2

Ortega had spent two years in one of Spain’s toughest prisons, where he’d been in the company of many vicious men. He’d also been in enough street fights to recognise a dangerous prospect when he saw one. He studied the big American with practised eyes, made subtle calculations behind his unwavering façade. The man was about six-five, maybe more. His accent unmistakable. Powerful-looking with enough scars on his face to give him a sinister edge. Well over two hundred pounds. Big arms and shoulders. But he wasn’t slow: two experienced Locos had gone down in a few seconds. This Clay could be real trouble.

Got to take him out!

Ortega set himself.

Do it now!

But then the big man did something unexpected. He started to walk away. “You know what? This is none of my business; go ahead and do what you were gonna do. I’m going for a beer further down the road.”

Ortega looked at the big man’s back as he stalked away. No way was this American pig leaving here in one piece. He snatched at his knife and lurched after Clay. With deadly intent, he aimed for the kidney and slammed his blade forward—but all he hit was air.

The big man wasn’t there. He’d turned in a subtle pivot and now had Ortega’s arm caught at the wrist and wrapped up at the elbow. Ortega had been in a few arm-locks in his time but this was unlike anything he’d experienced before. When a cop had you in a hold they were trying to restrain you. This was very different.

Pain erupted in his arm, a sudden heat like boiling water in the joint of his elbow. The two men locked eyes in a battle of wills. Ortega strained against the hold.

The big man braced his arms and chest in one severe movement and Ortega felt his elbow joint first hyper-extend and then dislocate fully in a mind-numbing separation of bone and sinew. Ortega felt his legs begin to give way beneath him as his knife clattered to the floor.

“Well I guess you won’t be signing any deeds after all,” said Clay.

Ortega found his voice, but all he could emit was a high-pitched series of gasping curses.

The woman’s—Pamela’s—voice rang out from behind the bar. “You know you’re right, Mr Vincenzo Ortega. My husband isn’t a match for you anymore, but you’ll find that good men have good friends and Clay here is one of the best. Tell your boss that we’re not interested and won’t be railroaded. Any more shit like today and he’ll be the one out of business. For good.”

“You piece of shi—” Ortega’s response was cut short by an elbow to his face. A quick spin by Clay coupled with a few running steps and Ortega found himself crashing out into the street.

Seconds later Donal and Aspanu were dumped unceremoniously by his side. Clay glowered down at the fallen gangsters. “You’d better listen to the lady. If you come back again, I’ll be mighty upset. These are decent people. Bring crap like this here again and you’ll pay dearly; unlike the easy ride you got today.”

Ortega began to vow retribution but discovered that his mouth didn’t work. That fucker had broken his jaw! He struggled to his feet, both dislocated arm and shattered jaw sending a barrage of pain through his nervous system.

The big man pointed to the knife embedded in Donal’s blood-soaked thigh. “Hey, you might want to get that looked at.”

Aspanu had regained consciousness and was looking around, blinking rapidly, clearly trying to make sense of the situation. A fierce grunt and head nodding from Ortega sent him scurrying towards a black Mercedes parked kerbside. Aspanu unlocked the car and then helped Ortega into the passenger seat. Donal, still bleeding profusely and glassy-eyed, was hauled up and pushed without ceremony onto the back seats. The Mercedes then sped away, causing an oncoming car to swerve out of its path.

* * *

Pamela slipped her arms around Clay’s chest and hugged him close. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t arrived. Those Locos are a bunch of bastards. I hope that’s enough to put them off coming back.”

“You know I’d never shine you along, Pamela. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of them at all. But it’s like we said on the phone last week: you either make a stand and fight for what’s yours or you pack up and go.”

Pamela looked up into Clay’s blue eyes. “I know, I know. But it’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Larry. I couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to him. But you know how stubborn and proud he is. He’d still square off with them and get himself killed in the process.”

Clay nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I know. Larry was one of the best snipers the Brits had, but with no rifle and no leg…” he sucked a sharp intake of breath through his teeth. “Not much chance.”

“What do you think will happen now?” asked Pamela. She exhaled, suddenly tired. She had talked long and hard with Larry about moving back to England when the first British ex-pats had given in to the Locos’ intimidation, but both had decided that they’d be damned if they were going to be muscled out of their home and livelihood. And besides, what was there to go back to in the UK? The country was going to the dogs faster than you could say Brexit. No, they would stay and brave the storm.

“They’ll almost certainly come back with more men. We need to be ready. You need to do as I ask.”

“Okay, Clay. That’s why you’re here. I guess you’re in charge.” She wiped away her tears and punched Clay on the arm, scolding him gently, “And how many times have I told you not to call me Daisy? That shit sticks you know, soon everyone will call me it!”

Clay laughed and pushed her to arm’s length. “But you look like her and Larry likes it!”

“Never mind what Larry likes. I’m in charge and don’t forget it.” It was familiar banter and it made her feel much better.

Clay Gunn, family friend and sometimes lodger of the Dukes, ushered her back inside. “Come on, Mrs Pamela Duke, I’ll help you straighten up the place before Larry gets back. If he sees this, he’ll be on eBay looking for a rifle before lunchtime.”