The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER SIX

Guy Bodie ached, not just his body, but mind and soul. Bruises were fleeting, but damage collected over a lifetime gradually became a hanging, immovable weight. The world had not been good to him until recently, and he felt the world owed him at least one favor.

No sign of it here though, in this place, at this time. The old man that’d helped him out with the shiv was gone, replaced by a family of four. Bodie spent a little time searching, but there was no sign of the old timer. He veered away from the scene of last night’s battle, staying mobile and taking little rest.

Occasionally he smelled himself, and the scent was on the verge of over-ripe. What was normally skin shaven within a millimeter of fresh blood had started to sprout around his face. Bodie had expected some kind of contact — even if his team had started off ignorant, surely they would have tracked him down by now.

Has something happened to them?

Impossible to say, so best not let it cloud the issues at hand. Bodie didn’t mind the loneliness — growing up he’d welcomed and sought it — but in here it was a death sentence. The few Europeans he’d found either wouldn’t speak to him or didn’t understand him. Of those — one Englishman only repeated what, earlier, an American had told him.

“Get away from me, man. They got you marked. They got you spotted. They takin’ you outa here in pieces, man, so best make your peace.”

Bodie would have preferred a little help, and would have returned such a favor, but good friends were hard to find. Impossible, actually. He was the prison jinx. The unwashed. Might as well have leprosy. Those he stepped close to either gave him the dead eye or shuffled away depending on their outlook.

Bodie managed to buy food though, and water. He figured the cash would last another day. The dog eat dog environment of prison told him he should steal more; but he had long since stopped committing crimes that left victims in his wake.

That was why he’d quit being a criminal, a clever but guilt-ridden thief, and turned to victimless crime.

It struck him again now, as the sun blazed hard on top of his head. A day long ago when he’d been forced to confront the woman he robbed — seen the fear, passion and despair in her eyes and etched in every line upon her face — the depth of it had told him right then that it was not worth it. More succinctly than any prison stretch would ever do.

Observe your victims, see what you put them through.

Alone was good, but Bodie somehow then started to build a family. In conflict, unlikely, contradictory, but something that promised a new depth. Often, he enjoyed working with the team and sharing their camaraderie more than he enjoyed the job they were on, and the outcome.

A bit of introspection here? Was he expecting to die?

In truth, the odds weren’t good. But Bodie possessed resources most people couldn’t reach. There was always a way to even the odds. He purchased bottled water and energy food, found some shade from the beating sun. He found a place to rest and watched everything, attuned to the surroundings. A young woman passed by, dragging her young son by the hand, clothes dirty and eyes blank as if they already knew they would never leave this place. Bodie knew the Mexican cartels ran most of the prisons in this country, even used them to train new soldiers and fill the ranks.

Bribery and crime on a massive scale. But still, it worked for them. Youths sauntered past without noticing him under the shadow cast by the wooden lee rising above him. He was well tucked away. He heard them talking, cursing, laughing. A watchtower rose over all, its guard stuck in one position, mirror-sunglasses glinting. The prison was loud, vertiginous noise swelling at every high wall. It stank too, of rotten vegetables and litter, of sweat and dirt, of blood recently spilled. Bodie sensed it all; staying still and quiet, knowing a wall at your back was about the best you could hope for in a place like this.

His mentor, a man named Jack Pantera and Bodie’s role model, trained him well after Bodie made an effort to hit the illicit straight-and-narrow. There were many ways to make illegal money, it seemed, without bringing harm to innocent people. Jack Pantera was a master of one, and pulled Bodie into his fold, teaching him all he knew.

That was years ago. Now, Bodie used everything he’d been taught and everything he’d learned since to stay alert and alive. The afternoon was waning, but that just meant it was time for more of the crazies to come out. By far, the worse kind of animal in here was the nocturnal kind.

Fights broke out to the right; he only saw the dust caused by their scuffling feet. Women talked to the left, kids running around their ankles. Two gunshots rang out; unnoticed by the majority. Bodie’s position included a direct line of sight to the long, narrow street that led to the big boss’s residence. In an hour of study he saw nothing openly move, but noticed glints at the windows, curtains moving in unnatural fashion and dark shadows shifting — enough to mark out at least a dozen watchers. At the far end — the actual house — all was cast in shadow, barred windows impenetrable, steel doors untouchable. Nothing moved inside the glass or on the balconies; nothing moved around the roof. Bodie sighed with a touch of frustration.

Questions beset him like a deadly plague.

Maybe he could ask the seven guys heading his way right now with purpose in their gait.

Sighing, he rose, walked forward a few steps, still with the building at his back and the shade covering his face and body.

“Hey guys, I have a question. Who the hell put me here, and why am I here?”

The leader, a man with so many facial tattoos he looked blue, slowed. “You don’t know?”

Bodie shrugged.

Laughter came from the hole between the tattoos. “Ah, that is great. Just great. The big, bad thief, best of the best we’re told, stands clueless, as uninformed as the public, ignorant as a lamb on its way to slaughter. I—”

“Wait.” Bodie held up a finger, waited a second, then shook its head. “No, thought I heard Shakespeare for a moment there. My mistake. Went all misty eyed. Please continue.”

“A man about to die,” Tattoo-Face’s right-hand man growled. “Make all the jokes you like. It will only hurt more.”

“Remember this…” Tattoo said. “You are alone right now. Totally, utterly alone.”

Bodie saw his point. “Nice of you to remind me.” He wasn’t ready yet, so eked out the time. “I have people on my side. People out there.” He nodded at the wall. “Eli Cross — a forty-three-year-old redneck who — to this day — made a Saudi Arabian prince lock up his own son for the crime of burglary. Eli took the Fabergé, but Khalid rots in prison. Of course, Khalid was sympathetic to terrorists too…” Bodie raised a brow. “Then we have Sam Gunn — techno geek, preener, intelligent and geller of hair. Weird kid. Has all the hallmarks of a ladies man, yet I’d bet my bollocks he masturbates to Justin Bieber songs. Once hacked the CIA and sent a dozen field agents, countrywide, to a dozen different zoos. Specifically, the monkey house. You work it out. Then there’s Jemma Blunt — job planner extraordinaire, good thief, with deeper morals than a nun and a soldier’s sense of honor. You’ll want her at your next breakout party, believe me. Finally we have a big slab of dynamite — Cassidy Coleman.”

He paused, rethinking. “Don’t ever tell her I said that. She’d hang me out to dry. The muscle, the distraction, the killer in every single way you can imagine. I once saw her use a drug kingpin to knock four guys off their Harleys, then stuff ’em, bikes and all, down an abandoned well.” Bodie shrugged. “Probably still there.”

Tattoo-Face had been listening, and now nodded without emotion. “They with you?”

“Ah, no. Not really.”

“So it will be you that is hung out to dry. Dropped down the well. Sent to the monkey house, yes?”

Bodie bit his lip and smiled, sensing the guy hadn’t fully understood. “So long as I don’t have to tug it to Bieber, I’ll take that.”

Another hesitation, and then Tattoo-Face had enough. His lieutenants were waved through and they came around both sides, together, weapons raised. Bodie was pleased to see only one gun, but it was the gun he needed.

He would have to tackle three at the same time. Bodie was ready; he’d been preparing for this all day. First the shiv came out, mostly to breed uncertainty and make somebody think twice. The man who slowed slightly interrupted their flow. Bodie could focus on the two frontrunners. His second tactic was to run at them, taking them by surprise.

Pocketing the shiv, he ran inside the first man’s baton swing, jabbed at the throat and then spun, elbow smashing the second man point blank in the nose. Blood spurted, followed by a gurgling scream. The first man tried to shake it off, the second looked up to the skies, eyes watering. Bodie grabbed him by the waist, employed his strength to fling him around and into the upcoming third man. They tangled, both went to their knees.

Bodie was under no illusions. This was going to go against him, and fast. Surprise didn’t last, and prisoners would always come back for more. Tattoo-Face went for him, but Bodie still had a plan. Earlier he’d filled the empty plastic water bottle with small stones; now he used it as a weapon, cracking the leader across the cheeks with a hefty swat. The impact stopped the man in his tracks, made him grunt and clutch his cheek. Bodie threw the water bottle at the next man, caching him between the eyes; another fortunate strike.

Luck always ran out.

Bodie struck at the man with the gun, coming around and out of the protection of the sixth attacker without warning. The gun exploded, a bullet passing beneath Bodie’s armpit and firing harmlessly on into the prison wall. Bodie used every ounce of his army training to disarm the man quickly, but it just wasn’t enough.

He broke the wrist, twisted the gun, then felt a blow to the back of the neck that sent splinters of agony straight into his brain. He fell to one knee, feeling the blood flowing already, assuming he’d been hit by a length of pipe. Twisting, he saw the glint of a blade and just managed to parry the knife with his palms, gaining a nasty slash in the process. More pain, more blood, but it barely registered. The adrenalin overrode it all, trying desperately to help save his life.

The blade withdrew, came in again fast. Bodie skipped away, deliberately slamming the man with the gun. He overbalanced, down on one knee. Bodie tumbled into him, hands jabbing cruelly several times a second. An eye went out, the throat cartilage broke. The gun fell to the dirt.

Bodie grabbed it, spun, but not quite fast enough. The knife entered his body, breaking the skin at the side of his ribs and splitting right through to the other side.

Nothing punctured.

Win, win.

Leaving the knife where it was, ignoring the attacker, he focused on those rearing up behind. Three quick shots took three vicious lives. Then he rolled in the direction of the knife, twisted its holder’s wrist and broke it, tearing his own skin in the process, but managed to jerk it free of his body.

He came up holding the gun and the knife, his assailants reduced to three plus one still clutching his damaged throat.

“Not your battle.” Bodie waved the gun, chest heaving, panting hard. “Walk away now. I have no desire to kill anyone.”

They saw the gun; heard the words. Tattoo-Face hesitated; his lieutenants actually rocked back on their heels. Bodie pointed the gun to reinforce his words.

“Put it down,” Tattoo-Face said. “There are seven pistols and rifles pointed at you right now. The only reason you live on is the men that paid for this want it public, and slow, very slow.”

Bodie gritted his teeth. “So the man that threw me into this hellhole now wants you to torture me slowly and then kill me? What the hell did I do to him?”

“The man that put you here is not the people that want you dead,” Tattoo said cryptically. “I will tell you that much.”

Bodie resisted the urge to stop, pause and investigate that comment. Instead, he fired into the dirt at their feet, figuring he should still have at least three bullets in the mag.

“Last warning.”

The ground spat at his feet three times; three separate shots from three different guns.

“Back atcha.”

Bodie aimed the barrel between Tattoo-Face’s eyes. “You go first, bro. Remember — you’re here to torture and kill me. I have nothing to lose. You do. A bullet’s the easy way out for Guy Bodie.” He grinned more than a little madly.

“Point taken.” His adversary backed down, holding both hands up, clearly rattled by the fact that Bodie would die easy, rather than facing down half a mag full of bullets. It proved the power of the iron-hand that held sway over this place.

They backed away. Bodie held the gun on them as long as he could before collapsing, crawling off to the shade and kneeling, doubled over, holding his bleeding side, shivering with pain. Somehow he still managed to watch the perimeter as he dealt with the cleanup, army training kicking in once again.

We’ll see you later, they had said. See you soon.

It was scary to know that that would be the end of it, scary to wait. In the end, he’d saved himself to die a few hours later. In the end he’d done what he had to do — stay alive as long as you can. Stay free until the very last instant. Stay breathing, just stay breathing.

Slowly, the sun began to set.