by James Hilton
“Let the trials begin,” shouted Ezeret.
The guard cut the air with the machete as he advanced. Danny remained motionless. His opponent’s blade glinted wickedly. Why wasn’t Danny moving?
The machete streaked through the air.
Danny burst into action. His left hand plucked the machete from the man’s grip seemingly without effort. Then Danny walked to the other side of the pit.
What the hell?
The guard took one faltering step then dropped to the ground. A stubby black handle jutted from the side of his neck. Celine inched to the edge of her seat. She hadn’t even seen Danny stick him. Jesus, he was fast.
Danny rested the machete across the back of his shoulders in what looked like another careless pose. “I guess he couldn’t cut it. Now, who’s next?”
47
Clay rested on one knee, taking deep breaths as Ghost silently flitted from tree to tree. He had no doubts about her now. Ghost had already proven herself to be both capable and resourceful.
He turned his attention to the front door of the main house. That was the way he was going in. Then he would clear the house room by room until he found Celine and her friends. He was counting on Danny being in there, too. He looked at his meagre supply of weapons again. He wished dearly for a tricked-out M4 and a saddlebag full of ammo. The shotgun and blade would have to suffice.
A vehicle was approaching. Its rumbling engine sounded alien in the jungle. A high-end pickup truck swung into view, the flatbed covered by an all-weather tarp. The tinted windows made it difficult to see how many passengers it carried.
Clay scuttled along the fence as the pickup reached the gates. A man in faded denim and a backwards baseball cap stepped out of the house into the late-afternoon sun to open the gates. Once the truck had stopped by the front door, all four doors opened simultaneously and the occupants of the vehicle climbed out. Five men, all trim and athletic. Their dark suit jackets and crisp white shirts provided a sharp contrast to the light blue denim of their host.
One of the visitors carried a sports bag. The driver of the pickup truck stepped forward and clapped his host on the shoulder.
The man from the compound seemed in a hurry to get them inside. Clay allowed a bitter smile to creep across his face. The gates had been left open. A rookie mistake that would cost them dearly. Running at a steady gait, he entered the compound. The enclosed row of buildings swept off to his right; he was sure that was where Celine would be. Celine and her friends and God knows who else. Pressing himself against the wall, Clay paused, half expecting a shout of alarm to give away his presence, but none came. He looked again at the row of buildings, each one connected to the next by an enclosed walkway. The windows of the squat buildings were of frosted glass. No movement or lights showed from within. The front-door handle was hot to the touch, and opened without a sound. These guys were way too complacent. Clay had seen it all before. Men who thought they were untouchable often became careless, full of their own sense of menace.
Clay stepped inside the house, pulling the door closed behind him. He swept the room with the shotgun, ready to put a ragged hole in whoever was there, but it was empty. The suited visitors were nowhere to be seen. One of the doors to the right must lead to the outbuildings. He moved directly to the first one. The room it led to was empty of occupants. A pair of low couches separated by an ornate table and a wall full of books made the room look like a library. He moved to the next door. It held fast. He noticed a small white switch to the side of the door and pressed it. A short buzz sounded, and he heard the lock disengage. Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a strip of beef jerky that Ghost had given him back at her camp. Biting off a length, he pushed the remaining strip into the cavity of the lock. He stepped through into a corridor lined with prison-like doors, and let the door swing closed behind him—the dried beef prevented the lock re-engaging. Moving at a steady pace, Clay wedged each door open with a small bite of dried meat.
Every room was lined with bunk beds and showed signs of recent occupation: scraps of food, an open bottle of water, a discarded sweatshirt. But no Celine. No one at all.
His lip curled as he retraced his steps to the main building. She must be somewhere in the main house. “Damn it!” He’d been so fixated on the jailhouse-style outbuildings that he’d forgotten what Ghost had told him: the captives were taken under the house. Ghost hadn’t told him how to get below ground, and he hadn’t thought to ask. Clay pushed the door open and stepped back inside the main house.
There he found the same man who had greeted the suited visitors. “Are you new?”
“And improved,” growled Clay. “Where are the kids?”
“Huh?”
“The captives, the prisoners.”
The guard jabbed a finger behind him. “They’re all down below. Master Ezeret has got some extra trials going on tonight. Some tough guy they brought in from the jungle. Some kind of troublemaker.”
Clay almost smiled. Danny! “How do I get down there?”
The man turned and pointed to a door behind him. “Through that way. The stairs lead all the way down.”
“How many of our men are down there?”
The man gave a slight shrug. “All of them, I think. Well, apart from me, that is.”
“One last question. Who were the suits that you just let in?”
“The suits?” The guard looked around as if the men in question were somewhere in the room. “Oh, those are the bad men, but Master Ezeret says that even the bad men of the world can serve a good purpose.”
Clay spoke through clenched teeth. “Who are they?”
“Cartel. Los Espadas. They bring in the Devil’s breath. Master Ezeret says—”
“What are the cartel boys packing?”
“Huh?”
“What kind of weapons?”
“Huh?”
Clay’s finger tightened on the trigger. “You ever sleep with any of the kids they bring in here?”
The guard laughed. “So many I can’t even remember their faces. Give me rape, give me murder, give me anything but the mundane.”
Clay raised his shotgun and pulled the trigger. The guard went down in a spray of crimson, his chest a bloody ruin. The sound of the shotgun echoed like a burst of thunder in the lobby. “Was that mundane enough for you?”
Seconds later, the lights went out.
48
Danny looked down at the body at his feet. The guy had come in swinging, his arm extended like a child in a slapping match. He’d paid dearly. It was a simple act to step straight into the eye of the storm, one hand taking his weapon, the other delivering a backhand stab to the soft spot just below his ear. The man was dead before he realised his mistake. Danny wrenched the blade free.
As he made a show of looking around the chamber, Danny counted the men staring down at him. There was a chance he could get through them all with the machete and knife, but it would take a while. If even one of them was carrying a pistol he would undoubtedly be shot dead.
“So, who’s next?” shouted Danny, adding as much cockiness to his voice as he could muster. “Come on, Ezeret, I thought you said you were going to find me someone worthwhile to fight. What kind of half-arsed trial is this?”
Ezeret clapped his hands twice. All eyes in the room turned to him. His voice cut across the room with undeniable authority. “If I challenge, will you rise?”
“We will rise.”
“Who here is ready to be challenged?”
A thickset man stepped up on his seat, his barrel chest straining the wifebeater vest he wore. His dark brown hair was slicked straight back, with sideburns that tapered into points. “I am ready, Master.”
“Will you risk death yet not turn your face away?”
“I will not turn away,” replied the man.
“Fuck me, Eddie Munster really let himself go,” said Danny. He looked up at Ezeret. “Really? This Oompa Loompa on steroids is the best you could manage from the faithful horde? Yo
u really need to recruit some better henchmen.”
Ezeret raised one eyebrow. “Why, Mr Gunn, you are quite right. Let’s make this a little more interesting, shall we?”
“Anything would be better than the guff you’re peddling.”
One of the guards scuttled to Ezeret upon command. Moments later, the man produced a set of manacles. Danny watched Eddie Munster reach out with his left hand. One end of the manacles was fastened securely. With his free hand, he accepted another machete from Ezeret. He lowered himself over the edge of the pit, his legs dangling free, then dropped to the floor. With his machete cocked over his right shoulder, he extended the manacle.
“The challenge has been set, Mr Gunn. Will you rise?” asked Ezeret.
Danny stepped closer, ready to move if Eddie Munster tried to sucker him. As he clicked the manacle around his own left wrist he wondered again where the hell Clay had got to.
“Are you ready to face the trials?” demanded Ezeret.
Munster held his blade aloft. “I am ready!”
The guards applauded.
Ezeret pointed at Danny. “Are you ready to face the trials?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
One of the guards gave a loud whistle and shouted, “Split him open, Damien. The hogs are eating meat tonight!”
The laugh died in Danny’s throat as he saw Weiss enter the room with five new men in stylish suits, clearly distinguished guests. Only when the new arrivals had been seated on the front row did Ezeret turn his attention back to the pit. “Let the trials begin.”
There was a muffled boom from above the chamber, then the lights went out. The spotlights dimmed to a faint orange, the meagre illumination lasting for only a few seconds, then utter darkness.
Danny breathed a sigh of relief.
Clay had arrived. About friggin’ time too.
The most common attack with a machete is a forehand swing on a downward diagonal plane. The head is the usual target. Danny did not use the most common attack. Instead, he yanked Damien’s manacled arm up into the air, pulling him off balance. In one continuous motion, Danny ducked under the man’s arm and sent his own blade deep into his opponent’s waist. Damien gave out a sharp cough as Danny straightened up behind him, wrenching his captured arm up his back. In the pitch-black chamber, Danny continued to move. The machete bit deep into the soft flesh of Damien’s locked elbow. Damien screamed. Other voices cried out in the darkness. Danny slashed again with his blade and felt Damien’s arm detach from his body. Danny let him fall, still screaming, at his feet.
Ezeret shouted, “Weiss! Get the lights back on!”
The beam of a flashlight cut into the pit a second later, lancing left and right. Even as Damien writhed on the floor, blood spurting from his severed limb, Danny vaulted the edge of the pit and dragged himself free.
“Celine Chavez!” roared Danny. “Celine, it’s Danny Gunn, Clay’s brother! I’m here to get you home.”
“Danny!”
The beam from the flashlight lanced left and right. Angry confused voices echoed around the chamber. Someone crashed into Danny; a young woman cried out in surprise.
“Celine, where are you?”
“I’m over here.” Celine’s voice came from somewhere on his right.
More lights bounced around the chamber as several of Ezeret’s men activated cell phones. The shadows danced wildly. Danny raced to where he’d heard Celine’s voice, calling out again as he moved.
“Danny!”
Then suddenly Celine Chavez was clinging to him, her arms tight around his chest.
Lights bobbed and turned, first one way then the other. Angry voices rang out, dire violence promised. Ezeret raised his voice above the rest. “Weiss! Kill Gunn now!”
Danny spoke directly into Celine’s ear. “Stay behind me. Keep your head down and be ready to run. We’re going back through the main house. I’m sure Clay’s up there.”
“Okay!” Celine nodded her head furiously as she watched several lights bob closer.
An urgent voice called out from behind an approaching light. “I’ve got him!”
Danny slashed down with the machete, aiming behind the light. The blade struck something hard and the man went down, a strangled scream following the light as it fell. Something warm and wet spattered Danny’s face.
Celine grabbed the cell phone. She shone the light towards the door above the amphitheatre seats. “That’s the way out.”
“Move,” said Danny. Shots rang out across the chamber and sparks flew from the seats just in front of Danny’s legs. Someone close by folded at the waist and silently toppled to the ground.
Celine turned and shouted to the shadow-streaked faces behind her. “Follow Danny!”
49
Ghost leapt high and hauled herself over the fence. The bag tied to her belt bounced heavily against her hip. She drew her pistol and took a deep breath. Moving directly to the large generator at the rear of the house, she glanced over to the large animal pens. The smell. She remembered the horror inside. Those hulking pigs, relentless and ferocious.
Forcing the beasts from her mind, Ghost dropped to one knee at the side of the generator. A green fuel tank towered above her head. A thin metal casing protected the inner workings of the attached engine. Ghost pulled open a door on the side of the casing. The generator rumbled quietly. A small LCD screen glowed with a muted green light. Below the screen sat a series of buttons, each with a corresponding green light. She looked at the two large buttons, one green and one red. The red button had the legend “Emergency Shut Off” printed below. Maybe it is that easy, thought Ghost.
Now all she had to do was wait for Clay’s signal.
Yeah, you just sit around on your butt while he does all the real work, chile.
Ghost twitched her head to one side. When she’d been alone, Mama’s chiding hadn’t bothered her so much. She had lost sweet Lauren… how long ago? Now she had Clay, a new friend, someone real to talk to—she’d thought till now that maybe Mama would quieten down for a spell.
You gonna let him down the way you did your sister?
“No!” Ghost’s voice was a harsh whisper. She focused on the red button on the generator panel. How long would it take for Clay to get inside the house?
Boom!
The sound came from inside the main building. Clay!
Ghost smacked the protruding red button hard with the palm of her hand. The generator cut out within two seconds. After moving to one side, Ghost fired two shots into the control panel. The first left a neat hole through the LCD screen, the second obliterated the red shut-off button.
Ghost ran for the house, checking the huts as she passed. The first four proved empty. The ordinary furnishings and possessions inside sickened her. Books and magazines, a CD player, throw pillows. Were these the trappings of the same men and women who were capable of horrific levels of abject cruelty?
As she threw open the fifth door, closest to the main house, a man dressed only in a pair of boxer shorts stepped into her path, rubbing his face.
“What happened to the lights?” He took a step back as Ghost raised her pistol.
The eagle tattoo that covered the man’s chest brought back a searing memory. A sweating body on top of hers, hands wound tight in her hair holding her down, him thrusting into her, other men laughing. The eagle tattoo right in front of her eyes.
Ghost slammed the butt of her pistol into his face, knocking him to the ground. “You rapist piece of shit!”
“No, wait…”
“What’s wrong, tough guy?” She lowered her pistol. “Haven’t got the balls for it anymore?”
“Wait!”
The suppressor on Ghost’s Glock 19 reduced the sound of the two shots to that of a door slamming shut. The first left a red ragged hole in the front of his shorts, the second caught his scream as it drilled through his throat. The man fell back, silent, blood spilling from both ends.
Ghost ran for the house. She reached a simple woo
den door, no windows, and turned the handle. It held fast. Staying close to the brickwork, she sprinted along the side of the house until she reached a second door. The upper half of this door was decorated with six small windows. She tried the handle; again, she found it locked. Flipping the pistol, she hammered out the window closest to the handle with a few sharp taps. Reaching in through the hole, she turned the rotary lock. The door swung open.
She found herself in a kitchen. It was dark and smelled of old food and cleaning chemicals. On the counter was a half-eaten sandwich—but all her attention was taken by the kitchen knife that lay alongside it. The blade was long and thick. Ghost snatched up the knife and held it just below her pistol, wrists crossed. A muffled sound deeper in the house set her moving again, but before she could investigate she heard the harsh crack of a pistol shot, then the boom of the shotgun. She dodged to one side, back against the wall, and trained her pistol on the door. The door crashed and a man ran into her. Her head hit the wall. The man on top of her was easily twice her weight, his face rough with stubble. Ghost squeezed the trigger. The Glock 19 bucked in her hand.
The man yelped and grabbed at her weapon. Needles of pain jabbed her spine as they fought. Her left arm was pressed tight to the side of her hip, the knife digging into her flesh. He was way too strong. The bones in her wrist were ready to snap. Then the pistol slipped from her grasp. The big man reared up and slammed the weapon at her head. She avoided the brunt of the force, but sparks still spread in a sudden cascade behind her eyes. Her left arm sprang free. The knife! She brought the weapon into his right side, feeling the blade grate against bone. The second attempt scored a deeper hit. As his bulk shifted off her, Ghost slashed higher. The blade caught him across the bridge of the nose, splitting the cartilage and adding to the warm spatter on her hands.
The big man stumbled back, the pistol falling from his grip, a low monosyllabic chant issuing between his cupped fingers. “Ah, ah, ah.”
Ghost used the wall to lever herself upright. She leapt at him, her arm outstretched like a fencer. The point of the blade went in deep beneath his chin. He dropped to his knees then onto his back, heels scraping the floor as he gurgled wetly.
