Fight or Die by James Hilton
Clay flinched as bullets shredded the ground in front of Danny. With a yelp, the younger Gunn brother pitched backwards into the raft run.
Clay squeezed the trigger. The closest of his pursuers dodged behind the same tree Clay had just abandoned. The Texan pivoted and dropped to his knee at the other side of the cube. The second man was turning his weapon down into the raft run. He began to fire.
“Danny!” Clay’s AK spat fire and the man doubled over, bullets punching crimson holes through his lower abdomen. The man clamped his finger tight on the trigger of his rifle, spraying a hail of bullets into the channel. Then the eviscerated gunman pitched head first into the water slide.
Clay gave out a loud grunt in satisfaction. But any celebration was momentary as the other gunman unleashed a bullet storm in Clay’s direction. The substation shuddered as bullets cut through the exterior and ricocheted off the machinery hidden inside. Dodging again to the opposite side, Clay raised his weapon tight to his shoulder. The man was still behind the palm tree. The dark-silver barrel of his identical AK74 angled out from the bullet-riddled tree trunk.
A story Danny had told him years before sprang into Clay’s mind. Would it work again? Worth a shot…
The Texan stooped and snatched up a fist-sized rock. He threw the stone overhand at the man’s position. “Grenade!”
The Bosnian sprang from cover, eyes wide, as the rock landed just behind him and Clay opened fire. The man continued sideways as the rattling burst from the Texan’s rifle shredded his heart and lungs. He dropped to his knees, his hands forming claws at his chest. The man’s mouth worked like a fish on a riverbank and a vomit of frothy blood escaped from his throat.
Clay guessed at the sentiment. “Yeah, and the horse you rode in on!”
After making sure there were no other gunmen in sight, Clay raced back to the raft run. He peered down, a knot forming in his gut.
Danny stared up at him through the iron sights of his weapon. On seeing Clay’s worried expression, he grinned and spoke with his best Sean Connery voice. “Well, you’re a shite for shore eyes.”
“Dumbass,” said Clay, extending his hand to haul his brother out of the channel for a second time.
Danny didn’t take it. He paused, blowing out his cheeks. “Good timing though. That ass-wipe had me dead in his sights.”
“All part of the service.” Clay tipped the brim of an imaginary hat. “If I can’t off someone for my little brother…”
“Just a second,” said Danny. He trotted over to the two dead men who lay in the concrete curve. Ignoring the dark crimson ribbon that now trickled its way down the slope, he ejected the magazines from the fallen weapons. “The newer model Kalashnikovs are chambered for different ammo than the AK47s but spares for the 74s will come in very handy.” He pushed one clip into his pocket and passed up the older model Kalashnikov. He then reached up for Clay’s hand.
After accepting the second spare mag for the AK74, Clay raised his chin to his left then to his right. “So, do we backpedal, or keep goin’ this-a-way?” He visualised the park map he’d seen on the faded sign near the entrance.
“We’re here now,” Danny said. “We might as well play.”
Clay nodded as he glanced at the blood on his forearm. “Or we could keep going in a straight line. We’d reach the perimeter sooner or later. Climb the fence and be home for margaritas before bedtime.”
“That sounds like sensible advice coming from a trouble-making Texan.” Danny gave a lopsided smile. “But you know that little thing inside your head that stops you doing or saying things you know you shouldn’t. Well, mine doesn’t seem to be working at the moment.”
“Fine by me. I still have a bullet or two left to use up anyway.”
“Good, because I can hear more of those fuckers heading this way,” said Danny.
* * *
Seconds after the brothers had ducked back behind the substation a group of three Locos broke into view. All three men were brandishing knives, which glinted sparks of orange in the early dawn sun. As they reached the dead Bosnians they skidded to a halt. There was a rapid exchange of heated words, which ended with the tallest of the men stabbing the air with his knife and demanding that they continue.
Behind the bullet-riddled cube, Danny motioned for Clay to stay low. The Locos were out of breath and their heavy footsteps announced their proximity easily. Danny allowed the first man to pass the cube then leaned out slightly from behind his vantage point. As the next two men stepped into view he breathed out slowly, relaxing, and squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession. Even if he missed the heart the hypovolaemic shock would render them as good as dead. But he knew there was no missing at this range. Crack, crack, crack!
All three men dropped simultaneously, face down, as the three single shots hit home. Each man bore an identical wound: a neat hole just below his left shoulder blade.
As the three men lay twitching in the dirt the man in the middle of the triangle feebly raised his knife in Danny’s direction. There was little chance of it being thrown but another shot from the AK47 removed that chance and a portion of the defiant gangster’s cranium. Danny angled the rifle towards the other Locos but the workhorse weapon proved empty. “Never enough bullets.”
“When this is over we need to talk.” Clay’s voice was one of disapproval.
Danny scowled at his brother. “I hope you’re not gonna give me any crap about shooting them in the back.”
“No. I mean about you showing off. Three goons capped like that wins you a friggin’ coconut. Makes me feel… inadequate.”
Danny glanced down at the dead bodies that littered the ground. His mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “You promised Dez that we’d kill them all. So let’s get to it.”
“Again, which way?”
Danny pointed to the park’s centrepiece. “Let’s head for the volcano.”
It was Clay’s turn to smile. “Yeah, because nothing bad ever happens in a volcano.”
“Move it or lose it, ya big ape.”
65
Barcelo leaned against the low wall for support. The expensive suit he wore was now stained with sweat and dust. The pain in his knee was sending nausea-inducing spears through his nervous system. He was sure that something was broken in there. His nose and face throbbed in time with the pounding of his heart. Sweat beaded his face, stinging his eyes.
Swearing, he forced himself to move.
Golok and his men were out there chasing down the Brits. If by chance they doubled back he wanted to be ready, not caught wheezing and walking like an arthritic ape. Using one hand for support, he gripped the top of the wall. He could feel the hammering of his heart against the pistol he had taken from Garcia as he pressed it tight against his chest.
The hatred he felt for the two renegades was unbridled and he knew that today was win or lose everything. Leaning back against the wall for a moment he sucked in deep breaths through his mouth.
A week ago everything had been sweet. The collection business was running smoothly, the protection money from the other businesses and the slow but steady muscling of the foreigners was helping him build his empire nicely. Nothing could be traced back to him directly; all of the procured bars, cafés and clubs were now owned by younger members of his outfit. He had learned that lesson early. If the law ever decided to follow the money trail, as he knew it would, he had built in a series of effective firebreaks. Nothing owned in his name meant that there would be nothing to come back on him.
But since those two troublemakers had arrived—were there really only two of them?—everything had turned to donkey shit. The Woo Hoo Club had been the start of it all. Once the Brits were dead and gone he would send his men back a final time and take the business. He had offered them a fair price in the beginning but now they would hand over the deeds while begging for their lives.
But they had to catch the Brits first.
The staccato rattle from automatic weapons made him look up sharp
Another burst of gunfire, then another. A single choked scream of pain then it was quiet again. Have they caught them already?
Then another series of shots. Popping like fireworks. Crack, crack, crack.
Several seconds of silence followed. The only sound was that of Golok’s Mercedes. The SUV was not in sight but the powerful engine echoed throughout the empty waterpark.
One more shot cut through the air. Crack!
Were the Brits dead?
Barcelo flinched as the cell phone in his breast pocket warbled. He closed his eyes as he fumbled for the phone with his free hand. Stupid mistakes like not having your phone on silent would get you killed. When he answered his voice was just above a whisper. He was sure the Brits were at the other side of the park by now, and maybe dead, but saw no sense in tempting fate any further. “Yes?”
Garcia’s voice had the same conspiratorial tone. “Three of your men are dead.”
A new pain took up residence behind Barcelo’s eyes. “Three?”
“The Brits are biting back.”
“Are you enjoying this, Babi?” Barcelo’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his pistol.
“What’s not to enjoy? I would have been one of our three, but I swapped places on the way down the hill. Dumb luck, but I’m still alive and kicking. If it’s any consolation three of the Bosnians are down as well.”
“That doesn’t help at all. Keep after them.”
“I’ve got another plan. I’m going to hit them where they least expect it. I’ll see you later.”
“Babi… Babi?”
But Garcia had terminated the call.
66
The sound of the Mercedes’ engine rumbled ominously as it traced a circular path, avoiding the sunken channels and frameworks of the slides. Danny looked again at the four-storey volcano that served as the centrepiece of the park. The rumbling of the engine provided the momentary illusion of the volcano preparing to erupt. But the faux volcano served another purpose. Many parks housed the essential water pumps, generators and maintenance bays inside and under such constructions. It would provide both cover and an opportunity to strike back effectively.
He and Clay ran at a pace a little faster than jogging speed, cutting through the foliage in a straight line. Danny had abandoned the now empty AK47, instead carrying one of the stolen 74s.
Clay dropped to one knee, weapon held high, as the sound of the Mercedes’ engine grew louder again. The vehicle was not in sight but the powerful engine echoed from multiple directions. Danny paused and tilted his head to one side, eyes closed, but he couldn’t identify from which direction the rumbling came. The SUV seemed to be circling them like a jungle predator. Tense seconds seemed to elongate as they waited in silence, anticipating gunfire. Then it was quiet again. The vehicle had either moved beyond earshot or the engine had been turned off.
“Keep moving,” Danny prompted. This spurred Clay back into motion. He again set off with his loping run. A dark patch of sweat marked out a wide inverted triangle on the back of Clay’s shirt.
Danny paused at the base of a set of winding steps. The ascending stairs wound their way around a central structure that resembled a pylon. Steps that were designed to let tourists climb to the apex of the tower in order to ride the attached water slide.
An ornate but weathered signpost opposite the slide declared that they were entering the area of the park known as CREEPY CAVERNS. Some twenty feet away from the open stairs loomed a faux cave entrance. Pointed stalactites gave the sculptured cave the appearance of monstrous yawning jaws. The outer walls had already been tagged with multicoloured graffiti. A large set of eyes, complete with frowning bushy eyebrows peered over the name “Pez”.
Clay looked back at his brother. He seemed about to ask why Danny had stopped but Danny waved him into silence.
Someone was speaking. The words were indecipherable but the sentiment was unmistakable. The owner of the voice stood some thirty feet away on the footpath that led to both the caverns and the ride steps.
The man looked almost identical to the other suited gunmen they had already encountered. Thick-necked, severe haircut, hard eyes and an AK held at port arms. In his left hand he held a cell phone. The man was nodding and looking from side to side as he talked. With a final affirmation he ended the call and started towards the steps.
Danny felt sure he knew what the man was going to do: he was heading for the high ground so that he would be in a superior position from which to spot the targets for the remaining soldiers in the Mercedes. It was Warfare 101.
Danny scowled. He wasn’t about to let that happen. He eased himself from his position of cover and as the man moved closer Danny lined him up in the sights of his weapon. The gunman was looking upwards to the top of the tower.
The stock of the Kalashnikov was cool against the right side of Danny’s face. The distinctive smell of the weapon filled his nose. He stayed close to the structure, motionless, not wanting to give the approaching man any chance to retaliate.
The man stepped closer. Danny aimed between two of the horizontal steps. The gap was a little more than eight inches. More than enough.
Another step closer.
“Danny!” Clay’s voice cut through the air as another of the gunmen, grim-faced and determined, sprang from cover from atop the entrance of the cavern and immediately opened fire. Only the rising blur of motion in Clay’s peripheral vision prevented Danny from being shredded by the onslaught.
Clay returned a volley as Danny ducked back behind the protection of the stanchion post. The man on the top of the cavern dodged to one side as he switched his aim towards Clay. Both men exchanged a three-round burst, like furious boxers using the jab to test out the other’s defences.
Danny couldn’t see the first man anymore. Ducking low and making himself as small a target as possible, he scooted back to his left. The gunman had not moved towards the cavern entrance—too much ground to cover. He could have retreated but Danny had seen many of their ilk. These men did not run away. That left one option. The man was trying to flank them and he had moved fast. Danny knew he would hit them from a side-on position. It was a classic pincer movement taught to every soldier during basic battlefield training; engage the enemy from the front and while their attention was held, bite into them from their blind side.
The surrounding bushes and trees were desiccated but were still dense in parts. More than dense enough to conceal a stealthy approach. Danny hefted his rifle. How many rounds were left? Probably not enough. Danny moved.
Another flurry of bullets cut the air between the cavern crest and Clay, who had moved up the side of the pathway. Danny risked a glance in Clay’s direction. He was working his way backwards in a semi-crouch. Clay hopped over a crop of low bushes and moved behind a seven-foot-high dolmen. The man on the top of the cavern would not be able to see him.
Clay shouted, “Danny, you okay?”
But Danny was gone.
67
Danny moved fast, heading first towards the mouth of the cavern then veering off at an angle to the position that the gunman had occupied moments earlier. By moving towards the opening he moved below the second shooter’s line of sight. The shooter would have to stand up and move to the edge of the cavern roof and give up his vantage point. He knew Clay would give him a third eye if that happened.
Tracing a wide V-shaped path, Danny moved to the meagre cover afforded by a palm tree that was leaning at an unhealthy angle. A small mound of earth at its base told of roots that had not fully taken hold in the neglected landscape. A quick glance at the dry soil showed another sign. Less than six feet away, a footprint marked the man’s path.
Taking care to keep his balance low a
Click… A sound like a knuckle cracking caused Danny’s head to swivel. He moved to the next tree, alert for any tell-tale warnings. He knew the man that he was stalking was a dangerous foe and had no intention of underestimating the threat. A phrase often repeated by his colour sergeant in his former regiment sprang into his mind. “Bullshit and bravado kills more soldiers than bullets.”
A slight blur of motion flitted between another tree and one of the supporting legs of the overhead water ride. Danny tracked the motion instantly, moving his weapon as a natural extension of his body. The blur had been moving left to right from his perspective. He sighted some twenty feet to the right. Slowing his breathing, he waited for the man to move in between the next two trees. It would only take the briefest of seconds. A tight three-rounder to the body, aiming for centre mass, then another safety shot to the head. Job done.
But the man did not appear. Keeping the rough bole of the tree pressed against his back, Danny began a slow pivot. Where the hell was he?
Keeping the AK raised as he moved, Danny shrugged his pack free from his back. In a continuous serpentine movement, he steadied the weapon in his left hand, slipped his right arm through the shoulder strap, then repeated the motion in mirror image. The backpack landed between his feet. Working left-handed he dropped to one knee and opened the plastic clip with his thumb and forefinger. Inside the bag, he slowly moved his hand in a small circle as if swirling water in a sink.