same thing with an earthmover a while back, wrecking a Florida Keys mansion in the process. “Let’s give diplomacy a shot. It’s worth a try before we explore… other options.”

  Danny looked around what passed for the parking lot. He counted six vehicles. Four pickup trucks and two battered sedans. Three of the trucks were less than ten years old and looked to be in good condition. That said a lot. Probably meant they were never used as utility vehicles. In contrast, the rear of the fourth truck’s tailgate was down and twenty or so fence posts and a loose coil of chicken wire were arranged neatly in the bed. All that remained of one tail light was a rusting hole and a protruding wire. Behind the farm truck stood two battered motorcycles. Both looked as if they had been assembled from junkyard spares.

  The bar was twice the size of the Red Cow. A fading layer of whitewash coloured the cinder-block exterior. Above the door, the remains of a single bulb hung below a rusting shade. Blurred shapes moved behind the grimy window.

  “Phones on.” Danny gave a single nod then left the Jeep. The late-afternoon heat hit him like a slap. Taking a long breath in through his nose, he held it for a four-count then exhaled slowly through
his mouth. He stepped inside.

  The interior of the bar was bigger and better than the Red Cow. The walls were decorated with a wide assortment of motor memorabilia. Number plates from different countries were hung like pictures at various points on the walls. US, Mexican, British and even a few Japanese plates were displayed. In between the plates stood several recognisable decals. Chrysler, Mercedes, Rolls Royce, Daimler and Fiat on one side, with Suzuki, Triumph, Honda, Kawasaki and Harley-Davidson behind the bar.

  The steady bass line filled the room. The rock music was modern, and Danny found himself nodding along to the frenetic rhythm of guitar and drums. Ignoring the undisguised looks of hostility from the dozen or so men, he moved to a free stool at the bar.

  The barman stared back at Danny impassively, his pockmarked face giving nothing away.

  “Una Modelo cerveza, por favor,” said Danny.

  After long seconds of consideration, the barman replied in English. “No Modelo here. We got Sol, Dos Equis or Tecate.”

  “I’ll take a Tecate then, please.”

  “You want a glass?”

  “Nah, the bottle’s fine.”

  Danny had barely taken the first gulp of the pale lager when three men surrounded him. The man at Danny’s right shoulder poked him with a stiffened finger.

  “No, I’m not lost, and no, I’m not a tourista,” said Danny as he turned to face them.

  The man who had jabbed Danny stood silent for a moment, his mouth open as his opening gambit was stolen.

  Danny fixed the man in the centre of the trio with a steady gaze, unblinking. The subtle energy inside the room shifted to one of expectation. He took stock of the other men in the bar: three immediately within arm’s reach; four at a table to his left, a geometric pattern of dominoes laid out on their table. Another two sat behind them at a table with an overflowing ashtray as a centrepiece. At the far end of the bar, six men sat around a longer rectangular table.

  Fifteen men. Sixteen, if you included the barman. A lot of variables.

  Danny smiled and pointed to the table of dominoes. “Hey, I haven’t played doms for ages. You guys like to gamble?”

  The men exchanged glances.

  “You like to gamble?” asked Danny again, this time adding a little more enthusiasm to his voice.

  The man in front of Danny raised his chin, his curiosity piqued. “What you got in mind?”

  “What’s your name?” asked Danny, as he gave another friendly smile. “What do these guys call you?”

  The man hesitated for a moment then answered. “Benito.”

  “Pleased to meet ya, Benito.” Danny extended his hand. “John Douglas.”

  After scrutinising the newcomer for long seconds, Benito shook his hand.

  “Who’s the fastest guy in here?”

  The look of suspicion was still evident on Benito’s face. “What you mean, fastest?”

  “Like, who’s got the fastest reflexes,” said Danny.

  Benito looked at the men at the domino table but offered no name.

  Danny fished a five-peso coin from his pocket. The centre of the distinctive coin was coloured gold while the outer ring was silver. Danny held the coin in the palm of his hand. “I bet I can snatch this coin out of any man’s hand in this room.”

  The neatly trimmed line of black hair on Benito’s top lip curled into a misshapen glyph. “I’ve played this game before… when I was a child.”

  Ignoring Benito’s sarcasm, Danny continued, “I’ll bet you fifty dollars that I can do it three times in a row.”

  “With any man in the bar?”

  “With anyone you choose.”

  Benito nodded to one of the men at the domino table. “Robert.”

  The men in the bar formed a loose circle with Benito, Danny and Robert in the centre. Several of the men pulled rolls of notes from their pockets, rapidly chattering as they agreed side bets.

  “Robert?” asked Danny.

  The young man looked Danny up and down, seemingly unimpressed. “We’re not all called Miguel, you know.”

  Danny returned a tight-lipped smile. “Hold out your hand.”

  Robert stood immobile, hands on his hips. The only things that moved were his eyes as he regarded his challenger with overt suspicion.

  “Come on, man, hold out your hand. I bet I can snatch this coin three times in a row before you can close your hand.” Danny held out the coin and waited. “Fifty bucks to you if I can’t.”

  A muscle in Robert’s jaw twitched once as he looked to Benito. A curt nod from Benito and the young man slowly extended his right hand. Danny placed the coin in the centre of his upturned palm.

  “You look like you work out. Good arms. How old are you? Twenty? Twenty-five?”

  As Robert’s mouth opened to answer, Danny shot his left hand forward and took the coin. “That’s once.”

  “No fair, man, I wasn’t ready.” Robert’s voice carried an angry edge.

  Danny gave a short laugh. “Okay, just checking you were awake.”

  Robert took back the coin. This time he moved his feet a little wider than the width of his shoulders and lowered his weight as he readied himself. Slowly he extended his hand inch by inch. “Not ’til I say I’m ready.”

  Bets were made and accepted in haste from the onlookers.

  “You call it,” Danny looked at Benito. “He looks like Quick Draw McGraw.”

  “Ready!”

  “Estás listo?”

  “I said I was read—”

  Danny took the coin, his left hand a blur.

  Robert clenched his fists as a ripple of laughter broke from the spectators. More than one fistful of crumpled notes was exchanged.

  “You’re too close.”

  Danny held out the coin, which Robert reached for. “That’s two.”

  “Do it from further back,” said Robert through clenched teeth. A single bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

  Benito looked between the two men then flicked his fingers as if shooing Danny away. “Take a step back.”

  “Hey, man, that wasn’t the deal,” said Danny. Three of Benito’s friends edged towards him.

  “Do it,” said Benito. “It wasn’t a request.”

  Danny took a step back on his left heel.

  Robert raised his outstretched hand, coin in the centre of his palm.

  Danny inhaled slowly, the fingers of his left hand wiggling like seagrass.

  Robert scrutinised his face with a new intensity.

  Danny’s left hand twitched but it was his right that struck out like a cobra, snatching the coin free.

  “Mierda!” spat Robert.

  Danny flicked the coin high into the air with the tip of his thumb then caught it in a single fluid motion. “Wanna go again, double or nothing?”

  Benito spat a gobbet of saliva at Danny’s feet. “I have a different game for you. It’s called ‘give me all of your money or I shoot you in the face’.”

  Danny allowed a curious smile to creep onto his face. “Shoot me? With what?”

  As Benito reached behind his back with his right hand, Danny performed three actions almost simultaneously.

  One: He cupped Benito’s left elbow and pulled him forward, causing him to stagger.

  Two: He slipped behind Benito and snatched the weapon from his waistband.

  Three: He looped an arm around the Mexican’s throat and pressed the revolver against the side of his head.

  As the other men went for their guns, Danny yanked Benito backwards so no one in the room had a clear line of sight.

  “Easy, guys!” said Danny. “I didn’t come in here looking for trouble.”

  “Well, you sure as shit found it, pendejo,” said Robert.

  “Put your weapons on the floor and kick them towards the door.”

  None of the men moved to comply. A bottle tumbled to the floor. Danny glanced at the weapon that he held pressed against the side of Benito’s skull. “This is a nice piece. Ruger revolver,
six shots, single action.”

  He rapped the barrel against the side of Benito’s head, just hard enough for effect. The sound was loud and ominous in the sudden silence of the bar. “Put your weapons down nice and easy and kick them over there. Do it or Mr Mussolini here gets the first one in the brain pan.”

  Benito spewed a series of curses and commands in Spanish. After a couple of seconds, the two men with the pistols placed them on the floor. Both looked like standard Glocks.

  “Kick them over to the door.”

  The men glared at Danny with undisguised venom but did as ordered.

  “And now the knives,” said Danny. The barrel of the Ruger never wavered from Benito’s head. “Come on, get on with it.”

  A collection of hunting knives and a couple of switchblades joined the surrendered pistols.

  Danny twisted Benito to the left and stared at the barman. “Knock the music off.”

  The barman complied, the bar falling into silence. “You got anything tucked away under the counter I should know about?”

  The barman’s face contorted as he replied in the negative.

  “You sure? If I come over there and find a weapon, you’ll be getting the second bullet.”

  The barman shuffled from foot to foot momentarily then reached slowly beneath the bar.

  “Go easy!” warned Danny. The barrel of the Ruger stretched the skin at Benito’s temple.

  The baseball bat the barman retrieved was an old-fashioned Louisville Slugger. The dark stains on the business end told of more than one head-bashing. He tossed it over the bar, where it clattered against the floor.

  “Alrighty, then,” said Danny. “Now that I have your attention, we’re gonna sit down like grown-ups and I’m gonna ask a few questions. If you play nice you’ll all still make it home for your five o’clock burritos. Now, sit your arses down. You too, Babe Ruth.”

  The barman skulked around the end of the counter and joined the rest of the men. Danny pushed Benito into a seat of his own, placing him with his back to the rest of his gang. Only when he was satisfied that he could see all the men in the bar did Danny sit down opposite the leader.