The Stash (An Action Packed Adventure Thriller filled with Suspense)

by Dan Fletcher

  Kayin pushed the door with his foot, the keys in one hand and the box in the other. ‘Pizza,’ he said, and walked about a meter into the room. The friends were sitting facing each other on the bed, having hastily clasped their hands together where they should be. Kayin bent down to put the box on the floor, intending to slide it to them with his foot. Bound as they were, he was instructed to take no chances.

  He didn’t have time to finish placing the box on the floor. Alan was tensed like a coiled spring on the bed. He covered the couple of meters in two strides, delivering a vicious blow to the side of Kayin’s head with his left knee. It sent the youngster spiralling against the foot of the metal bed frame John was sitting on, cracking his head. Pizza box and keys were sent flying across the room.

  ‘Come on!’ Alan shouted, grabbing John by the sleeve and yanking him from the bed. ‘Let’s go!’

  Half dragging John behind him, Alan ran out of the door and down the corridor. The two doors on the left were closed. He looked into the open kitchen as they ran past. The huge one was trying to get up from the plank of wood. It was so low to the floor he was finding it difficult.

  They flew out into the warehouse, which apart from the barrels of oil was deserted. Alan headed for the loading bay door, which was open, John running close behind. He knocked down a stack of barrels to slow down anyone chasing them. Patience was just about out of the kitchen door trying to catch up. His sheer size was a handicap, slowing him down as he passed through the narrow door and passageway.

  Full pelt they ran out into the rain and saw Femi. ‘What?’ he said, throwing down his cigarette, and reaching for the AK hung against his chest. They had already gone past, and John overtook his friend, being the quicker of the two, heading for the gates. Ogun, hearing the commotion turned the floodlights on. The yard was suddenly swathed in intense light.

  That was when John saw the Alsatian heading straight for him, just a few meters away. It leapt through the air, biting into his leading left forearm, dragging him to the ground. The pain shot up his arm, and grew worse as he tried to shake the beast off.

  Alan saw his friend go down just as he heard three loud sounds in quick succession, ‘CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!’ The third one brought with it a searing pain in his right calf, and he crashed to the ground, felled like timber. Sliding along the gravel surface on his front and scraping the skin off his chin.

  ‘Get it off me!’ screamed John, struggling with the dog. The other two arrived now, grabbing hold of a foot each in their teeth. The three of them flexed their neck muscles. Violently thrashing from side to side, trying to rip John limb from limb. ‘Get them off,’ he shouted, realising that now there was more than one.

  ‘Leave!’ shouted Ogun, who had reached them from the gate. He grabbed the collar of the Rottweiler and tried to pull it off. It wouldn’t release the grip on John’s shoe. He hit it hard on the nose forcing it to let John go and he pulled it back, fighting to keep control of the animal gone wild. The teeth from the one on John’s arm had gone through to the bone, the worrying movements were tearing through muscle and tendons, making him scream out in agony.

  Femi had no intention of getting involved, and was covering Alan with his machine gun. ‘Fuck!’ screamed Alan, trying to stop the blood pumping from his leg. He couldn’t feel any pain yet, that would come later. His brain, knowing he would not be able to cope, shut down his nervous system for the time being.

  Kayin luckily managed to recover from Alan’s attack, and came running out of the warehouse with his weapon pointing in front of him, the pain in his head banging. Seeing what was happening he whistled, just once, sharply, to the dogs. They stopped what they were doing instantly, and trotted over to him obediently, nuzzling against his legs and whimpering. ‘Good dogs! Good,’ he said, but kept his weapon trained on Alan with one hand, while he patted them on the head.

  Realising that he wouldn’t need it, Patience holstered his GLOCK, also aimed at Alan. Happy ran out of the warehouse, woken by all the noise. Coming to the same conclusion as Patience, he lowered his gun. Nwake was last on the scene, holding his trousers up with one hand, and not fully awake. Happy, who must have slept in his clothes, and looked immaculately dressed, gave him a disapproving look.

  ‘Get them inside and turn the floodlights off!’ he barked, at the others. ‘Can’t I even take a nap?’ Walking over to Alan he kicked his wounded leg. Alan’s hands were covering it and they took most of the force, but he felt it now. The pain was indescribable, and he let out a horrendous howl. Patience moved over to pick him up. Bending down he grabbed Alan by both arms and hoisted him onto his shoulder, all thirteen and a bit stone. Heading inside he left a bloody trail behind the two of them.

  Femi helped Ogun to lift John to his feet. His left sleeve was torn to shreds, and he had multiple gashes oozing blood out in different directions. Shock was beginning to take him, and he was having difficulty staying conscious, his vision blurring. They dragged him between them back to the room, where Patience threw Alan back onto the bed.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! Get him a doctor,’ screamed Alan, looking at his friend’s injuries. He was still not aware that his were just as bad, if not worse.

  ‘Shut up,’ Happy shouted, ‘or I will shoot you as well!’ Alan looked down at his bleeding leg, oh. His brain decided he was ready for the full effect of the pain and he nearly passed out.

  ‘Have you got a med-kit?’ Happy said to Nwake, standing behind him.

  ‘Yes, it’s in the office,’ was the reply.

  ‘Well go and get it! Patch these two up as best you can, don’t worry too much. I’m going to call that idiot Tunge. How does he expect us to get these two through the airport?’

  They were in various depths of pain but even so the two friends looked at each other. Airport?

  ‘Try that again and I will kill you and your families,’ Happy said, meaning it and went off to phone to Tunge.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Happy found the phone in the small office adjoining the warehouse. Finding the scribbled number the Chief had given him, he called Tunge.

  ‘Hello. What is it?’ the number was recognised by his phone as belonging to the warehouse.

  ‘There was a small problem, but it’s all under control now.’ Happy was stretching the truth a little. They both had lost a lot of blood, and the taller one would need extensive surgery on his arm. That was if he lived that long.

  ‘I only left half an hour ago,’ he shouted, glancing at the dashboard clock. ‘What the hell could have happened in that time?’

  Happy took a deep breath, it was painful having to admit failure to the man he hated, ‘The skinny one was attacked by the dogs, and the other one was shot in the leg by Femi, when they tried to escape.’

  Tunge gulped, ‘Tried to escape? How the hell did they get out for God’s sake? They were tied up in a locked room.’ Then he had a dreadful thought, ‘Did anyone hear the shooting?’ The nearest warehouse was over a hundred metres away and deserted at the weekend. Not everybody lived at their work, or so he hoped.

  ‘No, nobody heard. Ogun checked the street afterwards. Somehow they got out of their bonds and attacked Kayin when he took them the pizza. They only managed to get into the compound, so nothing to worry about,’ replied Happy.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he shouted, then, thinking about tomorrow, ‘what kind of condition are they in?’

  ‘They are fine now. Nwake is cleaning the wounds and bandaging them so they won’t lose any more blood. They will feel much better in the morning after a good night’s sleep,’ he replied, not caring one way or the other.

  Tunge doubted this, and considered turning back to Tilbury, pulling over to the side of the road. What could he do? His medical skills amounted to a first aid course at prep school.

  Tunge sighed, ‘Just make sure they don’t bloody escape again. Remember my father wants them alive.’ He was beginning to wish that he had never been born, or that he had died instead of his mother,
God rest her soul.

  ‘I’ll be there first thing in the morning. Try not to mess up again,’ he yelled, hanging up. Tunge gunned the car into life and screeched off down the road.

  It took him another fifteen minutes to get to his apartment. Before phoning the Chief, he decided to take a shower and grab something to eat. It was just before eight o’clock that he eventually got round to it, sitting at the breakfast bar. Using his cell phone, he checked the flights in the morning. There was a BA flight leaving at 10.30am, and arriving just before 6pm.

  He called the Chief who picked up after a few rings. ‘Hello, Is everything arranged?’ There were only false niceties when it came to the Chief.

  ‘Yes. We arrive at about six tomorrow night. Can you get Ghani to pick us up from the airport?’ Tunge had decided whilst he was having his shower, the pelting hot water helping to relieve some of his tension, that he would keep quiet for now. He could tell the Chief about the escape fiasco when he got to Nigeria, avoid it completely, if at all possible.

  ‘No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ the Chief said, sounding genuinely happy.

  That made one of them. ‘OK, goodbye,’ Tunge said, pressing cancel.

  Remembering that Miss Fielding-Brown would probably be round the next day, Tunge decided to kill two birds with one stone. He took a large wooden rolling pin from a drawer and vented his anger on the Italian worktop, causing a huge crack to spread in from the edge. He threw the roller across the room, smashing into the oven hood and denting it.

  Tunge walked into the lounge and opened the patio doors, shoulders slumped. The cold night air hit him, helping to revive his senses. He went over to the parapet and looked out at London’s skyline, the orange glow of the city reflecting in the low clouds. It was like living in constant twilight. Realising that he needed to book their flights, he sighed and went inside to find his wallet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Chief put down the phone and, for one of the few times he could remember, was reasonably proud of his son. The thought only lasted a second, and then he was dialling another number. He checked his watch quickly, nearly 9pm. It rang at the other end for a while, but there was no answer.

  Horse riding was in Santiago’s blood. Twice a day he exercised his 17 Hand Criollo around his 20 acre ranch, in Ramirez Canyon. Proud of his heritage, it could be nothing but his national breed, champion in the battle to win the West. The fact that they originated from Spain only heightened their heritage for Santiago. Nostrils flaring, and chest heaving, the horse flew up the path with graceful ease. It was later than usual for him to be out riding, but it was a beautiful day. The winter sun was burning down, but there was a light sea breeze flowing up the canyon, from Paradise Cove, keeping him cool.

  He hadn’t been able to go riding that morning due to a problem at work, a wide scale riot at the maximum security State Penitentiary in Corcoran, just north of Bakersfield. Walled, fenced and patrolled by armed guards, it was the most secure, and violent, of the 32 prisons in the state of California.

  Inmates craved a place in solitary and were never very eager to come out. Some of the gang members received minor injuries in the scuffle with the guards, one of them unfortunately shot. He was pronounced dead by the ambulance paramedic on the way to the hospital. Time of death officially recorded at 10.56pm.

  There was nothing he could do about it, but as head of the clan he was informed. It now fell on his shoulders to tell the bereaved and offer them his condolences. Just as Santiago would be there playing the bereaved friend for Carlos Gomez’ widow, when his body was eventually discovered, if ever. In Carlos’ case, not all of it would be acting.

  Santiago shuddered as he thought how the corpse must be bloated by now, probably being pecked at by seagulls and nibbled at by fish. He doubted his bitch of a wife had even noticed he was missing. She was probably too busy playing tennis, or having her nails done. Mind you he doubted Selena would be any different. He noticed his wife’s eye wavering towards the hired help recently.

  This time, the widow was a forty-two year old Mexican woman, originally from San Pedro, not far from the capital city. She was forced by her family to marry Jose Fernandez Garcia, a farmer’s son from Fresno. Her husband had been doing life for a series of shootings, with no chance of parole. When he was alive she was considered a member of the gang, and expected to play the part of dutiful wife, waiting for her husband’s release. She was relieved to be out, and planned to return to her home town, once she got the funeral out of the way.

  They talked outside the Agora Hills Church, where a special service was respectfully held for Jose, attended by over three hundred of the clan.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. He was a great man,’ he said, putting his hand reassuringly on her arm. Santiago had never actually met Jose, and knew very little about him.

  ‘Thank you Senor Martinez. Once again thank you for everything. It will definitely help me now that Jose has gone,’ she said, feigning crying into her tattered lace handkerchief.

  The money from Santiago would help her get back to Mexico, a lot quicker than anticipated. She was used to living on the breadline, with her husband inside, and only a part time job at the cleaners. Some help los Sombreros were, their actions had him arrested in the first place, and the handouts soon stopped a few months later.

  Maria kept her thoughts to herself. She needed the money and wanted to live.

  ‘Of course I will be here next week to offer my respects. Just let me know if you need anything,’ he said, loud enough that everyone within earshot heard his gratuitous offer.

  ‘Thank you. Thanks again Senor Martinez, I will see you then,’ she said politely. She knew that he would show, but for the minimum time possible, the toad.

  Santiago had donned his riding boots the moment he got home. He was just galloping past his small vineyard, with the grapes all neatly spaced out, when he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. Whoever it was they would have to wait. He was at one with the horse, feeling the power beneath him. They sped up the hill and through the orchard. There were a few over-ripe oranges left on the trees and some scattered on the ground, spreading their scent in the cool sea air.

  He stabled the horse, and took a shower, before checking his cell phone, just after quarter to one. Santiago called the missed number, waiting for the Chief to answer. It didn’t take long.

  ‘Hello my friend. How are you?’ boomed the Chief.

  ‘Yeah, OK I guess. What’s up?’ replied Santiago.

  ‘I just called to tell you that I will be coming out to visit you personally, in your beautiful city of Malibu,’ the Chief announced.

  Santiago hid his surprise at the statement, and the Chief’s lack of geography, ‘When will you be arriving?’

  ‘I will be there on Tuesday evening. I was wondering if you could recommend some accommodation, for me and an associate?’ said the Chief, guessing the reply.

  ‘You can stay with me, I insist,’ Santiago replied, always willing to play host, and seeing it as an opportunity to get to know the Chief.

  ‘No, I don’t want to be a burden on you. A hotel nearby would be fine,’ said the Chief.

  ‘I’m not going to argue about this. You’re staying with me. I’m not having you shacking up in some hotel when I have eight spare rooms here,’ Santiago replied, pointing around at the house, as if the Chief could see his actions.

  ‘If that is really OK with you, then we would be very grateful to accept your hospitality,’ the Chief said, happy he had what he wanted. Pushing it now, the Chief continued, ‘Do you think you could do me one more favour?’

  ‘Yeah. No problem. What is it?’ replied Santiago.

  ‘I will need a weapon. Just one, a handgun,’ the Chief said, as if it was a normal request.

  ‘A gun, what for?’ this was just getting weirder and weirder, thought Santiago.

  ‘For my own protection. None of my men will be armed,’ said the Chief.’

  ‘What do you mean non
e of your men? I thought you said there would be two of you?’ replied Santiago, completely confused.

  ‘The others will be arriving the next day with the merchandise. I wanted to get there ahead of them so we have time to get to know each other,’ and I have time to call it off if necessary, thought the Chief.

  Stunned, it took Santiago a moment to respond, ‘I suppose so. Just the one?’ As if he would supply more.

  The Chief was extremely pleased, ‘Yes, if it’s not a problem. Just for me, like I said. You know that men like us need to take precautions?’

  So that was it. He must be worried about one of his own men, thought Santiago. ‘Yes, I suppose. So I’ll see you in a couple of days then. What flight are you on?’

  ‘We are connecting onto the Continental flight from Washington. It arrives just after seven in the evening. I’ll call you if there are any delays. See you on Tuesday,’ said the Chief.

  ‘Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. See you then,’ Santiago replied, wishing he didn’t have to do business with the Chief.

  A huge gang called los Nortes controlled the smaller gangs underneath it, including Santiago’s. They had become tight with the Lutherites, a black American gang from Eastside LA. Through the Lutherites’ connections they had arranged the purchase from the Chief. Santiago knew that to question their orders meant early retirement, even for him.

  The Chief hung up, and reclined in his chair. A plan to cement his position in their new relationship had occurred to him, when Tunge had first mentioned Alan and John. He was going to use them to smuggle the heroin for him, and then kill them in front of Santiago. It would clearly state his ruthless attitude towards anybody who stole from him. What better way to start a new business partnership?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Patience stood guard over them, waiting as Nwake went to fetch the first aid box. The pain in his arm rose to a crescendo, and John was slipping in and out of consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. Alan was face down on the bed. The flow from his leg had slowed, pulsating slowly. The life was draining from him.