Ryker looked over to the window. The curtains were now pulled apart a few inches and flapped in the gentle breeze. Ryker darted over and looked out. He saw Miguel below, sprinting barefooted down the street. The boy glanced behind him, up at Ryker. The panic in his eyes was unmistakable even at distance. Ryker lifted the window further and stuck his head out to peer down.
Three floors below was a set of industrial waste bins, lids closed. No drain pipes or any other means to climb down. Miguel had jumped. Probably not a problem on fifteen-year-old knees when you weighed as little as a feather pillow. But the mere thought of Ryker’s two-hundred-pound frame smashing down on his joints made him wince.
Too late. With Ryker stuck in a moment of hesitation, the bedroom door crashed open. Ryker spun round, raised his gun, and fired a single shot as he ducked down into a defensive crouch. The Colt boomed, the sound echoing through the small apartment. The speeding bullet caught the giant under his chin. At such close proximity, there was little to stop the projectile’s momentum as it pushed through bone and brain. It burst out the top of the guy’s head leaving an orange-sized hole. His body collapsed, remnants of his skull and the inside of his head spread over the floor and wall behind him.
Ryker still had his gun held out, pointing toward the doorway. He’d expected an immediate onslaught from the Vor. The big guy was certainly armed – his lifeless hand was wrapped around the butt of a Glock handgun. Ryker could only assume Sergei was armed too.
So where was he?
Ryker remained still for a few seconds. He heard nothing. Then after a few beats, Miguel’s mother – out of sight – groaned. Ryker slunk to the door and pulled up against the adjacent wall. He stole a glance out into the hallway.
Miguel’s mother was stirring. Still sprawled on the floor, she was making slow, awkward movements. But there was no sign of Sergei.
Ryker didn’t hesitate another second. He turned and grabbed the Glock from the dead guy’s grip, then headed for the window. If he went out the door, he’d only be tracking down Sergei, and Ryker couldn’t be sure whether the Vor was hiding, waiting to pounce. In any case, taking out Sergei wasn’t the immediate aim. Saving a fifteen-year-old boy from the mob was.
Ryker clambered to the window and moved himself over the edge. He hung his body down, his legs reaching below, and cutting the distance to fall considerably. Then he let go.
As soon as his feet touched down on the lid of the bin below, Ryker bent his knees and moved his heavy body into a roll. The move saved his joints from a jarring contact, but the momentum of the roll took him over the edge of the bin. Ryker dropped to the pavement and landed painfully on his left shoulder.
Despite the thudding impact, Ryker was up and on his feet within a second, running on adrenaline. He sprinted down the road, heading in the same direction Miguel had gone in. Ryker’s Colt was back in his waistband. He quickly checked over the Glock as he ran. The magazine was full.
Every few steps, Ryker glanced behind. There was no sign of Sergei or anyone else in that direction, and no sign of Miguel ahead.
Ryker came to a junction and looked in each direction. Still no sign of where Miguel had run to. Ryker thought about shouting out, was about to, then screeching tyres off to his left caught his attention. He turned and looked down the road.
Fifty yards ahead, where the road intersected another, a panel van came into view. Smoke flew up from the tyres as it came to a crunching halt. As the side door of the van opened, Ryker spotted Miguel. He’d been hiding on the other side of a parked car. When the van stopped, Miguel sprang out into the open, running back down the road toward Ryker.
Without thinking, Ryker sprinted toward the boy. He shouted for Miguel to move out of the way. To get down. But Miguel kept on running. Running for his life.
The side door of the van slid open. Sergei was there, an automatic rifle in his hand. Without hesitation, he lifted the weapon and fired.
Ryker raised the Glock and screamed out as the rifle blasted. A succession of bullets tore through Miguel’s torso and he plummeted. Momentum sent his skinny body skidding along the road to a stop.
As he ran to the fallen boy, Ryker opened fire with the Glock. The first bullet hit the tarmac. The second hit the side of the van. Sergei was turning his rifle on Ryker before a bullet clanked into the weapon’s barrel. The Vor reeled back and shouted as Ryker pulled on the trigger of the Glock again and again. The van sped forward, Sergei hanging out of the open door with an evil smile on his face.
A second later, the van was out of sight and Ryker realised he was pulling the trigger on a now-empty gun. Frustration and anger gripping him, Ryker hurled the weapon and looked down at the sorry form of Miguel. He rolled the boy onto his back. His eyes were ghostly. Ryker got down on his knees and felt for a pulse. Then he leaned down further and placed his ear close to Miguel’s mouth, looking downwards across the boy’s chest.
It only took Ryker a few seconds to confirm what he’d already feared.
Ryker rolled away, but stayed on the ground. He felt numb. A harrowing scream from behind Ryker sent a shock of emotion through him. Ryker didn't move as Miguel’s mother, blood streaming from her nose, slid to a stop on the ground and clutched at the body of her dead son. Ryker stared into the distance, trying to bring his mind back into focus, trying to remove himself from the horror of the situation in front of him.
It was no good. He couldn’t. He’d barely known Miguel Ramos, but he was just a kid. A kid who was lost. A kid who’d been used. He didn’t deserve to die. Not like that. And the mother... Ryker couldn't even imagine her pain.
Miguel’s mother let go of her son and she flung herself at Ryker, screaming hysterically. She bashed him in his chest with her fists. She slapped him in the face. Punched him. Shoved him. He barely registered her.
Forcing himself back to reality, Ryker brushed her off and got to his feet. He didn’t say a word to her as he walked away. Just filled his head with thoughts of bloody revenge.
CHAPTER 51
Ryker made a cursory call to Green as he sped back along the motorway away from Malaga. He only wanted to make sure there had been no further incidents at Casa de las Rosas – no further sightings of the Red Cobra. Green said all was quiet. He’d been making progress in organising a safe location for Walker, but it would likely take hours, possibly days, more to finalise. Until then, Walker would remain at home with his armed guard.
Ryker ended the call without saying a word of what he’d been doing, what he’d found, or of the fight that ended with a young boy being gunned down. And he certainly hadn’t breathed a word of what he was now planning.