The Relic Hunters

CHAPTER SEVEN

He managed to staunch the bleeding, pour a new bottle of water over the wound and clean it as best he could. Even still possessed enough good humor to ask directions to the nearest pharmacy. The good news was the knowledge that the wound wouldn’t kill him. The bad news was that it wouldn’t have time.

The wolves were already massing.

Bodie located a new den. A small lee that lay at the junction of several narrow streets; with perfect visibility, a brick wall at his back and several escape routes. No doubt places existed in here where a man might hide. Right now, he wasn’t privy to any of them. Right now, he had no friends and no prospects.

A family went past, saw him and quickly moved on, feet no longer dragging in the dirt. A preacher came past, looked hard into his eyes and gently shook his head. No words were passed. A guard came past, gave him a look of resignation, and shifted his gun between hands.

The last showcase of his life — those that passed by against the prison backdrop.

They came well after darkness fell. Bodie’s watch read 22:30 hours. The moon was big, full, blazing a silver shimmer over what would be one of the last scenes of his life. They made no effort to come stealthily, no thoughts as to conceal their intentions. They came shouting his name, smashing baseball bats against their hands, brandishing homemade shivs and a rather impressive machete. They came with so much anger, hatred and intent to murder, Bodie wouldn’t have been surprised to see the Grim Reaper creeping along behind them.

He rose, struggling, holding a hand against his side. The blood had ceased to flow hours ago, but the pain still came in waves. Training taught him long ago to compartmentalize, but training had never envisaged this scenario.

Interestingly, Bodie noted there were only four of them. This meant that they were the cream of the crop — no thugs or bullies this time, only hardened, seasoned fighters, professionals. If he was lucky, he’d take one down before the others obliterated him.

Don’t make a stand. Survive.

Out of options, Bodie took it straight to them once more. The baseball bat was the easiest weapon to handle so Bodie attacked the man head on. The move didn’t surprise his opponent, it was simply accepted. The bat came down in a short swing; Bodie ducked under, only to meet an upcoming fist. He twisted away, dug two hard jabs into a kidney and then dived to the right. Left a winded opponent behind, but an opponent still very capable. Machete man came in next, whirling his weapon like rotor blades, spinning sharpened silver death before Bodie’s eyes.

He raised the gun, hidden until now. They pounced at him, four men coming as one, but he wasn’t distracted. The first and second bullets took Machete Man in the meat of his body, the third passed between attackers. He had no time for any others. He ran, ignoring the pain as adrenalin fueled his steps. Pounding up a set of steps that led to a house, he jumped off the far end, hit the dirt street and switched to an opposing direction. Using a fully loaded dumpster, he gained altitude, grabbed a ladder and scrambled up to the roofs. They weren’t shaken off, but were closing the gap.

Bodie sprinted across the first roof, uneven concrete beneath his feet, the full moon shimmering above, then leapt a narrow gap over to the second roof. Another full-on dead run and he gained a third, making his way toward the front gate. A swift glance back showed his three assailants only six meters behind; one of them lining up a knife with his spine. The throw came a second later, Bodie luckily able to switch course and jump over to the next roof.

Unfortunately this one was made of planks of wood, and poorly made at that. The planks shifted as he hit, making him fall. He rolled head-first, gaps to the floor below passing before his eyes. The impact of the trailing men came next, making the planks shift even more and, in two cases, shoot up like medieval trebuchets launching rocks. Bodie clung on as the timber he lay across rose, then slammed back down, battering every bone and nerve in his body. He scrambled up, used his hands to launch off, ran headlong for the next gap between roofs. The roof boards shifted beneath his flying feet.

With no time he launched his body over toward the next roof, twisted in mid-air and fired off another bullet. This one took his closest pursuer in the arm, made him grunt and stagger and trip up the man behind.

Score for me. In the next instant though, he realized, in all his planning, he’d misjudged the gap between roofs. His back struck the edge of the next one, sending blades of fire up and down his spine, but the momentum still wasn’t enough to carry him over. The next second he realized he was falling toward the street.

Bodie curled up, but hit the dirt hard, every molecule of him jarred and bouncing and screaming. He landed on his side, the gun skidded away. The breath was smashed from his body. For a long moment he lay stunned, wondering what the damage was, unable to move.

In that time his three attackers made their way to his side, laughing now, none the worse for wear following the chase, ensuring the gun was safe and then moving closer to his wracked body.

“Get up,” one of them said.

Bodie looked up, the man’s face framed by the enormous, round moon. The light made him squint.

“Well, that was fun,” he managed. “Would you like to do it again?”

“Up.” A kick to the ribs was meant to encourage him. The pain certainly made his blood rise and sent his nerves back into overdrive.

“All right. All right. Hold yer horses, boys. I’m trying.”

“Don’t try anything.” The man’s English was good. Bodie guessed languages were an important commodity to an enforcer.

“Me? As if.”

Bodie struggled to his knees. Blood seeped from the knife wound. Grazes stung his temple and his right arm. Impact bruises ran down his right outer thigh.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Nothing broken. I think I’m okay.”

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Tattoo-Face sauntered up, fresh as this morning’s sunrise and grinning ear-to-ear.

“Not much of a chase, my friend. I expected better.”

Bodie guessed there had been more men tracking from below. “Not my fault they changed the gap between roofs. I’m complaining to the governor.”

His pursuers — soon to be murderers — gathered. Bodie didn’t move, but stared up at Tattoo-Face, capturing every iota of the man’s attention.

“You can tell me now,” he said. “Doesn’t matter anymore. Who put me in here and who ordered the hit?”

“In here?” The tattoos creased in mirth. “I guess that’s no big secret, my friend. The man that put you in here is named Jack Pantera.”

Bodie fought the rush of shock but, truth be told, if he hadn’t been already kneeling he’d have been on his way down.

“Jack?” The word crawled painfully from his throat as if attached to barbed wire.

“Ah, you don’t like that? Good.”

The first blow was a knee to the face. Bodie couldn’t have moved right then if he’d been injury free. The pain didn’t register, the hard ground was nothing. They dragged him back onto his knees and Bodie wasn’t sure he’d ever moved.

“Jack…”

Mentor, friend, counsellor in more ways than one, Jack had molded Bodie. Integrated him into the dark underground world of relic smuggling. Jack had initially wanted Bodie, singled him out; trained him; treated him like a son.

Always. Never a harsh word. Jack Pantera had taken Bodie from a top-flight thief wanting to switch from a life of crime that targeted mostly innocent individuals to a world-class procurer of artifacts that, at least physically and mentally, harmed nobody that didn’t deserve it.

“My friend, Jack?” He struggled to form his tongue around it.

Another blow, and the blood was flowing freely from his nose and a split cheekbone. His ribs pounded. His body was a great slab of hurt.

“Did Pantera order the hit in here?”

Tattoo-Face stepped aside then, and three more men approached. Not Mexicans. Their won tattoos were different, darker, harsher. On their faces nothing was expressed except his own terrible death.

“These men were ordered to carry out your last demise. Not me.”

Bodie stared at them, instantly knowing they were not inmates, not even of this continent. But who the hell were they? And why… why him?

Gonna die without knowing. Shit.

The new men came in close, hands made into hard fists with even knuckles sporting tattoos. Bodie studied them even as the end of his life approached. The old adage slammed constantly at his mind like an incessant jackhammer.

Survive. Survive. Survive.

I did well. But never lived up to my promise.

The sad thought would be his last. The unknown threesome moved in.

Bodie raised his face, defiant, gathering himself for a final onslaught. No way would he let them take him without a damn bloody last fight.

A shot rang out. Nothing like the handgun he’d used; this was new and military grade — a Heckler and Koch if his ears weren’t playing tricks. On the surface that didn’t tell him a whole hell of a lot, but what he was certain of was that nobody chasing him around this prison had access to one. That left various groups from the SAS and Delta Force to HRT and GSG. Either way, it was an interesting intervention.

More shots joined the first. Several parties were coming his way. Then Tattoo-Face collapsed in mid-flight, a bullet shattering his chest. The attacking force were taking no chances, riddling everyone in the vicinity. Bodie finally got a look at them.

Clad in camo, with full-face masks, flak jackets, and bristling with weapons, they were about as intimidating as an attacking force could get. Special Forces teams were usually quite small, but this was ten strong, and had to have more support close by. They came in formation, firing constantly and carefully, spreading the Mexicans out and lacing the three unknown men with lead. Those that returned fire were killed. Bodie saw a handful of guards attempting to intervene and then saw them gunned down.

The new team meant business all right.

They ran up to Bodie, guns down, lifted him under the armpits, and pulled him along between them with his feet barely dragging along the floor.

Still laying fire down at every head that popped up.

Bodie let it go. The pain was immense. The mental anguish was almost overwhelming. If this were his team they would have let him know. So after ten days in hell another crew had assaulted the prison to break him out.

What next?