Cut and Run

Chapter 33

Rickard watched the big German, Burkhard Metzger, stand up in the bed of the jeep and shoot both guards at the front gate. And that was it. The assault of Cesar Calle’s stronghold was on.

One of the guards didn’t die immediately and reached to hit an alarm in a metal box fixed to a post. Metzger hopped down from the jeep, cleaving the man’s hand from his wrist with a large-bladed knife direct from a Rambo movie, halting the warning. He then backhanded the blade across the man’s face, chopping loose his jaw and the man’s cry of agony, before throwing open the barrier and waving the convoy of Silva’s soldiers through. In the German language, Metzger translates as butcher. He was living up to the name.

Scrambling back up on to the leading jeep, he steadied himself by bracing his legs. He glanced sideways at Rickard.

‘Good job, Metzger.’

The German set his jaw at Rickard’s feigned exuberance.

Rickard shrugged his shoulders. He was impressed by Metzger’s cold-blooded manner, but wasn’t about to admit it. To do so meant undermining his own considerable abilities. Better that he just got down to business and showed exactly which of them was the better man-killer. He lifted his rifle and fired three quick rounds at a group of men charging out of a hut at the edge of the road. All three went down like tin ducks in a shooting gallery. Beside him, Rickard heard Metzger’s grunt of admiration. Stick around, he wanted to say, and you’ll learn a thing or two. But he left the boast unsaid, choosing instead to allow his actions to prove the point.

Trees encroached on each side of the road, left to thrive by Calle’s people in order to conceal the view of the land beyond, but once the convoy of five vehicles was through the forest the valley opened up to fields cleared of cover, surrounded on all sides by tall cliffs. Timber barricades like giant caltrops ensured that a free approach to the buildings at the far end was impossible. The wide swathe of grass was a typical killing ground where an enemy could be cut down while traversing the open space.

But that was all supposing that Cesar Calle’s troops were prepared for such a full-frontal assault. The brashness of the attack had caught them napping, and resistance was slow to follow. It was a good half minute before guns began rattling from up on the clifftops and already Rickard and his team were mid-way through the valley. Second in line in the group was a truck with a M240 belt-fed machine gun mounted on the roof. With a cyclical rate of up to seven hundred and fifty rounds a minute and Guarapo at the trigger, the M240 laid down a torrent of fire that kept the sentries on the cliffs from getting a clear shot. Over the roar of the machine gun Rickard could hear Guarapo swearing viciously. Not the sweet man his name suggested.

The convoy sped through the twisting route between the barricades, the fearless attack taking them beyond the defensive lines and towards the buildings. The house wasn’t dissimilar to the one back at Silva’s compound. If anything, it was larger and more luxurious. On either side were outbuildings, quarters for Calle’s people or perhaps visiting dignitaries judging by the apparent lushness of the gardens the structures were set in.

Up on the cliff at the back of the house, rifles cracked and bullets struck sparks from the cab of the jeep a few inches from Rickard’s head. He ducked, cursing when he noticed that Metzger stood his ground and returned fire. Who does he think he is, Rickard wondered, the goddamn Terminator?

As the jeep lurched to a halt, Rickard vaulted over the side and sprinted quickly to the corner of one of the outbuildings. Glancing back, he saw that the German had also leapt from the stalled vehicle and was running towards cover on the far side. Bullet holes starred the windscreen of the jeep and there was a distinct lack of movement from their driver. Didn’t matter to Rickard; the driver had served his purpose in getting him close enough to assault the house.

Leaving Metzger and Guarapo and their goons to engage any resistance from Calle’s troops, Rickard rushed through a garden of flowers in full bloom. He hurdled over a fence and found himself on a path, white pebbles underfoot. Machine guns crackled all round him, a din sounding like New Year in Chinatown. Men shouted and others screamed. Rickard blocked it all out, fixating on a window at the side of the main house. As he ran, he raised his rifle and fired a short burst. Glass shattered and the curtains inside danced as the bullets tugged at them. In the next instant Rickard dived bodily through the broken window, thumping down on the top of a dresser and scattering trinkets on the floor. Continuing his roll, he came off the dresser and on to the floor. Without looking, he knew a man was rushing into the room to investigate the commotion, and he lifted his gun and fired. True to form, he heard the agonised yelp of a person mortally wounded.

Coming to his knees, he searched for other targets, but there was only one man squirming on the floor a few feet away. Rickard steadied the rifle and put a bullet into the man’s skull. Next he stood and headed for the doorway, heedless of the blood streaming from his forehead where glass had sliced him.

He’d never been inside this house before, but instinct told him the way he must go. The sharp stink of medication helped guide him too. He followed the pungent aroma along a short passageway and to a flight of stairs sloping down. The house had been erected following the contours of the cliffs, and unbeknown to any observer approaching the front, a passage led into the rock face and to a chamber surrounded by solid rock. Maybe Calle expected a nuclear strike and this was his idea of a panic room. Before entering the passage, he checked behind him. Metzger, Guarapo and the others were engaging the enemy outside the house — just as had been agreed. Gunfire and shouts made an ungodly cacophony.

Rickard checked the rooms nearest the front of the house. In one he found two men in quasi-military costumes, using an expensive leather settee as a barricade from which they returned fire through the shattered windows. They were exposed to his bullets and he riddled them each with a short burst of his assault rifle. They died without ever having realised that the house had been breached. Rickard believed there’d be other defenders in the house, but those who were an immediate threat were no more.

Quickly he retraced his steps to the flight of stairs and went down. He got another waft of medicated air, as though he’d just walked into a hospital’s accident and emergency room. Time, he decided, wasn’t always the healer it was cracked up to be.

Releasing the depleted magazine from his assault rifle, he jammed a full one in place, pulled the bolt to charge the firing mechanism. Not that he wanted to rely on the rifle — his ceramic blade was his weapon of choice this time — but there could be heavy resistance from whoever was in the hidden chamber and he was happy to use the rifle on them.

At the base of the stairs he paused. The door to another passage lay open. He could hear voices from within a room at the far end. Two or more men were waiting for him there and if he approached along the passage they’d cut him down instantly. Problem being: there was no other way inside.

Turning back to the stairs, Rickard loosed a barrage of bullets into the empty space at the top. He shouted, then fired a couple of single rounds. He followed that by another burst, shooting at the stairs this time. The volume of gunfire was horrendous, but in the hidden chamber it would echo even louder, serving to confuse those within. Immediately, he spun on his heel and pounded along the passageway. As he ran he was shouting full voice in fluent Spanish. ‘Señor Calle! Señor Calle! You must get away. Silva is here. He’s in the house!’

His bullets and his frantic shout did the trick: they confused the men into thinking that he was one of their own defenders. It was a charade that would last only as long as it took for them to cast their gaze on him, but that was enough for him. He made it along the passage and into the room without being cut down, whereupon he immediately lifted his rifle.

Staring back at him in incredulity were three people. Two of them were armed with handguns and he indicated that they drop them. Cesar Calle and a henchman both allowed their guns to fall to the floor and they raised their hands in surrender. Rickard eyed them in disdain, then he shot them both as though they were paper targets beneath his contempt.

Calle dead was a promise fulfilled to Alvaro Silva. Maybe Rickard hadn’t made him scream but he didn’t care. What he was here for was his prize. Rickard smiled at the figure propped in the hospital bed.

‘I bet you weren’t expecting me?’