Bianca and the Amnesiac

Gunfire erupted, single shots barking, a shotgun blast roaring with a blinding bright flash. Confusion. The distinctive acrid reek of burnt gunpowder filled the hall. A door crashed open when my shoulder hit it at full speed. I fell through to find the Devil standing over the bed, his arm outstretched, a Beretta in his hand aimed down, his black, bottomless, evil eyes staring at me.

She was splayed out on the bed paralyzed with fear, her eyes screaming terror at me, pleading, tears large. The Devil grinned at me, his fist tightening, finger curling, knuckles whitening.

Two shots rang out almost blending together, one a sharp crack, the other a soft thutt, pain searing into my temple. The Devil froze, blood blooming from the hole I'd put between his eyebrows. He toppled as I collapsed to one knee, dizzy, my face now wet with gushing blood. Turning without thinking I fired at the man behind me in the hall, his gun still smoking from shooting me. His head snapped back from the bullet. He fell. Massive pain arrived. My sight faded. Sweet unconsciousness arrived.

The farmhouse was old, tiled roof showing moss growth, ancient stonewalls beginning to weaken, mortar crumbling. It sat on a lonely plain, isolated, separated from civilisation, from neighbours, from society. Lights flickered in the kitchen and front room. The mid-summer Spanish heat was still intense even this late in the evening.

In the deathly silent darkness outside I crouched and observed as faint voices carried to me through open windows, indistinct, males, a bray of mirthless laughter. I counted five, perhaps six. One bedroom had shutters closed, light peeking through slats. The girl would be in that room.

Logistically it was a challenge. They were all going to die. That was inevitable. I was going to kill each and every one of them. I never negotiated. The only question was how. There were times where silence and stealth were needed and times, like now, when they weren't. These kidnappers of a child were going to die. I was judge and jury and executioner. I was Rescuer.

I saw him emerge and leave the front door ajar as he walked towards the old barn, their Citroën parked inside next to a white Ford Transit van. Moving quietly I slipped closer. I could smell him on the air, garlic and stale sweat, rank body odour. Peering across the unpaved driveway, I watched. He bent, his unshaven face poking through the open car window, reaching in, for what I didn't know or care. He was Eastern European, Latvian perhaps or Serbian, dark hair, hefty, two-twenty. The Lupo shotgun in his right hand was carried carelessly, his finger nowhere near the trigger.

It would be easy; slip up behind him, kick his feet out from under him and his throat would hit the edge of the car window. Add velocity with a hard shove on his head from behind, slam him down, crush his trachea, and hold him until he choked to death, his body jerking and calming. Soundless. One. Two. Two moves to a lonely death.

I padded across the drive to the barn, my steps silent. He never heard death arriving.

Three minutes later I carefully lowered his lifeless body to the ground, bending to peer into the car. What was he after? Darkness hid whatever it was. I'd come back for it. Right now four more waited for death in the farmhouse.

Ice flowed through my veins bringing dispassionate clarity. They'd kidnapped the girl, demanded a ransom then, when delivery had gone bad, upped the ransom. But something was off. They'd never given delivery instructions for the five million. It was almost like they didn't care. Twenty-eight days was a long time to hold a hostage in Europe.

Slipping across the unpaved drive, I eased myself up to the farmhouse wall. It was rough, undressed stone. Sounds from inside were muted; unintelligible talking, the sound of footsteps, the faint noise of a radio playing Flamenco music.

Reaching for the door I eased it open slightly wider, a crack of light growing, noises strengthening and becoming individual, distinguishable, identifiable. Through the crack I saw two more in the rustic living room, one lounging on a worn sofa with a leg over the armrest, his Lupo on the floor leaning against the seat cushion. Standing at an open empty fireplace was the second, smoke curling from his nostrils, a filter-less cigarette held between nicotine-stained fingers. He had a revolver tucked into the waist of his jeans. Sloppy. These two were amateurs. Things were definitely off.

I studied them. A plan emerged. Reaching into my jacket pocket I pulled out a sound suppressor and threaded it onto my Sig Sauer P226. Where were the remaining two kidnappers?

The man with his leg over the armrest started bouncing his foot in time with the Flamenco music. A noise filtered down from upstairs. Should I use silence or brute force? Should I take them out quietly and avoid alerting the others? Or, should I just use overwhelming surprise and brutality?

A girl's voice cried out in pain. It made my decision easy. Brute force. Stride through the door and shoot the man on the sofa between his eyes. He could react faster, he was the greater threat, that Lupo very close to his hand. While the second kidnapper at the fireplace wrestled to withdraw the revolver from his pants I'd have eons of time to kill him; another shot between his eyes. Two shots. Two seconds to die. Breathing deeply, my heart slowed. Concentration narrowed. Move!

Exploding into action, two coughs sounded as I strode inside, arm up and straight, Sig Sauer extended. One. Two. Two dead. Two seconds. Noise of feet moving overhead drew my attention. Another sharp cry was cut off suddenly. There was no time to think or plan. Racing up the old wooden staircase I found the hall empty. I didn't need directions. There was only one door closed. The girl must be in there. A shadow suddenly emerged from an open doorway down the hall. The Lupo roared with a bright flash. Plaster exploded to my left. He missed. Too rushed. Definitely unprofessional. Turning, I brought up the Sig and shot the man between his eyes. Moving fast, lowering my shoulder, I thundered into the closed bedroom door. It burst open. I fell through only to find the Devil standing over the bed, his arm outstretched, a Beretta in his hand aimed down, his black, bottomless, evil eyes staring at me.

She was splayed out on the bed paralyzed with fear, her eyes screaming terror at me, pleading, tears large. The Devil grinned at me, his fist tightening, finger curling, knuckles whitening.