Pray for Death (A Gunn Brothers Thriller)

by James Hilton

  Danny wasted no time watching the tractor fall. He sprinted back to the broken doors. Even as he ran, he could hear the shouts of alarm from below. Having a three-ton machine barrelling down upon you tended to make you run for cover. As he reached the doors, an unmistakable sound of metal crashing into metal filled the night.

  The smell inside the cinder-block building was much the same as in the tractor, just more intense: oil, diesel and body odour. The machine that sat in the centre of the building was an industrial wood chipper, not very useful unless he wanted to dispose of a few corpses. Maybe later. The truck that sat in front of the attached chipper held more potential.

  Bottles, cans and plastic containers of all shapes and sizes, too many to count, were stacked on the shelves that lined the walls. Given time, Danny knew he could jerry-rig any number of explosive devices from the likely contents of the workshed—he didn’t have time. He moved to the utility truck and tried the door. Locked. A sharp tap with the handle of his Fox ERT solved that problem. He reached through the broken window and popped the door handle. No key.

  Outside, the harsh sound of the Coonan rang out, answered by a burst of automatic gunfire. Danny moved as swiftly as he could. He wedged the blade of his ERT into the plastic panel at the side of the steering column and levered it free. The panel cracked, then fell at his feet. Danny pulled hard on the tangle of wires inside, stripping two of insulation and sparking the exposed tips together. The truck engine sprang to life.

  Clay’s Coonan sounded again. A man was screaming over and over. The pitch of the gunfire had changed, the bursts from below becoming more intense. The single shots from Clay’s Coonan sounded like a petulant child snapping at furious parents.

  Danny raced back to Clay, who had moved from the engine block to a more advantageous position. His back was pressed against the trunk of a tree and he was taking aim through a gap between two large chunks of limestone. With as few words as possible, Danny told Clay what he planned. Clay’s response was an outburst of four-letter words.

  Danny gritted his teeth and held out his hand. Clay returned the spare pistol. The robust 1911 frame of the pistol felt sturdy in his grip. Another sustained burst of fire erupted from below, sending chips of wood and bark into the air by his shoulder. Clay risked a look around the tree. “They’re starting to climb the hill.”

  Danny sprinted back to the cinder-block shed.

  77

  Verdugo pointed to the open gate. Flames danced in the darkness, shadows stretching out over the battle scene. The heavy narco tank had struggled to pass the disabled scrapper, becoming wedged between the front fender of the massive vehicle and the trees lining the roadside. The driver of the scrapper, terrified by the cartel men’s guns, kept stalling the vehicle in his haste to move it. It had taken valuable minutes to break free from the temporary blockade.

  Cradling his own weapon against his chest, Verdugo flicked a finger at the roof of the armoured vehicle. Bruja scooted back to the open port in the roof. The sound of the cocking bolt of his weapon brought a cruel smile to Verdugo’s face. The M249 was a beast. The weapon was classed as a light machine gun, but light was a misnomer. The box magazine clipped to the bottom of the weapon held enough ammunition to level a small building.

  As the driver of the narco tank guided the nose through the gates, flames reflected from his shaven head. Verdugo called to the other men in the vehicle. “I do not know who these men are, but that does not matter. They will die here tonight at the hands of Los Espadas!”

  “Los Espadas!” came the shouted response from all five men.

  His pistol bounced against his body in its chest rig. All the men carried the custom Coonan .45. The crossed-swords artwork on the grips was a badge of honour. But the weapon he cradled across his chest was his primary choice. The AA12 shotgun was a monster of a gun. He unholstered it now and ejected the eight-shell box magazine from the fully automatic shotgun and replaced it with a drum magazine. The drum held thirty-two cartridges, loaded with a mixture of buckshot and slugs. The other men, as well as their insignia Coonans, carried MAC-10s. All were deadly.

  With a yell, Bruja began firing the M249. The heavy chak-chak-chak-chak of the weapon filled the air. The sound inside the narco tank was deafening, the steel walls reverberating.

  The men on the ground were all crouching, scuttling side to side as they advanced. A large SUV ahead, that Verdugo vaguely recognised as one of theirs, was now enveloped in flames. A tractor lay at the bottom of the hill, capsized. The upper body of a man lay crushed beneath the machine, one of his legs twisted like putty. The road to the top of the hill was sheathed in fire. What the hell had happened here? The other vehicles had only been a couple of minutes ahead of him.

  With a startled yell, the men who had begun to climb the hill parted, darting to each side. A truck, towing some kind of farm machine, burst over the crest of the hill. Dirt and shale flew into the air as the vehicle bounced down the side of the steep slope.

  Verdugo glanced at the tractor, the burning barrels and now the rampaging truck, and understood. The targets at the top of the hill were, in effect, throwing rocks. If they were doing that, it meant they had no real weapons to use.

  A pistol barked. A single shot from the top of the hill. Verdugo pushed open the door of the tank, its steel plate offering more protection than he needed for a damned pistol. He scowled at the descending truck. It separated from its coupling and tumbled end over end, bending out of shape as it slammed into the hard-packed earth. Verdugo tracked the oncoming vehicle with his AA12. The shotgun remained silent. The truck was unoccupied and rolled at speed between the narco tank and the German’s damaged truck. The truck hit the treeline with a loud crunch of metal. The other shooters spilled from the narco tank, their MAC-10s unleashing tight volleys aimed at the top of the hill.

  One of the Espadas broke cover and sprinted halfway up the hill. Verdugo knew what he was going for. A shallow culvert etched its way most of the way up the hill. It looked like a sluice for rainwater, just deep enough to conceal a man if he crawled on his hands and knees. From the culvert, he could gain access to the top of the hill and the position needed for a clear shot. He was almost at the culvert. Verdugo willed him on. A brief tongue of flame spat from the high ground and the cartel man pitched onto his face, clutching at his neck as he rolled into the culvert. He lay still, almost invisible in the narrow channel.

  Shouldering the AA12, Verdugo sent four rapid shots at the top of the hill. Bruja again opened fire with the M249. Chips of tree bark and dirt sprayed into the air. Another two men made it to the culvert, clambering over their fallen comrade. With a defiant roar, Verdugo climbed on the fender of the narco tank then up onto the reinforced hood. The angle of the tank allowed Bruja a clear field of fire. The M249 would tear the shit out of anything up there. Chak-chak-chak-chak!

  Bruja’s weapon fell silent. Verdugo shouldered his shotgun, the AA12 sleek and deadly. A blur of movement from the top of the hill, moving fast, left to right. Verdugo quickly aimed further to the right of the motion. Two rapid shots thundered. “I am Verdugo—the executioner! You will die here this night!”

  His ears ringing from the booming shotgun, Verdugo turned to see why Bruja had ceased fire. The sight that greeted him turned his blood to ice water.

  78

  Danny wedged himself low under the dashboard of the truck as it careened down the hillside, the gas pedal beneath his shoulder. The protestations of the suspension sounded like nails being pulled from old wooden planks. The wood chipper being towed behind only added to the din, the metal casing ringing like an out-of-tune bell. Lights flashed at the windows as the truck continued the kamikaze path he had set it upon. The Coonan was angled across his chest, ready. If a face appeared at the window, it would receive the harshest of welcomes. The assortment of loose hand tools in the flatbed were scattered as the truck ramped into the air at an oblique angle. Something clattered painfully against his shins. The toolbox that had been under th
e passenger seat now took a layer of skin from his legs.

  Danny tensed, despite his best intentions, as the impact sent a shock wave through his spine. A sharp exhalation helped suppress the roar that threatened to escape from his throat. The rear end of the truck lifted then came crashing down again. The sound of splintering glass caused him to tuck his chin tight to his chest. He lay motionless, counting to ten, forcing himself to wait, pistol at the ready. No face peered at him through the broken windows, no hands pulled at the doors.

  Sporadic gunfire rattled on as the cartel shooters harried Clay’s position. Danny levered himself up. Drawing and opening his Fox ERT in one motion, he held the rugged blade in his left hand, the Coonan in his right. He took a quick look through the back window. Dark shapes moved almost invisibly in the pockets of blackness. No one was looking at the ruined truck.

  Now!

  Danny threw open the door and swept the immediate area with the Coonan. Weiss’s truck sat to his far right, while the bulky armoured car was just to his left. The silhouette of the armoured truck looked like a machine conjured from the mind of a maniac. Danny kind of liked it, despite himself. A man on the roof of the vehicle was working the light machine gun. A second man stood on the hood of the truck, feet spread wide, a shotgun spitting fire and death.

  Danny ran headlong to the truck, vaulting onto the rear fender and from there onto the roof. He sucked in a lungful of acrid smoke. The heavy chatter of the SAW fell silent as the shooter pulled the box magazine from the bottom of the weapon. The man turned, the orange glow from the surrounding flames dancing across his features as he slammed home a new magazine. The grin froze on his face as he saw Danny, who punched the rugged blade deep into the man’s throat. Hot blood sprayed on his hand as he rotated his blade then ripped back, severing the windpipe in one severe motion. The man clutched at his neck with both hands then dropped.

  Danny immediately took the man’s place, his feet braced upon the internal platform. Grabbing the SAW, his fingers closed around the handgrip, index finger curling around the stubby trigger. The machine gun felt like an old friend as he pressed his shoulder into the stock. The barrel was mounted into a swivel mechanism. Danny swung the SAW round so that it was aimed at the man on the hood.

  “I am Verdugo—the executioner! You will die here this night!” The man turned, the surrounding flames glinting from a golden tooth. The shotgun he brandished was still aimed at Clay’s location.

  “Execute this, fuck-nuts!” Danny pulled the trigger.

  Chak-chak-chak-chak!

  Verdugo shuddered as countless bullets ripped through his chest. As the executioner toppled from the hood of the armoured truck, a fine red mist filled the space he vacated. Danny pivoted, bringing the machine gun to bear on the men scaling the hill. The men closest to the lower ground dropped in a cloud of dirt and blood and shale as the bullets tore them apart. One tumbled into the range of the headlights, his left arm a bloody stump at the elbow. Another hail of bullets found the base of his skull.

  Danny sensed rather than saw motion to his right, and turned the machine gun to the new threat. Something thrummed through the air, smacking into the plate steel of the truck. Crossbow! Danny pulled the trigger and Weiss’s truck took the full brunt of the assault. Bullets punched through the bodywork. The tyres exploded, dropping the truck onto the rims of its wheels. A bullet, incredibly hot, nipped at Danny’s shoulder. Cursing, he spun the SAW round again and shot at the cartel man who’d hit him. The shooter’s face was ripped away as he stepped into Danny’s line of fire.

  Another crossbow bolt cut through the night, so close to Danny’s chest that it ripped the fabric of his shirt. Chak-chak-chak-chak! The man with the crossbow caught the stream of lead as Danny swung his weapon back to the truck. A brief yelp, a spray of red and the man disappeared. Smoke from the burning barrels plumed into the air, the beams from the headlights casting an ever-changing vista.

  Time to move. With a grunt, Danny levered himself from the turret, heaving the SAW free from its mount. Seeking new targets as he moved, he climbed down onto the hood, then slid butt-first down to the fender. From there it was a short jump to the ground.

  PAIN! Something exploded into his spine, knocking the breath from his lungs. Danny went to one knee.

  Bam-bam-bam. Another three impacts sent him flying. The SAW clattered to the ground. His chest constricted, the pain almost unbearable. His vision narrowed, fading in and out. He could see a hand. It was stained red. It made a fist. His own hand.

  Then a new agony assaulted his senses as he was yanked to his feet. The hand around his throat felt like a steel trap. The muzzle of a pistol burned the skin of his cheek.

  Weiss’s voice was a harsh whisper. “I’m going to kill you now.”

  79

  Clay changed the Coonan’s magazine, slapping a fresh one home. “There’s never enough bullets.”

  The barrage of firepower that Danny had unleashed had shredded the enemy, yet there were still enough of them left to prove a challenge. Clay was all too aware that it took only one bullet and one determined man. From his position, he couldn’t see the enemy. To do so, he would need to stand upright, perhaps even atop the rock he was using as cover. Not even the greenest of soldiers would risk exposing himself. Death was the sure result.

  The mounted gun Danny had hijacked fell silent. Danny had some bat-shit crazy plans, and this surely ranked among them. The plan of rolling down right through the enemy ranks and coming up behind them was as risky as any he had attempted, but the wiry little bastard had pulled it off.

  The sound of metal on stone, brief but distinctive, caused Clay to ease away from the protective cover of the tree and rocks. He glanced at the pickup behind him. Celine was in there. The bad men were still coming. If they got past Clay, then her life, and every other they had rescued, would be forfeit.

  As he looked back towards the battle, he saw two men emerge from the darkness, one clutching a small boxy weapon, the other a hunting rifle. Clay decided in an instant. The first man went down clutching his throat. The second dropped his rifle and his hands went to his face. A high-pitched wailing filled the air.

  “That’s what happens when you pick a fight with a pissed-off Texan.” The man crumpled to his knees as Clay spat his words through clenched teeth. “Two assholes for the price of one.”

  “Please…”

  Before he could squeeze the trigger again, a fuel drum exploded, a ribbon of orange fire trailing behind. He watched with dread as the flaming canister soared high, then began to fall. The damn thing looked like it was going to land right on top of them. “Celine!”

  Then pain exploded in his chest. Clay looked down. The crossbow bolt had entered just below his left clavicle.

  The fuel drum slammed into the ground somewhere behind him, a ball of fire radiating out like a bomb blast. Clay tried to tuck and roll but the ground rushed up at him with untold ferocity. His pistol flew from his hand as he landed heavily on his side, the breath knocked from his lungs. New screams filled the air. They seemed to come from every direction.

  As he forced himself up, the pain arced through his body. The muscles in his left shoulder contracted so severely he feared they would separate from his bones. His voice was barely a croak, his throat dry beyond belief. “Celine?”

  As he managed to gather his legs beneath him, Clay realised he was on fire. Flames had taken hold of his shirt. He ripped it from his back, the agony in his shoulder intensifying. The fabric coiled around the bolt, each tug sending new shards of pain through his chest.

  As soon as he’d freed himself from the burning clothing, he gripped the bolt with his right hand. Even the lightest pressure was almost too much to bear. Clay roared despite his best attempts at silence. The bolt remained secure in his flesh. It had passed through his shoulder joint. As he readied himself for another attempt, the rifleman lurched up from his supplicant position. A wide gash had opened his cheek from jaw to ear. The man snatched up his rifle.
Clay knew they were too far apart to take him hand to hand. He went for his knife regardless.

  Boom! A shotgun roared and the ground around the rifleman erupted in a cloud of dust. Spinning, the man went back to his knees, his rifle barking out a single shot.

  Boom! The shotgun roared again, and this time the man was punched into the darkness, his head all but exploding.

  Kelly leaned against the side of the truck. Clay puffed his cheeks out and held up a hand in thanks. His moment of gratitude was snatched away as Kelly slumped to the ground. A dark stain spread across her chest. A roar of primeval fury tore free from Clay’s throat. He turned to see Celine’s face framed in the window of the truck. Sour liquid rose to the back of his throat, the pain in his chest worsening. Other eyes peered at him from the trucks, but hers were all he could see. Celine. Her eyes and mouth were both open wide. Her finger stabbed at the glass of the window.

  Clay turned as another man lunged out of the darkness, almost on top of him. The man’s machine pistol stuttered loud and angry as Clay’s bowie knife batted his hand away, sending the weapon spinning from his grip. Then the man, another Los Espadas by his suit jacket, leapt at Clay, his hand closing on the crossbow bolt, driving it even deeper into Clay’s flesh. The other hand he brought down in a vicious chopping motion, disarming Clay in turn.

  80

  Weiss pulled Danny to his feet by his throat.

  “I’m going to kill you now.” The German wedged the pistol under his cheekbone.