Fight or Die by James Hilton
He moved in a fast walk towards the archway of weak orange light at the far end of the cavern. As he reached the portal he paused. He would need to be very careful from here. He was unarmed; both the AK and his Beretta pistol were now empty and discarded.
He looked around, trying to get a fix on where he was. The volcano stood off to his right and he knew that his brother would be there. He moved at a brisk pace, using as much cover as possible, moving from tree to tree, from one outcrop of rocks to the next, ever vigilant for the sounds of danger. He knew if he was caught out in the open with no firearm he was dead.
Directly ahead stood a small rectangular structure. If the park had ever opened it would have probably provided drinks and snacks for throngs of sun-kissed tourists. The shack had been built to resemble a beachfront bar, with walls made from bamboo poles and a weathered tin roof. A stained canvas sheet was tethered over the main serving window.
As he drew closer to the booth he felt an unexpected vibration in his pocket.
Gregor’s phone. Pressing his back to the wall of the shack Clay pulled the phone free and swiped the green handset icon. He grunted into the phone in way of greeting. A gruff voice assailed Clay’s ear. The words were gibberish to him.
Clay smiled briefly before he answered.
“I’m sorry, Greg is dead and therefore unable to take any calls at the moment, but your call is important to us so if you—”
“Jebi se!”
Clay continued in the same mock telesales voice, “I’m sorry I didn’t catch that, but your call is important to us. If you would like to converse in English please press one, for French please press two. For Assholean, press three.”
After a long silence the man spoke again this time in heavily accented English. “You are the American?”
“Well, I’m one of them. There’s quite a lot of us in the world you know.”
“Gregor is dead?”
“Well now, Chuckles, I think you know the answer to that one already.” Clay was sure he could hear teeth grinding.
“Always the same with you Americans. You think you are the heroes, full of your own bullshit and wisecracks. You are not heroes. You never were. You are like spoiled children, lumbering around the world, big-headed and overconfident.”
“Well, that explains why I never got your Christmas card last year.”
The voice on the phone dropped in tone. “I will piss on you as the crows pick out your eyes.”
“I’ll let you into a little secret, pal: this ain’t my first rodeo.”
“I’ll be sure to kill you slow.”
Clay clicked his fingers. “I get it now. You must be asshole number one, the one that ships those little girls to Barcelo, also known as asshole number two. I’ll tell you what, tough guy, when we meet I’ll punch a hole in you for every little girl’s life you’ve ruined.”
“What do you care?” The man snorted in derision. “They’re nothing to you. You think you made a difference by setting a handful of them free from Barcelo’s club? That is his loss not mine. There’s a million more where they came from.”
“Tell you what, comrade, why don’t you tell me where you are and I’ll mosey on over and we can settle our differences properly?”
“Jebi se!”
“I take it from your tone of voice that means you don’t want to be Facebook friends?”
The insult was repeated but at a much louder pitch.
Clay was smiling but knew he needed to move again. “Hey, pal, what has a ten-inch dick and hangs up?”
Click.
72
Danny placed his left hand on top of the low wall and vaulted over into the wide concrete square that lay in front of the steel door. The door was painted a dark brown in order to blend in with the base of the faux volcano. Block-style letters spelled out the warning: SOLO EMPLEADOS! Danny tried the door handle and wasn’t surprised to find it was locked. It looked simple enough to pick; the hours he’d spent as a boy jiggling and bumping locks had paid off many times over the years.
He drew the Gerber from his pocket. After unfolding one of the smallest blades he inserted it into the chamber and gave the handle of the multi-tool a sharp tap with the heel of his hand. He tried the handle again but it held fast. Danny repeated the motion a few more times until the cylinder lock clicked open. Danny glanced again at the words stencilled on the door. The EMPLOYEES ONLY warning made him chuckle. Hardly the biggest transgression he’d committed today. I’ll risk it, he thought as he stepped inside. He closed the door behind him as quietly as possible.
The interior was much as he’d expected: unadorned breeze-block walls were painted a dull grey, there was a bare concrete floor and the ceiling was covered in various pipes and conduits. Sturdy black cables, each as thick as his upper arm, snaked their way from floor to ceiling at regular intervals. The rubber outer skin designed to protect the heavy-duty electrical cables looked thick and durable. Danny tapped a cable with his knuckles as he passed. The next door he reached was unlocked and opened with a lazy screech of rusty hinges. He stepped out onto a raised platform, sweeping his pistol left to right. No immediate danger. The narrow walkway ended in a two-tier staircase leading into a massive open area that smelled faintly of kerosene. Dust motes swirled lazily in the weak orange light that filtered through a series of grates on the far side of the room.
The room housed some of the industrial machinery designed to pump the many millions of gallons of water around the park every day. Danny had no interest in the power output or cubic capacity of the six cyclopean power generators that towered above his head but they certainly looked impressive. The pipes that spread from each of the machines like metallic arteries were painted in blue, red and yellow. Many of the pipes, each thicker than Danny’s upper body, curved and disappeared into the floor of the pumping station. Wide circular hand-wheels adorned many of the pipes at the point they curved downwards. On one side of the room stood a large grey cabinet.
Moving to the power unit, Danny twisted the chrome handle and the door to the main control panel swung open. With careless abandon he began to flick the many switches inside to their ON positions. After a few seconds of waiting the overhead lights began to flicker and hum. Then one by one the fluorescent ceiling lights awoke. A sound like an industrial vacuum cleaner also sprang from the far end of the room. He flicked the last few switches off again. The third switch silenced the vacuum.
A rapid inspection of the wide room yielded little in the way of reward. No barrels of combustible liquids, no vehicles, no real vantage points. Danny gritted his teeth. A barrel or two of petroleum would have come in real handy. The only two barrels in the room were empty apart from a thick layer of dust and a couple of discarded newspapers.
He spotted a large roller door at the opposite end of the room from the circuit breakers. A looped chain hung from the overhead opening mechanism. Danny uncoupled the chain and began to pull down on the slack; with a metallic squeal the door began to rise. He continued the action until a gap of two and a half feet had opened. Warm air pushed inward against the comparatively cool interior.
Staying close to the doorframe, he risked a quick glance outside. He spotted a ramp on a slight incline that stretched from the roller door down to a wire mesh gate that had been painted the same brown shade as the base of the volcano. Dense and weathered shrubs, the same dark straw colour as almost every other dead plant in the park, lined the ramp on both sides from the door to the gate. The gate stood open, angled slightly inwards towards the main building.
He looked back at the two empty barrels. He knew he would have to move quickly. The remaining gunmen would converge on the processing plant as soon as they realised it was occupied. He wanted to be ready when that happened.
He allowed himself the briefest of smiles. This might just work.
73
Clay heard the engine rumble despite the driver creeping forward at a snail’s pace. The Mercedes swung into view slow and easy as if the occupants
He stayed hidden behind one of the standing stones. The volcano was now within spitting distance. He would let the vehicle pass him by and continue to look for an access point.
He was sure Danny would be there.
The vehicle rolled to a gentle halt some forty feet from his position as a shrill sound cut through the dawn air. Clay crept towards both the vehicle and the source of the noise. He cocked his head to one side as the loud wail was repeated. He recognised the unmistakeable sound of a grievously injured man.
“Aaaaargh!” the howl was long and loud. The next words made Clay puff out his cheeks in relief. “Clay! It’s Daniel… I’m down. Help me!”
Clay knew that his younger brother would never use his formal Christian name. He was up to no good. The armed men vaulted from the SUV, weapons shouldered, and moved as one towards the yelling.
Taking care to stay low and out of their peripheral vision, Clay followed them, matching their pace as best he could while still remaining concealed. He watched as one of the three men pushed a chain-link gate further open with his foot.
“Clay… it’s Daniel. I’ve been shot.”
The gunmen moved towards the roller door.
“Aaaaargh!”
The gunmen were almost at the door. One man moved to each side of the open portal while the third remained a few steps behind. The man on the right ducked first and was through the gap in a single fluid motion. The second gunman followed.
Clay heard the sound of retching as the third man entered the volcano.
Then everything happened almost simultaneously.
The shutter door dropped into its closed position.
A thunderous outbreak of gunfire erupted from within.
And two Locos leapt screaming at Clay’s exposed back.
Clay barely had time to turn. The closer of the two swung a pickaxe, aiming at the back of his head. Clay felt the side of the blade graze his skull as he launched himself away. The Loco swore as his swing missed and the heavy tool punched deep into a fibreglass stone.
The second Loco slashed his knife, aiming for Clay’s throat but he batted the man’s wrist away with the edge of his hand as he moved towards the SUV.
Clay scowled as the pickaxe came free with a vigorous tug. The two Locos exchanged a momentary glance then attacked again. Pickaxe rushed straight at Clay, winding up like a lumberjack, while the knife-man raced in from one side.
The pickaxe was a deadly weapon but was also heavy and unwieldy. The spiked blade whistled past and Clay sprang round and slammed a straight right punch into the Loco’s spine. He felt his knuckles sink deep into the man’s body and knew it was a good shot. The man yelped in pain as he struggled to stay on his feet while the second Loco slashed at Clay’s face but missed. Clay skipped back, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, his centre of balance low.
Clay knew that the knife-man would have turned and run if the bigger Spaniard wasn’t leading the way. The little bastard wants a free lunch, he thought; he’d wait until the big guy had pinned him to the ground with the pickaxe then dive and cut Clay’s throat. Clay launched into a side-thrust kick to his left arm and the force sent the man tumbling ass first into the dust.
The pickaxe cut a wide arc through the air as Clay feigned a grab at the man’s neck. The force of his swing again turned and made the attacker twist on his heel but this time Clay was on him and grabbing the weapon. The Loco tried to knee him twice in the groin but Clay twisted and used his momentum to rake the pick shaft up under the Loco’s chin. The thick wooden handle snapped the Loco’s jaws shut, smashing his teeth together. The Spaniard fell back against the body of the SUV, the door slammed shut behind him, and his hand moved to his broken jaw out of instinct. Clay brought the spiked blade down in a furious arc. The pickaxe bit through the man’s torso and the rusted spike sprang a full nine inches through his back, impaling him and pinning him upright as the blade wedged through the metal of the car door. Both of the man’s feet jerked several times as he dangled, then he slumped forward, still held in place. His right hand shook briefly like the tail of a startled rattlesnake.
A flash of silver lanced towards Clay’s face. Clay turned, raising his hands so his fingertips touched, his arms forming a triangle in front of his face. The knife spun from the Loco’s grip, clattering over the roof of the SUV as Clay grabbed his neck. The man backpedalled, but there was no escaping the grip and his face began to turn purple. The Loco tried to punch at Clay’s face but the blows were little more than a cuff. The would-be murderer was turned around so his back pressed against the second protruding spike of the pickaxe and he bucked wildly as he realised his fate. Clay thrust his arms out straight and the spike burst through the Loco in a spray of crimson. The man’s hands shot out and grabbed at Clay then back at his own ruined chest.
Clay leaned in close as the man’s eyes began to cloud over. “You can pick your friends…”
74
Golok heard the loud wailing of the injured man as the Mercedes SUV moved slowly towards the towering volcano. He had heard the sound many times in his life. Soldiers cried for their mothers when they had a bullet lodged in their guts. These men weren’t so brave then.
“Clay! It’s Daniel… I’m down. Help me!”
The driver stopped on command. The wailing voice was coming from the inside the building and the three Bosnians exited the SUV, clutching their weapons, and moved towards the raised roller door.
The two enforcers moved ahead of their boss. Golok glanced behind as he advanced and—satisfied that there was no assassin creeping up behind—followed his two soldiers. The two men ducked under the roller door. The first gunman moved to the right, sweeping the darker interior with his weapon. Seconds later the second man repeated the process, moving to the left. Golok drew his pistol from his waistband and entered the building.
It was much larger than Golok expected. Dull fluorescent lights flickered and hummed high overhead and he closed one eye to allow his vision to quickly adapt to the different lighting conditions. The room smelled of stale air and old chemicals. A large rectangle had been painted onto the floor in a darker shade than the grey of the concrete floor. At one of the corners of the rectangle sat two oil drums. Another wail rang out. Both gunmen took a tentative step towards the source of the din.
Gunfire cut through the room sending sparks flying from the mechanism above the roller door. The door dropped like a guillotine.
Golok’s men unleashed a stream of fire and pushed forward, thin trails of smoke drifting from their weapons. The gunman nearest the oil drums glanced inside as he passed by. He started, and gestured for Golok to look. A cell phone lay at the bottom, its screen illuminated. Golok realised it must have once belonged to one of his men—it was the same model he gave to all his people, with a dark-blue plastic protective case. He wondered whether the man was dead.
A voice issued forth, on speakerphone, magnified by the body of the steel drum. “Oops, my bad. Now you’re trapped in here with us. I guess we’ll just have to kill you all.”
Golok reached into the drum and picked out the phone. “Easy to make threats when you run and hide like little bitches.”
“Listen here, asshole. I’ll be sure to bitch slap you to death when I’m good and ready.”
Golok snorted a dismissive laugh. “What is it with you two? The loud-mouthed American was full of shit too.”
He motioned his two enforcers forward as he spoke again. “You are English, yes?”
“Fuck that! I’m a Scotsman and proud of it.”
“All the same to me. You will die the same, colour of your blood is the same.”
“One big difference…”
“Difference?” asked Golok, his eyes searching for a glimpse of the speaker amidst the curving pipes and bulky machinery.
“A big one!”
The gunman to Golok’s left pitched
“Englishmen can’t shoot for shit.”
The other gunman raced forward, his own rifle chattering in response. The bullets cut through the air and a spray of water began to cascade from the ceiling as a bullet ruptured one of the sprinkler heads.
The gunman glanced back at his leader. He nodded at the flick of Golok’s fingers, moving to the far right of the room. They moved forward in unison, checking behind each island of pipes and machinery. Golok knew the rogue Scotsman was a dangerous enemy and would not hesitate to slaughter them both without a moment of hesitation. His man nodded silently as Golok motioned with two forked fingers, first to his eyes then in a sweeping circular motion around the room. Keep watching!
A single shot rang out but then the room again fell quiet. Golok knew the Scotsman was toying with them now. He rested his pistol across the crook of his left elbow as he scanned the room, then raised the phone to his ear. “No smart remarks? Is that because you realise that you have painted yourself into a corner?”
The voice that responded was barely above a whisper. “No, I was just ruminating a while, you know, chewing a couple of things over. One, you speak pretty good English for a Balkan dickhead. And two, I’m wondering if it’s best to kill both of you together or slot your henchman first then take my time with you. Get up close and personal. Find out what language you scream in.”
“That’s one of the many things I hate about you Brits: your overblown sense of self-importance. The man you just killed was worth ten of you.”
“Aye? Is that right? Well, he’s dead just the same.”