The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER THREE

In Hell, a man should know his place. In Hell, a man should know the full extent of his sins. And in particular, the ones that brought him to that place.

Guy Bodie tried to keep it together. Ten days was a long time to share this desperate dance with a thousand devils, but his convictions told him help was coming.

Most of the time though, he just didn’t trust them.

The environment itself was unsettling. If you didn’t look up, didn’t see the high walls with the barbed wire and lookout towers, you might think you were walking through a small Mexican town. Tiny shops plied a trade. Market stalls sold perishable goods, clothes, books, old, second-hand bed linen, bottled water, packets of sweets that he only recognized from his youth on the streets of London, and more. Men milled everywhere, beaten, despondent. But then so did women. And children.

It was the oddest prison Bodie had ever found himself in.

There were ways to make money in here, but he hadn’t been made privy to any of them. The American dollar stash he’d been lucky enough to have on him was dwindling. The clothes he still wore were dirty and unwashed, much like himself. The beard was growing. He figured he had enough money to last five more days on rations, maybe six. The ten days he’d spent here already had yielded a blueprint of the grounds, gates, entrances and exits; guard towers, offices, dens where gang bosses, mafia dons and heads of drug cartels continued to manage their businesses. He saw where the prostitutes came in for the live-in guards, every Wednesday; where the drugs came and went, where the weapons were exchanged. It wasn’t that he was a master spy — although he was considered by many as the best in the world at his chosen trade — but more that nobody attempted to hide what they were doing. Nobody cared.

That told Guy Bodie at least two things.

First, the authorities knew what was going on, and accepted it for whatever reason. Second, he was never going to be released. This particular trip to Mexico was one way. And, if current and recent appearances were anything to go by, more of a mini-break than an extended vacation.

Bodie was no stranger to loneliness; in some ways he embraced it. Loneliness was one of his oldest friends, a place in which he could dwell and not fear. But prison was not lonely. It was a zoo, replete with all manner of animals, most of them looking for the best way to kill you.

An old man had watched him pass by the first day; then, on the return journey, snagged his hand.

“You stick with your own,” he grated, eyes rheumy and narrow against the blazing sun, but clearly focused. “Them.” He nodded to a corner of the yard where Bodie saw other English or American folk. “Ain’t nobody else here for you. They’ll kill you.”

Bodie wasn’t that easy to kill, but he wasn’t about to paint himself as a target either. “Thanks for the info. Did you see who brought me here?”

The old man squinted. “What kinda jackass accent is that?”

Bodie smiled at the sweating creases that formed a slight smile. “London.”

“And the teeth?”

“All my own. Big, bright white choppers run in the family.”

“Wish I’d been given me a set like that. Woulda never needed a flashlight.”

“Heard that before.”

“I’m sure you have. And yeah, I saw the guys that brought you in. Same fuckers that bring everyone in.” He pointed at the watchtowers. “Them fuckers.”

“Guards.” Bodie had been afraid of that. It meant he was here in at least some kind of official capacity and not just dumped. “Bollocks.”

“Dogs?”

“Nah. Just bollocks.”

“You people.” The old man chuckled, which became a cough that wracked his ribcage. “And yer bollocks. You make me smile.”

Bodie bowed just a smidgeon. “At your service. For a short while anyway.”

“You seem like a carer. Ain’t no place for you here, boy. You change, or you ain’t gonna survive.”

Bodie blinked in surprise. Despite his outer mien, the man had seen right through him. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll kick you when we’re done.”

“Good.”

“I realize we’re in Mexico.” Bodie cast a glance around at the concrete squat structures, the sandy, earthy ground, the blue skies and the high, flaking walls. “But where the hell are we?”

“Hoyo infernal. This is one of the worst kind of hellholes, my friend. Vices in here are worse than out there.” He nodded over the walls. “No law. Run by madman who wants to be here. Nothing too immoral. Nothing too depraved. This is the eighth circle of Hell, London man.”

Bodie took a breath. Shit. Worse than I thought then. “And where does Lucifer hang his hat?”

Those eyes again, focusing, gleaning. “Why’d you wanna know that?”

“Always good to know where the boss lives.”

Bodie allowed another small smile, remembering the phrase from his early days. The boss was well off, and usually a dick, so made for a nice, easy target. Nobody stood up for the boss.

“Not sure I agree, but take a right after the marketplace. At the end of that street there’s a high step up to an open doorway. Careful though, London, you won’t get three paces along that street without a knife pressing to yer throat.”

Bodie nodded, thinking: Not my idea or memory of prison, but at least it’s unique.

“Speaking of knives.” The old man unfolded a sleeve in which lay half a dozen small, handmade shivs. “These still have their uses in here. Especially for quiet work.”

Bodie studied the razor blades, trapped between two lengths of wood and secured with plastic ties. Easy, small, barely detectable, very concealable. “How much?”

Back then, ten days ago, he’d had time. He’d expected help. His people? Surely they knew where he was. They’d track him down. They were the fucking best, for God’s sake. Now?

Bodie studied the skies as the sun started to flatten across the horizon. At least, what he could see of the horizon. Not much, unless he climbed onto one of the low buildings’ roofs. Which was also permitted. Trouble was, at night the roofs offered a kind of pecking order. If you wanted to go up there you had to be prepared to fight.

Bodie stuck to the streets, surviving. Outlandish sounds filled the steadily falling night. Screams and howls and the sound of gunfire. A man chuckling incessantly. A woman groaning in pleasure. The whispered persuasions of incessant drug use.

And yet above, the whole sky was free. People on the other side of those walls looked upon that same sky, shared that same breeze. Bodie made his way back to the area he’d deemed safer than anywhere else, pushing a coughing man out of the way and threading through a group of unwashed, stinking youths. Nobody gave ground here, you put your head down and barged through.

Like London in the summer, he thought. Or Paris every day.

The men he’d grown used to looked up as he passed them by. No recognition, no nods or smiles. They didn’t want to be associated with him and he hardly blamed them. Two men had set about him on the second day, for no obvious reason. Bodie had showed them the error of their ways, without injuring them permanently. He wouldn’t do that anymore.

Always the smoother road. Always the softer option.

A man that had seen the effects of the misery he wrought always faced a point of no return. Continue, and fall without end. Or change your ways, adapt, and try to win.

Bodie chose the latter. But that wasn’t about to help him in here.

Men shifted. Men groaned. A young woman walked by, long skirts sweeping the filthy floor. A young boy slept curled up in the outer corner of a doorway. Bodie sat down on a set of steps, concrete to his back, a wide space in front of him. Any man or woman, jailed, faced the intense mental stress of having to be ready at all times. Of having to watch for enemies — every minute, every second. Bodie knew you could develop a certain mindset — a sixth sense of sorts. You could even sleep. But you had to be prepared to do damage at the slightest advance, the smallest provocation. You had to make them believe it wasn’t worth bothering you.

Here, now, the rules were different. Take the four inmates approaching for instance. In most civilized prisons, they’d be locked away, wearing prison uniform, closely guarded. Here they wore jeans and torn T-shirts, had heavy boots and carried weapons. Bodie rose quickly, now embracing the solitariness as those close to him scurried away. In a matter of seconds he summed up an odd situation.

These men were Mexican locals. They didn’t know him. Hellhole — as he’d decided to refer to the prison — was merely a place for him to die and disappear. Somebody had taken a contract out on him.

“Hey guys,” he began. “You speak English? Ingles?”

Two looked blank, but two more met his eyes and slowed. “I do,” one said with a heavy accent. “You pay me thousand extra I make it quick, not slow like we were told.”

“Who told you to make it slow?” Bodie stayed put, mimicking them. No point being antagonistic.

“The Boss.” A shrug. “El Jefe.”

“Ahh.” Bodie smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. El Jefe told you to make it slow. And who told El Jefe?”

The men all exchanged a glance and then a laugh. “Nobody orders El Jefe.”

“Sure they do.” Bodie knew the fight was coming and had already evaluated all four men, the surroundings and any objects he might use. When they stared in bewilderment he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“Money talks.”

He tried a new tack. “You ever heard the name Jack Pantera? He’s my old boss. He’ll set you up.”

But they looked to be done talking. Bodie readied himself, but then the biggest of the four stopped and stared hard.

“Man,” he whispered in awe. “Are those teeth real? ’Cause, if not, I’m gonna have me a new set.”

Bodie grinned wider. “Bask in the light, asshole. Bask in the light.”

He was moving even as he spoke, using the environment to fight as he used it every time he carried out a new job. You could use the environment for all manner of purposes — it consistently gave out golden nuggets — but today he employed it for added confusion. First, he targeted the big guy, moving in and dancing away, leaving three fast strikes in his wake. He tried to jerk the length of metal pipe from the man’s hand, but the meaty paw held on tight. The body did spasm hard though, wracked with pain.

Bodie used the steps to get some height, then jumped and came down on top of the next man, landing an elbow atop the shaven skull. The man’s nervous system screamed, sending him to his knees. Bodie would have liked to finish him there and then, but didn’t have the time. The other two were already upon him and the big guy was recovering fast. Bodie used the fallen man, thrusting off his bent back to gain momentum. A simple punch to the throat became a wicked strike and the third man fell clutching and gasping.

The fourth man hit him hard, but Bodie expected that. You didn’t get out of a low-odds skirmish like this without taking some damage. Somehow he smothered the baseball bat that the guy swung, taking a hit on the forearm but diverting the main force of the blow. The bulk of the man still hit hard though, leading with the shoulder, smashing Bodie backward and almost off his feet. Here again, though, Bodie knew what was behind him. No trip hazards, no hard corners, just a flat wall. Bodie hit it, feigned an injury, looked punch-drunk, and then slipped away just as the attack came in. The baseball bat struck concrete, clanging, its wielder overbalanced. Bodie stepped around, delivered two elbows and a kidney punch, and sent the man sliding down.

Bodie relieved him of the bat.

The big guy was back now, along with the one Bodie had skull punched. The metal bar whistled down and Bodie parried it with the bat, fencing now. The bar came again. Bodie deflected it at the ground, then stood on the ragged end. The big guy ended up staring him in the face, almost point blank.

Bodie flashed the smile.

“I’m gonna pull ’em out one by one.” The metal bar fell, muscles flexed, and Bodie was pulled into a bear hug. The spare man grinned at that, stepped back as if to say “well, that’s that then. Nobody ever survived one of those.” Bodie could believe it. The breath was forced quickly from his body. The nerves around his ribcage flashed warning. Pain like fire exploded inside his head. Something was creaking inside, and he didn’t like to imagine what it might be.

The giant’s lips were crushed to his ear.

“Ish end fer youuu.” Barely intelligible, Bodie caught the drift. It was time.

The small shiv he’d bought paid for itself. Letting it fall into his hand he drove the razor blade up again and again, perforating the giant three, four, five times and making his eyes widen, his strength ebb away.

“Fooled you.” He spoke as the third man’s face fell in disbelief.

Big guy fell. Now, Bodie knew this had to end fast. His own strength was failing; his element of surprise was gone. Skipping past the third man, he brought the baseball bat down hard on top of the second man’s skull, the one he’d throat-punched. Spinning, he flung the bat hard and caught Third Man across the cheekbone, sending him sprawling. Fourth Man was just climbing back to his feet, using the wall, when Bodie cracked him across the back of the neck, wincing as the crack of broken bone split the night.

Sadly, he would have to end these men. It had been a long time since Bodie intentionally committed violence — past events had led him to commit only victimless crimes — but he knew as well as anyone that they’d been set a task, a mission, and could not return to their captain with anything less than a win. They would keep coming, but if they never made it back, it should give Bodie another day. Maybe two whilst the man that paid for his murder made some kind of re-evaluation. So Bodie did what he had to do.

To survive.

Nothing moved in the shadows. The prison still spewed forth its nightly distractions and diversions, its screams, loud music and flashing lights, its hooting and hysterical laughter, its gunfire. But where Bodie stood, and all around, sat only silence and shadow.

The bodies lay cooling where he left them, so Bodie relieved them of small weapons, cash and anything else that seemed important and then strode off, nursing wounds, to find another corner to lay his head, only one thought flashing across his mind like the urgent, bright red letters on a giant billboard.

I have to get the hell out of here!