Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  Time seemed to dilate to an agonising slowness again as Danny focused on the massive tree trunk standing directly in their path. It was nearly as wide as the van itself. He wrenched the wheel to one side and stamped down on the brake pedal. The van hardly deviated from its path.

  “Hang on!”

  Too little, too late!

  Then the world folded around him. The right front corner of the van smashed inward with terrible ferocity. With no seat belt to hold him in position, he was thrown bodily through the windshield. Missing the tree by mere inches, Danny tumbled in a desperate cartwheel. Keeping his head tucked and covered with his arms, Danny landed first on his chest, the breath exploding from his lungs, then his legs continued his uncoordinated gymnastic tumble. A tree branch knocked him into a thick bush.

  Danny came to his senses hanging upside down, only the palms of his hands on the ground. Emitting an elongated moan, he set about gaining his feet. The thick leaves of the shrub seemed determined to continue their hold on him. Letting his arms bend, he tucked his head tight and pedalled with both legs in turn. Then he was falling again, rolling onto his back.

  “Danny!”

  Danny was lifted to his feet as if he weighed no more than a child.

  “Holy hell, brother! Are you okay?”

  “Marks out of ten for a shitty landing?” groaned Danny.

  “Nil points!” said Clay. “And you take the piss out of my driving.”

  A pained shriek from the ruined van set Danny stumbling to the source of the sound. Clay followed close behind. Hardly an inch of the van seemed undamaged. Countless spots of light shone through the bullet holes in the mangled body. “Looks like a damned mirrorball.”

  Danny shielded his eyes as he stepped into the full glare of the pickup’s lights. One of the rescued women lay at the side of the van, her right leg twisted at an angle that made Danny wince.

  Danny exchanged a look with Clay, who retrieved the shotgun from the pickup and took up position to watch for their pursuers.

  57

  Cuchillo watched the bullet-riddled van veer off the narrow path and allowed himself a humourless smile. The driver was audacious, but they would kill him anyway. All challengers to Los Espadas suffered the same fate: an agonisingly brutal death.

  “Everybody still breathing?” Angel asked.

  The man who had taken a hit from the big man’s shotgun ripped off his suit jacket. Several dots of crimson showed on the sleeves of his shirt, but his armoured vest had taken the worst of it. The vests were lightweight and comfortable to wear even in the oppressive heat of a Mexican day, the best money could buy.

  “You’re bleeding,” said Angel. “You going to be okay, Mako?”

  Mako gave a sullen nod. “I’ve had worse.”

  Cuchillo listened to the sound of branches snapping and shale being cast into the air as the fleeing vehicles drove away. They wouldn’t get far. Too many trees, too many holes in the ground. As if to acknowledge his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of rending metal echoed up the slope.

  Mako tapped the barrel of his pistol on the side of his head. “I’m good to go.”

  “You all carrying spare clips?”

  “Of course,” said Cuchillo. “Never leave home without them.”

  “We go on foot from here. These sons of whores will not see another sunrise. If you can, you take them alive. If not, dead works for me too.” Angel pulled Mako close. “You stay close to me, my friend.”

  Mako gave another nod as sullen-eyed as the first. A malicious grin showed his neat white teeth.

  “When we bring back these sons of bitches, Ezeret will be deep in our debt. That means the price of the delivery will be going up and that means more of a take for all of you,” said Angel.

  The cartel soldiers had no need of sophisticated tracking skills. Twin lights illuminated the trees a quarter-mile down the slope. They set off at a controlled jog towards the lights.

  At the rear of the group, Cuchillo paused and looked back the way they had come. He squinted into the darkness for any sign of danger. He dropped into a crouch as the rest of the group continued their path.

  Something there?

  Cuchillo moved into deeper shadows, straining to identify the threat he sensed behind him.

  Crouching next to the moss-covered tree trunk, he scrutinised everything within sight. The sun was just a narrow sliver of orange peeking above the horizon. It was almost impossible to tell where one tree ended and the next began.

  Had a shadow moved over there? He couldn’t be sure. He raised his pistol, aiming into the darkness, ready to drop anything that moved. It was neither a sight nor a sound that saved Cuchillo’s life in that moment but his sense of smell. The faintest whiff of something that did not belong among the trees—blood and sweat. As he threw himself bodily from his resting position, three sharp discharges sounded only yards behind him. Sighting on the brief flashes, he squeezed his own trigger. The retort from his weapon was loud and aggressive, the five shots following each other within a split second. Cuchillo raced for cover, putting another tree between him and his quarry. Had he hit his target? Another two muffled shots from his left told him no. A bolt of red-hot pain seared across his back as one of the bullets found flesh. An involuntary yell escaped his throat. Moving at a sprint, he ducked behind another tree trunk.

  Cuchillo glanced down the slope. The rest of the team were out of sight. His nose wrinkled as he took a deep breath, trying to smell again the scent that had warned him moments earlier. The wound across his upper back was burning. Biting down against the searing pain, he forced himself to relax. One mistake might prove to be a fatal error. He still hadn’t got a good look at his assailant. Only a dark shadow. Yet shadows didn’t carry pistols and suppressors.

  58

  Only Ghost’s dark eyes showed from behind her mask. There was a burning pain in her left side where a bullet had cut, but at least a yelp from the mark suggested one of her own shots had found its target.

  She dodged around another tree. She closed her left eye, the vision blurred there already.

  He be close by, chile, better step careful.

  As she sprang from her cover, Ghost squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession. The suited man, too, discharged his weapon. The space between them strobed as both pistols lit up the darkness. The other shooter skipped to one side. Another furious exchange and both pistols fell silent.

  “Ay! Mi mano!”

  Ghost darted first left then right as she closed on the shooter. He was fumbling with his gun. Close enough to smell his breath, she slammed down with her pistol. A satisfying crack told her she had struck home. The man’s weapon was knocked from his grasp. Ghost pulled the trigger on her Glock, but it remained silent. Then the suited man was on top of her, one of his hands grabbing at her throat. As his fingers dug into the soft skin of her neck, Ghost twisted her whole body and brought the spent pistol into the side of his face. He lost his hold. Moving into a crouch, Ghost switched the pistol to her left hand and drew her blade with her right.

  The karambit knife fitted her hand perfectly, her index finger snug in the retention ring, the hooked blade arcing three inches out from the base of her fist. Ghost hissed through gritted teeth as she sprang at the man. She slashed up with the karambit, hearing cloth rip.

  He punched her in reply, almost knocking her to the ground. Ghost caught the hiss of steel as he drew his blade.

  You’ve never fought a real fighter, chile. Always took them by surprise. This one’s a live wire. He may be the death o’ you.

  The ground beneath her feet seemed to tilt, become less solid as she shook her head. The knifeman had caught her a good one in the face. Not the first shock to her system that day, but that was okay. She would take a hundred punches for the chance to avenge sweet Lauren.

  He leapt directly at her, a blurring black mass, only the white of his shirt and the silver of his blade clearly visible. The cold steel scored her ribs as she twisted out of
his path. Her slash missed his throat by a good twelve inches as he faded away from her counter.

  One of the great advantages of the karambit is that it is easy to hold onto; the ring around the index finger allows a relaxed grip, even to open your hand without dropping the knife. The disadvantage of the hooked blade is that it is best employed as a very close-quarters weapon. The knife her enemy wielded was long and straight, giving him the undeniable luxury of reach.

  They closed again, his blade ripping up towards her abdomen. She gasped as the tip of his blade punched into her stomach. Bracing her left arm, she raked his neck with the karambit. He lurched away, clutching his face, emitting a stream of guttural curses.

  Ghost vaulted a fallen tree. Dipping low, she forced herself to ignore the pain in her stomach, busying herself with other things.

  Her opponent rounded the tree, knife at the ready. Ghost’s legs folded beneath her. The tree behind her spine felt as immovable as a mountain.

  “Stay back,” she shouted.

  “English, huh?” The man held his blade in front of his face. “Here’s some advice: if you’re going to play with knives, get yourself a proper blade, not a bitch-assed toy.”

  Ghost laughed. “And here’s some advice for you, big shot: never bring a knife to a gunfight.”

  The four shots sounded like a drum roll. The man sat straight down with a loud cough, his knife dropping from his grip.

  Ghost struggled to her feet. “See, when you lie in your bed at night you’re probably pullin’ on yer pecker for all it’s worth. When I go, I practise slippin’ spare magazines in and out of my pistol ’til I fall asleep.”

  “Pinche puta!”

  Ghost used the tree for support, leaning hard against it with her shoulders. “Goodnight, sweet prince!”

  The next bullet snapped his head back. He toppled over and didn’t move again.

  59

  Clay pointed the shotgun up the slope. Celine could just make out the men starting to climb down. Despite the headlights that lit the scene, the men above still hadn’t seen the group yet, thanks to the heavy undergrowth. It wouldn’t be long before they did.

  “Great, just what we need, Los Hooligans hound-doggin’ us every step of the way home,” spat Clay.

  Danny looked up. “You know I didn’t invite them, right?”

  “We gotta move,” said Clay.

  “They’re going to catch us without trying.” Danny motioned at the woman who lay twisted on the ground.

  “Damn it, there’s half a dozen of those butt monkeys coming. I’d give my back teeth for a fully loaded M4 and a bag of ammo right now.”

  “My van’s totalled,” Danny said. “We can’t go back that way and we can’t run with the wounded.”

  “Please, don’t leave us!” Celine rested a hand on the injured woman’s forehead. A mixture of pride and fear swept over her as Danny replied, “We’re not leaving anyone behind.”

  “Everybody, get down!” Clay bared his teeth in the glance he exchanged with Danny. “They’re on us in twenty seconds.”

  Celine said a silent prayer, crossing herself as she did so.

  Rebecca joined Celine and Danny by the side of the maimed woman. Her words came loud and fast. “We’ve got to create a diversion. Get their attention. Give Danny and Clay a chance to come at them sideways. Let them get away from us, then everybody scream as goddamn loud as you can!”

  “That might just work.” Clay traced a rapid arc in the air with one finger. Danny gave a single nod then reached into the cab of the ruined van. The blade of the machete glinted.

  The Gunn brothers sprinted away from the group. The shadows swallowed the brothers within seconds.

  As soon as they vanished, Rebecca and Celine let loose with bestial screams, long and furious. Gillian and Laura dropped next to them, giving voice. Like a pack of primal creatures, the others joined in the fearful cacophony.

  The four men were nearly upon them, bringing the promise of death or further captivity with them. The men moved in pairs, the white material of their shirts looking like V-shaped wraiths in the darkness of the jungle.

  Celine continued to scream. Each throat-rending shriek was a sliver of glass scraping the length of her vocal cords. Desperate faces surrounded her. Some crouched at the side of the ruined van, a few still peering from the back of the pickup. All looked as terrified as Celine felt. Yet in the fear was a rising defiance. Clay and his brother were risking their lives to save them. Celine took a deep breath and continued to scream.

  The scream faltered in her throat as a loud boom split the night. The two cartel soldiers, seconds from running into the midst of Celine’s group, spun on their heels. One of the gunmen pitched onto his face in a cloud of red.

  Now the cartel men were screaming. Flashes from their handguns accompanied the frenzied burst of fire. To Celine, the three pistols sounded like a firework display, each staccato crack immediately followed by another.

  Boom!

  Clay’s shotgun roared again, thirty feet from his first position. A second cartel man went down onto his knees. The man raised his weapon with a string of foul language.

  Boom. The injured man was punched into the ground by Clay’s follow-up shot.

  The closest shooters sent a volley at Clay’s position.

  The shooter without the jacket turned and fired a shot that missed Celine by mere inches. “Stop that damned screaming!”

  Celine fell silent, not because of the threat from the cartel, but from the sight of Danny Gunn emerging like a demon from the darkness. The machete he wielded moved faster than her eyes could follow. The man’s severed hand, still clutching his pistol, sprang from his extended arm. The man staggered into the light, blood spraying onto the white fabric of his shirt. Another slash caught him across the side of the neck. The man dropped to his knees. As fast as Danny had appeared, he blended back into the darkness.

  60

  Clay sheltered behind a tree. The man he’d dropped back up on the road had not stayed down. Barring superpowers, Clay figured the team were sporting ballistic vests.

  Every asshole is wearing Kevlar these days, thought Clay.

  The remaining gunman pointed his weapon first one way, then another. His face contorted as he shouted, “You will all die at the hands of my brothers. I have more men coming to find you. Your only chance is to throw down your weapons and surrender to me.”

  “That’s not gonna happen.” Clay leaned out, aiming the Remington for a head shot. He watched the gunman turn his pistol to the group huddled at the side of the ruined van. Clay’s finger tightened on the trigger as he weighed the scenario. He could take the man’s head off at this range, but his pistol was aimed almost directly at Celine. One pull of the trigger was all it would take. “Is this what they call a Mexican stand-off?”

  The voice of the gunman carried a confident tone despite his team being reduced to the dead and dismembered. “You think I am dumb enough to follow a bear into a cave and not call for backup? Even if you kill me, my men will be here in minutes. You will not leave this place alive. The crows will eat your eyes.”

  Clay glanced back up the slope. He had no way of knowing if more cartel men were on the way or not.

  “I am Angel Velasquez of Los Espadas. I command enough men to hunt you to the ends of the Earth. I will—”

  Then Danny was on him.

  A swipe from his machete opened a long crimson gash down his arm. Angel’s pistol clattered against the side of the bullet-riddled van as it flew from his grasp. Clay broke cover as Danny slammed the hilt of the machete into Angel’s open mouth.

  Clay trained the shotgun on Angel as he fell to one knee. The noise from the survivors abated to a few nervous gasps.

  “Nicely done, wee one,” said Clay.

  “Backatcha, cowboy. Just taking hands and influencing people.” Danny moved behind Angel. After a few seconds, he retrieved the fallen pistol. “Finders keepers.”

  “Well now, Mr Velasquez of Los Es
padas, I’m betting a dollar or two this isn’t how you pictured your day when you woke up this morning.”

  Angel cradled his right arm against his chest. Both his hand and the white of his shirt had turned a dark crimson. “You think this is the first time I have spilled some of my own blood for the job?”

  “No, I can see by the look in your eyes this ain’t your first rodeo, but it may well be your last.” Clay cast another glance up the slope. Nothing moved. He took a step closer to Angel. “I don’t have to explain what a shotgun blast at this range will do to you, even with a vest on. I’m gonna ask a few questions and if you want to see another sunrise, you’ll answer quick and true.”

  Angel spat a gobbet of blood-streaked saliva before he spoke again. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe you’d let me live?”

  Danny patted Angel down, pressing his own pistol to the back of his head. Clay gave the smallest of nods as Danny held out the items he had found. A spare mag for the pistol, a billfold and a cell phone.

  “You said you called for backup? How’d you do that when cell phones don’t work out here?”

  Angel struggled to his feet.

  “Easy now, or I’ll put a hole in you big enough to drive through,” warned Clay. Behind Angel, Danny pressed a button on the cell phone. The screen illuminated as a sequence of three musical notes chimed.

  “You get what you pay for. Satellite works better out here.” Velasquez turned slowly to look at the group huddled next to the crashed van. “You think saving them will make any difference to our operation? There’s a million more where they came from. Los Espadas is growing every year.”

  Clay wedged the barrel of the Remington under Angel’s chin. “We didn’t come here to cause trouble for Los Espadas. We came to bring my family home.”

  Angel pressed back against the shotgun. “Ezeret is a client of mine. You bring trouble to him, you bring trouble to me. You see the difficult situation you have placed me in? How will it look for Los Espadas if I let you and your people leave?”