Captives (33 page)

    Hitch slammed the cassette hard against the crate. Once. Twice. It cracked, then split open.

    Yards of video tape spilled onto the deck, along with pieces of broken plastic.

    And a small plastic bag full of white powder.

    He tore it open, moistened the end of one gloved finger then dipped it in the substance and touched it to his tongue. It felt cold as the powder reached his tastebuds. He smiled thinly and motioned the tall man back. Morton looked across expectantly.

    'We've got it,' said Hitch, smiling. 'Now let's get it loaded and get out of here.'

    

    

    He was beginning to get cramp in his right leg.

    Jim Scott massaged his calf for a moment, then pushed open the driver's side door of the Lancia and clambered out. The chill night air hit him like a fist. He recoiled, but the iciness in the breeze freshened his skin and helped to dispel the lethargy he had been feeling sitting in the car. He walked around the vehicle a couple of times, stretching his legs, stopping by the bonnet to squat down on his knees. As he straightened up he heard the joints pop and winced.

    The river was silent. From where he stood, Scott could see nothing but the curling black tongue of water cutting through the centre of the city. He crossed the road, pausing on the kerb and looking back towards the Lancia. The two-way radio Hitch had been using was still on the passenger seat. Perhaps Scott should take it with him in case someone tried to make contact.

    Fuck it. They knew where he was if they wanted him.

    He strode across the road and headed towards the quayside, leaning against the black metal fencing that ran along the embankment. He gazed down river but could see nothing.

    Behind him a car passed and he turned to look at the occupants. It was a young couple, who both looked at him for a second before driving on.

    The girl was blonde.

    A little like Carol?

    He rested one foot on the fence and leant forward, hawking loudly, sending a projectile of sputum into the river below.

    Where the fuck was she?

    Why hadn't she called him? All he wanted to know was if she was all right. Just a phone call would satisfy him.

    Would it hell.

    He needed to see her, speak to her, touch her. He felt anger and concern in equal measures. It was the uncertainty that was so infuriating, not knowing where she was. His whole life had become a series of unanswered questions in the past few days. First Carol and now this.

    This? This fucking job?

    He asked himself again why they needed him here. He still could not begin to imagine why, as Hitch had told him, Ray Plummer had specifically asked for him to be included. He kicked irritably at the metal fence and then turned and headed back towards the car, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket.

    Behind him, the river flowed by.

    

    

    It took just over forty-five minutes to unload the crates (sixteen in all) from The Sandhopper to The Abbott.

    Hitch, Morton and McCann stood over the other three men while they transferred the precious cargo, guns trained on them at all times.

    'And there's twenty million quid's worth in there?' Morton said quietly, watching as the tall man lowered the last crate into the hold.

    'Twenty million quid's worth of coke,' Hitch said.

    'That's all of it,' said the tall man, wiping perspiration from his forehead. Beside him, the youngest of the three was trying to pull a splinter from his palm.

    Hitch motioned them back onto The Sandhopper.

    'Thanks for your help, fellas,' he said, smiling. Then, looking across at Morton, 'Start the engine, Terry, we've finished.'

    'You're making a fucking big mistake,' said the second man, his teeth clenched in anger. 'When Connelly finds out about this…'

    The sentence was interrupted abruptly as Hitch fired.

    The first bullet hit the man in the chest, staving in the sternum, cracking two ribs and ripping through a lung. Gobbets of pinkish-grey matter exploded from the exit wound below the right shoulder blade. The man pitched backwards, blood spouting from the wound.

    'What the fuck…' shouted McCann as he saw Hitch turn on the other two men.

    The younger of the two ran for the side of the boat, perhaps in an attempt to dive over the side. A last desperate attempt to escape into the murky waters.

    The first bullet hit him in the back, severing his spine. He crumpled to the deck, his sphincter muscle giving out. The soft sound of voiding filled the air as he rolled over in agony like a fish out of water.

    The tall man fared no better.

    Hitch shot him in the face, watching as he toppled backwards, most of his bottom jaw blown off by the close-range blast.

    Hitch moved swiftly from one body to the other, firing another shot into the head of each man. Into the nape of the neck of the youngest, who was lying on his stomach with part of his spine exposed, the flesh and muscle ripped away by the 9mm bullet.

    Hitch jumped back aboard The Abbott and slapped Morton on the shoulder.

    'Get us away from here,' he said sharply, and the other man guided the smaller boat away, allowing it to pick up speed.

    'What the hell did you kill them for?' shouted McCann.

    'They saw our faces,' Hitch said flatly. 'They knew we were with Plummer.'

    'That's bullshit,' snapped McCann.

    if word of this had got back to Connelly there'd be gang war,' Hitch told him. 'We couldn't have left them alive.'

    'Bollocks,' McCann roared. 'You didn't have to kill them.'

    Hitch grabbed him by the lapels, pulling him close.

    'And what the fuck would you have done with them, hot shot? Invited them out for a drink?' Hitch snarled. He pushed his companion away. 'We leave the boat to float there now. By the time somebody finds them there'll be nothing to link us to the killings.'

    McCann sighed and banged his fist against the side of the boat.

    'Shit,' he murmured. 'Fucking shit.' He let out a long breath then turned to look at Hitch. 'I suppose you're right.'

    Hitch nodded.

    Morton was already guiding the boat in towards the quay.

    Hitch moved closer to the prow.

    'What now?' McCann wanted to know, i'm getting off here. I've got to let Plummer know it went okay. You carry on down to Putney Bridge, get this lot unloaded. You know what to do with the boat.' He looked at McCann then at Morton. 'Sink it.'

    Morton nodded.

    Hitch was about six feet from the edge of the pier when he jumped, landing with surprising agility. He brushed dust from his sleeve and headed towards the flight of stone steps that led up to the embankment. The boat was already chugging away towards Putney. Hitch smiled and crossed the road to the Lancia, pulling open the door and sliding into the passenger seat.

    'Let's go,' he said.

    'I heard some shooting,' Scott told him, starting the engine. 'What was it?'

    'Nothing for you to worry about, Scotty,' Hitch told him. 'Just get me to a phone, will you?'

    Scott started the engine and drove off.

    Hitch fumbled inside his jacket and pulled the Beretta free. He passed it to Scott.

    'Take it,' he said sharply.

    The driver did as he was instructed, slipping it back inside the holster, feeling the slight warmth in the metal.

    'Tell me what happened,' he demanded. 'This fucking gun has been fired.'

    'I had to frighten one of them,' Hitch lied. 'Fired above his head.'

    Scott looked across at his companion.

    'You better be telling me the truth,' he said threateningly, 'or I'll use the fucking thing on you.'

    Hitch looked at him and saw the anger in Scott's eyes. He had no doubt at all that Scott meant what he said. He persisted with the lie, nevertheless.

    'I had to frighten them, Scotty, I told you,' he said quietly.

    'I heard six fucking shots,' Scott said. 'Why so many?'

    'Just drive,' Hitch said.

    Scott pulled the car over to the kerb, his right hand slipping inside his jacket. He pulled the pistol free and shoved it against Hitch's cheek.

    'How many shots did you fire?' he snarled. 'Tell me or I'll blow your fucking head off.' He thumbed back the hammer.

    'Six,' Hitch said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled his own pistol free. 'Here, take the mag out of my gun, replace it with the one from yours.'

    Scott seemed satisfied by this and slipped the magazine free from his own pistol, jamming in the full one he'd taken from Hitch's Beretta. The two men glared at each other for a moment.

    'That temper of yours is going to get you into trouble one day, Scotty,' Hitch told him. 'You ever pull that on me again and I'll fucking kill you.'

    'You'll have to be quicker than you were a minute ago, then,' Scott hissed and pulled the car away from the kerb.

    'Just get me to a phone,' Hitch said irritably.

    Scott drove on.

    'There.'

    Hitch pointed to the pay phone on the corner of the street and Scott brought the Lancia to a halt, watching as his companion walked across to the phone, picked it up and dialled, feeding more money in.

    'Ray, it's me,' said Hitch. 'It's done. Yeah, everything. Well, nearly everything.' He smiled. 'Scott's going to drop me off. No, didn't need him.' He listened for a moment, glancing round at his companion in the car. 'Right. I'll call you tomorrow.' He replaced the receiver, scooped his change out of the slot and walked back towards the car, clambering into the passenger side.

    Scott drove on.

    Ten minutes later he dropped Hitch off close by Clapham Junction Station then drove away, heading home. The traffic was light at such an hour. He might make it back by four in the morning, once he'd dumped the car.

    

    

    Hitch watched the tail lights of the Lancia disappear and headed for the public telephones nearby. He fed more money into the machine, smiling as he dialled.

    

    

    He fumbled with the key, trying to push it into the lock, cursing when it wouldn't turn. Finally the door opened and Scott stepped inside. He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, catching his breath.

    He'd dumped the car a mile away and walked back to his flat, passing less than half a dozen other people along the way. He'd gone over the car with a cloth, wiping fingerprints from the steering wheel and the door handles, then he'd tossed that into the Lancia, locked it and hurled the keys away. Scott stood motionless for long moments, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His body ached mainly through lack of sleep, he told himself, reluctant to admit he was so unfit that a mile walk had drained him of energy. Finally he wandered through into the kitchen, pulled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. He hastily unfastened the shoulder holster, too, and laid it on the table, then crossed to the fridge, found a can of 7-Up and drank deeply. He carried the can with him into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and turned on the shower. He sat on the toilet, watching the spray, waiting for the water to warm up, sipping his drink.

    His head was pounding. It had been ever since he'd dropped Hitch off. Scott reached up and massaged his own shoulders as best he could.

    He needed someone to do this for him. Someone to soothe away the ache.

    Like Carol?

    For once he pushed the vision of her to the back of his mind, his thoughts focusing instead on the events of that night. Most particularly on the six shots that Hitch had fired. Six shots just to frighten the crew of The Sandhopper? Scott shook his head.

    He got to his feet and thrust a hand into the spray, satisfied that it was warm enough. He stepped under it, enjoying the feel of the water on his skin, his eyes closed, still confused about what was going on. About Carol. About what had happened that night. Christ, things were becoming a mess and he could see no way of sorting them out. He had to speak to her. Even if it meant sitting on her doorstep until she either came out of her flat or came home from wherever she was.

    For all he knew she could be dead.

    He opened his eyes, rubbing his face with both hands, increasing the speed of the jets so that the water stung his skin when it struck him.

    He didn't even hear the knocking on the door.

    The rushing of water from the shower masked every other sound.

    The knocking came again, more insistently this time.

    Scott ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it back tight against his scalp.

    The banging on the door had become more frenzied.

    He reached for the soap and began to wash.

    There was a thunderous crash as the door was smashed in. It flew back on its hinges and crashed against the wall with an almighty bang.

    Scott heard it at last and looked around, fumbling for the taps, trying to turn off the shower.

    There was movement in his sitting room, in his kitchen. He heard voices. Then, through a gap in the shower curtain, he saw a dark shape.

    What the hell was happening?

    The dark shape was coming closer.

    Scott steadied himself, waiting until the shape was only a couple of feet from him, then leapt forward, crashing into the intruder.