The Armada Legacy (30 page)

‘Getting shot’s never easy,’ Ben said as he headed up the steps. He had the hammer of the .44 cocked in his right hand and was using the Ruger to shine the way ahead. The open-sided staircase climbed some fifty feet up the inside of the wall before it led through the shadowy archway from which Cabeza’s body had been dropped. There was more blood there too, a lot more, from where they’d slit his throat. The poor bastard must have tried to hide from them up here, Ben thought. The bloody knife was still lying on the floor.

Ben’s hearing was beginning to return again, and he could make out the slap-back echo of the two men’s racing footsteps off the stone walls as he gave chase. There was only one way for them to go, and that was up the tower. Another stairway led steeply upward. Ben climbed it at a sprint. Beyond the reach of the Ruger’s tactical light he could see his quarry’s bobbing torch beams reflected on the stairway walls ahead. As he ran, one of the light beams suddenly swung round to point at him: there was a crack and a bullet ricocheted off the stonework, stinging his face with flying chips.

Ben levelled both of his pistols and squeezed both triggers at once. The simultaneous crash of the gunshots was numbing in the confined space. The man crumpled and came tumbling down the stairs. Ben jumped aside to let him come rolling and flopping lifelessly past, then raced on upwards after the last man, who had reached the top of the steps and disappeared from sight through another low doorway.

Ben reached the top step a second later, leaped through after him and found himself standing inside the church’s bell tower. The cold breeze coming in through its tall open-sided arches ruffled his hair and chilled the sweat on his brow. He looked around him but could see no sign of the man who’d just run in here ahead of him. The church’s massive bronze bell and its thick rope hung silhouetted against the sky and the dark hills in the distance. Montefrio was a speckle of lights around the base of the rock far below.

Ben heard a sound from overhead. He looked up to see the man making his way frantically up the iron rungs of the ladder that led to the very top level of the tower: a heavily-built, dark-skinned guy in a black coat. Realising he’d been spotted, the man hung off the rungs with his left hand, aimed his pistol down at Ben and squeezed off two rapid shots.

Ben felt the heat of the first bullet as it punched through the upper sleeve of his leather jacket. The second knocked the Ruger out of his left hand and sent it spinning away through the open arch and into empty space.

He dived for the cover of the bell as the man tracked him in his sights and fired a third shot. The bullet rapped sharply off the bell with an impact that set it swaying heavily on its mountings and filled the air with a quivering, juddering note like a hammer-strike on an iron gong. Ben’s left hand was numb from where the Ruger had been shot out of it. He checked his fingers. There was no blood, nothing broken. He took a breath, moved quickly out from underneath the bell, raised the .44 and fired the last deafening round in the cylinder.

The man screamed as the bullet blew open his thigh. He dropped from the iron rungs, hit the swaying bell a glancing blow and went sprawling to the floor so close to the edge of one of the tower’s open sides that he would have fallen through it if Ben hadn’t grasped his coat and hauled him to safety. Blood was pumping from the ragged hole in his leg. But even with half his quadriceps blown away by the .44 hollowpoint, there was still fight left in the man. Ben saw the knife blade flash in the dim light and moved out of the way of the slash just in time. Repeating out of pure instinct a move he’d drilled and executed hundreds of times in the past, he trapped the blade, knocked it from the man’s hand and twisted the wrist to breaking point. The man let out a howl.

‘Who are you?’ Ben demanded in Spanish. ‘Who sent you? Serrato?’ He saw the unmistakable flash of recognition in the man’s eyes. ‘That’s right. You know that name, don’t you? And what’s yours?’ Ben rifled through the man’s jacket and wasn’t surprised to find that he was carrying neither a wallet nor ID. He pointed the .44. ‘One round left,’ he lied. ‘I said, what’s your name?’

‘Gutiérrez!’ the man whimpered, his eyes rolling wildly. ‘Armando Gutiérrez!’

‘I’ll bet you’re not from around here, are you, Armando? I’ll bet you go travelling all over. Been to Ireland recently?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’

‘No?’ Ben thumbed back the revolver’s hammer. That tiny metallic
click-clack
of the mechanism cocking and the cylinder snicking round another sixth of a turn was enough to loosen anyone’s tongue.

‘It wasn’t me! I swear!’

‘Wasn’t me who what?’

‘Who cut the English guy’s hands off. Bracca did it!’

Seized by a surge of rage, Ben tossed down the revolver, grabbed Gutiérrez by the throat and half-dragged, half-threw him through the arch towards the edge of the drop. ‘You’re going down, Armando, and it’s a long way to the bottom.’

‘No! Please!’

‘Where’s the woman?’ Ben demanded through gritted teeth.

‘What woman?’

Ben grabbed the collar of Gutiérrez’s jacket and shoved him brutally several inches farther over the edge of the drop, dangling the man’s whole upper body in space and wedging his own shoulder tight against the side of the arch to prevent them both from falling to their deaths. The wind whistled around them.

‘I’m not talking about the poor woman you left to rot in a derelict barn with her head blown off,’ Ben said. ‘I’m talking about the other one. Her name’s Brooke and you’re going to tell me where she is. Right now, or else I’m letting you go.’

Armando didn’t want to be let go, even though he was probably bleeding to death from the pumping bullet hole in his thigh. ‘We took her!’ he screamed.

‘Took her where?

‘
El Capo
– he wanted her.’

‘The boss? You mean Serrato?’

‘Yes! Serrato wanted her!’

‘So you made sure he got her, did you?’ Ben rasped. He could feel his eyes bulging. The fury was coursing through him so powerfully that it was hard to breathe.

‘I did what I was told!’

‘Wanted her for what?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘You’ve been eating too many burritos, Armando. I can’t hold you for much longer.’

‘I don’t fucking know! Please!’

‘Did you kill her when he was done with her? Did you hurt her?’

‘She’s alive! I swear it!’

‘She’s alive?’ Ben shook him hard from side to side. The material of the black coat began to tear.

‘Aagh! Don’t drop me! Yeah, she alive! I’ve seen her!’

‘Where? Where is she?’

‘At El Capo’s place in Peru! Madre de Dios, don’t drop me!

‘You really believe in God, Armando? Because you know, dirty liars burn in hell for all eternity.’

‘It’s the truth, I fucking promise on my mother’s grave I’m telling the truth!’

‘Then your final act in this world was an honest one,’ Ben said. ‘You can tell that to San Pedro when you meet him in a couple of seconds’ time. Make that five seconds. It’s quite a drop.’

‘No! Please!’

Ben relaxed his grip on the man’s coat collar and the material slipped out of his fist. With a last scream of terror, Gutiérrez dropped from the bell tower and went tumbling and cartwheeling downwards into empty air. He’d vanished into the darkness before Ben heard the muffled
crump
from far below. He got to his feet, flexing his sore hand. Turned round and saw Nico standing there looking at him.

‘That was pretty fucking harsh, man,’ the Colombian said.

‘What would you have done with him?’ Ben said.

‘What would I have done with him? You don’t want to know.’

‘Then we understand each other.’

Nico gave a pained grin. ‘So we’re partners now, huh?’

‘Till you get yourself killed or I find someone better to team up with,’ Ben said. ‘How’s the arm?’

‘Bleeding’s slowed down some,’ Nico said, looking down at the saturated mess of his sleeve and Ben’s belt.

‘It’s either the local vet for you, or needle and thread back at the house. Think you can handle that?’

‘I’ve been stitched up before,’ Nico said gruffly.

‘That’s fine, because I can’t have you pissing blood and flopping about all over the airport.’

‘Thanks a fucking million, man. So, we catching a plane?’

Ben nodded. ‘How many men did you say Serrato has?’

Nico grunted. ‘Plenty enough.’

‘You don’t have to come all the way. I just need you to point me in the right direction.’

‘You’d go in alone? Even after what I told you about that place?’

Ben said nothing.

‘Like I said, you’re a crazy motherfucker.’ Nico paused, chewed his lip. ‘Guess that makes two of us.’

‘Then let’s get moving,’ Ben said.

Chapter Forty-One

It was late in the morning when Brooke was awoken by the sound of the lock opening and someone coming into her rooms. One of the worst things about captivity was the way she was slowly becoming used to these invasions, accepting that her space wasn’t her own. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. The night had been a long and almost completely sleepless one. She’d spent most of it trying to forget the awful scene of the previous evening.

And thinking. Thinking very carefully about her options.

The emerald and diamond necklace and bracelet Serrato had given her were lying on the bedside table where she’d dumped them. Remembering that she’d left her special little gold neck chain there too, she reached out to pick it up. It wasn’t there. She climbed out of the bed, thinking it might have fallen onto the floor, but she couldn’t see it anywhere. She was upset about losing it. Right now it was all she had left of her old life. All she had left of Ben.

Brooke could smell the aroma of coffee from beyond the bedroom door. Grabbing a bath towel from the back of a chair to cover the translucent nightdress, for dignity’s sake in case her visitor was one of the guards, she ventured out of the bedroom.

It wasn’t a guard, but a woman Brooke had never seen before, hefty and busty with a hatchet face and a severe haircut like a man’s. On the table was a breakfast tray laden with warm croissants, steaming coffee and fresh orange juice. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be so well catered for,’ Brooke said to her in a hostile tone. ‘I’ll be sure to recommend this place to all my friends that your boss hasn’t killed.’

The hatchet-faced woman didn’t speak a word, but seemed insistent on watching over her as she picked at the breakfast. Afterwards, she allowed Brooke time alone in the bathroom, but stood like a sentry not far from the door.

After searching again in vain for her gold chain, Brooke took her time in the shower. Afterwards she towelled and brushed her hair in the giant mirror using the cumbersome lapis lazuli hairbrush. She rearranged the bottles of perfume and cans of hairspray on the bathroom shelf, then calmly dressed and emerged wearing the tracksuit bottoms and one of the T-shirts Consuela had brought her. The severe-looking woman was still there, watching her sternly.

Brooke ignored her and wandered back to the bedroom. She lay on the bed and flicked casually through one of the magazines, pretending to read while she went back through her thoughts from overnight.

The plan was coming together in her head now. It was a dangerous game she was undertaking, and what would follow was even more dangerous. It was the only way. She couldn’t stay here much longer.

As lunchtime approached, the bedroom door burst open and the hatchet-faced woman strode in. In her coarse, square hands was a hanger with a white cotton dress.

‘Don’t worry about knocking or anything,’ Brooke said. ‘I take it that’s the latest outfit I’m to be paraded in front of his Lordship in?’

The woman glanced at her, expressionless, removed the dress from the hanger and laid it out carefully on the foot of the bed.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have laid your piggy little eyes on a gold chain, would you?’ Brooke asked her. The woman made no reply. She picked up the green dress that Brooke had left rumpled on the floor, tutted irritably at the creases in it and hung it up in the wardrobe.

Brooke motioned towards the door. ‘Thanks, Ugly Mug. Now maybe you’d like to drag your lardy old arse out of my bedroom while I dress myself up for your psychopathic pervert of an employer.’

The woman left. Some time later, when Brooke had finished putting on the white dress, the guards arrived for her routine escort downstairs. One of them was the cigar smoker she’d last seen from her window puffing away surreptitiously, the other a stockily-built man Brooke hadn’t seen before. She added him to her headcount of Serrato’s thugs. That made twenty-eight now.

As the guards were ushering Brooke down the stairs, she tripped and almost fell. The cigar smoker reached out and caught her. For a moment, his body was pressed tightly against hers and she could smell the cheap, shitty tobacco on him. His strong hands gripped her for slightly longer than necessary; then he grinned at her and let her go.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brooke mumbled. ‘It’s these shoes.’ He didn’t seem to mind at all.

Downstairs, Brooke was shown into an airy room with tall windows that opened onto an outside terrace. Serrato was sitting at a small table in the sunshine. He jumped to his feet to welcome her. ‘Good day to you, Brooke,’ he said with a smile.

Brooke made the biggest effort she’d ever made in her life. She smiled back. ‘Hello, Ramon.’

Serrato appeared delighted. ‘You look exquisite. Did you sleep well?’

Brooke replied that she had, and that the headache which had forced her to leave dinner early the night before had soon passed.

‘Perhaps the wine didn’t agree with you,’ he said, ‘but the cellar is well stocked with many different varieties. We will find one that suits. Would you care for some lunch? I thought we could eat outside.’

‘I was thinking,’ Brooke said as he led her out onto the terrace, ‘what a beautiful house this is, and how much I’d love to be shown around more of it.’ She’d rehearsed that line a hundred different ways during the night. Saying it now, she was suddenly terrified that it was too obvious; that he’d see through it immediately.