Blood and Ashes Page 13

  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 pilin
g in our favour every second.

  OK. So let’s get this done while things are swinging our way.

  Rushing to the right, I gained the slope and the cover of the trees. The going would be a little slower, but there was less chance of running into any of my enemies while out in the woods. I thumbed the volume on the radio, listening as men reported the negative result of their search. If I could circle round behind them, gain entry to the structure where the children were, I could wait there for them and take them out one at a time.

  If, I cautioned, wasn’t a word allowed in my vocabulary. More psychobabble from my Arrowsake days, but I had to abide by the rule. You didn’t plan on if, you made it so.

  Chapter 24

  Gant was seething.

  What should have been a simple forced entry to an unguarded house, a quick in-and-out mission, had turned to shit. Things didn’t look like they were going to get any better, either.

  He’d thought about the men accompanying him as being disposable, but now that wasn’t the case. He wished that they were all back, hale and hearty and ready to lay down their lives all over again.

  ‘Who the fuck is out there?’ he yelled into his radio as he tried to staunch the flow of blood from his damaged ear.

  ‘Fuckin’ Rambo, you ask me,’ came back Darley’s whining tone.

  ‘I don’t mean him. I’m talking about our people. Sound off . . . one at a time.’

  ‘Won’t take much doing,’ Darley said. ‘There’s only me and Holland still kicking.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  Gant pushed into the front of a cabin, shutting the door behind him with his foot. There he toyed with the oozing wound in his ear. ‘You sure that’s all there is, Dar?’

  ‘I ain’t heard much from Dillman since we last heard him shout out. I’m taking it that the bad-ass took him out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Gant said touching his ear again. The bad-ass had come close to finishing him, too. Chances were that a hopeless cretin like Dillman wouldn’t have fared better. He felt little regret. Dillman wouldn’t be too much of a miss; the useless idiot had allowed Vince to get away. ‘Holland, you still out there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Holland said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ass-end of the camp. Just spotted the minivan, but I can’t get to it. Don Griffiths has me pinned down with a machine-gun.’

  ‘You’ve found their vehicle? Tell me where.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m at the ass-end of the camp.’

  ‘That’s a real help, Holland. This whole place is the fuckin’ ass-end of the world.’

  Darley cut into the conversation. ‘Boss, I see the minivan. It’s under a lean-to next to the last cabin on the right.’

  ‘Can you get to it, Dar?’ Gant asked.

  ‘Will do.’

  Holland said, ‘I’d rather you gave me cover, Darley. Griffiths is getting too close for my liking.’

  ‘So kill the bastard,’ Gant snapped.

  ‘You sure, boss? I thought you wanted to be the one to—’

  ‘Things have changed, Holland. Or haven’t you noticed? Just kill the bastard so we can get the fuck outa here.’

  ‘With you, boss,’ Holland said.

  A machine-gun rattled in the distance.

  ‘What about the other guy?’ Darley asked.

  ‘We see him, we kill him. Otherwise he’s not our priority just now. Get to the minivan, Dar, and tell me what you find.’

  Gant pinched his ear, trying to stop the flow of blood. Waste of time that was. He flicked scarlet drops on the walls, thinking about what he’d just said. Not a priority, my ass! If I see that piece of shit I’m gonna make it my life’s work to put him in a grave.

  Two machine-guns competed further up the camp. Gant opened the door of the cabin and peered out. A small figure sprinted through the haze of drizzle and gunsmoke, Darley heading for the lean-to. There was muzzle flash from where Holland was hunkered down behind an old flat-bed trailer abandoned when the last logging company truck rolled out. Gant added up his chances of getting round behind Griffiths and blasting the man, but discarded the idea. A far better plan was finding the kids and using them as a shield. He could then force Griffiths and whoever the fuck the other guy was into the open, where he could riddle them full of bullets with little fear of them shooting back.

  ‘Van’s empty, boss!’

  Gant thumbed his radio up to his good ear.

  ‘Say again, Dar.’

  ‘The minivan’s empty. What now?’

  ‘Start checking the buildings next to it, I’m gonna make my way to you.’

  He checked his assault rifle and it was almost empty. He dumped the depleted magazine then fished a fresh one out of his jacket pocket and slammed it in place.

  As an afterthought, he called Holland.

  ‘You get him yet?’

  ‘Don’t know, Gant. He’s gone quiet all of a sudden.’

  ‘So maybe you killed him, you fool.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what he wants me to think and he’s waiting for me to come outa hiding.’

  Holland had a point, but that meant nothing to Gant.

  ‘Get your pussy ass in gear, Holland. Go check, now.’

  ‘I’m going, OK?’

  Gant waited, listening.

  There was a single burp of an assault rifle.

  ‘You get him, Holland? Holland?’ Gant frowned at the radio, then sighed, ‘Aah, shit.’

  ‘Looks like it’s down to me an’ you, boss man,’ Darley said a few seconds later.

  Gant didn’t bother answering. If he reckoned things had gone to shit before, now was much worse.

  So it’s time to turn things in our favour again, he thought, as he rushed out of the cabin and towards the next one in line.

  Chapter 25

  A hollow in the lee of an ancient fir tree offered concealment. The boughs hung so low they were like widows’ fingers digging at the soil as if trying to reclaim their lost husbands. Shadows cloaked me. The words coming from my pocket had a stereo effect now that I was so near to one of those talking, but the little bird-like man had no idea of how close to death he was.

  I’d caught the gist of the radio-chatter. Discounting the young greaser, there were only two of the bastards left alive: Gant and this man called Darley. A well-placed shot, and then Gant would be seriously outnumbered if not outgunned, yet I was loath to pull the trigger. There were still so many questions unanswered that I thought about sparing the little skinhead for a minute or two while I beat some of the answers out of him.

  Take the shot.

  Do not underestimate this man. He may be small, but he’s armed and intent on harming the kids. Slip up and you’ll be one sorry bastard.

  I raised my SIG, aiming through the branches, zeroing in on the man’s chest. A head shot would be better, but the way it jerked about like a hen scratching for worms made for a poor target. I caressed the trigger, the progression on it smooth and easy. I was a hair’s-breadth away from punching a cavity all the way through Darley when there was a flicker of movement which caused me to relax the pressure on the trigger, and watch as Don Griffiths came out from behind a cabin on the far side of the camp. The old man loped across the clearing, favouring one leg. But it wasn’t my friend’s appearance that caused me to spare Darley an immediate death, it was the fact that another man followed close on Don’s heels.

  Not Gant as I first feared, but the young man whose floppy quiff bounced with each jolting step.

  Don glanced back at the young man, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even flinch, just said something that I’d no way of hearing. The young man nodded, and they both headed directly for the cabin where Millie and the kids were hiding.

  Shit, they’ve caught Don, was my immediate thought. The next was, Don’s got a gun but the greaser’s unarmed. What the hell is going on here?

  When I glanced back at Darley, the little man had moved, squatting down behind the minivan so that neither Don nor his new companion could
see him. I’d lost my shot.

  ‘I bloody knew it,’ I grunted.

  From my pocket a voice hissed. I slipped the radio out so that I could hear clearly.

  ‘Gant, you ain’t gonna believe what I’m looking at . . .’

  ‘I see them, Dar,’ Gant replied in a voice close to a whisper. ‘So that turncoat bastard’s consorting with the enemy now?’

  ‘How do you want to play things? I’ve got them both in my sights.’

  ‘Hold it, Dar. I want Vince-fucking-Everett all to myself.’

  ‘I can still pop Griffiths,’ Darley said. In line with his words, the man leaned his rifle over the roof of the minivan. I half rose, lifting my SIG: it looked like I was going to have to go for a head shot after all.

  ‘No, you could hit Vince.’ Gant’s warning made Darley dip back down again. ‘I’m closer, I’ll get Griffiths first.’

  The tattooed man’s words made me jerk upright.

  Over seven years ago my failure to take a shot had caused repercussions to crash like a wave of destruction down through time. Many had died as a consequence and I’d almost perished before taking out the professional contract killer named Luke Rickard. Now, by missing the opportunity to take out Darley it looked like Don was going to die.

  Don and the young man were out of my line of sight now, but they weren’t deaf.

  ‘Don! Get down!’ I roared at the top of my voice.

  Then I crashed out from below the fir tree, drawing Darley’s attention. Little good it would do to throw off Gant’s aim, and I could only hope that my warning was heard and acted upon.

  There was the staccato rattle of a machine-gun, and I added a backbeat, firing as I ran at Darley.

  The bullets struck the roof of the minivan, smashed a window, cut grooves out of the metalwork, but not one of them found flesh.

  So much for conserving rounds, but that wasn’t a consideration now. It was all about causing enough confusion to draw Gant away from Don. I fired again, swerving round the back of the minivan. If Darley was standing his ground, the move would be both reckless and suicidal, but the little man was still ducking and diving to escape the barrage of bullets. I was on him before he could swing the rifle round.