Blood and Ashes (15 page)

Millie hadn’t mentioned the phone, probably because it was broken. It could possibly be fixed with the right tools, but the thought had never occurred to her. To be frank, I didn’t have the tools or the inclination. But I couldn’t ignore it. I headed round the back of the cabin and checked the junction box. It was intact, as was the cable that connected it to the telegraph pole. Further on I saw that the trees had ensnared the cable, ripping it from the next pole and dumping it on the ground. The telephone wouldn’t have worked even with the rights tools and all the time in the world to mess with it. I should have taken Millie’s word for it.

I shook my head, urging myself to forget about it. Get your mind back on the job, Hunter. Distraction kills, remember? More words of wisdom from the arms instructor at Arrowsake.
Stay in the red zone, Hunter, or you may as well give up now. Anything else and you’re a dead man. Got it?

I checked my weapons, my SIG SAUER P226 and KA-BAR. I’d left the H&K assault rifles with Don. The old man would require both to lay down enough firepower to force our attackers from their vehicles. When our hunters were out in the woods, then I’d rely on the military knife to even the score. The SIG would remain as back-up for extreme circumstances, because stealth was everything now.

Returning to the busted gate, I pulled it to, then used a discarded log to bolster it by jamming it between the frame and the loops of wire. It wouldn’t stop a vehicle from getting through, but it would slow men on foot.

For a second I wished that I hadn’t been so quick in handing over the borrowed jacket to Millie. She was inside now, protected from the elements, but I was ever the chivalrous one. Sometimes to my detriment, I realised. I had on my boots, but my denim shirt and jeans weren’t the most suitable garments for a stroll in the woods, especially not in the depths of a northern winter. At least it wasn’t snowing. The rain kept the temperature above freezing, but people still succumbed to hypothermia in moderate climates. The core temperature’s the thing. Soaked to the bones, I could grow lethargic and confused before I knew I was dying. First task on the agenda was to get warm.

My healing leg was still a hindrance, but it would take more than a quick jog to raise my core temperature anyway. Clothing that was waterproof and warm was an immediate requirement. I ducked back into the security cabin, hoping to find a discarded rain-slicker. No such luck. But in a supply cupboard there was a roll of garbage sacks. Quickly stripping out of the wet shirt, I made head- and armholes in one of the sacks and pulled it on close to my skin. I wasn’t concerned that the rattling plastic would give away my position because it immediately clamped to my flesh like a second layer. I jammed the trailing edges down inside my jeans and then pulled the wet shirt back on. It was an uncomfortable feeling but it would soon pass.

The garbage bag trick was something learned from less-than-wealthy boxers who couldn’t afford a sweat suit for when they needed to make weight. It promoted perspiration, but the plastic held the sweat in and heated it. I’d be nice and toasty in no time.

The blue denims were poor camouflage, but I wasn’t going to find any DPM’s around here. Not that I needed them when the best disruptive pattern material going could be found in nature. Returning outside I scooped handfuls of mud and rubbed them liberally over my shirt and jeans. Didn’t bother streaking it over my face, because the rain would soon obliterate it and I didn’t fancy a mouthful of muck. I washed my hands clean in a puddle, drying my fingers as best I could on the tail of my shirt. The last thing I wanted was to transfer grit to the firing mechanism of the SIG.

There was nothing I could do about my wet hair. Most heat was lost from the head, but with my body now heating up like a boil-in-the-bag snack, I thought I’d be OK. I scrubbed the rain from my scalp, and off my face, feeling two days of stubble rasping against my palms. Normally I was fastidious about keeping well shaven and clean – a habit instilled by military indoctrination – but in the circumstances the rules went out the window. As long as the gun was pristine, I could do my job.

Loping away from the compound, I entered the treeline on the east side so that I was opposite Don’s position. Men are inclined to run away from an assault rifle not towards it, so I was better positioned on this side of the road. Then I made my way through the woods, towards the crest in the road where I’d see my enemies coming.

A little way inside the treeline was a group of boulders, and between them a natural hollow where the lower boughs of a spruce afforded respite from the rain. The hiding place was gloomy, but by contrast the trail ahead glowed silver, a trick of the light refracting from the moisture. I settled in to wait.

I waited.

And waited.

In the end I wondered if the men who’d chased us had had second thoughts about following people into the mountains who’d already decimated their ranks by two-thirds. I was in the act of getting up to return to the camp and gather up the family when I heard the high-pitched whine of an engine negotiating the steep trail.

After the inactivity it was almost pleasing that the men had the stones to follow through with the attack. I was in that place where my sense of justice demanded retribution. I hunkered back down, peering beneath the branches, feeling the adrenalin seeping through my core and pushing away the vestigial chill from my bones. Unconsciously my fingers flexed on the hilt of the KA-BAR, and it didn’t occur to me that the pain I’d been experiencing in my hand had fled. Action was the best medicine for a fighting man’s pain.

A sedan crested the mountain trail, followed closely by an SUV. The two vehicles were those that had survived the earlier encounter. There were only four figures in the cars. That was all? I doubted it; there had also been two men in the black van that had almost collided with us. Where were they? And where was that crazy girl who’d tried so hard to shoot Don?

What about the girl? I didn’t make war on women. If I could help it I wouldn’t hurt her, but if the choice between stopping her and saving the children came up, then my decision could go only one way. Hopefully she’d had enough after her boyfriend crashed the car, and she’d taken off somewhere to lick her wounded pride. Maybe Fonzarelli had taken off with her, because all the heads I could make out in the vehicles were shaved to the skin.

Had to plan for six men at least. Not an insurmountable figure if Don did his job right.

The sedan crept by, followed moments later by the SUV. I studied the faces inside. No sign of Tattoo. If the guy had died when his car rolled, then so be it, but I was a little pissed that I wouldn’t get to look the bastard in the eye when I killed him. I wanted to comment about the tattoo, the significance of the eight-eight pattern. Unlike many people, I was familiar with the number. Not eighty-eight as some might think, but two separate figures. Eight and eight. The eighth letter of the alphabet repeated twice, standing for Heil Hitler. Tattoo wouldn’t be the first neo-Nazi that I’d killed, and I wasn’t averse to teaching any other the error of his ways.

I waited until the cars were past me then rose up, gripping the KA-BAR tightly.

On cue, Don let loose with the H&K.

Chapter 20

So what the hell just happened?

Vince lifted his head to see if anyone would respond to his question, before realising that he hadn’t actually spoken out loud. There was another problem, too: no one was around to answer him even if he’d screamed the question.

He asked himself the question again.

When things became no clearer, he blinked into the surrounding darkness. He had no idea where he was, let alone what had just gone on. All he knew was that he was belly down like a pretty-boy on a prison cot.

He tried to get up, but found that it wasn’t so easy a task. What the hell? His arms were twisted behind his back, something digging painfully into his wrists. His ankles were bound too.

He jackknifed on to his side, his head swimming with the effort.

From this position he had a better view of his surroundings, but it took a moment for him to make sense of them. The smell of damp carpet wafted round him, followed by the heady tang of motor oil. He swung his boot heels and heard the dull chime of struck metal.

He was in the back of the black van, the one that Holland and Wilkes had ridden earlier. There was only one reason for being trussed in the back of the van that he could think of . . . that weasel Darley had cold-cocked him from behind. Proof of that was the throbbing lump the size of a hen’s egg that pushed out through his ducktails.

A flash of pain from the back of his skull brought it all back.

Darley had followed him to the car where Gant lay and as Vince greeted the other two skinheads, Sweeney and Dillman, the little shit had shuffled behind him. Vince thought his warning to the man had been enough to cow him, but it looked like Darley had his own ideas about who should still be their boss. And obviously his creed was a greater motivator than money. Vince felt the first smack of the man’s gun barrel come down on the nape of his neck. As he turned, trying to grab one of the Glocks from his belt, Sweeney and Dillman had grappled him. He got a headbutt into Dillman’s face, but then Darley had slashed the gun across his skull and that was that.

Till now.

He was surprised to be alive, but not really happy about what that might mean. Gant had probably survived the car wreck, and he wasn’t going to be pleased when he heard that Vince had planned a coup. If what he’d heard about Gant’s viciousness was even partly true then he was going to be put through a world of hurt before he died.

He had to get out of here.

When Gant finished up with the Griffithses, he’d be back. And with nothing more pressing to contend with, he’d take his own good goddamn time making Vince sorry that he ever contemplated betrayal.

Vince kicked and rolled.

His exertions were repaid by a hand slamming the partition that separated the rear compartment from the van’s cab.

‘Keep the fuckin’ racket down, Vinnie, or I’m gonna come in there and break
your
fuckin’ nose.’

Vince stopped kicking. He wasn’t alone after all. Was Mike Dillman the only one left behind, though?

‘I broke your nose, did I, Mike?’ Vince hollered back. ‘Pity I didn’t get Sweeney as well. You there, Sweeney? Why don’t you come in here an’ I’ll do the same to you?’

‘Shut the fuck up, Vinnie. I mean it . . .’

Dillman again. So the prick was the only one left behind to guard him?

Now that he’d learned what he wanted, he’d no reason to goad Dillman any further. First he had to get free from his bonds. He took it easy, shifting round so that he could pull his knees up to his chest. Vince had a gangly frame, but he’d always been flexible. He shuffled his wrists down under his butt, then behind one knee while he slipped the other toes between his arms. The bindings made things awkward, but he managed to wriggle free. Once he had one boot through, the other followed easily enough and he straightened out, bringing his wrists up to his chin. His night vision had begun to kick in and he could make out his bindings. Insult added to injury, he thought, when he saw that his wrists had been strung together with his guitar string.

He chewed at the metal coil, hooking an eye-tooth round a loop and pulling. The medium-gauge string was good for throttling a victim, but wasn’t the best for securing wrists. The copper-coiled wire spooled away from his flesh and he slipped one hand free. Then it was only a few seconds’ work to loosen the other. He made a check of the wire, feeling a couple of kinks in the metal, but otherwise it was undamaged. He wound it loosely and jammed it into his jacket pocket. Then he set to the bindings round his ankles. Gaffer tape this time. It peeled off easily enough, but he had to take it slow so that Dillman didn’t hear him.

Vince flexed his hands, rolled his ankles, to promote blood flow into his extremities. His fingers and toes tingled, and he decided to wait until they settled down before making his break for freedom. The last thing he wanted was to leap from the back of the van only to find his numb feet giving way under him. The tingle became pain, but it was endurable, even welcome.

He felt for his guns, his cell phone. All gone, though that was to be expected. He searched the compartment for anything he could use as a weapon. Nothing. That was expected as well. He still had his garrotte but that was a tool used for stealth work and not much good against a pissed-off skinhead with a gun, especially one holding a grudge over a broken nose.

His Glock would come in handy, more than that, though, he needed his phone.

He came slowly to his feet, carefully negotiating the van so that he didn’t rock it and alert Dillman. He found the back doors, but the inside handle had been removed. It was pointless cursing, but he did anyway, making sure he held the swear words deep in his chest. Then he had a thought.

The metal doors were sheathed in panels with little more substance than thick cardboard coated with vinyl. He inserted his fingertips along one edge and slowly tore the panel down the middle, checking all the time for movement from the front. When the hole was big enough, he inserted a hand through the gap and felt for the wires that controlled the levers that locked the doors. He slowly exerted pressure and the wire dug into his skin but he felt the locks disengage.

Bang, bang, bang on the partition. ‘The fuck you doing in there, asshole?’