THIRTY-SIX

Fido had no idea what was going on. His world was a blur, his ears were ringing and his entire body was covered in white powder so thick that he was having trouble breathing.

One moment he had been certain he was about to die, but then he had heard the gunfire had rung out and destruction had broken out in every direction. That was when the thick white powder from the bullet-riddled ceiling had come raining down all over him, robbing him of his sight.

Now at last the gunfire had stopped and Fido struggled to regain his bearings once again.

“The way I see it, bub, a bit of gratitude is in order here,” a heavily Texan-accented voice to Fido’s right said. “We just saved your sorry bacon from the frying pan.”

Fido turned, his vision clearing just enough for him to find the barrel of an M4 carbine pointed straight at his head. The man carrying the weapon wore a green suit and a large white cowboy hat.

“Listen to me,” Fido said quickly, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but those bastards have my girl. If you want to make yourself useful, cut me the fuck loose!”

For a moment the cowboy looked as though he was considering shooting Fido, but instead he readjusted his aim and put a bullet through each of the ropes binding him down to the table.

“Thanks.” Fido sprang up to his feet as soon as he was free, only then to find himself surrounded on all sides by five unwavering gun barrels. Although at first he didn’t know who the gunmen were, he soon recognised the leader of the squad: Antoni ‘The Wolf’ Lupo, Fabian Paravinchi’s most feared enforcer.

Lupo was a man Fido had met before. He hadn’t liked him much back then, and he still didn’t like him now.

“Fido,” Antoni Lupo said with a forced smile. “You’re a difficult man to get a hold of. You don’t call, you don’t write...”

“I only write people I give a shit about!” Fido frowned. “And what the fuck are you doing here, Antoni?”

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to thank me personally for saving your useless arse,” Lupo said. “Princess sent us here.”

“Princess?” Fido’s eyes narrowed upon hearing that familiar codename. “What’s she doing giving orders to you, Antoni? Don’t tell me you’ve been demoted to her personal babysitter?”

“Yeah, yeah, joke about it all you want. As of this morning, Princess is running the entire Paravinchi family, Fido. Her old man Fabian is out of the picture; dead.”

“Fabian’s dead? How?”

“That doesn’t really matter right now.”

“Actually, it kind of does,” Fido argued. “Who punched his ticket? You?”

“Princess wants to speak with you,” Antonio avoided the question.

“About what?”

“About Loa Lacroix. I’m told she has been helping you try to locate him. She passed on some information to your late old buddy General Gomez yesterday. Is that true?”

“Can we discuss this later, Antoni? Those bastards still have Evita in there!”

Lupo shrugged and drew a 9mm Beretta M9 from his coat. He passed it Fido, along with two spare clips of ammunition. “Do whatever you’ve got to do. But after you’re done, you’re coming with me to see Princess!”

“Sure.” Fido checked the ammo in each of Lupo’s clips, making sure he hadn’t been short-changed, then he stashed them away in his pockets.

“Well, since it’s your girl with her arse on the line,” Lupo said, “how do you want to play this, Mr vigilante?”

Fido thought about it for a second, but before he could come up with an answer the bedroom door at the rear of the apartment suddenly creaked open and three figures cautiously emerged.

“Back the fuck off, white-boy kochon,” Jacky Sanders called out as he appeared, “we’ve got your girl!”

“Nobody be making a fucking move!” Tommy Claymore added beside him. “Either we be walking out the front door, or we be showering in this bitch’s brains!”

The two Haitians made their way out into the main room, sheltering behind the naked and teary-eyed figure of Evita Torres. Sanders had his shotgun pressed firmly against her skull, ready to fire the second he saw or sensed something he didn’t like.

“Make sure your men hold their fire, Antoni!” Fido shouted at his rescuers.

Lupo calmly signalled for his men to obey; they all lowered their weapons.

Everyone, that is, except for Fido. The sights of his Beretta M9 started shaking slightly in his hands, wavering as he took aim at the Haitians. Although he tried to fight it, Fido could feel his heart hammering out of control at the sight of Evita standing there so helplessly and exposed. He didn’t want to risk shooting, but he knew Evita was dead unless he acted. If the Haitians walked out, there would be no getting her back in one piece.

Taking a deep breath and letting his instincts take control of his body, Fido steadied his aim and then fired, his bullet rushing through the air and striking the end of the shotgun in Sanders’ hands, knocking the barrel away from Evita’s skull.

“Fuck!” Sanders cried out in surprise. He pulled his trigger, but by then Evita had already dropped to the floor and the Haitian’s shot flew just over her.

With their human shield gone, the two Haitians decided to make a run for it, out through the kitchen. Sanders reached the doorway first — unscathed, his damaged sawn-off still in hand — then he disappeared from view. Tommy Claymore was less fortunate as one of Fido’s bullets struck him in the thigh as he ran; he howled in pain, stumbling out through the doorway with a heavy limp.

Fido quickly ran over and checked on Evita to make sure she hadn’t been hit in the exchange. She nodded to him tearfully, letting him know she was okay.

“Take care of her, Antoni!” Fido shouted back to Lupo as he charged out after the Haitians. “I’m going after those two fuckers!”

Up ahead of Fido, Jacky Sanders was leading the getaway; the red-mohawked savage ran straight towards the window at the end of the kitchen and then, without so much as a second thought, he went crashing out through the glass. The hobbling Tommy Claymore attempted to do the same but one of Fido’s bullets struck him in the back at the last moment, the force pushing him outside head-first after his partner.

For a moment Fido was stunned at the Haitians’ escape plan; Evita’s apartment was five storeys above the ground, so it appeared to him as though the two Haitians had just jumped to their deaths.

But then another thought quickly crossed his mind. A fire-escape!

He was right. He reached the window and cursed to himself as he watched the two Haitians scrambling desperately down the steel scaffolding. He took aim, but by then both of them were already shielded by multiple layers of steel and he had no clear shot.

You’re not getting away that easily, you motherfuckers! Fido lunged out the window after them, landing feet-first on the steel fire escape, charging down. By the time the two Haitians had reached ground-level, Fido was in hot-pursuit.

The Haitians ran along together; Jacky Sanders was all but dragging his wounded superior along behind him. Their flight took them away from the port and out onto a street where they had an old black Toyota Landcruiser parked waiting. They jumped straight in. Sanders got behind the wheel, gunned the ignition and they took off.

No! They can’t escape me! Fido screamed to himself, blazing away at the fleeing vehicle with everything he had. His bullets blew out the back window, ripping the steel framework apart. Then suddenly, decisively, one of his rounds struck the vehicle’s rear left tyre; with a loud squeak of rubber grinding against pavement, the car fish-tailed wildly out of control, ploughing into the brick wall of a small antiques store by the side of the road.

With his weapon still raised, Fido ran towards the mangled wreckage, ready to fire at any sign of movement. Sure enough, just as he was drawing close, the front windscreen was shattered outwards from within by the butt of a rifle. Seconds later a dazed and bloody Jacky Sanders crawled his way out.

Fido stopped running and took aim at the Haitian, but before he could pull the trigger Tommy Claymore suddenly stuck a Beretta out through the rear window and opened fire. Fido ducked down behind a parked car, taking cover as the Haitian’s shots whizzed past him, pinging off the metal and shattering glass.

With their hunter pinned down, Jacky Sanders hobbled around the side of the car and helped his wounded boss out, then they set off running down the street together.

“I’m coming for you, you fucks!” Fido called as he stood up and gave chase. “I’ll follow you both to the gates of hell if I have to!”

The streets flew by at rapid pace as the Haitians ran, weaving their way through the onrushing traffic, narrowly avoiding cars.

Fido fired three times on the run; his first two shots hit nothing, his third blew out the window of a car which came skidding past them.

The two Haitians spun around and fired back, their shotgun and Beretta booming away in unison, but Fido rolled away to his right to avoid their shots. Glass exploded on the cars that were still speeding past Fido, nearby storefront windows collapsed, and then finally the two Haitians lost their nerve and ran as Fido made it to cover and returned fire in their general direction. They made their escape down a nearby alleyway.

Panting with fury and exhaustion, Fido followed as quickly as he could. He stopped just as he reached the alley and paused, peering inside. He didn’t like what he saw; the walls were six storeys high on either side, the place was littered with rubbish, crates and trash bins that were all perfect for cover, and somewhere out there two murderous and desperate Haitians were lying in wait.

Fido checked his breathing, calming himself down, and then made his way inside the alley. He moved carefully forward, his eyes unblinking, scanning every shadow with the utmost care, ready for anything. If the Haitians were to make their last stand here, he would be ready for anything they threw at him.

He saw one of them first. It was Tommy Claymore. The wounded Haitian was climbing up a fire-escape ladder a little further down the alley, blood pouring down the ladder rungs beneath him as he struggled to pull himself up. Jacky Sanders was nowhere to be seen; it seemed the sadistic rapist had left his boss behind.

Fido crouched down on one knee and started to take aim at Claymore as he climbed, the Haitian seemingly oblivious to his impending, bullet-riddled demise. The distance was maybe thirty or forty metres and Claymore was ascending at a steady rate, so the shot would need to be a good one.

But Fido wouldn’t miss. He very rarely did.

Boom! The sudden roar of Jacky Sanders’ shotgun inside the alleyway was deafening to Fido’s eardrums.

Fido dived instinctively to his left and rolled to cover behind a garbage dumpster to avoid being hit; the Haitian’s buckshot pounded into the brickwork right where Fido had just been standing, then it ricocheted back, striking the wall just inches above his head.

Jesus! Fido breathed, cringing as he looked up at the smoking holes right above him.

Boom! Sanders’ second shot struck the cold hard steel of the dumpster, sending sparks flying like shooting stars in the night.

It was then Fido heard a noise. Click! Click! Click!

The Haitian was out of ammo.

Fido was just about to stand back up and fire in his direction when suddenly another gunshot rang out, this time from Tommy Claymore up on the fire escape. The Haitian’s bullet bounced off the side of Fido’s dumpster then wildly went ricocheting off down the alley like a pinball.

“Fuck you, Kochon!” Claymore fired again at Fido from his elevated position, having now reached the second-floor platform of the fire-escape. His bullets were not intended to kill, just to keep Fido pinned down and give his partner a chance to reload and join in the battle.

But Jacky Sanders had no plans to involve himself in the gunplay any further. Instead, the red-mohawked savage tossed away his empty shotgun. Then, with a wild laugh, he turned tail and ran. He disappeared out the other end of the alley, ditching his boss to make good his own escape.

“Get back here, Jacky, you fucking coward!” Claymore shrieked after him, his robotic voice coming out as a static garble. “I’ll fucking mutilate you!”

“Looks like you’re on your own now, Tommy!” Fido called out to him, making a sudden sprint across the alley.

“Fuck you, kochon! I don’t be needing that pussy to take you down!” But his words lacked conviction as he failed to mask his trembling voice.

“With him, you had no chance. Now, you’re already fucking dead, Tommy!”

“Bring it!” Tommy Claymore’s bullets pounded the pavement all around Fido as he moved, sending dust and chips of concrete flying.

But Fido was undeterred as he raised his weapon and returned fire. The rounds in his clip were quickly winding down, 5… 4… 3… 2 … 1, but finally one of his bullets had an impact, striking the steel railing right in front of Claymore, sending a razor-sharp shard of shrapnel flying up into the Haitian’s face. Claymore screamed out and dropped his weapon, half-blinded as a small piece of steel lodged itself inside his eye, blood rushing out like a leak in a bucket.

“Can’t see me now, can you, Tommy?!” Fido taunted as the Haitian thrashed around, frantically trying to clear the blood from his remaining eye. He ejected his spent clip and loaded in a fresh one.

A wave of silence swept over the area, signalling an end to the brief alleyway battle.

Fido watched Claymore up on the fire-escape with hawk-like eyes. Loa Lacroix’s second-in-command was bleeding out all over the place, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet. The Haitian stumbled over to the nearby ladder, pulling himself up slowly towards the roof at the top of the fire-escape.

Fido ran over and scrambled up the ladders after him. His mind was already made up regarding which of the two Haitians to pursue. Jacky Sanders had most likely already gotten away. Besides, all personal feelings aside, Claymore was the far more valuable tactical target. He could sense an opportunity here. The Haitian was now unarmed, and Fido figured he could take him alive and try forcing Lacroix’s location out of him. If anyone knew where the master of the savages was hiding, it would be his second-in-command.

Fido followed his wounded prey up the winding maze of steel as quickly as he could. He emerged out onto the rooftop only ten or fifteen seconds after the Haitian.

But all things considered, he need not have bothered rushing; Claymore was going nowhere. The Haitian was standing right there out on the edge of the roof, his body slumped against the guardrail. He looked physically sick. Blood was pouring out from under his gasmask, his two eye-holes were stained red, and his legs were wobbling pathetically beneath him like two brittle stilts on the verge of collapse. Escape was clearly out of the question now; the man was barely even able to keep himself upright.

“End of the line, Tommy,” Fido said coldly as he walked towards him.

“Just kill me, kochon!” Claymore snarled weakly. “I don’t give a fuck!”

Fido tilted his head at that suggestion. “Tempting, but no. As badly as I want you dead, Tommy, I want your boss even more.”

“What you mean?”

“I’m willing to make a deal with you. If you tell me where Lacroix is, and how many men he has left with him, I might just let you live to die another day.”

Claymore shook his head at that. “No fucking chance!”

“Fair enough.”

Fido’s first bullet blew out the Haitian’s left kneecap. Claymore howled and collapsed, crying out even louder as his wounded knee banged down onto the pavement.

“That one was for Maria Gomez, you sick son of a bitch!” Fido’s voice was drained out by agonised screams of his quarry as he stood over him, taking aim at the Haitian’s second kneecap. “Now have you got something you want to tell me, Tommy, or would you rather have a few more bullets in you? One more shot and you’ll never walk again. Two more shots and you’ll never fuck again!”

“Fuck you, kochon! Just do it!” Claymore slobbered, his artificial voice completely distorted, his breathing heavy. “Kill me, you cocksucker!”

“First you tell me what I want to know!”

“Nobody be having the balls to fuck over Loa Lacroix!” Claymore wailed. “Nobody! The man be serving the will of Baron Samedi himself. So you go and fuck yourself, kochon; I ain’t telling you shit!”

Then suddenly, before Fido had the chance to react, Claymore pulled himself up on his one good leg and threw himself over the guardrail, plummeting right off the rooftop.

“No! You fucking bastard! No!” Fido charged over to the edge and looked down. He got there just in time to see the Haitian’s body hit the pavement, blood spurting out in all directions as his head exploded on impact and his neck snapped horribly in half.

“Arrrrrrgh!” Fido cried out at the very top of his lungs, his voice echoing upwards through the alleyway and out into the orange late-afternoon sky. His chance at finding Lacroix had just disintegrated along with Tommy Claymore’s skull.

He realised that his only move left to play now was to go along with Antoni Lupo and see Princess, the new leader of the Paravinchi Crime Family.

Fido hated relying on people. He hated owing anyone a thing. But right now he had little choice. With Claymore dead, Sanders in the wind, and all his contacts with General Gomez severed, the Paravinchis were his best bet at getting him to Lacroix.