A Time For Justice (56 page)

Hinksman threw himself to one side at the first sight of the
gun, but Dakin froze momentarily. A moment too long.

August fired.

Dakin was propelled back against the cabin; he slithered down
onto his knees, facing August, clutching his right shoulder which
spurted blood. Once again the gun in August’s hand cracked -
smack!
- the sound
almost deadened by the heavy rain. A bullet burned its way through
the air to Dakin’s chest, burying itself deep in his heart, tearing
it to shreds.

This all happened in a matter of seconds.

Henry and Donaldson ran across the grassed area between
themselves and the lock, unable to see exactly what had transpired
because of the boat obstructing their line of sight.

They bounded over the footbridge spanning the lower gate of
the lock and onto the opposite side where they were confronted by
the scene.

August was standing there with the revolver hanging loosely in
his right hand by his thigh.

Dakin’s body was sprawled out on the deck, blood and rainwater
mixing. He was twitching.

Dakin’s two men were crouched down behind the wheelhouse, both
quivering wrecks.

Henry and Donaldson came to a halt.

A couple of steps behind August was Lisa Want, drenched, a
camera in her hand but not being used.

Henry was confused, to say the least. He couldn’t work any of
this out at all.

August turned and looked at him, a distant faraway deadness in
his eyes. His face was streaming wet, his hair plastered down on
his forehead. He had no particular expression on his countenance as
he levelled the revolver slowly at Henry.

Henry went low, bringing his own gun up, prepared to fire to
defend himself. But it was not necessary. He watched in fascination
as August, in what seemed like slow motion, drew the tip of the
revolver into his own mouth cavity and pulled the
trigger.

It was almost like his hat had been blown off in the wind -
but it wasn’t a hat - it was the top of his head.

For several seconds the newly dead man remained standing. Then
his body realised it was no more and collapsed.

Lisa Want screamed hysterically and began frenziedly trying to
wipe August’s brains off her chest.

Henry frantically looked round. ‘Hinksman!’ Where the hell is
he?’ he screamed.

As soon as the gun appeared in August’s hand, Hinksman
followed the survival instincts which had kept him alive for so
long. He immediately threw himself down to the deck, scrambling
wildly away as Dakin was hurled back against the cabin. By the time
August fired the second shot, Hinksman had vaulted over the side
rail of the boat and was running for his van.

Hinksman had started the engine before Henry and Donaldson had
even got as far as the lock. He accelerated away from the lock,
away from trouble. Desperate to clear the windscreen as his vision
through the glass was a complete blur, he fumbled for the wipers
switch, momentarily confusing it first with the headlights switch,
then with the indication controls.

‘
Fuck!’ he cursed angrily.

‘
Ram that van! Stop him! It’s Target Two!’ Henry shouted
hysterically down his radio, hoping that the transmission was being
picked up and understood by the firearms team personnel carrier
which was hurtling down the road towards the dock.

What Henry was advocating was completely against force policy.
However, in those split seconds, he reasoned that it didn’t matter
too much because there wasn’t a Chief Constable to enforce
it.

‘
Ram the bastard off the road,’
he
screamed again.

He was chasing after the vehicle on foot.

The Sergeant who was sitting in the front passenger seat of
the personnel carrier exchanged a brief glance with the driver, who
was a PC. He said, ‘Do as you’re told.’

The Constable didn’t need telling twice.

He almost stood on the accelerator pedal and the 3.5 litre
engine seemed to growl as it surged forwards.

At last Hinksman found the stalk for the windscreen
wipers.

The blades cleared the screen with their first sweep ... and
Hinksman’s eyes widened as the huge blue personnel carrier bearing
down on him filled his total vision.

He wrenched the steering wheel down to the left, but there was
no way he could avoid a collision. The bastard was aiming straight
for him.

Henry knew not to underestimate Hinksman, but he thought that
it would have been impossible for even the American to get out of
the van alive. The front end of it had clipped the front fender of
the personnel carrier and the van had been flipped over onto its
roof. Its momentum had then carried it on over the kerb where it
had smashed into the ladies’ entrance to a block of roadside
toilets.

It was a complete mess. The roof had been crushed and the
front end stove into the toilets and the windscreen shattered.
Looked like a good fatal RT A.

Henry stopped running. He holstered his gun. He walked
cautiously towards the van, past the firearms personnel carrier
which had skidded to a halt by the side of the road, virtually
undamaged.

‘
Anyone hurt?’ Henry called out.

‘
Nope.’

‘
Good.’

Then he couldn’t believe his eyes when Hinksman, apparently
uninjured, crawled out through the space where the windscreen had
once been, and sprinted away.

Henry was only feet behind. He was almost near enough to lay a
hand on Hinksman’s shoulder.

They ran behind a pub. Hinksman leapt over a low fence,
closely followed by Henry.

‘
I’ve got you, I’ve got you,’ Henry said to the beat of his
running pace.

Suddenly they found themselves on the edge of the outer dock
wall. On their right was a fifteen-foot drop into the fast-ebbing,
brown-coloured, swirling water of the River Lune.

Henry was gaining on Hinksman all the time. He was feeling
confident. Hinksman, in turn, seemed to be slowing down; perhaps he
was injured, after all.

Then without warning, Hinksman stopped, spun round on the spot
with the agility of a soccer centre forward. The move caught Henry
completely by surprise and before he could stop himself he ran
right into Hinksman’s arms.

Hinksman brought a knee up into Henry’s testicles and rammed
them home. Pain seared through his groin and he doubled up, letting
go of the American. Hinksman then punched Henry in the back of his
head and Henry dropped to the ground.

Hinksman turned and was about to run, but Henry was not having
that. Despite the pain he reached out and grabbed an ankle with
both hands, catching Hinksman off-balance, bringing him crashing
face-down to the ground. Henry fell on top of him, trying to pin
him there for as long as possible. Surely assistance could only be
moments away?

But Hinksman was strong, agile and dangerous.

He elbowed Henry in the ribs, causing him to release his grip,
and both men rolled towards the edge of the dock, clutching at each
other.

In a flash of speed Hinksman was on top and Henry’s head was
dangling over the edge.

‘
Hold it,’ came a voice. Assistance, Henry thought with
relief.

Hinksman glanced up. Then he looked down at Henry, smiled and
said, ‘Let’s go together.’ With one final surge he took both of
them off the edge of the dock into the river below.

They separated as soon as they hit the water, pulled apart
with such incredible icy force that they were powerless to
resist.

Henry struck out ferociously with his arms and legs in a
desperate panic to remain on the surface. It was a futile attempt.
He was drawn under with terrifying ease and he knew he was going to
die. He clamped his mouth shut in an attempt to keep his lungs
clear of water. He found it impossible. The dirty river water
cascaded down his nostrils instead, making his mouth open in a
gasp, then swallowing what seemed like the equivalent of a
bucketful of gritty water into his stomach and lungs. It felt as if
it was filling his head too. His body was twisted and turned,
stretched, slewed and squashed, thrown around like a piece of
clothing in a spin drier.

All in blackness. Everything freezing cold.

He knew he would be dead very soon. If not from
straightforward drowning, then from the numbing cold of the river.
It was pointless to make any effort. He might as well give up. To
struggle would achieve nothing.

Suddenly he was spat up to the surface.

Air shot down his gullet - sweet, sweet air. His eyes opened.
He saw that he was in mid-channel, surging with the tide towards
Morecambe Bay and the open sea beyond. He could see the open
dock-gates of Glasson about 150 metres away. Several figures were
looking out at him.

He tried to shout but his voice was lost in the heavy wind and
rain. A vortex twisted him round 180 degrees. Now he was looking at
the opposite bank of the river, about 120 metres off.

A second later the invisible hands of a current dragged him
under again.

This pull was long and strong and he couldn’t fight it. He
never expected to come up from it. He seemed to be under for ever,
yet only seconds later he was on the surface again, looking towards
the riverbank which appeared much nearer, about 50 metres
away.

The water covered him again, this time with less
force.

Even so, he was cold, weak and helpless.

Yet he began to fight it. Because he had something to fight
for – to find Kate. He couldn’t leave the world not knowing. This
time he rose to the surface from his own inner strength and there
was no panic in his struggle. A rush of power coursed through him
like an elemental driving force. He fixed a point on the bank and
began to use long, strong, methodical strokes, and utilising the
general direction of the flow, struck out towards the bank which
was now even closer.

The mud of the riverbank was deep, brown, sticky and smelly.
But to an almost completely exhausted Henry Christie it was as
glorious, beautiful and welcome as a tropical beach. One last push
and he was out of the water.

He was alive.

Coughing and retching, he crawled out of the river on all
fours. He rose slowly to his feet and stumbled a few steps before
weakness felled him face-down into the mud again. He was completely
covered in it now, brown from head to toe like a wallowing hippo.
But he didn’t care. He was out of the water, alive, and more or
less kicking.

With a great effort he rolled onto his back, too weak to move
any further, lying there, gasping for breath, feeling the rain
splatting onto his face. He began to shiver, but he’d already
decided that, despite the risk of hypothermia, he was going to lie
there until he was rescued. He closed his eyes and began to
cough.

There was a clicking noise near his face.

Henry looked up into the muzzle of a revolver pointed between
his eyes.

Donaldson was holding the binoculars so tightly to his eyes
that they were beginning to hurt the sockets. There was a leak in
them too, which didn’t make it any easier, and the lenses were
steaming up.

‘
Fuck this rain,’ he blasted. ‘Can’t see a damn thing
properly.’

He could make out the two figures on the opposite bank about a
mile away, one standing above the other. But that was all. They
were just stick men on a drawing. He knew one was Henry, knew one
was Hinksman, but couldn’t tell which was which.

He swore again and looked round as a rifle marksman trotted up
beside him.

Henry let his head drop back into the mud with a
‘plop’.

‘
Christ,’ he gasped, ‘I hoped you’d drowned.’

‘
Take more than a trickle of water to get rid of me,’ said
Hinksman.

He was also covered in mud, was panting heavily, and coughing
up mud and water.

Though very tired too, the one big advantage he had was that
he was holding a gun and pointing it at Henry. The gun was coated
in thick mud too, but Henry had no illusions about this. He knew it
would probably still fire and wasn’t about to take any stupid risks
on the off-chance.

Hinksman wiped the gritty mud from his eyes and mouth. ‘Well,
last time we were together like this, the roles were reversed. So,
Henry, how does it feel to have a gun pointed at you?’

‘
I love it.’

‘
Yeah, I’ll bet you do, asshole,’ sneered Hinksman.

‘
So what are you going to do? Kill me, like you killed all the
other innocents?’

Hinksman shrugged. ‘Innocent bystanders get killed
occasionally. That’s just the way it is, Henry. But I haven’t got
time to get into that debate now. So, Henry, here we are - just you
and me. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Just us two, alone. I’d
better watch myself ... you’re a pretty dangerous guy. We got lots
in common, you an’ me.’