The Forgotten Holocaust

Chapter Sixty-One

Ben had checked Erin’s pulse and removed the gag. She was unconscious. Her lip was cut from the blow that had knocked her cold. But she was alive. Less could be said for Billy Bob Moon, a few moments from now.

‘Look at me, Moon,’ Ben said. ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ He pointed the sawn-off shotgun in Moon’s face.

Moon blinked, spat blood, and his teeth bared in a red grin. ‘Sonofabitch.’

‘I knew I’d find you here, Moon,’ Ben said. ‘I smelled you. Stand up.’

Moon was hurt, but not that hurt. He was on his feet quickly, knees slightly bent, every muscle tensed ready to fight. ‘You gonna shoot me, better do it quick.’

Ben tossed the gun down and touched the hilt of the trench knife in his belt, without drawing it. He shook his head. ‘You already know what it feels like to be on the handle end of one of these. Now you’re going to find out what it feels like going in.’

Moon spat again. ‘Think I’ve never been cut before?’

‘This’ll be the last time. That’s a promise.’

‘Takes more than some drunk to get the drop on ol’ Billy Bob.’ Moon grinned bloodily. ‘Hey, stumble fuck. Where’s your bottle? How about I slice your fuckin’ arms and legs off and have you eat your girlfriend’s liver? Wash it down with some nice corn whiskey.’

Ben just looked at him.

Moon began to laugh, then cut the laughter short to whip out the Ka-Bar and lunge forwards in a quick two-step roundhouse slash that would have caught most men off guard, even some well-trained soldiers. He was rattlesnake-fast, but Ben was so far ahead of the curve that he knew what Moon was going to do even before Moon did. He stepped out of the arc of the strike, took Moon’s wrist and mashed the nerves in his hand that made his fingers let go of the knife. At the same time, Ben’s elbow crashed into Moon’s face. Moon staggered, but Ben still had his arm, so he could only stagger in a circle as Ben drew the trench knife from his belt.

Ben gripped the knuckleduster hilt tightly and popped Moon in the face with it. Moon was blinded by pain and didn’t see the strike coming or try to block it with his free arm. The spiked steel handguard hit him full on with all the force Ben could put behind it. Moon’s nose became a bloody bubbled pulp crushed up beneath his left eye. Ben hit him again, just as hard, and smashed his jaw and followed through and felt his teeth give. Then he hit him again, and again. Crack. Cheekbone. Crack. Eye socket.

Moon fell, hitting the floor on his back. Ben still had the arm. He pressed Moon’s elbow against his knee and bent it the way it had never been meant to go, with a crackling and splintering that was drowned out by Moon’s gurgling scream. Ben let go of his broken arm, caught the other and did the same to that one. Moon wasn’t screaming any longer. He was squealing like a pig. Ben pressed the sole of his boot against Moon’s throat, pinning him down hard and choking off the sound. He leaned down and looked into the man’s ruined face.

‘Kristen Hall,’ he said.

Then he pushed the tip of the trench knife into the soft flesh under Moon’s chin and rammed it through his broken jaw, through his tongue and palate and up through bone until it pierced deep inside his brain. Ben watched the eyes roll back and the light in them go out. He jerked and twisted the blade free, wiped it clean on Moon’s ‘I DON’T CALL 911’ T-shirt and slipped it back into its scabbard. He felt nothing as he stepped away from the dead man, no anger, no satisfaction. What was done was done. Ben picked up Moon’s rifle and hung it over his left shoulder from its two-point tactical sling, then grabbed his shotgun and slung it over the other.

Erin was still out cold, but her pulse felt normal and her breathing was regular. He couldn’t leave her here. Ben scooped her gently up in his arms and carried her out of the stable block. He passed the stall where he’d dragged the body of the man who’d been with Moon, paused at the entrance, looked left and right. The enemy were six men down. By Ben’s calculations he still had three more of McCrory’s soldiers to deal with.

Not including Ritter. Ritter was the worry.

Ben felt exposed as he retraced his steps past the house, expecting a bullet in the back at any moment. He already knew where he was taking her, and had the keys in his pocket. It wasn’t the perfect hiding place, but it was the best he could do for the moment. Reaching the Dodge Ram parked at the front of the house, he supported Erin’s weight on one arm and shoulder, opened the back passenger door and eased her limp form inside. Even in bright daylight, she couldn’t have been seen through the dark-tinted glass.

He was certain that she’d come to within the next few minutes and was sorry he couldn’t be with her when she awoke, confused and disorientated, in a strange new place. He shut the door silently and clunked the central locking with the key fob. Another button allowed him to remotely disarm the alarm system. He was concerned that if she woke up and moved around inside the cab, or tried the door, she’d set off the siren.

‘I’ll be back for you,’ he promised her, even if she couldn’t hear him.

He slipped away.

Back inside the hallway of the ranch house, Ben looked in the door to his right. The tall grey-haired man was still sitting there with the Indian tomahawk buried in his brain. Not all household ornaments made such useful improvised weapons. The one with half his head missing was still slumped over the bar. Nobody else was around. Ben moved back into the hallway. To his left, a pool of blood was spreading out from underneath a closed door. He opened it a crack, smearing the blood along the floor like thick paint. A dead arm lay stretched out in the blood on the other side of the door. The man who owned it was big and old and looked a lot like Joe McCrory. That accounted for the shot Ben had heard coming from inside the house earlier. He didn’t know why they’d killed the old man. But Joe might have been a problem for Ben, and if he was dead, that just made things easier for him.

Ben moved on. He needed to find McCrory Junior. He knew that Finn was here, because the green Mercedes SL-class was here. Ritter would want to protect his boss when the trouble kicked off, perhaps not out of love or loyalty but certainly to keep the gravy train rolling. Where would you hide such an important non-combatant in a big house like this? Not on the ground floor. Somewhere as far away from the action as possible.

Ben walked to the staircase at the end of the dark hallway and tested his weight on the first step. It creaked in the middle but not at the side, so he kept to the edge. From a landing, the stairs switched back 180 degrees for another flight. At the top, a broad passage led from the upper landing, with doors either side. More dead animal heads with glassy eyes adorned the walls. Ben didn’t know if he could have lived in a house filled with the things he’d killed looking at him like that.

He made his way along the passage, checking doors left and right. He was checking the fourth door along, which opened onto a spare bedroom, when he heard something and stopped, head cocked, listening. It was the soft creak of at least three men stalking up the stairs after him.

McCrory’s soldiers were back inside the house.