Assassin (11 page)

Saturday night in London was always busy but tonight seemed to be worse than usual. Usually their calls around Frank Harrison's clubs took them less than two hours. They started their rounds at about seven in the evening and by nine they were back at the Mayfair casino where the cash was counted and then taken to be banked. They began with a different club every week, never using the same routine to move from place to place. Both men had worked in the underworld long enough to know that routine was a dangerous thing.

Dome had been employed by Harrison for six years, Joule a few months longer. Both men had served short terms in prison, Dome for assault, Joule for carrying a concealed weapon (something which he was doing at present) but, upon release, they had found work with Harrison as money collectors. They knew that it was a job which required trust on Harrison's part but also one which, should the takings be light, might well result in them learning to walk with sticks. But Harrison paid well and neither had been tempted to dip into the vast sums of money which the boss's clubs yielded.

As they reached Piccadilly Circus the traffic became even more perilous but Joule sped across the thoroughfare and down Piccadilly itself, past Fortnum and Mason until he came to Duke Street. He swung the car into the turnoff, cutting across the path of a bus.

Neither he nor Dome noticed the Sierra which had been following them since they left the club in Holborn.

Joule slowed down, looking for the yard at the back of the club. He spotted the entrance and swung the Astra in, narrowly missing two pedestrians who had been trying to cross.

The Sierra parked a few yards further down the street on the opposite side of the road.

Waiting.

'I won't be long,' said Dome, picking up the attaché case and hauling himself out of the car.

Joule nodded, lit up a cigarette and watched as his companion headed for the set of metal steps at the rear of the building.

The lower floor was a restaurant, also owned by Harrison, but the top floor was an unlicensed gaming club and it was from there they were to make their last pick-up of the night. Then it was back to Mayfair.

From where he sat, Joule could smell the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen. He climbed out of the car and leant against the side of the vehicle to drink in the delightful smells which wafted to him on the breeze.

High brick walls curtained the yard from the buildings on either side and the car was barely narrow enough to fit. A cat rummaged hopefully amongst the half dozen dustbins outside the kitchen's rear entrance. Joule glanced at his watch then looked up at the top of the metal steps towards the doorway that led into the club. The doorway through which his companion had disappeared a moment before.

The Sierra passed slowly, coming to a halt directly opposite the Astra which looked as if it had been jammed into the small yard.

Joule glanced round and looked at it but paid it no heed, content instead to clamber back inside the Astra. He fumbled under the seat and pulled out a newspaper, flicking disinterestedly through it. He paused at a photo of a half-naked girl and murmured `Filth' under his breath. He folded the paper and stuck it back under the seat.

The cat was still scrambling about amongst the bins and Joule watched in amusement as the animal tried to tip one of the lids off. It eventually succeeded and the top crashed to the ground with a loud clang, frightening the cat which promptly lost its footing and fell inside. Joule chuckled, not noticing that Dome was emerging from the entrance at the top of the stairs.

He also failed to notice that the Sierra was swinging across the street towards the yard.

Dome raised the case and nodded in silent affirmation that the night's work was complete.

He was half-way down the stairs when the Sierra came hurtling across the road and slammed into the back of the Astra.

Joule felt his head snap forward and he was momentarily stunned as his forehead connected sharply with the windscreen.

The impact of the two cars crashing together shunted the Astra towards the rear of the building and sent it smashing into the row of dustbins.

The cat, still trapped inside one of them, yowled in fear and surprise.

Joule spun round to see men clambering from the Sierra.

Two of them.

Dome, momentarily frozen on the metal steps, was the first to see that they carried guns.

Should he try to help his companion or run back up the steps towards the club?

He was still trying to decide when a burst of automatic fire struck the wall beside him. The staccato rattle of a submachine gun filled the night as one of the two men from the Sierra tightened his finger around the trigger of an Uzi. The 9mm slugs, travelling at a speed in excess of 1,280 feet a second, spattered the stonework and ricocheted off the metal steps with a high pitched scream.

Bright, blinding muzzle flashes lit the night, turning the yard into a stroboscopic nightmare.

Dome, still clutching the attaché case, finally turned and ran back up the stairs. The next burst caught him in the legs, one of the bullets scything through his thigh, another blasting away one testicle. He screamed in agony and fell forward, rolling over, pulling the .38 from his shoulder holster but finding that his hands were trembling badly both from the intense pain and from fear. His lower body was on fire, searing agony tearing through his legs and groin. He felt blood pouring from the wounds, smelt the rich coppery odour in his nostrils.

Joule was trying to get out of the car, trying to force open the buckled driver's door but he found that it was wedged up against the toppled dustbins.

There was a thunderous blast and the rear window was blown in, showering him with glass which cut his face. He pulled the Beretta from his belt and fired back at the attackers, forced to duck down again as a blast from the Uzi drilled across the stricken vehicle. The driver's seat was riddled with bullets, two of them erupting with sufficient force to smash Joule's left radial bone. A portion of the shattered bone tore through his flesh and he screamed in pain, the pistol dropping from his grasp.

He tried to duck down; to keep clear of the volley of fire which was drawing dotted lines of death across the yard.

Up on the steps, Dome was hauling himself agonisingly towards the door of the club.

It was a shotgun blast which caught him.

The fearful impact exploded the attaché case which he still held beside him and then powered into his side, smashing three ribs and rupturing a lung. He felt the breath torn from him and blood suddenly filled his mouth.

The second blast caught him squarely in the face, slamming his head back against the wall. His features were obliterated by the powerful discharge. The concentrated buckshot stove in his forehead and pulped his eyes before pulverizing the bones at the top of his skull. A huge portion of scalp was blown away, sticky gobs of brain splattering the wall behind him.

Joule decided his only chance was to try and ram the Sierra, to push it back into the road. He started the engine and stepped hard on the accelerator but, before he could complete his desperate manoeuvre, two 9mm bullets hit him in the back, one exploding through his chest, punching an exit hole large enough to hold two hands. Blood and portions of lung spattered the windscreen and, as blood jetted from the gaping wound, he slumped over the wheel.

The Astra shot forward, crashing into the back of the kitchen, the front of the car folding up like a concertina. The steering wheel came back at Joule like a thick javelin, crushing his already shredded chest, cracking bone like matchwood.

Pinned in the devastated car he tried to scream but blood filled his throat.

The two men were running back towards the Sierra which was reversing out into the road, the driver ignoring the curses of passing motorists.

The two men leapt in and the driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator but, as the car sped away, another burst of fire from the sub-machine gun hit the Astra, rupturing the petrol tank.

The car disappeared beneath a searing ball of orange and yellow flame.

Part of the roof was torn off and sent spiralling into the air by the force of the blast. Petrol sprayed from the flaming tank like blazing ejaculate, covering the yard with a spreading puddle of fire. Thick smoke rose into the air like noxious man-made smog.

The Sierra sped away, tyres screaming loudly as it rounded a comer and disappeared amongst the other traffic.

Money from the shotgun-blasted case wafted lazily on the warm air, some of it drifting down into the conflagration where it too was devoured by the flames.

Both of them were naked.

Both hung from the filthy wall of the supermarket, suspended by the nails which had been driven through their hands and wrists.

A tramp and a rent boy. The dregs of society.

Unwanted.

Unmissed.

The five figures which stood gazing at the corpses were silent, standing in a kind of mock vigil over the bodies. Bodies which now had not one single trace of skin on their faces and necks. The flesh had been expertly removed with knives, cut away with a care and precision which a surgeon would have been proud of. The muscles of Adam Giles' face glistened in the half-light, congealed blood already filling some of the gaps between tendons and gristle. His eyes were open, still wide with terror as if the last thing he'd seen had been indelibly printed on that blind orb for eternity. The leading figure, a tall man dressed in a dark suit now faded and dirt encrusted, stepped forward and inspected the bodies more closely, prodding first at the skinless mess which had once been Adam's face, then at the flayed visage of Danny Weller.

The young tramp's skin sat well on the features of the tall figure. He had smoothed it over his own putrescent face, covering the holes and the sores, hiding the cratered areas where the maggots had bred. The skin was loose around his ears and eyes but portions taken from other parts of the bodies could be used to foster the illusion of normality. And, like his companions, he could always wrap his face with a scarf.

Until the time was right.

Time.

Time seemed to have no meaning any more.

For what was time to a dead man? To him or his four companions? He smiled thinly, his own lips moving beneath the mask of living flesh that was already beginning to mould itself to the rotting musculature beneath.

They had time. Time to complete their task.

And that time was coming closer.

He looked at the two bodies hanging from the wall and nodded.

She had called him more than thirty minutes earlier. Now she sat on the edge of the sofa, sipping at a glass of wine and alternately looking at her solid gold Cartier watch and the large antique timepiece above the marble fireplace.

Eight-forty p.m.

Tina got to her feet and retrieved the bottle of wine, poured herself another glass and glanced out into the night.

The doorbell finally sounded and she turned and hurried to answer it.

Carter stood before her, a slight smile on his lips.

She turned away sharply from him, flicking her long blonde hair so that it fell across her shoulders and neck.

'I called Harrison more than half an hour ago,' she said.

'Is something wrong?' asked Carter, stepping inside the flat and closing the door behind him.

She still had her back to him.

'He said you wanted picking up, that you wanted to be taken to the casino. Wanted to see him.'

'I need something from him,' she said quietly, her head now bowed slightly, still facing away from Carter.

He moved closer, to within an arm's length of her.

'Tina, what's wrong?' he wanted to know.

She turned slowly, allowing him to look at her, using both hands to push her hair back.

'Jesus Christ,' he murmured as he saw the dark bruises on her throat.

She wore a loose fitting red top, the sleeves reaching her elbows but, as Carter watched, she gently pulled the sleeves up to reveal the marks on her upper arms.

'When did it happen?' he said, his voice a combination of shock and anger.

'Two nights ago,' she told him.

'Harrison?' he enquired.

She nodded and told him about the phone conversation. Or, more to the point, its aftermath.

'He's fucking mad; hissed Carter. 'The bastard.' He took a step forward and took her in his arms. They kissed fiercely, finally parting their lips but still clinging to each other.

'I didn't want you to know about this,' she told him. 'I would have kept it from you if I'd been able to.'

'I ought to kill him,' Carter snarled. 'It's a pity those blokes who tried to get him the other night didn't succeed. He should have had a bullet in him, not Jim.' He pulled her to him once more. 'And you want to go to him now? After what he's done to you?'

'I don't
want
to, I
need
to,' she said enigmatically.

'And ' what happens neat time he gets mad?' Carter demanded. 'He might kill you.'

She shook her head.

'No he won't,' she assured him. 'He needs me and as long as he does then I'm safe.'

'By safe I suppose you mean he'll have to be content with knocking you about. Is that it?' He shook his head in disbelief.

'It's not only Frank I've got to worry about though, is it?' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'I heard what happened last night. The shooting of two more of his men.'

Carter sighed.

'Yeah, it's getting bad. He's talking about a gang war. Mind you, it looks like one's already started.'

That's why I want protection,' she said. 'Frank said that he'd have men watch my flat but that's not enough. I feel like a prisoner in here anyway, I don't want to know Frank's spies are following me everywhere I go, watching everything I do.' She pulled on her coat, pausing before they left to kiss him again passionately. 'Take me to him, Ray.'