Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  Danny rolled his neck and shoulders then bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, rapidly shaking his hands as he moved.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll have him spilling his guts in less than five minutes.”

  A smile devoid of humour crept across Danny Gunn’s face. He snapped out four piston-like punches then raised each of his knees in turn. His left knee ached, but still gave full range of motion.

  “The Master will have his answers before it’s time for today’s lesson.”

  A buzzer sounded, then the door began to open.

  Now!

  Danny launched himself forward, his right heel stamping hard just below the handle. The door catapulted open like an oversized mousetrap. One man, red-haired and freckled, was already falling, clutching at the gash down the side of his face. The baton he had been holding in his left hand clattered to the floor.

  Three more men stared at Danny, momentarily frozen by the unexpected outburst. One was blond with circular John Lennon glasses, one black-haired in a leather waistcoat, his paunch pushing through the gap. The last man sported a buzz cut and a handlebar moustache; a united nation of assholes. All three carried identical batons, plain black wooden staves, twenty-four inches long. Nothing fancy, but still lethal in the hands of someone who knew how to use one.

  Continuing his forward motion, Danny dropped low, his right knee almost on the floor, and snapped a punch into the solar plexus of Buzz Cut. As the guard reeled backward to avoid the blow, Danny achieved his real aim, snatching up the fallen baton.

  The hardwood shaft felt cool and familiar in his grasp. Although no master of its finer intricacies, Danny had studied the brutal martial style of escrima some years earlier. Born on the blood-soaked battlefields of the Philippines, escrima was based on the deadly movements of sword and dagger combat. Its flowing patterns could be deceptively beautiful when performed in a stylised martial display. Stripped to its essence, it was horrifically effective.

  Danny ripped into the four men without mercy. A backhand blow sent the closest man staggering a few steps on unsteady feet, his baton held high in defence. Danny pivoted and struck out with his right foot, planting the toe of his boot into the groin of the guy with the Lennon glasses. Lennon doubled over, a high-pitched squeal escaping from his lips. The baton Danny wielded slammed into the base of the man’s skull. The impact had the retort of a pistol shot. Lennon dropped onto his face.

  Swearing as he came, Buzz Cut brought his own weapon down at Danny’s head in a vicious swipe. But Danny wasn’t there. He shifted his weight and angled away from the skull-cracker; his own baton deflected the strike and caused Buzz Cut to overextend his reach. In a continuous figure-eight, Danny snapped his weapon into the man’s elbow, ribs and kneecaps. Buzz Cut froze momentarily, his face aghast at the multiple explosions of pain. Danny finished him with a forehand strike that sent three of his front teeth rattling across the floor.

  With blood trickling down his face, the guy with red hair clambered to his feet and rushed at Danny, arms extended as if to bear hug him. With a grunt of contempt, Danny snapped out his left hand in a lightning-fast jab. Red was halted mid-motion. Danny hit him again. “Aye, everybody’s got a plan till they get punched in the face!”

  The pudgy guy in the waistcoat closed in and cocked his baton back like a javelin thrower. With a roar that belonged in a samurai movie, he swung his weapon at Danny’s face in a wide circle. Danny stepped inside its deadly arc. Lifting his own baton with both hands, Danny watched Waistcoat’s wrist snap into an unnatural angle; an angle that his bones were never designed to withstand. Waistcoat’s weapon spun away like a detached helicopter blade. A low keening moan now replaced the roar of a second earlier. As the potbellied warrior clutched his broken arm to his chest, Danny thrust the tip of the nightstick deep into the hollow of his throat, crushing the fragile cartilage within. Waistcoat went down onto his back, eyes bulging, gasping for breath.

  Danny turned back to Red. “You’ve got one chance to talk, or I leave you here bleeding out or braindead.”

  The man’s already pale face turned ashen as he looked at his fallen comrades, battered and bleeding but still breathing.

  Danny stared into his eyes for the briefest of moments before deciding. He set on the three downed men with unbridled fury. Blood splattered the walls as he scythed into their faces with the nightstick. His voice was cold when he turned back to Red. “Four kids were brought in here a week or so ago. Three wee girls and a boy. Celine Chavez, Laura Troutman, Gillian Cole and Marco Kenner. Where are they?”

  “Please… I don’t know any of their names.”

  “But you know they’re here.” Danny raised his baton in warning. “Get on your feet. You’re taking me to where they’re being held, and you’d better hope they’re all still okay. If any one of them is hurt, I’ll snap your neck.” He grabbed Red by the hair and hauled him to his feet. “Which way?”

  Red pointed.

  “Move!”

  Danny frog-marched Red along the unadorned corridor. Overhead, a fluorescent tube buzzed and guttered. None of the men had carried radios or any other visible weapons. Danny had seen their type many times before in war-torn corners of the world. Opportunists with a chance to vent their cruelty, unchecked by civilised rationale. “Any funny business and I’ll leave you lyin’ here deader than a dodo!”

  Red hunched forward as Danny continued to muscle him on.

  “I’m not sure which rooms your friends are in.”

  Danny rammed the tip of the baton into the small of Red’s back. “Then we’ll open every room ’til I find them. You got keys?”

  Red nodded frantically, his eyes wide as he looked over his shoulder at the scowling Scotsman.

  “Get them out and ready. If I meet any of your buddy boys or I hear an alarm, you’re the first to get it.”

  “Okay, man, take it easy.”

  Danny rammed the baton into Red’s back again. “Look here, you piece of shit, just be thankful my brother isn’t here just yet. He would have pulled your head off your little pencil neck already.”

  Danny readied himself as Red inserted a key with a red fob into the simple lock and turned the handle. No armed men swarmed through the doorway; there was only an empty passageway identical to the one in which they stood. Several doors dotted the length of the corridor.

  Danny moved his captive forward at a trot, keeping him slightly off balance, ready for any attempted violence by Red. He knew better than to ever underestimate even a skinny perverted waste of skin like Red. It didn’t take an athlete to stick a knife in your guts if you were caught napping.

  “Open it!” growled Danny, pointing at the first of the doors. The door was comprised of a single piece and looked to have a steel plate riveted into the wood.

  Red changed keys, this time selecting one with a yellow fob.

  Danny glanced down. “Do all these doors take the same yellow key?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the red key opens all of the junction doors?”

  Red nodded again, his fingers trembling as he held the keys.

  “And the green key?” asked Danny.

  “That gets you into the main house.”

  “Are all the doors in the house locked as well?”

  “No. Just these ones. No one goes into the house unless we take them anyway.”

  “So, these three are all the keys you need?”

  Red nodded again, turning to face Danny, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “You ever been made redundant?” asked Danny, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth.

  Red stared back at him, his own mouth slightly open. “Huh?”

  “Let me put it another way: your services are no longer required.” Danny brought the baton down across the side of Red’s face. Red bounced once off the door, then landed face down, silent and unmoving. A pool of crimson slowly began to form a bloody halo on the floor around his head.

  Danny kicked him to one side
and picked up the fallen keys. He used the yellow key to open the door. Wasting no time, he stepped inside, holding the door open with his foot.

  “Celine!” his voice was low but urgent. “Celine Chavez!”

  Three faces stared back at him. Celine wasn’t there.

  36

  “Celine!” Danny Gunn’s voice was like gravel down a drainpipe. “Celine Chavez!”

  None of the three young women that stared back at him was Celine. All three wore the same harrowed expression. The room had a distinctive smell, a smell Danny was very familiar with. The room smelled of fear.

  One of the women stood up. Her hair hung in strands, dark circles under her eyes. “Celine is my friend. What the hell have you done with her?”

  Danny took a quick step into the room. It looked like an old-style army barracks: camp beds and plain walls. Utilitarian and drab. “I’ve come to take her home. Who are you?”

  “Laura Troutman. We came down here on vacation together,” she replied.

  “Laura?” Danny looked at the young woman again. She was almost unrecognisable from the picture Clay had shown him in Cancún. “Do you know where Celine is? Have you seen her?”

  “No. I haven’t seen her. I was in here with Marco for a few days, but he was so out of it, I don’t know… I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Okay, you need to come with me, right now. We’re gonna find Celine and the others, then we’re gettin’ out of here. Stay a few steps behind me. If any guards come at me just get out of the way so you don’t get hurt.”

  Laura stared back at him, unmoving.

  “Move your arse! We don’t have much time.”

  The mistrust in her face was evident. “Who are you?”

  “You know Clay Gunn? Celine’s family lives with him. I’m his brother, Danny. Now, come on.”

  Laura took a single tentative step then hustled forward. “I haven’t seen Clay for a few years, but Celine talks about him all the time. He’s really big—”

  “And I’m not, I know. But I am his brother.”

  “Okay…”

  “Stay close,” said Danny. He looked at the other two women in the room. There was a look of absolute defeat and hopelessness in their faces. “Can you run? Come with me if you want out of here.”

  Laura shook her head. “I think they’ve just been dosed again. They’ll be like the walking dead for a few days yet.”

  “Shite,” swore Danny. “Come on, then. I’ll make sure someone comes back for them later.”

  Danny moved back into the corridor, with Laura close behind. He unlocked the next door and opened it with no wasted motion. The room was empty of occupants. A row of beds, arranged asymmetrically along either side, seemed to mock him. “Come on. We need to keep moving.”

  Keeping the baton readied in his right hand he moved to the next door, using his left to unlock it.

  As the key began to unlatch the tumblers within, a voice cut in from behind. “I knew you were a slippery bastard. Dropped four of my boys already.”

  Danny pivoted, bringing his cudgel into an overhead guard position.

  “You can drop that.”

  It was the same white-haired man who had bested him earlier. His pistol was aimed at his head. Danny placed the baton by his feet.

  “Kick that away, slowly.”

  “You want your dildo back? Here, have it.” Danny sent it across the length of the corridor.

  “I can’t leave you alone for two minutes, can I?”

  Danny fixed him with a look that could curdle milk, but said nothing. He was too far from the gunman to do anything other than die if he moved.

  “What’s your name, little man?”

  “Why? You adding me to your Christmas card list?”

  “I like to know the names of the men I kill, gives me a sense of… completion.”

  Danny scowled. “Cross the T’s, dot the I’s, right?”

  “Exactly. I’ll go first. Ulrich Weiss. The last man you’ll ever see.”

  “Danny Gunn. Right backatcha, ya fucknut.”

  “British?”

  “Scottish.”

  “Huh.” Weiss shrugged dismissively. “Finish opening that door, then. You, girl, get inside.”

  Danny glanced at Laura then gave her a small nod. “Go on. I’ll be alright.”

  As the door opened he glanced inside. Four faces looked back at him. The one in the centre drew his attention like a beacon. Celine.

  Laura scooted into the room.

  “Close it again,” ordered Weiss.

  Danny pulled the door shut. The lock snapped shut with a click that seemed to mock him.

  Weiss held the pistol steady, aimed at Danny’s chest as his left hand moved to his hip. He drew a second weapon. The guy liked his kit. Danny recognised this one too.

  “Shite!” He barely had time to utter the curse before the wired electrodes from Weiss’s Taser made contact. Raw electricity ripped through his body, shutting off his ability to breathe, sending his muscles into forced hypertension as his nervous system short-circuited. He went down onto his knees.

  Danny looked up to see Weiss giving him a shit-eating grin. When Weiss hit him with an extended second charge, Danny slid into darkness. He registered Weiss raising his boot but was in no position to stop it.

  37

  “Hey, I think I see daylight.” Clay pointed to a patch of rocks high up to his right. They cast a faint, jagged shadow like a child’s painting of a mountain range. “I’ll give you a boost up. See if we can squeeze through.”

  Ghost moved over to the smooth limestone wall. A narrow outcrop jutted out enticingly about six feet above her head. “Ready when you are, cowboy.”

  Clay squatted, his back to the wall, then cupped his hands together. Ghost placed her left foot in his grip. “On three. One, two, and three.”

  Ghost was cast up into the air. Clay smiled as he watched her catch the ledge and haul herself over. “Any good?”

  “Give me a minute. It goes back aways.”

  As he waited for Ghost to return, his thoughts strayed back to Danny. He was sure that his younger sibling would be okay. Danny was as wily as a bobcat. But surviving was only part of the plan. They’d come to find Celine. The hilt of his bowie knife felt like an old friend. For a moment, he relived the grisly sensation of driving the blade through the tattooed man’s body. He would gladly impale every man in the camp if it meant Celine’s safe return.

  “Any luck up there?” Clay’s voice echoed in the cavern.

  There was no response. Clay’s head jerked up as a dark thought hit him like a slap. What if Ghost escaped but left him down here to fend for himself?

  “Ghost?” Then louder. “Ghost! You find anything?”

  Clay frowned at the outcrop above his head, then backed up a few steps. He was mid-action of rocking back on his heels in preparation for a running leap when the familiar face stared down at him.

  “It’s going to be tighter than a new pair o’ dancin’ shoes up here, but I think we’ll get through.”

  “Watch out, I’m coming up.” Clay leapt, catching the edge of the ledge easily, and hauled his bulk onto it. The top of his head brushed the overhanging rock. He rested his hand on his upper thighs, taking a deep breath. A slow pounding took up residence behind his eyes. Damned grenade.

  “You okay?” asked Ghost. “You look kinda hinky.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just every minute I spend down here is a minute Celine could be in real danger.”

  “So, let’s get ramblin’.” Ghost hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “We’ll head back to my camp and grab some new kit, then go and get this party started.”

  “You’ve got spare weapons?”

  “I’ve got a few toys that may come in handy,” she answered. “Come on. This way.”

  Clay watched her move ahead at a brisk pace. Within thirty seconds she dropped onto all fours, scuttling along with ease. Clay followed, his back scraping against the rock, spurred on by th
e light ahead. Daylight. Freedom. Celine. Danny.

  The passage narrowed so that Ghost’s figure blocked out the light as she crawled ahead of him. The brightness of the daylight caused a brief halo effect around her.

  “Sunshine dead ahead,” she called in a sing-song tone.

  Despite struggling to keep moving forward without tearing skin, Clay gave a brief smile. Ghost had a voice that wouldn’t be out of place in a choir. Memories stirred, of sitting Celine on his lap when she was fresh out of kindergarten, him singing Johnny Cash songs, his deep monotone suited for little else. Celine had applauded with unbridled enthusiasm as only an innocent child could. His thoughts were interrupted by a dazzling light. Ghost had made the end of the narrow tunnel. He traversed the remaining stretch of ground by shrugging his body like an oversized caterpillar. Then his unspoken fears took form. It was as if the tunnel had suddenly contracted, tightening around his chest. He tried wiggling side to side but found no purchase with his feet. The tunnel was too narrow for him to fit through. Anger flashed though him as he strained against the narrow, unyielding aperture of rock. A low growl built in his chest. The seams of his shirt began to pull and separate, but he was held fast.

  “You okay there, big fella?” asked Ghost.

  “Damn it. I’m stuck.”

  “Relax, Clay. If my ass fit through, which isn’t exactly the smallest, you can fit through too.”

  “I’m stuck,” Clay repeated.

  “Take a deep breath, then relax. Breathe it all the way out. I want you to relax every muscle like you’re having a massage. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, stay relaxed, but gently stretch out your arms to me.”

  Clay forced himself to relax, following Ghost’s instructions. Her hands were cool as they closed around his wrists. She placed her feet either side of the tunnel mouth. Clay slid forward on his stomach as she gave a slow and steady pull. The pressure around his chest slipped away. He gripped the outer lip of the tunnel and dragged himself free with a grunt of undisguised relief. Ghost offered a hand, but Clay lurched to his feet under his own steam.