Fogarty: A City of London Thriller (40 page)

***

The four men in the wooded area were bored. They had laughed at Mapperley’s jokes, but the game was almost over. Each of the four men were supposed to be concealing themselves behind tree trunks, having checked the area for interlopers. One was relieving himself of his earlier beers as the car lights flashed. The wooded area was dark, but there was some light emanating from the car park barriers. It was this light which allowed the four men to see their n
emeses, if only in silhouette.

Out of the canopy above their heads dropped two figures, so large and yet so nimble that they seemed unreal, like spectres. The urinating man turned to look as he heard the brush of leaves above him. Before he could register what he saw, a hand the size of a baseball glove took hold of his head and rammed it into the tree trunk. The remainder of his bladder emptied, forming a p
ool under his unconscious body.

Simultaneously with the first man hitting the tree, a second spectre descended and threw a punch at the flanking guard, which was so hard the recipient was lifted off his feet before landing outside of the tree line, brain damage more of a
probability than a possibility.

With the two outside men taken without a fight, Scouser and Bobby managed to get to their weapons. Bobby lifted his baseball bat and Scouser crouched behind an ugly looking knife. Both facing outwards, backs to each other, the two criminals watched the shadows take human form and come towards them. Scouser saw his target come into the light first and screamed like a girl. The man, if it was a man, was maybe seven feet tall, wearing only a loincloth, and his face was painted like a voodoo mask. Mad eyes glared at the Liverpudlian and he knew his bowie knife would never be enough. Waving it wildly in front of him to ward away the evil heading in his direction, he backed off. The being before him stood tall, raised his arms and made an awful and terrifying sound before rushing at the knifeman. Then suddenly he was gone; he had quite literally disappeared before Scouser’s eyes. The Liverpudlian was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief when he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. The spectre was behind him. Two arms encompassed him and interlocked, crushing him until his ribs splintered, one fatally skewering his lung. A mouthful of blood and bodily matter spilled from h
is lips as he died on his feet.

Bobby couldn’t worry about Scouser; he had to lay out this big bastard with the painted face. Bobby wasn’t too worried. He knew how to wield a club to best effect. The figure came into range and Bobby swung at his head. It was more shock than surprise for Bobby when he failed to connect and the bat swung through the empty air. Then, from under the arced swing of the bat rose a behemoth, snarling and spitting like a madman. Bobby lost control of his bowels as the madman’s head flew into his face, leaving no bone undamaged. Bobby slid down the tree trunk, his face destroyed, bubbles of blood frothing from what had been his lips. Bobby was not unconscious, but he prayed that he soon would be as his vis
ion started to close in on him.

****

Mapperley and the others stared into the darkness of the wooded area but could see nothing, their night sight blinded by the wash of the fluorescent tube above their heads.

“Get the case open! Now!” Mapperley ordered Ben, before shouting to the crew member who had been hiding in a door recess. “Ronnie, stand guard at the entrance, and use your radio to find
out what’s going on.”

Ben looked steadily at Mapperley. His tone was almost casual. “You know, Gavin, now I come to think about it, I don’t think I will open the case.” Mapperley was enraged, and not a little scared b
y Ben’s sudden lack of respect.

“Alastair, if he doesn’t open the case in five seconds, shoot him!” Mapperley barked. Uncertain, and not convinced he could find it within himself to shoot a man in cold blood, Dein nonetheless pointed the gun at Ben’s head and began counting down from five, praying that Ben would just open the damn case. Meanwhile, Tug walked out into the yard with his gun drawn. The wooded area was silent now, but he had the soldier’s instinct. There was someone in there and he would take them down. With a confidence borne of real battle experience, he stealthily wove his way towards the trees
, maintaining cover as he went.

“Three…..two…..one,” Dein stuttered finally before a shot rang out and reverbe
rated around the enclosed yard.

“Bloody amateurs!” Tug Kaplinski thought as he made his way reluctantly back to the workshop. “They’ve shot the only
man who knew the combination.”

*
**

Mapperley knew things were out of control, and so he grabbed the unopened case and pulled it off the bench. It was heavier than he had imagined. Fogarty had made it look easy, but he had been a muscle bound
All Blacks
rugby player. With a heave he managed to get the case into the Jaguar and slam the back door shut. He walked around to the driver’s side and saw Tug heading back to the workshop.

***

Ben had been convinced that Alastair would not pull the trigger; he could see it in the man’s eyes. He was also convinced that Mapperley would stop him at a count of one rather than lose the combination. He was wrong on both counts. When Dein had reached one, Ben started to dive for cover, but he was too late. No matter how fast a man can move, a bullet is faster. As he saw the Scotsman make the killing decision, Ben squeezed his eyes shut.

***

Dein had no choice. He had to pull the trigger; he was trapped. As his finger moved off the trigger guard and onto the trigger itself, a shot rang out and the gun dropped involuntarily from his right hand. At first he was puzzled, and then the pain hit him. He looked down in horror and then he saw the carnage where his elbow had been. Panic and shock overwhelmed him simultaneously as he knew that he was destined for a world of pain that would only end with the loss of his arm. He fell to his knees, wrapping his left hand tightly around his upper arm to stop the fountain of arterial blood that was ebbing his life away.

***

Max had never fired a gun in anger, and Jonno’s Sig felt strange and unfamiliar in his hands, but he knew that when the red headed gunman got to a count of one he had to act. Taking careful aim, he remembered something about aiming at the body mass to be sure to get a hit. The man was standing in profile and so Max aimed at his chest. The gun fired and the kick sent the gun flying from Max’s unwieldy grip. “Shit!” he shouted as the gunman’s elbow exploded and Ben fell to the floor.

***

Ben reached for his Patu as he started to rise from the floor.

“Finish him off!” Mapperley commanded Kaplinski as he slid into the driver’s seat of the car. Tug kicked at Ben’s head, making enough contact to disori
ent the young New Zealander.

“I don’t think I will. I’m stic
king with the money. Drive on.”

“You’ll do as you’re bloody well told!” Mapperley spat. The Slav threw back his elb
ow, splitting Mapperley’s lip.

“Just drive!” he said, in a voice that invited no response. The Jaguar screeched away from the workshop, leaving behind the odour of burning rubber where Mapperley had spun the wheels in his effort to escape the carnage. The car raced towards the opposite exit which led onto an estate road. As they reached the tree line two giants appeared to the right hand side of the car, moving quickly. Mapperley jabbed the accelerator and the Jaguar responded. The two partially clothed men were only able to reach the back of the car. One wielded a weapon of some kind, which he s
wung at the rear quarter light.

“Jesus!” Tug laughed inappropriately as Mapperley cringed in his seat. The rear passenger window shattered and the supporting pillar was sliced in two. The second man interlaced his two hands, forming a double fist, and brought them down on the receding Jaguar’s boot. The force of the blow folded the classic car’s metal boot lid almost in two, the lock sprung and the boot flew open as the car
pulled away from its pursuers.

“Bloody hell, Mapperley! You seem to have made enemies with a whole bloody Maori tribe!” Tug exclaimed, still smiling. He hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. “Look out!” he yelled.

***

Ben was always able to recover quickly from a bad tackle and as a result he was on his feet in seconds, only to see the car speed away. Max had gone to the aid of Alastair, and was tying his belt tightly around the gunman’s arm
in an effort to save his life.

From out of the shadows stepped a confused and terrified Ronnie. Grabbing Ben from behind, he stuck the point of his knife into Ben’s neck, not quite breaking the skin. Hirini s
tarted towards the two of them.

“Stay back, Hirini!” Ben ordered. “We don’t want any more bloodshed. Look, Ronnie, it’s all over. They’ve left you behind, mate. Just put the knife down and we’ll let you walk away. Our fight isn’t with you.” Ronnie considered the offer but he had never been good at making decisions, quick or otherwise. His baser instincts prevailed and he moved the knife to the left side of Ben’s neck, intending to slit the young New Ze
alander’s throat from ear to ear.

Once the knife point was away from his carotid artery and moving to the left side of his throat, Ben reacted. He pushed his head back into Ronnie’s face and slid under the knife and onto the floor whilst reaching for his Patu. Ronnie responded by swinging the knife down in a slashing motion. Ben tried to move his head out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough. The knife sliced through his ear, almost severing it. Ben rolled away from a second blow and swung the Patu with all of his strength, aiming low. Ronnie’s second swipe missed its target, and he snarled as t
he Patu swung in his direction.

Ben was in some pain, blood pouring from his wounded ear, but he had to take Ronnie down. The Patu’s vicious swing continued as it hit Ronnie’s leg just above the ankle. Seconds later there was blood, flesh and bone everywhere as the Patu passed clean through the leg without stopping. Ronnie tumbled to the floor as his standing leg collapsed under him. The last thing he saw before he passed out was his severed left foot still standing on the floor next to his head, still in its red Converse sneaker. It was like some surrealist nightmare, but as he slipped into oblivion he knew it was all real, far too real.

***

Lamby had been told to guard the entrance and let no one in or out, and so, when a car came towards him at speed, he carried out his orders. Standing squarely in the middle of the dark entrance road, he aimed his gun at the windscreen of the oncoming c
ar and fired.

Mapperley was so concerned about the Maoris behind him that he didn’t notice Nicky Lamb standing in the middle of the road until he was alerted by a frantic warning shout from Kaplinski. He instinctively stamped on the brake, but he could never realistically hope to stop in time. There was a bang, then a thud, and instantly the windscreen craz
ed. Mapperley ducked uselessly.

Despite his shot the car kept coming, and it hit Nicky Lamb straight on. The gunman’s legs were hit by the plastic formed bumper, which shattered on impact. The stiff metal bar behind was less forgiving, and it forced its way up Lamby’s legs until the momentum pushed the big heavy car over him. Mapperley felt the bumps as the car bounced over the last of his crewmembers, and came to his senses. The windscreen on his side was undamaged and Mapperley saw he was coming to the main road. He touched the brakes and threw the car around the corner onto the estate road and safety. He was impressed by his own driving skill, and grateful for the Jaguar’s solid en
gineering and four-wheel drive.

“What a mess!” he finally said to Tug, who didn’t reply. Mapperley turned to look at his bodyguard and then jumped on the br
a
ke in a screeching emergency stop. “Oh my God!” he exhaled as he looked again at Kaplinski. The bullet that had shattered the windscreen had hit the Slavic enforcer in the face, just below his left eye. There was still movement in the man’s body, and his eyelids were fluttering, but he was a dead man sitting. Mapperley leaned over the dying man, opened the passenger door and shoved Tug out onto the road. He pulled the door shut and accelerated away without a second glance. He said out loud, to no one in particular, “It’s your own fault. I told you to wait at the yard.”

Carter’s Yard, Wandsworth High Street, London.

Sunday 28th August 2011
; 12:05am.

The last ambulance had departed the scene and the black vans that carried the dead were loaded – overloaded, in fact, because the Coroners didn’t have any more available.

Including the man found shot in the face on the road, and the man who had shot him on the access road, the dead bodies tallied at five. In addition, there was one man in a coma, possibly with brain damage, and two with limbs severed or almost severed. Only one had survived with minor injuries, and he had lost his mind. He had been babbling about spectres, tree monsters and the like. The paramedics had secured him in a straitjacket and he was on his way to a secure hospital for a decision on section
ing.

Almost everyone the Met had on duty, or who had answered their mobile phones from their beds, was now at the scene. Ben was being bandaged around the head as the paramedic tried to secure a pad over his ear, which had been emergency stitched. The bandage was already bloody, but Ben refused to leave the scene unti
l Max was allowed to leave too.