The Killing Club (47 page)

‘He said I had to batter him.’

‘It was hardly a fair fight.’

‘He was the one who volunteered for light duties.’

‘I’m not laughing, okay?’ She jabbed a finger. ‘The only reason I’m not kicking your arse right now is because you saved my life in the river. Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘And because there are others here who deserve it more.’

They moved on, turning a corner and following a passage between gardens.

‘Don’t let that stop you,’ Heck hissed. ‘I’ll meet you on some car park after.’

‘Deal!’ She halted as they reached another road.

They waited, listening. Sporadic shots were still being fired elsewhere. But more choppers lofted by overhead, and they could hear further loudspeaker messages. On the opposite side of the road, there was a small row of shops.

‘How’s the fight actually going?’ Heck asked.

‘We’d taken the harbour when I last looked,’ she said. ‘We’ve got at least forty guns on the plot from SOCAR. Another twenty from Northumbria, ten from Durham. These idiots can stick it out all they want, but it’s only a matter of time. Okay … keep low and move fast.’

‘I
have
done this before, you know.’

‘Yeah. And you’ve been shot before too. Follow my lead.’

She took off across the road in a crouch, pistol dressed down. Heck followed, and almost immediately a shot was fired. Fowler fell with a scream, one hand clamped to her right hip. Heck didn’t halt to commiserate, just grabbed her by her harness and continued across, lugging her after him – which induced more screams. He dragged her into the recessed doorway of an estate agency, the door to which opened under the impact of his shoulder. He thrust Fowler inside, where she curled in an agonised ball on its parquet ball.

‘H … Heck!’ she stammered. ‘Here …’ Her gloved hand shook as she offered him her Glock. ‘Eight … eight rounds left. Go easy …’

He took it and glanced around the corner. Klausen was advancing up the other side of the road, assault rifle in hand – it looked like an L85. He ducked repeatedly behind parked cars, never visible for more than half a second, though he still managed to unload three more rounds, banging holes the size of hubcaps through the estate agency window, forcing Heck to withdraw inside.

Fowler still lay in a foetal posture, face white, blood pooling around her.

‘Guess our car park date’s off,’ Heck said, pulling down a display stand covered with property photographs, and jamming it across the open door.

‘Could … do you on one leg,’ she stuttered. ‘Oh God, oh Christ …’

‘Shhh!’ he hissed.

Voices sounded outside. One of them was Klausen’s. The other sounded like the African’s. There was a sharp
clack-clunk
.

‘Shit!’ Heck said, diving for cover.

The entire middle of the display board, an area approximately five feet by four, was blown through with a single blast of the 870. Dust and splinters fogged the shop, as Heck knelt up and fired three rapid shots back through the aperture.

‘Sergei!’
Klausen shouted.
‘Round the back!’

‘Our Ruski friend’s come round too,’ Heck said, hearing heavy boots recede down a side-passage. He heaved Fowler up into a fireman’s lift. ‘What did you hit them with, sugar plums?’

‘I didn’t see … see you knocking ’em round like skittles. Oh, Christ …’

Lifting the hatch on the counter, he sidled through it, still carrying her. On his immediate left was an arch with a curtain. He stumbled towards it, and as he did something clinked across the parquet tiling behind. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a grenade.

‘Hang tight!’
he yelled as he fought his way past the curtain.

The ear-numbing explosion almost certainly demolished what remained of the agency’s front office. In the adjoining passage, Heck was showered with plaster and other debris, and blown from his feet, dropping Fowler heavily. The pain of her collision with the floor knocked her unconscious. Behind them, the curtain had caught fire. There was a smashing of wood and glass as the assailants forced their way in. Heck levelled the Glock at the arch and pegged off three shots, only for movement at the rear of the shop to distract him. He spun around. At the far end of the rear corridor was another room, a dimly lit utility area. A shadowy shape was stealing forward from this – straight into a patch of light. Heck recognised the Russian, just as the bastard opened up with a Serdyukov pistol. Heck flattened himself on top of Fowler, shells like cannonballs whipping over their heads. On the other side of the curtain, there was a familiar
clack-clunk.

Heck had two shots left. He pegged one through the smouldering curtain, the other down to the rear of the shop, where the Russian dived for cover, then wrapped his arms around the casualty, hoisting her up again, heaving her to his shoulder.

The only avenue of escape was a narrow wooden stair. He tromped exhaustedly up it. The stair switched back on itself once, the upper flight ascending steeply to a small landing with a single door. Grunting and sweating, Heck made it up there, barging the door open – to find a storeroom. It contained a table and chair, and filing cabinets down either side. The single window was tall but narrow – too narrow for an adult human to climb out through.

Feet hammered up the lower stair. Heck dropped his burden, turned to the nearest filing cabinet and lugged it out of place – which he only managed with difficulty, as its drawers slid open, revealing masses of paperwork. With every muscle screaming, he manoeuvred it around and shoved it at the open doorway. The Russian was halfway up the final flight, when the cabinet appeared overhead – and toppled down towards him with a sound like a train derailing, the entire building shuddering.

Half a second later, Heck risked a glance.

The stairwell was filled with dust, splinters and fluttering sheets of paper.

When it cleared, Sergei lay motionless at the switchback corner, his face a mask of blood, the entire cabinet, its back broken, lying skewwhiff on top of him.

But Sergei hadn’t been alone, and even now a grinning ebony face peeked around the switchback corner. The enormous muzzle of a Remington shotgun followed. Heck ducked back as the blast tore up the stairwell, a cascade of shot ripping the walls, peppering the ceiling. As the African bounded up the last flight, Heck slammed the door in his face. There was only one bolt, which he rammed home before backing across the room. He had no time to make use of another cabinet. The only thing he could do was overturn the table, turn it into a barricade, and drag Fowler behind it – all of which he duly did.

The African’s feet halted at the top of the stair.

Fleetingly there was silence. No
clack-clunk
of the 870.

For some reason, Heck’s skin crawled.

Then he heard a furtive fumbling at the foot of the door – and a thunder of boots descending. He threw himself behind the table, again covering Fowler with his body.

When the grenade blew, it blasted the door inward, catapulting it across the upper room in blistered, smoking fragments, which, if it hadn’t been for the bulwark of the table, would have smashed the cowering police officers to pulp. The usual gale of smoke, plaster and masonry followed as the walls to either side of the door also shattered. The concussion alone was so much that it almost did for Heck, who afterwards lay only vaguely conscious amid broken, charred wreckage.

It seemingly took an age for him to wriggle his way back to wakefulness, and all that time he heard the slow, steady tread of boots re-ascending the stair. Through watery eyes, he focused on the lopsided entrance – and the tall figure with the sickle-shaped grin who appeared there and looked down at him.

This time the African didn’t bother speaking; he simply raised his shotgun to his shoulder. He was only nine feet away. With a weapon like that, one shot would tear them both to bloody chunks.

But in fact, two shots were fired.

And not from a shotgun.

Heck’s eyes narrowed, his dazed vision clearing – as the African staggered in the doorway, fresh gore bursting from his nose and mouth. Without a word, the eyes rolled into his head and he fell backwards down the stair.

Heck lurched weakly to his feet and crossed the room.

Gemma, in helmet and partial body armour, was standing midway up the stair, peering along the barrel of her Glock, its muzzle smoking.

They gazed at each other blankly for several moments.

Gradually, Heck became aware of multiple voices outside, dogs yipping, the crackle of radio static. He descended towards her. She lowered her weapon.

‘Where’s Klausen?’ he asked.

‘Klausen?’

‘Tall, blond, scar-faced.’

She shrugged, looking too shaken to string two thoughts together. She
had
just shot someone of course. ‘I … haven’t seen anyone like that.’

‘Oh … brilliant!’ He shouldered past her.
‘Bloody brilliant!’

‘Excuse me!’ she snapped at his back. ‘Some gratitude would be nice!’

Heck glanced around and pointed up the stair. ‘Sergeant Fowler’s up there, ma’am. Gunshot wound to the hip. Losing blood fast. Needs an ambulance.’ He continued down, passing the point where Sergei lay groaning beneath the cabinet, ensuring to step on the Russian’s face as he did.

Outside, the air was rank with acrid smoke. There were armed cops everywhere, both SOCAR and Northumbria. Many had their weapons holstered, their relaxed state suggesting the battle was over. From their gruff conversations, it became apparent that quite a few of the Nice Guys had surrendered early on, giving full info on their former comrades’ strength and disposition. In consequence, the rest had soon been overwhelmed by sheer police numbers – teams were still searching properties on the outskirts of the village, but most hostiles were believed accounted for. Heck still waylaid a few cops, asking if there was a tall, scar-faced Dane among the prisoners. The majority shrugged, or stared at him as if he was some kind of buffoon. A couple looked as shaken as Gemma; ashen-faced, cheeks stained by smoke. It eventually took a Northumbrian firearms inspector to confirm that he hadn’t spotted anyone matching that description among the captured.

‘Sent those last two bastards in while you hightailed it, did you?’ Heck said to himself, as he turned up a nearby alley, scanning every adjoining passage and doorway. ‘Sent ’em in as rearguard, eh … while you got your fucking arse out!’

He stopped alongside a half-open garage door, from beneath which protruded two upturned feet clad only in socks. Warily, he lifted the door.

Aside from its socks, the blubbery white body inside wore only Y-fronts and a bloodstained vest. Its throat had been cut with such savage but professional precision that the blade, no doubt one of those big bastard commando knives, had almost severed the spinal cord. It wasn’t the sort of fate Heck would have wished on anyone – not even Inspector Derek O’Dowd.

‘Looks like you were finally of use to someone, Dezzer,’ Heck said glumly, before running from the garage.

The fat cop had been an easier picking than Klausen had anticipated.

Heckenburg had surprised them all with his fighting spirit and his stubborn refusal to be beaten, but by contrast the fat cop was everything they’d originally hoped for.

Klausen had first spotted him two streets away from the estate agency, moving nervously from doorway to doorway, fully armoured and with an MP5 and a Glock at his hip. At first he’d looked a threat, even if he had been overweight, his sagging guts squashed inside his flameproof coveralls and ceramic plate. But his sluggish gait had suggested a man out of condition, while neither weapon had even been drawn; his Glock buttoned into its holster, his MP5 locked to his harness, implying extreme inexperience.

It was no trouble to sneak down an entry after him, accost him from behind, slice his fat neck and strip him of his outfit and weapons. As an added bonus, there’d been two pips on his shoulders – this would now prevent the rank and file querying Klausen as he strode casually through Holy Island village. And that was the way it panned out. The Dane strolled easily and unhindered among bustling law officers. Even though his visor was raised, no one batted an eyelid. One or two of the numerous dazed civilians who had now been released from their confinement might have recognised him – perhaps they spotted him through a window earlier. But they were too busy weeping and embracing each other. Of course, the police kit helped, not to mention the spreading dusk, which only now was being illuminated by streetlights springing to life.

It was a pity about Ali and Sergei, he thought as he wandered along the pier, but everyone’s usefulness had its limit. He’d already given up on the company phone when he’d sent them into the estate agency to retrieve it. He knew when a battle was lost. With half of the remaining team by then in custody, he’d had no option but to beat a tactical retreat. If the police managed to get hold of the damn phone, they’d be able to roll up much of the existing network, but not all of it. They would never get all of it. And if Klausen could successfully spirit himself away from here, he’d be able to start anew somewhere else. He had boltholes all over the world, and any number of aliases with false paperwork to match.

He reached the end of the pier, where two boats from the Northumbria Police Marine Unit waited: impressive thirty-foot offshore cruisers, their hulls patterned with distinctive turquoise and yellow Battenberg. They weren’t exactly designed for comfort, having open front decks where the salt spray could engulf you, and small, enclosed wheel-houses at the rear – but neither of them were presently occupied, and that was all that mattered. Klausen opted for the one on the left, casually stepping aboard and sidling into the wheel-house, and almost laughing when he saw the keys dangling from the ignition. He pulled off his gloves, removed his helmet, and leaned over to assess the panel of controls – and a door clicked open behind him.

An immediate second click denoted the cocking of a firearm.

‘Mr Klausen, I presume?’ said a low voice. ‘Hands up please. And no quick or furtive movements.’ Warily, Klausen complied. ‘Turn. Verrrry slowly.’