Blood and Ashes

Chapter 13

Samuel Gant strode back and forward just inside the treeline that bordered Adrian Reynolds’ home, directing the attack over a radio he brandished like a flaming torch. None of the others disputed his position.

He wasn’t the largest of men, but there was more to him than the assault rifle he carried that won him the respect of his followers. He was a proven killer, but again so were the others, so that wasn’t why he commanded them without question. He looked quite sinister, with his pale, almost yellow eyes and skin like wrinkled parchment, an intricate pattern of tattoos beginning above his right eyebrow and extending down below the collar of his coat. Hidden amongst the Celtic symbolism was a repeated pattern of numbers: eight-eight inked in scarlet over a stylised swastika. Normally, strangers didn’t get close enough to spot the hidden numbers. But he made no secret of them; anyone who met him knew that he was a white supremacist, and anyone who didn’t get the message early on found out soon enough. Usually at their own expense and paid for in agony.

Gant was supremely vicious. He would kill for the most minor reason, and sometimes his fury was even inflicted on those who considered him an ally. But he was also shrewd and a born leader. That was why Carswell Hicks had elevated him to his right hand, and why Gant had commanded his army while Hicks had been otherwise detained.

He had ten men at his disposal. A further three, plus that punk rocker bitch joining them soon. Fifteen of them against Don Griffiths and his family. Ordinarily that would be ample, but that was before the stranger had arrived with Griffiths. Gant had no idea who the man was, but he knew he was going to be trouble. It was almost as if the man had sensed the rifle Gant aimed at him. For some unknown reason Gant had pulled his aim away, swung it on Adrian Reynolds instead. Maybe he just wanted to find out what kind of man Don Griffiths had at his back.

When the stranger had responded, Gant had been forced down on his belly. One of the retaliatory bullets had come so close to his head that he’d felt the disturbance in the air beside him. By the time he’d made it back to a firing position, the man had dragged Reynolds to cover between the parked cars and he’d missed the opportunity to finish him.

Now he wondered if he’d made the wrong decision in killing Reynolds first. This man knew about guns. He also had the finely tuned senses of a warrior and though he’d initially moved as though in pain, he definitely looked like someone capable of holding his own in battle.

Gant cursed to himself. The hit on the Griffiths family should have been a sure thing, but now he wasn’t so confident. It was going to be more difficult than anticipated. He glanced around at the crew he’d assembled. To hell with them, he thought, they’re expendable. As long as I’m still standing, who gives a flying fuck?

Gant watched as one of his men, a tall skinhead called Howard, expended bullets through the closed front door of the house, then had to dive clear when the stranger fired back. Give the idiot his due, Howard went back at the door like he’d been ordered and started butting it with his shoulder.

Gant called to the others over his radio. He sent some round the back. Others were dispatched to deal with the Lexus and Audi, setting the cars aflame so that the family had no quick way out. Then he ordered a full-frontal assault on the house.

As he charged across the lawn towards the back of the house, he said: ‘Let’s see just how dangerous this asshole really is.’