Dirk Ramm: Suited and Booted Read online

  He ran into the barn.

  The Bishop’s men heard him coming. They swung around, two bringing up clubs, the last man swinging up the huge cleaver.

  Ramm didn’t pause at their show of power. At a run he hurled his cudgel left-handed, and it struck the cleaver man in the chest, but with little harm. Nevertheless, the man reacted as many did when struck: he turned away, checking himself for wounds. It was the advantage Ramm needed. He speared at the club-wielder on the right, and the man’s response was to bat at the metal tines in desperation. Ramm twisted the fork in his grip, spinning the head of the fork so that it snared the club between two prongs. Ramm snatched the fork down, stripping the weapon from the man’s hand. Ramm immediately backhanded the fork, striking the man across the face. The tines tore furrows in his cheek and the man stumbled away holding his wounded face.

  The second club-wielder swung at Ramm’s head.

  Ramm dipped low, even as he snatched the second club from his belt. He swiped it in an arc that apexed at the man’s leading knee. The corresponding crack was as loud as gunshot in a confined space. The man cried out as he buckled. Ramm swung the fork and jammed the tines into his gut. He bore in with his weight, pinning the man to the floor. The wound to the gut wasn’t fatal. But the strike of Ramm’s club to the man’s skull was.

  Above the arena of battle the dogs bayed. Ramm ignored them.

  The man with the cleaver was still in the fight, as was the one with the torn face. Ramm went for the weakened man first. He relinquished the fork, electing instead to strike a blurring flurry of blows to the man’s arms and legs. A final whack struck the man directly between the eyes and he fell like the proverbial felled ox.

  Ramm twisted marginally.

  The cleaver whistled by Ramm’s gut.

  Ramm took a half step forward just as the cleaver man came at him again with a backhand swipe. Ramm blocked the man’s wrist with his club, and snapped a kick at his inner thigh. His boot found the bundle of nerves midway down the thigh like a jab from a cattle prod. The man’s leg twisted outward, both knees losing their elasticity. Ramm twisted the club over the top of the man’s extended wrist, then caught the short end in his other palm and levered down on the wood. The cleaver was trapped with its blunt edge over Ramm’s forearm, the man’s wrist caught in a solid vice. Both forces worked against each other so that there was only one result. The man’s wrist snapped. Involuntarily the fingers spasmed and the cleaver fell to the dirt. Ramm didn’t release the club: he continued to exert downward pressure even as he backpedalled. The man was forced face first into the dirt. Ramm finally released his wristlock hold, hopped in and raised a heel high. He stamped down on the nape of the downed man’s neck and knew that he wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Five men were down, dead or dying. Ramm stepped back and sucked in a large inhalation. Then he allowed a flicker of satisfaction.

  He wished to be tested.

  Well, it seemed he’d passed muster.

  No. Not true.

  Adrian Cannon had paid him to bring home his daughter, Shelly. Ramm hadn’t succeeded yet. So the biggest test was yet to come.

  Now that The Bishop believed Ramm dead, or still running for his life, it offered him a huge advantage.

  He looked up at the three Dobermans on the platform overhead. They all stared back at him. The lead dog whined, pawed once at the edge of the loft.

  Ramm eyed the Alpha dog, and the dog looked back, one of its eyes still watering. Ramm winked, said, ‘Stay, boy!’ and was pleased to see the dog sit. The other two obeyed the first one’s lead. They recognised the new top dog in the barn. Ramm turned away from the dogs, checking out the other animals in the barn.

  It was time to show the bastard the error of his ways. Ramm was going back to the fight and he’d get there much quicker by horseback.

  Two nights ago…

  Adrian Cannon made himself at home on Ramm’s settee. He crossed his heels and folded his hands in his lap as he peered up in admiration at the man once coined ‘The Battering Ramm”.

  ‘You said something about an unfounded rumour?’ Ramm looked down at Cannon.

  ‘Some people were sure that you had retired, that you had gone soft. I hope you can forgive my uncouth attempt at testing your prowess?’

  ‘I could have killed those fools,’ Ramm said.

  ‘Then why didn’t you? They came armed with guns.’

  ‘But with no intention of using them,’ Ramm pointed out. ‘Killers don’t want witnesses to their crime. Either they would have waited until the pizza guy had left, or they would have killed him as he went down the steps before turning their guns on me. When I watched them let Gampie go unharmed I knew they didn’t have the balls to shoot. So it would have been unfair of me to hurt them too badly.’

  ‘Yet you gave them both something to remember you by,’ Cannon laughed. ‘The use of a hot pizza as an improvised weapon was inspired!’

  ‘It was a waste of good food,’ Ramm corrected, yet he couldn’t hide a twitch of humour that danced at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Never mind that. I thought it was an ingenious use of an innocuous item. If you accept the task I have on offer, your skills and quick wits might come in useful.’

  ‘OK. So what have you in mind?’

  Just then Bitsy Horton exited the bathroom. She stepped in all her voluptuous glory into the open door of the bedroom in full view of both men. Unlike Ramm she didn’t have a towel to cover her modesty. Ramm watched Cannon’s eyes widen marginally, and whatever had been on the playboy’s mind before had been momentarily kicked loose.

  Bitsy was unconcerned by the lascivious stare she elicited from Cannon. She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, and her breasts rose and fell. Cannon’s head gazed up and down. Bitsy gave him a smoldering look that rose in temperature as it slipped towards Ramm. ‘I take it that dinner’s off the menu?’ she said.

  ‘We might have to put it on the backburner,’ Ramm said, ‘but I don’t mind warming it up again.’

  Bitsy flicked a glance at Cannon. ‘Maybe I should think about take out. You sure know how to show a gal a good night, Ramm.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you. But for now, can you please close the door before my friend here has a coronary?’

  Bitsy stood face on, fisting her hands on her hips as she pouted. She was showing Ramm what he was missing, but Cannon wasn’t spared an eyeful either. ‘What’s a hungry girl supposed to do? Start with the finger buffet?’

  She was such a tease. Ramm shook his head, walked over and shut the door. From beyond it he heard Bitsy muttering, but he knew her ill temper wouldn’t last. He turned to Cannon, expecting to see the man loosening his collar. Cannon wasn’t quite as obvious, but he slowly puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘I guess I chose a bad time to call,’ he said.

  Ramm shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. I’ll make it up to Bitsy later.’

  ‘Bitsy? You might say all her bits are in the right place and in the right proportions.’ Cannon quickly lifted a hand in apology. ‘Jeez. Listen to me. I’m sorry for blurting that out.’

  ‘I prefer a man who’s straight to the point. Don’t worry about it. Bitsy tends to have that kind of effect on people.’ Ramm folded his arms on his chest. ‘But it’s not Bitsy you’re hear to talk about. This is about your daughter, right?’

  Some of the light went out of Cannon’s gaze. ‘My daughter, yes. Shelly. I take it you’ve been following the news?’

  ‘Not avidly, but enough to know that Shelly went missing a few weeks ago and you still have no idea where she is or what has happened to her.’

  ‘Not exactly true,’ Cannon said. ‘I know where and what is going on, it’s just that I haven’t mentioned it to the police. You see, there’s no real crime involved in her disappearance, so law enforcement wouldn’t really help to get her back.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Shelly was always a willful child. She got no easier to control as a young woman. You mi
ght say that she rebelled against me and that was why she chose to take up with one of those nutjob Svengali-types called The Bishop.’

  ‘She has joined a cult?’

  ‘Not a cult as such. There is nothing religious about the group she has hooked up with, despite the leader’s adopted name.’ Cannon shook his head. ‘I blame it all on the crazy talk about the Mayan doomsday prophesy and unfounded fears about the end of the world. You’ve heard of these “end of world” groups haven’t you?’

  ‘Doomsday preppers,’ Ramm said. ‘Yeah, there’s been quite a lot of talk about them in the last year or two. It’s just the latest term for the old paramilitary survivalist movement, if you ask me.’

  Cannon nodded in agreement. ‘The Bishop runs his group from a fortified compound out west. He lords over his people with an iron hand, and apparently heaps of charisma. He has gathered quite a following by all accounts, people who are prepared to fight on his behalf should the need arise.’

  ‘You said that law enforcement won’t help bring Shelly out. If she is an adult and went there of her free will, I can understand why. But you’d think they’d be looking for an excuse to enter The Bishop’s commune, to check on illegal firearms and such.’

  ‘They’re kind of nervous about that, ever since the Camp Davidian fiasco. And any way, it is common knowledge that The Bishop will not tolerate firearms within the boundary of his land. He once suffered an unfortunate accident with a gun and positively forbids the carrying of firearms by his people.’

  ‘Seems a gentle enough guy,’ Ramm said with not a little sarcasm. But he’d guessed there was more to The Bishop through Cannon’s earlier comment about the use of improvised weapons.

  ‘He supports the use of aggression in protection of his land. But he has an old time sensibility about it all. He encourages his people to train in martial arts and all manner of unarmed combat. Some of those he attracts to his movement are tough guys and brawlers. Others are skilled, ex military men, fighters and sportsmen.’

  Ramm nodded. ‘The reason you wanted to check me out. You want me to pose as one of these tough guys to get close to Shelly and bring her out.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Cannon said. ‘And I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for your trouble.’

  ‘Sounds like a job I might be interested in.’

  ‘Might be?’

  ‘How handsomely are we talking?’

  ‘As handsomely as your girlfriend, Bitsy, and a bit more on top besides.’

  Ramm took no time considering the offer. ‘I’m in. When do I start?’

  ‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

  Ramm glanced once at the bedroom door. ‘I’ll be ready as soon as I’m finished my dinner.’

  Now…

  Ramm brought the large roan to a halt and stared down the hill at the outer fence of The Bishop’s compound. He wore a liberated leather jacket now, but could still feel the chill of predawn. The horse shivered its flanks, snorted, and the steam rising off its back drifted up to join the mist overhead. Since Ramm’s recent fight at the barn the fog had lifted somewhat, burning off as the sun rose higher in the east. Below him he could now see the fence, and a good portion of the land beyond. Most of the trees had been felled on the property, but there was some sparse shrubbery here and there. The buildings that formed The Bishop’s compound were still far out of sight, lying beyond a fold in the land to the east. Earlier on fleeing the place, Ramm had headed south. His ride back had been more circular and had brought him to this place a couple of miles further up the perimeter fence. There was no sign of sentries but Ramm had to assume they were there. Still, apart from them calling in extra support, he didn’t have much to fear from them. One thing he could be certain of was that he wouldn’t be brought down by a sniper’s bullet. Cannon had been correct when stating The Bishop didn’t tolerate any firearms: knives, clubs, swords, even bows and arrows were in evidence but Ramm was yet to see as much as an airsoft gun in the compound.

  Riding the roan bareback - he had only taken time to fit it with a rope halter before setting off – he urged it down the shallow decline to the fence. The fence stood eight feet tall and was topped with barbed wire. It would be a formidable barricade to some, but not to Ramm on horseback. As they came alongside the fence, he again halted the horse. Bracing his palms on its shoulders, Ramm hopped up and hunkered on the horse’s back. Then he rose up fluidly to stand on its back like a trick rider in a circus. He ignored the pain in his ankle and thigh from the savaging the Doberman Pincers had given him, while he turned a quarter circle to face the fence. In the next instant he bunched his thigh muscles, allowed his buttocks to dip slightly then sprang up and outward. The jump was little more than three feet and Ramm cleared the barbed wire with ease. Unfortunately a sixteen hands horse didn’t shorten the drop on the other side. He dropped the full eight feet plus and again had to employ a commando roll to save his legs from the impact.

  The roan had spooked as Ramm let fly, and it thundered away up the hill, heading back the way they’d come and to the shelter of the barn. Ramm wondered distractedly what had become of the attack dogs. He didn’t think they’d be any threat to the horse. He turned away and began a steady jog across the barren land, ignoring the pain that flared from his right ankle with every step. He’d suffered worse pain. Hell, he’d suffered worse yesterday on his arrival at The Bishop’s camp.

  Yesterday…

  A solid left jab, and a thundering right cross put the tall Texan on his back.

  Out cold the cowboy didn’t move, and Ramm turned away, massaging his scraped knuckles.

  He was ringed by dozens of men and women, all of them whooping and hollering at his victory, some of them casting insults at the downed man.

  ‘Your quick win means nothing.’ The Bishop was sitting in a throne-like chair bolted on the flat bed of a stripped down pickup truck. The large man pointed down at the pole-axed Texan. ‘For all I can tell that useless piece of crap has a glass jaw. You’re going to have to show me a little more before you’re allowed to stay here.’

  Ramm looked up at The Bishop lording over the combat arena and gave a slight shrug. ‘So send in your best man.’

  ‘That would be me,’ The Bishop stated with no trace of irony. ‘But it would not serve me to beat you down, would it? What would that prove when I could take on any other man here as easily?’

  ‘So who is your second best? Send him.’

  A stir went through the crowd. Men and women began glancing at each other, weighing and assessing. Some of them began slapping their chests, offering to fight. Others turned on their neighbours and began pushing and shoving, challenging the others claim to being the toughest. The Bishop stood up out of his chair, lifting massive arms in the air as if he was about to offer a sermon. But his name, as Ramm recalled, had nothing to do with religion. ‘Quiet down, goddamnit! The next man to open his trap will find he won’t be able to shut it again when I tear the jaw from his face!’

  Standing in jeans, boots and wife-beater undershirt, Ramm shook off his shoulders as he waited.

  The Bishop scanned the crowd. ‘Where’s Hector Buntz?’

  A fresh stir went through the crowd, and heads turned as a figure began pushing his way to the forefront. Everyone had fallen silent at mention of the name, and Ramm realised that it was through awe. Even before Hector made it through the assembly he towered head and shoulders over the less than diminutive fighters in his way. Ramm was a big man, but even he had to tilt his gaze upward to meet Hector’s gaze. Buntz was a giant. He stood six feet nine inches, but he was no glandular freak but a man proportioned for his height. His shoulders were huge, his arms bulging with muscle, and he could have propped a barstool on his chest muscles without it toppling over. He wasn’t fat the way many big men were: his waist was tight, his hips and legs were lean. Buntz was no brute, but a hard trained warrior.

  The Bishop regarded Ramm. ‘You still wish entrance to my group?’

  ‘Who’s your third best man?’ R
amm said. But he delivered it with a grin to show he was joking. ‘If Hector here is your test for affiliation, then I accept.’

  ‘Don’t let it be said that you were forced into fighting. You can always get back on the bus with the other no-hopers.’ The Bishop jerked his head to the battered old bus on which Ramm and another twelve hopefuls had entered the compound. Of that baker’s dozen only another two men had won their fights and now stood in the members’ crowd. Apart from the sleeping Texan, the others had been carried back and dumped on the bus, some of them unconscious, some of them destined for the hospital.

  ‘I only purchased a one way ticket,’ Ramm said.

  ‘It’s settled then.’ The Bishop eyed Hector. ‘Don’t hurt him too bad, Buntz. He’ll be little use to us with a crushed spine.’

  ‘What about his arms and legs?’ Hector rumbled.

  ‘They’ll heal,’ The Bishop said, offering his seal of approval for extreme violence with a wink.

  Ramm moved back a few feet as Buntz entered the fighting circle. The giant towered over him, and was almost as wide again. Ramm’s eyes pinched as he assessed his opponent. Even a monster like Buntz would have weaknesses. He just couldn’t tell what they were yet.

  Buntz shook off his shoulders and began a lateral sidestep, proving nimble on his feet for one so huge. Ramm didn’t move. His sidestep was a feint. Buntz smiled and moved the other way. Ramm turned with him, keeping his left side to the giant.

  Suddenly Buntz lunged in, his left arm jack hammering at Ramm’s head. Ramm slipped the punch, and dug his knuckles deep into the man’s exposed ribs. It was like punching a drum, and his punch had little effect.