Page 19 of Steel Trap
A huge boom from the next lot had Hatchet droppingto the ground in a crouch. It had to be a warning shot from Artie and Bull. Sure enough, seconds later, more explosions began. Propane tanks became bombs, flying through the air. Several landed on the flat roof and flames began licking over the sides. Camacho was already in the car and his goons were hustling Hatchet to join him. Hatchet took the first one out with a single punch to the jaw.His fist met flesh with a satisfying crunch but it gave him away.
“Shoot that motherfucker!” Camacho clearly didn’t believe in long-lasting friendships.
Before Hatchet could react a line of fire seared his thigh. He ignored the throbbing pain that followed and dived at the knees of the gunman. They grappled on the concrete, Hatchet using every dirty trick he knew to get the upper hand. As hefought he was aware of increasing noise levels—explosions, the wail of sirens, frantic banging on the padlocked door to the basement. Camacho was screaming for his man to get in and drive. Hatchet aimed a knee at the man’s groin and made contact. The thug screamed and clutched at his balls. His gun skittered away and Hatchet made a grab for it. His fingers closed around the butt and he scrambledto his knees.
There was a screech of tires and the stench of burning rubber as Camacho sped away, leaving his compatriot writhing on the floor. Hatchet shot him in the leg just to be sure he didn’t get up again. He rushed over to the locked door.
“Hey!” He banged on the metal. “Get away from the door. I need to shoot the lock off.” He hoped he’d been heard. The noise from within stopped sohe took a few steps back and shot out the padlock. He ripped at the chain then yanked the door open. The people inside hesitated, terror painted on their faces.
“Get outta here,” Hatchet yelled. “Run.” He knew he must present a terrifying sight, covered in dirt and blood, smoking gun in hand. A dozen or so people tore past him, disappearing into the night. He hoped they had somewhere to go. Hegrabbed the last young man as he passed. “Anyone left down there?” he asked, repeating the question in Spanish.
“No.Gracias. Gracias.”
Hatchet let him go. Catching his breath, he took in the situation. The building was well alight but there was no guarantee that the basement would burn. He needed the drugs gone. He limped over to the chain link fence separating the alley from the next lot.
“Bull, Artie…you there?”
Through a curtain of smoke, Bull appeared, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hey, Hatch, ain’t had so much fun in years, but you look like you need a Band-Aid.”
Hatchet was well aware of the uncomfortable squelch of blood and leather. His leg was on fire but he could walk. “It’s a scratch. I need some of those canisters in the basement. Need to burn a few million dollars’ worthof poison.”
“Cool.” Bull grabbed a canister then rolled it toward the fence. The chain link lifted much more easily than it should have. He shoved the propane through with his foot then went for another. “Leave this to me and Artie. You need to get clear before we go boom boom.”
“Get this done then disappear,” Hatchet ordered.
Bull gave him a salute. Hatchet left him to it. He circled the edgeof the building intending to find out what was going on at the arts venue. He couldn’t move as fast as he would have liked. Every time he took a step there was a disgusting sucking noise as blood-soaked leather separated from his flesh. He was a bit lightheaded but made it to the corner by leaning against the wall. He edged into the main street and was met by a scene of utter pandemonium. Therehad to be over a hundred people milling around. Fireworks were going off at random intervals, a few musicians had formed an impromptu band and they were performing an acoustic set accompanied by blue-light sirens from both fire tenders and cop cars. Men and women in uniform were attempting to impose order and move people farther away from the burning building, with little success, while firefighterswere connecting hoses to hydrants.
Hatchet spotted Orlando at the front of a conga line snaking its way through the bushes, well away from danger. Crow and Teddy were riding up and down, pulling wheelies and adding exhaust fumes to the clouds of smoke. Shelton was clapping at Crow’s progress. Rogue was parked off to the side, standing next to his bike, and he caught Hatchet’s eye. Hatchet raiseda hand. He couldn’t manage much else. He slumped against the building, grateful for the wall that was holding him up. He felt the explosion before he heard it—a vibration that rippled through the soles of his boots. The sound that followed was deafening and it killed the party atmosphere. Revelers scattered, screaming and running in all directions. Hatchet allowed himself a small smile. Camacho’ssupplies were gone and as far as he knew, nobody had gotten hurt. Well, apart from him. The edges of his vision blurred. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
