Blood and Ashes

Chapter 22

Vince ran.

Not away from Samuel Gant as would be expected from anyone with the least bit of sense or a will to protect his own ass, but directly towards him.

There was no option left to him if he hoped to achieve what he’d been working so hard for.

Everything depended on him being there.

If he missed it, then, well, he’d be righteously fucked.

He wished he’d sneaked back to the black van, surprised Dillman by dragging that piece of shit out and stomping him stupid under his heels. At least then he’d have a van to climb the mountain in, instead of having to run the entire way in a pair of boots designed for shit-kicking rather than a goddamn marathon.

He stopped to catch his breath.

Damned if I ain’t gonna have to get back to the gym.

Of late his lifestyle hadn’t allowed him the opportunity and he was feeling the effects of too many beers, too many smokes, and too much time between the sheets with Sonya. No regrets, he warned, it had to be done. Damned if he hadn’t enjoyed himself, too. But now, leaning with his hands on his knees while he sucked in great gusts of damp air, he knew he was going to have to do something to get his form back.

He heard the rattle of machine-gun fire.

‘Jesus H. Christ, it’s started!’

He began running again, his burning lungs begging him to stop, but his brain screaming like a drill-instructor to keep on going.

The mud made the going even more difficult, huge clods of it sticking to and building up under his heels and insteps. His jacket stank of overheated leather and perspiration. His hair, usually elegantly coiffed, whipped his face. Adding to his discomfort was the throbbing lump on the back of his skull, and the cat scratches on his face that stung like a sumbitch.

Forget it all, he told himself.

Keep going, Vince, just keep going. You want to come outa this on the right side, you just gotta keep going.

He exhorted himself all the way up and over the crest of the hill, all the while wincing at the sounds of a raging gun battle.

Ahead of him was a logging camp that hadn’t known the presence of lumberjacks for the best part of a decade. It reminded him of a ghost town from a horror movie. The drifting rain added to the image, phantom mists crawling out of the forest and floating across the deserted streets. Or maybe it was clouds of cordite.

A little way ahead was an abandoned sedan car, peppered with bullet holes. As he approached it he scanned left and right, hoping he wasn’t in the crosshairs of any of the skinheads who’d disembarked in a hurry.

Gunfire sounded again.

This time it was from inside the camp and he saw a man rush across the street and throw himself backwards through a window. He saw the flash of a rifle from the back of a dark-coloured SUV. Vince ducked down by the door of the sedan, watched as a figure clambered from the SUV and walked towards where the other had disappeared. The figure held his assault rifle low down near his hip, firing through the walls of the shed. When there was no return fire, the figure continued creeping forward. He was almost at the window when a cry rang out.

Vince swung to the new sound and saw Don Griffiths come out from between the buildings on the opposite side, firing wildly at the figure. As the figure turned to run, Vince recognised the tattoo like a dark stain down his face.

Gant, the motherfucker, ran off.

Further along, more rifles cracked and Don Griffiths was forced to retreat back towards the cabins. By the way he dragged his leg he’d taken a hit from one of the rounds.

Vince had to get inside the camp, but unarmed as he was, he’d be wandering into a shooting gallery where he’d be dropped as easily as a tin duck.

Maybe he could cut round back and take Don Griffiths’ rifle away from him?

No way, he decided. The old guy looked like he knew his way round a machine-gun and would probably plug him before he got near. The way to win this was to go directly for Millie and the children; if only he had the faintest idea where they were hiding.

Back to square one, Vince. You still have to get by Gant and his bootboys. And don’t forget the guy with the killer’s eyes. Unlike Gant, he didn’t think the silence since he went through that window meant that he was dead.

Need a weapon.

He looked inside the sedan hoping a gun had been dropped when those inside scarpered. Glass littered the interior, but that was it.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he whispered as the gunfire started again.

There were just too many of them for him to take his chances.

My gang’s bigger than yours, Gant, but where the hell are they?

He tried to figure out how much time had passed since he’d made the rushed call. How long until his buddies arrived.

Not soon enough for his liking.

He clambered inside the sedan, pulling out Sonya’s phone, stabbing buttons. The phone clicked off and he read the message on the screen. Call disconnected. He checked the strength of service and saw that there was no coverage up here.

‘Shit!’

An engine roared behind him.

Hopefully he peered around, looking for his friends.

But it was the black van. Dillman, his nose a red smear on his top lip, summoned here by radio by one of his friends. Vince ducked low as Dillman avoided the sedan and blasted through the remains of a gate and into the compound.

Damned if his chances weren’t getting slimmer.

Still, he couldn’t stay here.

He jumped out the car and followed the van through the gate, heading in an ungainly sprint for the nearest shed on the left. If Millie and the kids were anywhere, he might as well start his search there, at the furthest point away from the shooting. As he ran, he pulled out his garrotte and looped it round his right fist.