action pulse pounding tales vo Page 2

  Broken Nose shook his head, unsure of how he should answer.

  ‘Go on,’ Ramm said, offering the box again. ‘You want me to put it in a doggy bag to go?’

  Now…

  Ramm could have done with that pizza now.

  Maybe he could have offered it as tidbits to the attack dogs, appealed to their hunger for his flesh with cheese and peperoni instead, won their trust, befriended them and sent them on their merry way with a pat on their adoring heads. Yeah, right! The only kibble the dogs would be chowing on would be his gonads if he didn’t escape them.

  The barn was huge, open to the elements at the front end, with only one small exit door at the far end. Stalls were ranged along the right hand wall, and in most of them were horses. On the left side the area was largely filled with farming implements and machinery. A tractor and trailer dominated the central space, parked there out of the way of the elements. Ramm considered and discarded the idea of clambering up onto the tractor or trailer within a second. Either platform would have allowed him to elude the flashing teeth of the dogs, but then he’d be stuck there. The dogs weren’t his only concern. Those who’d sicked the dogs on him were coming fast. He could hear them shouting to each other as they spotted the farm buildings.

  Ramm sprinted past the tractor. The startled horses whinnied and snickered, rolling their eyes and kicking out at their stalls. There was an elevated platform towards the rear of the barn. A ladder led up into the darkness of a hayloft. Ramm lunged for it.

  But the lead dog also lunged for him.

  It clamped its jaws around his right ankle, and yanked back. Ramm went down on his belly, the wind knocked out of his lungs. The dog shook him and Ramm’s leg felt ready to be ripped out of his hip socket. White agony flared through him.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ His curse would have been funny if not ironic.

  Ramm spun over, just as the dog released him so that it could chew down on him further up his calf, aiming to tear out his Achilles tendon. He kicked with his good leg, making axing motions with his heel. He caught the Doberman on the nose and it shied away. But only for a second. The big keel-chested dog was nimble on its slim legs, and it danced around Ramm’s kicking feet and champed down on his right thigh. Blood pooled around its gnashing fangs. Ramm made a mental note to check when last he’d had a tetanus booster. He struck at the dog, aiming for its eyes. The dog howled and backed off. But already the other two were coming, barely five paces away. Ramm scrambled up, ignoring the pain in his wounds, and clawed at the lowest rungs of the ladder.

  Bunching the muscles in his arms he hauled himself up, until he could get his feet beneath him and he began to clamber at speed for the safety of the hayloft. A solid weight struck him, but fell away. Dog claws raked down his back, his wife-beater proving little protection. Ramm scrambled up another couple of rungs. The first dog grabbed at his heel again, and found purchase. The dog that had tried to launch itself on his back had fallen away and was squirming on the floor to find its feet, but the third beast wasn’t put off by its failure. It leapt, and its forepaws went over his shoulders, even as its jaws snapped on to the meat at the base of his neck. The only thing that saved Ramm was gravity. It worked against the dog before it could find a proper grip for its teeth. Ramm released the ladder long enough to batter backwards with an elbow, and the dog slid off him, tumbling to land on the first, ripping its jaws loose from Ramm’s boot heel. Breathing heavily, Ramm pushed up the ladder. At the top he spun and glared down at the trio of attack dogs circling in the space below him.

  ‘Go on!’ he snarled at them. ‘Get the hell outta here!’

  The dogs didn’t obey his commands. One of them came forward. From the watering of its right eye, he could tell it was the Alpha, the dog whose eye he’d speared with his fingers. The dog placed a paw on the bottom rung, and then paused to look up at him. It snarled, went up on its rear legs, and reached for the next rung up.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me?’

  Ramm had seen dogs climb ladders in those funny animal videos on TV. They were hysterical because they were exhibiting unnatural behaviour for a mutt. He wasn’t laughing now. The Doberman had been trained for pursuit, and it wasn’t giving in. It came on steadily, while the other two prowled at the ladder’s base, waiting their turn. Ramm could wait, let the dog get its head over the top rung and then kick it off the ladder, but he had the feeling that he’d be there all night, taking down each dog as they came on and on. He didn’t have all night. The dogs’ owners had heard the ruckus in the barn and were heading his way. Ramm scrambled backwards on his hands and knees but was checked by stacked hay bales. He acted without thought, twisting to grab one bale by the twine binding. He hauled it around, pulled it to his chest then flung it down at the dog. The bale was heavy, and knocked the Doberman off the ladder. The dog fell with a howl and landed at the feet of its pack mates. Sadly, the impact of the bale, and the fall, had failed to snap its spine. Immediately the second dog came for the ladder.

  Horses still whinnied and kicked out.

  The dogs were growling and making huffing noises.

  The shouts of men joined the clamour.

  Ramm grabbed another bale and threw it down the ladder. This time the dog jumped out of the way. Ramm sent another bale tumbling, then scurried for the back of the dark space. His shin clunked against something solid. Ramm pitched over it, but this time found a soft landing in loose straw. He twisted round, feeling for the length f wood that tripped him. A grim smile played across his lips as he tugged out the length of wood and found it to be a pole of some sort. A quick run of his fingers along its length found steel at its tip, actually there were three long prongs, and the discovery made his grin all the more wicked.

  Armed now with a pitchfork, he could easily fend off the dogs. But that wasn’t what pleased him. He didn’t wish the dogs any real harm. They were answering the commands of their masters: their attack wasn’t personal. The men behind them were Ramm’s real enemies. He held the fork braced across his chest as he headed for the back of the barn and found the hatch he’d fully expected. He shoved it open, peered down at the forbidding drop to hard packed earth, but fancied his chances down there more than he did staying within the barn. The Bishop’s men would encircle the barn before long, and he didn’t put it past them to set the structure ablaze to force him into the open.

  Without pause, Ramm flung the pitchfork ahead of him, and then went out of the hatch in a leap. His injured ankle and thigh were impediments to a successful landing, but he timed his fall, bent at the knees and tucked into a commando roll. As he came out of his forward somersault he snatched up the fork and ran. He didn’t head away from the barn. Where was the sense in that? The dogs would only come after him again. No, he went alongside the structure towards the front.

  The Bishop’s henchmen were just approaching the barn, calling out bloodthirsty encouragement to their dogs. There were five men. Four held cudgels, the last one a cleaver. If they’d brought guns then the battle would be one sided, but this was different. Ramm was outnumbered, but he outreached them by far.

  They were intent on following the dogs inside the barn. The Dobermans were engaged in climbing the ladder and their barking drew the men in after them, sure now that Ramm had been contained. Three men went forward, while the last two took one side of the barn each, hoping to close down any possible exits. The unfortunate man rushing towards Ramm was unaware his quarry was crouching in his path. Ramm braced the pitchfork against the ground, the fork at an oblique angle aimed directly at the man’s chest. At the last possible second, Ramm jerked up the fork incrementally. The man ran onto the tines, the central of the three piercing his trachea, the outer prongs ripping out his carotid arteries. He died silently. Ramm twisted him over and laid him on his side in the dirt. Blood pooled out of the wounds, but there was no spurting: the man had died instantly of shock, his heart failing abruptly. Ramm stepped on the man’s shoulder, pushing him away as he yanked free the lon
g tines. The dead man was one of those wielding cudgels. Ramm picked up the club and fed it through his belt.

  He was off in the next second, hurtling past the open front of the barn without alerting those inside. He couldn’t immediately see the man on the far side of the barn. Mist danced where the man had passed seconds earlier and Ramm followed the swirling patterns along the side wall. Seconds later he caught sight of a darker blur through the uniform grey, and he again held the pitchfork like a pike man at the ready as he stalked forward.

  The man was moving slowly; alert to any egress to the barn, totally unaware that death was stealing in on him. Never the coward, but always ruthless, Ramm gave the man no warning. He slammed the tines of the pitchfork under the man’s ribcage, digging deep for the liver. The man cried out, but Ramm forced one palm over his mouth, cutting off the screech of agony. When the man didn’t die quickly enough, Ramm dropped the fork, grabbed both hands round the man’s head and wrenched it savagely. The man dropped stone dead to the earth. Ramm took his club, and retrieved his fork. His weapons cache was building.

  From within the barn came the sound of voices raised now in question. The snarling of the dogs, the whinnying of the horses, didn’t help make things clear, but Ramm realised that the man’s death hadn’t been silent enough. Time for stealth was over: now it was time for balls and fury. He reversed route to the front of the barn, holding his fork in one hand, a cudgel the other. His night vision had sharpened somewhat and he could see further within the dim recess of the barn. The tractor stood out now against the dark and beyond it he could see the raised hayloft. The Dobermans had all scaled the ladder. They milled about up in the loft, unsure of what to do or where to go. Ramm grinned: the dogs could climb up; let’s see the fuckers climb down again.

  He ran into the barn.

  The Bishop’s men heard him coming. They swung around, two bringing up clubs, the last man swinging up the huge cleaver.

  Ramm didn’t pause at their show of power. At a run he hurled his cudgel left-handed, and it struck the cleaver man in the chest, but with little harm. Nevertheless, the man reacted as many did when struck: he turned away, checking himself for wounds. It was the advantage Ramm needed. He speared at the club-wielder on the right, and the man’s response was to bat at the metal tines in desperation. Ramm twisted the fork in his grip, spinning the head of the fork so that it snared the club between two prongs. Ramm snatched the fork down, stripping the weapon from the man’s hand. Ramm immediately backhanded the fork, striking the man across the face. The tines tore furrows in his cheek and the man stumbled away holding his wounded face.

  The second club-wielder swung at Ramm’s head.

  Ramm dipped low, even as he snatched the second club from his belt. He swiped it in an arc that apexed at the man’s leading knee. The corresponding crack was as loud as gunshot in a confined space. The man cried out as he buckled. Ramm swung the fork and jammed the tines into his gut. He bore in with his weight, pinning the man to the floor. The wound to the gut wasn’t fatal. But the strike of Ramm’s club to the man’s skull was.

  Above the arena of battle the dogs bayed. Ramm ignored them.

  The man with the cleaver was still in the fight, as was the one with the torn face. Ramm went for the weakened man first. He relinquished the fork, electing instead to strike a blurring flurry of blows to the man’s arms and legs. A final whack struck the man directly between the eyes and he fell like the proverbial felled ox.

  Ramm twisted marginally.

  The cleaver whistled by Ramm’s gut.

  Ramm took a half step forward just as the cleaver man came at him again with a backhand swipe. Ramm blocked the man’s wrist with his club, and snapped a kick at his inner thigh. His boot found the bundle of nerves midway down the thigh like a jab from a cattle prod. The man’s leg twisted outward, both knees losing their elasticity. Ramm twisted the club over the top of the man’s extended wrist, then caught the short end in his other palm and levered down on the wood. The cleaver was trapped with its blunt edge over Ramm’s forearm, the man’s wrist caught in a solid vice. Both forces worked against each other so that there was only one result. The man’s wrist snapped. Involuntarily the fingers spasmed and the cleaver fell to the dirt. Ramm didn’t release the club: he continued to exert downward pressure even as he backpedalled. The man was forced face first into the dirt. Ramm finally released his wristlock hold, hopped in and raised a heel high. He stamped down on the nape of the downed man’s neck and knew that he wouldn’t be getting up again.

  Five men were down, dead or dying. Ramm stepped back and sucked in a large inhalation. Then he allowed a flicker of satisfaction.

  He wished to be tested.

  Well, it seemed he’d passed muster.

  No. Not true.

  Adrian Cannon had paid him to bring home his daughter, Shelly. Ramm hadn’t succeeded yet. So the biggest test was yet to come.

  Now that The Bishop believed Ramm dead, or still running for his life, it offered him a huge advantage.

  He looked up at the three Dobermans on the platform overhead. They all stared back at him. The lead dog whined, pawed once at the edge of the loft.

  Ramm eyed the Alpha dog, and the dog looked back, one of its eyes still watering. Ramm winked, said, ‘Stay, boy!’ and was pleased to see the dog sit. The other two obeyed the first one’s lead. They recognised the new top dog in the barn. Ramm turned away from the dogs, checking out the other animals in the barn.

  It was time to show the bastard the error of his ways. Ramm was going back to the fight and he’d get there much quicker by horseback.

  Two nights ago…

  Adrian Cannon made himself at home on Ramm’s settee. He crossed his heels and folded his hands in his lap as he peered up in admiration at the man once coined ‘The Battering Ramm”.

  ‘You said something about an unfounded rumour?’ Ramm looked down at Cannon.

  ‘Some people were sure that you had retired, that you had gone soft. I hope you can forgive my uncouth attempt at testing your prowess?’

  ‘I could have killed those fools,’ Ramm said.

  ‘Then why didn’t you? They came armed with guns.’

  ‘But with no intention of using them,’ Ramm pointed out. ‘Killers don’t want witnesses to their crime. Either they would have waited until the pizza guy had left, or they would have killed him as he went down the steps before turning their guns on me. When I watched them let Gampie go unharmed I knew they didn’t have the balls to shoot. So it would have been unfair of me to hurt them too badly.’

  ‘Yet you gave them both something to remember you by,’ Cannon laughed. ‘The use of a hot pizza as an improvised weapon was inspired!’

  ‘It was a waste of good food,’ Ramm corrected, yet he couldn’t hide a twitch of humour that danced at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Never mind that. I thought it was an ingenious use of an innocuous item. If you accept the task I have on offer, your skills and quick wits might come in useful.’

  ‘OK. So what have you in mind?’

  Just then Bitsy Horton exited the bathroom. She stepped in all her voluptuous glory into the open door of the bedroom in full view of both men. Unlike Ramm she didn’t have a towel to cover her modesty. Ramm watched Cannon’s eyes widen marginally, and whatever had been on the playboy’s mind before had been momentarily kicked loose.

  Bitsy was unconcerned by the lascivious stare she elicited from Cannon. She tossed her wet hair over her shoulder, and her breasts rose and fell. Cannon’s head gazed up and down. Bitsy gave him a smoldering look that rose in temperature as it slipped towards Ramm. ‘I take it that dinner’s off the menu?’ she said.

  ‘We might have to put it on the backburner,’ Ramm said, ‘but I don’t mind warming it up again.’

  Bitsy flicked a glance at Cannon. ‘Maybe I should think about take out. You sure know how to show a gal a good night, Ramm.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you. But for now, can you please close the d
oor before my friend here has a coronary?’

  Bitsy stood face on, fisting her hands on her hips as she pouted. She was showing Ramm what he was missing, but Cannon wasn’t spared an eyeful either. ‘What’s a hungry girl supposed to do? Start with the finger buffet?’

  She was such a tease. Ramm shook his head, walked over and shut the door. From beyond it he heard Bitsy muttering, but he knew her ill temper wouldn’t last. He turned to Cannon, expecting to see the man loosening his collar. Cannon wasn’t quite as obvious, but he slowly puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘I guess I chose a bad time to call,’ he said.

  Ramm shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. I’ll make it up to Bitsy later.’

  ‘Bitsy? You might say all her bits are in the right place and in the right proportions.’ Cannon quickly lifted a hand in apology. ‘Jeez. Listen to me. I’m sorry for blurting that out.’

  ‘I prefer a man who’s straight to the point. Don’t worry about it. Bitsy tends to have that kind of effect on people.’ Ramm folded his arms on his chest. ‘But it’s not Bitsy you’re hear to talk about. This is about your daughter, right?’

  Some of the light went out of Cannon’s gaze. ‘My daughter, yes. Shelly. I take it you’ve been following the news?’

  ‘Not avidly, but enough to know that Shelly went missing a few weeks ago and you still have no idea where she is or what has happened to her.’

  ‘Not exactly true,’ Cannon said. ‘I know where and what is going on, it’s just that I haven’t mentioned it to the police. You see, there’s no real crime involved in her disappearance, so law enforcement wouldn’t really help to get her back.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Shelly was always a willful child. She got no easier to control as a young woman. You might say that she rebelled against me and that was why she chose to take up with one of those nutjob Svengali-types called The Bishop.’