Fight or Die by James Hilton
From a low crouch, Danny threw two hand grenades within a second of each other. The first was aimed at the rear of the tanker. The second bounced off the vehicle and landed with a splash in the far end of the pool.
The Locos threw themselves to the ground as the first explosion ripped through the tanker. Razor-sharp shrapnel and dank sewage filled the air. One man screamed as a piece of spinning metal sheared across his right shoulder. The second grenade sent a wash of raw sewage and water high into the air. The men on the decking turned like a pack of wolves and raced into the villa.
Danny jogged back to Clay’s waiting car.
“You get their attention?” asked the Texan, a sly smile beginning to creep across his face.
“You know, I think I did. They’ll be with us pronto.”
“Alrighty then. My turn. Keep the engine running,” said Clay.
“Make them count.”
* * *
The first of the Locos’ pick-up trucks roared through the main gates. Clay had stretched the stinger out across the road thirty feet away. As the lead truck drove over the spikes, all four tyres were instantly shredded. The driver of the truck slammed his feet down on the brakes out of sheer instinct. The second truck skidded sideways in a failed attempt to avoid the tail end of truck one and was quickly joined by the third. The three vehicles slammed into each other, all coming to a sudden stop as the front wheels encountered the spiked anti-vehicle device. The men from the fourth truck disembarked and ran forward yelling, brandishing machetes and baseball bats.
They were sent diving for cover as Clay opened fire with his rifle. The L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle was considered by many to be out of date but it was still very efficient. It had served the British Army for decades. Clay liked the narrow weapon as he found it more accurate than the M4 carbine. He squeezed the trigger and put several single shots into the front grill of the fourth truck. He put another two through the windscreen then targeted the men spilling through the gate. One man emerged from the second truck brandishing a combat knife. Clay didn’t hesitate. A single round took the man in the thigh and dropped him backwards into the road. Another of the Locos grabbed his fallen friend by the collar and dragged him back towards the villa.
The remaining Locos crashed into each other as they scrambled back into the confines of the estate grounds. Clay emptied the twenty-round magazine in short controlled bursts, the 7.62mm rounds punching through the bodies of the vehicles with ease. He dropped to one knee and changed the mag. A quick pull with his left hand on the cocking bolt and the weapon was ready to rock and roll again. Clay continued to pepper the vehicles with abandon. One of the Locos lurched from behind the third truck and sprinted for cover through the main gate. Two shots from the SLR encouraged him on his way.
Danny reversed the car to within a couple of feet of his brother. “Time to vamoose!”
“Shit an’ I was just startin’ to warm up!” shouted Clay. He emptied the last couple of rounds through the windscreen of the third truck.
“Here. Give them something else to remember us by.”
Clay caught the last of the hand grenades, pulled the pin and rolled it along the ground under the first disabled truck. Clay ducked as the vehicle was rocked by the detonation. He turned on his heel and climbed into the waiting car.
“My work here is done,” Clay declared.
“Yeah, let them pick the bones out of that for a while. Fancy a beer?”
“Sounds good.”
The brothers knocked their knuckles together.
“Happy days,” said Clay.
41
Barcelo rested his chin on his fists. He looked at the remainder of his outfit. Less than a dozen men stood before him, only three of whom were left unscathed. His eyes felt gritty and tired. Acid burned from his stomach up into his throat. A slow but relentless throbbing had taken up residence in his head, spreading out from the base of his skull. The fight with the Rogue Angels, although the Locos had ultimately prevailed, had taken its toll. The leader of the bikers had broken his nose and the vision in his left eye was blurred and painful. His knee too was swollen and sore. The bag of ice that he pressed against his damaged leg dripped cold water down his shin. He normally preferred to pace in front of his men but wasn’t sure he could trust his knee to bear his weight.
“You did well today.” Bruised, tired faces stared back. “But those fucking Brits are too tricky for their own good— hitting us right after a battle. They made us look like a bunch of amateur idiots. That can’t happen again.” Barcelo leaned back in his seat as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him. “But at the end of the day we’re still here and they’re gone… for now. I need a drink, a large one. Who wants to do the honours?”
One of the younger Locos raised his hand. “I’ll do it, boss.”
“Good man.” Barcelo pointed to the array of bottles arranged in an alcove in the wall. “Scotch for me. Ballantine’s.”
“Boss, I know you don’t go a bundle on guns but we need to restock. We haven’t got a single bullet left to shoot. If any more shit happens we need something to fight back with,” Ortega growled through his teeth.
Barcelo nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we need a restock pronto.”
Ortega acted as the spokesman for the rest of the men when he said, “We’re all loyal to you, boss. You know that. But we need time to recover. Then we go and put an end to the Brits once and for all.”
His boss motioned for him to continue.
“I’ll send word to our guy in the north to bring us a double drop of ammo. Should be here by tomorrow morning. You want any more hardware?” asked Ortega.
Barcelo leaned back, his black hair falling over his forehead in thick unruly strands. He was no fan of guns, that was true, but they were a necessary evil. It was proving virtually impossible to maintain the gang’s status without them. If the Rogues had been a little better armed, the outcome might have been very different. “Get a rifle for every man in the room. An assault rifle, something reliable.”
“AKs?”
“Yeah, Kalashnikovs will be fine. And lots of bullets. I don’t want to be caught out again. Let’s see how tricky they look when they’re riddled with holes.”
Ortega nodded once in agreement. He looked up as another two men entered the room. Babi Garcia was followed by a younger man who spoke directly to Barcelo. “The road is clear again. My cousin towed the pick-ups and will put the totalled one through the crusher as soon as he gets back to his yard. He’s fixed the tyres on the other trucks as well.”
Barcelo grunted his recognition of a task well done and told the man to get himself a drink. Then he turned his attention to Garcia.
“And where the hell have you been? I thought you were supposed to be coming back.”
Garcia looked nonplussed at Barcelo’s accusatory tone. He helped himself to some of Barcelo’s top-shelf Scotch without invitation. He pursed his lips. “I was otherwise occupied. You’re not my only employer. I had calls I had to take.”
“You see what happened here. That damned biker gang were about to hit me where I sleep. It was pure luck we were on our way to find them when they arrived. Caught them on the hop.”
Garcia gesticulated to the gathered men. “Looks like they caught you hopping as well.”
Ortega exchanged a look with his boss; Barcelo was well aware of his low opinion of Babi Garcia.
“Well, you’re here now,” said Barcelo.
Ortega huffed, “Better never than late…”
Garcia flashed him a pretentious smile.
Barcelo continued, “After the bikers were done, those British bastards sucker-punched us. Nearly wrecked the back of my house with a sewage truck. There’s shit everywhere. I don’t know how in hell I’m going to get it out of there. Then the fuckers ran riot on the men who went after them. Put another couple in the hospital.”
“So it wasn’t the Rogue Angels who filled your cars with crap after all.” Garcia finished his drink and poured a ref
“What?” As it dawned on him, Barcelo silently berated himself for not making the simple connection earlier. Had he been played and made to look a fool in front of his men? He had wondered briefly what had spurred the Rogues to directly attack the villa. No matter, they were finished now. “I’ve just been saying those fucking Brits are next! Well I’m glad you’re here now.”
Ortega stared at Garcia, his disdain plain for everyone in the room to see. It was bad enough that the younger men coming up through the ranks were a threat to his position without psychos like Babi-fucking-Garcia getting favouritism from Barcelo. “Boss, I will lead the men to—”
“No!” Barcelo’s voice cut through the room. “I decide who is doing what.”
“Boss—”
“I decide!” He slammed his hands down on his desk. “This is how it’s going to be: as soon as we have our guns and ammo we storm into town and make sure everybody knows who is in charge. Us! The Locos! Not those fucking idiots on bikes, not the police and definitely not those arrogant foreign bastards. I want them dead. And I want every single one of our collections made tomorrow. I want the money back here on my desk. If anybody gives you as much as a sideways look, you make them pay, make them sorry.”
Garcia rattled ice cubes around his glass. “I thought you didn’t like guns in the streets.”
“I don’t like guns being used carelessly. Too many punks waving them around just to look tough and most of them can’t even hold a gun properly. I hate that fake gangster shit.”
“Okay.” Garcia shrugged as he saw the boss’s face was getting redder. “So what do we do in the meantime? Meditate? Play poker? I think I have a pack of cards in my car.”
Ortega hissed through his wired teeth.
Barcelo had his doubts about the mad dog’s mentality but he also knew that mad dogs came in handy when you needed a savage message delivered. “I have a meeting in a few hours. Garcia, you are coming with me.”
Ortega stood up sharply, wincing from the jolt of pain in his jaw. “Boss?”
Barcelo held out a placatory hand. “I need to meet the Bosnians to arrange another shipment of girls.”
“I can still come with you,” said Ortega, giving Garcia a sideways glance.
“No. The Bosnians will have already heard that we lost the last shipment. Even though they’ve already had their money for the last load, they’ll want to be sure we’re tight on our end. If you show up looking like that they’ll laugh in my face. We need the money.”
“Fuck the Bosnians.” Ortega fumed at being excluded.
Garcia chuckled. “You ever tried to fuck a Bosnian? Not so easy, my friend.”
“Fuck you, Garcia.”
“Not so easy to do either you’ll find.”
“Enough or I’ll fuck both of you!” cursed Barcelo.
Garcia turned in a slow and easy pivot, sweeping his gaze around the gang. He tapped the tell-tale bulge under his left armpit. “Again, not so easy I think. I’ve got the only loaded guns in the room.”
“Cut the shit, Babi. I want you and another half-dozen men with me,” said Barcelo. “This is not a democracy. I need to meet with them as soon as possible. Even though the cops couldn’t pin anything on me linked to the last lot of girls, I need to replace the stock. I can’t do that without the Bosnians.”
“Yes, boss.” Garcia bent in an over-exaggerated bow. “And where are we to meet these fine purveyors of wanton flesh?”
“The waterpark.”
Garcia pursed his lips, raising his eyebrows high. “I’ll get my Speedos.”
42
Adam felt a tingling in his stomach as he approached the villa. He slowed his van to look at the scorch marks on the road just outside the main gates, angry butterflies in the dirt. His mouth felt dry and gummy as a guard stepped out from his sentry box. The man waved him forward as Adam lifted a parcel into view and mouthed, “Paquete.”
The boxy van cast a long shadow as Adam headed to the rear of the villa as he had several times before. He tried to look as inconspicuous as possible but felt sure that he would be stopped by one of those urban camo-clad maniacs any moment.
At least he was pretty sure that Barcelo wasn’t in the villa. He thought he’d passed him on the way in from the main road. Not in his usual big-assed Mercedes though, but in a more modest vehicle with a second following close behind. Adam counted his teeth with the tip of his tongue. “While the cat’s away…”
He made sure the compact cable-splicer unit was safe in his pocket as he slipped out of the van. He had sought out and bought two cars in less than a day, trawling through countless vehicles before he found two that he was satisfied with as instructed by the Gunn brothers. That task, although time consuming, had been relatively easy and allowed him to concentrate on more technical work. If he could hack Barcelo’s CCTV network and the computers inside the villa, he would become a proper member of the team. One of the good guys. Maybe he’d get to see some of the action. Maybe then Aunt Sally would treat him like a grown-up. He had already scored with the cars. Maybe he would get the chance to kick some butt. Adam nearly dropped the parcel as he tried the elbow smash his wrestling hero Brock Lesnar used to great effect in his matches.
Pausing at the side door, he tried to look inconspicuous and double checked he wasn’t being watched. He placed the parcel between his feet and pretended to press keys on his digital delivery log. His eyes traced the path of the cable that ran vertically down the wall parallel to the doorframe. A thin black cable tacked to the wall by small black pins. Another furtive glance and Adam slipped the cable splicer from his pocket. He flinched as the case dropped, landing on the tiles between his feet.
Beads of moisture dotted his face as he dropped to one knee and made a show of inspecting the parcel. Adam gulped and palmed the case, relieved that it didn’t appear damaged. He cast another furtive glance over his shoulder.
His fingers were trembling as he gently tugged on the cable to work in some slack as low to the ground as he could manage. A heat crept into his face as he anticipated the icy hand that would close around his neck. Something felt alive in his stomach, twisting and turning. After opening the clamshell case and feeding one side behind the cable he squeezed it tightly closed. The click of the plastic locking button seemed like a gunshot to his senses. Done!
He straightened up with the parcel back in hand and rapped on the door sharply. He was about to repeat the knock when a man answered. The man didn’t speak rather just lifted his chin in an impatient gesture.
“Hola. Paquete,” said Adam and motioned that he required a signature on his digi-pad.
The man was a mean-looking son of a bitch. His arm was in a sling and when he muttered a low gracias Adam could see that his teeth were wired. He knew who this man was. The man that had muscled Aunt Sally for money a couple of weeks ago. The guy that Clay had worked over in the Woo Hoo Club.
“Gracias, Senor Ortega,” he replied and began to turn away. He was stopped by a tight grip on his arm.
Ortega took a step towards him. “How do you know my name?”
For a long moment Adam feared he was going to fill his boxer shorts but stammered out a response in perfect Spanish. “You just signed for the parcel. I’ve gotten very good at deciphering handwriting on this thing.”
Ortega’s gaze flicked once at the digi-pad then back to Adam’s face. He released his grip.
A single thick bead of sweat ran down the side of Adam’s face like a tear. “Te veo.”
Ortega flashed him more of the wire on his teeth and made a point of answering in English. “See you too.”
Adam forced himself not to run back to his van even though it felt like his legs were telling him to do the opposite. All thoughts of trying an elbow smash were forgotten. He felt a sense of relief as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He adjusted his position in the seat as the sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin. That guy was a scary bastard.
He chec
“I friggin’ did it!”
He had another eight deliveries to make on his way back to the depot but could barely contain his excitement about telling the guys. This would be the icing on the cake. He would be one of the team.
43
Clay finished his double helping of fillet steak and potatoes. Dez was living up to his claim of being the best cook on the coast. “Damn that boy can cook.”
“Of course, that’s why he works at the Woo Hoo,” replied Pamela. “People come from miles around for our food. Julie’s pretty good in the kitchen as well.”
Clay cocked his head to one side. “I don’t think Danny’s interested in her culinary skills.”
“Huh?”
“It seems she and Danny have taken a liking to each other,” added Clay.
“Well that’s up to them. They’re both adults.”
“Indeed.”
Pamela leaned across the table, resting her elbows on the polished surface. “So, what about you, Clay? When are you going to settle back down? I know you loved Diana but it’s been years now.”
Clay picked up his mug of coffee and inhaled the aroma before he answered. “It’s hard to explain. I still feel kind of guilty at times, you know? She’s gone and here I am swanning through life with more money than sense.”