Search and Destroy by James Hilton
“The woman also told me that the flash drive contains no government intel but instead some kind of snuff movie. Some tight-assed Brit psycho getting his rocks off. That may well be the case but my orders remain the same. Recover the package and make sure that no one else has had access or opportunity to copy the intel.”
Clay looked up from the floor. “You dumb shit. Don’t you realise that she’s been set up? Most likely by the man in the video. He’s sent out a false flag on her so the murder on the film doesn’t get out.”
“Not my concern.” Lincoln’s voice was as cold as a winter wind. “I took the pay cheque so I’ll deliver the package.”
“But the woman is just caught up in something way bigger than she can handle. Wrong place, wrong time.” Clay’s stomach muscles twitched involuntarily as the after-effects of the stun gun began to wear off.
Lincoln closed his eyes slowly as if he was addressing a naïve schoolchild. He emphasised each of his following words separately. “Not… My… Concern!”
“Fucking retard!” spat Clay. “You had your chance to do the right thing. I guess we’ll have to do it the hard way.”
Lincoln looked down in genuine amusement. “The hard way? For whom? You’re the one trussed up like a pig at a shit-kicker’s wedding.” This brought a snort of amusement from the other man. Clay recognised him as the operative who had gone after Andrea—Lincoln had called him “Bush”. He held a pair of wide-jawed pliers in his fist.
“Hard for you when I get out of here and strangle you with your own intestines.”
Bush clacked the pliers open and closed like hedge shears. “Wow, the cowpoke’s got a colourful vocabulary. Intestines… you getting that, Linc?”
Lincoln clearly got it. Clay got another shot in the guts with the stun gun. Then he pressed the stun gun tight into Clay’s neck. He squeezed down long and hard on the trigger. Clay pulled against his bonds as the waves of paralysing agony swept through every inch of his body. He fought against the blackness that threatened to envelop him. Unconsciousness would provide brief respite from the unwanted shock therapy, but he might never wake up again.
He heard the sound of a zip being undone, then hot liquid on his face. Bush was laughing.
Clay closed his eyes and mouth instinctively, his fury boiling to a new level. When he was sure that the stream was finished he opened his eyes—only to receive another splash of yellow liquid full in the face.
Bush cackled. “Strike two. One more and you’re out.”
Avoiding his piss-covered head, Lincoln poised the stun gun a couple of inches above Clay’s chest. “Last chance. Have you passed or sold any data from the flash drive on to anyone else?”
“There is no intel! Just that murder video. That’s what they’re trying to cover up. Don’t you get it?”
Lincoln pressed the prongs into Clay’s chest. “Did you know that a charge from a stun gun like this one administered directly over your heart can send it into cardiac arrest? No? Let’s give it a go, shall we? Truth is, we don’t need you or the mac-daddy downstairs… so it really doesn’t matter how you go out. The girl is to be picked up and shipped off in less than an hour. Think about that as you go to the great rodeo in the sky.”
Bush finished adjusting himself and held a hand up. “Wait. I want to try these out. I want to see how many fingers and toes I can squish before Tex here cries like a girl.”
Lincoln removed the stun gun and nodded. “Have your fun. But we need to move in thirty.”
Bush again gripped the pliers, clearly happy. “Thirty minutes will be more than enough time.”
He placed the open jaws over Clay’s left pinkie toe. Then he began to exert a slow but steady pressure.
47
“You’ve definitely got the woman?”
Lincoln’s voice was a reassuring purr in Topcat’s ear. “Trussed up and ready for shipment. I’ve sent our man in Key West to the pilot’s house to recover the flash drive.”
“How far has it spread?”
“There is only one other player that had a chance to view the file, apart from the two men we’ve got here—the pilot’s wife. If she’s at home Chad Casey will pick up the data and terminate her at the same time. If not, he’ll clip her tonight, just to be sure.”
“Who are the two men?”
“Brothers, Danny and Clay Gunn.”
“Either of them Scottish?”
“How did you know? Danny, smaller of the two. Why?”
“He called me on the last team’s sat-phone.”
Thomas Carter nodded to himself. The mission was nearly done. He would be glad when this was over. Ever since the call from that indignant Scotsman an uneasy feeling had taken up residence at the back of his mind. But he had taken the money so he would see the mission through to the end. “Do it. Call me back when the woman has been loaded.” He had already arranged for a specialist to interrogate Andrea Chambers. Marcus Brightwell was a real oddball but he always got the job done, and strangely the man had rung him, saying he was available. Yes, strange that, but a gift horse… He was aware that the brief had been only to recover the flash drive and kill the woman. But that phone call had bothered him. What if there was some truth to what the Scot had said? Was the line about government intel a hoax? The man, Danny Gunn, had said the video showed an MP committing a murder. Best to cover his own ass and find out the truth.
Brightwell would take possession of the woman in just over an hour. Then he would know categorically if there were any more risks.
“What about the men with her?” asked Topcat.
“On their way out as we speak.”
Topcat ended the call. He sat back in his chair for a moment, then picked up the phone again. Enough waiting, it was time to get to the bottom of this. Time for this minister to answer some questions. If it turned out he’d been used, if some low-level politician had tried to use his business to clean up after himself… Well Topcat knew how to clean up, too.
48
Danny was nearing the end of his resilience. Washington had proved remorseless in his assault. When he had finally tired, his second, Kennedy, had stepped back in immediately and begun a new beating. Streams of blood ran down Danny’s face. The scar tissue on his side burned with an intensity that almost matched the flames that had caused the original damage.
He sucked in desperately needed gulps of air as both men paused, laughing at some unheard comment. There was a constant drumming in his ears. At first he wasn’t sure what the source of the staccato rhythm was, then in a moment of clarity he realised that there was a heavy rain lashing against the room’s single small window.
Washington turned to his second. “You ever see the Roman Candle?”
Kennedy shook his head in the negative.
“Aw man, it’s nasty.” He looked back at Danny. “We’re about finished here anyway. Have you got any flares in your kit?”
Kennedy considered a moment. “I think I’ve got a couple of red-burners in my bag. Regular road flares. Any good?”
“They’ll work a treat.” Washington waved his injured arm at the prisoner. “You just hang around there, Batman. Just so you can look forward to the next instalment, we’re going upstairs but when I get back I’m gonna stick a flare right up your ass and light it! Cook you from the inside. Something to think about while we’re gone.”
The men climbed the stairs. Before leaving the basement, Washington flicked the light switch off. “Hope you’re not scared of the dark.”
The basement door slammed shut, the sound somehow conveying the disdain of the two interrogators. Only a soft glow remained where the single bulb had shone above Danny’s dangling form.
Danny began. First he rolled his shoulders in an effort to regain some circulation. Forcing himself to ignore the resulting spears of pain, he folded his left arm tight against his back as if in an arm-lock, then with great care began to move his right arm over his head. He pulled against the rope, hoping desperately that it would prove long en
Slowly at first, he began to swing his body back and forth, like a blood-soaked pendulum, each time gaining a little more momentum. After nearly twenty swings, his hands seized the cross beam to which he was tethered. His vision swam as his body adjusted to the new position. Strange things were happening to his blood pressure and equilibrium. None of which felt good. His hands groped until they found the light bulb. The glass orb was still hot to the touch but not so hot that it stopped him unscrewing it from its fixture.
With a single sharp tap against the wooden joist, the bulb shattered, leaving a triangular sliver of glass held in the circular aluminium base. Danny began to saw frantically at the rope that encircled his ankles. By the time he had severed his bonds his ankles and fingers were lacerated and bleeding profusely from a number of shallow cuts.
He dropped to the floor, landing roughly on his hands and knees. The shock of the impact sent new agony through his battered frame. He looked around the room for a more serviceable weapon than the inch of glass he still clutched in his hand. An old table sat in a corner of the room, an assortment of old newspapers and magazines piled on top. The legs of the table were thick and looked solid. Each one the equivalent of a baseball bat. Danny briefly grinned to himself. It would feel good to swing that bat into the faces of his tormentors. But both of the men had sported pistols on their hips and they certainly knew how to use them. He might get the first man but the second would be sure to drill him a third eye.
He broke the leg free from the table with a sweep of his foot. The table toppled, spilling paper onto the dusty floor. He broke a second leg free from the base. Snatching up the wooden staves, he raced to the top of the short flight of stairs. He tried the handle, turning it slowly. Locked. No surprise there. That would have been too easy. Wedging one end of the table leg tight against the doorknob, he secured the other end into the corner post of the stairs. It took a couple of stamps with his foot to force the wooden spar into place. The result was a brace, fixed at a strong forty-five-degree angle to the door.
Turning, he fixed his eyes on the small window near the ceiling. The portal measured no more than two feet wide and twelve inches high. A constant torrent of water splattered against the glass. He knew how quickly the weather could change in the tropics but even he was surprised by the ferocity of the downpour.
The frame was stiff from age and layers of paint but repeated blows with the heel of his hand pushed the window out a few inches. Danny’s muscles ached from a combination of his beating and fatigue, not helped by the fact that he had to support all of his weight on one arm while he levered the window fully open with the table leg. With a squeal of rusted hinges, it sprang free. Immediately, cold water powered through the open gap as if a huge garden hose had been turned on him. Ignoring the pain and the stinging impact of the lashing rain, he wriggled his body through the narrow opening. He stifled a cry as the damaged skin on his flank pulled against the wooden frame.
Outside, he flopped unceremoniously onto the ground, sucking in deep breaths of waterlogged air. Looking around, he quickly realised that he was at the rear of a large two-storey wooden house, complete with the familiar gingerbread fretwork. So the men hadn’t taken them far from Parker’s Yard. The house was painted a light blue but looked far from idyllic. If Norman Bates had relocated to Florida he would have felt right at home.
Danny pressed himself against the side of the house. He was free but escape was not an option. Somewhere in that house Clay and Andrea were also being held and had likely suffered similar treatment as him.
Danny backed up a few steps and after a short run, leapt up and caught the decorative veranda that provided a modicum of shade and cover to the back door of the house. His hands—slick with blood and rain—slipped from the ledge. He tumbled to the ground, sending up a spray of brown water. After picking himself up, he leapt again. This time his grip held fast.
A wooden lattice-frame, perhaps two feet wide, extended up from the veranda, framing twin windows, and continued up to the overhang of the tin roof. His hooked fingers and toes sought out the small gaps in the fretwork, and he began to make his way slowly up the outside of the house. Balancing speed and stealth, he edged upwards as quickly as possible. He was near a second-floor window when his hands, tired and wet, slipped. A moment of weightlessness, his breath caught in his throat, then his hands found purchase again. Cold rain and acrid sweat stung his eyes as he pushed upwards. The cramp in his limbs rewarded each movement with a stab of pain. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last. Then he reached the sill of the window.
This was the real danger point. If one or more of the men were in the room he would be shot dead before he could climb through the window. He cautiously looked through the glass and saw the reflection of his swollen mouth twitch into a parody of a smile. The room was unoccupied.
A loud commotion erupted from downstairs, sounds of shouting and what was unmistakably a door being kicked repeatedly. Washington and Kennedy had attempted to return to the basement.
Through the window Danny saw another man rush past the doorway of the room, gun in hand. Danny pushed the window open and climbed inside. He was unarmed, having left the table leg in the garden, unable to scale the house while holding it. Water dripped from every inch of his body as he rested momentarily. He shook his hands in an effort to restore some feeling. He needed to find a new weapon.
The room was sparsely furnished: a single bed in one corner, an old dressing table and a basket of clothes. An ironing board and steam iron stood in mute expectation next to the basket. The bed was neatly made, sheets tucked tightly into the mattress. Tight enough to bounce a penny off. Military style. The house was old and smelled of stale sweat, farts, beer and cigarettes. Man smells. He had been in a few of these himself. Crash pads for men between assignments but too far from home to return. Flop houses where wine, women and song could be enjoyed. A lot of the PMCs Danny had known were frugal characters, preferring to stash their money away rather than spend it on decent hotel rooms between jobs. Houses like this one provided free lodging for a couple of nights, courtesy of the company.
From below came the sound of a door crashing open. They had got into the basement.
Danny knew that the curse of “slippery motherfucker” that echoed through the house was directed at him. With no other weapons in view, he hefted the steam iron. The electrical cord was wound tight around the concave base of the implement. Useless at more than arm’s length, the iron was a poor weapon, no match for the assortment of firepower carried by his captors. But it was a little better than bare hands and harsh words.
He heard a man’s laugh; it had a cruel quality. The sound carried from the right, on the same floor. Furtively, he crept onto a landing. There were four doors on this level. One, closed, faced the door he had just emerged from at the top of the staircase; another two were further down the hallway. A small chest of drawers sat against the short span of banister that connected the staircase to the landing. Old oak, yellowed with age, complete with small brass decorative handles. The item of quality furniture looked out of place in the crash pad. One of the doors down the hallway was ajar. Muffled sounds of pain and that distinctive rattling laugh issued from it.
Danny ran towards the sound, his feet silent on the threadbare carpet. Damp footprints betrayed his passage but that didn’t worry him. He barrelled into a bathroom and took in a desperate scene.
49
Clay had once been kicked by a rampaging bull at a rodeo. The angry creature had cracked his right shin before rounding on him and doing its best to gore him with its horns. Only the valiant rodeo clowns had saved him from more serious injury that day. It had taken months to walk again without a limp. The pain that now shot through his lower legs far eclipsed that a
The man with the pliers, Bush, loomed over him, a look of disgust and annoyance on his face. The man glanced at his watch. The grunts of pain emitted by his captive through clenched teeth were clearly not meeting his expectations. Dropping the pliers into the sink he drew a knife from the small of his back. “Well, this has been fun but I really got to go.”
Clay watched the man reverse a Teflon-coated blade, point down, its razor edge glinting with menace. He looked over Bush’s shoulder. “I’ve just one thing left to say. He’s behind you.”
Bush smiled and moved the blade towards Clay’s exposed throat. Clay leaned back. One deep slash was all it would take. A shadow fell across Clay’s face.
Danny brought an iron down into Bush’s skull. The tapered point of the implement crashed through the arch of his cranium. Clay could imagine the shards of bone pushing deep into Bush’s brain. The weight of the blow sent the man sprawling on top of Clay.
Either through mental fortitude or just plain rattlesnake meanness, Bush slashed back at his attacker with the blade in his dying moments. Another devastating blow to the back of his head stopped any further attacks. A tremor passed through the whole of Bush’s body, then he lay silent, his dead eyes staring accusingly at Clay, who smiled at him. “Told you he was behind you.”
Scooping up the knife from where it lay on the floor, Danny severed the ropes that held his brother. Taking in the sad state of his feet he asked, “Can you walk?”
“I think so, but the quickstep is gonna have to wait a while.” Clay flexed his feet, curling his toes back and forth. They looked as bad as they felt. Dark blue and purple bruises gave them the appearance of mini-Bratwurst, but not as attractive. Two toes on his left foot were crooked at angles that spoke of dislocation. Danny crouched and, after exchanging a look with Clay, pulled sharply on the swollen digits to set them straight. Clay grunted an acknowledgement of this new pain, then used the side of the bath to lever himself upright.