Thunder (45 page)

The moped clatters noisily along the dirt track road and around the lagoon. It won’t be long now. I’m excited and in a hurry, but I let off the throttle when I see there’s a strange car tucked onto the verge amongst the bushes.

Unusual parking?

Not how you’d normally leave your hire car.

Not with so much space around.

I kill the engine.

Jack’s little house is just visible from here.

Suddenly a deep feeling of dread runs through me. Ice water replaces the blood in my veins. I climb off the bike, push it in amongst some wild trees, shrug the straps of my holdall off my shoulders, and toss the bag onto the ground beside the gently ticking machine. Then I go back to the out-of-place car.

I can see a bag on the passenger seat. Zipper open. The tip of a passport cover poking up from behind a bundle of clothes and a tatty wash bag. The base of the passport’s coat of arms can be seen. It’s a British passport.

The car is clean. Inside and outside. I lean close to the driver’s window.

On the headrest...

White hairs...

Deuce.

How did he find us?

How did he know where we were?

I crouch and hurry along the lane until I reach the edge of Jack’s property, then vault silently over the lovingly crafted wall, and move into cover behind the outbuildings.

Silence.

Where’s Jack?

I edge around the barn until I can see past its corner to the villa, about twenty metres away. About twenty metres of open ground. I scan the surroundings. No sign of anyone but there’s lots of cover. Deuce will be armed.

Perhaps he’s only come to explain what happened before?

Perhaps Jack has been in contact with them?

Perhaps they’re inside, chatting comfortably, while I creep around out here like some demented idiot?

My mind is spinning, out of control. I contemplate going into the barn but can’t for the life of me remember Jack’s key code for the door to the arsenal. Until now, I’ve stupidly never thought I’d
need
to remember it. Jack would always be around to open it for me...

~~~~~

Deuce thrust himself forward toward Jack. He’d been sitting lounging in Jack’s favourite armchair. Legs crossed. Comfortable.

Jack shrank back, as best he could. He was at one end of the sofa. His legs were bound tightly at the ankles, and his arms were similarly tied behind his back. The bindings dug into his flesh, and his fists pressed into his back where he was forced to rest against them. The gag wrapped round his head was almost suffocating; forcing him to breathe through his bloodied and broken nose. He glowered mutedly through bruised and swollen eyes, and waited for another blow to land. He knew he was defenceless, and Deuce seemed to be revelling in his position of power. The beating he’d been given went way beyond rational. Jack suspected the man was venting pent-up frustrations that were rooted elsewhere than their personal animosity.

Deuce’s free hand snapped forwards and Jack braced himself for a blow that never came. Instead, Deuce reached to the cushions beside Jack, and rooted his fingers into the seams. When his hand emerged, it did so gently, withdrawing a long thin metal object which looked similar to a complex ball point refill: the SIG's firing pin.

“You see? That’s how you hide something,” Ellard gloated. “Right under your miserable fat backside.” He lounged back into the armchair. His silenced Browning was lying along one of its wide arms. He gently repositioned the gun, checking he would be able to snatch it up easily if required. “You have
such
a nice place,” he crooned. “So, comfortable. So, scenic. I was planning to help myself to some of your more valuable items, but maybe I might just keep the whole joint for myself?” Ellard reached forward, flipped the SIG Sauer nonchalantly up into the air, and then caught it again like it was some weirdly shaped juggling baton. “Such an easy weapon to field strip,” he mused, as he released the slider and separated the barrel housing from the breech and butt of the gun. “It’s almost too easy to get these in and out. Especially if it’s been done a few times.” He fished inside his jacket and pulled out a metal propelling pencil. “So how long until Mercury gets back then? Eh? How long do we have?”

~~~~~

I can hear muted voices from inside the house.

~~~~~

Jack had watched, unable to do anything, while Deuce had carefully searched the house and bedroom earlier. Deuce had seen that Nick’s things were still there. Too many things to support Jack’s argument that Nick was gone forever. When he’d come across women’s clothing, the look on his face had been a picture. Despite the incessant pain, Jack had felt a flush of amusement as he’d watched Deuce shaking his head, wide eyed, obviously trying to work out in his peanut-sized brain which one of them was a transvestite.

“Hmmm?” continued Ellard. “Will I need to raid your larder?” He neatly released the recoil spring from the slider. “Now then,” he lined up the propelling pencil’s metal nib onto the side of the casing, “watch this fuck-wit.” With one tap, the holding pin popped sideways out of the casing. Ellard grabbed the exposed end and yanked it clear. “Out with this,” he removed a dummy firing pin, and waved it toward Jack. “You should always carry a few of these, Tin.” Then he slotted the proper firing pin in, on top of the safety, and with a swift bang on the table, drove the holding pin back into place. “Oh, sorry, of course, how silly of me. It’s a bit too late for you to be learning
anything
now, isn’t it?” He slipped the recoil spring and barrel assembly back into place, and slotted the slider back onto the breach. “Done,” he said slamming the pistol back onto the table.

“I think so,” growled Nick’s deep voice from the doorway.

~~~~~

I’m tired of all this. My will to live has bumped along on the bottom of its tanks for too long, and now the final dregs of self preservation vaporise in a blaze of unadulterated fury. With a roar of anger, I charge blindly into the room.

Deuce leaps up from the chair, grabbing his gun, but I’m closing quickly.

There is no plan.

No well thought out strategy.

I lower my shoulder and aim straight at him.

~~~~~

Jack watched in startled horror as Nick charged past in front of him.

“No!” he tried to yell through the gag, but the bindings muted his cry into nothing more than a strangled grunt.

He flicked his head toward Deuce, and saw the man standing, and snatching up his weapon. He watched, impotent, as the muzzle rose in his direction. He heard the click of the trigger, saw the burst of flame, and felt the muted cough of discharge as the weapon unleashed its deadly projectile toward him...

~~~~~

Ellard stood up and shot Jack. He expected it would distract an amateur like Mercury. Especially given their attachment to each other.

It didn’t.

The bulky man’s turn of speed was surprising. He flew across the space like a massive Prop Forward, and smashed into Ellard’s chest, flinging him backwards, into, and then tumbling over the armchair behind him.

~~~~~

Deuce is propelled backwards by the force of impact. He’s lifted into the air, but the back of his calves and heels hit the back of the armchair tumbling him over in flight.

I too crash into the obstructive furniture, but fall awkwardly to one side.

Spinning myself over, I see his feet disappearing into the bathroom as he tumbles and slides over the slippery tiling. There’s a hefty cracking sound from inside the small room, which I hope is his skull slamming against something rock hard.

Somehow I managed to avoid the coffee table during my manic charge, so I grab the gun, which is still lying there on top of it, push myself upright and, in doing so, glance across at Jack.

The sight that greets me, stops me in my tracks.

The pit of my stomach churns, and my chest heaves a painful moan onto my lips.

A broad triangle of bloody spray drips down the wall, pointing accusingly down to his crumpled form, draped over the sofa arm, facing away from me. He’s not moving. Part of me wants to be able to see his upper torso and face which are hidden out of sight. Part of me doesn’t. His midriff, bound hands, hips, and legs are utterly static. Somehow I know he is gone. He escaped last time but has no randomly placed spare magazines to defend him from a point-blank shot today.

My actions have killed him.

My rash actions have cost me everything.

This time it’s all
my
fault.

Noises from the bathroom draw my attention, and I can see movement in the shadows.

Deuce is pulling himself upright against the walls, and moving toward the doorway.

I’m going to kill him.

Now.

I grab the handgun’s slider and forcefully pull it back to cock the weapon, but the bloody goddamn thing’s not been assembled completely. The release mechanism must’ve been unlocked. The slider pops up off the breech like I’m opening some large heavy stapler and suddenly I’m standing there with a gun, in two pieces, in my hands.

Deuce pushes himself into the doorway and sneers.

He’s still holding his Browning. It hangs there, complete and functional, at his side.

“Fucking amateurs,” he snarls.

I do what’s necessary in these circumstances, and hurl both pieces of useless metalwork at his hideous grinning face.

~~~~~

‘Time to finish this,’ thought Ellard to himself.

He was bored now, and he’d banged his head nastily on something in the gay boys’ fucking bathroom.

Mercury, he could see, had efficiently disassembled the SIG again. What a twat.

He lifted the comforting weight of his trusty Browning in front of him, just as Mercury unexpectedly launched the two halves of the SIG Sauer toward his face, forcing him to duck quickly to one side.

~~~~~

I race into the bedroom, jump onto the bed, and use its gentle springboard to launch myself toward the firmly closed window panes.

~~~~~

Mercury sprinted off into the neighbouring bedroom, trapping himself nicely.

Ellard heaved himself round the corner, weapon first, and blindly fired off two rounds. A huge smashing sound from the left hand side of the room drew his attention, and he gaped at the sight of Mercury’s boots disappearing through the window. Roaring with frustration, Ellard span round, and rushed across the living room and out onto the veranda.

~~~~~

He thinks I’m running...

He thinks I’ll run away...

Instead I cut back along the wall, and move to the front corner of the house.

I can hear his boots on the veranda.

Coming this way.

~~~~~

Ellard sprinted to the corner, then pulled himself back, coming to a sliding halt. Years of training overtook his current moment of rage. Don’t go rushing into full view. He crouched slightly against the wall, and poked his head out for a brief glance along the side of the house...

~~~~~

His ugly face appears, only inches in front of me, at roughly shoulder height.

I see his pupils dilate as his turgid brain reacts to the unpleasant sight of me standing here and, more importantly, the sight of my knuckles arriving into his face with the crunching sound of shattering nasal bone.

‘Eat my fist, you mother-fucker...’ I think happily to myself.

~~~~~

It was like someone had swung a sledgehammer into his face.

Ellard felt himself being punched backwards, spinning out of balance, and sprawling across the homely decking. Flower pots flew in all directions and he span over, gun forwards, expecting Mercury to come crashing round the corner.

~~~~~

I sprint back along the wall of the house, and head toward the barn. Even as I run, my mind plays back the sight of Jack’s body sprawled over the sofa arm. I can still see his blood, so much blood, sprayed over the walls of our home. The thought is like a body blow, and it makes me stumble as if I’ve stubbed my toe against some invisible object in the grass.

I’m right back where I started. Gone full circle. Whatever last thread of compassion I have sustained, stretched taut in my mind, holding together the last faint echoes of peacefulness and mercy, is breaking.

I feel it snap.

My mouth opens, and I shriek toward heaven like some rabid monster.

The sound I’m making doesn’t seem human.

Not even to
my
ears.

I hate him.

Hate Deuce.

Hate him like I’ve never hated anyone before.

More than the thieves or Omid or Sikand. More than I’d hated Nagpal and Ebrahimi...

They had
always
been my enemies.

They had never pretended to be on my side.

Now I can see, with crystal clarity, the bitter core which lurks beneath any veneer of human loyalty, and I can see the eternal frailty of a species which will turn upon its own, like some hideous monster, without care for the consequences of its actions, whenever our capacity for good is superseded by selfish greed.

~~~~~

Ellard heard Mercury’s roar coming from somewhere behind the house, and thrust himself upright. Quickly he snapped out and changed magazines on the Browning. Then he reached up and roughly wiped the blood from his shattered nose.

Mercury would die slowly for this.

~~~~~

I run across and into the barn.

I’m looking for things I can hurt him with.

Vengeance! Typical... I didn’t think he’d been listening to me. Vengeance is lying, where I left it two days ago. Under Jack’s work-belt full of tools. On the workbench. I’d asked Jack to put it away for me. It looks like all he’s done, is sling some of his own stuff on top of it...

For once, I’m prepared to forgive him.

It’s time to play.

~~~~~

Ellard moved swiftly along the side of the house, and paused at the far corner. This time he took a couple of steps out from the wall, before swinging out and around the corner, gun brandished ready in front of him.