Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

DIRK RAMM: UNSHEATHED By Matt Hilton

Now…

Dirk Ramm feared no man.

At six feet two inches, with not an ounce of lazy fat on his lean muscled frame, he knew how to fight. He held black belts in the better-known Japanese combat arts of Ju-Jitsu, Karate and Aikido. On top of that he was an exponent of lesser-known but equally deadly styles like Savate, Krav Maga and the secretive bone breaking arts of Ninpo Koppojutsu and Hawaiian Kuialua. Plus, he was happy in a blood-and-snot-barroom-brawl if it came to it. He could fight for fun, and had proven himself during a long career with the CIA, and then later during his one-man campaign to bring down the Red Mafia. Put him up against any man, armed or unarmed it didn’t matter, and he’d at least give out as much punishment as he received.

Attack dogs were a different story entirely.

These dogs didn’t care about black belts or any title other than master.

They answered to different rules of combat than men, were unpredictable in their attack, but totally predictable in their intent. Unlike the inherent weakness of most men, who preferred that they survive an encounter, attack dogs were driven by one savage predisposition: kill or be killed. Instinct bade them tear out the throat of anything their master sicked them on.

Three slavering beasts were on his trail as he ran, coming like silent spectres through the fog. Trained to stay quiet, so that their attack came with shock and awe, none of the trio elicited as much as a yip of excitement or even a deep throated growl. If not for the tackety tack of their claws on the hard packed dirt the first Ramm would have known of them was when one of the huge Doberman’s barreled out of the mist and clamped its jaws around his throat.

He couldn’t outrun the beasts.

He couldn’t fight them in the open. While one went for his throat, the others would hamstring him, maybe core out his groin, and bring him down. He searched for a wall to put his back against, but in the cloying mist could spot no refuge. He cursed himself for foregoing his combat suit on this mission. Formed of super tensile silk, a layer of nano-gel inserts beneath, it made him largely infallible to bullets or knives. Jokingly referred to as his Sheath of Steel, his experimental Israeli nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit would have saved him from the ripping teeth of the dogs. But this mission had called for a mode of apparel unlikely to conceal his suit, and he’d regretfully left it behind.

Quit worrying over spilt milk! Better he concern himself with his unspilled blood and kept things that way.

Ramm continued running.

The dogs were barely exerting any energy as they kept pace. Any second now and they’d hit the afterburners and they would catch him. They were disciplined fiends, though, and were waiting for the precise moment to launch their three-pronged attack.

Through the fog shapes began to materialise: a farmhouse, a barn, a couple of smaller sheds. Ramm had no intention of placing any innocent at risk of the dogs, so angled away from the house, sprinting now for the barn. He hoped that it had doors that he could throw shut, but also that the wished for doors weren’t locked. As soon as he dug in for an extra spurt of speed the dogs came as fleet and as deadly as arrows. And, with the extra push came their first sounds of anticipation. The lead dog made a huffing noise deep in its chest, and Ramm knew that the beast was going to lead the charge.

A knife would have been handy, a gun more so. But Ramm had neither. Like his NAS suit, he’d had to leave behind his weapons when infiltrating The Bishop’s compound. Suit or small arms would have picked him out as an interloper and though he’d have brought blazing fury among The Bishop’s flock, it would have done nothing for saving Shelly Cannon who’d been secreted deep within the tunnels beneath the compound. His only weapons here were his bare hands and his willingness to fight to the death. Partly he didn’t regret the coming battle. Maybe he’d grown complacent of late; that he’d grown to rely too much on his technologically advanced suit and weaponry, and going tooth and claw against these dogs in primal combat would just be the test he required.

Two nights ago…

Ramm stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips. Behind him, dripping with sweat from their exertions, as much as the water from the showerhead, Bitsy Horton reached after him, to draw him back into her embrace. Her scarlet nails dragged down the tight muscles of his back and hooked into the towel. She wouldn’t let him leave.

Ramm glanced back at the heaving breasts of Bitsy, saw a spot he’d not yet covered in soap, or by his lips, and thought twice about answering the urgent ringing of his doorbell. But then, for what he had in mind he’d need all of his strength.

‘I’d best get that,’ he said. ‘It’s probably the pizza guy.’

‘We can eat later,’ Bitsy pouted. ‘That’s if you’re still hungry.’

With an appraising eye cast over her voluptuous curves, Ramm winked at her. He nodded at the shower stall. ‘This is simply the entre.’ He gestured at the large bed in the adjoining room. ‘That there’s for afters. But for the main course we have a couple of Joey’s special twelve inchers. We’ll both be thankful of the extra nourishment.’

Bitsy’s eyes flashed with lurid delight, and her voice was breathy. ‘I’m sure I just had a twelve inch as my entre, I’m not sure I could take any more.’

Ramm grunted out a laugh. ‘Thanks for the compliment, but you exaggerate surely?’

‘And there was me thinking that wasn’t a loofa you kept running up and down my back.’

Bitsy retreated beneath the warm water, pulling too the glass door. Ramm listened to the doorbell, but didn’t rush to answer it. Through the misted glass he watched Bitsy lather up, and was glad that he’d ordered the Joey Special, with all the trimmings on top. Bitsy was voracious, but Ramm was all for sating her appetite.

The bell continued its incessant ringing. Joey had a fifteen minutes promise: if his pizza arrived late, the customer didn’t pay. Whoever had delivered the takeout food wasn’t prepared to go back to the shop empty-handed.

‘OK, I’m coming. Give me a second, will ya?’ Ramm didn’t head directly for his apartment door. He went to the closet in the corner of his bedroom and pulled open the doors. Hanging among his suits and shirts was a shoulder holster, in it a matte black pistol. As he walked through the living room for the door he spun the chamber making an unnecessary visual check that the gun was fully loaded. He picked up his wallet from the coffee table. There was a spy hole in his door, but Ramm didn’t place his eye to it. Too many people had fallen foul of the old “shoot through the spyhole when it grows dark” ploy. Ramm never used the spy hole. It was there to draw in the unwary assassin, while he viewed them through the hidden fisheye lens of the CCTV camera hidden lower down the doorframe in an artistically designed, but wholly natural-looking knot in the wood. He checked out the small monitor on the wall next to the door.

Outside stood Old Gampie, the regular delivery guy from Joey’s place. He was holding two boxes flat on both his palms. He wasn’t the one pressing the doorbell. Two large men stood close enough behind him for the steam from the pizzas to mist their shades. One of them leaned past Old Gampie, keeping steady pressure on the doorbell. Ramm frowned.

He pushed the gun down the back of his towel, then rattled the door chain. The two guys in shades stepped aside, so that Ramm would see only the delivery guy on opening the door. Both of them took out guns he was unhappy to note, so it stood to reason they were up to no good.

Regardless, Ramm opened the door.

Gampie was no more Italian than Ramm was. He was an African American, an old school tough guy from Harlem back in the day. Nowadays his Afro was cropped short and white as snow, his flared jeans, silk shirts and platform shoes replaced with a red cotton jacket, with JOEY’S stitched on the breast pocket, khaki trousers and pumps. One time, Ramm had seen the old guy’s shirt fall open and he’d seen the faded clenched fist tattoo on his pigeon chest. Back in the seventies Gampie was into Black Power, but now he was as faded as his tattoo, and barely had the power to lift more than a couple of twelve inch pizzas at once. Ramm liked the old fella and was pissed that he’d been caught in the middle of Ramm’s troubles.

The old man didn’t speak. He rolled his rheumy eyes right and left. Ramm winked at him.

‘I shouldn’t have to pay for these,’ Ramm said, as he quickly took hold of the boxes. ‘Your fifteen minutes is up. I just bet these are cold by now.’

‘Uh-uh. Scalding hot,’ Gampie told him, with another roll of his eyes.

‘That’s good,’ Ramm said, and flipped open the top box. Hot steam wafted up. ‘Mmm. Extra garlic, too.’

Ramm handed Gampie forty bucks and told him keep the change. ‘Now go on, get outta here, or you’ll be late for your next customer as well.’

Grateful for the quick escape, Gampie spun on his heel and alighted the stairs down to street level. His flight was enough to draw the attention of both big guys for the few seconds it took Ramm to drop his wallet and the unopened box, and to dip one hand under the steaming hot pizza in the other.

As the first of the big guys stepped around the frame to wedge open the door with his foot, he was met by the twelve inch special that draped over his entire features like a hot rag. Melted mozzarella wasn’t quite napalm, but you wouldn’t know it from the muffled shriek of agony as the man clawed at his burning face, dropping his gun in the process. Ramm ignored him, snapped a hand down on the wrist of the second man and dragged him into the open. Ramm nutted him full in the nose. The bridge of the man’s nose flattened and his shades slipped down his face as it lengthened in pain and shock. Ramm dragged the man inside and kicked him over. The man stayed on his knees, his fingers prodding and pushing as he tried to reshape his features and to stem the flow of blood. He too had dropped his gun, and Ramm toed it out of reach.

The first man had bent at the waist as he clawed melted cheese and peperoni out of his eyes. Ramm grabbed hold of his jacket collar and dragged him inside, flinging him down by his pal. From behind his back, Ramm withdrew his revolver and pointed it lazily in their direction. He stooped to pick up the man’s dropped gun and set it aside, while wondering who had sent these bums after him.

A slow clap answered the unspoken thought.

Ramm turned to regard the third man walking up his steps.

The middle-aged man was smiling lazily, his teeth as white and perfect as in a toothpaste advertisement. His hair was as neat as his tailored suit, only a few shades darker than his tanned skin. Ramm recognised the guy.

He was called Adrian Cannon. A big cheese, multi-millionaire entrepreneur, a humanitarian and philanthropist supposedly, a player definitely. Lately Cannon was a regular guest speaker on the TV news since his daughter Shelly had gone missing. All of his connections hadn’t meant a damn thing when it came to getting his daughter back.

Ramm let the man see his gun.

Cannon smiled, giving him a flash of his pearly whites. ‘You won’t need that pistol, Mr Ramm. I come in peace.’

‘So what’s with the dumb clucks you sent to ring my bell?’ Ramm made a quick check of the men behind him, but neither was in a fit state to trouble him.

‘Oh, they were just a little test. To ensure I’d found the right man.’

‘All you had to do was come to the door, state your business, and I’d have confirmed you’d come to the right place.’

‘I knew I was at the right place. I only had to ensure that I had the right kind of man. I wished to witness first hand how you handled yourself in a pinch, before offering you a fortune in cash.’ Cannon stood on the threshold. He cast a glance over his two incapacitated thugs. ‘Seems the rumours about you were unfounded. I’m very impressed, Mr Ramm.’

‘I’m not. You made me waste a good pizza, and it’s not the only thing getting cold. You have a job on offer I take it? So come in and let me close the door.’

Cannon stepped inside the hall, avoiding the splatters of cheese and blood decorating the floor. His men had regained enough of their composure to blink up at him in shame. Cannon aimed one of his searchlight bright smiles at them. ‘Don’t worry guys; you’ll still receive the agreed fee for your assistance. Now I suggest you get yourselves out of here before Mr Ramm decides to make you clean the floor.’

Ramm picked up the unopened pizza box. As the two men squeezed by casting him frightened looks, he offered it to the one with the broken nose. ‘You may as well take that, buddy. Not sure your pal will want any more pizza tonight.’

Broken Nose shook his head, unsure of how he should answer.

‘Go on,’ Ramm said, offering the box again. ‘You want me to put it in a doggy bag to go?’

Now…

Ramm could have done with that pizza now.

Maybe he could have offered it as tidbits to the attack dogs, appealed to their hunger for his flesh with cheese and peperoni instead, won their trust, befriended them and sent them on their merry way with a pat on their adoring heads. Yeah, right! The only kibble the dogs would be chowing on would be his gonads if he didn’t escape them.

The barn was huge, open to the elements at the front end, with only one small exit door at the far end. Stalls were ranged along the right hand wall, and in most of them were horses. On the left side the area was largely filled with farming implements and machinery. A tractor and trailer dominated the central space, parked there out of the way of the elements. Ramm considered and discarded the idea of clambering up onto the tractor or trailer within a second. Either platform would have allowed him to elude the flashing teeth of the dogs, but then he’d be stuck there. The dogs weren’t his only concern. Those who’d sicked the dogs on him were coming fast. He could hear them shouting to each other as they spotted the farm buildings.

Ramm sprinted past the tractor. The startled horses whinnied and snickered, rolling their eyes and kicking out at their stalls. There was an elevated platform towards the rear of the barn. A ladder led up into the darkness of a hayloft. Ramm lunged for it.

But the lead dog also lunged for him.

It clamped its jaws around his right ankle, and yanked back. Ramm went down on his belly, the wind knocked out of his lungs. The dog shook him and Ramm’s leg felt ready to be ripped out of his hip socket. White agony flared through him.

‘Son of a bitch!’ His curse would have been funny if not ironic.

Ramm spun over, just as the dog released him so that it could chew down on him further up his calf, aiming to tear out his Achilles tendon. He kicked with his good leg, making axing motions with his heel. He caught the Doberman on the nose and it shied away. But only for a second. The big keel-chested dog was nimble on its slim legs, and it danced around Ramm’s kicking feet and champed down on his right thigh. Blood pooled around its gnashing fangs. Ramm made a mental note to check when last he’d had a tetanus booster. He struck at the dog, aiming for its eyes. The dog howled and backed off. But already the other two were coming, barely five paces away. Ramm scrambled up, ignoring the pain in his wounds, and clawed at the lowest rungs of the ladder.

Bunching the muscles in his arms he hauled himself up, until he could get his feet beneath him and he began to clamber at speed for the safety of the hayloft. A solid weight struck him, but fell away. Dog claws raked down his back, his wife-beater proving little protection. Ramm scrambled up another couple of rungs. The first dog grabbed at his heel again, and found purchase. The dog that had tried to launch itself on his back had fallen away and was squirming on the floor to find its feet, but the third beast wasn’t put off by its failure. It leapt, and its forepaws went over his shoulders, even as its jaws snapped on to the meat at the base of his neck. The only thing that saved Ramm was gravity. It worked against the dog before it could find a proper grip for its teeth. Ramm released the ladder long enough to batter backwards with an elbow, and the dog slid off him, tumbling to land on the first, ripping its jaws loose from Ramm’s boot heel. Breathing heavily, Ramm pushed up the ladder. At the top he spun and glared down at the trio of attack dogs circling in the space below him.

‘Go on!’ he snarled at them. ‘Get the hell outta here!’

The dogs didn’t obey his commands. One of them came forward. From the watering of its right eye, he could tell it was the Alpha, the dog whose eye he’d speared with his fingers. The dog placed a paw on the bottom rung, and then paused to look up at him. It snarled, went up on its rear legs, and reached for the next rung up.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’

Ramm had seen dogs climb ladders in those funny animal videos on TV. They were hysterical because they were exhibiting unnatural behaviour for a mutt. He wasn’t laughing now. The Doberman had been trained for pursuit, and it wasn’t giving in. It came on steadily, while the other two prowled at the ladder’s base, waiting their turn. Ramm could wait, let the dog get its head over the top rung and then kick it off the ladder, but he had the feeling that he’d be there all night, taking down each dog as they came on and on. He didn’t have all night. The dogs’ owners had heard the ruckus in the barn and were heading his way. Ramm scrambled backwards on his hands and knees but was checked by stacked hay bales. He acted without thought, twisting to grab one bale by the twine binding. He hauled it around, pulled it to his chest then flung it down at the dog. The bale was heavy, and knocked the Doberman off the ladder. The dog fell with a howl and landed at the feet of its pack mates. Sadly, the impact of the bale, and the fall, had failed to snap its spine. Immediately the second dog came for the ladder.

Horses still whinnied and kicked out.

The dogs were growling and making huffing noises.

The shouts of men joined the clamour.

Ramm grabbed another bale and threw it down the ladder. This time the dog jumped out of the way. Ramm sent another bale tumbling, then scurried for the back of the dark space. His shin clunked against something solid. Ramm pitched over it, but this time found a soft landing in loose straw. He twisted round, feeling for the length f wood that tripped him. A grim smile played across his lips as he tugged out the length of wood and found it to be a pole of some sort. A quick run of his fingers along its length found steel at its tip, actually there were three long prongs, and the discovery made his grin all the more wicked.

Armed now with a pitchfork, he could easily fend off the dogs. But that wasn’t what pleased him. He didn’t wish the dogs any real harm. They were answering the commands of their masters: their attack wasn’t personal. The men behind them were Ramm’s real enemies. He held the fork braced across his chest as he headed for the back of the barn and found the hatch he’d fully expected. He shoved it open, peered down at the forbidding drop to hard packed earth, but fancied his chances down there more than he did staying within the barn. The Bishop’s men would encircle the barn before long, and he didn’t put it past them to set the structure ablaze to force him into the open.

Without pause, Ramm flung the pitchfork ahead of him, and then went out of the hatch in a leap. His injured ankle and thigh were impediments to a successful landing, but he timed his fall, bent at the knees and tucked into a commando roll. As he came out of his forward somersault he snatched up the fork and ran. He didn’t head away from the barn. Where was the sense in that? The dogs would only come after him again. No, he went alongside the structure towards the front.

The Bishop’s henchmen were just approaching the barn, calling out bloodthirsty encouragement to their dogs. There were five men. Four held cudgels, the last one a cleaver. If they’d brought guns then the battle would be one sided, but this was different. Ramm was outnumbered, but he outreached them by far.

They were intent on following the dogs inside the barn. The Dobermans were engaged in climbing the ladder and their barking drew the men in after them, sure now that Ramm had been contained. Three men went forward, while the last two took one side of the barn each, hoping to close down any possible exits. The unfortunate man rushing towards Ramm was unaware his quarry was crouching in his path. Ramm braced the pitchfork against the ground, the fork at an oblique angle aimed directly at the man’s chest. At the last possible second, Ramm jerked up the fork incrementally. The man ran onto the tines, the central of the three piercing his trachea, the outer prongs ripping out his carotid arteries. He died silently. Ramm twisted him over and laid him on his side in the dirt. Blood pooled out of the wounds, but there was no spurting: the man had died instantly of shock, his heart failing abruptly. Ramm stepped on the man’s shoulder, pushing him away as he yanked free the long tines. The dead man was one of those wielding cudgels. Ramm picked up the club and fed it through his belt.

He was off in the next second, hurtling past the open front of the barn without alerting those inside. He couldn’t immediately see the man on the far side of the barn. Mist danced where the man had passed seconds earlier and Ramm followed the swirling patterns along the side wall. Seconds later he caught sight of a darker blur through the uniform grey, and he again held the pitchfork like a pike man at the ready as he stalked forward.

The man was moving slowly; alert to any egress to the barn, totally unaware that death was stealing in on him. Never the coward, but always ruthless, Ramm gave the man no warning. He slammed the tines of the pitchfork under the man’s ribcage, digging deep for the liver. The man cried out, but Ramm forced one palm over his mouth, cutting off the screech of agony. When the man didn’t die quickly enough, Ramm dropped the fork, grabbed both hands round the man’s head and wrenched it savagely. The man dropped stone dead to the earth. Ramm took his club, and retrieved his fork. His weapons cache was building.

From within the barn came the sound of voices raised now in question. The snarling of the dogs, the whinnying of the horses, didn’t help make things clear, but Ramm realised that the man’s death hadn’t been silent enough. Time for stealth was over: now it was time for balls and fury. He reversed route to the front of the barn, holding his fork in one hand, a cudgel the other. His night vision had sharpened somewhat and he could see further within the dim recess of the barn. The tractor stood out now against the dark and beyond it he could see the raised hayloft. The Dobermans had all scaled the ladder. They milled about up in the loft, unsure of what to do or where to go. Ramm grinned: the dogs could climb up; let’s see the fuckers climb down again.

He ran into the barn.

The Bishop’s men heard him coming. They swung around, two bringing up clubs, the last man swinging up the huge cleaver.

Ramm didn’t pause at their show of power. At a run he hurled his cudgel left-handed, and it struck the cleaver man in the chest, but with little harm. Nevertheless, the man reacted as many did when struck: he turned away, checking himself for wounds. It was the advantage Ramm needed. He speared at the club-wielder on the right, and the man’s response was to bat at the metal tines in desperation. Ramm twisted the fork in his grip, spinning the head of the fork so that it snared the club between two prongs. Ramm snatched the fork down, stripping the weapon from the man’s hand. Ramm immediately backhanded the fork, striking the man across the face. The tines tore furrows in his cheek and the man stumbled away holding his wounded face.

The second club-wielder swung at Ramm’s head.

Ramm dipped low, even as he snatched the second club from his belt. He swiped it in an arc that apexed at the man’s leading knee. The corresponding crack was as loud as gunshot in a confined space. The man cried out as he buckled. Ramm swung the fork and jammed the tines into his gut. He bore in with his weight, pinning the man to the floor. The wound to the gut wasn’t fatal. But the strike of Ramm’s club to the man’s skull was.

Above the arena of battle the dogs bayed. Ramm ignored them.

The man with the cleaver was still in the fight, as was the one with the torn face. Ramm went for the weakened man first. He relinquished the fork, electing instead to strike a blurring flurry of blows to the man’s arms and legs. A final whack struck the man directly between the eyes and he fell like the proverbial felled ox.

Ramm twisted marginally.

The cleaver whistled by Ramm’s gut.

Ramm took a half step forward just as the cleaver man came at him again with a backhand swipe. Ramm blocked the man’s wrist with his club, and snapped a kick at his inner thigh. His boot found the bundle of nerves midway down the thigh like a jab from a cattle prod. The man’s leg twisted outward, both knees losing their elasticity. Ramm twisted the club over the top of the man’s extended wrist, then caught the short end in his other palm and levered down on the wood. The cleaver was trapped with its blunt edge over Ramm’s forearm, the man’s wrist caught in a solid vice. Both forces worked against each other so that there was only one result. The man’s wrist snapped. Involuntarily the fingers spasmed and the cleaver fell to the dirt. Ramm didn’t release the club: he continued to exert downward pressure even as he backpedalled. The man was forced face first into the dirt. Ramm finally released his wristlock hold, hopped in and raised a heel high. He stamped down on the nape of the downed man’s neck and knew that he wouldn’t be getting up again.

Five men were down, dead or dying. Ramm stepped back and sucked in a large inhalation. Then he allowed a flicker of satisfaction.

He wished to be tested.

Well, it seemed he’d passed muster.

No. Not true.

Adrian Cannon had paid him to bring home his daughter, Shelly. Ramm hadn’t succeeded yet. So the biggest test was yet to come.

Now that The Bishop believed Ramm dead, or still running for his life, it offered him a huge advantage.

He looked up at the three Dobermans on the platform overhead. They all stared back at him. The lead dog whined, pawed once at the edge of the loft.

Ramm eyed the Alpha dog, and the dog looked back, one of its eyes still watering. Ramm winked, said, ‘Stay, boy!’ and was pleased to see the dog sit. The other two obeyed the first one’s lead. They recognised the new top dog in the barn. Ramm turned away from the dogs, checking out the other animals in the barn.

It was time to show the bastard the error of his ways. Ramm was going back to the fight and he’d get there much quicker by horseback.

Two nights ago…

Adrian Cannon made himself at home on Ramm’s settee. He crossed his heels and folded his hands in his lap as he peered up in admiration at the man once coined ‘The Battering Ramm”.

‘You said something about an unfounded rumour?’ Ramm looked down at Cannon.

‘Some people were sure that you had retired, that you had gone soft. I hope you can forgive my uncouth attempt at testing your prowess?’

‘I could have killed those fools,’ Ramm said.

‘Then why didn’t you? They came armed with guns.’

‘But with no intention of using them,’ Ramm pointed out. ‘Killers don’t want witnesses to their crime. Either they would have waited until the pizza guy had left, or they would have killed him as he went down the steps before turning their guns on me. When I watched them let Gampie go unharmed I knew they didn’t have the balls to shoot. So it would have been unfair of me to hurt them too badly.’

‘Yet you gave them both something to remember you by,’ Cannon laughed. ‘The use of a hot pizza as an improvised weapon was inspired!’

‘It was a waste of good food,’ Ramm corrected, yet he couldn’t hide a twitch of humour that danced at the corner of his mouth.

‘Never mind that. I thought it was an ingenious use of an innocuous item. If you accept the task I have on offer, your skills and quick wits might come in useful.’

‘OK. So what have you in mind?’

Just then Bitsy Horton exited the bathroom. She stepped in all her voluptuous glory into the open door of the bedroom in full view of both men. Unlike Ramm she didn’t have a towel to cover her modesty. Ramm watched Cannon’s eyes widen marginally, and whatever had been on the playboy’s mind before had been momentarily kicked loose.

Bitsy was unconcerned by the lascivious stare she elicited from Cannon. She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, and her breasts rose and fell. Cannon’s head gazed up and down. Bitsy gave him a smoldering look that rose in temperature as it slipped towards Ramm. ‘I take it that dinner’s off the menu?’ she said.

‘We might have to put it on the backburner,’ Ramm said, ‘but I don’t mind warming it up again.’

Bitsy flicked a glance at Cannon. ‘Maybe I should think about take out. You sure know how to show a gal a good night, Ramm.’

‘I’ll make it up to you. But for now, can you please close the door before my friend here has a coronary?’

Bitsy stood face on, fisting her hands on her hips as she pouted. She was showing Ramm what he was missing, but Cannon wasn’t spared an eyeful either. ‘What’s a hungry girl supposed to do? Start with the finger buffet?’

She was such a tease. Ramm shook his head, walked over and shut the door. From beyond it he heard Bitsy muttering, but he knew her ill temper wouldn’t last. He turned to Cannon, expecting to see the man loosening his collar. Cannon wasn’t quite as obvious, but he slowly puffed out his cheeks.

‘I guess I chose a bad time to call,’ he said.

Ramm shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. I’ll make it up to Bitsy later.’

‘Bitsy? You might say all her bits are in the right place and in the right proportions.’ Cannon quickly lifted a hand in apology. ‘Jeez. Listen to me. I’m sorry for blurting that out.’

‘I prefer a man who’s straight to the point. Don’t worry about it. Bitsy tends to have that kind of effect on people.’ Ramm folded his arms on his chest. ‘But it’s not Bitsy you’re hear to talk about. This is about your daughter, right?’

Some of the light went out of Cannon’s gaze. ‘My daughter, yes. Shelly. I take it you’ve been following the news?’

‘Not avidly, but enough to know that Shelly went missing a few weeks ago and you still have no idea where she is or what has happened to her.’

‘Not exactly true,’ Cannon said. ‘I know where and what is going on, it’s just that I haven’t mentioned it to the police. You see, there’s no real crime involved in her disappearance, so law enforcement wouldn’t really help to get her back.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Shelly was always a willful child. She got no easier to control as a young woman. You might say that she rebelled against me and that was why she chose to take up with one of those nutjob Svengali-types called The Bishop.’

‘She has joined a cult?’

‘Not a cult as such. There is nothing religious about the group she has hooked up with, despite the leader’s adopted name.’ Cannon shook his head. ‘I blame it all on the crazy talk about the Mayan doomsday prophesy and unfounded fears about the end of the world. You’ve heard of these “end of world” groups haven’t you?’

‘Doomsday preppers,’ Ramm said. ‘Yeah, there’s been quite a lot of talk about them in the last year or two. It’s just the latest term for the old paramilitary survivalist movement, if you ask me.’

Cannon nodded in agreement. ‘The Bishop runs his group from a fortified compound out west. He lords over his people with an iron hand, and apparently heaps of charisma. He has gathered quite a following by all accounts, people who are prepared to fight on his behalf should the need arise.’

‘You said that law enforcement won’t help bring Shelly out. If she is an adult and went there of her free will, I can understand why. But you’d think they’d be looking for an excuse to enter The Bishop’s commune, to check on illegal firearms and such.’

‘They’re kind of nervous about that, ever since the Camp Davidian fiasco. And any way, it is common knowledge that The Bishop will not tolerate firearms within the boundary of his land. He once suffered an unfortunate accident with a gun and positively forbids the carrying of firearms by his people.’

‘Seems a gentle enough guy,’ Ramm said with not a little sarcasm. But he’d guessed there was more to The Bishop through Cannon’s earlier comment about the use of improvised weapons.

‘He supports the use of aggression in protection of his land. But he has an old time sensibility about it all. He encourages his people to train in martial arts and all manner of unarmed combat. Some of those he attracts to his movement are tough guys and brawlers. Others are skilled, ex military men, fighters and sportsmen.’

Ramm nodded. ‘The reason you wanted to check me out. You want me to pose as one of these tough guys to get close to Shelly and bring her out.’

‘Exactly,’ Cannon said. ‘And I’m prepared to pay you handsomely for your trouble.’

‘Sounds like a job I might be interested in.’

‘Might be?’

‘How handsomely are we talking?’

‘As handsomely as your girlfriend, Bitsy, and a bit more on top besides.’

Ramm took no time considering the offer. ‘I’m in. When do I start?’

‘Is tomorrow too soon?’

Ramm glanced once at the bedroom door. ‘I’ll be ready as soon as I’m finished my dinner.’

Now…

Ramm brought the large roan to a halt and stared down the hill at the outer fence of The Bishop’s compound. He wore a liberated leather jacket now, but could still feel the chill of predawn. The horse shivered its flanks, snorted, and the steam rising off its back drifted up to join the mist overhead. Since Ramm’s recent fight at the barn the fog had lifted somewhat, burning off as the sun rose higher in the east. Below him he could now see the fence, and a good portion of the land beyond. Most of the trees had been felled on the property, but there was some sparse shrubbery here and there. The buildings that formed The Bishop’s compound were still far out of sight, lying beyond a fold in the land to the east. Earlier on fleeing the place, Ramm had headed south. His ride back had been more circular and had brought him to this place a couple of miles further up the perimeter fence. There was no sign of sentries but Ramm had to assume they were there. Still, apart from them calling in extra support, he didn’t have much to fear from them. One thing he could be certain of was that he wouldn’t be brought down by a sniper’s bullet. Cannon had been correct when stating The Bishop didn’t tolerate any firearms: knives, clubs, swords, even bows and arrows were in evidence but Ramm was yet to see as much as an airsoft gun in the compound.

Riding the roan bareback – he had only taken time to fit it with a rope halter before setting off – he urged it down the shallow decline to the fence. The fence stood eight feet tall and was topped with barbed wire. It would be a formidable barricade to some, but not to Ramm on horseback. As they came alongside the fence, he again halted the horse. Bracing his palms on its shoulders, Ramm hopped up and hunkered on the horse’s back. Then he rose up fluidly to stand on its back like a trick rider in a circus. He ignored the pain in his ankle and thigh from the savaging the Doberman Pincers had given him, while he turned a quarter circle to face the fence. In the next instant he bunched his thigh muscles, allowed his buttocks to dip slightly then sprang up and outward. The jump was little more than three feet and Ramm cleared the barbed wire with ease. Unfortunately a sixteen hands horse didn’t shorten the drop on the other side. He dropped the full eight feet plus and again had to employ a commando roll to save his legs from the impact.

The roan had spooked as Ramm let fly, and it thundered away up the hill, heading back the way they’d come and to the shelter of the barn. Ramm wondered distractedly what had become of the attack dogs. He didn’t think they’d be any threat to the horse. He turned away and began a steady jog across the barren land, ignoring the pain that flared from his right ankle with every step. He’d suffered worse pain. Hell, he’d suffered worse yesterday on his arrival at The Bishop’s camp.

Yesterday…

A solid left jab, and a thundering right cross put the tall Texan on his back.

Out cold the cowboy didn’t move, and Ramm turned away, massaging his scraped knuckles.

He was ringed by dozens of men and women, all of them whooping and hollering at his victory, some of them casting insults at the downed man.

‘Your quick win means nothing.’ The Bishop was sitting in a throne-like chair bolted on the flat bed of a stripped down pickup truck. The large man pointed down at the pole-axed Texan. ‘For all I can tell that useless piece of crap has a glass jaw. You’re going to have to show me a little more before you’re allowed to stay here.’

Ramm looked up at The Bishop lording over the combat arena and gave a slight shrug. ‘So send in your best man.’

‘That would be me,’ The Bishop stated with no trace of irony. ‘But it would not serve me to beat you down, would it? What would that prove when I could take on any other man here as easily?’

‘So who is your second best? Send him.’

A stir went through the crowd. Men and women began glancing at each other, weighing and assessing. Some of them began slapping their chests, offering to fight. Others turned on their neighbours and began pushing and shoving, challenging the others claim to being the toughest. The Bishop stood up out of his chair, lifting massive arms in the air as if he was about to offer a sermon. But his name, as Ramm recalled, had nothing to do with religion. ‘Quiet down, goddamnit! The next man to open his trap will find he won’t be able to shut it again when I tear the jaw from his face!’

Standing in jeans, boots and wife-beater undershirt, Ramm shook off his shoulders as he waited.

The Bishop scanned the crowd. ‘Where’s Hector Buntz?’

A fresh stir went through the crowd, and heads turned as a figure began pushing his way to the forefront. Everyone had fallen silent at mention of the name, and Ramm realised that it was through awe. Even before Hector made it through the assembly he towered head and shoulders over the less than diminutive fighters in his way. Ramm was a big man, but even he had to tilt his gaze upward to meet Hector’s gaze. Buntz was a giant. He stood six feet nine inches, but he was no glandular freak but a man proportioned for his height. His shoulders were huge, his arms bulging with muscle, and he could have propped a barstool on his chest muscles without it toppling over. He wasn’t fat the way many big men were: his waist was tight, his hips and legs were lean. Buntz was no brute, but a hard trained warrior.

The Bishop regarded Ramm. ‘You still wish entrance to my group?’

‘Who’s your third best man?’ Ramm said. But he delivered it with a grin to show he was joking. ‘If Hector here is your test for affiliation, then I accept.’

‘Don’t let it be said that you were forced into fighting. You can always get back on the bus with the other no-hopers.’ The Bishop jerked his head to the battered old bus on which Ramm and another twelve hopefuls had entered the compound. Of that baker’s dozen only another two men had won their fights and now stood in the members’ crowd. Apart from the sleeping Texan, the others had been carried back and dumped on the bus, some of them unconscious, some of them destined for the hospital.

‘I only purchased a one way ticket,’ Ramm said.

‘It’s settled then.’ The Bishop eyed Hector. ‘Don’t hurt him too bad, Buntz. He’ll be little use to us with a crushed spine.’

‘What about his arms and legs?’ Hector rumbled.

‘They’ll heal,’ The Bishop said, offering his seal of approval for extreme violence with a wink.

Ramm moved back a few feet as Buntz entered the fighting circle. The giant towered over him, and was almost as wide again. Ramm’s eyes pinched as he assessed his opponent. Even a monster like Buntz would have weaknesses. He just couldn’t tell what they were yet.

Buntz shook off his shoulders and began a lateral sidestep, proving nimble on his feet for one so huge. Ramm didn’t move. His sidestep was a feint. Buntz smiled and moved the other way. Ramm turned with him, keeping his left side to the giant.

Suddenly Buntz lunged in, his left arm jack hammering at Ramm’s head. Ramm slipped the punch, and dug his knuckles deep into the man’s exposed ribs. It was like punching a drum, and his punch had little effect.

Buntz laughed, and the crowd grew vocal again, encouraging their champion to smash Ramm into the earth.

They moved in trading blows, kicks, punches, and once a headbutt from Buntz that left Ramm reeling. He had to rally with a flurry of punches to keep the giant from pulverizing him. He finished with a kick to Buntz’s stomach, and a right cross to the jaw that sounded like a mallet striking a coconut.

Both combatants danced away from each other. Ramm shook his right hand, and saw Buntz take note.

Buntz came at him again. This time his jab was followed by an uppercut that deliberately fell short, just as he powered in an overhand left. The punch struck Ramm on his forehead, almost breaking his neck as the kinetic force drove down towards his shoulders. Sparks popped behind Ramm’s eyelids, but in reaction he flicked out his right boot and caught the giant’s leading knee. Buntz stumbled, and Ramm forced himself to use the pain to power his return strike. His right elbow slammed into the giant’s gut, the point driving in deep. Ramm immediately pivoted a half-turn and used the same elbow in a rising strike to Buntz’s jaw. Ordinarily the combination of moves would have stopped a normal man. But Ramm was forced to reassess his earlier opinion of Buntz. He was a hard trained warrior, but he was also a brute. Buntz barely registered the jaw breaking strike as he pounded his fists into Ramm’s body, both punches lifting him off his feet. Ramm went down.

Buntz didn’t allow any respite. He swung a kick into Ramm’s gut, and Ramm was forced a full yard across the dirt.

The crowd cheered wildly.

Ramm shook his head as he came up off the floor. He stood with his legs splayed, body slightly forward as he fought the crippling pain in his belly. He could barely breathe, let alone fight.

Or that’s the image he portrayed.

As Buntz came forward, Ramm sprang in the air, cocking his right arm behind his ear. As he hit the apex of his leap and began his descent, he whipped down with his bent elbow, and its point found the bridge of Buntz’s nose. The cartilage collapsed and blood flowed over the big man’s top lip.

Ramm landed on his feet to the side of the giant, forcing Buntz to turn towards him. There was a glaze over the man’s eyes, but Ramm trusted that Buntz’s recovery time was ever bit as freakish as his build. The giant blinked a couple of times.

‘First blood,’ Ramm said.

‘I drink blood for breakfast,’ replied Buntz. ‘And eat the hearts of men for lunch.’

‘And no doubt you suck the marrow from their bones for dinner.’

‘No usually I have fried chicken with biscuits and gravy.’

The giant laughed, and despite himself Ramm kind of liked the guy’s sense of humour. Still, it wouldn’t stop him hurting the giant to save his own skin. Buntz reached for him and Ramm leaned aside, snapping in a sidekick at Buntz’s knee.

Buntz braced his leg against the impact, but Ramm had been faking. He re-chambered his knee, changed its trajectory and slammed his boot into the man’s throat. As he dropped back to his feet Ramm powered in two rapid elbow strikes to Buntz’s ribs. That should have dropped him.

It didn’t.

Buntz enveloped Ramm with both arms and hauled him skyward. Ramm felt weightless as the giant heaved him overhead and held him suspended in the air. The experience lasted only as long as it took for Buntz to hurl him through space. The only thing that saved Ramm a crushing landing on the hard earth was that he landed in among the crowd of bystanders. He tumbled down and momentarily lay stunned. A couple of those in the crowd weren’t mindful of where they placed their feet and Ramm was stood on more than once while he blinked up into the angry faces of those he’d had the temerity to land on.

Aching all over, Ramm crawled onto his hands and knees. He craned up to see Buntz storming towards him, his feet nimbly skipping as he made to punt Ramm in the air like a football. Ramm reared back on his knees and Buntz’s foot missed him by inches. Ramm, who’d been saving his right fist, clenched his knuckles tight, his index finger protruding from the others and struck the collection of nerves on Buntz’s outer thigh. It would take more than that to give the giant a Charley Horse, but Ramm wasn’t finished. As Buntz fought for balance, to come at him from the front, Ramm swung an uppercut into the juncture of his thighs. Buntz groaned. Even giants weren’t immune to a punch in the balls. But he wasn’t finished either. He hammered down at Ramm, and it was as if two telephone poles had landed on Ramm’s shoulders. He was sure that the compression had concertinaed his ribs and that they were on the stress point of shattering. Time he halted the ongoing punishment before he was no use to man or beast, let alone Shelly Cannon.

Ramm dropped to one side, propped himself on his left palm and jacked his legs off the floor. He hooked the toe of his left boot around Buntz’s right ankle, his right boot heel jamming the man’s knee. As gravity pulled gainst him, he scissored his feet and Buntz’s lower leg buckled, the cartilage popping loose, the anterior cruciate ligament almost twanging like a plucked guitar. Buntz roared in agony and fell face down in the dirt. Ramm knew the big guy wouldn’t stay down. Neither did he wish to hurt the big guy too badly, but he axed his right heel in the air and brought it down between the giant’s shoulders. Buntz did an impression of a starfish.

‘Stay down,’ Ramm commanded. ‘Or the next kick’s to the nape of your neck.’

Buntz lay there stunned.

Ramm clawed himself up off the floor.

The Bishop was once again sitting in his throne on the back of the pickup.

‘Have I proved myself worthy enough to join the gang?’ Ramm asked.

The Bishop stared at him, eyes as emotionless as tarnished steel in their perusal. Then a faint smile played across his lips.

He rose up, and his arms went skyward. This time he did offer benediction. ‘Welcome, brother. My home is now your home. As long as you obey the rules you are allowed freedom to roam the communal areas and to share in our mutual bounty.’

Ramm wouldn’t be sharing in any of the proclaimed bounty. He liked women, but he’d never forced himself on any woman and wasn’t about to do so now. Plus, he wasn’t too good at obeying the rules.

By morning he’d found Shelly Cannon where she’d been all but locked in with the other sex slaves. But before he could release her, The Bishop’s men had discovered him sneaking through the harem – a crime punishable by death in The Bishop’s world. The manhunt had begun.

Well, the chase was over and now Ramm was back.

Now…

The Bishop’s compound was a reclaimed military base, defunct since the fall of the Berlin Wall. Many of the buildings, the mess halls and the barracks still existed, though faded now and in need of some restoration. They were arranged around a parade ground, and on the extreme right were the hangars and sheds that once housed helicopters, jeeps and other military transporters and weapons. The fighting arena was at the centre of the parade ground, as it was at the centre of the way of life here. Right now it was deserted. The only people Ramm could see were a couple of sentries over by the hangars, but they were totally unaware of his presence. He’d no idea where The Bishop was, but he doubted he’d joined the search for Ramm when he’d fled the compound during the night.

Ramm had to get across the camp, and into one of the hangars currently guarded by the two sentries. The particular one he sought concealed an entrance to a tunnel in the earth, at the end of which he’d discovered the harem where the women were imprisoned. Shelly Cannon might have joined The Bishop’s band through her own choice, but she hadn’t banked on being put to work as a pleasure slave. He’d already confirmed that she was ready to go home, but had been forced to leave her behind when he was discovered by a patrol. The guy had got off a radio message to his pals before Ramm had killed the one who witnessed him speaking with Shelly, but no names had been mentioned. Ramm was confident that no one was aware of whom he’d come looking for. But he worried that The Bishop had moved all of the women out of precaution, should Ramm escape the manhunt and bring others back with him. The guards could have been set outside the hangar as a ruse, to make things look like they still had something to hide inside. Or The Bishop trusted that his dogs would bring down Ramm and bringing back other rescuers would no longer be an issue. There was lots of “what ifs” to consider, but they would only waste time. Ramm’s tiny window of opportunity was shortening. Once others discovered the dead men at the farm, they might conclude that Ramm had doubled back and hotfoot it back here.

He didn’t head directly across the parade ground. He used the buildings at its edge as cover, moving from structure to structure and staying in the shadows cast by the dawning sun. It took him a little over three minutes to make it to the far side, but at least he’d done so undetected. He hunkered down against a pile of rubble, evidence of a once collapsed shelter. From his waistband he took out the cleaver he’d liberated from the knifeman back at the farm. It was a cumbersome weapon, but he wasn’t complaining. He weighed it for balance in his palm, as he judged the distance to the first of the two sentries. Then he was up and sprinting at them.

Within twenty feet of the nearest guard he let loose the cleaver in an over arm throw. It somersaulted three times and sank deep into the man’s breastbone as he turned to the sound of running feet. The cleaver did what it promised and the man fell backwards, letting out a howl of agony. Ramm vaulted over him, powering in a jumping front kick to the second sentry. His kick forced the man back, and he made only a spirited but wholly ineffectual swipe with his baton at Ramm’s head. Ramm caught the man’s outstretched arm, ducked beneath it and locked it in an unnatural position alongside his body. An extra inch of twist would snap the man’s wrist and elbow.

‘Where are the women?’ Ramm demanded as he gave the tortured arm a subtle twist. ‘Are they still inside.’

The captured guard danced on his toes, trying to alleviate the pressure. ‘Aah, eeh, aaah!’

‘Where are they?’ Ramm asked again.

‘They’re still down in the tunnel,’ the man yelped.

‘Who else is down there?’

‘The Bi…Bishop!’

‘Good,’ Ramm said, and completed the Koppojutsu twist. The man’s arm splintered. He shrieked in pain. Ramm released the broken limb, but only so that he could slam a palm up under the man’s jaw to shut him up. The man fell, unconscious on the ground. Ramm looked at the man with the cleaver in his breastbone. The cleaver hadn’t sunk in far enough to kill, but the man was out of the fight. He was in ferocious pain, but Ramm had no pity for him. He yanked out the blade, and then used its flat edge to whack the man’s skull, putting him to sleep.

Holding the cleaver in his left hand, Ramm entered the hangar. The structure was large enough to hold upward of four helicopters, with space for a truck or two. It was empty now and it rang hollowly to his footsteps. Catwalks ran the length of the building on both sides, and Ramm visually checked them for observers. No one. At the far end was an observation deck with what amounted to a control room. It was in darkness, but he was happy that there was nobody watching him from the high aerie. Beneath the observation platform was a cuboid structure, fronted by double steel doors. It was the entrance to a tunnel that led to a bomb shelter buried beneath the very concrete over which he strode.

Going down in the tunnel was tantamount to walking into a trap.

But Ramm went in nonetheless.

The Bishop greeted him. He was sitting on his relocated throne. At his feet was Shelly Cannon. She’d been stripped down to her undergarments. Her sleek hair hung over her shoulders, a thick lock of hair across her features. When she looked up at Ramm, he saw it was with little recognition. She was doped.

‘Ah, the second best fighter in camp,’ The Bishop said with faux joviality. ‘I knew you would return.’

Beyond their leader a group of men came forward, numbering around twenty. They were holding cudgels and knives. Ramm could see no sign of Hector Buntz, for which he was thankful. He didn’t fear Buntz, he had proven he was more than the giant’s equal, but then Buntz plus the group of armed men would have been beyond even Ramm’s considerable skill.

The Bishop stood from his chair. Shelly pawed at his shins, as if she relied on his presence to steady her. Ramm noted that The Bishop didn’t come forward.

‘Only second best?’ Ramm asked. ‘Tell you what, Bishop. Prove you’re the better man. If not, let me take Shelly and leave. There’ll be no more trouble from me.’

‘I’d love to accept your challenge, but alas.’ The Bishop didn’t finish his thought. He didn’t have to. He hitched up a leg of his trousers and Ramm caught the glint of metal. The reason that ballistic weaponry was banned from his compound was because The Bishop had good cause to hate them. He teetered where he stood, unable to balance well on his recently adapted prosthetic leg. Little more than five years ago Sgt Roy Bishop had been on patrol in Helmand Province when a traitorous Afghan soldier had turned his weapon on him, cutting his legs out from beneath him before The Bishop could return fire. The medics had saved his life, but were unable to save his shattered right leg. Amputation had been his only recourse. Ordinarily Ramm respected veterans, particularly those that had suffered for their country. But he’d lost all respect for The Bishop when he’d learned how the doomsday prepper was building a post-apocalyptic future on a promise of extreme violence and the subjugation of women as breeding or pleasure stock. The man was trash.

‘So let the girl go,’ Ramm said. ‘The way you’ve forced her to lay at your feet, it’s obvious you know who I’m here for.’

‘I’d a feeling that Adrian Cannon would send some champion to rescue her. When I heard you’d been spotted skulking around in the harem I guessed what you were up to. I also guessed that once you’d lost the hunting party sent after you, then you’d be back.’

‘Very astute of you, Bishop. If you’re such a wise man, then you should realise it will be easier for everyone if you just let Shelly go.’

The Bishop sat again. He did so in order to hook a finger under Shelly’s chin and lift her head. ‘I can’t do that. Shelly has no desire to leave. Do you my sweet?’

Shelly’s eyes rolled. She made a mewling noise.

‘See?’ asked The Bishop.

‘I see a girl whose will has been taken away from her, the way your leg was stolen from you. I’m warning you, Bishop. Let me take Shelly – and the other women prisoners – and I’ll let you live. Refuse, and the fact you’re half crippled won’t stop me ripping you a new asshole.’

The Bishop opened his mouth wide and laughed at the ceiling.

‘You think I’m bluffing?’

‘You are only one man. Yes, you’re a skilled fighter, but you are no match for all of my men.’

‘I haven’t got started yet,’ Ramm said. ‘That little charade I put on yesterday? I didn’t even get past first gear.’

‘I never met a blowhard yet who was half the man he professed to be!’

‘That’s like the pot calling the kettle,’ Ramm countered.

‘No one I’ve heard of is the equal of almost two dozen armed men.’

‘Then you’ve never heard of the Battering Ramm.’ Ramm quickly stripped out of the leather jacket he’d taken from one of the dead men at the farm. He stood not in the dirty singlet and jeans of yesterday, but in his nanocomposite anti-ballistic/stab suit. ‘While you were setting up this trap, didn’t you wonder what was taking me so long to get back here? On my first arrival in camp I couldn’t enter wearing my armour so I arranged my flight out of here last night. After finishing off your hunting party I was able to ride to a prearranged meeting place where Shelly’s daddy was waiting for me. He’d had the presence of mind to bring my equipment to me.’ Ramm dropped the cleaver. ‘Oh, plus these.’

From behind his back Ramm drew a twin set of automatic pistols given to him by a grateful Israeli Mossad agent who owed him his life, and more importantly the lives of his children. Ramm aimed the Jericho 941 Uzi Eagles beyond The Bishop. While the crowd of armed men muttered and cursed, The Bishop’s face reddened.

‘I forbid the use of firearms here!’ he roared.

‘I forbid the use of women as sex slaves,’ said Ramm. ‘I think my cause trumps yours.’

The Bishop screamed at his men. ‘Get him! Tear him to pieces. He can’t shoot you all!’

He was right. Not even Ramm could shoot twenty men in the space it took them to charge forward. But he managed to get half of them, and that suited him fine. His guns sang a duet of death and destruction in the tunnel. Bodies jerked and spun and fell while others pushed past the dying. Some of the more hopeful fighters hurled their weapons at Ramm. Cudgels rebounded from his NAS suit and the tips of blades were turned away. Ramm didn’t wait for the surge of bodies to overwhelm him. He dropped his empty guns, dipped a hand to each ankle holster and came up with a punch-dagger in each fist, then swept in to meet the remaining fighters. To engage one at a time would be his death: while fighting one, the others could drag him down and pound him to death. Ramm kept moving, dipping in and out, swerving away, jumping and dropping, counterattacking constantly, and each time his blades found a throat or gut or extended wrist. Blood danced around him as though he was a dervish wind skimming a crimson pond.

He took a few strikes to his body, but his suit fended off the blows. A knife tip took a slither of skin from above his right eyebrow, which brought a grimace from Ramm, but also a renewed intensity to his attack. He cut and punched, and men fell all around him.

Finally only two men remained standing.

Ramm faced a lithe fighter whose arms were decorated with prison tattoos. The man held his blade close to his body, angled down from his fist. From his stance he knew a thing or two about knife fighting. Ramm quirked his bleeding eyebrow at the man. ‘It’s one thing shivving a guy in the showers, quite another facing a trained killer. You sure you still want to do this?’

The man licked his lips, weighing his chances. His gaze went to the twin push-daggers protruding from Ramm’s fists. They dripped gore. In comparison his knife was shiny new. ‘Fuck this, man! I only joined this outfit on the promise of some easy pussy!’ he said, dropping his blade and scurrying off down the tunnel. Ramm grunted in disapproval.

He turned back to The Bishop just in time for the big man to slam a meaty forearm across his jaw, taking him backwards in the classic clothesline manoeuvre made famous in the wrestling ring.

Ramm landed on his back, but he didn’t flounder there. He allowed the momentum of his fall to roll him over one shoulder and he came back up onto one knee. The Bishop had followed after him and had lifted his right leg to stamp down on Ramm’s chest. While Ramm had been engaged in the fight with the others, the big man had kicked off his boot – along with the prosthetic foot – to bare the metal joint of his ankle. In effect he speared down at Ramm’s chest with a steel spike and all his not inconsiderable weight behind it. ‘Let’s see if your fancy suit will turn aside this blade!’ he crowed as he thrust his leg into Ramm.

‘That’s something you’ll never know.’ Ramm twisted and the spearing leg missed him by inches. His move knocked aside the leg and The Bishop splayed over him, his stance ungainly with one limb shorter than the other. Ramm grunted as he thrust forward with both daggers and buried them deep in The Bishop’s groin. ‘I warned you I’d rip you a new asshole.’

The Bishop howled out in horror as Ramm withdrew the blades with a twist of his wrists.

‘You should’ve stayed in that chair of yours,’ Ramm told him. ‘I’d have allowed you to live out the rest of your miserable life. But you brought the fight to me.’ Ramm crossed his arms, and then whipped them outwards. The tips of the daggers ploughed twin furrows across the big man’s throat.

After…

All that was left to do was to carry Shelly Cannon from the tunnel. She was still half-naked, still half-doped, but her father was pleased to see her safe and sound when he met them at the compound’s front gate. Ramm handed the young woman over to her father, then returned to the tunnel. The tattooed knifeman wasn’t anywhere to be found, but Ramm didn’t care about him, or about the pile of corpses topped off by The Bishop. He went down to the bomb shelter and unlocked the door behind which the other sex slaves were held. There’d be many more parents who’d be pleased to see their children returned home to them. Adrian Cannon had promised him half a million dollars to rescue Shelly: Ramm would have taken the job for nothing, but the rich man could afford his bill. From the other parents he’d accept only their gratitude.

Ramm headed home. He was hungry. He thought about ordering one of Joey’s special twelve-inch pizzas to be delivered on his arrival. Then he had second thoughts. He called in at Bitsy Horton’s house: after the other night she owed him dinner at her place.

BIO:

Matt Hilton quit his career as a police officer with Cumbria Constabulary to pursue his love of writing tight, cinematic American-style thrillers. He is the author of the high-octane Joe Hunter thriller series, including his most recent novel ‘Rules of Honour’, published in February 2013 by Hodder and Stoughton. His first book, Dead Men’s Dust, was shortlisted for the International Thriller Writers’ Debut Book of 2009 Award, and was a Sunday Times bestseller.

Matt is a high-ranking martial artist and has been a detective and private security specialist, all of which lend an authenticity to the action scenes in his books.

www.matthiltonbooks.com