The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (76 page)

Guzmán braced, his right hand taking some of his weight as his fist crashed into the glass. There was a sharp noise as the window cracked. He tried to keep his weight supported with his right hand, trying to minimise any movement on the ladder but, as he drew his fist back for another blow, he felt it moving and he struggled to hang on as it slipped, its feet skidding off the crates below and clattering to the ground.

Guzmán hung from the ledge, feeling the strain on his hands. There was only so long a man could sustain this kind of exertion and then the muscles would go. He pulled himself up until his forearms rested on the sill. With his right arm taking his weight, he slammed his left fist into the glass again. This time, it shattered and Guzmán swore as broken shards cut into his hand. Thrusting his left arm into the hole he grasped the sill inside and began to smash out the rest of the glass with his right fist. Broken pieces tore into his arm but at least he was anchored as he knocked out enough glass to haul himself over the ledge and through the broken window. He felt clothes and skin tear as he pulled himself over the jagged glass before tumbling down onto rough floorboards. He reached out, fumbling blindly, discovering his surroundings through touch and intuition. It took only a moment to realise what he was touching. A toilet. He had nearly broken his neck getting into a toilet.

Guzmán drew his pistol, fumbling with his left hand for the door handle. He edged through the door. In front of him, a wide boardwalk framed the loading bay below. Pulleys, ropes and chains hung down from the floors above. They would haul the crates up there and store them. Profit for the
capitán-general.

He stepped into the dark silence of the boardwalk. In the muted light he could just make out the sliding doors of small offices along the outside wall. The warehouse was silent. He moved slowly and carefully from office to office, checking each small room before moving on. They were all very similar. A table, filing cabinets, a Bakelite telephone in some and occasional calendars with religious or rural images. The loading bay below was in deep shadow, and above him the obscure, tangled outlines of ropes and pulleys disappeared up into darkness. He made his way along the walkway, cautious and tense, working towards the front wall. Occasional sounds came from the street, the shouts of late revellers. They were in another world as far as Guzmán was concerned. Soon the sarge would arrive with the trucks and the
guardia civiles
and Guzmán wanted the Dominicans dead by then. He slowed his pace, peering into the dark. A pale glow spilled reluctantly from one of the small offices ahead. Faint candlelight, flickering in a draught. He edged nearer. The sliding door of the office was open and he held the pistol in front of him. Another muted step and then he swung into the office, his pistol pointing straight into the face of the Dominican sitting at the desk.

The dead Dominican. By the meagre light of the candle, Guzmán saw the bullet hole in the man’s forehead. The office was too dark to make out the spray of brain tissue, the blood and the bone splinters he knew would be behind the man. He didn’t need to see it because he’d seen it so many times before. He paused in the door of the office, noting the silence. Maybe they were waiting in ambush – since they must have heard him break the window earlier. He crouched, scanning the loading bay below with his pistol. Staying low, he edged his way out of the door and began to creep towards the front of the building. The boardwalk creaked loudly, making him flinch, anticipating a sudden burst of gunfire.

He’d have little chance if they could see him. Six of them would outgun him easily. He’d never get all of them before they cut him down. But the darkness was on his side. As always. He neared the end of the boardwalk, pausing outside the pool of diffuse light from the front window. There was no way to avoid passing through the light unless he went back the way he had come and he had no wish to do that. Edging to his left, Guzmán pressed against the wooden wall of one of the office cubicles. By moving very slowly he could keep most of his body out of the light, presenting less of a target. He pushed his back against the wall and crouched, putting his hand down to the floor to steady himself. He recoiled in disgust: even for Guzmán, putting a hand into what was left of someone’s face came as a surprise. He had felt the teeth and part of the lips as well as the gaping wound. He reached down again and explored. The man must have been leaving the office when the killer raised their weapon and shot him in the back of the head. Guzmán wiped his hand on the man’s shirt. Maybe the Dominicans fell out amongst themselves and now the winners were waiting, ready to cut him down. Let them try. Plenty had.

He began to move again, still keeping low. White light flashed from across the loading bay, the sound of a gunshot and a bullet smashed into the wood above his head. Whatever the weapon was, Guzmán thought, it was bloody powerful, its report gruff and unfamiliar. He began to move again, his pistol now aimed in the direction of the shot. Nothing. Not a sound, no click of a weapon being cocked, no sign of movement. He continued to move, a few centimetres at a time, ready to turn onto the section of the boardwalk running beneath the front windows.

The world exploded in a flickering sequence of brilliant starfire fire from the opposite side of the building, the sudden staccato bark of an automatic rifle, the insect-whine of bullets impacting on metal, wood and glass. He kept down, pressed against the rough board floor. And then a single shot, this time the bullet whining away to his right. Guzmán brought the big Browning up, holding the weapon two-handed, aiming in the direction of the shot. The next time the gunman fired, Guzmán would fire the murderous soft-nosed bullets at the muzzle flash. Footsteps away to his right. He swung round, pointing the Browning down the boardwalk. The footsteps came nearer. And then the world became impossibly white as dazzling electric spotlights tore apart the funereal gloom of the warehouse. Half-blinded by the intense light, Guzmán saw the outline of a man coming towards him.

Goldtooth. But this wasn’t the Goldtooth who had confronted him at Valverde’s reception. Now he was pale-faced, one hand holding on to the rail of the boardwalk as he staggered forwards. Guzmán saw the spreading blood on his shirt and lifted the Browning, aiming at the man’s chest. At least he would have this one. And then the savage blast of the automatic rifle scythed across the warehouse again. Pieces of Goldtooth were ripped away and sprayed against the office wall, pinning the Dominican for an instant to the wooden panels, the bullets tearing through him, bloody patterns sketched around the deadly geometry of bullet holes. He leaned against the wall, swaying under the impact of the bullets. He took a step forward but his legs folded beneath him and he fell towards the single low railing of the boardwalk. The railing splintered and broke. Guzmán heard the man cry out as he fell and heard the noise as he hit the stone floor below.

There was no sign of the gunman and Guzmán stayed low, scanning the far side of the warehouse. Then he looked to his left and saw it. Erected against the wide front window on a pile of sandbags, the brilliant lights reflected in the oiled metal, the sharp nose pointing down through the dirty glass of the window to the street. Guzmán recognised it. A .50 calibre machine gun. Heavy ordnance. You could shoot down a plane with that, he thought. And the damage it would do to a vehicle would be devastating.
Especially a limousine.
He had been right.
Cabrónes.
He stood up slowly, pistol pointed at the boardwalk on the far side of the bay. Ready to kill.

Something cold pressed against his neck.

‘I’d stay very still if I were you,’ Positano said. ‘If I get nervous and pull this trigger your head’s going to fly through that window.’

Guzmán froze, his pistol still outstretched towards the loading bay.

‘Whatever you’re thinking,’ Positano said, ‘forget it. Move and I’ll kill you.’

‘I get the picture,’ Guzmán sneered. The rage was beginning to smoulder. He had to stay calm. Otherwise he might act too soon, might try to get his hands on Positano at any cost. And that would be foolish.

‘Open your hand and let the pistol fall,’ Positano said, increasing the pressure of the automatic rifle’s muzzle against Guzmán’s neck. Guzmán dropped the gun. The pressure on his neck eased. Positano took a step back. Guzmán waited. With his back to the American it would be stupid to try anything. Something ran down his left arm. He was bleeding from the deep cuts, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was Positano. To get close enough to do some damage and then strangle him. Maybe rip him apart with his bare hands and scatter the pieces around him as he had with Mamacita. But Mamacita was just a
maricón
who became a spectator to his own death. Positano wouldn’t be so easy.

‘Listen carefully,’ Positano said.

‘I can’t wait,’ Guzmán snarled.

The rifle butt smashed against the back of Guzmán’s head and searing lights exploded across his vision. He staggered forward, his foot connecting with the Browning, sending it sliding over the edge of the boardwalk and down into the loading bay six metres below. The guard rail shook as Guzmán staggered against it. He clutched his head, trying to pull back from the drop in front of him. Positano again used the rifle as a club, holding it by the barrel and smashing the stock into Guzmán’s back. Guzmán gave a howl of pain and pitched forward against the barrier. The wood disintegrated in a series of dry percussive cracks as he plunged through it into the loading bay. There was a sudden impact and the air was knocked from him. He lay, fighting to breathe, hands gripping the coarse burlap of the pile of empty sacks he was lying on, his head flooded with pain worse than any he had known. He struggled to his knees, his vision awash with flashing lights. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling blood and the swelling on the back of his head where the rifle butt had struck him.

There was a heavy impact on the pile of sacks as Positano jumped down from the boardwalk above. The man rolled smoothly, uncoiling in a single fluid motion, still holding the automatic rifle, keeping it aimed at Guzmán as he stepped towards him.

‘Paratrooper?’ Guzmán struggled to conceal the pain in his voice. ‘I recognise the—’

Positano brought his boot savagely up into Guzmán’s crotch. Guzmán’s involuntary cry of agony choked on itself as he suddenly vomited, folding over, clutching himself. The pain was an excruciating revelation, holding him a prisoner of his own body, unable to move without discovering new intolerable constituencies of nauseating agony. He snorted back another cry and made a fierce effort to sit up but the pain was too much. He retched and fell back onto the sacks.

‘Now we can talk,’ Positano said, the automatic rifle dark and menacing, aimed straight at Guzmán’s chest. ‘I didn’t think you’d be much trouble.’ He laughed. ‘Big fuck like you, used to roughing up old men and women. First hint of trouble and you roll around moaning and puking. Typical of this country. Just like your
Caudillo,
Guzmán, him and his pathetic army, his pathetic government and all the other shits who hang onto his coat tails. All talk, all bluff and no balls.’

‘Fine,’ Guzmán panted, ‘throw the rifle over there and let’s see if you’re right.’

Positano laughed. ‘If I did, I’d still win. I trained as a soldier, Guzmán. And I keep in training. Not like you. You beat the Republic because the fucking army turned traitor and the Nazis and Italians pitched in on your side. And to fight what? Peasants, commies and vegetarian anarchists. You must have known all along you were on the winning team.’

‘Not quite.’ Guzmán smiled grimly. ‘No one could be sure back then. Sometimes you had to pick sides according to circumstance.’

‘Well, you sure picked the right one,’ Positano said.

‘I did.’ Guzmán wiped a lock of hair from his eyes. ‘We won. End of story.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Positano stood up. ‘Sure, Franco’s had thirteen years of fun: shooting the losers, dressing up like the king, looting the economy. But know what, Guzmán? It’s no way to run a country.’

‘I like it,’ Guzmán said, measuring the distance between them. ‘It suits me very well.’

Positano moved quickly and without warning. The rifle butt cracked into the side of Guzmán’s temple and as he rolled back clutching his injured face, Positano again brought his boot slamming down into his groin. This time, Guzmán’s cry was a primal, uninhibited articulation of pure pain. He curled in a ball, fingers digging into the sacks, unable to move until he had to lift his head in order to puke.

‘It must have been great fun for you, Guzmán, doing this to all those half-starved bastards you tracked down.’

‘I did my job,’ Guzmán groaned.

Positano shook his head. ‘You were just a
campesino,
Guzmán. A poor peasant, doing his master’s bidding. You were – and you still are – a nobody.’

‘What happens now?’ Guzmán’s voice was thick with pain.

‘If it was up to me,
Comandante
, you’d be dead already.’ Positano lifted the rifle to his cheek and pointed it. ‘I’d shoot you in a heartbeat. But it isn’t up to me. I’m just,’ he hesitated, struggling to recall the Spanish word, ‘I’m just a facilitator. I help people achieve things.’ ‘Really?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Who have you helped achieve anything lately?’

Positano laughed. ‘Oh Guzmán. Your worst nightmare,
amigo.’

Guzmán scowled. ‘Valverde?’

‘Spot on.’ Positano grinned, his teeth gleaming in the half light. ‘A man with a vision of the future, Guzmán, instead of the past. He sees the need for change,
new ideas.’

‘He’s a traitor,’ Guzmán spat. ‘He just wants a share of whatever’s going.
Nada más.’

‘Well, they say “to the victor the spoils”, don’t they?’ Positano’s laugh was cold. ‘Except in Franco’s case, he took it literally and spoiled the country. With outside funding and help Spain could become a real country, not this shit-heap with bad plumbing and more spies and security men than doctors.’

‘Why would Valverde help you
Yanquis
?’ Guzmán asked. He coughed and bile ran down the side of his chin.