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.So, time to give them the good news.Fifteen rounds left in the Colt.He waited until the first target was ten metres from the edge of the clearing, and opened fire, single-shot.The target dropped, and his mates went batshit, spraying rounds in every direction.Gardner was partially concealed between the A-frame and the caroba tree, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they spotted him.He unleashed four rounds, two into the torso of a tall, gangly target, the others for his friend beside him, his body jerking like some weird street dance.He was winning the fight.The Messengers couldn’t get a fix on him.They were shitting themselves.Any minute now they’ll fucking do one, he thought.Splinters showered his face, throwing him on to his back.He looked at the shredded caroba trunk.The shots hadn’t come from the group to the east.Then another two rounds splashed into the soil around him, and Gardner was displacing to a shallow scrape behind the shit pit, cursing his bad luck.A hundred metres north-east the jungle crested up into a ridgeline, where the undergrowth was stripped away, as if someone had given the ground a Brazilian.Rocky soil jutted out like a series of knuckle joints.And, exposed on the ridge, stood seven Messengers, taking pot shots at Gardner.Bullets flung maggot-riddled shit into the air.Gardner kept his head down, desperately thinking of a plan B.The Messengers to the east burst into the clearing, twenty metres distant.He chopped the first two down with his Colt, ducking to avoid the gunfire from the guys on the ridge.You’re pinned down and on your last eight rounds, he was thinking.Any second now you’ll be overrun.Three more gangsters raced into the clearing, thirty metres ahead.The light, rapid crack of a Colt Commando silenced their shouts.‘Come to daddy,’ a voice called out.‘You know you fucking want it.’It was full-on cockney.Not Scottish, not John.Dry and hoarse, as if he’d necked a pint of sand.But unmistakable all the same.Gardner peered out from the scrape.A rangy guy in a loose black T-shirt and grey combats, Bergen strapped to his back, raked gunfire down at the Messengers in the clearing.Their bodies formed a pile at the clearing mouth.He sliced up the final guy and slid over to Gardner’s position.‘Well, say something, you silly cunt.’Topped by Brylcreemed hair, the face had pockmarked cheeks and the rough horseshoe that was always the front-runner for the annual Credenhill shit tache competition.‘Dave?’‘Don’t act so surprised, lad.It’s me, not fucking Bono.’‘But what the—?’‘I’ll explain it all, mate, soon as we’ve sent these wankers over to the dark side.’Dave Hands was right.No time for questions.Hands vittled a few rounds over the top of the scrape, at a couple of injured Messengers trying to take cover.‘Reckon we need to pepper-pot back to a baseline.’‘All well and good, mate, but I’m down to my last few rounds.’Hands nodded, fishing out a fresh clip from his utility belt.‘Don’t ask, don’t get.How many on the ridgeline?’‘Seven, total.’ Gardner peered over the top, sighted a Messenger cross-graining the ridge on a downward slope towards the camp.Two taps on the trigger: slotted.‘Six.See that ditch just short of the ridge? Make that the baseline.’‘Bit of the old fire-and-move, yeah? Read my mind better than my ex-fucking-wife.’ Hands checked his Commando.‘Right then.Thumbs out bloody arses.’‘Covering fire!’Hands displaced from the scrape while Gardner concentrated the last six rounds of the clip on the Messengers on the ridge.The distraction worked.The Messengers returned fire on Gardner, ignoring Hands as he railed the western edge of the clearing, lying up at the ditch twenty metres ahead of Gardner.Now he went into contact mode, and Gardner sprang out from the shit-splayed scrape, racing diagonally across the clearing as fast as his tired leg muscles could carry him.Rounds smacked into the soil around him, flinging dirt into the air like geysers.Gardner hit the ditch.As soon as he reached the baseline he saw Hands, down on his knees, spraying the Messengers.Gardner slapped in a new clip.The Messengers sought cover, but there was none.They must have realized the mistake of attacking from the ridgeline too late, as Hands sprayed arcs of lead mayhem along their position.Gardner fixed his eyes on Hands.The moment he eased his trigger finger, indicating he needed to reload, Gardner stood up and picked off Messengers with his remaining rounds.One, two, three: they dropped like Lehman Brothers’ shares.Two final targets legged it.‘Fucking showed them the time of day,’ said Hands, spitting.‘Let’s break out of here before their mates get the scent.Millions of those bastards in the favela.’But Hands didn’t move.He stood up, propped his rifle against a tree trunk and fetched a pouch of Cutter’s Choice baccy from his pocket.‘Relax, Joe.They ain’t coming back.You know what they’re like?’ He lit the end of his Rizla paper.‘Catholics practising safe sex.First sign of trouble, they pull out.’Gardner surveyed the carnage.Smoke mist clung to their legs.The air tasted of hot metal, cordite so thick he could chew on it, like gum.I wouldn’t be so sure, he thought.‘What the fuck are you doing here anyway?’ he said.‘Nice to see you too, mate.’ Hands caned on his cigarette.‘I could ask you the same question.Suppose the two of us could waffle on for fucking ages, but you know what? Be easier if you hear everything from the man himself.’‘You mean—?’‘John’s up the hill.He sent me to get you.’141512 hours.Weiss traipsed up the street.Towards the sound of gunfire.In the favela, if you wanted to find out the truth you followed the bullets.But the cramps in his stomach and the convulsions in his legs had reduced his pace to a shuffle.He inched forward with one hand pressed against the bullet-flecked walls of the surrounding homes.It had taken forever to make his way from the torture house.A hundred and fifty metres from the firefight now.Smoke clogged the air.The soft pulse of a helicopter.Hot ash parched his throat.Son of Mary and Joseph, for a sip of water.He stooped, and vomited
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