Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (48 page)

The three unarmed men glanced at each other, blinking in surprise. The Hispanic guard continued to berate the ragged pair, and struck them each a further two times. The unarmed men who had grovelled looked almost hopeful, but Robert saw a flicker of sorrow cross Blue Shirt’s lips.

The armed pair threw off the Hispanic guard’s assault with a barrage of their own obscenities, gesturing towards their prisoners with their rifle barrels.

The Hispanic guard turned slowly to the unarmed men and cocked his head; an almost childlike curiosity had infected his manner. Robert’s gut twisted at the sight of it. The guard then sauntered closer, skirting around them, and said a few words. His voice was reduced to a near-inaudible hum by the intervening distance, but Robert picked up the tone: a faux-pleasant sigh far more sinister and blood-curdling than any bellow of rage.

The grovelling captors didn’t answer, stood rigid—as one stands when confronted by a snarling hound—staring at the ground. Blue Shirt, meanwhile, hadn’t moved. He still looked straight ahead, as though unaddressed.

The Hispanic guard nodded, as though to himself, and backed away. He and the ragged pair bickered with their backs turned while their prisoners waited in silence.

Sarah was tugging at Robert’s cuff, her voice strangled and agonised. “What’s going on?” She was once again darting her head back and forth, trying to see through the grass.

“They’re just talking,” Robert said, eyeing her carefully. He was now very aware of the rifle beneath him. He sensed that he should have it ready, as there wouldn’t be time to prepare when the standoff broke. At least he’d positioned it so that it was easily accessible. Careful not to make a single rustle, keeping each motion fluid, he released the barrel from the duffel. Its size made it impossible to hide from Sarah any longer.

Her sudden outburst caught him off guard, and he almost lashed out, thinking her an assailant. He winced as she dug her nails into his shoulder and let loose an angry spiel from between gritted teeth.

He whirled, glaring. With as much delicacy as he could muster, he removed her arm from his shoulder, observing the blood welling up in the fingernail-shaped puncture marks in his skin. “Be quiet,” he hissed.

He turned away, flipped up the tripod, and slid the barrel’s length into the grass until the scope was positioned before his face.

“What are you doing? We can’t, Robert. There are only two of us.”

“I’m not doing anything. We’re just here to watch. I promise.”

“But we can’t just let this happen, we have to help them. We have to go for help.”

“We can’t. We’ll be spotted.”

A pause. “They’re going to be killed, aren’t they?”

He swallowed. “I think so.”

He tried to ignore the stifled noise in her throat, and peered through the scope. The men below ballooned to five times their previous size, revealing minute details that even Robert’s hawk eyes hadn’t been able to pick up before.

Sarah didn't answer, but he could feel her eyes burning a hole into the side of his head.

Shame festered in the seat of his loins. But not for a moment would he consider risking her. Not ever. If saving them meant living with the knowledge that she might have died through his doing, he’d watch them die a thousand times over.

The captors were now more animated in their speech, and the conversation was becoming heated. They hadn’t bothered to glance over their shoulders to check on their prisoners for some time.

One of the men who had grovelled took a step forwards. He started babbling once more, hands clasped together, outstretched. Then he stumbled forth as his voice broke and he began whimpering, falling limp and cowering, as though recognising his terrible mistake.

The Hispanic guard turned to him, looking genuinely shocked at such audacity. He surged forwards, screaming, and began beating indiscriminately, sending both grovelers to the floor and plunging his fist into Blue Shirt’s gut, doubling him up.

Sarah’s exhalations shuddered. “What’s happening?” she breathed.

Robert didn’t answer. Though she didn’t have the best vantage point, he knew that she’d caught at least a glimpse of it. And a glimpse would have been more than enough to see just how grave the situation was.

The three armed men by now stood before their prisoners, unmoving. Their weapons now seemed more obvious, more significant.

The prisoners visibly realised their imminent fate. They cringed unanimously and stepped back. The two who had begged before began in earnest now, sinking lower to the ground as they pleaded in high-pitched wails.

Sarah caught Robert's arm in an iron-fisted grip. He could feel her shaking. “Robert,” she breathed. “Robert, kill them.”

“What?”

“Kill them.”

“They’ll know we’re here.” The rifle wasn’t silenced, and in the valley the sound of any gunshot would travel for some distance. If there were more men inside—and he suspected there were—shooting these three would be a deadly mistake.

“Well, do
something
.” Her fingers dug into his shoulder with shocking strength, enough to make him wince.

“I can’t.”

“They’re going to die unless we do something!”

“I know.”

He could feel her eyes on him, and sighed. In any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have hesitated. In fact, he was fairly certain that if he’d been alone, he would have intervened long before now.

But he wasn’t alone, and his feelings hadn’t changed. He would watch them die, if he had to. It would haunt him—the callousness of it would forever be a blight on his memory—but at the same time he knew it was indisputably just.

The Hispanic guard now approached one of the two grovelling men and flicked his pistol towards the floor in a quick motion. The meaning was unmistakable: Kneel.

The man responded by redoubling his pleading. Soon after, his companion joined him.

The three armed men shook their heads. One of them laughed openly. They waved their weapons at the ground imperiously.

Still, the two grovelled. Only Blue Shirt remained upright, his face grim.

The guards’ amusement soon waned. The Hispanic then strode forwards, grasping the wailing pair by their collars and yanking them to the ground.

“Robert,” Sarah hissed. Her voice was wooden, without intent, seeking comfort rather than attention.

Robert didn’t look away. All his attention was focused on steadying the scope’s crosshairs, each movement cold and fluid. Despite his certainty that he would watch—just let it all happen—he reached forwards and adjusted the magnification, bringing the Hispanic’s head into sharp focus. Just in case.

Blue Shirt was still standing proud, staring at the tower block wall. He didn’t acknowledge the guards’ orders, or even their presence.

The Hispanic guard approached him, looking him up and down. The grey moustache above his lip bristled as his eyes constricted to fine slits. Then he spoke softly, a sibilant hiss of ill intent. Robert didn’t need to hear the words to know what was coming.

Blue Shirt didn’t answer. He still gave no indication of recognising anybody around him.

Then a scream rang out from the tower block, a feminine shriek laden with weeping shudders. Scuffling and grunts also issued from within, but were almost unnoticeable beside the volume of her piercing voice.

Blue Shirt’s trance broke immediately. He surged forth, calling back to her, raising his arms, his set expression having dissolved into a mask of horror. Yet when he spoke, his voice was soothing, affectionate—dulcet tones of reassurance.

She answered, her cries interlaced with sobbing. She sounded young—Robert wouldn’t have guessed any older than twenty.

Blue Shirt replied, his voice having exhausted its reassuring powers. He came to a staggering halt and hung his head, staring at the floor. He was shaking. Robert saw his shuddering shoulders and rapidly clenching-unclenching fists, and knew that his nerve had broken.

Through the scope, he saw the Hispanic’s face crease into a wicked expression of satisfaction as he gripped Blue Shirt’s collar and tugged him to the ground.

Blue Shirt, however, resisted. He threw off the Hispanic’s grip and managed to land a single punch on his captor’s face before being restrained by the ragged pair.

The woman still called out from inside, wailing with such pain and fear that Robert’s chest felt as though a dagger had been thrust through it. Sarah whimpered beside him, cursing.

The Hispanic man roared, blood flying from his lips, waving the nose of his pistol and stalking forwards, striking Blue Shirt across the face with the sharp edge of the butt. An arc of crimson opened on Blue Shirt’s face, right down to the cheekbone, exposing a streak of white.

“Why are they doing this?” Sarah shrilled.

Robert didn’t dare look away now. The Hispanic visibly inflated as he took a deep breath, as though steeling himself. Then he raised his pistol, aimed at one of the grovelling prisoners, and squeezed the trigger.

The gunshot was deafening. It tore along the valley walls, returning from every direction in repeating echo, throwing a flock of birds from their nests in the nearby forest, scattering them into sky.

The prisoner flopped onto his side without a sound and landed in a heap amidst the dirt-streaked rubble, his hand twitching. The back of his head had been completely obliterated.

The woman inside let loose a spiel of unconstrained screams, choking on her own sobs. There were other voices in the building now, male and female. The sound of movement inside built as it had done before. Dozens of voices were suddenly ringing out, accompanied by as many sources of disturbance.

The Hispanic ignored the tower block, looking coldly at the remaining beggar. He dispatched him before a single plea could be made. The bullet caught the prisoner dead between the eyes. He fell beside his comrade, his arms splayed melodramatically across a jagged lump of concrete.

Sarah cried into Robert’s shoulder, gripping his sleeve. Robert’s curses intermingled with hers as he watched the Hispanic turn to his last prisoner.

Blue Shirt had struggled to his feet, and was staring forward once more. Though his eyes were wide, he trembled only slightly—it was only with the aid of the scope that Robert could see his shuddering knees. He called out to the woman, his voice raised over the increasing racket inside.

The message was apparently not to her liking; she immediately responded with an all-consuming screech of heartbreak.

The Hispanic raised his pistol to his last victim, a despicable smirk running rampant across his cruel features.

In his last moment, Blue Shirt’s mouth drew tight, and he closed his eyes. He jerked as the gunshot exploded along the valley, plummeting straight down instead of falling backwards like the others. There, he lay still.

The Hispanic assessed the three corpses before him with a distinct air of satisfaction. He remained there as the ragged pair stepped forward to loot the bodies, simply staring. The murderous tool in his hand seemed to have been forgotten, hanging loose by his side.

Sarah pounded the dirt with her fist. Her sobbing was now an ugly concoction of furious snarling and muddled obscenities.

“We couldn’t have done anything,” Robert said. His voice ill-matched his wavering conviction.

She didn’t stop beating at the ground until he gripped her arm and hissed, “
Quiet!
”

The ragged pair retreated to the tower block, leaving the bodies half-stripped. The disturbance inside was now more akin to the din of a full-scale riot. The wailing woman shrieked when a dull thud rang out, followed by a sound that dredged distilled dread from Robert’s heart, one that unhinged his jaw and drew a gasp from his throat. Even the old Hispanic froze.

A baby was crying. Over the roar of dozens of screaming voices, it was unmistakable, sending Robert’s stomach in a head dive for his boots.

He dropped the rifle and swung around, clamping his hand over Sarah’s mouth just as she let forth a full-throated, anguished scream. He managed to stifle the body of it against his flesh, but he’d been just a moment too late to catch the initial piercing warble. He closed his eyes in dread as the noise broke out into the valley, rebounding from the valley walls for what seemed an eternity. Even the infant’s wailing and the rancorous roar within the building failed to mask it.

Robert didn’t need the scope to know that the Hispanic guard had heard. He had been hurrying inside, no doubt to quell the raging insurgence that awaited him. Now he stood perfectly still, facing the tower block door.

Sarah fought against Robert’s grasp with stunning strength. To keep hold of her, he’d have to hurt her, and he’d never risk doing that—not for one second. And so, with a curse, he loosened his grip, and she wriggled free. “The baby,” she choked. “Oh my god, there’s a baby down there.” She was too smart to try to stand, but still she cried out.

Robert was forced to take hold of her once more. The beginnings of genuine panic coursed through him. She was going to get them killed. “What are you
doing
?”

“We can’t just sit here!”

“We have to.” Robert pushed her head close to the dirt, shielding her as best as he could from his awkward position. He held his breath, muscles tensed, ready to make his move.

The old Hispanic’s attack came with stunning suddenness. He turned so fast that any movement was lost in a blur of ragged tunic—it appeared as though he had turned one hundred and eighty degrees in a single instant. Robert now stared down the barrel of his pistol.

He broke cover and leapt upon Sarah just as the grass began surging back and forth and clouds of dirt were kicked up by a searing volley of bullets. Sarah screamed beneath him, shuddering as he forced her further into the dirt with his bulk.

The riot inside the building was interrupted by an outbreak of machine-gun fire. Battle cries gave way to unbridled screaming. The volley of bullets stopped, and Robert chanced glancing up just in time to see the Hispanic turn his head ever so slightly, distracted.

A flash of rage arced behind Robert’s eyes, and he dived for the rifle. He landed with such momentum that he and it were carried end-over-end through the grass as he swung the barrel around. The moment he came to a stop, his eyes reached the scope, and his finger came to rest against the trigger. Before he even had time to register the magnified image, he had fired. The rifle bucked in his hands, slamming into his shoulder.