by Mark Russell
Furthermore, neither Goldman nor Haslow had much family to speak of, let alone family with political or financial clout. The unsuspecting chemists were well and truly in Turner's web. The silver-haired general checked his walkie-talkie and waited for Armstrong to make contact. He wanted a cigarette badly, but more than anything wanted the last-minute operation over with. In any case he had little choice but to wait, tense and cold, in the instrument-packed confines of the surveillance van.
'Well that fixes that.' Belize glared at the dumbbell at her feet, then grabbed her stiletto from off the carpet. 'Madre de dios! There'll be more than just one bug. Whoever put them here can probably still hear you.' She remembered the tiny Radio Frequency bugs hidden in her Havana apartment, as well as in the Finance Ministry office of her illegally moneyed lover who'd provided her lavish lifestyle. Evidence from such listening devices had been instrumental in sending her and her lover to jail. Such memories now spurred her to quit Goldman's apartment before she got roped into some intrigue from which there was little or no chance of escape.
'Christo!' She threw up her arms in frustration and stopped at the record player. She dropped its stylus onto the black disc on the turntable, then cranked up the volume. A loud crackle and hiss came from the speakers before a Doors song blasted the eardrums of everyone in the room.
'That ought to fuck up any other bugs!' She hooked her thumbs into the front of her jeans and looked sharply at Goldman. 'As for me, I'm going.'
'Hang on, Belize.' Goldman stepped forward.
'No. I warned you before, and now I'm leaving.' For all her bravado she was growing more fearful by the minute. She knew Scott had been stealing stuff from his work and hadn't thought much about it. Of course she'd never imagined it coming to anything like this. But now she knew different. She looked at the crushed listening device on the carpet. Obviously authorities weren't treating the matter lightly. State or federal agents could be stationed nearby. Could make an abrupt entrance at any time. Madre de dios, did she need this type of trouble in her life? Hell no, and she didn't want to get on the wrong side of American government, particularly over a security-related matter. She couldn't entertain the notion of being deported back to Cuba, if such a thing were possible in this freedom-championing democracy she called home. Who knew how long the listening device (and others like it) had been in the apartment? Not wanting to think about it, she threw on her jacket and grabbed her bag. She stared expectantly at Manuela. 'Oye! I'm going.'
Manuela edged closer to Haslow and shared an unspoken intimacy. Unimpressed, Belize sighed and headed for the door. She strapped on her high-heels and called out to Goldman over the blaring music: 'You should leave too, Scott. Call me later from a pay phone. Buena suerte.' She air-kissed him and looked again at Manuela: letting her sister know it was her final call. Manuela pressed against Haslow and gripped her stomach as if still sore from being punched. She didn’t look back at her impatient sister. With a “suit yourself” attitude, Belize stormed from the room.
Armstrong unzipped the leather case of his Lock Pick Set and extracted a stainless steel hook and a lightweight tension tool. He had pair of mini-bolt cutters in his trench coat to take care of the door's safety chain should it prove engaged, or should it become engaged by anyone resisting his entry. However such measures were not needed tonight, for the door to Goldman's apartment opened before Armstrong could even pick the pin tumblers of the lock.
Haslow clasped Manuela's hand. He couldn't get over this wonderful woman who already seemed a partner-in-the-making. Possibly she could travel abroad with him. He became giddy from the thought. He looked down at her and shouted over the music, 'Hey, we should leave.'
'Together?' she asked, her accented voice ringed with hope. He squeezed her warm brown hand. 'Sure, let's go somewhere more private.' He scrunched his face at the overpowering music. Goldman looked stuck to the spot, wholly dumbfounded, and made no attempt to turn down the stereo.
Haslow felt genuinely sorry for his workmate. But like Belize he wanted to get out of harm's way. 'Yeah, let's get away from all this,' he said with a wave of his hand. Manuela looked up at him and smiled. She pressed against him, signifying her willingness to follow his lead.
But where? Haslow thought. Was his home a reliable retreat, or was it also bugged? And where exactly did he stand in all this? Scott had obviously drawn unwanted official attention to himself, and hadn't Haslow warned him repeatedly about this kind of thing happening? Now it had happened just like he said. Well he wouldn't get dragged down with his workmate. He wanted no part of the mischief Goldman was embroiled in, especially now Haslow's heart was set on travelling abroad. Of course he hoped Goldman would get through this shadowy business unscathed. But now he wanted to distance himself from his foolhardy colleague. He had to find somewhere safe to lay low for the weekend. Should he go home? Again he didn't know. Everything was unfolding so fast and there wasn't a flashing sign pointing him in the right direction.
Should he take Manuela to a motel? Possibly, but it seemed a bit tacky. A hotel seemed more appropriate, but what kind? Too posh a hotel might make him look like a womanizer. He had to find the right balance. He was confident things would fall in place once he got behind the wheel of his car. He motioned for Manuela to grab her things, and sensed her excitement was equal to his own over their leaving together.
Armstrong manhandled Belize back into the living room. Much to the astonishment of Goldman and the others. 'Well, well,' Armstrong shouted over the loud music, 'seems like we found a nice party to crash.' The other gunman gripped a silenced submachine gun and nodded, his visage decidedly grim.
Manuela whimpered at the sight of strange men brandishing guns and grabbed Haslow's arm for support. Armstrong glared at the panicked couple and was flooded with a rush of indomitable power. A runaway freight of amphetamine had rocketed through his brain not an hour before. A cutting edge for the night's work.
Armstrong turned to the other man in the room. The rusty-haired fellow had to be the target of the operation. The fellow's dismayed look (due undoubtedly to Armstrong's silenced gun and tight-fitting military gloves) only bolstered Armstrong's sense of overriding authority. It was a worried expression the mercenary knew well. Another room of frightened victims, huddled lambs awaiting their fate.
'Yeah, nice little party,' Flip agreed. The sandy-haired gunman looked too handsome and clean-cut to be part of Armstrong's world. He would have looked more in place in a tailored suit sipping a boutique beer in an inner-city bar favoured by urban professionals. But Armstrong and boyish Flip had history. And in Flip's case, looks were deceiving. He was a hard man who'd found his place in the sun being, among other things, Armstrong's capable offsider.
Overwhelmed by Ray Manzarek's frenzied keyboard-playing, Armstrong shouted, 'All the same, I think the music's a touch too loud.'
Flip smirked and fired his weapon. A muffled burst of bullets slammed into the Sony Casseiver at Goldman's side. The 15 watts per channel amplifier splintered and sparked, with bits of metal, plastic and inner workings dropping haphazardly at Goldman's feet. The turntable's Perspex cover, along with the Doors record, shattered smartly from the assault.
The room fell eerily quiet. Goldman appraised his damaged property, then glared at Flip who seemed genuinely pleased by the destruction he'd wrought.
'That's better,' Armstrong said with a diabolical grin.
Manuela whimpered again. Haslow squeezed her hand and stood beside her like a devout bodyguard.
With a crooked grin, Armstrong jabbed his gun at Haslow, gesturing for the middle-aged chemist to stand beside Goldman, who stood ashen-faced by his shot-apart sound system. Haslow stared back with open defiance at the gunman. But soon saw the folly of it. He squeezed Manuela's hand and gave her a reassuring look before taking his place beside Goldman. Belize put a comforting arm about Manuela in an effort to contain her sister's growing alarm. Even so Manuela couldn't get a handle on the roller-coaster of panicky emotion racking h
er frame.
Armstrong's eyes gleamed from the pills he'd taken and the frightened sisters filled him with a perverse passion. Flip moved closer to the men, the better to cover them with his compact submachine gun. Manuela was now beside herself with fear and Armstrong was getting off on it. Seeing her as such reminded him of a recent time in Pakistan, of a woman he'd encountered there ...
Armstrong and Flip were part of a four-man guard on a truckload of heroin bound for Karachi from Peshawar in the North-West frontier. The truck's illegal cargo disguised as UNICEF bags of rice. The five men in all had stopped for a tea break in a backwater town near Panjinad. Armstrong was doing up his fly from a side-alley leak when he heard gunfire. Pistol shots. Close range. He reentered the dusty thoroughfare and looked towards the truck. Its two Pakistani guards lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling from mortal wounds. A dark-haired man pointed a handgun at the truck's driver, motioning him to quit the wheel. A stocky woman of Mediterranean extraction stood on the far side of the truck, exhorting Flip to quit the passenger seat. She was armed with a Kalishnikov assault rifle and seemed as determined as her partner.
Armstrong took cover behind racks of dyed wool drying on the street out front of a Turkoman carpet concern. Two old women looked up at him from a horizontal loom; intricate red and black patterns made up a carpet-in-the-making. But the wizened women decided the shots and the foreigner were not worth their time and returned to their time-honoured craft. Armstrong knew he had to act fast. The man and woman looked set to take the truck. This town wasn't the lawless North-West frontier. Shots had been fired and cops would turn up. Onlookers were already forming.
The mercenary peered cautiously from behind a cluster of dripping red wool. The two assailants looked Italian. Corsicans, or lone wolf fuck-ups, trying to muscle in on the profits of Armstrong's boss and Sicilian distributors. Armstrong moved with stealth between the rows of drying wool until he was level with the truck.
Wielding a .38 handgun, the swarthy highwayman wrenched the Pakistani truck driver down from the cab. A scuffle ensued and the truck driver was promptly shot in the chest.
The gun's report rang in Armstrong's ears. The loud noise enhanced by the Benzedrine pills he'd popped an hour before. The American mercenary had a long drive ahead of him, not to mention a booked seat on a Pan Am flight departing Karachi the following evening. He had to attend his sister's wedding in Connecticut – and these creeps were only making his tight schedule that much harder. Armstrong pulled out a snub-nosed Charter Undercover .38 Special. Racy and sharp from pills, he jumped out from behind a rack of wool and shot the gunman in the back of the head.
'Roberto!' the woman called out from the other side of the truck. No sooner had Armstrong shot the gunman than he threw himself under the six-wheeled vehicle. He rolled in the street's grey dust, his shoulder clearing the mud-covered drive shaft of the Tata truck.
'Roberto!'
He saw the woman's shifting feet, sensed her apprehension and uncertainty. He inched his way farther under the truck. Then, from his vantage, fired two rounds into the unsuspecting woman's groin. She scrunched her face and cried out like a virginal bride taken by a callous groom. She hollered from pain and dropped the assault rifle, blood spurting over her ankles and the dusty ground. She tottered and looked down with disbelief at her attacker under the truck. Her lips trembled and her eyes glazed over with the fear of imminent death. Armstrong blew the woman a short kiss and fired his .38. The bullet plowed into her lower head and she dropped with a lifeless thud to the ground. The ex-Navy SEAL climbed out from under the truck and grabbed the dead woman's Kalishnikov rifle. He told Flip to take the wheel. He could smell cops and Karachi was still a long way off ...
Now, Manuela's trembling lips and frightened eyes reminded Armstrong of that woman in Panjinad. And like that time in Pakistan, Armstrong was high on Benzedrine. He felt immeasurably strong. Akin to a god. One who on a whim grants life or death to sheepish souls. The great adjudicator. His grandiose perception was further bolstered from seeing a cassette-tape on the dining table. Its plastic cover glinted invitingly in the candelabrum's gold light. Had to be the tape the old man was so huffed about. This was too easy. There was room for play. Armstrong dropped his carry bag on the floor. And he felt like playing. He felt too damn good not to ...
'Don't you fucking move,' he said to the huddled sisters. He stopped at the table and grabbed the tape, saw the government label on it.
Jackpot!
Just what the high-paying general wanted. Armstrong smiled and pocketed his find. He turned to Goldman. 'You shouldn't steal from the old man cause he'll stop at nothing to protect his interests.' He chuckled with malice, before glowering at both chemists. 'You dumb fucks!' His murderous expression told the chemists they were as good as dead, told them they would die by his hand tonight, that his dominant voice would be the last they heard. Besides, of course, their own pained cries for mercy.
Goldman's hands balled into fists. His temples throbbed, his heartbeat thudded in his ears like distant sonic booms. Growing anger had replaced any initial fear of the home invasion.
What a day. He'd learned the truth about his father's murder; he'd most likely lost his job; he could probably kiss goodbye his romantic relationship with Belize; and if that weren't enough these two armed thugs (who undoubtedly worked for General Turner: the man responsible for Goldman's father's death), were acting like they planned to kill him. Goldman's world had been reduced to this agonizing moment. A prelude to an all out zero if he didn't fight back soon. And by the look of things he'd better do something before it was too late, for himself and his invited guests.
Armstrong stopped in front of Manuela. A malicious grin creased his unshaven face. 'You're scared, aren't you?'
Manuela was too shaken for words as the gunman grazed the back of his hand against her cheek.
'Aren't you?' he screamed, the veins in his bullish neck protruding like steel cables.
'Yes, yes,' Manuela said in a sobbing voice. 'Please, don't hurt us.'
'Leave her alone,' Belize cried out, her dark eyes pooling with hatred. With knightly valour, Haslow moved towards Manuela. Flip smashed his elbow into the older chemist's solar plexus, then knocked the chemist to the floor. Haslow gasped and curled in pain on the carpet. For good measure, Flip kicked him in the chest with his steel-capped boot.
Armstrong disregarded Haslow's pained writhing and lifted the hem of Manuela's yellow frock with the barrel of his gun. He grazed the MP5's sound-suppressor along her olive thigh, before jabbing it against the crotch of her panties. He squashed her mouth vertically and said through clenched teeth, 'You better do as I say if you don't want me to kill you. You stupid Mex bitch!' Manuela squirmed painfully in his vice-like grip. 'Do you like giving head?' he snarled. 'Well, do you?' he shouted. He pulled the gun from her crotch and slapped its snub barrel against her tearing cheek.
Goldman's heart pounded against his ribs as he fought back surging wrath. All the while Flip covered him with his gun. The mercenary's steely gaze invited Goldman to have a go, to see if he would do better than Haslow who still lay curled on the floor clutching his pained midsection.
Armstrong grabbed Manuela's hair. He pulled her head back and brought his gun's barrel to her lips. Makeup ran in dark trails down her cheeks. Her clenched mouth smeared with lipstick. Belize lashed out and kicked Armstrong in the shin. He cried out and backhanded her. She fell to the floor with a jarring thud, and was slow to get back on her feet.
Flip jabbed his loaded weapon close to Goldman's face. 'Just try me, asshole! Please!' Goldman didn't doubt the gunman's resolve but he wasn't broken by it, either. Haslow pushed himself back up. Flip snarled and kicked him again in the chest. Haslow growled with pain and assumed another undignified position on the carpet.
Armstrong pulled harder on Manuela's hair. She grimaced as her head was forced farther back. 'Open your goddamn mouth.' Armstrong's drug-maddened eyes bulged in their sockets. 'Make like Miss Lovel
ace or I'll kill your ugly little sister just for the hell of it!' He stood over Manuela and forced his gun into her protesting mouth. Its cold steel clacked against her teeth. 'Swallow it, you taco-chomping puta!'
Armstrong chortled from a heady rush of tyrannical power. Manuela's legs gave way beneath her and her tormentor pulled her back up by the hair. She grunted from mushrooming pain and humiliation. Her cheeks grimed from a mishmash of makeup and tears.
Belize was back on her feet. 'Leave her alone, you sick cochino!' Spittle flew from her mouth and her hair lifted from her shoulders as she looked frantically about the room for any kind of weapon. Her face lit up when she saw the 5 kg dumbbell beside the shot-apart record player.
Flip still covered Goldman, but couldn't help sidelong glances at Armstrong's handiwork. His partner certainly had a way with the ladies. Flip was getting off on Manuela's growing debasement – and then he locked on to Belize's mad dash for the record player.
Goldman pounced.
Some movement happens so quickly the brain can barely register the event, let alone properly respond. Goldman lashed out with a close range, upper thrust kick that sent Flip's submachine gun circling through the air. Before the weapon hit the floor, Goldman (after bringing his leg back to the half-strike position from the first kick) executed a vicious thrust kick into the gunman's groin. Flip doubled over and bawled with pain.
Not missing a beat, Goldman spun round and shot a full-length thrust kick at Armstrong. The edge of his angled foot connected with Armstrong's MP5 submachine gun (the mercenary had wrenched the gun from Manuela and towards his surprise attacker). The gunman lost grip of his sound-suppressed weapon. It jolted upward and 9mm bullets to plow into the ceiling. Christ, he didn't even have the safety on, Goldman thought, with bits of ceiling plaster raining down on him. Goldman stepped back, then leapt forward with another full-length thrust kick.
