The Darkest Day

TWENTY-ONE

There were no sentries outside Marte’s yellow house and no signs of any other forms of security because up until now it had never been needed. He was an untouchable, feared and respected and protected by the cartel.

Victor entered through an unlocked back door. Inside the yellow house, the hallway was well lit by light fixtures and lamps. The air was humid and hot despite ceiling fans thrumming overhead. He breathed in the scent of grilled shrimp, cigarette smoke and incense. The chatter of multiple conversations fought in his ears along with the clink of glasses and scratch of cutlery on earthenware and hiss of juices on searing metal. He separated out the overlapping sounds into four — then five — voices. There could be more though; present but not partaking: drinking or eating or cooking or just listening.

He stepped with measured footfalls along the hallway, keeping close to one wall because the bare floorboards were old and would no doubt bend and creak under his weight. As he reached deeper into the house and closer to the voices he detected another sound: a clattering scratch, faint but rapid. He recognised the sound and pictured someone cleaning a pistol, the small brush pushed and pulled along the barrel in rapid motions to scrape away gunpowder residue.

At least one potential enemy had disarmed himself as a result. The gun may have been out and in hand, but it would be unloaded. He could not tell for certain about the others, but cooking shrimp or eating from a plate with cutlery or drinking from bottles of beer would restrict their ability to respond.

When he reached the entranceway, he saw the problem. The inhabitants were spread between two rooms — a kitchen and dining room separated by a breakfast bar and half-wall. He could not take all of them by surprise at once nor keep watch on them all at the same time.

He was considering his options when he heard a toilet flush upstairs. There had been no lit windows on the first floor a moment ago so either the bathroom had no window or the person had not been in there at the time.

Victor moved past the entranceway and into the stairwell, standing in the gap beneath it with his chin near his chest so he did not have to squat down.

After forty seconds he heard a door open upstairs and footsteps grow louder. The stairs creaked and groaned as the person descended — a heavy person, overweight or large with bone and muscle. The rhythm of their steps suggested they were drunk or had some disability affecting their movements.

The person came into view. He was a giant, the dome of his head almost touching the low ceiling. Victor saw a brief profile of the man as he turned into the entranceway and then his back. He lifted weights or trained in some other physical activity that had strengthened his arms, shoulders and back. He appeared healthy, so Victor deduced he had been drinking.

Four long steps brought Victor up behind the giant. He timed his footfalls with the man’s own, disguising the noise while the man’s great size hid Victor from those in the room beyond.

‘Aleo,’ shouted someone.

The giant responded with a grunt, then a wail as Victor kicked him hard in the back of the knee, folding the leg and dropping the giant down low enough for Victor to wrap an arm around the man’s neck, pit of the elbow above the Adam’s apple, forearm and biceps applying simultaneous pressure to both carotid arteries.

For a second everyone in the rooms was too stunned to react. In that instant, Victor took a snapshot of the layout and the inhabitants: two men sitting at a table in one corner, bottles of beer and playing cards and gambling chips on the table surface; another slumped in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. He could only see two in the kitchen: one at the breakfast bar eating, the second by the stove, but he knew there was at least one more out of his line of sight.

Victor said, ‘Be cool or he dies.’

It was hotter in the dining room, with the heat from the men adding to the heat coming from the stove. Ceiling fans pushed around a haze of cigarette smoke. The men wore T-shirts or vests, and shorts. Trainers or sandals covered their feet. He saw three handguns for three men — stripped on the table, lying on the floor by one’s feet and resting on the arm of an unoccupied sofa. A poor show, even by criminal standards.

A glowing bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Insects buzzed around it and remains of others were fused to the surface. Next to the table, a tall shaded lamp added to the illumination. The floorboards were bare and in as poor condition as those in the hallway. Cracks and chips were scattered across the painted walls. A frame hung skewed on one wall, without a painting. A thin curtain shielded the only window and rippled in the flow of air.

The two at the table looked related, sharing similar builds and facial features. One had a shaved head, the other an Afro. The man in the armchair was a lot older but a lot tougher too. He was a little under six feet tall with a slim, wiry frame. His head was shaved and a sparse beard covered his chin and jawline. He was in his late forties and well preserved, despite the smoking habit. He had the look about him of someone who had been through hardship but had triumphed despite great odds. He was the leader, Victor was sure. Men like that did not take orders well.

The one at the breakfast bar was the youngest, in his early twenties but a grown man. Half a dozen empty bottles of beer stood in a parade line near to his plate.

The giant’s strength was incredible. With one hand he almost pulled Victor’s arm away, but Victor increased the pressure of the choke by using his free hand to push the man’s head forward.

In seconds he had weakened and Victor eased off the pressure to stop him losing consciousness. If he did, Victor would struggle to keep him on his feet and he couldn’t risk losing his combined human shield and bargaining chip. The others would not know if their friend had passed out or died.

‘We are cool,’ the one in the armchair said.

‘Hands where I can see them,’ Victor said. ‘Those in the kitchen, get in here now.’

The three before him raised their hands. The others were slow to move despite the hostage because they were wary and unsure of Victor’s intentions and waiting instructions. The two he had seen came shuffling into the dining area, hands up and palms showing.

‘And the other one.’

‘Who?’ the one in the armchair said.

Victor tripled the force on the giant’s neck. He gasped and his face contorted, eyes pinched shut, skin reddening.

‘He hasn’t got long,’ Victor said.

‘OKAY, OKAY. Lucian, get in here.’

The man with the cigarette gestured with his head and a youth rushed into view from the kitchen. He was tall and thin; long arms without a hint of muscle definition hung from his T-shirt. The light shone off a face slick with adolescent oil.

‘Get out,’ Victor said. ‘You’re too young for this.’

The kid stayed put. He squared himself, defiant. His eyes were wide and staring. His nostrils flared.

Again, Victor increased the pressure on the giant’s carotids.

‘Tell him to go,’ Victor said to the man in the armchair.

He did, but even ordered by an authority figure, the kid didn’t hurry. By the time Victor heard the back door open and then bang shut, the giant was almost out. He eased off to keep him conscious. The giant was no longer trying to fight, unable to free himself and too scared to keep trying and encourage Victor to increase the pressure. Pain compliance was a powerful tool.

‘What do you want?’ the smoking man asked.

‘Put out the cigarette.’

The man shrugged and snubbed it out in a metal ashtray balanced on the armrest. ‘Is that it?’

‘Where’s Marte?’

‘You’re looking at him. Or at least you’re looking at the man who uses that identity. The real Marte, the man you no doubt have been looking for, died a long time ago.’

‘Why the deception?’

The man shrugged again. ‘No reason beyond insurance. People who ask for me usually do so because they seek to do me, or those close to me, harm.’

Victor, choking the giant to near death, remained silent.

Marte sat up. ‘Why don’t you release him?’

Victor tried, and failed, to read anything more in Marte’s eyes. The giant tensed.

Marte gestured at Victor. ‘There is no need to be concerned with reprisals. You’ll find my manners are a good deal better than your own.’

Victor glanced at the other men in the room. They were as anxious as before, but he sensed a readiness too. Maybe they had heard Marte speak like this before and knew what would happen next. Or he could have slipped them some predetermined code.

Victor knew a prelude to violence when he saw it.

He saw it begin almost thirty seconds before anyone made an aggressive move. He recognised the slow preamble as an orchestrated routine.

The guy on the sofa leaned forward, as if for comfort, but Victor understood the action. Whether it had been conscious or not, it was impossible to spring up fast when sitting slumped with head far out of line with the hips.

The two at the corner table were already both looking his way, but subtle adjustments to their poses gave away their intentions. The one who had his back to him was twisted round as much as his spine would let him. One hand rested on the back of the chair, the other on the table surface, while the one facing him had both palms on his knees, ready to explode up to his feet.

‘Well?’ Marte said.

Victor nodded, because now he knew what his enemies were going to do, he knew what he would do in response. There was nothing to gain in waiting any longer.

‘Manners,’ Victor said.

Marte smiled once more and his men attacked.