20

Danny inhaled, shifted his weight, feet spread wide, and readied himself for the next missile. He breathed out slow and easy. This was a game he’d played years ago with a bunch of bored specialists from the Special Boat Squadron. A lot of those guys had been adrenalin junkies and their off-duty games included blindfold shooting and tyre surfing—crazy, but great fun. Danny remembered sitting in an old truck tyre that was being towed behind a speeding car and hanging on for as long as possible. Other pastimes enjoyed by the SBS included Houdini-like escapology and the much loved Molotov baseball.

Danny had enjoyed the reckless fun of some of the games but never thought that they’d prove to be battleworthy. As he deflected the third bottle with the aid of a fast lunge to his right, he gave a defiant scowl as the bottle erupted in an incandescent starfish along the side of the gangsters’ car. The younger man scrambled away from the flames, cursing.

Although Gunn’s grasp of Spanish was good—especially compared to Clay’s—it still left a lot to be desired when it came to the more colloquial curses. But the expression on the face of the young Loco spoke across the linguistic divide.

The furious boy, who looked to be in his late teens at best, drew a small-calibre pistol from the waistband of his urban-camo trousers. Danny glanced at the sidearm. A cheap piece of Russian crap, only really useful if it was pressed up against flesh point blank.

Another petrol bomb streaked through the air, its tail blazing like a comet. Keeping one eye on the gunman, Gunn barely deflected the fourth bomb and it exploded in a pool of fire a mere six feet away.

The young Loco inched forward with his pistol extended, his gun held sideways in the style of an American gangbanger. Then he pulled the trigger.

Gunn dodged sideways as the pistol emitted its trademark tin-can bark. The shot went wide and a small puff of white adobe was all it scored as it impacted into the wall behind. The young boy continued to pull the trigger as fast as he could manage. Another four shots whined through the air. None came within two feet of Gunn.

“You’re one piss-poor pistolero,” said Danny.

The young man gawked down at the handgun as he pulled the trigger without result. Empty.

“Get back.” The bomber shook his head as he regarded the boy with a baleful glare. He barked, “The donkey knows more than you.”

But the boy had already scuttled back to relative safety behind the car. The bomber walked forward, his face a mix of self-confidence bordering on smugness and deep-seated anger, the two remaining petrol bombs in hand. He addressed Gunn in fluent English. “You can just walk away you know. This is your last chance to leave.”

“What, leave when we haven’t finished our game?” asked Danny as he waved the cricket bat defiantly.

“So let us finish it!”

“Come on then.”

“My name is Babi Garcia. Scream it as you die!”

“My name’s Jackson Commando. Shove it up your arse.”

The bomber curled his lip in a brief smile. He set one of the bottles down on the ground and went to light the other.

Danny knew he planned to sling both bombs simultaneously. He charged. The bomber—Garcia—glanced up and faltered.

He sparked the lighter.

Danny raised the bat.

Garcia touched the petrol-soaked rag, the blue flame springing to life.

Danny closed in.

Garcia drew back his arm to throw the bomb point blank.

Danny launched the bat like a Viking casting an axe.

Garcia ducked the projectile but lost the impetus of his own throw.

Gunn slammed into him, knocking the Molotov cocktail from his hand with a sharp blow to the nerves on the underside of his wrist. He rammed Garcia’s back against the side of the car and thrust a fist into his face. But this Garcia was clearly not one of Barcelo’s rank-and-file Locos. He rolled back from the shot to the face and used the solidity of the car as a springboard to mount his counter. Danny tucked his chin low as Garcia clamped his hands onto his throat.