Search and Destroy by James Hilton
He turned to where Kennedy and Roosevelt were loading up their weapons. Kennedy worked the firing bolt on one of the long guns. He’d served as a Marine Corps sniper and still enjoyed the thrill of the long-range shot. It took real skill to operate as a trained sniper. Kennedy was a valuable asset. Long hours of solitude, pinpoint concentration and above all else, discipline. The gang-bangers of the world could put a bullet in an enemy but it tended to be a spray-and-pray affair. Civilians got hurt. A lot of soldiers seemed to be that way as well. But Kennedy’s mantra was: There’s no such thing as friendly fire, only careless fire. Of his seventeen confirmed kills under Lincoln’s leadership, not one involved any collateral damage.
“Roosevelt” preferred it up close and personal. A Saiga-12 assault shotgun twinned with a modified Dan Wesson Valor .45 were his firearms of choice. Lincoln considered him a blunt weapon. Valuable but more expendable than Kennedy and the tech-savvy Washington.
A tapping on the glass window of the hangar office alerted Lincoln that Washington was trying to get his attention. The tech specialist had set up shop in the cramped space, and as Lincoln entered, the aroma of burned oil and stale sweat greeted him. Washington pointed to a map display on his laptop. “We’ve got a fix on the other team’s sat-phone.”
“Where?”
“Like I said, the main power is still off but the secondary chip pinged from a single location for nearly twenty-two hours. See, here’s where the first team reaches the hotel, on the target’s trail. Then they’re on the move, out in the wild, going fast. Then the phone is static, as I said.” He pointed to an area of desert. “There’s nothing on the map, but it’s worth a shot.”
Lincoln stared at the screen for a few seconds. “They could have been parked up at a rest stop.”
Washington shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Or they could have been lying low at a safe house,” Lincoln continued.
A smile from Washington. “Maybe.”
“Worth checking out. We’re a man down, and could do with their backup, and whatever intel they have on the target. She could be anywhere now, but they might have knowledge of her intended destination. Better than sitting here with our thumbs up our kazoos.”
“Sir, I like a thumb up my kazoo. I’ve even paid for it on occasion.”
Lincoln laughed. “Okay mount up. We’re moving out.” He left the office and repeated the order to the other two operators. Within less than a minute all four were in the SUV, with Washington at the wheel.
The Toyota gathered speed as they left the airport grounds. Washington was being guided by his GPS. The route to the satellite phone’s last location skirted close to a couple of small towns. These were of no interest. The nearest relevant population centre was a small dot labelled Castillo. The phone’s coordinates corresponded to a location some twenty miles past Castillo’s dot. They skirted the busier roads out of Las Vegas, then joined the 157 heading east.
Roosevelt leaned forward from the back seat, growling, “I don’t care who these guys are. I’m gonna deep-six every last one of them.”
No one in the vehicle disagreed.
22
Danny Gunn worked his jaw, feeling the muscles begin to tighten. Clinton had caught him with a couple of solid blows. He silently berated himself. A few years ago he would have dropped the man with that first throat strike. He glanced down at his callused hands, making a promise to himself that he would sharpen up his hand-to-hand skills as soon as he was done with this shit-stick.
Clay glanced over. You okay bro?”
“Aye, I’m fine.” Then he added, “Nothing a shot or two of Glenfiddich wouldn’t fix.”
“I’ll see your Glenfiddich and raise you two Jack Daniels,” quipped Clay.
Andrea glanced between brothers and added thoughtfully, “I’ll see your Jack Daniels and raise you a pint of snakebite.”
Danny laughed. “Classy. They don’t even serve that any more at home. Your chances of a snakebite over here are just about zero.”
Clay raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard of it, never had one.”
“It’s lager mixed with cider, half a pint of each,” said Andrea. “It’s good.”
“It’s what’s known in the trade as ‘loopy juice’,” Danny added.
Clay affected his best Queen’s English voice. “Ah, one can’t go wrong with a little loopy juice.”
“Indeed,” replied Danny. “Who said that, Queen Victoria?”
“Victoria Beckham.”
“Damn, I was so close.”
“Yeah, one is a strange old bird with only one expression—”
“—And the other was the Queen of England.”
Andrea nudged Danny’s shoulder. “Hey, I’ve met Posh and Becks, they’re really nice people.”
“I liked all of the Spice Girls, just couldn’t eat a whole one.” Danny crossed his eyes and feigned a sick expression.
“What, not even Victoria? I’ve seen McDonald’s fries that were wider than she is.”
Andrea was now laughing as well. Her voice had a strange nervous energy, almost exhilaration. “Stop it, right now.” She shook her head. “I can’t figure you guys out. One minute it’s death and destruction, the next you’re taking the piss!” After a few seconds of quiet she asked, “So where are we going now?”
Clay had manoeuvred the pickup in an arc, tracing a wide sweep first heading away from the Lakeview, then parking on the opposite side of the road. He had turned the vehicle to allow a view of both the rear and side entrances of the hotel.
“Nowhere,” said Danny. “We’re watching.”
“Watching what? Shouldn’t we be heading for the hills? You said we needed to get out of Nevada as soon as possible.”
“It’s better to be the hunter than the hunted. Now it’s our turn,” said Danny.
He pointed to where a large motorcycle was waiting to join the traffic flow from the rear car park. The bike carried two occupants. The main rider removed his helmet long enough to spit a mouth full of red saliva onto the roadside. Andrea recognised him from the hotel corridor—Bush. The passenger was slumped low, with one hand around the driver’s middle and the other clutched across his own torso. Clinton.
As the bike headed west, Clay began to tail the Harley, four cars back. Danny didn’t need to ask why. They both knew that the bike would remain within the speed limit. Injured hitmen and traffic police were never a good mix.
“Where do you think they’re going?” asked Andrea. She glanced between the brothers.
“Taking care of their injured. So we’ll see where they do that and maybe pop in and ask a couple of questions.” Danny gave her his best great-white-shark smile.
Clay chuckled, his wide shoulders bouncing up and down. “Pop in, yeah, I like that. Maybe a little Gunn action is just what the doctor ordered.”
Andrea shook her head again, bemused. “You guys just make stuff up as you go along.”
Clay’s chuckles intensified. He turned to Danny. “Hey, tell her about the thing with the car battery.”
Danny shrugged, giving Andrea a sideways glance.
“Car battery?”
Clay started again. “Ah, he won’t tell you but I will. Danny boy here was working in the Central African Republic a few years back—freelance, you understand, not army. His team was sent to crack down on gangs coming over the border from Sudan. On patrol one night, they happen upon a raiding party’s camp.” Clay looked over at his brother. “How am I doing so far?”
Danny rolled his hand in the air in an impatient gesture.
“So Danny and another couple of his guys come across one of the gangs camped at an old garage on the outskirts of town. These boys had AKs coming out their ears and were getting ready to use them.”
“Stop hamming this up,” interjected Danny. “There were about ten of them and three of us. They had a man on sentry posted at the front gate of the garage yard. There was no easy way to get to him. We didn’t have any suppressors for our weapons and if
Andrea asked, “So where does a car battery come into all of this?”
Clay made a left turn, still keeping four car spaces between them and the Harley.
“The sentry was leaning against an outbuilding, smoking. We had approached from high ground and were looking down on the compound. We needed to get up to the main building as quietly as possible, so I used what was to hand.”
“The battery?” she asked.
“Aye, there was an old truck battery lying next to a pile of tyres. I picked it up and dropped it on the Sudani’s head from about five feet.”
“Jesus, what happened next?”
“The guy went down like a bullock in a slaughterhouse. We dropped down, double-timed it over to the main building and introduced ourselves to the rest of the glee club.”
“And?”
“And they never raped or killed anyone else ever again.”
“When we get finished here, you can tell her about the Somali pirates. Oh and that thing with the meat grinder,” said Clay. He slowed the vehicle as the motorbike rolled to a stop outside a house with a bright-yellow front door.
“Give it a rest Clay,” Danny grumbled again.
Clay responded with a wink. Andrea shifted in her seat. Danny could tell that she wasn’t quite sure what to say.
“Heads up. We’re back on the clock.”
* * *
Bush almost carried Clinton to Ricardo Chavez’s front door. The ex-army medic barely raised an eyebrow as the two of them came in, and he wordlessly hooked an arm around Clinton’s waist, making the man groan. He and Bush walked down the hallway that divided the squat house into two equal halves, and laid Clinton out on an examination table in a bedroom at the far end.
Chavez cut away Clinton’s shirt and prodded gently at the ribcage, which was covered in angry patches of purple. Clinton drew up his knees in an attempt to ease the pain. Chavez sniffed.
“Broken ribs. Bruised kidneys. Nasty head hit. If this was kosher I’d get a scan.”
Bush nodded. “How long will he be down?”
Chavez filled a hypodermic. “Hard to say.” He addressed Clinton as he injected the drug. “Morphine. You’re welcome.” He turned back to Bush. “And you?” He gestured towards the bloodstain on Bush’s hip. Bush pulled down the waistband of his trousers to reveal the long graze of a bullet wound. An inch further in and he was pretty sure his day would have been ruined. He stood impassively as Chavez cleaned the wound and slapped on a dressing.
“Thanks.” He shook Chavez’s hand, then grasped Clinton’s shoulder. “See you soon, you lucky bastard.” Clinton smiled broadly. The drugs had clearly kicked in.
Bush walked back to his bike, fists clenched. He wanted to be there when the team caught up with these fuckers. He and Clinton were tight, real buddies both on and off the clock. But he couldn’t get sloppy, no alerting the cops, no speeding. Of course he was a legal firearms permit-holder. But the modified Kel-Tec and the bloodstained trousers he wore would raise a few more questions than he had patience to answer.
He pulled the bike over to the kerb as he joined the eastbound 157. He tugged his rubber-coated cell phone from a pocket and activated the the sat-nav application. Two spots were marked on the display. One, a blinking green dot, showed the position of Lincoln’s vehicle. Another dot, this one red and solid, indicated his destination. After clipping the phone securely to the inside of the Harley’s fairing, he accelerated so quickly that Ghost Rider would have struggled to keep up.
23
Clay ducked behind the wheel of the truck as Bush re-emerged from the house. He was obviously in a hurry to leave. A Hispanic man of about thirty stood in the doorway for a moment, then disappeared into the house. The motorbike sent up grey smoke from its wheels as it shot down the street.
“How’d you want to do this?” asked Danny.
Clay frowned for a moment then answered. “I’m gonna carry you in.”
Danny looked doubtful. “What about Andrea?”
“Stays in the truck. Out of sight.” Danny nodded. No doubt this time.
Andrea began to raise an objection but Danny stopped her. “We don’t know how many are inside, but I really want to speak to that fucker again. If it’s too hot, we’ll tear out of here.”
Andrea looked nervous at the prospect of being left alone but finally nodded in agreement. A smile from Clay seemed to help a little. She lay flat across the seats and pulled an old Indian blanket over herself. After a moment she scrabbled in the duffle bag and brought out Tansen’s revolver and held it across her chest.
The brothers walked to the house together, Danny leaning heavily on Clay—an injured man barely able to support himself. Clay rang the bell. The Hispanic man answered almost immediately.
“You forget something?” He looked suddenly confused as he registered the new faces. Clay released his hold on Danny, who sagged into the man’s arms, effectively immobilising him.
“We’ve got another man down,” said Clay urgently. “Who are you? Get the other doctor, quick.”
Their host began to haul Danny to the rear of the house. “I’m Chavez, didn’t they tell you? I’m on my own. What’s wrong with this one?”
Danny straightened like Lazarus on his most famous day. “Well I’ve got an awful stiffness in my dick. I’ve called Beyoncé but she just can’t fit me in this week.”
Chavez sprang back, his face darkening. “Get the fuck out.”
Clay grinned. “We need to have a word with Mr Bump in there.”
Chavez’s hand crept towards his trouser pocket.
Clay whipped the Colt Python from his belt. “Unless you’re thinking about showing me your private tattoos, you’d better keep your hands where I can see them. Empty your pockets with your left hand, two fingers only.”
Chavez tossed his wallet and a folding knife onto the floor.
Clay shook his head in disappointment. “Do no harm. Isn’t that the hippopotamus oath?”
“It’s the Hippocratic Oath, asshole.”
“That’s what I said.” Clay smiled. “Now, you’re a sensible-looking cabrón, so just sit there and we’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
The brothers exchanged a look. Danny moved down the hall, clearing each room as he passed. As he reached the recumbent patient, he turned and gave Clay the thumbs-up.
Clay addressed the medic, pointing into a bedroom with the barrel of the revolver. “Let’s go in here and give those crazy kids some privacy. You know what it’s like on a first date.”
Danny examined the bruised body and after a short spell of consideration, tipped Clinton bodily off the padded examination table. He landed in an untidy sprawl. Danny slung the bed to the side of the room. Clinton managed to make it onto all fours before Danny’s shin slammed into his damaged ribs.
“You don’t write, you don’t phone…”
Clinton rolled onto his back, a look of furious recognition on his face. “You!”
“Who else were you expecting? I think Dr Giggles is taking a coffee break at the moment.”
Clinton sneered. “Chavez was a combat medic with the Rangers. He’ll eat your man alive.”
As if prearranged, a head-shaped hole appeared in the panel of the door. A second later Clay stuck his own head through. “Turns out he didn’t care much for small talk. Kind of touchy, if you want my opinion. Hey, you two go ahead, I’ll wait for Sleeping Beauty here to wake up.”
Danny turned back to Clinton, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m going to ask you some questions and I will be getting answers before I leave. You know the drill: there’s the easy way or the other way. And no one’s here to bail you out. It’s just me and you, Mr Magoo.”
24
“There’s no easy approach. We could ditch the van and close in on foot, but that could go south if we need to leave in a hurry.” Washington spoke as he surveyed the landscape between the team’s parked vehicle
Lincoln nodded. “I think you’re right. We’re not tracking the last team—we’re tracking the target, or at least where she was before Clinton and Bush found her at the hotel. She or the two men she’s with must have taken the sat-phone, not knowing it can be tracked. And if there’s someone in the house they’re sure to be watching us by now.”
Washington proffered the binoculars. “It’s built on an elevation. Good visibility for ten miles in every direction.”
Lincoln accepted the binoculars and scanned the ranch house. “Well we’re here now. Worth taking a look. It looks lived in, likely the owner helped the target—Topcat said the last team reported that she took a tumble, probably needed medical assistance. We’ll go in and find out what the owner knows.” He motioned at Kennedy. “I want you up on that ridge to the west. If we encounter trouble you’ll be our silent support.”
Kennedy made no comment, but the smile he gave told of his readiness to shoot.
A guttural rumbling announced Bush’s arrival on the Harley. He dismounted and after a quick stretch updated Lincoln on Clinton’s condition.
“You follow us in on the bike. Park up three hundred yards out by those trees and circle around so you’re coming in from our three o’clock. Kennedy is taking the high ground. Me and Washington and Roosevelt are going in from the front. We don’t know who or what we might find in there, so everyone stay sharp.” Lincoln pointed to the blood that had dried into an inkblot pattern on Bush’s hip. “You okay?”
“Yeah, it looks a lot worse than it is. The bullet creased my hip. Bled quite a lot but Chavez fixed me up,” replied Bush.