Search and Destroy (17 page)

* * *

Andrea looked up in alarm when the motel room door opened, then was instantly relieved to see Danny, a grocery bag under his arm. Clay sat next to her on the end of the bed, and he nodded at his brother before pointing at the news show on the television.

“I know.” Danny set down the bag of groceries on the table. “That means we have to assume the second team will know soon enough, too.”

“They’ve got my driver’s licence. Traced the plates from the RV, no doubt. I don’t know how they got a hold of my old service picture so quick though.”

Andrea’s voice was flat. “Google. You just search on Google Images. Has the picture ever been used on the news or a social networking site?”

“Well I’m not on Facebook, if that’s what you mean.” Clay paused. “I was on the news when Diana was killed. They showed a few pictures of us. I think they may have used my service portrait then.”

“That’ll be it. Once it’s out there, it’s out there for ever.” Andrea rubbed the USB drive between her thumb and forefinger like a lucky coin. “Still no mention of Greg or Bruce.”

“No.” Danny had nothing else to offer.

Andrea moved to the laptop and powered it up. The brothers began to spread the food out on the nearest bed.

“Cheetos!” Clay sounded like he’d won a prize.

“I got some subs and fruit as well.” Danny unwrapped a ham salad sub, a full twelve inches long. He tore it in two halves and worked his way through the first. “Andrea. Food.”

She looked at the Scotsman. “I don’t feel much like eating. Too nervous at what’s on this drive.”

“You should eat now, while we have time. Don’t know when our next meal might be.”

Clay agreed, touting his family-sized bag of snacks by way of encouragement. “Damn right.”

“A wise man once told me, when you’re in the middle of it, eat when you can, sleep when you can and shit when you can. ’Cos there may be no time later.”

Clay held up a finger thoughtfully. “Sun Tzu,
The Art of War
?”

“Jason Statham, Art of Being a Mean Mother-trucker.”

“Deep.”

“Indeed.”

Andrea smiled despite the knots in her stomach. She picked an apple and a can of Sprite from the assortment. It wasn’t diet but given the situation she decided to risk it. They shared the moment, three friends eating their chosen food group. The silence made her think of Greg. The late night snack-attacks. Junk food and beer, talking about their day, their hopes and dreams, jokes, opinions… The mouthful of apple proved hard to swallow. A long pull on the soda helped.

She wiped her mouth and moved to the table. “Laptop’s ready.” She took a seat in front of the screen, Danny and Clay standing either side. She inserted the flash drive into the USB port. Two mp4 video icons appeared.

She clicked on the first.

The grainy picture showed what looked like a basement, with no visible windows or doors. The camera panned slowly to the left. A tall pole with a single wire-protected bulb illuminated the area. By the convergence of two pools of light, she assumed there was a second lighting pole out of shot to the right. The video footage was clearly old. A date in the corner of the screen stated 03-07-94, the numerals white blocks; this must have been filmed on an old VHS camcorder.

The light shifted, illuminating one side of the room, the wall made of stark grey breeze blocks stained with patches of damp. A low ceiling with evenly spaced wooden beams was visible, a series of thick chains hanging motionless from the beams. Voices drifted in from off camera. The words were muffled and coarse and the resulting laugh was tinny in quality but clear. The light shifted again, as if someone off screen were dragging the crude lighting pole forward into a more advantageous position. The camera pivoted again. The bright arc now cast its glare over a scene that made Andrea grit her teeth with dread.

A young woman was secured to a bare metal bedstead. She appeared to be in her early twenties, slightly plump, and she would have been pretty if her face had not been contorted with fear. Her dark-brown hair was in disarray, and sweat beaded her face. She was naked apart from a stained pair of once white panties. Her wrists were bound with fencing wire, wound four or five times then twisted into an unbreakable spiral. Her arms were tethered above her head. Her ankles were likewise bound, her legs stretched out at angles to each corner of the metal frame. A red stained cloth cut into her face, acting as a gag. The lower half of her face was slightly distorted as the rag stretched her mouth into an unnatural shape. Dark rings had formed below her eyes where her mascara had run. Her upper lip was darkened with dried blood.

“I don’t think I can watch this.” Andrea’s voice seemed small and distant.

Clay put a hand on her shoulder. “This is probably what got your friend and his wife killed. And whoever ordered their deaths also hired the kill squads to deal with you. You
need
to watch.” His words made sense but that didn’t make them any easier for her to hear.

The image momentarily changed to a blurred white as a man stepped into view. The camera refocused gradually as he walked slowly towards the tethered woman. Her screams were dulled by the restrictive gag but her eyes were stark and bloodshot with terror. The camera zoomed in on them; clearly the camera operator wanted to capture her fear.

Clay spoke. “At least two men. One to operate the camera and the one on screen.”

The man moved to the top of the bed. He bent and said something in the woman’s ear. The words were too low for the camera’s audio to pick up. Whatever was said sent her into a desperate convulsion. The skin at her wrists and ankles appeared stretched to tearing point as she sought to free herself. The man patted her head, patronising, as an adult would calm an overexcited child.

The man took one of the dangling chains that hung from the ceiling beams in his hands. He pulled down and the top of the bed rose slowly from the floor. The small block and tackle unit squeaked as he worked the action. The man moved with a leisurely pace. He was in no hurry. The woman’s head turned away from the camera as she and the bed were pulled inch by inch into an upright position.

The man turned to the camera, hands on hips, posing. He gave a casual wave to his future viewers. He wore only trousers and boots. His upper body was bare. His arms, shoulders and back told of an athlete. His were not the oversized muscles of a body-builder. His physique was more akin to that of a seasoned oarsman or professional boxer. Toned, tight and precise.

But the effect of his flat stomach and taut muscles was offset by the mask that covered his face.

“Jesus Christ…” Andrea’s voice trailed off. She felt the Gunn brothers tense either side of her. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped several degrees.

The masked face smiled directly into the camera. A lecherous, sick and deadly smile. It was an anthropomorphic combination of animal and human qualities covering the man’s entire head, with only his piercing blue eyes and lower jaw exposed. Gnarled horns curled like those of a ram, the “skin” of the mask etched with folds and wrinkles, each one overlapping and blending with the next. The colouring was a mottled green/grey around the eyes and brow while below it resembled a port wine stain. The nose was wide and cruel, somehow simian and lupine at once. Random needle teeth dotted the upper jaw.

The masked man pursed his lips and blew a kiss, then moved towards his prisoner. He was clearly enjoying her terror. The man behind the camera began to sing. His voice was low and slightly out of tune. “I faaaaall to pieces…”

The masked man turned, his mouth twisting in irritation.

“Each time I see you again…”

The resulting hiss from between clenched teeth silenced the song.

The masked man turned back to the woman and produced a wide-bladed butcher’s knife from behind his back. He angled the blade so that it reflected bright spots from the pole-mounted lights. The woman’s eyes bulged as he loomed closer, exaggerating each small movement for maximum effect. Then in contrast to his slow theatrical posturing, he executed three rapid slashes with the butcher’s knife, catching her just above the top of her underwear. The soft skin of her stomach split. She arched her body backwards into the wire springs of the near vertical bed frame, making them creak in protest.

The masked man plunged his hand deep into the crimson gash that gaped in the woman’s lower abdomen. He withdrew his hand, a bloodied coil of intestine stretching far from the wound. There was a joyful laugh from behind the camera.

“Any
more
visitors due?” Lincoln’s tone was weary. Tansen shook his head. Lincoln pointed to the picture of Raj. “That your wife?”

“Yes.”

“She coming back any time soon?”

“No. She’s dead.”

“She will be if she shows up here unannounced,” Bush smirked.

Tansen craned his neck to see where Jimmy lay on the floor. The sheriff was coming round. Blood had formed a viscous covering over his upper lip. A crimson bubble formed at his nose as he strained to control his breathing.

Bush hefted his combat knife, cutting the air with an audible zip. He then handed it to one of the other men.

“Here, Roosevelt. Enjoy.”

Roosevelt moved close to Tansen, and whispered in a mock conspiratorial manner. “I wonder if Deputy Dawg here is up to hearing many knock-knocks?”

“He doesn’t know anything. He couldn’t give you answers if he wanted to.” Tansen spoke through gritted teeth, ignoring the taste of copper in his mouth.

“I know he can’t tell me what I want to know, but I’m wondering how long you can keep your mouth shut once I start cutting off his fingers.” Roosevelt took a single threatening step towards the sheriff.

Sheriff Walsh, known to many in Castillo as simply Jimmy, spat out bloody saliva that covered the toes of Roosevelt’s Gore-Tex boots. “Tell them nothing. They’re going to kill us anyway.”

There was silence. Lincoln broke the moment by a single word to Roosevelt. “Proceed.”

“Tell you what, seeing as you’ve been a sport with my buddy’s jokes, I’m going to give you a two-for-one special.”

The knife bit deep into Tansen’s deltoid muscle, jarring against the bones in his shoulder. The pain was so severe that the Gurkha felt his consciousness momentarily desert him as the blade withdrew. He snapped back to full awareness as Jimmy filled the room with his own howls of pain. Roosevelt left the knife protruding from Walsh’s arm. “How many knock-knocks has the old boy got in him?”

Tansen considered his next words carefully. “The men helping the girl are regular Joes. They caught your guys off guard and got lucky. The bigger of the two caught a bullet and is in a poor state. He’ll be needing medical treatment pretty damn quick or he’ll be finished.”

“And?” Lincoln prompted.

“The other guy is an ex-con. He can pick your pocket with the best of them but he’s no threat.”

Bush rubbed his jaw. “He’s full of shit. The smaller guy has training. He’s good with hand-to-hand and firearms.”

Roosevelt made a show of looking disappointed. Then he kicked the hilt of the knife. Walsh writhed and began to hyperventilate, trying desperately to draw oxygen into his strained lungs. Tansen struggled against his bindings. “Help him! He has angina for Christ’s sake!” The men looked on impassively. Walsh managed only one word before his ragged intakes of breath ceased.

“No!”

Tansen Tibrikot watched the last spark of life drain from his friend’s rheumy eyes. A tear traced a path down Walsh’s face before mingling with the congealing blood around his mouth. Insurmountable rage built in Tansen’s core. The wash of adrenalin that coursed through his body numbed the pain in his injured limbs. Before that moment he had quietly accepted the inevitability of his death; it was his last moments of life that he now chose to spend differently. In one huge desperate burst of energy he rammed down with his legs. Bracing his chest, arms and back, he drove himself upright. The frame of the chair fractured into a loose tangle of wood and wire. With his arms and legs effectively hobbled, he jumped forward and clamped his teeth down on the only target that presented itself.

* * *

Roosevelt was bending to retrieve the knife from the dead sheriff’s body when Tansen’s jaws closed over his nose and a portion of his upper lip. Caught off balance, he toppled over the corpse with the prisoner on top of him. He tried to push the man away but the suffocating grip on his face held fast. They sprawled and thrashed, faces locked together, one man grabbing wildly at the other. Tansen’s fingers scrabbled at the pouches on Roosevelt’s belt. Something popped loose.

Bush drew his pistol but as he was about to put a bullet into the prisoner he received an unexpected boot in the knee. The pistol bucked in his hand and the round punched a hole into the sheriff’s back.

Roosevelt rolled on top of the Gurkha and began to punch at his throat, effectively blocking the remaining Presidents from taking a shot. Tansen managed to free one of his hands and brought it to his quarry’s neck in a savage motion. Roosevelt fell back, his nose all but ripped from his face. A long sliver of wood from the back of the chair now protruded from his throat just below his left ear.

Washington and Lincoln both had their weapons levelled and ready but it was Bush, from a closer position, that fired first. The bullet punched deep into Tansen’s chest, catching him high in the right pectoral. Another round smashed through his clavicle, the collarbone no match for the parabellum round.

As Bush centred on the Gurkha’s face, a cylindrical object rolled towards him. He screamed out a single word. “Grenade!”

The blast shattered the windows into a thousand flying shards of glass. Bodies were flung back. Lincoln and Washington had both launched themselves behind the couch, which provided meagre cover but did save their lives. Bush had made a desperate dive, skidding on his stomach into the kitchen. The blast had propelled him head first into the corner of a kitchen unit.

Lincoln struggled to his feet, the ringing in his ears hardly bearable. He pulled a triangle of glass from his scalp. He looked around the room for his Calico, then realised he was still holding it. The room smelled of fire and brimstone and death.