Facing the lone remaining Mududa warrior, Likash saw no fight. No bravery. Instead he saw cowardice. Fear.
Now he could scream. A blood-flecked roar gurgled from his mutilated tongue.
The Mududa in front of him took flight.
Likash let him go. He had no appetite for another chase. No hunger for further punishment. Let this man escape. If he dared to return a failure, he would tell the Mududa Lord of Likash’s triumph by his sole presence.
Using his club, he extinguished life from any Mududa who still breathed before setting off for home.
Likash looked forward to telling his King of the fight. Another wife or two would be his reward. War may even be declared. That would signal a rise in his tribal standing.
BIO:
Graham Smith is married with a young son. A time served joiner he has built bridges, houses, dug drains and slated roofs to make ends meet. For the last eleven years he has been manager of a busy hotel and wedding venue near Gretna Green, Scotland.
An avid fan of crime fiction since being given one of Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books at the age of eight, he has also been a regular reviewer and interviewer for the well respected review site Crimesquad.com for over three years.
He has three collections of short stories available as Kindle downloads and has featured in anthologies such as True Brit Grit and Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Vol 1 as well as appearing on several popular e-zines. His first collection Eleven the Hardest Way was nominated for a Spinetingler award. Twitter: @GrahamSmith1972
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1316200537 &ref=tn_tnmn
Blog: http://grahamsmithwriter.blogspot.com/
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Graham-Smith/e/B006FTIBBU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
http://www.amazon.com/Graham-Smith/e/B006FTIBBU/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
97 WAYS TO DIE IN ISTANBUL By Paul Grzegorzek
Steam from the tea on the table in front of me curled upward in lazy spirals, joining the swirling cigarette smoke that hung, haze-like below the awning that shielded us from the merciless midday sun.
The other tables outside the café were crowded with men sheltering from the heat, drinking tea, smoking, playing draughts and backgammon while the noise of their conversation punctuated the gloom like the buzzing of angry wasps.
Raising the glass to my lips, I took a sip of the hot tea, the bitterness eased with a hint of cinnamon.
I said nothing as I studied the man opposite me. It appeared that he had woken up that morning and decided to adhere as closely as he could to the stereotype of a traditional middle-aged Turkish man.
One of the first things that had surprised me about Turkey was the sheer number of different skin tones and hair colours of its native peoples. I'd always thought of the Turks as dark haired and wiry with naturally tanned skin, but it was just as common to see red or blonde hair, blue and green eyes, and skin so fair that it burned just looking at the sun.
Not so Erkhan Cosar. He was in his mid-forties, his thick dark hair greased back and speckled with gray. Several days worth of stubble surrounded a black moustache so thick that it seemed to take on a life of its own.
He wore a dark blue shirt with alternating bands of colour shot through it, red, yellow, orange and green, the shirt trying and failing to cover the dirty white vest from behind which sprouted a forest of chest hair.
Taking a long drag of his cigarette, he breathed out a plume of smoke that hit my face like a slap.
"So, Mr Price," he said in horrifically accented English, his R's rolling the words to the edge of understanding, "you wish to make a purchase, eh?"
I nodded, the small movement enough to send fresh rivers of sweat down my already soaked back.
"That's correct. I believe my colleague has already detailed to you exactly what I need?"
Erkhan raised his hands, palms up and shrugged.
"He was not exactly clear, no. And we did not discuss price."
I held back a smile. Every piece of business I'd ever done in Turkey was vague and slightly confusing until a price was agreed. Once that was done, the vagueness would disappear with startling speed and you'd find yourself on the sharp end of proper Turkish efficiency.
I took another sip of tea, and glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear our conversation.
"I need a pistol, 9mm. Minimum of fifteen rounds per clip, seventeen would be better. Also a silencer, new. I don't want to find it getting loud on me after a few shots. Three extra magazines and one hundred rounds."
Erkhan leaned back and looked at me appraisingly. I knew that he would be desperate to find out why I needed the weapon. If there's one thing Turkish men love more than drinking tea and playing backgammon, it's gossip.
"That won't be cheap," he said with a feral smile, testing the water.
I shrugged. "Money isn't the problem, so long as the price is fair. Time is. I've been assured that you're the man to see if I need exotic goods quickly. If that isn't the case…"
I let the sentence hang and pulled out my wallet to pay for the tea, making sure that he could see the fat wodge of Turkish Lira and US dollars within.
Erkhan sighed and stubbed his cigarette out, the rickety wooden table wobbling as he stabbed the butt into the ashtray several times.
"You English," he said mournfully, "are pitifully bad when it comes to the formalities of haggling. I can get what you need right away. It will cost you," he paused while he worked out how much he could overcharge me by, "two thousand Lira."
I did a quick calculation in my head. Two thousand Lira was about £700. Cheap for the UK but horrendously expensive for Istanbul, where you could buy an AK47 for less than a thousand pounds.
"I'll give you the equivalent of fifteen hundred in US dollars," I offered.
He squinted up at the awning while his lips moved silently, then he grinned and nodded, leaning forward to shake my hand before I could change my mind.
"Done. Come with me." He dropped a five Lira note to pay for the tea, then led me out into the narrow, brick paved street. The sun hit me like a napalm strike, every inch of me too hot in the space of one burning breath.
Fishing my shades out of my shirt pocket I followed my guide through a maze of twisting streets, stepping around men with carts, shouting out the eclectic items they had for sale, from televisions to fresh fruit, and one man even selling fish from a rapidly melting pile of ice in the centre of his cart.
Women in full Burkas rubbed shoulders with teenage girls in miniskirts and crop tops, while young men with carefully styled hair and designer clothes swaggered past, silver and gold flashing at throat and wrist.
We'd only gone two streets when I picked up the tail. Two men, one in his forties with a tweed jacket over a pale yellow shirt, the other a young man with a thin fake-leather jacket, skinny jeans and a pair of oversize shades that made him easy to spot in the reflection from shop windows and cars.
Their wearing jackets in the heat wasn't particularly unusual, plenty of men here did. What gave them away was the way the older man kept his left arm stiffly pressed against his side to secure something beneath his jacket, and the way the younger man's right hand kept drifting into his jacket so that his fingers could brush something reassuringly.
Another five streets later I realised we were travelling in a wide circle. I wasn't particularly concerned. I had no doubt the men were Erkhan's, his occasional casual glances in their direction was enough to prove that, and they were most likely there to make sure I had no one following as well, in case I decided to rob them.
A call to prayer rang out from a nearby mosque, the plaintive sound echoing through the streets as I stepped aside to let a sleek black BMW pass as it navigated the tiny, pedestrian filled road.