47

Ortega pulled his knife free from Adam’s hand. Blood immediately welled up from the wound. Adam’s face was frozen in a silent scream. He slumped to the ground. One of the guards planted a kick to the side of his head. Adam’s face went slack in the way only full unconsciousness can deliver.

Ortega looked down at the prostrate body. He considered slipping his knife between the fat boy’s ribs and being done with him. With a cluck of resignation, he sheathed his blade, knowing he might need him to ensure the two brothers played by the rules. Also, Barcelo might want to speak to the boy. The boss liked to get his hands dirty on occasion.

Ortega turned to his men. “We’ve got an hour. Here is what I want you to do…” Ortega knew there was only a half-dozen or so pistol rounds left in the house. They had searched every cupboard and drawer following the encounter with the bikers. The search had turned up only a few cartridges left for the shotguns. But this was going to be up-close and personal. The men scoured the house and grounds for the other items he had requested.

Ortega kept an eye on Adam who lay motionless on the floor. As an added precaution he had one of the guards tape the boy’s injured hands behind his back.

Ortega speed-dialled Barcelo. The call was answered after a single ring.

“Boss, we caught one of the Brits sneaking around the villa. We’ve got him.”

“Is he one of the ones we’re looking for?”

“No. It’s a fat delivery guy. He was here yesterday with a parcel. He was spying on the house. I caught him and now the two men we want are coming to the villa for the boy. Turns out they’re brothers.”

“Now? They’re coming now?” Barcelo’s voice carried an air of rising irritation.

“In an hour, boss. I will have them for you.”

“I’m on my way to the waterpark. I need to do this. The Bosnians will deal only with me. I can’t put this off, there’s too much money at stake.”

“Don’t worry. You take care of business. I can handle this.” Ortega bristled as he heard Garcia’s annoying laugh in the background.

Barcelo was silent for a few seconds. “I want them both. Alive if possible, but dead is better than letting them run wild again. And, Ortega…”

“Yes, boss?”

“Don’t fuck this up.” The call ended.

Ortega pictured Garcia laughing again at his expense. He tucked the cell back in his pocket with slow deliberation. When this was over and done with he would find a way to end it for Babi as well.

The men began to congregate back in the plush kitchen. Makeshift weapons were laid out on the table. Knives, a meat cleaver, two baseball bats and an axe lay beside a single pistol and a pump-action shotgun. One of the older men entered the room carrying four bottles with rags for stoppers. “Barcelona bangers, just in case…”

A couple of the men laughed at his quip.

“Just make damned sure you’re outside if you use those,” Ortega said. “Now, who is the best shot with a pistol?” The men debated the issue for a few seconds then several hands pointed to a familiar face. Aspanu stepped forward. He had been the first man down at the hands of the big American at the Woo Hoo Club.

“Okay. Aspanu, you take the pistol. You shoot them in the guts if they as much as blink.”

“With pleasure. That big American owes me big time.” Aspanu picked up the pistol. “Maybe I’ll shoot him before he blinks.”

One of the guards from the gate who had caught Adam stepped up and grabbed the shotgun. “I’ll take this.”

“The rest of you…” Ortega pointed at the blades and clubs and the remaining men chose their weapons. A couple of the younger Locos slashed the air with their blades, the promise of impending violence thick in the room.

Adam began to stir on the floor. Ortega checked the time. The fat slug of a boy had been out for way too long. Fifteen minutes to go. He tapped at Adam with the toe of his shoe. “Get him up.”

Adam woke as rough hands hoisted him from the floor by his hair and collar. He yelled in pain as he was thrust back against the kitchen cupboards.

Ortega picked up Adam’s phone. He called the last number in the phone’s memory. A deep voice with an unmistakeable American accent answered. “Yeah?”

“You must be Clay. You have five minutes to get here or doughnut boy is dead.”

Clay’s voice rumbled in response. “You said an hour. We’re still a good fifteen minutes out.”

“Five!” Ortega killed the call.

One of the younger Locos frowned at his captain, his face slack with confusion.

“If we make them hurry they are more likely to be off balance when they arrive,” Ortega explained. “If you let the fish tire themselves out, then they are easier to reel in.” Ortega closed his eyes and exhaled wearily as the younger man began winding an imaginary reel and grinning.

Thankfully not all of the men were complete idiots. He looked at Aspanu as an idea sprang to mind. “I’ve got a new job for you.”