one twisted voice Read online

  ‘What did I warn you?’ Driven hollered, his voice high-pitched.

  ‘Kill the girl and who will you hide behind then?’ Trench growled.

  The other man behind the stagecoach fired, and his round plucked at the tail of Trench’s coat. Trench didn’t have to fire back: panicked by the gunfire, the whinnying team reared, then rushed headlong from danger. The able man was quick enough to throw himself from harm’s way, but the wounded man fared worse. He was churned beneath the wheels, his chest crushed, his head spilling brains as the metal rims rode over him.

  Distracted a moment by his latest pal’s death, Driven didn’t see Trench move. Trench, took a couple of loping steps to the side, bringing up his Winchester, and cracking off a round that took the last of the gang in the face, even as he was scrambling up from his close call with the coach wheels. The man fell back, splayed out, frothy blood popping in his mouth. Driven yanked the girl around, trying to place her between him and the stranger. Over the crying girl’s shoulder he fired. Trench twisted, a palm going to his left ear. When he plucked his palm away it was bloody, and his earlobe was missing. He took a firmer grip on his repeating-rifle, his teeth flashing as he grimaced at his sister’s ravager.

  ‘It’s only you an’ me now, Driven. Let the girl go and we can do this man to man. Hurt her, I’ll do to you what you did to Mister Virden back at the trading post your gang hit.’

  ‘Is that what this is about?’ Driven hollered. ‘Some greedy moneygrubber who’d the temerity to serve up watered down liquor?’

  ‘No, Driven, it’s more personal than that…’

  Out of ammunition, Trench dropped his rifle and kicked it away.

  He flicked back the tail of his coat, showing the butt of a Colt pushed into his pants.

  ‘Let the girl go,’ he said again. ‘Do this like men, it’s your last chance.’

  ‘Nope,’ Driven said, ‘this is your last chance. Drop that hawgleg and kick it away, or I blow this pretty young thing’s head all over Arizona.’

  Trench peered at the girl, who stared back at him with terror in her gaze. Chasing Driven and the Salt River Gang was all about avenging Caroline, and Trench had given up the other people on the stagecoach in order to do so. But, now, returning her gaze, he understood that there could be no others sacrificed for his vengeance. This girl was someone’s daughter, sister, perhaps wife to be.

  ‘You win, Driven. But you let the girl go.’

  ‘You’re in no position to make demands, now drop the goddamn gun and kick it over here.’

  Trench hooked his thumb through the trigger guard, plucked the Colt out of his waistband and then tossed it aside.

  Driven grinned, showing rotting teeth.

  He levelled the pistol over the girl’s shoulder once more.

  ‘Fuckin’ fool,’ he crowed at Trench. ‘Now you die, mister, and I get to keep the girl. Small reward for everything I’ve lost today, but I’ll make sure I get my money’s worth.’

  He thumbed back the hammer, and Trench faced him unflinching.

  Driven sneered. ‘What, you ain’t afraid to die, mister? You should be, because I’m gonna send you screaming to hell.’

  ‘Shoot me, and I’ll be waiting at the gates of hell for you, Driven.’

  ‘Ha! Well you’re gonna have a long wait, mister, ‘cause I won’t be there for a very long time.’

  ‘Think again, you murderous bastard,’ Trench snarled and the crack of a gun punctuated his sentence.

  Driven howled.

  His right knee buckled and he stumbled, and the girl tore free and fled him.

  Driven took one glance at the blood pumping from his right butt cheek, mouth open in shock. Then his mind was yanked back to the present by the thunderous slap of Trench’s boots along the canyon floor. He twisted, bringing up his gun. Fired.

  But his shot was wild.

  Trench was feet away, face dark with rage, eyes searing him with vengeful fury. His Bowie knife was a ribbon of fire as it caught light from the sun in its arch towards Driven’s chest.

  Driven fell back, yelling, thumbing back the hammer of his gun.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Clack!

  The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Scrunch!

  Trench’s huge knife fell on a chamber filled with ribs and organs.

  Bones broke as the vengeance-driven brother jammed the blade in and out, puncturing both lungs, but missing the heart.

  Driven felt the strength fleeing him.

  Beneath the hammering blows of the big knife he felt as helpless as a virginal girl brutalised by eight brutish men.

  Trench stood up, the dripping blade in his fist. More blood streaked from his wounded ear, down the side of his neck, but Trench paid it no mind.

  Beneath him, Driven shuddered. Blood frothed between his lips, and from the puncture wounds in his chest. He coughed, spluttered, wheezed, ‘Who…are…you…mister?’

  ‘The name’s Joshua Trench. You don’t know me but you already met my sister,’ he said. ‘Remember Alamogordo?’

  Driven coughed, tried to grin in a final show of bravado, but his mouth was stretched out in a rictus grimace. ‘Must admit. It was…uh…’ he coughed. ‘It…was…more…fun…meeting…her…’

  Trench kneeled beside his sister’s rapist.

  ‘Caroline sends her regards,’ he said and rammed the Bowie to the hilt between Driven’s legs. He twisted the knife, coring Driven like an apple.

  A soft clatter of rocks brought Trench up, and he turned to see the young woman crouching a few yards away.

  ‘You needn’t fear me, miss,’ he said, hiding the dripping blade from view behind his leg. ‘Or my friend over there.’

  Walking along the canyon came a young man. He was cradling a rifle. He eyed each of the dead men as he came, his face solid, as he fought to contain his emotions.

  He came to a stand just above where Driven lay dead in the dust. The corners of his mouth twitched in a satisfied smile, but it was short lived. He turned wet eyes up to Trench. Trench placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and squeezed.

  ‘That was some fancy shooting, shopkeeper. What were you… two hundred yards out?’

  ‘I was aiming at Driven’s heart, not his ass,’ the young man said.

  ‘Well, good job you missed. Your poor aim saved me and the girl.’ Trench thumbed a hand towards where the young woman was watching them both, with a mix of fear and relief now on her pretty face. ‘And gave me the opportunity to pay back some of the hurt Driven caused us all. I’m pleased you followed me, Robert, even though I asked you not to.’

  ‘I’m not like those other cowards in Alamogordo,’ the young man said.

  ‘That’s a given. You also happy you came after me?’

  The young man looked down at Driven’s waxy face. It was caught in a grimace of agony.

  ‘His pain doesn’t bring back Caroline,’ he said.

  ‘No but it gives another young woman a chance at life.’

  Trench gripped the young man’s shoulder once more, steering him away from the scene of bloodletting, the girl following.

  ‘Because of Driven and his gang, we never got the opportunity to call each other brother’s-in-law,’ Trench said. ‘But, if you’d do me the honour of calling me brother, I just bet it would make Caroline as happy as it would me.’

  Author’s note:

  This story first appeared in the eBook collection “Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1” (Sempre Vigile Press)

  LOST CAUSE

  “So what are you thinking of charging her with, Constable?”

  “I want to throw the book at her this time, Sarge. She can’t keep on getting away with it all the time.”

  “The judge takes one look at her and he’ll throw the case out.”

  “Don’t let the blond curls and cutesy turned-up nose fool you, Sarge. She’s a bad one, all right. This is the third time that we’ve had her in here this month.”

  “I
agree that it’s time we started looking at some sort of intervention. Before she gets out of hand and does some real harm. But-”

  “Burglary with intent...is that not bad enough?”

  “OK, slow down, Constable. Before we get her out of the cell I want the full facts.”

  “She broke into the house, Sarge and...”

  “Wait a minute. She broke in?”

  “Well, not exactly. Door was open, but that’s beside the point. She still entered a dwelling as a trespasser with the intent to cause damage or to steal. That’s as good as burglary when you go by the definition...”

  “Don’t start quoting definitions at me, son. I’ve forgotten more definitions than you’ll ever know.”

  “Sorry, Sarge.”

  “Carry on, and let’s keep this brief shall we? There’s no solicitor here, just us real men.”

  “OK, well, she broke...eh, entered this house when the owners were out. She went all the way through the place, broke a chair, and ate some food.”

  “And that’s where you’re getting the criminal damage and theft angle from?”

  “Well, yes, Sarge. It’s right isn’t it?”

  “In a way, yes. What does the Crown Prosecution Service say?”

  “I haven’t consulted with them, yet. I trust your opinion, Sarge.”

  “Huh...you were trying to tell me my job a minute ago.”

  “I know. I was over-stepping the mark. Sorry, Sarge, I just don’t want to let the little bitch get away with it again.”

  “Language, Constable. You know that’s not the way I run my custody suite. Now, carry on. What else did she do?”

  “Well, apparently bounced on every bed in the house and then...”

  “Don’t tell me. She didn’t defecate in the bed again?”

  “Not this time, Sarge. No. She just lay down and went to sleep.”

  “...and that’s how you caught her?”

  “Yes, Sarge. Mr and Mrs Bruin came home and there she was. All tucked up like there was nothing the matter. She hit them with her usual story: y’know the one about being lost.”

  “Obviously they didn’t believe her?”

  “No, so she just gave them a load of verbals and did a bunk.”

  “She did a runner?”

  “Yes, but I got her.”

  “Good work, Constable.”

  “Something else we might want to keep an eye on, Sarge. When we found her she was in the baby’s bed.”

  “Was the baby in the bed at the time?”

  “Well, no, but you still have to admit it’s a little weird.”

  “Weird but not enough to put her on the sex offenders register just yet.”

  “I was thinking...”

  “Forget it, Constable. We can’t go with that around here. You know that.”

  “Sorry, Sarge. I forgot for a minute.”

  “Once upon a time it was different...but not now. Any way, never mind. Go bring her from her cell. Maybe you’d better get a female to go with you.”

  “I can handle her, Sarge.”

  “That’s not my concern. Sweet looking little thing like that, you know how the defence are: if they think you’ve been in her cell alone? I wouldn’t put it past them to shout sexual harassment. Can see the headlines now. And her with that cute little face like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth...”

  “Wasn’t butter, Sarge.”

  “Eh?”

  “Wasn’t butter she ate, it was breakfast cereal.”

  “Ha! Very funny. Just go and get her.”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  “Wait on. Before you go...for the charge sheet, how do you spell Goldilocks again?”

  Author’s note:

  This story first appeared at the webzine “Thrillers, Killers ‘N’ Chillers”.

  SATISFACTION GUARANTEED

  Dirk Ramm guided the speedboat across a sea as flat and grey as a steel sheet. He’d cut the outboard motor beyond the twin horns of the bay, using a paddle to bring the boat to shore silently. A broad swathe of sand stretched before him, barely marked by the footprints of those that patrolled the grounds further up the incline. The armed guards concentrated their time searching the forest either side of the big house, doubting anyone would be stupid enough to be as open in their approach as Ramm.

  Ramm wasn’t stupid, though he was all for straightforward action. Still, he’d been thoughtful enough to cut the engine so that he wouldn’t raise the alarm too soon. Fishermen plied their trade out beyond the rocky promontories that sheltered the bay from the storms that frequently tore through the islands off Long Island Sound. His engine noise would have been assumed to be that of a fishing boat returning home with full nets.

  He brought the boat to a halt, jamming his paddle into the sand. The boat listed to one side. He jumped from the prow, landing cat-footed. He immediately went to a crouch, using all his senses to check for observers. In one hand he held his trusty firearm – a Makarov he’d taken from a Spetsnaz killer in the Balkans. The gun had proven to be a faithful companion for years and he preferred the gun to the newer more fashionable models sported by his contemporaries. The gun’s holster was nestled on his hip, alongside a sheath that carried his second weapon of choice – a razor sharp Tanto knife. Those were his only visible items of equipment, and the only ones to break the matte black of the sweatshirt and combat trousers he wore tucked into military issue boots.

  There was no shout of challenge.

  Coming to his full height of six feet and two inches of wiry muscle, Ramm went up the beach as fleetingly as the shadows cast by the clouds scudding past the doleful eye of the moon. He moved with the grace of a dancer, but never had the choreograph of dance carried such menace. The forest was a ragged barrier, but through the foliage he could make out the lights in the big house. Behind one of the windows he hoped to find Missy Dolan, and the bastard who’d snatched her. God help anyone who stood between them and Ramm.

  He thought about how he’d promised Missy that he’d protect her, that she need fear no man while under his protection. At the time she’d been lying with her head on his naked chest, the two of them slick from the exertion of lovemaking. His thoughts turned sour when he thought of Brandon Gitchsler, and how the punk mobster had snatched Missy from Ramm’s bed. The place where Missy should have felt at her safest had proven both of them wrong. Damn it, if he hadn’t stolen out early to fetch carryout breakfast and coffee from Jimmy’s Diner, then Missy wouldn’t be in this predicament now. Ramm was a man who didn’t keep his cupboards or fridge stocked: he was never home long enough to build up supplies the way ordinary people did. On his return to his apartment, he’d expected to find Missy in the shower, had entertained thoughts of joining her there for another energetic bout of sex, but his ardour and hopes had deflated when seeing that the door lock had been kicked loose from the frame. He’d immediately set aside their breakfast, and under cover of a fold of his leather coat had drawn his Makarov, the unique action of the downward holster draw meaning the slide racked and placed a round in the breach: ready for action. Anticipating trouble, he’d entered the apartment the way he always faced danger, head-on and with a killing haze buzzing in his skull. He’d found only damp sheets where his lover had lain so recently before. Missy, for all she was a headstrong dame, and never one to commit exclusively to any man, wasn’t the type to run out on him like this. She certainly wasn’t the type to leave a size ten footprint on his front door as a parting kiss. It didn’t take much figuring who was responsible for snatching Missy: she’d told Ramm all about Gitschler’s claim that no woman had ever walked away from him and lived.

  Now, Ramm moved for the trees swearing that if he was too late to save her, then Gitchsler would be sorry he’d ever laid eyes on Missy Dolan, because Ramm’s Makarov would tattoo her name on his forehead. The Tanto he’d use to spay the motherfucker.

  The foliage closed in around him, and Ramm stooped so that he didn’t disturb the low-hanging leaves. Insect sounds went on
unabated as he padded through the woods, undisturbed by the alien presence of the silent killer in their midst: perhaps the chitinous things were used to armed men prowling through their domain.

  A radio crackled nearby.

  His first instinct was to hold his breath but Ramm didn’t. Training overtook instinct, and instead he continued breathing shallowly, his mouth making a hollow oval allowing the keenness of his hearing to be untroubled by the internal thrum of his organs.

  A guttural voice whispered a response. Ramm recognised the language if not the words spoken. Russian. It made sense that Gitchsler should surround himself by thugs from his homeland, because Brandon Gitchsler was an assumed identity for Leonid Dzerzhinsky, once a feared officer of the KGB, and later an even more fearsome name among the post-Glasnost Russian Mafia. Tales concerning Dzerzhinsky’s legendary cruelty held no fear for Ramm: he carried a few legendary tales of his own, and more than ninety per cent of them were true.

  Creeping forward, to hide in the lea of a large tree trunk, Ramm surveyed the area before him. The Russian who’d responded to the radio message stood ten feet away. He was the clichéd Russian bear, a huge man, whose shoulders and chest stretched the leather of his long black coat. His head was square, with a severe buzz cut topping heavy brows in which cold grey eyes twinkled. Ramm checked out the man’s hands. They were calloused, and massive: the favoured weapons of a killer who preferred to stare into the face of those he throttled to death. Slung over the man’s left shoulder was an AK47 assault rifle, but it was as if the gun was simply an adornment the guard was forced to wear.

  Ramm was his equal in height, if not in girth. But where the Russian held the upper hand in raw power Ramm held it in nerve and in righteous fury. Ramm moved on the guard. The big man was not the ox he first appeared. He pivoted at the sound of Ramm’s boots scuffing earth, and unsurprised at the man charging towards him, he opened his arms in greeting. He didn’t strike a wrestler’s pose, but made knives of both huge hands, grinning at the prospect of violence.

  The guard’s left hand scythed the air.