15

Juba watched the lone man walk out into the evening air, making sure that he was hidden by the bulk of the minivan. The target seemed to be fastening his belt back around his waist. Juba clicked his tongue in satisfaction. The hired man had gotten past the rest of the Locos. He started towards his target with violent resolve, curling his fingers around the blade that was tucked discreetly in the small of his back. He favoured the “Black Bear” combat knife. He was just as comfortable with a machete but the smaller knife was easier to carry and conceal. The knife was finely crafted and Juba was especially fond of its sub-hilt feature that eradicated any chance of his hand coming into contact with the blade. The eight-inch blade was long enough to fully impale if a killing stroke was required, but just as devastating if used in a slashing attack.

Then Juba reconsidered; it would be too easy to gut this man in the heat of the moment, and where would that leave him with the boss? Barcelo had given clear orders that he wanted to interrogate this newcomer. He released the knife with a snort of derision and reached back into his vehicle.

* * *

Danny reached the small topiary gardens that surrounded the apartment building. The decorative iron railing gave the whole front façade a Spanish-colonial feel that looked even more alluring in the failing evening light. He glanced up at the apartment block, wondering how many of the residents had called the police. He smiled as he thought of the bodies he’d left littered around the stairwells. The Guardia Civil, the cops, would have their hands full for a while trying to make sense of that tableau. More than one Loco would spend the night handcuffed to a hospital bed—

Danny turned to see the large black man thundering towards him with what looked like a long black walking stick in his hand. Gunn recognised it as an African knobkerrie. Generations of Zulu warriors had used these fighting sticks to great effect and the running man looked like he was adept in its use.

The club whistled towards Danny’s unprotected head.

Gunn felt the iron-hard cane brush his face as he turned into the attack. He went in low and felt the strength of the man slam into his frame. Danny pivoted in a half circle, catching his antagonist in a classic ju-jitsu manoeuvre known as the “full shoulder throw”. With the African’s clubbing arm captured, Gunn pitched the top half of his body forward and catapulted him head over heels into the iron railings.

The gangster’s long legs folded over the decorative spikes, leaving him hanging upside down, impaled by the legs and screaming in pain.

Danny glared down at what he hoped was the last of this crew. He stooped and picked up the club, then brought the weighted end down across the underside of the man’s chin. A sickening crunch told of a broken jaw.

Danny nodded, then turned and made for the street at a jog. He could hear the approaching wail of police sirens. No matter, he would be long gone by the time the Guardia Civil arrived. A block later he realised he was still carrying the fighting stick. Seeing no convenient trash cans nearby, he dropped it into a storm drain. He rolled his neck to relieve the building tension there. A tightness was beginning under his left eye. Great, he thought, I’ll look like Rocky in the morning. “Yo, Adrian, I did it,” he whispered to himself.