by Graham Smith
As I duck and weave between traffic, I keep a constant eye out for police speed traps. My cell is propped in a holder stuck to the dash. The GPS tells me that I have a half mile to go before I reach my turn.
When I leave the Forty, the road I join is a half-step above being a dirt track. It’s twice the width of my car and is under encroachment from the scrub and rubble at either side.
None of these obstacles are enough for me to temper my speed. I’m working on the theory that anything coming towards me will be raising the same amount of dust I can see in my rear-view mirror.
When the GPS says I’m a mile from my destination, I ease off the gas and slow to the speed limit. Once again, I don’t want to announce my arrival.
When I get within a half mile, I give the engine just enough gas to stop it from stalling.
81
Even as I approach the base, I get a sense of foreboding. There are tracks in the road ahead of me where there shouldn’t be any. Either I’m at the right place, or the military are still keeping an eye on it.
As soon as I see the rusted chain link fence, I pull over.
Behind the fence is a plethora of temporary wooden buildings jutting from the bottom of a cliff face. Each is around a hundred feet long and they are uniform in their appearance. There are rows of windows and metal chimneys at regular intervals.
Time, rather than vandals, has worn these once proud structures. Now they sag and droop where aged timber has been affected by the elements.
I’d guess at them being barracks if it wasn’t for the lack of a parade ground, or any kind of sports field.
I get to twenty then stop counting. It doesn’t matter how many huts there are. I will have to search them all until I either find Ms Rosenberg, or prove she’s not here.
A set of tyre prints go through the gate and turn right. When I pass through the gates I notice the rusted padlock has a fresh cut through it.
I check my cell to find it lacking a signal. The only thing I can do with it is lay it against a gatepost and wait until its lack of movement prompts Alfonse to summon backup.
As I walk between the tyre marks, I notice one of the huts is constructed from bricks rather than timber. My immediate assumption is that it’s the former officers’ quarters.
A sign on the end of the building changes my mind. Underneath every line of English words are a row of symbols. I don’t know their meaning, but guess they are an Asian translation of English instructions.
Their presence tells me that this isn’t an army barracks. It’s a former internment camp. Rather than spend money decommissioning it, the army have left it to rot because it’s not in a place frequented by large swathes of the populace.
The tracks in the dust swerve towards what I thought were the officers’ quarters, but are more likely to have been the guards’ barracks.
I cross to the side of the nearest building and peek round the corner at the guards’ barracks. I’m looking for movement inside the building; a change in light values when someone passes a window.
There isn’t one so I creep across until I have my back against the barracks. Every sense in my body is heightened as I hear the murmur of voices. A whiff of rotting wood and decay fills my nose, but so does the pungent odour of a cigar.
I manoeuvre until I have an eye at the corner of the nearest window. The glass has half a century of grime covering it, but I can see enough to know there’s no-one in the room I’m looking into.
My feet are placed with caution as I pad to the other end of the gable. Taking great care I inch my head across, bringing more and more of the space between this building and the next into view. Every muscle I possess is tensed, ready to snap me back to the cover of the building if I see someone.
The first thing I spot is a white panel van. It’s too far away for me to read the licence plate, but the fact it’s jacked up and parked next to a pickup truck identical to the one belonging to the Jones family is all I need.
It’s decision time. I can go back and raise the alarm. Get every cop, FBI agent and state trooper in the area to descend on this place with their training and superior firearms. Or, I can play the hero, attempt a one-man rescue mission. I have a gun in my hand but I’m not sure I could point it at another man and pull the trigger.
If I knew Ms Rosenberg’s life status, or had a cell signal, the decision would be a damn sight easier. The fact she can be killed at any moment, and her killers can escape along any one of the dozen tracks I’d passed on the way here, makes going for help appear selfish and cowardly.
The counterpoint to this is, there’s nothing to be gained by me throwing my life away on a suicide mission.
I grip the gun in my hand a little tighter and think about putting a bullet into the front tyres on both vehicles. The idea is dismissed almost as soon as it registers. To be sure of hitting the target I’d have to get a lot closer. Plus, four gunshots are bound to summon, Brian and whichever members of the Jones family are with him.
Whatever my decision is to be, I know I need to make a choice and act upon it. I risk another peek around the corner.
The decision is made for me. Young David is now leaning against the pickup smoking. He sees me and lets out a yell.
I wheel round the corner aiming my gun at him. ‘Freeze.’
He does. I’m not confident I could shoot him at this distance but at least I have one of them somewhat under my control.
‘Down on the ground. Now.’
I find myself looking at Young David, through tunnel vision, over the sights of a shaking gun. Aware it could get me killed, I refocus my eyes so I’m looking at the whole alleyway.
Adrenaline floods my body. A coppery taste fills my mouth.
Shouts fill the silent air as the other killers react to my shouting at Young David. Kevin appears from behind the van; a shotgun held at his waist.
I see him find me and adjust his aim.
I’m back cowering behind the bricks of the barracks by the time he pulls the trigger. Lead pellets strike the wall but rebound away from me. If this was an action movie, the hero would dive out from cover and put three well aimed bullets into Kevin, before landing in a controlled roll, allowing him to drop any other combatants with a headshot.
It’s not an action movie and I’ve never shot a gun beyond a rough practise with tin cans. Doing anything like that will result in several wasted bullets and one wasted life. Mine.
Kevin blasts away with the shotgun a second time. Perhaps he’s under the mistaken impression I’m some kind of action hero.
As long as he’s shooting at a place where I’m not, I’m happy. He’s wasting ammunition with every shot he fires. At some point he’ll have to reload which may be the only chance I get.
The issue there is that I don’t know what type of shotgun he has, let alone how many cartridges it holds. To slow his progress towards me, I fire a shot round the corner.
Unless he’s on top of the next building it has no chance of hitting him, but it’ll give me chance to check none of his fellow killers are trying to flank me.
They’re not.
This tells me one vital thing. The shotgun is the only real weapon they have.
Kevin fires another three shots while I’m checking my rear. That’s five he’s used.
I could now double back round the building and try to flank the others. The problem with that is I’ll need to take either one of them hostage, and put a gun to their head, to persuade Kevin to lay down the shotgun. That means catching Brian or Young David without getting caught myself. There’s also the chance Connor is around too.
One or two may be ambushable, but not three. I fire another shot, this time from a lower position. My aim is more threatening and, while I don’t hear the thwack of a bullet hitting flesh, I hear Kevin curse before he pulls the trigger twice more.
I hear him rack the slide a third time. There’s a faint click. The racking sound comes again as he searches for another cartridge. It clicks again.
/> I step round the corner and point my gun at him. ‘You’re out of ammo. Throw it away and lie on the ground.’
He’s ten feet away. Even with my lack of gunmanship, I’m confident I can hit him at this distance.
Kevin complies with my demands with a deliberate slowness. When he’s laid out on the ground I grab the shotgun and, using my left hand to hold the stock, swing it in a vicious arc so the barrel smashes into the sharp brick corner of the building. The barrel kinks as the reverberation shakes the shotgun from my hand. Even if they have extra ammo, the shotgun is now out of action.
I’m now at a crossroads; I have nothing to bind Kevin with, and I’m not convinced the others will give themselves up if I put my gun to his head. If captured by the police and FBI, they’ll be looking at life imprisonment or Death Row.
A movement off to my left catches the corner of my eye. It’s Young David, he must have circled the next building along to ambush me. His hands are empty but he lifts the shotgun and holds it like a bat.
‘Drop it.’ I wave my gun at him, indicating he should join Kevin. ‘Do it. Now.’
He stands defiant until I point my gun at him.
I’m covering him and Kevin when I hear the insistent thudding of heavy footsteps. I whirl round just as Connor launches himself at me.
Somehow I keep a grip on the gun as we crash to the ground. I’m on top, but Connor wraps one hand around my right wrist and the other around my throat.
The gun is pointing at nothingness so I keep squeezing the trigger until the bullets are all spent. I’d rather the gun is empty in case I surrender the weapon to their control.
I drive my left fist into the inside of Connor’s right armpit. The blow causes him to release my throat. I follow with a couple of lefts to his jaw. They’re not as hard as I’d like due to him twisting beneath me. A third blow sees his fingers slacken on my right wrist.
Young David slams the butt of the shotgun into my back as I’m rolling off Connor. It lands on the same rib Crusher kicked last night.
I scramble to my feet in time to duck under Young David’s next swing. As he has the weapon he’s the most dangerous foe at the moment – if not the most intelligent.
His swing of the shotgun is so powerful, the lack of contact with me twists his body. With both hands on the shotgun he can’t defend himself. An uppercut drops him in a heap at my feet.
I whip round and catch a right cross from Kevin on the side of my head. Connor is at his side. Both of them throwing punches in wild flurries.
I make sure not to trip over Young David’s prostrate body as I retreat backwards. With my arms busy defending my head, I have only my feet left for attack.
As I back off from them, I’m sidestepping so Kevin has to move round Connor to get at me. My first kick misses, but the second connects with the bottom of Connor’s left kneecap with enough force to tear cartilage and break bone.
He falls, clutching his knee with both hands. Pained screams replace the curses he’s been uttering.
Kevin lands a body shot on my already damaged ribs. It’s an effort to not double-up but, somehow, I manage.
His next shot lands on my cheek, before another body shot is thrown. This time I can’t stop myself doubling over. He’s too dumb to lift a knee into my face, and instead aims his blows at the back of my head.
I let out a scream of pain as I swing a vicious right at his crotch. Kevin drops to his knees, both hands cradling his damaged groin. I take a half step back, straighten up, and introduce the toe of my right boot to his chin.
He goes down. Hard. All three of the Jones family lay around my feet as I look round expecting Brian to join the fight.
82
My gaze finds Brian sitting on the hood of the Jones’ pickup. He’s relaxed, casual, as he slides to the ground.
I pick up the shotgun. His confidence as he approaches me is unnerving. He stops, pulls two knives from his belt, and tosses one towards me. It lands point first a foot in front of my toes and sticks in the loose dirt.
‘You man enough, Boulder?’
I’ve never liked anyone who’s challenged me. People who lay down challenges always have something to prove. Brian has seen me fight. Not just last night, but here today. He’ll know my strengths and my weaknesses. I don’t have a clue about his.
Another reason I don’t care for people challenging me, is the fact that I’m self-aware enough to know I’m the kind of macho asshole who never backs down. Especially from bullies trying to get their own way through verbal challenges.
‘One moment.’ I don’t wait for him to answer me. Instead, I bring the butt of the shotgun down on the left ankle of each of his three accomplices. ‘I don’t want anyone knocking my brains in from behind.’
I throw the shotgun off to one side and pull the knife from the ground. It’s a hunting knife with a sharp blade and serrations on the back.
Even as we face off, I’m thinking about how Alfonse wanted me to kill the man responsible for killing his cousin. Now I’m locked into a knife fight with the person behind the heinous killings, I’m still not convinced I have the right to take another life.
That Brian deserves to die, is a given. His actions mean he’s not fit to live in a decent society. By the time the world calms down from the anger his incitement has caused, there will be many more deaths than the ones he’s orchestrated.
The nature of the kills is another reason he should be removed from the living. His victims would have died screaming. Not a quick and painless death for them. Instead they endured a slow, agonising demise at the hands of a monster.
I can’t say I have the right to act as his judge, jury and executioner. All I know is, Brian deserves to meet the last of the three.
This knife fight is his idea, he wants to best me in single combat to prove his manhood to himself. He wants to kill me. I want him to die, but would rather the state appointed the person who ends his wretched life.
The counterbalance to this, is the way he’s promoting his message on social media. To similar thinkers he’ll be a champion for their cause. They’ll rally to his side and protest outside courtrooms – raise money to fund his defence.
He’s urbane enough to come across well in a courtroom. His poisonous rhetoric will be scribbled down by every journalist present and broadcast to the world. More innocents will die if he is given a platform to spread his vile opinions.
Brian gives a wicked grin and steps forward, his knife held in a backhand grip in his left hand.
I do the same but hold the knife in my right.
As he comes at me, he moves into a martial arts style crouch.
Not good.
I fake a few wild slashes to see what he makes of them. The action also gives me a chance to rotate my upper body and find out just what damage has been done to my ribs.
They’re sore as all hell but I don’t think they’re damaged beyond a crack.
Brian laughs at me. ‘You ain’t fooling me with them wild slashes, Boulder. I know you’re better’n that. Saw you wince though. Your ribs hurtin’?’
His voice is more country than I’d expected.
He lunges at me and gives a flashing backhand swing from waist to shoulder.
I dance backwards, but in one move he’s shown his speed. There was no time to counterattack as he moved away before I had chance to react.
Brian feints another sweeping diagonal attack, then throws a right foot into my bruised ribs while I’m off balance from my dodge. It sends me stumbling backwards, but the rush of adrenaline numbs the pain of his blow.
Instead of waiting for him to come at me, I advance – my knife hand weaving at the wrist.
I feint a slash to gauge the speed of his reactions. He’s quick.
I try again, only this time I follow the feint with an attack. Brian counters by slamming another kick into my ribs.
It’s a favoured move of his. The problem with favoured moves is once you know your opponents, you can use them to your advant
age.
He comes forward, the knife in his hand slashing towards my face. I take a half step back and when he launches the kick to my ribs, I’m ready for him. I catch his leg and trap it against my body, making sure to lift it high enough to unbalance him without landing him on his back.
Brian thwarts my attempt to cut his Achilles tendon by kicking his standing foot at my head, forcing me to use my knife arm to defend myself.
Even as he’s falling to the ground he’s kicking out with his free leg. I slash at the leg and manage a superficial cut along his shin. Rather than have him stamp against my kneecaps, I drop his other leg and take a half step back.
The distance keeps me out of reach while also allowing me room to aim my own kick. The toe of my boot connects with his ankle. He grunts rather than yelps.
I repeat the kick but he rolls away and rises to his feet. Some bounce has gone from his step due to the injuries to his right leg, but they are too minor to have a telling effect.
He throws a punch and follows it with a slash of the knife. I feel the sting of his blade across my chest. My ribs stop the diagonal cut going deep, but blood soaks my shirt in seconds.
His next move opens a two-inch gash on my left forearm.
He lunges forward with cold steel flashing towards me. I parry the blow, knocking his knife arm high and wide. My left fist connects with the side of his head, but it’s not the best punch I’ve ever thrown.
As he disengages, his knife stabs down into my shoulder. Pain shoots through me as the tip of his knife scrapes on bone. He’s trying to draw it towards my neck where it can pierce soft flesh. I escape by dropping to the ground.
A thrust of my right arm towards his groin sees him draw back. An ugly cut on his thigh wells scarlet, but it’s little more than an inch long.
So far our knives have drawn blood five times. His two wounds combined aren’t as bad as any one of mine.
I need to shift the momentum of this fight but don’t know how to. Accepting his challenge was an act of stupidity. I should have kept hold of the gun and used its longer reach to ward off his attacks. Instead, I let him choose the rules of the fight.
