Assassin (30 page)

Paxton turned into the next road, slowing down slightly. He swung the TR7 across the street and blocked it. Then he jumped out and ran as fast as he could towards the black derelict houses where he and his companions hid.

If only he could reach the house...

The Princess came hurtling round the comer and Carter saw the running man pinpointed in the headlights of the car like a target in the cross-threads of a rifle sight. The driver put his foot down.

He drove around the TR7, up onto the pavement, and sped straight for Paxton.

The car was doing about sixty when it hit him.

The impact catapulted the running man into the air where he hung for long seconds as if suspended on invisible wires.

Then he crashed down on to the roof of the Princess, spun round, and fell into the street, his right leg broken by the collision. Burning pain enveloped him and, as he reached for the injured limb, he felt a sharp piece of bone against his finger tips. His shattered femur had ripped through the flesh of his thigh like a skeletal dagger, tearing the skin to shreds.

Blood poured from the agonising wound and Paxton tried to stifle a scream as he pressed the ragged edges of the laceration together against the spear of bone.

The Princess skidded to a halt and Carter leapt out, scurrying back towards the fallen figure.

Paxton lay flat on the cold stone pavement, his free hand slipping inside his jacket. His fingers closed over the hilt of the dagger.

He was lying on his stomach when Carter got to him.

The driver immediately dug his hands beneath Paxton's body and flipped him over on his back.

As he did, the injured man struck out with the blade.

It parted the air inches from Carter's face and he was lucky to avoid the vicious swing.

He jumped back, aiming a kick at Paxton, seeing the glistening white bone protruding from his torn thigh, the sharp end having ripped his trousers too.

Yet, amazingly, Paxton dragged himself upright and stood balanced on his one good leg, facing Carter, the knife brandished before him.

`Where's the girl?' Carter asked, pulling the 9mm Smith and Wesson from its holster and aiming it at Paxton.

`Dead,' the other man hissed.

Carter frowned but there was no conviction in the voice of his foe. Yet dare he take the chance that Paxton was bluffing? He had to know where she was.

Mitchell had joined him now and the two of them faced the crippled Paxton who was growing weaker by the minute.

Carter glanced round to see Mitchell screwing a silencer into the barrel of the Beretta.

`No sense in letting them know we're here,' said the hit man, raising the pistol. He fired once.

There was a dull thud as the gun spat out its load.

The bullet hit Paxton in the right eye, the impact pitching him backwards as it carried away a sizeable portion of his skull.

He fell into a nearby hedge, blood spouting from his empty eye socket.

`Come on; said Mitchell turning towards the deserted houses. He unscrewed the silencer and dropped it into his

jacket pocket. The two men scurried towards a tall, over- grown privet hedge which guarded the front of the derelict property. There was a rusty iron gate set on wooden posts in the hedge and they both passed through cautiously, Carter wincing as the metal groaned and creaked.

The house was in darkness, a gaunt black shape rising like a tangible portion of the night, formed from the very blackness itself.

Mitchell glanced at the front door with its blistered paint and mould but was distracted by Carter who nodded in the direction of two bulkhead doors around the side of the building. They obviously led down into a cellar. It seemed-a more sensible way of entering than by the front entrance. As yet the two men had no idea how many people they would face once they got inside the house. Their problem at the moment was to gain access.

The grass which grew around the house had not seen a mower for close to a year and it stood waist high. The men waded through it as if passing through water, heading for the bulkhead doors.

The wood was rotten, the rusty padlock which secured the doors all but useless. Using the butt of the Browning, Mitch- ell punched a hole through the rotting timber, tearing away more planks until he had opened up a hole big enough for them to enter.

A rank and fetid odour of damp and decay wafted up from below and Carter raised a hand to shield his nose from the powerful odour. He peered down into the gloom, unable to tell how far the drop to the ground was. The driver fumbled in his pocket for his lighter and flicked it on, waving it about in the darkness. It was still almost impossible to tell how far the drop was. Carter guessed it couldn't be more than ten feet.

He snapped off his lighter, dropped it back into his pocket and eased himself through the hole, gripping on to the edge of the bulkhead for support. His lower body seemed to be enveloped by cold and the smell grew almost unbearable. He felt as if he were lowering himself into a cess pit. Taking the weight on his arms, he hung there for a second or two and then let go.

The floor rushed up to meet him and Carter grunted as he hit it.

It was soft and spongy and he realized that he had landed on earth. Wet, rancid earth.

Something crawled quickly across his outstretched hand and he had to stifle a cry of surprise.

He looked up to where Mitchell was peering in through the gap.

`Come on,' whispered Carter, watching as the hit man swung himself carefully over the edge and dropped, landing heavily. He cursed and rubbed his ankle but the pain soon passed and, with Carter's help, he straightened up.

They couldn't even see their hands in front of them. The darkness was like a living thing. Thick and cloying. And there was that ever-present stench around them. Carter reached for his lighter again, flicking it on and holding it above his head. The makeshift beacon scarcely made any impression on the impenetrable blackness but, inch by inch, the two men made their way across the cellar floor, relieved when the ground began to grow firmer. Another two steps and they were on concrete. Carter lifted the lighter higher, wincing as it began to get hot.

Ahead of them was a flight of stone steps.

Carefully, they began to climb.

1.46 a.m.

'They should have been here by now,' said Michael Grant looking at his watch.

Jennifer Thomas looked at the selection of knives which lay on the table before them.

'We'll give them another ten minutes,' Grant said. 'Then we'll kill the girl.'

His words filtered through to the next room where Paul Gardner sat with his back to the wall, his watery eyes fixed on the bound form of Tina.

'Did you hear that?' he said. 'Another ten minutes and I'm going to slit your throat.' He winced as he felt fresh pain from his injured shoulder. 'You hear me?'

Tina didn't answer, she was moving her hands slowly behind her back, trying vainly to loosen the ropes which held her. Every movement brought renewed discomfort but she persevered, ignoring the fact that skin was chafing away from her wrists and lower arms as she worked to free herself. Blood had congealed on the hemp and her hands felt numb but she continued her slow, steady movements. If she was going to die, at least she would not die helpless.

Downstairs, Phillip Walton was sitting in what was once a kitchen, his feet propped up on the rotting table, a bar of chocolate held in one large hand. He sat in the gloom, quite comfortable in the darkness, waiting for Paxton and Julia to return with their captive. Walton pulled the long-bladed knife from his belt and ran one thumb over the wickedly sharp edge, pressing so hard that it sliced through the skin.

He smiled and wiped the blood on his trousers, imagining what that knife would do to Frank Harrison's face. Then, when that part of the ritual was over, there was the girl to attend to. Walton smiled again.

Carter was the fast to reach the top of the cellar steps.

He peered through the crack in the door, noticing that there was light filtering down from the stairway directly ahead of them. He assumed it came from some kind of hurricane lamp on the landing above. The ground floor seemed to be in darkness.

Mitchell pulled the Browning from its holster and then, with his other hand, turned the rusty door knob.

The door was locked.

Carter cursed under his breath.

There was no way in without crashing through the partition.

He pulled the Smith and Wesson Automatic from inside his jacket and waited.

'This is going to have to be fast,' whispered Mitchell, steadying himself.

'Set?'

Carter nodded, his heart thudding powerfully against his ribs.

Paul Gardner moaned as he moved, trying to re-adjust his position to relieve the pain from his shoulder. He gripped the machete with one hand and glared at Tina.

She sat as still as she could, her hands moving behind her back, one of the biting thongs finally coming free. She managed to ease it over the bone in her wrist, satisfied that she could now free herself completely given time. Except that time was one thing she didn't have.

Across the landing Michael Grant looked at his watch again.

It was almost time.

He picked up one of the knives which lay in front of him.

Mitchell drove a powerful kick against the door and the entire partition was ripped free of its rusty hinges. It fell to the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust. Both men dashed from the confines of the cellar, not quite sure what awaited them.

Silence.

It was as if time had been frozen.

They both stood in the hallway, turning slowly, glancing at each doorway in turn, looking up towards the landing.

Nothing moved.

Carter glanced at the hit man who seemed to be listening for something unseen.

A floorboard creaked across the hall and, suddenly, the silence was replaced by a bedlam of shouts and yells. But above all the sudden noise Carter heard one sentence more clearly than any other.

From above came the order:

'Kill the girl.'

Carter took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protesting creaks and groans of the wood which threatened to collapse beneath him.

Below him Mitchell spun round and saw Phillip Walton hurtling at him from the kitchen.

The hit man ducked beneath Walton's mad charge, using his attacker's own momentum to his advantage. As Walton struck at him with the knife, Mitchell drove his shoulder hard into the younger man's midriff, rising quickly, lifting him into the air. Walton somersaulted over the hit man and landed with a bone-jarring thud on the floor behind.

He rolled over, trying to lift himself up, hurling the knife at Mitchell who was lucky to avoid the spinning blade.

He dropped to one knee and fired twice.

The fast bullet hit Walton in the chest, tearing through his pectoral muscle above the heart and shattering a rib. The impact threw him back against the wall where he staggered for a moment, blood running freely from the wound.

The second shot caught him in the stomach. It ripped into his intestines, part of which burst through the entry wound like slippery, swollen worms, gleaming with blood. He moaned and tried to push them back into the large cavity opened by the bullet but his hands were shaking violently and all he could do was drop to his knees, blood now spilling over his lips.

He opened his mouth to shout his rage and pain but Mitchell's third bullet silenced him as it shattered his pharynx, snapping his head backwards. He collapsed in a spreading pool of crimson which soaked into the thick dust on the floor like ink into blotting paper.

As Carter bolted up the stairs the three shots sounded thunderous within the confines of the house but he didn't look back. His only concern now was to find Tina.

So preoccupied was he with his task that he didn't even see Jennifer Thomas appear from a door behind him.

Carter heard her footsteps and then all he felt was burning pain in his arm as she drove the knife into his shoulder. It felt as though he'd been punched with an icy fist. The blade grated against bone and Carter groaned, twisting to face his opponent.

She clawed at his face with her nails but he managed to bring the automatic up, using it like a club which he slammed into her face. Her nose crumbled under the impact and she fell back, dazed, her features distorted by the blow which had made her face a crimson mask. Yet she ran at him again as he tried to pull the knife from his shoulder.

Jennifer lunged at him again but Carter stepped back, hooking one foot around her ankle as she swept past him. She was jerked off her feet, losing her balance at the top of the stairs. She clutched at empty air for a moment and then pitched forward, rolling over and over, bumping down the steep steps, her head slamming against the wood as she tumbled over.

Carter dropped his pistol and took hold of the hilt of the knife, gritted his teeth and pulled.

The steel came free of his shoulder with some difficulty as he grunted in pain, dropping the bloodied blade to the floor.

The bullet which struck the balustrade close to him shocked him back into awareness. He looked down to see Mitchell aiming the Browning up towards the landing, apparently at Carter.

As he turned he realized that he was not the hit man's

target. Michael Grant threw himself towards Carter, knocking him off his feet. They landed heavily, Grant on top, using his advantage to fasten his hands around Carter's neck.

Mitchell moved up the first three steps to get a better shot, stepping over the twisted body of Jennifer Thomas in the process. He glanced down at her, not sure if she was dead or not, unable to spare the time to find out.

Weak from the wound in his shoulder, Carter could not fend off Grant's attack and he felt the other man's thumbs digging into his throat.

Grant lifted Carter's head an inch or two and slammed it down, almost knocking him out.