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4

  John didn't like their car. The tyres were cheap, fine for city travel but no good for hitting country dirt tracks. He wasn't confident about the battery either. They were going into hibernation and the car was filled with useless gadgets which would drain the power in less than a week. It was Italian too. John was particular, he liked his cars German – everything else was only good for scrap.

  He filled the car with petrol, watching as one security guard went in and was replaced with another. From where he was standing he could inspect the quality of their weapons. They were newly made forgeries, probably good for a handful of shots and little else. It was easy to manufacture weapons for novice fighters looking to protect themselves. If a man wasn't interested in heavy duty then a counterfeit rifle would do nicely, but John could see by the arrogance with which these weapons were being held that the shooters had no idea how lousy their armoury actually was.

  The new guard leaned against the wall of the entrance. He was feigning disinterest in John, more fascinated in the floor than what was going on in the car park in front of him. He should have been more cautious. He should have been watching John meticulously.

  The petrol pump clicked. The car was full. John opened the boot. The movement drew the guard's attention but only briefly. His casualness was starting to annoy John. Even when John removed a petrol can from the boot the guard barely flinched. With a shake of his head John went back to the pump and started filling again; enough for the road ahead and back if they were lucky.

  A rumble struck the main road into the service station. The concealed bend hid whatever was coming, but from the sound alone John new it was big. He glanced up at the guard. He hadn't drawn his weapon, he wasn't even concerned. In an instant John knew what was going on. This was an ambush.

  As the first glimpse of the Humvee came into view John had already put the petrol can down and replaced the pump. If he ran, took out the guard at the door, he could make it into the service station. But what would be in there? And what vantage point could he take? The Humvee rolled closer. Six men inside and a mounted turret on the back. John smirked; it was overkill and it was going to be their downfall.

  The Humvee rolled towards the pumps. The men inside were cheering excitedly. But these weren't trained killers, or even the wild men of the North who were intent on raping and eating anything that crossed their territory. These men had just been made desperate. Whether it was a failed delivery, or maybe a robbery that had seen their supplies dwindled, something had pushed these men towards drastic action. Their plan – and it was obvious to John – was to lure unsuspecting travellers to them and then rob them for everything they had. John could see from the wild glint in some of their eyes that killing had followed as a consequence. These men weren't true murderers, they didn't enjoy blood on their hands, but they were getting a taste for it. Fortunately for them, it would be a thirst they wouldn't have for long.

  John moved quickly. His weapon was pointing at the guard by the door before the car stopped. Bang. The guard dropped; a hole in the centre of his head. John adjusted his position, calculating the next target in less than half a second. Bang. The driver's head hit the car horn. The Humvee rolled forward, hit the second petrol pump and stopped. The men inside were in shock. Two of their own were dead and they hadn't even made eye contact with their killer.

  As they started to pile out of the vehicle John was already moving. Using his own car for cover he fired another two shots. One man flew back, punctured in the chest. The other clasping his neck as his jugular erupted in a fountain of blood. Then John ran. A volley of shots clipped the bricks of the service station wall, but John was already behind the corner. He flexed his shoulders and dared a look.

  They were coming. Two of them, the youngest of the pack, taking brave steps towards the side of the building. Their breathing heaved under the pressure. Their footsteps crunched on the dirt of the track. John closed his eyes and counted. Six, five, four. One of the guards was wavering. He slowed behind his comrade. Three, two.

  The gun came before the body of the man. John snatched the barrel and slammed the weapon into the wall. Its owner yelped, fumbling for a hold on the weapon.

  Contrary to what a lot of people thought John wasn't a man that loved killing. He had killed, he would do so again and he was very good at it, but the moment of taking a man's life left him with nothing but emptiness. He waited for the unarmed man to make a decision. And he did. He picked up his battered rifle and pointed it at John, a trace of premature victory touched his lips. Then he fired. The gun was blocked. He pressed the trigger again. John arched his brow and shot him in the heart. Then John turned the corner to deal with the coward.

  The turret nearly caught him. He ducked back to cover as it ate up the tarmac. And then he heard it – a shout coming from inside the building. The calculating brain started spiralling. He had to get inside. His brother was in there. Rachel was in there. The turret stopped. It was his chance. Another man might have hesitated but not John. Hesitation wasted opportunities. He stepped out and instantly grabbed the last guard on foot. He pulled him close, putting a bullet in his leg. The boy screamed in agony, but John wouldn't let him go. The writhing body was a perfect shield.

  Holding onto him tightly John marched, his eyes seeking out the man operating the turret, daring him to kill one of his own. Like a fool the gunman was standing upright against his machine gun, looking at John with a gaping mouth. It only took one bullet to bring him down. John pushed the boy he was holding to the floor. He fired his gun again, putting a full stop to the bloodbath.

  As he stepped over the body in the doorway John's mind was already on clearing the inside of the building. He didn't think about the men he had killed. They had made their choice and they were gone because of it. John's focus was his family and they were in danger.

  The inside of the building hummed with electricity. John heard groaning coming from the kiosk. There was a dead man in the adjoining corridor. His brother had always been unsubtle when it came to taking out the enemy. The noise was coming from a pile of shelving. It wasn't Charlie or Rachel so John wasn't interested.

  He turned to the cafe instead. He kicked the door opened and spotted Charlie on the floor. His brother was still breathing. Bang. Bang. Bang. Which was more than could be said for the men beating him. With the bodies fallen he bent down to lift his brother up. Charlie groaned.

  "What the hell kept you?"

  John looked around the canteen. He spotted another man, for some reason sitting opposite a corpse, and a woman sat with two shell shocked kids. Nobody was watching them. John rested Charlie against the wall, he wasn't as battered as he could have been.

  "You good?" John asked; it was his way of asking if Charlie had sustained any injury that needed immediate attention.

  "Yeah, I'm fucking great. Where's Rach'?"

  They turned and someone started wailing. A huge woman charged at them, a knife raised in the air. John went for his gun but a bullet fired before he even got it out of the holster. The woman thundered to the floor, crushing the bodies of the men she had taken care of with weak tea and tinned food. Rachel stood behind her. The gun in her hand smoked. Her stance was steady, her eyes focussed. John felt a pang of pride at the sight of her.

  "I'm here," she told them both.

  And Charlie and John smiled at each other. Yes, she was and it was the best decision they ever made.