Tom Hinshelwood - The Killer

Dalweg spat more blood out of his mouth and stepped away. He gestured to Sykes. “Just shoot the prick so we can get the fuck out of here.”

Sweat glistened on Sykes’s face. He leveled the gun down to where Alvarez was kneeling.

“Hurry up and do it,” Dalweg said, stepping closer.

Sykes lined up the iron sights over Alvarez’s left eye and took a deep breath.

Dalweg stood next to Sykes. “Shoot him.”

Sykes held his breath.

“Do it,” Dalweg said.

When Sykes released the breath from his lungs it came out as the word, “No.”

“Fucking do it.”

“No.” Sykes lowered the gun. “I’m not crossing that line.”

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t just let this guy live. This time tomorrow you’ll have the whole CIA gunning for you.”

“I don’t care,” Sykes said to Dalweg without looking at him. “Get in the truck. We’re going.”

When Dalweg didn’t move or answer, Sykes turned his head. He was just in time to hear Dalweg say, “Well, I care,” an instant before a big fist hit him square on the cheekbone and he crumpled to the ground.

“Pussy-ass faggot. I knew you didn’t have no balls the moment I met you. I’m not having this boy and his crew coming after me.” Dalweg stepped over Sykes’s writhing body to retrieve the Beretta. “Want a job done, you gotta do it yourself.”

He faced Alvarez, raised the gun.

“Any last requests, hombre?”

Alvarez stared up at Dalweg, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, no fear, only hatred. “Go to hell.”

Dalweg sneered, showing cracked and bloody teeth. “Ladies first.”

Dalweg cried out as Sykes kicked his heel into the back of Dalweg’s injured calf with as much strength as he had left. Dalweg didn’t go over but stumbled forward toward Alvarez, who sprang up from his knees, launching his forehead into Dalweg’s unprotected face. Bone, cartilage, and teeth gave way, and Dalweg lurched backward, hitting the side of the truck, falling to the ground and into the pool of diesel, conscious but dazed, Beretta still in hand.

“You’re fucking dead,” Dalweg screamed.

His arm extended in Alvarez’s direction, and the gun went off. The bullet buried itself into the wall to Alvarez’s right, a wide miss, but Alvarez didn’t hang around until Dalweg recovered his senses enough to shoot straight. Alvarez hurried away while Dalweg writhed on the fuel-slick road and Dalweg took another three shots in rapid succession. Alvarez flinched but wasn’t hit. He headed down an alleyway, left palm pressed over the exit wound on the back of his shoulder. There were no more gunshots or sounds of pursuit, so he paused to lean against a wall and catch his breath. He tugged an incisor from the skin between his eyebrows.

He heard the truck’s engine start up a moment later and shuffled back to the corner where the alley met the street, glancing out. Sykes was still lying prostrate on the road surface, his left cheek bruised and probably fractured. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Fumes clouds rose from the exhaust and the truck tried to pull away from the curb. There were vehicles parked in front and behind it, making the maneuver tricky. The blown-out rear tire slowed it down further. Diesel continued to spray from the ruptured fuel tank.

Alvarez knew that if he didn’t do something soon, the truck would be gone and the missiles with it. He pictured them being sold on the black markets of the Middle East within days. He took a breath. Last-chance time.

Alvarez wiped the blood from his left hand onto his pants and ran out into the road, staying on the driver’s blind side. He moved round to the back of the slowly turning truck and, with his good hand, grabbed the tailgate. With a grunt he jumped up and tumbled over into the cargo deck.

He already knew what he was looking for and where to find them. He quickly opened the box and took a flare. He lost his balance when the truck stopped sharply, knocking his injured shoulder against one of the dive tanks. He cried out and lay for a few seconds, trying to force the pain from his mind while the truck started to reverse slowly. Move.

Alvarez sucked air into his lungs and put the flare between his teeth so he could unlatch the tailgate and drop out onto the road.

His knees took the impact, and his face contorted against more pain. He twisted onto his back as the truck reversed over him, stopping with the rear tires at either side of his shoulders. The air stank of diesel fumes.

Alvarez grabbed the flare in his mouth, used his teeth to hold on to the cap while he pulled the flare from the grip tube. The truck changed gear into first above him. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and spat it away, reserved the flare so that he was holding the bottom with his teeth, hooked the ignition cord with his index finger, and pulled.

The flare ignited and thirty thousand candela’s worth of light and heat poured out from the end that was pointing away from Alvarez’s face.

The truck started to move forward again, and Alvarez rolled onto his right side, accepting the agony in his shoulder so he could thrust the burning end of the flare into the pool of diesel collecting on the road.

The fuel set alight instantly, and Alvarez’s face was flooded with heat. He lurched backward away from the fire. It quickly spread up to the fuel tank and both ways along the road. The diesel-soaked tires started burning, leaving a strip of molten rubber on the ground.

A second later the truck had passed over Alvarez, leaving him lying on his back on the road, choking on thick tire smoke.

Alvarez knew that although diesel wasn’t explosive like gasoline, it burned much more fiercely. In seconds, flames engulfed the truck’s entire right side and the vehicle stopped abruptly.

Still on his back, Alvarez used his feet to push himself away from the ever-growing fire. His face felt as if it was sunburned, and he smelled burned hair. He saw locals edging closer to check out the burning truck. He shouted at them to get back, but they didn’t understand him. A compressed-air tank exploded, and the resulting bang and fanning of flames convinced the crowd to back off. Sykes had managed to get back to his feet and was stumbling down the road.

The driver’s door opened and Dalweg leaped out, landing on his hands and knees before frantically scrambling away from the burning truck. When he was at a safe distance, he looked back at the flames licking high up the sides of the canvas backing and screamed in anger.

Alvarez didn’t have the strength to move but raised his head for a second to see Dalweg turn toward him.

“You fucking happy now, ese?”

Alvarez wanted to say yes, but instead he coughed. Dalweg strode closer, menace etched into his smashed-up face. His fists were tight at his sides.

“I may not get my money now,” he spat. “But I’ll settle for cutting your fucking heart out.”

He pulled a dive knife from a belt sheath. It glimmered in the light of the burning truck.

Alvarez looked up again to judge the angle, raised his left hand, and tossed the flare.

It hit Dalweg in the center of his diesel-soaked chest.

19:34 UST

Victor’s eyes opened, and for a few seconds he couldn’t understand what was happening. Everything was wrong. Colors and sounds didn’t make sense. The world was brown, blurry, strange. His head hurt. He took a breath but breathed in only water through his nose.

He leaned up, coughing, raising his eyes and nose out of the river. He hung upside down for a moment, gasping. He didn’t know for how long he had been unconscious, but he guessed it could only have been a few minutes. He did a quick assessment of his body, flexing his hands, arms, legs, toes and moving his head, feeling stabs of pain as he did, but his limbs performed as he had commanded. No major injuries.