Blood and Ashes (17 page)

Forget it all, he told himself.

Keep going, Vince, just keep going. You want to come outa this on the right side, you just gotta keep going.

He exhorted himself all the way up and over the crest of the hill, all the while wincing at the sounds of a raging gun battle.

Ahead of him was a logging camp that hadn’t known the presence of lumberjacks for the best part of a decade. It reminded him of a ghost town from a horror movie. The drifting rain added to the image, phantom mists crawling out of the forest and floating across the deserted streets. Or maybe it was clouds of cordite.

A little way ahead was an abandoned sedan car, peppered with bullet holes. As he approached it he scanned left and right, hoping he wasn’t in the crosshairs of any of the skinheads who’d disembarked in a hurry.

Gunfire sounded again.

This time it was from inside the camp and he saw a man rush across the street and throw himself backwards through a window. He saw the flash of a rifle from the back of a dark-coloured SUV. Vince ducked down by the door of the sedan, watched as a figure clambered from the SUV and walked towards where the other had disappeared. The figure held his assault rifle low down near his hip, firing through the walls of the shed. When there was no return fire, the figure continued creeping forward. He was almost at the window when a cry rang out.

Vince swung to the new sound and saw Don Griffiths come out from between the buildings on the opposite side, firing wildly at the figure. As the figure turned to run, Vince recognised the tattoo like a dark stain down his face.

Gant, the motherfucker, ran off.

Further along, more rifles cracked and Don Griffiths was forced to retreat back towards the cabins. By the way he dragged his leg he’d taken a hit from one of the rounds.

Vince had to get inside the camp, but unarmed as he was, he’d be wandering into a shooting gallery where he’d be dropped as easily as a tin duck.

Maybe he could cut round back and take Don Griffiths’ rifle away from him?

No way, he decided. The old guy looked like he knew his way round a machine-gun and would probably plug him before he got near. The way to win this was to go directly for Millie and the children; if only he had the faintest idea where they were hiding.

Back to square one, Vince. You still have to get by Gant and his bootboys. And don’t forget the guy with the killer’s eyes. Unlike Gant, he didn’t think the silence since he went through that window meant that he was dead.

Need a weapon.

He looked inside the sedan hoping a gun had been dropped when those inside scarpered. Glass littered the interior, but that was it.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered as the gunfire started again.

There were just too many of them for him to take his chances.

My gang’s bigger than yours, Gant, but where the hell are they?

He tried to figure out how much time had passed since he’d made the rushed call. How long until his buddies arrived.

Not soon enough for his liking.

He clambered inside the sedan, pulling out Sonya’s phone, stabbing buttons. The phone clicked off and he read the message on the screen. Call disconnected. He checked the strength of service and saw that there was no coverage up here.

‘Shit!’

An engine roared behind him.

Hopefully he peered around, looking for his friends.

But it was the black van. Dillman, his nose a red smear on his top lip, summoned here by radio by one of
his
friends. Vince ducked low as Dillman avoided the sedan and blasted through the remains of a gate and into the compound.

Damned if his chances weren’t getting slimmer.

Still, he couldn’t stay here.

He jumped out the car and followed the van through the gate, heading in an ungainly sprint for the nearest shed on the left. If Millie and the kids were anywhere, he might as well start his search there, at the furthest point away from the shooting. As he ran, he pulled out his garrotte and looped it round his right fist.

Chapter 23

The plastic garbage bag sucked at my torso as I rushed towards the back of the shed. As I ran I tugged at the plastic through my shirt, loosening it so that it didn’t impede movement. A trail of moisture dotted the hard dirt of the floor, but at least it wasn’t blood.

Small consolation.

Despite my best efforts I’d failed to stop the gang from entering the compound, and, worse than that, the gunfight had forced the skinheads deep into the camp and close to where Millie and the children were hiding.

Have to lead them away. Use myself as bait.

At the back of the shed there was a door, swollen with damp and jammed in its frame. Noise would give away my location, and I wasn’t ready to play my hand just yet, but there was nothing for it. Luckily, just as I pulled at the groaning door a vehicle sped into the camp, the engine screeching. The unexpected cover allowed me to pull the door open and exit into an area full of junk, discarded plastic drums and tendrils of undergrowth.

I picked my way through the rubbish, carefully avoiding roots that would trip me. As I went I flicked the catch to release the magazine in the SIG, made a quick count of the bullets. Not many left, but if I picked my targets I’d only require one for each man. I counted how many of the killers I’d seen alive: two from the SUV who’d run farther into the camp; that bastard with the tattoo; and however many had just arrived in this latest vehicle. There could be five of them – or more – so I’d have to be very selective when choosing my shots. Best-case scenario would be to liberate a gun from one of the others, or maybe find ammunition that would fit my SIG. Worst case was if one of the bastards got me first.

That was always a possibility. I wasn’t bulletproof.

There was a twinge in my leg.

Stop it, Hunter. Forget your pain. Concentrate on your job, you arsehole!

I slapped the magazine back into the gun, raked the slide back and forth. Went on.

At the end of the shed I paused, took a quick glance around the structure to check in the narrow space between it and the next building. The alley was choked with abandoned machinery that was red with corrosion. No sign of movement. I lunged across the gap and into the cover of the next cabin.

The sound of the vehicle receded, up towards where the family hid. If the minivan was discovered, they’d begin their search there, and they’d come across the family’s hiding place in moments. I began running, mindful of the possibility that the tattooed man was still nearby. Don would be paralleling my dash on the far side, but I was fleeter of foot than the old man.

A lean-to presented itself, and I swerved inside it, using a stack of logs for cover. I paused, peering through a gap in the logs to where the SUV sat in the middle of the road. It was doubtful that any of the skinheads would have had the presence of mind to take the ignition key when they decamped; maybe if I commandeered the vehicle I could use it as a weapon.

Starting towards the SUV, I caught a flash of movement from the far side of it. I dodged back behind the stack of wood even as a figure raced away towards a cabin on the other side. The floppy quiff hairstyle was instantly recognisable. That bloody kid who looked like a fugitive from a 1980s retro-Rockabilly band. Lifting the SIG, I tracked the running figure, easing pressure into the trigger. The opportunity to bring him down was there, but I didn’t take it. Not that I had any qualms about killing the young punk, because he was anything but the kid that I’d first assumed when spotting him outside Don Griffiths’ house. This was the same son of a bitch who’d attacked Millie, who’d then led the convoy that chased us into the hills. My reason for allowing the arsehole to live was a personal thing: I wanted to look him in the eyes when I dropped him, not shoot him in the back as he was running away.

Letting him go, I moved through the lean-to and then dodged right going to the rear of the next cabin.

Almost ran full-tilt into the tattooed man.

He was so close that the numbers on his face were discernible.

I skidded in the mud, trash catching me across the shins. Had to fight to stay upright, and bring the SIG to bear.

Tattoo leaped aside, also bringing up his gun.

Both of us fired, even as we both tried to save our lives.

My round took part of Tattoo’s left ear, but I didn’t come away uninjured. Not from the other’s bullets, but from caroming into the corner of the shed and almost dislocating my shoulder.

Tattoo yelled in fury, his hand slapping at his disfigured ear, even as he brought round his assault rifle in his other hand. He fired.

Three things saved my life.

The assault rifle was ill aimed.

The man had flicked it to fire only a controlled burst of three bullets.

And my desperate dive round the corner of the shed.

All of which meant that I made it back to the stack of wood in the lean-to with only a shower of wood particles plastering my wet hair and shoulders.

I immediately spun round, gun aiming for where Tattoo would come charging after me.

Waited for a long count of ten.

It seemed that Tattoo wasn’t the rash type who’d come hurtling round a blind corner, either that or he’d realised how close to death he’d come and had made a hasty retreat.

Doesn’t make him a coward, just sensible.

Tattoo would be moving, trying to get a better line on me.

Move, Hunter, now!

I bobbed up and ran back towards the corner of the shed from which I’d fled moments before.

As I made it to the corner, there was rifle fire from the front. Tattoo was blasting my recent hiding place, the woodpile, to force me out.

I dipped out from the corner, SIG held steady.

Didn’t have a shot.

The sounds of boots clumping away said that Tattoo believed retreat was the better part of valour. Muffled shouts followed as Tattoo directed his friends to cut me off.

I raced along the back of the cabin before I could be cornered.

A man emerged from the shadows of the next building.

‘Gant! Gant! He’s here!’ The man was yelling into a hand-held radio.

He should have been shooting.

Lifting the SIG, I continued forward and double-tapped the man, both times in the chest.

He went down, his legs swinging up like a clown doing a pratfall.

Skidding to a halt over him, I aimed my gun at the man’s face. It was already bashed up, his nose having been recently broken judging by the dry blood smeared over his top lip, and the beginnings of bruising under his eyes. Maybe this was a result of the crashing vehicles earlier. Didn’t matter. He was dead, and he had certain items that would prove useful.

The radio and the gun.

Unlike the others he was armed with a shotgun, a sawn-off with a shortened stock and two barrels. I broke the stock and nodded. Two shells of 12-gauge shot were enough to kill anyone. A quick check of the man’s body showed he hadn’t brought extra ammo. I jammed the shotgun down the back of my jeans. It was uncomfortable, yes, but also a comforting weight.

Racing on, I thumbed down the volume on the radio so it didn’t give away my position. I pushed the radio into a front pocket of my shirt, listening to the jumble of voices as the surviving skinheads called out to each other.

The radio traffic was largely indecipherable, but more than once the name ‘Gant’ was mentioned. The man who I just killed had called out the same name. Gant, I concluded, was the name of the tattooed man, their leader.

Good, because it’s always preferable to know the name of an enemy.

Goading Gant was something to be considered, a way to force the battle towards me and away from Millie and the children. Except the likelihood was that Gant would order his men to turn off their radios, and then I’d have lost an advantage.

Something struck me: there were only three voices chattering over the channel. I had counted four still living and wondered why one of them wasn’t involved in the plan to ambush me. I considered the hillbilly kid and how different he looked from the others, if in fact he was part of this group or if he had his own agenda. If that was the case then it meant I had two distinct enemies to contend with. That confused the issue and added to the danger stakes. Maybe I should have dropped him when the opportunity was there.

Racists and radical extremists come in all shapes and forms, some with hair and some without, so maybe it wasn’t that unusual for Nazis to band with KKK wannabes when they had a common cause. However, I still had no idea what that cause was, other than they all wanted Don Griffiths and his family dead.

Well, my entire military career had been based upon fighting people who were governed by hatred and a desire to see anyone dead who didn’t sit with their ideals. Stopping this bunch would have been an enjoyable nostalgia trip if not for the fact that the consequences of failure were more dire than usual.

An H&K rattled.

Don was still alive.

Two against four, the odds were piling in our favour every second.