Assassin (31 page)

Carter brought his knee up and drove it into Grant's back. The impact was enough to make him loosen his grip slightly and Carter used his good arm to strike upwards, catching Grant a stinging blow across the face. He toppled to one side and Carter rolled over, his hand scrabbling for the dropped automatic.

Another shot exploded nearby. Then another.

Carter saw Mitchell advancing up the stairs.

Grant got to his feet, realizing he couldn't fight two armed

men. He turned to run into one of the bedrooms but Carter reached his gun. He swung the Smith and Wesson round and fired twice. The first bullet struck the wall beside the running man, blasting a huge piece of plaster from it. The second hit him in the shoulder, the impact spinning him round as blood sprayed the mouldy paintwork.

Grant overbalanced but kept moving, crawling into the enveloping darkness of the bedroom.

`Find Tina,' Carter shouted as Mitchell reached the landing.

The hit man turned to his left, into another ill-lit room.

Carter raised himself up and moved cautiously towards the bedroom into which Grant had disappeared. He paused at the door, not venturing over the threshold into the gloom, aware that his wounded adversary might be waiting to pounce on him.

The scream distracted him.

It came from deeper inside the house. From the direction that Mitchell had gone.

Carter stupidly turned slightly and, in that split second, Grant struck at him again, kicking him hard in the stomach.

Carter dropped like a stone, winded but still holding on to the pistol. Grant drove another kick into his opponent's side and Carter felt a rib crack. He rolled over in an effort to escape the onslaught, trying to bring the automatic to bear on Grant.

The floor was spattered with blood, both Carter's and his adversary's. Carter finally reached the wall and tried to rise but Grant ran at him once more, driving his shoulder into Carter's chest, slamming him up against the wall. Carter gasped for breath, the pain from his shoulder almost unbearable now, but he gritted his teeth and gripped Grant by the throat. Then, with lightning speed, he drove his head forward. His forehead connected with Grant's nose, splintering the nasal bone, stunning the other man who backed off a few paces, dazed.

It was all the respite Carter needed.

He levelled the pistol and fired repeatedly.

Bang.

The bullet tore through Grant's right lung.

Bang.

As he put up a hand to shield himself, the heavy grain shell blasted off two of his fingers.

Bang.

The third shot hit him in the chest, lifting him off his feet as it stove in his sternum, the loud crack of shattering bone audible even above the roar of the pistol.

Grant sprawled on his back, spread eagled, blood spilling from his wounds, forming a dark red cloak around him.

The stench of cordite in the air mingled with the smell of excrement but Carter seemed to ignore the odorous confirmation that his opponent was dead. He fired two more shots into Grant's head, watching with relish as the cranium was ripped apart by the staggering impacts. The skull exploded as the bullets entered it, Grant's corpse jerking as the lethal loads struck him.

Carter sucked in a deep breath and staggered past the body, almost slipping in a thick puddle of brains and blood.

But he stumbled on, trying to find Tina.

Trying to trace the scream he'd heard, praying he wasn't too late.

She hadn't screamed when she'd heard the door being broken down.

She hadn't even screamed when she heard the gunshots.

But now, as Paul Gardner rose and staggered towards her, the machete gripped in his fist, Tina had finally found the breath to scream in terror.

Gardner moved slowly, clumsily, the large-bladed weapon moving menacingly before him. He was grinning, but the smile of triumph was tempered by fear. The gunshots had startled him. The sounds of struggle had alarmed him. He knew that he must kill Tina and do it fast. He had no idea who the intruders were but he did realize that they would soon reach him.

Tina continued to struggle with the ropes which held her, openly trying to free herself as her would-be executioner drew nearer.

He steadied himself, raising the machete as if to strike.

She lashed out with her left foot, bringing it up hard between his legs.

Gardner grunted in pain and dropped the machete, one hand clutching his throbbing testicles. With the other he struck Tina, a blow which knocked her off the chair.

'Fucking bitch,' he wheezed, reaching again for the weapon, determined now to finish the job as she lay helpless, her hands still twitching, trying to remove the rope which held her to the chair.

Gardner moved closer, turning slightly as he heard footsteps approaching.

He raised the machete again, his eyes bulging wide with rage and frustration. She must die. She would die.

Tina screamed.

The sound was drowned by the deafening retorts of the Browning and the Smith and Wesson.

Tina saw both Carter and Mitchell silhouetted in the doorway guns flaming as they pumped shot after shot into Gardner.

Four. Five. Six.

Bullets continued to hit him even as he was sent skidding across the room by the deathly impacts, each fresh one blasting a new hole in him. Each wound spraying blood into the air, on to the walls. On to Tina.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

The sound of gunfire was deafening and Tina wanted to scream again as the crescendo of explosions throbbed in her ears and skull. The barrels continued to flame. Smoke wafted like a dirty curtain across the dusty room and the smell of cordite filled her nostrils.

Eleven. Twelve.

Carter felt the hammer of the 9mm slam down on an empty chamber but he watched as Mitchell put one more shot into the body which now resembled a sieve. The hit man finally released the trigger and re-holstered the pistol, the afterburn of the muzzle flashes still seared on to his retina, the thunderous roar of the pistols still reverberating inside the room.

Carter crossed to Tina and untied her, helping her to her feet.

'Are there any more of them,' he asked.

She shook her head.

'What about Frank?' she wanted to know. 'Is he dead?'

There was a note of anticipation in her voice but Carter merely shook his head almost disappointedly. He helped her up and the three of them moved back towards the landing.

Tina looked at Carter's injured shoulder with concern but he seemed oblivious to the raging pain from the stab wound, more concerned with the injuries which Tina had sustained.

Mitchell followed them on to the landing, Carter turning towards the stairs.

He had taken just two steps when he realized that the body of Jennifer Thomas no longer lay where it had fallen.

He heard movement behind him, heard the arc of the wood as it came crashing down onto his head. Heard the roar of Mitchell's Beretta.

Then the floor was rushing up to meet him.

Pain was forgotten.

Darkness.

Daylight was flooding through the half-drawn curtains, touching his face as if trying to coax him from his stupor.

Ray Carter felt the warmth on his skin and opened his eyes slowly. He blinked hard and rolled over.

Sudden savage pain shot through him as he flopped on to his side. His shoulder felt as if it was ablaze and he hastily moved on to his back once more, relieving the pressure. He reached up tentatively towards the injured shoulder and was surprised to feel a large pad of gauze covering the wound, held in place by a bandage which had been expertly applied.

Carter blinked again, trying to clear the fog which seemed to cloud his memory. He had another bandage on his head and, as he sat up, he felt a dull ache at the back of his neck.

Events slowly came back to him.

The chase through Whitechapel. The gunfire. The stabbing. The shattering blow across his head.

And Tina.

She was alive, or at least she had been last time he'd seen her. He hauled himself further up in bed, suddenly realising that it was
his
bed. He was in his own flat, cleaned up and bandaged as if by some phantom nurse.

'I thought you were dead,' a voice snapped, close to him. Carter rubbed his eyes and turned to see Frank Harrison standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee in his hand.

'What are you doing here, Frank?' Carter wanted to know, wincing as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

'Looking after your
nurse
,' said the gang leader, emphasising the last word with irritation.

As he spoke, Tina appeared beside him.

`Are you all right, Ray?' she wanted to know, taking a step towards him.

'He's fine,' snapped Harrison, extending an arm to block Tina's advance.

'How did I get back?' Carter wanted to know. 'I remember being laid out by one of those bloody nutters, then nothing at all.'

'I told Mitchell to bring you back here,' Tina explained. 'I dressed your wounds.'

'What else did you do?' Harrison wanted to know, gripping Tina's shoulder. 'You were alone here for a couple of hours before you called me.'

'I was unconscious for fuck's sake,' Carter said. 'Talk sense, Frank.'

Harrison took a step forward, one finger pointing menacingly at Carter.

'Don't pop off to me, Carter. I want to know what happened here last night. I want to know what you two got up to before I arrived.'

'Like Ray said, he was out cold.'

There was an uncomfortable silence while Harrison took a sip of his coffee, glaring first at Tina and then at Carter.

'What happened to Mitchell?' Carter wanted to know.

'He's waiting for us now,' Harrison said. 'He called here to say he'd be at the Mayfair casino to pick up his money.'

The gang boss glanced at his watch. 'That was an hour ago.'

Carter nodded gently, pain throbbing inside his head but, nevertheless, he began to unwind the bandage around his cranium, feeling the large bump at the back of his skull.

'What are you going to do about Mitchell?' Carter wanted to know.

'Kill the bastard,' Harrison said flatly. 'I said I would when all this was over.'

'That might be easier said than done,' Carter reminded him.

'Well it better work because you're going to help me. Get your clothes on and let's go.'

The driver glared at Harrison before reaching for his shirt and pulling it on, wincing as it slid over his injured shoulder,

'And Tina? What about her?' Carter asked.

'She comes with us.'

'It could be dangerous ...'

Harrison cut him short.

'I'II worry about that,' he said. 'She's my concern not yours.'

Harrison downed what was left in his coffee cup and turned towards the kitchen, leaving Carter to dress. The driver glanced briefly at Tina who chanced a smile and then followed Harrison.

Carter reached for his pistol, strapping it on, ensuring that the 9mm automatic nestled beneath his left armpit. Then he pulled on his jacket.

'Come on,' Harrison snapped. 'I want to get this over with.'

Carter glanced at his watch.

It was 11.36 a.m.

'He's late.'

David Mitchell glanced at his watch and then at the clock on the wall of Harrison's office.

'That's not my fault,' Damien Drake protested.

'Maybe I'll just take the money and go anyway.'

'You can't do that.'

Mitchell raised one eyebrow quizzically and looked at Drake.

'Why? Who's going to stop me? You?' The hit man's voice was low but full of menace.

'I don't know the combination of the safe. I can't get to the money. You'll
have
to wait for Harrison to get here.' There was a note of concern in Drake's voice. Even the pistol beneath his left armpit didn't give him the reassurance he needed in Mitchell's presence. The hit man got to his feet and began pacing the room slowly.

He stopped abruptly as he heard footsteps outside the office door.

Drake smiled thinly, relieved that Harrison had finally arrived. However, there was a moment of silence outside the door, the handle was turned slowly, almost tentatively.

The figure which entered was not Harrison.

This man was taller, older. Dressed in a dark coat which reached as far as his knees. Both hands were tucked into his pockets. As the man entered the room Drake and Mitchell became aware of a growing chill in the air and also of a rank odour which made the hit man frown.

The newcomer remained motionless, eyes flicking slowly back and forth between the two men.

Mitchell took a step backwards, his fingers flexing slightly.

'How the fuck did you get up here?' Drake wanted to know. 'The casino's closed. This area is private.'

'You're Damien Drake,' said the figure, his voice low and rasping, as if his throat was clogged with mucus.

Drake frowned.

'How do you know me?' he demanded.

'We met. Once. A couple of years ago. In the East End.'

'What do you want?' Drake asked but some of the bravado had gone from his voice, replaced instead by uncertainty. Fear?

'You could say I've got some unfinished business.'

'Who are you?'

'Charles Ross.'

Drake frowned; then his mouth began to curl up at the corners in a smile. But the gesture never touched his eyes.

'Ross,' he chuckled humourlessly. 'Charlie Ross is dead.'

The smile faded.

'Yes. And so are you.'

The movement was swift. So swift that neither Drake nor Mitchell had time to reach for their own weapons.

Ross pulled open his coat, both hands closed around an Ingram M-10, the normally compact sub-machine gun looking huge because of the bulbous silencer attached to the barrel. He tightened his finger on the trigger and opened fire, spraying the stream of bullets back and forth across the room, the deadly fusillade drawing dotted lines of death across both Drake and Mitchell.