Search and Destroy (28 page)

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 enough. He felt his tendons protest to tearing point as he forced his right arm inch by inch over his head. Then with a sudden springing of sinews, both arms passed over his head and dangled in front of him. Bone tired, he forced himself to move.

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.

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 agony.

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.

After stripping Bush’s corpse of weapons, Danny turned back to Clay. “Is Andrea still in the house?”

Clay shrugged. “I woke up hog-tied in here. I haven’t heard her voice so I just don’t know.”

Danny worked the slide on the pistol he’d taken from Bush’s holster. “Well, we’ve got two options. We can go down the stairs or out the window.” Neither choice was ideal. Clay said nothing. Danny motioned with his chin. “The stairs, then. Stay behind me.”

Clay hobbled after his younger brother, resting his weight on his heels as much as he could manage. The pain in his feet was so sharp he was now sure that several of his toes must be broken.

* * *

Hugging the wall, Danny rounded the doorway and moved fast and low onto the landing. He peered down the stairs, and saw Andrea’s stricken face staring back at him from the bottom step. He could see white all around the blue of her irises. She was handcuffed and gagged, and being dragged backwards by her collar by the man with the big Calico pistol. Lincoln.

Danny sighted with his pistol, hoping for a headshot, but in less than a second both the man and his hostage were out of the front door and in the rain.

For a split second he wasn’t sure where the shots were coming from but as Danny stepped onto the stairs numerous rounds ripped through the wooden steps from below. He only avoided the second barrage by throwing himself bodily back onto the landing. Clay stumbled and crashed into the chest of drawers. Battered, bruised and bleeding, the brothers exchanged a glance. A very British phrase sprang to Danny’s mind:
Fuck this for a game of soldiers.

He returned a couple of shots, aiming down through the stairs and hoping for the best. The result was another sustained burst of automatic gunfire from below. Chips of wood exploded like confetti. Then a second barrage erupted, but from a different angle. These bullets tore up the wall above Danny’s head. He pointed down the stairs, one finger indicating the shooter below him, then another finger to the one somewhere off to the left.

Clay followed the hand signals. He grabbed the heavy chest of drawers as if they were made of nothing more than balsa wood and heaved them over the banister edge. The resulting crash of breaking wood was immediately followed by an ear-piercing cry of agony.