There had been a Super-8 next to the brothel, but the firestorm had reduced it to a pile of blackened rubble, except for an outbuilding where fresh sheets were stored. Joss had said he would meet them here after dark and lead them in through a door he planned to leave open. He hoped to talk his way into Warner's confidence: he had, after all, at least forty IQ points on the brigand chief. How hard could it be? Devon had recognized his claim as pure bravado that hid a genuine terror. He admired the young man for it—true courage, he knew well enough, was facing fears rather than denying them.
Devon crouched at the edge of the building, facing toward the brothel, though he couldn't see it now that the light had all but gone. Gert sat beside him muttering to a man alongside him as they waited.
Then a voice hissed, "Shh! Someone's coming!"
Devon squinted into the darkness and, sure enough, a tall shape came stumbling through the darkness. But he knew it wasn't Joss before he saw it was a woman. She was middle-aged and wore a dark dress with pearl trim that twinkled in the gloom. Tears had smeared her makeup and her eyes were wide as she tried to make them out.
"I'm lookin' for Devon. Is he here?"
Devon moved toward her and guided her behind the shelter of the supplies hut. "I'm Devon."
"Yeah, he said you're a dark fella. I can barely see you," she said with a forced chuckle that gave way to a sob. "They got Joss. What was he thinkin' of? Came in and claimed he wanted to work for Mr. Warner."
"What happened to him?"
He got an impression of movement; of a shaking head. "Oh, they beat him up real bad. Mr. Warner's been in a mean mood this past day. Got some news he didn't like, I think. And then that damn fool boy walks in and … they cut it out of him. He told 'em about you; about how he was to meet you here. So, Mr. Warner sent me to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
"That unless you come right now, he's gonna string Joss Dayton up from a streetlamp outside his sister's house and then he's gonna take Anne-Marie and make her … pay for her brother's crime."
Devon sighed. It had gone worse than he could possibly have imagined. "Warner wants me?"
"Uh-huh. You and whoever killed Eddy Boyd. I'm … I'm sorry. I truly am. But you gotta come with me, now. Or the girls'll suffer too. Oh, and leave your weapons behind. They'll frisk you as soon as you walk through the door."
Devon glanced across where the dark shape of Gert Bekmann loomed. "You don't have to come. I got us into this; I should face the music."
He felt Bekmann grip his shoulder. "No, we face this together. I, for one, want to meet this Warner fella."
The Dutchman spoke with such confidence that Devon wondered whether he'd heard what the woman had said. But he calmed himself because he would go and do his best to rescue Joss for his sake and the sake of his sister. And, at the very least, he would find some redemption in the attempt.
He got up and, with Gert Bekmann at his side, walked into the darkness.
Chapter 7: Warner
Devon cursed himself as he strode through the darkness toward the brothel. His heart thudded against the inside of his ribcage and he stumbled twice, righting himself only with Bekmann's help. Inside his head he was raging against his own stupidity, but above all else he was frightened; not only of dying, but, and perhaps even more so, he feared making a fool of himself. Would his legs or his nerve betray him? He'd been in dangerous situations before—though none as desperate as this—and he could only pray he could see it through somehow.
A light above a fire-escape shone like a beacon in the darkness, appearing to bob up and down as he walked toward it like a moth to a lamp. The door flew open when they were a handful of yards away and two men burst out, shotguns leveled, while two others ran past them and grabbed Devon and Gert, pulling them inside. As rough hands explored every pocket before patting him down, Devon heard the sepulchral thud of the door being shut.
"Look what we got here!" said a triumphant voice to his right.
A denim-clad man with a shaved head and a scar that ran from cheek to cheek held up a switchblade. "Thought you could hide this, did ya?" he said, handing the knife to one side as he went nose to nose with the entirely impassive face of Bekmann. "I hear tell you killed Eddy. That true?"
A gob of spittle hit Gert on the forehead. He casually wiped it away before looking directly into the scarred man's eyes. "I put him down like the animal he was. He's lucky I did it quick. You won't get the same mercy."
For a moment, Scarface seemed to pause, unsure of how to react to this unexpected belligerence. Then his face twisted in rage. "I ain't scared of you. I'm gonna ask Mr. Warner if he'll let me play with you before he kills ya. Maybe he'll let me be the one to slit your dirty German throat."
"I'm Dutch, you redneck filth klootzak."
He collapsed with a grunt as the scarred man unfurled a right hand to the gut.
Devon and the man who'd frisked him—finding nothing—had both watched this open-mouthed. He went to help Bekmann, but was pulled roughly back as the Dutchman straightened up and smiled at his attacker.
They were shoved along a corridor that served as a fire escape. The walls were decorated in a cream wallpaper, with gold-lined royal green drapes at the window out onto the parking lot. The place certainly smelled like a brothel—though Devon didn't have any direct experience—a heady mix of male and female perfumes with a little cigar smoke and alcohol thrown in.
A roar of laughter erupted from the other side of a double door at the far end of the corridor and the two gun-toting guards pushed through as Scarface and his comrade followed Devon and Gert into a large, ornate bar.
It was in the same cream, green and gold color scheme as the corridor, with tables and couches scattered seemingly at random, except for three sofas that had been arranged into an inverted U shape. Men and women loafed together, some of the men dressed like Eddy, others in plainer combinations of jeans and shirts. The women wore lingerie and Devon couldn't help but notice that while some seemed to be relaxed, others were obviously tense or distressed.
The noise subsided as the prisoners were brought to a halt in front of the triple couches. Two young women wearing very little moved apart to reveal a large man with whiskers and gray hair. It had to be Frank Warner.
"So, Vern, looks like you didn't entirely make a pig's ear outta it."
Scarface winced as he stood behind Gert.
"Which one of you fellas shot Eddy?"
"It were this one, boss!" Vern said, nudging Gert in the back.
The man on the couch reached forward, picked a large cigar out of a bowl on the coffee table, sat back and waited as one of the women lit it. "You shot an unarmed man when he was lying defenseless on the ground?"
Gert shook his head. "No. I executed a criminal." He glanced across at Devon. "He was rude to my friend here."
The people around Warner roared, until he raised a hand and lazily waved his cigar in the air. "Now then, we're gonna do this right. Hiram, where are you?"
A man walked out of the crowd. He wore the long beard that seemed to be the uniform of Eddy's gang, but he was a much younger man. He had a bandage around his upper arm and he looked scared half to death.
"Is this the man who killed Eddy?"
"It is, boss. Gunned him down when he was lyin' on the ground."
Warner nodded solemnly. "So, we have a witness, and confession. Seems like we'll be havin' at least two hangings tonight."
His malevolent eyes flitted to Devon. "Now, I told Rose to bring the leader of this little expeditionary force. Are you tellin' me that men like this," he jerked a finger in Gert's direction, "follow someone like you?"
Devon fought to keep his rage under control. It was good that anger was pushing down his terror, but he had to use it, not have it become his master. "I'm a member of the Counterterrorism Unit of the London police. So, yes, I have led people."
"Well, I hear tell that they do things differently over there, but look where following him has brought you,
" he said, directing the last remark to Gert, who ignored him.
Warner blew a smoke ring into the silent air above him. "And you're here on account of that damn fool Joss Dayton, ain't that right, boy?"
"I'm not a boy, but, yes, I'm here for Joss. Where is he?"
The fat man looked to his right and nodded. A guard lifted something from the floor and Devon saw immediately that it was the bruised and bloodied form of Joss. His glasses had disappeared and his nose was squashed to his face in a mass of leaking blood. Hands tied behind his back, he was forced to stand, trembling, beside Warner. His shirt was missing and his chest was covered in bruises. A dark patch that wasn't blood marked the groin of his jeans and he cried as the crowd gathered around him, women and men, some looking anxious, others exultant.
"This boy came here with a cockamamie story about wantin' to be part of my gang. He thought his 'sooperior brain power' might be of service. Thinks he's a regular Sheldon Cooper. Well, I may not be a genius physicist, but I can smell horse manure when it's up close. Soon enough, he told me all about you and your gang. Says there's five or six of you, but I figure there's more. Hiram, there, he tells me you came in three trucks. Maybe you were fixin' to steal from the poor folks of Springs?"
Devon shook his head. "Apparently, that's your job."
"Now you shut your ugly mouth! Looks like you got some tasty scars there; well, I'll sure be happy for Vern here to carve you some more before you die like the animal you are."
The watchers roared; some of them, at least.
Devon tried to keep his features fixed and his gaze direct, but inside his heart was beating so fast it was all he could do to stop himself from running. He breathed in through clenched teeth and recalled his training. Focus on the chest; on the core. Be ready.
The audience quieted down again as Devon brought himself under control.
"So you're gonna tell us how many of you there are, and where we'll find them."
Devon shook his head. "No. No, I'm not."
Warner looked to Gert, who returned his stare without saying a word.
"Oh my," Warner said with mock regret. "It seems as though young Mr. Dayton is going to have to suffer. Bring me the flaying knife."
Scar-face Vern stepped forward, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a short, thin-bladed knife which he presented, handle first, to Warner who, with a wicked smile, withdrew it from its sheath.
The place was silent except for the shuffling of feet and Joss's terrified panting as he stared at the knife. Strong hands gripped Devon's shoulders and he glanced across to see a big man with an eager face holding Bekmann as he stood watching impassively, his face suggesting nothing more than mild interest.
"Bring him closer," Warner said, and Devon noticed that the woman between the fat man and Joss had wriggled off the couch and disappeared.
Joss moaned and shook his head as he was shoved forward by a man in a black suit who brought him within a foot of his torturer. Joss shivered as Warner pressed the thin blade against the naked skin beneath his ribs.
"Now then, boys," Warner said, his face inches from Joss's torso, "this is your last chance. I'm fixin' to have some fun, but you could make things quick and clean for him if you tell me what I need to know."
Devon looked across at Joss, who was staring back at him, wet eyes wide with terror, drool running down his chin as his bony chest shuddered. The young man gave a tiny nod as if acknowledging that Devon couldn't betray the others; as if acknowledging his inevitable doom.
And then he moved.
His hands came from around his back, grabbed the knife before Warner even saw it happening and he leaped on the fat man. Cries went up and the man in the black suit fell to the floor. Devon kicked his booted foot backwards, then spun around and swung at his guard. He put every ounce of rage and terror into that blow and the man went down, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thunk.
Someone grabbed him as the place erupted in screams and cries. He pulled his arm back, but it was Gert. The Dutchman pulled him toward the couch where red sprayed the air and the screams gave way to a gurgling noise. Then a shot. Then more and more. Between each percussive beat, the crying grew louder. Something hit Devon across the back and he turned to see the scar-face Vern, who'd evidently been pushed into him.
The man was terrified. He tried to swim through the crowd toward the exit, but Devon grabbed him around the throat and pulled him backward and off his legs, throwing him down onto the floor where he lay, hands upheld in a gesture that might have been pleading, and it might have been mere protection.
Neither worked. Perfumed shapes dressed in reds and purples swept past Devon as he looked down at the stricken man. Stiletto heels rose and fell as Vern writhed in agony, his desperate pleas ignored as the women finally took their revenge on the monster.
Devon left him to his fate and forced his way toward Joss. Then he flinched at a volley of shots from behind him that punched through the chaos. The place went instantly silent, the brawling crowd turning as one to see which way the coin would fall.
Heads.
A red-haired woman in camouflage jacket and flanked by a dozen soldiers lowered her rifle and nodded at Gert.
"Well done, Mara," he said. "Now, help us clear up this mess."
Hands were raised all around as a final stiletto fell on Vern's now silent body. Devon pushed through the mix of thugs, hangers-on and prostitutes to finally reach the couch.
Warner lay there, dead eyes staring at the ceiling, mouth twisted in agony. The handle of the flaying knife protruded from his chest, almost lost against the deep red slick that had spread across his white silk shirt.
Devon reached down to where Joss lay at Warner's feet, and pulled him onto his back. A hideous wound wrecked the young man's pleasant, intelligent face. One eye was a red ruin, and the other didn't move as Devon shook him.
"He's gone, oh my God, he's gone!" A woman's voice shrieked from above him. "He was supposed to run, not attack that … that … beast."
Devon looked up to see a woman wearing scarlet lingerie wiping tears from her cheeks. He got to his feet and pulled her to him, breathing in the rich aroma of her chocolate skin.
"Are you Gloria?" he whispered.
She nodded as she buried her head in his shoulder. "I cut his hands loose and then Janice kicked Hector—he was Warner's bodyguard. Joss was s'posed to run while we made trouble. I didn't expect him to do … that." He looked around as she pointed at the body of Frank Warner.
She pulled away from him and dropped to her knees, hugging the lifeless body of Joss Dayton.
Devon turned to see Mara and Gert converging on him.
"I'm sorry," Gert said, putting his hand on Devon's shoulder. "But we got to deal with the situation. They're not all here."
Mara nodded. "We've got twenty-three, and I posted guards on the other exits, but I guess the rats found sewers to run through."
"How many?"
"It's hard to say, but at least a dozen."
Devon felt his insides turn to ice. "Anne-Marie!" He spun around and ran for the door.
"Wait!" Gert called. "You need backup, and someone to show you the way. You won't help anyone by stumbling around in the dark."
"I'll go." It was Gloria's voice.
"Not like that you won't," Mara said as she pulled off her jacket and wrapped it around Gloria's shoulders. "And get something else on your feet."
A figure emerged from behind the bar counter. "Here," she said, slipping off a pair of scruffy sneakers. She was a small Latina woman who'd probably had the misfortune to be on the cleaning rotation for that day.
"Thank you, Maria," Gloria said, sitting down to slip them on her feet. They were a little large, but she could walk. She looked down again at the body of Joss. Two other women had carried it to one of the other couches as three captured men, under the close scrutiny of a couple of soldiers, dragged the corpse of Frank Warner away. "Let's go. I only hope we're not too late."
Gert, Devon and six CDF soldiers followed Gloria through the dark streets of Springs. A half moon provided just enough light to see where Devon was putting his boots down, but nothing more. Without Gloria, they would have been lost almost as soon as they'd left the brothel.
Devon was breathing heavily when he finally recognized that they were among the trees where they'd parked the truck when they'd met Anne-Marie.
"Take it careful," Gert hissed, but Devon pulled away from him and ran through the trees, the others following, panic flooding his system. She'd already lost her brother tonight; what else might she lose because she'd welcomed them into her home only hours earlier?
He burst out of the trees and collided with something metal.
A voice called. "What the hell?"
Then a muffled scream. Anne-Marie.
He could feel the side of the pickup truck he'd cannoned into, so he made like a crab and moved hand over hand along it, before grasping thin air and glimpsing the dropped tail gate and something moving inside the back.
With a roar, he climbed up and flailed around until he found something wiry. He closed his hand and pulled. Something grunted, and heat seared in his arm. He grabbed at where he thought his attacker must be and pushed the knife down.
Light flared from behind him as Gert risked using a flashlight and Devon could finally see the face of his enemy. Brown beard and eyes full of fury and fear, he kicked out, but he had no boots on, so Devon barely felt the blow in his rage. He punched down at the man's face. Once. Twice. Feeling bone break, but ignoring the yells of pain that turned into pleading.
Gunshots came from behind and Devon heard scurrying feet and returning fire. Bekmann had climbed into the bed of the truck. "Devon, leave him."
But Devon punched again and again until the man was inert. He rolled the body to one side and there, squeezed into the top corner of the rusty truck, he saw Anne-Marie. Tears ran down her face, but she was alive and, it seemed, physically unharmed. Devon looked across at the groaning thug to see that his pants were halfway down his legs. If he'd had a handgun on him, he'd have put a bullet in the scumbag's head. He might even have regretted it later.
Last Stand: Book 3 in the Thrilling Post-Apocalyptic Survival Series: (The Last City - Book 3) Page 6
