Fight or Die Read online

  Danny let his eyes rove along the outline of the building ahead. He moved again only after satisfying himself there were no CCTV cameras and no security guard on patrol. A padlock secured the main gates to the yard; he’d have to pick it, a simple procedure that he’d learned many years earlier on the streets of Belfast. He removed the compact shim set from a slit in his belt. A quick inspection of the padlock was followed by a few tentative tugs on the mechanism. There was a bit of play in the lock. He looked first at the pick and tension bar but decided to try a thumb shim. After bending the narrow aluminium strip into a curve he slipped the edge of the blade into the top of the lock. It required a couple of readjustments for the blade to slip between the shackle and the housing. The padlock opened with a distinctive click.

  “Open sesame,” Danny whispered. He fed the chain free of the gate and after entering, pulled the gate closed behind him. A series of three dull spotlights cast meagre illumination over the entrance to a large utility shed. ULTIMA FELICIDAD DESOTORO was emblazoned both on the shed and the four dark-blue tankers that were parked neatly in a row.

  Danny pounded his hand on the body of the tanker closest to the gate. He moved to the next one. Another blow brought a hollower retort. He repeated the same action on the two remaining vehicles. Satisfied, he returned to the first truck. He tried the driver’s door and it swung open with the quiet squeak of a hinge.

  Easy money, he thought. Daring to hope, he lowered the sun visor. A wad of papers fastened with a rubber band decorated the visor but no keys dropped into his lap. Well, that would have been too easy.

  Danny reached again for his shim set. This time he selected a lever that had been ground down from a small optician’s screwdriver. After inserting the blade of the tool into the keyhole, he knocked the handle of the screwdriver deep into the cylindrical lock. A sharp twist and the ignition responded.

  The rumble of the diesel engine seemed way too loud for Danny’s liking but he knew there were very few people nearby to hear it. He nosed the gates open with the truck and drove back into town.

  The parking lot to the side of the Hot Pink Club was quiet with only a half-dozen worse-for-wear stragglers still visible. Danny spotted Clay’s Toyota parked up. He rang his brother.

  “Keep an eye out while I get this done?” Danny asked.

  “Go ahead, Danny boy, I’ve got your six.”

  Danny moved to the rear of the tanker and attached the corrugated hose to the wide drainage tap. He dragged the hose to the first Mercedes, rolled down the window and fitted the hose through the gap. Finally, Danny turned the tap on. After a few minutes, he moved quickly to the convertible, dragging the hose with him.

  “Better get a step on there.” Clay’s voice was tinny through the phone.

  Like extras from a zombie movie, a few revellers shambled closer to see what was going on.

  “That’s the second one nearly done. Just another minute or so should do it,” said Danny.

  “I’d love to see their faces when they come back,” Clay chuckled.

  “Yeah, it’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

  “That’s one gift I wouldn’t want to unwrap at Christmas.”

  Danny chuckled as he finished the task in hand. “Yeah, it smells worse than you do after a night on tequila and tacos.”

  “Is that any way to speak to your ride home?”

  “That’s me done. Let’s make like good shepherds and get the flock out of here.”

  “Who said that? Moses?”

  “Bo Peep.”

  “Dumbass.” Clay laughed at the terrible joke.

  Danny climbed into the cab of the sewage tanker and followed Clay back into the night.

  31

  The vintage Triumph Bonneville rumbled like a disgruntled bear as the engine idled. The rider of the bike, Jean Vartain, nodded to his two companions then shut off the engine. He swung his leg over the seat and dismounted. After removing his amber-coloured helmet, which matched the petrol tank on the bike, he balanced it carefully on the handlebars. The Triumph was not the fastest thing on the road but it was a pleasure to ride. The custom paint job was a work of art. The rich amber streaks extended from the tank down to blend in perfectly with the leather seat straps. The chrome work glittered as it reflected the storefront lights.

  The three men converged at the front door then moved into the grocery store as one unit. The young man behind the counter looked up and paused. He’d been right in the middle of filling a shelf with bottles of brandy. “We’re just about to close…” he said uneasily.

  Two of the bikers levelled sawn-off shotguns: one a double barrel, the other a pump-action model. Vartain stepped forward, reading the name embroidered on the young man’s shirt. “You know who we are… Alonzo?”

  “Yes…” Alonzo raised his hands in surrender as he stared at the two shotguns. Vartain knew that the distinctive patch on his jacket left little doubt as to their identity. Most biker gangs wore their colours emblazoned across the back but the Rogue Angels’ skeletal motif stretched from the back of the jackets and a bony claw continued over the left shoulder and down over their hearts.

  Vartain spoke again. His command was delivered as a harsh bark. “Open the register.”

  Alonzo nodded and pressed a digit to the screen. The till drawer opened with a brief rattle. One of the Rogues stepped forward, swung his legs over the counter and scooped the notes from the drawer. He fanned the meagre stack between his fingers. “Hundred and forty euros. Any more in the back?”

  Alonzo shook his head. “That is all we have.”

  A new voice cut into the conversation. “Get the hell out of my store. Leave him alone.”

  Vartain turned and looked at the interloper with scorn. An older man with tufts of grey spiky hair had emerged from the rear of the shop brandishing an aluminium baseball bat. The two gunmen turned as one and raised the shotguns to their shoulders. Vartain smiled and motioned for them to lower their weapons.

  Vartain tilted his head to one side then walked towards the man with the bat. “You really want to try that shit, old man?”

  The shopkeeper raised his bat higher in defiance. “I know who you are and I’m not afraid of you. There’s no way you’re taking my money.”

  “Well, have it your way.” Jean Vartain took another step closer.

  The old man shot an angry glance at Alonzo and then with a yell, swung the bat. Vartain danced back on the balls of his feet. The aluminium club cut through the air and slammed into a shelf, scattering cans down the aisle. Still moving, Vartain pivoted and slammed his right foot into the shopkeeper’s mid-section. The bat clattered to the floor as the older man doubled over. A strangled wheeze escaped his throat as he reached again for the bat.

  Vartain kicked the weapon away and in one balletic motion, swept his leg high into the air and let his heel drop onto the base of the old man’s skull. The shopkeeper dropped face first to the ground.

  “No! Don’t!” Alonzo yelled out. “Uncle!”

  One of the gunmen stepped close and slammed the butt of his weapon into Alonzo’s jaw. He too went to the floor.

  Vartain called to him. “Hey, boy. What are you going to say when the cops ask you who did this?” Alonzo said nothing. Vartain walked over and tapped him in the face with the toe of his boot. “Hey, boy. I asked you a question.”

  “I… I did not see who did it.” The words came between sobs.

  “No. You say, no cops. Nothing happened here,” said Vartain.

  “No cops. Nothing happened here,” sobbed Alonzo.

  “Clever boy,” said Vartain. “See you next week. And tell the old guy, no heroics next time. If you do call the police, I will burn this place to the ground. You understand?”

  Alonzo nodded.

  Vartain twirled one finger in the air. “Let’s go.”

  32

  Danny had gleaned some sketchy details about the biker gang known as the Rogue Angels from Sally and Phil Winrow during the meeting at their apar
tment. The Rogues tended to move around every few months but were easily found due to the four Winnebagos that served as their mobile homes. Sally and many of the other Brits had known where the Rogues were parked up. The locals knew too and tended to avoid the vicinity like a plague zone.

  From the cab of the tanker, he saw Clay’s Toyota indicate and pull in behind a copse of sad-looking trees. Danny drew the tanker up behind and got out. Further up the track were four massive Winnebagos, arranged in a loose semicircle at the end of the road; each sported a custom paint job. There was a modest-sized bar less than fifty yards away.

  Valentino’s bar was a single-storey affair built from breezeblocks and sported a red metallic roof. Tables and chairs were arranged at the front and side of the main doors, which stood wide open. Only one man was sat at the tables. He was face down and looked like he was asleep. His jacket bore the Rogues’ distinctive colours. Music thumped from the building into the night. Nearly two dozen bikes formed a neat line, parked alongside the rear of the bar.

  Danny got out of the tanker and walked over to where Clay was hoisting himself out of the Toyota. The big Texan nodded towards the Rogues’ camp. “I’ll say one thing for them, they’ve got style. Look at those road-blockers.” Clay had often enjoyed extended road trips in his own Winnebago in the States, before it had been destroyed the previous year. “We’ll need to be sharp here. I expect these guys will be locked and loaded. Even the cops tend to avoid these buckaroos.”

  Danny moved to the rear of Clay’s car and selected a couple of items from the trunk.

  “You sure about this, bro?” Clay said. “This could blow up in our faces. This is throwing a lot of gasoline on the fire.”

  Danny shared a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t worry, this will work in our favour.”

  “But what if it spills into the streets?” asked Clay, ever the voice of reason.

  Danny gave Clay an unwavering look. “It’s already in the streets. You know that they tried to burn out the Woo Hoo. The Locos are bad news and so are these fuck-nuts. Maybe it’s time we introduced them to each other.”

  Clay, apparently satisfied, shrugged in acceptance. “Then let’s get to it then.”

  “Watch my back. I’ll just be a minute or two.” Danny shook the can he was holding.

  Clay didn’t need to work the slide on his Beretta. He knew there was a round chambered already. “Go.”

  Moving fast and silent, Danny reached the first Winnebago in seconds. He was a blur of motion as he added his own contribution to the custom artwork on the exterior of the vehicle. Then, using the saw blade from his Gerber multi-tool, he sliced the air valves free on each tire. A frantic hissing ensued and the vehicle listed to one side. He repeated his actions on the next two Winnebagos, leaving the fourth undamaged. All the while music thumped from inside the bar.

  Clay’s voice whispered from the phone in Danny’s shirt pocket. “Still all clear.”

  “Good. This is the risky bit.”

  Danny uncoiled a length of extra-thick paracord from his pocket. Dropping to one knee, he tied one end around the rear bumper of the last Winnebago. Then, moving like a sidewinder snake, he flitted between each of the parked bikes, feeding the cord through the wheels and handlebars. There was a mixture of chopper styles and more conventional road bikes. Each bike looked pristine and well cared for. As he reached the limit of the cord he tied it off in a double reef knot around the handlebars of a Kawasaki Vulcan 850. An ornate version of the Rogues’ gang patch was fixed as an ornament between the handlebars of the Kawasaki. Danny wrenched it free from its fixings, then slipped it into a pocket.

  “You’ve got incoming. The guy from the front tables is on his feet and heading your way.” Clay’s voice was as cold as a winter wind. “You want me to take him out?”

  Danny pivoted, crouching low to the ground, and registered the approaching man. “No. I’ve got him.”

  The man was clad in dark-grey denims and a thick leather jacket bearing the wrap-around design of the Rogue Angels. His head was almost bald but he sported a thick goatee beard and carried a bottle of Havana Club in his left hand. The bottle was nearly empty. The Rogue stopped up short as Danny stepped directly into his path. “Qui êtes-vous?”

  Danny gave a shark-like smile. He replied in Spanish. “Never mind who the fuck I am. This is a message from the Locos.”

  The biker took a step forward, raised the bottle of rum and swung it like a club. Danny, instead of backing off, sprang into the air and slammed his forehead into the Rogue’s face. As the man crumpled to the ground, Danny followed him down, legs astride his waist, and planted another headbutt into his nose. The Rogue was left spreadeagled, a trickle of blood tracing its way down the side of his face.

  Clay’s voice sprang from the phone. “Shit. White men can jump.”

  Danny left the unconscious man where he lay and clambered into the last Winnebago. The keys were in the ignition. “These guys are making this too easy. Clay, drive back the way we came. Wait a half mile down the road and watch for me in your rear view.”

  The engine roared as Danny pressed the gas pedal to the floor. He repeated this several times more, each time longer and louder than the first. He watched as the Rogues began to emerge from the bar. He heard the collective howl as he slipped the RV into gear and began to speed away. The sound of the bikes tipping and crashing into each other brought screams of outrage. Danny kept it floored and the bikes were dragged along the hard surface of the road. Sparks flashed in the darkness and several unidentified pieces of motorcycle snapped off and spun away along the road. In his rear view, Danny saw one of the bikers waving a revolver at the rear of the stolen vehicle, then running to one of the remaining RVs. It took the bikers only moments to realise that the other vehicles had been disabled. A loud scream of anger told him that they had seen his artistic handiwork: each Winnebago was now decorated with a large L.

  The paracord finally snapped and the bikes were left scattered for a hundred yards down the road.

  33

  Barcelo stood on the street in front of the police station, regarding the passing vehicles with barely concealed agitation. The municipal police building sat on the southeastern outskirts of Ultima, well away from the main tourist strip, and his ride home was taking a lot longer than anticipated. He started towards the approaching car driven by Babi Garcia before it even reached the kerb and pulled at the door handle twice before he heard the locks disengage from inside.

  “Where’s your driver?” asked Garcia.

  Barcelo hooked a thumb in the direction of the station. “The assholes are keeping them in a while longer.”

  “Who’s in there?”

  “Ortega and two of the boys.”

  “Why did they let you out?” asked Garcia as Barcelo settled his bulk into the seat.

  “They kept trying to tie me to the girls and the club. Ha, good luck with that,” said Barcelo.

  “The club’s in one of your guy’s names?”

  “Of course. There’s nothing on paper to link me. I kept telling them that I was just out for a drink with a couple of friends.”

  “And they believed you?” asked Garcia.

  “Not for a minute, but they had nothing they could use as proof to hold me so I sat and drank something they told me was coffee and protested my innocence.”

  “So why are they holding Ortega and the others?”

  “A couple of the cops were getting heavy-handed so the boys showed their displeasure.” Barcelo gave a lopsided grin. “It’ll come to nothing. The cops will have to release them soon enough.”

  The cop who had arrested him appeared on the steps in front of the station and Barcelo gave him a friendly wave as the car moved into the morning traffic. The sun was cresting a new day, shining its brilliance across the picturesque beachfront that was officially termed Ultima Felicidad Abad, but known to locals and visitors alike simply as the Bay. Garcia slipped on a pair of shades as he drove.

  Barcelo recoun
ted the night’s troubles to Babi Garcia who listened with genuine interest. “Was it the British guy from the Woo Hoo?” asked Garcia. “I definitely want another shot at that one.”

  The boss shook his head in the negative. “I don’t think so. Some weird shit going on at the club though. Smoke billowing everywhere. Whoever was behind it cost me a lot of money last night. I lost a whole shipment of girls.”

  “Expensive?”

  “Some were underage—they would have brought a high price. Two had already been paid for. I’ll have to return the money.”

  “So what next?”

  Barcelo worked his jaw as if chewing a strip of leather. “Take me back to my car at the Hot Pink. I’ll get one of the guys to fix my tyres and then we’ll drive back to the villa. I’ll get the men together and figure this shit out. Somebody will pay with their blood, I promise you that.”

  “You want to call your guy now so he can meet us there?” said Garcia.

  Barcelo nodded and used his cell phone to make the brief call.

  Garcia looked at his boss. “I’ve got a score to settle with that Brit but once I’ve finished with him I’m free to pick up any other jobs you have in mind.”

  Barcelo nodded in agreement. He had yet to see the troublesome Brit or the American from the Woo Hoo in person. It seemed to him that these idiots sprang up like fleas on a dog if you let them spread. Time to get rid of them once and for all.

  Garcia steered into the parking lot of the Hot Pink Club. Barcelo heaved his bulk out of the car and walked towards his beloved Mercedes, fishing the keys from his pocket. The smell made him stop short.

  “What the hell!”

  Garcia appeared at Barcelo’s side as he stared into the interior of the vehicle. Someone had filled the Mercedes with sewage. Only the head rests of the seats were visible.

  Barcelo kicked out, his boot slamming into the car door.

  Holding his nose, Garcia spoke through a wide grin. “I guess you may require a lift home then?”

  “You think that’s funny?” Barcelo demanded.