Fight or Die Read online

  Adam nodded slowly in deep contemplation.

  “Okay, you’re dismissed, soldier. Vamoose. And be damn careful tomorrow,” said Clay.

  Adam blinked a couple of times then gave a half smile. “You can count on me.”

  The three old soldiers nodded as one and Adam scuttled out into the late-afternoon sunlight.

  “That should keep him occupied for a while,” said Danny, blowing out his cheeks.

  “Nice move, wee one,” agreed Clay.

  “He seems like a nice kid but he’d be hanging around our necks if we let him.”

  “He’s got some gizmos though. He knows his way around a computer, no doubts there,” said Larry. “I wouldn’t have a clue.”

  “Aye, Adam’s program might come in handy. If we can get into Barcelo’s computer, we might pick up something useful and cause some havoc while we’re in there.”

  “So what’s next?” asked Larry.

  “Field trip,” offered Clay.

  “To where?”

  “Well, now we know where the villa is we’re gonna take a friendly look-see. Get the lay of the land,” said Danny.

  Larry lowered his voice. “I wish I was going with you.”

  “You rest easy on this one.” Clay nodded at his old friend. “You know, we could just go in fast and heavy tonight, put a rocket through the front door and take them all out.”

  “It may well come to that but I think we should try some friendly persuasion first,” said Danny.

  “Ah, friendly persuasion, that’s what it says on my business card,” said Clay.

  Danny gave a furtive wink to Larry. “When did you change it from Big Texan Butt Muncher?”

  26

  Clay eased the Toyota through the sparse traffic heading out of the town and followed the narrow coastal road north. Soon the jubilant tourists, blinking neon lights and background music gave way to the natural calm of the country. From the two-lane main road they detoured into countryside and followed a course for several miles that ran parallel to the coastal drop off. Most of the coast north of Ultima was comprised of steep gradients and minor cliffs before meeting the Mediterranean. Barcelo’s villa occupied sole position on an elongated peninsula reminiscent of an old Spanish castillo.

  Clay glanced at Danny, smiling at the way the dashboard lights illuminated his face as he scanned the road ahead. The sat-nav guided them along the road with regular prompts, the emotionless voice little more than a drone. An oldies station played quietly as they drove. Sinatra sung of how he’d done it his way, then went on to extol the virtues of New York, New York. As a change of pace, The Prodigy gave permission to smack my bitch up as they covered the last mile to Barcelo’s secluded estate. Clay killed the headlights and the music as the soft glow from the villa lights warned of their proximity.

  Amber lights in the form of antique lanterns showed the location of the villa clearly. Even in the fading dusk of early evening, the sprawling estate was impressive. The decorative lamps were fixed atop the perimeter wall and gave the estate an old colonial village look. The villa itself was clearly visible as they crested a hill and viewed the property from an elevated position.

  Clay allowed the car to roll to a gentle stop. The engine idled quietly and he powered off the radio so no ambient light showed from the vehicle. They lowered the windows and allowed the night sounds to drift in. Indistinct noise travelled from the villa to their vantage point. Just muffled tones; too faint to be identified.

  Satisfied that there was no immediate danger, Clay turned off the engine. Sickly sweet aromas were carried in on the gentle breeze.

  Clay leaned forward and interlaced his fingers over the top of the steering wheel. The steering column protested slightly as he settled his weight.

  Both men examined the path ahead in silent contemplation. The road continued for another five hundred metres then terminated at the main gates of the villa; only one road in and out. This held both advantages and disadvantages in an assault situation.

  Clay reached for the rubber-coated Leica binoculars wedged on the dashboard. Not military-grade kit per se, but more than adequate for the task in hand. A silent nod and the brothers slid out into the approaching darkness. Both were dressed in dark outfits; black canvas trousers and shirts. Each had a matching Beretta 92 pistol tucked into their belt. The rest of the heavier weaponry was secured in the trunk.

  Both adopted a stealthy crouch as they moved, old habits kicking in through instinct and training. They followed the rise of the hill and then dropped to one knee. The stump of an old tree offered a natural hiding place from which to study the peninsula.

  Clay allowed his eyes to drift out of focus and his night vision to kick in. He then surveyed the villa in a slow and steady sweep from left to right. The light from the central windows was a calm shade of orange, the colour of an early autumn sunset. Two cars were parked in front of the glass-fronted body of the villa. Both looked like top-of-the-range Mercedes, one convertible and the other a saloon.

  He panned right again and concentrated on the main gateway. Seconds later the glowing ember of a cigarette betrayed the guard sitting in the security hut directly behind the gate. Clay smiled and almost sympathised with the watchman—almost. He’d spent countless mind-numbing nights on sentry duty in his earlier years in the service. At least this bozo had the Mediterranean climate for company.

  From his position, Clay could only view the front and eastern wing of the villa. He tapped Danny on the shoulder and signalled his intention. Clay moved slowly up the bluff, taking care not to reveal himself to any chance observers below. Danny remained stationary and vigilant, silently providing backup in the unlikely event of an ambush by the Locos.

  The thirty-yard crawl up the hill provided Clay with an unobstructed view of the expansive sun terrace. The pool was illuminated by an underwater lighting system that gave off an aquatic-green hue. Three bikini-clad women moved slowly around in the light-dappled water. One of the girls swam topless. Clay was more interested in the six men dotted around the pool edge. One group of four, obviously talking amongst themselves and another two seated at the top of the steps that gave access to the beach below. The two stairway guardians sat at an oblique angle to each other, almost in the fashion of a Victorian loveseat. One faced in towards the house and pool, the other out to the undulating ocean.

  Clay adjusted the focus on the binoculars and scanned the men at the gate. A shotgun leaned against the wall next to the man with the pool view. It looked like a pump-action, maybe a Mossberg or an Ithaca. The watchman seemed way more interested in the pool activities than the weapon or his guard duty.

  The second guard appeared a little more vigilant. Periodically, he rose from his seat, glanced down the wooden steps and after satisfying himself that all was quiet, sat back into his upright sun lounger. He cradled a more compact assault shotgun with a shortened barrel, pistol grip and folding stock—maybe an Italian SPAS-12 or the like, certainly a deadly weapon when used correctly.

  Clay scanned back to the group of four. The men stood in a loose U-shaped formation. The guy that caught Clay’s attention was a bear of a man. Wide back and shoulders, thick black hair, swept high and back like Elvis: Barcelo.

  The other three men nodded as Barcelo stabbed the air with his fingers. Clay guessed he was probably telling of all the unspeakable acts of violence he was going to perpetrate upon the British transgressors. He focused on the other three. One had his right arm in a sling. He was slim-built and maybe fifty years old; he looked mean and dangerous. Suddenly Clay recognised the Loco, and smiled when he remembered how the man’s arm had come to be injured.

  The other two looked young and athletic and both wore muscle vests over their urban camo trousers. He could see the definition of their arms even at a distance. Their ripped muscles looked like tiger stripes in the deck lights. Big men hyped on steroids. There would be many more like them.

  Clay watched for another fifteen minutes, then crawled back to Danny’s
position. He could feel the coarse sand and scrub grass shift subtly underfoot as he retraced his path.

  Danny took the binoculars and traced his way to the spot vacated by Clay. Exactly fifteen minutes later, Danny appeared silently at his brother’s side. Both moved back to the vehicle and climbed inside.

  Talking in hushed tones, Danny said, “Looks good. Big house, lots of cover points on the way in.”

  Clay nodded. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard, barely making a sound. For the next ten minutes they compared their observations of the villa and various possible strategies for the breach and siege of the property.

  “We could end this now by putting a couple of rounds through the back of Barcelo’s head. You could make that shot with the SLR.”

  Danny considered the proposal. “Aye, not a bad idea.”

  “Hold the phone, we’ve got movement at the front of the villa,” said Clay.

  Barcelo and one of the ripped guys slid into the convertible. The other muscled Loco and the man with his arm in a sling took the Mercedes saloon and followed behind.

  The headlights on both cars illuminated the driveway in front of the villa. The gates began to swing open. The guard at the gate emerged from the hut and gave a brief wave as the vehicles passed him.

  As the vehicles sped towards their position the brothers climbed from the car and drew their pistols. The Toyota was parked well back from the road and was just another shadow on the hillside. Clay moved to the front of the vehicle while Danny crouched at the rear. Both pistols followed the progress of the two cars. Clay released his breath slowly as both speeding Mercedes zipped by without pause. He opened the car door and slid in.

  “Well now, let’s see where the boys are going tonight.” Clay turned the ignition key and the engine sprang into life as Danny climbed into the passenger seat.

  Clay made a quick three-point turn and set off in pursuit. The taillights of the two cars were twin red dots in the distance. Clay pressed down steadily on the accelerator pedal and resisted the urge to switch the headlights back on. He didn’t want to alert the men to their presence. The road ahead was a single lane until it got to the first intersection. Ahead, the Mercedes reached the main road and turned towards Ultima.

  “Slow and steady gets the job done,” said Danny.

  Clay gave a single nod in agreement as he flicked on the lights as they too reached the junction. The traffic was sparse and he stayed three cars behind the gangsters.

  The lights of Ultima beckoned.

  27

  Ortega sipped his bottle of Coke through a straw and leaned against the saloon’s window. He’d been eating and drinking everything via a straw since his encounter with the big Yank at the Woo Hoo Club. Having his jaw wired was proving both humiliating and painful. Although the double dose of OxyContin took the edge off the pain the pills gave him a serious case of dry mouth. He also winced every time he forgot himself and tried to talk normally. The muscles in the side of his jaw ached and his teeth felt like each one had been hit with a ball-peen hammer. Keeping his face neutral, not showing any outward discomfort, was the real challenge. He rested his arm, now cast from biceps to wrist, tight against his abdomen.

  He was determined still to perform his role as a captain even with his injuries. Ortega had been with Barcelo for many years and was acutely aware of how quickly a capable man could rise through the ranks. Young men like the one who had taken his position in the driving seat of Barcelo’s convertible ahead, thanks to his broken arm. Santo was young, strong and vicious. Men like him were ambitious and always looking for an opportunity to move a step up the ladder. Ortega was resolute to remain active and not lose his seniority in the organisation. He motioned his own driver to park up behind the convertible.

  The four men exited the cars and walked towards their destination. There was a long line of customers waiting to enter the nightclub. Half-naked girls sipped coloured concoctions from test-tube style glasses, while men vied for their attention. “Mujerzuelas e idiotas” (which translated meant “sluts and idiots”) was Ortega’s stock phrase when describing the tourists. He followed his boss past the partygoers, a look of disdain firmly etched into his features. The doormen nodded respectfully to Barcelo and his men as they entered.

  * * *

  Clay’s Toyota rolled to a gentle stop on the opposite street corner from the club. As they climbed out of the vehicle, Danny could feel the bass of the music thumping in his chest. He gave a cursory glance to the crowds and nodded at the club logo. “This is on my list. The Hot Pink is one of the businesses they’ve taken already; it used to belong to a guy from Plymouth.”

  “So I guess it won’t matter if we knock over a drink or two while we’re inside.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it will.” Danny gave his brother a slight smile. “But we’re not exactly dressed for a place like this.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll be looking at us with that amount of bare ass on display. Anyway, my belt is DKNY.”

  “I just need to grab a couple of things.” Danny opened the trunk, retrieved four cardboard tubes, each slightly larger than a permanent marker pen, and slipped them into his pockets. He discarded his black canvas jacket. He knew anyone wearing a jacket would likely be searched by the doormen. The only drugs they would allow to be sold inside were their own. He tapped the Beretta, setting it next to the other weapons. “It might upset the bouncers.”

  “You want me to follow you in or wait out here?”

  “Give me ten minutes inside. That should be long enough to scope the place and see what’s going on.”

  Clay gave Danny the flat-eye. “Great. I’ll watch the coats.”

  The queue of thirty-plus bodies moved quickly into the nightclub. The doormen seemed like they knew their job. They were polite but businesslike, keeping the line orderly but without appearing militant. Danny joined the back of the line next to three girls, one of whom sported a tussle of thick black hair and a leather waistcoat. The embellished back panel of the vest declared CTHULHU LIVES! Below, a many-tentacled creature stared with a malevolent gaze.

  Danny smiled and leaned towards the girl. He had read just about everything the old horror writer had ever penned. “I guess you’re a fellow Lovecraft fan then?”

  “You read H.P.L.?” she asked with reverence. She gave him the once-over and despite his bruises seemed to like what she saw.

  “As often as possible.” He extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Danny.”

  “Gloria.” She introduced her friends as well. They smiled and gave him finger waves in the air. They seemed to find this hilarious, bursting into peals of laughter.

  “So, you girls just on holiday or do you live here?” Danny could smell the alcohol on their breath. Not drunk but they seemed to be firmly in the happy zone.

  “Just on holiday. We all go to the same uni. We just wanted to get away for a little break in the sun before final exams.” Gloria’s lipstick looked to be a dark shade of purple. Kind of a goth look. Danny smiled to himself; did they even call them goths anymore?

  Gloria scrutinised his features without a hint of discomfort. “I have to ask. What happened to your face?”

  “Ah, some idiot knocked me off my bike. It looks worse than it is. Has it ruined my good looks?”

  “Nah, you’ve still got it going on,” she flirted back.

  Danny chatted, paid the cover charge for the three girls as well as himself and was inside six minutes later. The door staff never gave him a second glance.

  Danny promised to catch up with Gloria later. Tossing back her mane of dark curls she smiled and gave him a wink. Danny had never attended university, moving from a string of secondary schools straight to the armed forces at age sixteen. Looking at the three students, he thought he might have missed out.

  The club was filled to capacity. Someone wearing a neon headband tooted a whistle continuously as he punched the air with his hands. Danny raised an eyebrow; maybe that was what you did these days if you couldn’
t dance?

  He moved around the edge of the wide dance floor, just another face in the crowd. He was sure that he was at least twenty-five years senior to the oldest of the dancers. The club was larger than the Woo Hoo by a wide margin. While not quite on the scale of some of the big-name clubs he’d visited in Ibiza, it was still an impressive sight. On the opposite wall several fifty-inch screens showed live pictures of the clubbers dancing and cavorting below. Danny could not see the video cameras but made a mental note that they were there.

  Reaching down in response to the vibration in his pocket, he cupped the cell phone tight to his ear. “I’m in.”

  Within thirty seconds he spotted Barcelo’s entourage moving through the club. As he passed the circular main bar, Barcelo held up two fingers to the Lycra-clad server and pointed to a doorway at the opposite side of the room. The female bartender gave Barcelo an enthusiastic thumbs-up and immediately moved to prepare the drinks.

  The Locos seemed to be in no hurry. Barcelo stopped to talk to a gaunt-looking man dressed in a shirt and tie. The man nodded several times and pointed to the rear of the club. The two drivers looked like they were enjoying the spectacle of writhing flesh on the dance floor, mimicking the gyrations of the dancers. Only the guy with his arm in the sling looked unimpressed. He had a face like he’d ingested battery acid. Danny was sure that he was not one of the men he had tangled with at the apartments. Arm in a sling, face like a pit bull. Probably the guy that Clay had rumbled at the Woo Hoo: Ortega.

  As he followed, the pounding music continued the assault on his eardrums. Danny liked techno (or whatever they called its latest incarnation these days), with its repeating and hypnotic beat, but when it caused ripples in your skin, it was maybe a touch too loud. Four lithe women danced on raised platforms, with only neon-glow tubing and bikini bottoms to cover their modesty, keeping the beat while seemingly impervious to the volume.