53

Clay regarded the door with contempt. Two Locos had followed their captain through it. Another two had sprinted up the wide sweeping staircase situated at the far left of the lobby.

Clay tried the handle. Locked. He looked at the door, hinges and lock. It was made of solid wood and it would open towards him. That would make it a real bitch to kick down.

With an angry grunt of resignation, he swung the axe. The blade bit into the wood six inches above the handle. Twisting the blade free he swung again and again, with each impact echoing in the tiled lobby. He heard someone yelling; a warning that the American was nearly through the door.

“That’s right, you dickwads. I’m coming for you.” Clay knew the danger of assaulting the door. If one of his targets got their hands on another firearm they could easily shoot him through the breach. With his pulse hammering in his temples he continued.

A chunk of wood ripped clear from the door, leaving a tangible hole. Clay slammed the axe down several more times until the gap was large enough. Squatting low for a brief moment, he checked that there was no one ready to impale his arm with a blade on the other side. He pushed his arm through the hole and found the simple lock; no bullet or blade found his flesh. A quick twist and it opened.

Through the door, one of the Locos stood at the far end of a hallway. He held a meat cleaver in his raised hand and visibly flinched when he saw the man he’d have to fight. Clay roared and his voice amplified in the confines of the narrow passage.

The Loco launched the cleaver in an overhand throw. Clay dropped low, almost onto his hands and knees, as the heavy blade cut the air above him. The cleaver flew out into the lobby, and Clay grinned maliciously at the now unarmed gangster. He charged forward, axe thrust out, and covered the length of the passageway in a couple of seconds. The Loco attempted to dodge out of Clay’s path but the stout wooden handle rammed into his shoulder, knocking him clean off his feet and into the room at the end of the hallway.

Clay followed and the Loco scooted away like a crab on hot sand. They were in a kitchen, which had a large utility island with an oversized sink and gleaming marble work surfaces. Ortega and his men were waiting for him.

On command, two of the younger Locos rushed Clay, armed with knives. One charged straight for him, knife raised high for a downward stab. The other came in low and fast from Clay’s right side.

Using the axe handle again as a stave, Clay skipped to his left and rammed the shaft against the first Loco’s downward swing. As the blow was blocked he continued the motion and ploughed the stout handle into the base of his skull. The man pitched forward into the path of the second attacker, his arms grabbing out for support. Clay brought the axe down across the back of his head. Both attackers went down. With a roar of fury Clay brought the axe down in another savage blow. The second Loco looked on aghast as his right arm was severed at the elbow.

Clay wiped a dime-sized spot of blood from his face. “Never had a liking for one armed-bandits.”

Three more Locos stood between him and Ortega. More than had been standing outside the villa. Clearly they’d kept reinforcements back. Clay stared at the captain. “You know I’m going to save you for last. Make you watch your butt-monkeys get theirs first. Then I’m gonna axe you some questions.”

Wincing, Ortega spat out blood-tinged saliva. He gripped a Bushmaster knife. “I think it is you who will die today.” His remaining men fanned out into a loose skirmish line and moved towards their target. “Can you stop three at once?”

“Let’s find out.”

Clay never got the chance. A rapid series of six shots rang out in the kitchen as Danny burst through the door behind Ortega. The three men went down.

Ortega turned and stared at Danny. “But… you’re dead.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Danny’s voice was ice.

The bullet caught Ortega below his right eye. His head snapped back and for a second he stood with his arms outstretched like a child playing monsters. Then he collapsed face down, his knife clattering on the tiles.

“That them all?” asked Danny.

Clay shook his head. “I haven’t seen Barcelo. But there’s at least two more ass-wipes to get upstairs.”

“Let’s go and have a wee chit-chat. Maybe they know where the head honcho is hiding.”

Danny checked the mag in his Beretta. “Three left.”

“That’s enough for now.”

Danny turned, indicating the AK on his back. “Just in case.”