Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

Back to square one, Vince. You still have to get by Gant and his bootboys. And don’t forget the guy with the killer’s eyes. Unlike Gant, he didn’t think the silence since he went through that window meant that he was dead.

Need a weapon.

He looked inside the sedan hoping a gun had been dropped when those inside scarpered. Glass littered the interior, but that was it.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered as the gunfire started again.

There were just too many of them for him to take his chances.

My gang’s bigger than yours, Gant, but where the hell are they?

He tried to figure out how much time had passed since he’d made the rushed call. How long until his buddies arrived.

Not soon enough for his liking.

He clambered inside the sedan, pulling out Sonya’s phone, stabbing buttons. The phone clicked off and he read the message on the screen. Call disconnected. He checked the strength of service and saw that there was no coverage up here.

‘Shit!’

An engine roared behind him.

Hopefully he peered around, looking for his friends.

But it was the black van. Dillman, his nose a red smear on his top lip, summoned here by radio by one of his friends. Vince ducked low as Dillman avoided the sedan and blasted through the remains of a gate and into the compound.

Damned if his chances weren’t getting slimmer.

Still, he couldn’t stay here.

He jumped out the car and followed the van through the gate, heading in an ungainly sprint for the nearest shed on the left. If Millie and the kids were anywhere, he might as well start his search there, at the furthest point away from the shooting. As he ran, he pulled out his garrotte and looped it round his right fist.

The plastic garbage bag sucked at my torso as I rushed towards the back of the shed. As I ran I tugged at the plastic through my shirt, loosening it so that it didn’t impede movement. A trail of moisture dotted the hard dirt of the floor, but at least it wasn’t blood.

Small consolation.

Despite my best efforts I’d failed to stop the gang from entering the compound, and, worse than that, the gunfight had forced the skinheads deep into the camp and close to where Millie and the children were hiding.

Have to lead them away. Use myself as bait.

At the back of the shed there was a door, swollen with damp and jammed in its frame. Noise would give away my location, and I wasn’t ready to play my hand just yet, but there was nothing for it. Luckily, just as I pulled at the groaning door a vehicle sped into the camp, the engine screeching. The unexpected cover allowed me to pull the door open and exit into an area full of junk, discarded plastic drums and tendrils of undergrowth.

I picked my way through the rubbish, carefully avoiding roots that would trip me. As I went I flicked the catch to release the magazine in the SIG, made a quick count of the bullets. Not many left, but if I picked my targets I’d only require one for each man. I counted how many of the killers I’d seen alive: two from the SUV who’d run farther into the camp; that bastard with the tattoo; and however many had just arrived in this latest vehicle. There could be five of them — or more — so I’d have to be very selective when choosing my shots. Best-case scenario would be to liberate a gun from one of the others, or maybe find ammunition that would fit my SIG. Worst case was if one of the bastards got me first.

That was always a possibility. I wasn’t bulletproof.

There was a twinge in my leg.

Stop it, Hunter. Forget your pain. Concentrate on your job, you arsehole!

I slapped the magazine back into the gun, raked the slide back and forth. Went on.

At the end of the shed I paused, took a quick glance around the structure to check in the narrow space between it and the next building. The alley was choked with abandoned machinery that was red with corrosion. No sign of movement. I lunged across the gap and into the cover of the next cabin.

The sound of the vehicle receded, up towards where the family hid. If the minivan was discovered, they’d begin their search there, and they’d come across the family’s hiding place in moments. I began running, mindful of the possibility that the tattooed man was still nearby. Don would be paralleling my dash on the far side, but I was fleeter of foot than the old man.

A lean-to presented itself, and I swerved inside it, using a stack of logs for cover. I paused, peering through a gap in the logs to where the SUV sat in the middle of the road. It was doubtful that any of the skinheads would have had the presence of mind to take the ignition key when they decamped; maybe if I commandeered the vehicle I could use it as a weapon.

Starting towards the SUV, I caught a flash of movement from the far side of it. I dodged back behind the stack of wood even as a figure raced away towards a cabin on the other side. The floppy quiff hairstyle was instantly recognisable. That bloody kid who looked like a fugitive from a 1980s retro-Rockabilly band. Lifting the SIG, I tracked the running figure, easing pressure into the trigger. The opportunity to bring him down was there, but I didn’t take it. Not that I had any qualms about killing the young punk, because he was anything but the kid that I’d first assumed when spotting him outside Don Griffiths’ house. This was the same son of a bitch who’d attacked Millie, who’d then led the convoy that chased us into the hills. My reason for allowing the arsehole to live was a personal thing: I wanted to look him in the eyes when I dropped him, not shoot him in the back as he was running away.

Letting him go, I moved through the lean-to and then dodged right going to the rear of the next cabin.

Almost ran full-tilt into the tattooed man.

He was so close that the numbers on his face were discernible.

I skidded in the mud, trash catching me across the shins. Had to fight to stay upright, and bring the SIG to bear.

Tattoo leaped aside, also bringing up his gun.

Both of us fired, even as we both tried to save our lives.

My round took part of Tattoo’s left ear, but I didn’t come away uninjured. Not from the other’s bullets, but from caroming into the corner of the shed and almost dislocating my shoulder.

Tattoo yelled in fury, his hand slapping at his disfigured ear, even as he brought round his assault rifle in his other hand. He fired.

Three things saved my life.

The assault rifle was ill aimed.

The man had flicked it to fire only a controlled burst of three bullets.

And my desperate dive round the corner of the shed.

All of which meant that I made it back to the stack of wood in the lean-to with only a shower of wood particles plastering my wet hair and shoulders.

I immediately spun round, gun aiming for where Tattoo would come charging after me.

Waited for a long count of ten.

It seemed that Tattoo wasn’t the rash type who’d come hurtling round a blind corner, either that or he’d realised how close to death he’d come and had made a hasty retreat.

Doesn’t make him a coward, just sensible.

Tattoo would be moving, trying to get a better line on me.

Move, Hunter, now!

I bobbed up and ran back towards the corner of the shed from which I’d fled moments before.

As I made it to the corner, there was rifle fire from the front. Tattoo was blasting my recent hiding place, the woodpile, to force me out.

I dipped out from the corner, SIG held steady.

Didn’t have a shot.

The sounds of boots clumping away said that Tattoo believed retreat was the better part of valour. Muffled shouts followed as Tattoo directed his friends to cut me off.

I raced along the back of the cabin before I could be cornered.