by James Hilton
You stuck him good, chile.
Ghost sought her fallen pistol, only breathing again when her hand closed around it.
50
Ulrich Weiss snorted a short breath filled with resignation. He had advised Ezeret not to give any opportunity to Daniel Gunn. The man was trouble, rattlesnake trouble. Maybe he should have just given him a third eye back at the sinkhole. Yet, despite the sudden darkness and the screams that followed, Weiss felt a surge of adrenalin. Gunn was at least worthy of a fight, someone to prove a challenge.
As his flashlight beam cut into the confines of the pit it revealed Damien, his arm missing from the elbow down, mewling like a beast on the butcher’s block. Gunn was no longer in the pit. Shit, the wiry Scotsman was fast.
Weiss’s light caught the cartel men, their faces grim, pistols raised. He drew his own pistol as he cast the flashlight over the confused crowd of captives at the far side of the pit. Some milled and surged into each other while others sat unmoving at the change of events. Weiss knew that some of the captives would still have the essence in their bloodstreams. The smallest dose of the Devil’s breath kept them docile and virtually zombified. They should have dosed Gunn. Damn Ezeret and his sense of grandeur. There was a time for entertainment, sure, but poking a rabid dog with a stick was never a good idea.
There!
The P7 pistol spat four times in rapid succession. A body crashed to the floor, but not Gunn’s. The beam from the flashlight caused the surrounding darkness of the chamber to appear an even deeper black. Shadows flitted and merged as bodies moved en masse, pushing, jostling, voices cried out in confusion. Weiss glimpsed Gunn for the briefest of moments and snapped off another shot. Sparks lanced through the darkness.
Weiss shouldered one of the guards aside. The man tumbled back, the cell phone in his hand causing new shadows to play around the chamber like a deranged puppet show. Weiss emptied his pistol then changed the magazine. There was a huddled group of shadows at the doorway. More captives? Once through the door they would have free access to the main house. If the generator was down, then the magnetic door seals would be out. With no power supply, the doors would push open easily. Only the holding rooms and the first interior door required keys to open them.
Weiss shouted over the rising clamour, “The door! Take them down! Now!”
Several of the guards responded to his command and raced up the seating, grabbing onto the closest of the shambling crowd. Bodies tumbled, cries of alarm echoing through the chamber as several of the captives were wrestled to the ground.
Weiss again tried to draw a bead on Gunn. Where the hell was he? He paced the edge of the pit, hoping for one clean shot at the interloper. One of Ezeret’s guards tumbled sideways from the lowest of the benches. As the man tried to catch himself, his elbow caught Weiss full in the face. A moment of weightlessness and then Weiss’s back slammed into the floor of the pit, both flashlight and pistol flying from his hands. Something warm and sticky coated the right side of his face. Groaning, he reached for the flashlight, its beam illuminating the two ruined bodies next to him. Damien was still moving, but barely, his mouth opening and closing like a floundered fish. Weiss found his fallen handgun and clambered as quickly as he could out of the pit.
The guards had managed to subdue several of the more docile captives, who now regarded Weiss with vacant stares.
Ezeret’s voice cut through the confused babble. “Who will rise to the challenge? Who will quell this impetuous uprising?”
Several of the guards responded to Ezeret’s challenge.
Gunn was no longer in the chamber, he was sure. Weiss cast another glance in Ezeret’s direction. He was still talking. Weiss had heard it all a hundred times. The cartel men were at the top of the short stairway at the far side of the pit, the second doorway that led back into the main house. Ezeret would make sure the Los Espadas soldiers were ushered to safety. He couldn’t afford to make an enemy of them.
Weiss moved up the seats as rapidly as he could, his breathing ragged and uneven, knocking guards and captives out of his path. He had to put a bullet in Gunn’s head.
51
“Drop the shotgun!”
Clay’s jaw clenched.
“Do it or they’ll be scraping your brains off the wall.”
Then the lights went out.
In one motion Clay pivoted, dropping to one knee, and squeezed the trigger of the Remington. The flash from the barrel of the shotgun was bright in the sudden darkness. A man-shaped shadow dove back through the doorway, his pistol spitting a brief tongue of flame.
Clay followed at a rush. The room was full of angular shadows. A rounded shadow of deeper black moved at the far side of the room and Clay squeezed the trigger. Glass exploded, and a flash from the opposite side of the room told of Clay’s error. The mirror lay in a thousand shards. How many years of bad luck would that be?
A bullet smacked into the stock of his shotgun, nipping into the skin between his thumb and forefinger, branding his flesh. His hand opened involuntarily. A second shot cracked into the door frame inches from his head. As Clay crashed to the floor his left shin cracked against something hard and unyielding. The shotgun slipped from his grasp. His face slammed into something wooden. Several more shots cut through the darkness, striking the wall behind. Surging to his feet and fighting against the encroaching dizziness, Clay grabbed the wide desk he had just fallen against and hoisted it into the air. A lamp clattered to the floor. Shots slammed into the desktop as Clay raced forward, then the shooter yelled out as he was knocked back into the wall.
Clay slammed the desk, slick with his own blood, into the man like a battering ram. Then his adversary surged back against him and the desk crashed to the floor. Clay’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to see the guard was clutching his chest. As Clay closed on him, the man leapt away and brought his pistol back into play. Clay dipped his shoulder and rammed the guard back into the wall. The pistol barked once more then fell silent, despite the man’s repeated pulls on the trigger.
Clay grabbed his throat and squeezed, crushing the cartilage in the guard’s neck in one violent second. Leaving the man to choke, Clay retrieved the Remington and made his way back into the dark lobby.
Moving back to the door first indicated by the denim-clad guard, Clay swept the lobby with the business end of the shotgun, turning in a slow circle. “Fool me once,” he said, his voice like gravel on a tin sheet.
His attention snapped to a door at the far side of the lobby. Harsh sounds were coming from the other side. A pistol shot, muffled but still recognisable to his ear. A series of curses and yells, the sounds of combat. Clay stalked towards the source of the noise, ready to obliterate anybody that wasn’t a friend.
Ghost stepped into the lobby, pistol in hand, a dark spectral silhouette. “Don’t shoot. It’s me.”
“You meet a welcome party in there?”
Ghost moved closer to Clay, silent as ever. “An asshole the size of a bear, ran straight into me. Knocked me on my ass. I guess he was high-tailing it away from you.”
“You put him down?”
Ghost slapped Clay lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “You think I’d be yakkin’ in here with you if I hadn’t?”
“Good on ya, girl. Come on. We’re going down below the house. That’s where Celine and the others are.”
“How can you be sure?”
“That guy there spilled the beans before I spilled the rest of him.”
Ghost looked down at the splayed figure on the floor. “Okay then, Ranger Gunn, lead the way.”
“It’s probably gonna be darker than a lawyer’s heart down there,” said Clay. “Be careful.”
Clay was one step towards the door when it was flung open and a rabble surged out, cell-phone lights spilling over their faces.
“Danny!”
Clay grinned at his brother. Celine sprang forward and wrap her arms around his waist.
“Clay! I knew you’d be here
too.”
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
Celine shuddered as she clung to him bodily. “I thought we were going to die.”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Clay, returning her embrace. Then he gently released her. “Come on. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
He looked over her shoulder at the others. There were a dozen or so freed captives with Celine and Danny.
“Aye, it’s time to make like a shepherd and get the flock out of here. There’s trouble two steps behind us. Ezeret’s guards will be coming this way.”
Clay spat words through clenched teeth. “Good, I’m fixin’ to kill every last one of them before I’m done.”
“We’ve got to get Celine and the others out of here first.” Danny spoke fast as he moved to let another captive step into the lobby. “We need to get to the vehicles outside.”
Clay looked down and for the first time noticed the severed limb dangling at the end of Danny’s manacle. The corner of his mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles. He would get the details later. “Danny, you take point and I’ll bring up the rear.”
That was the moment that the white-haired man stepped through the door. With a guttural curse, he sent three rapid shots into the crowd. His hand streaked to his torso and a moment later a cylindrical object flew across the room.
“Grenade!” Danny shouted.
The explosive rolled across the tiled floor like a rattle of phantom bones. In the open, a grenade was a very dangerous weapon; in a confined area, it was utterly devastating. Anyone within five metres of the detonation was hamburger.
Weiss ducked back into the doorway, loosing off another pistol shot.
Clay took a rapid step and kicked out with his right boot. The grenade followed the white-haired killer back into the darkened doorway. A second later, a brain-numbing explosion turned the stairwell into a scene from Dante’s Inferno.
52
Celine heard Marco Kenner emit a harsh cough as the pistol shot sounded across the lobby. Her friend doubled over as if he’d been punched in the stomach. As Danny shouted a warning of “Grenade!” she closed her eyes, waiting for the pain to rip her apart.
An explosion did come, but instead of shredding her flesh it boomed from the subterranean chamber below the house. She opened her eyes. Marco gave a protracted groan as she knelt next to him. Holding the cell phone over his torso, she could see his hands were a dark crimson.
“I’ve been shot,” said Marco. Sobs racked his body. “I don’t want to die. Celine, please, I don’t want to die.”
“You’re not going to die. We’re going to get out of here. We’re going to get you help.” Celine looked at Clay as he dropped to one knee next to her. The look in his eyes was dire.
“We need to move.” Clay pulled off his shirt. “Sit him up. Marco, I need to tie this around you. It’s gonna hurt but it’ll help slow the bleeding.”
Marco yelled in pain as Clay pulled the arms of the dark shirt into a tight makeshift bandage.
“Keep pressure on the wound as much as you can,” Clay told Celine. “Someone help her. We’ve gotta move.”
Gillian slung Marco’s left arm over her shoulder and between them they hauled their injured friend to his feet. The noise he made was ungodly. Another young woman Celine didn’t know was on her knees, her hands at her blood-covered shoulder. Laura helped her up.
Danny’s voice cut through the clamour. “Clay, we need to move.”
“Stay together, people. Danny, you and me on point. Ghost, you cover our back?” Clay sounded strong and fearless. Celine felt a surge of pride. The Gunn brothers would get them home.
“Covered.” The black-clad figure Clay had referred to as Ghost held a pistol in one hand. As she angled the cell phone, Celine could see the deep rutted scars on her face, thick ribbons of raw pink etched into her ebony skin. What had this woman been through?
Clay opened the front door. He took a quick glance then ducked his head back inside. No bullet storm followed him.
“Move!” ordered Clay.
The day was fading, but the humidity hit her like a slap in the face. The early evening sky was rapidly darkening, the setting sun an angry orange ball. The trees surrounding the compound were reduced to misshapen silhouettes. Celine blinked several times as she took in her surroundings. An expensive-looking pickup truck was parked at an angle just outside the door, but there were too many in the group to fit in one vehicle. As if reading her mind, Danny pointed to the pickup.
“Clay, you see if you can get that started. I’m going for one of the vans round the side of the house.”
Clay nodded in agreement. “Ghost, watch the door while I get this jalopy running.”
Ghost pivoted and aimed her pistol back at the house.
Danny took off running as Clay opened the driver’s door. Seconds later the engine of the pickup sprang to life. Clay beckoned to her. “Celine, you’re in here with me.”
As Celine and Gillian steered Marco to the back seat of the pickup, Clay ripped the tarp covering from the flatbed. Laura helped the woman who had been shot in the shoulder into the back seat with Marco. The smell of blood and fear was thick in the confined space.
Celine beckoned to Rebecca, who stared back but didn’t move. Celine couldn’t make sense of her expression. “Rebecca, come on. Get in the front here with me.”
Rebecca climbed into the front of the pickup before Celine had finished, hugging her close.
“I keep expecting someone to grab me and drag me back into that hellhole,” gasped Rebecca.
“Let them try,” said Clay. “As many in the back as you can. Don’t worry, Danny will be back with another vehicle in a minute.”
The truck rocked as half a dozen of the other captives clambered into the flatbed. The pickup settled lower as its suspension creaked.
Celine looked at Clay, the scars on his face, the cold look in his eyes, a look she hadn’t really seen before. Clay was a great gentle bear of a man, yet she knew he was a warrior. His scars bore testimony to that.
The group that had followed them from the subterranean chamber were mostly women. Apart from Marco, she could only count another two men. Several had not made it out of the chamber. The pickup was full and there were still another eight milling nervously between the house and the vehicle.
Celine watched Ghost move into a semi-crouch. A man appeared in the doorway holding a pistol of his own, his arm outstretched. A brief flash from Ghost’s weapon and the man pitched onto the ground, clutching his chest. The breath caught in Celine’s throat as Ghost put another shot into the back of the man’s head.
As Ghost moved back into her guard position, pistol aiming once more into the doorway, Celine dialled 911 on the cell phone. The screen showed a “no service” message.
“Keep trying,” said Clay.
Marco let out a wail from the back seat. “Jesus, it hurts so bad.”
Celine twisted in her seat to look at her friend. Even with Clay’s shirt tied around his middle, she could see that Marco’s torso and hands were stained a dark crimson. His face was deathly pale in the waning light.
Clay’s voice snapped her attention back to the front seat. “At least something is going our way. Those numbnuts left the keys in the ignition and the gates are open.”
“I guess they didn’t expect the Gunn brothers to arrive and spring us out of that nightmare factory,” said Celine.
“I’m more than happy to crash the party. I’m just pissed that I didn’t get here sooner.”
“You’re here now,” said Celine. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you. I was so scared in there. They spiked us with some sort of mind-control drug.”
“Devil’s breath,” added Rebecca.
“Yeah, Devil’s breath. It really screws you up. I can’t hardly remember anything after they brought us here. It’s all just scrambled fragments. They could have done anything to me and I wouldn’t remember.” Celine forced away the th
ought of the pain between her legs.
Clay’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. “We’re gonna get you somewhere safe. Then I’m gonna come back here and kill ’em all.”
53
“Follow me,” said Ezeret, using his cell phone to cast a meagre light down the passageway. There was almost no signal this far out in the jungle, but he kept the phone fully charged and ready to use. The first reliable coverage was miles away. “This way.”
The men in suits followed with raised pistols. Los Espadas were no small-time dealers; they were bringers of death. He had previously witnessed how they dealt with threats. There was nothing they would not do to survive and protect the reputation of their organisation.
Moments later, they heard a grenade detonate. That was bound to be Weiss’s handiwork. He was the only one of his men who carried such weapons. Some of the others owned pistols but rarely carried them; as a rule, batons usually sufficed.
“Who are these sons of whores?” the leader of the group growled in Ezeret’s ear. “If this is some kind of trick, I will rip out your heart and feed it to those pigs of yours.”
Ezeret turned, almost nose-to-nose with his accuser. “It’s no trick, Angel. I think these men are family to one of my latest acquisitions.”
“They’re tearing your place apart. This is not good for either of us. But it will be worse for you if they have brought the law here. I am leaving now, but if one of these bastards gets in my way they will die a thousand deaths.”
Angel Velasquez was not making idle threats. If he said he was going to kill someone, that person was as good as dead. “Come this way. This passageway leads to my private room. From there you can leave by the side of the house.”
Angel snorted through his nose. “You need some proper men around this place, not these pencil-dicked assholes you have as guards.”
“What if I paid your men double what I just paid for your last shipment of Devil’s breath? That’s a lot of cash for killing these upstarts and giving me back my… followers.”
