Vendetta (32 page)

Bang.

Pause.

Bang. Bang.

Satisfied, he turned back to the stairs to get on with the job of meeting the delivery.

seventy-three

10:05 p.m.

Mac couldn’t understand why he was still alive. Calum had punched him out . . . he didn’t remember a thing after that. Almost darkness surrounded him. He reached out for something to help him stand. His hand searched through the air until he found what felt like a length of metal. Pulled himself up, but the metal shook and bottles tumbled and crashed around him, making his body curl inwards to protect himself.

Mac tried again, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Then straightened up, feeling along the wall for the light switch. He found it. Flicked it. Nothing happened. He moved over to the door and tried to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge.

No answer. If he started yelling for help that might alert the wrong type of people. Instead he headed back across the room to see if there was any other way out, and tripped headfirst over something lying on the floor. Winded, he lay for a while. Having settled his breathing into an even beat, he got to his knees. He reached over to feel what had taken him down. Large, bulky, cloth, like a sack of old clothes left outside a charity shop. He slowed the movements of his hands as he moved upwards. Felt something lukewarm. Couldn’t place what the material was. Moved up. A ridge poking out of whatever he touched. Funny shape, with one hole . . . no, two . . . Mac’s hand jerked back when he realised what he was touching. A nose on a face. And from the temperature of the skin, a face attached to the body of someone who was dead. He hoped it was that bastard Calum. But was Calum such a bastard if he’d left him alive? He didn’t know what the other man’s agenda was, but he wasn’t ready to put his name back in his mobile’s contact list under ‘favourites.’ Beside, he didn’t have time to think about Calum Burns, he needed to get out of here. Now.

Mac heaved the body towards the light coming from under the door. Peered at the face, and realised it was one of the two heavies that Reuben had ordered downstairs to make sure Calum carried out the execution properly. Mac ran through his pockets, hoping to find a gun of some sort, but he drew a blank. He did find something useful, though – a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo. He struck the light, increased the flame and could now see his way more clearly. Over by the wall, in a sitting position, head slumped to one side, was Reuben’s other thug. Stone-cold dead too – bullet neatly between the eyes.

Mac searched the second body, more carefully than the first. Pockets. Under the shirt. Trouser leg . . . Froze when he felt two straps attached to the right leg. His hand moved up slightly. A handle. Not a gun, but something else. He slid the handle out. Ignited the lighter again. Held the object up to the flame. An automatic flick knife.

He extended the blade. Sharp, Teflon steel. Walked back to the door. Using the lighter, he examined the door looking for joins in the wood. They were tightly fitted together and lacquered over, but just visible. Mac plunged the knife into the wood. Started to dig away, using one of the broken bottles as a lever when enough was chipped away. The timber varied in strength – some was quite soft, other bits more resistant, so he focused on the areas that were easier to make holes in.

He soon got a rhythm going, until the bottle went clean through the door. The gap was wide enough to get his arm through and he felt his way along to the lock on the outside in the forlorn hope that the key might have been left in it. But it wasn’t there. He listened for footsteps or voices in the corridor outside, but there was none. Mac went back to chipping away with a renewed zeal. His arm ached like crazy but he kept going. Finally stood back and admired his handiwork – an arm-sized hole. His fingers were stiff and cracking under the strain. That he could live with, but he reckoned at the current rate of progress it would be an hour before he could get out and he didn’t have an hour to spare.

He went to the racks. Grabbed bottles of booze and soaked the wood around the hole he’d made inside and out. Flicked the Zippo on. Touched the flame to the alcohol-soaked wood. The wood burned slowly with a blue flame, like a Christmas pudding.

The fire on the wood was slow moving but it was producing a lot of smoke. That was actually an added advantage. If an alarm went off, there was a good chance someone, perhaps even the fire brigade itself, would turn up and set him free. He used the jacket of one of the dead men to fan the flames and send the smoke outwards. The fire seemed to burn more easily for a moment or two, but then began to gutter and die. He tried again, more alcohol this time, hacking away at the charred wood when it became soft and blowing and fanning the flames. He lined up one bottle after another and poured on more spirits whenever the flame seemed to be dying away. Finally, it seemed to be working. But it worked too well.

The fire began to spread to the doorframe and up and down the door. Mac began to choke as the air from the cellar was sucked out and smoke was sucked in to replace it. He ripped a piece of the shirt from one of the corpses and tied it round the lower half of his face. He carried on, coughing in the face of the smoke, hacking at the wood with his knife and broken bottle. The flames were licking upwards towards the ceiling. He stood back, closed the blade and began to kick at the burning door. It stood fast, tight in its frame. Cinders and sparks were falling around. After another futile kick, the problem became clear. He was kicking outwards but the door opened inwards.

Mac used the jacket again, this time wrapping it round his hands like oven gloves, and began to tug on the hole with all his might. Bits of charred wood came away, scorching his fingers and landing smuts on his clothes. Parts of the door came inwards while the rest remained solid. He high-kicked the weakened structure with his foot again. It splintered, cracked and fell into the corridor.

Followed by clouds of smoke Mac emerged, straining for any gasp of oxygen that the corridor might provide. The fire had spread outside, fitfully and unevenly, but it was still spreading. He ran into the room opposite, a storeroom – no use. Into the room next door. Cloakroom – no use. It was only when he managed to find a kitchen that he found what he was looking for. He knew Calum wouldn’t have taken his and the heavies’ guns far. A rubbish bin was the usual place to dump unwanted weapons, and in the kitchen he found not only his Luger but three other guns, poorly hidden, under some peelings and wrappings. Stuffing the weapons into his pockets, he fled up the stairs and opened a door.

A woman, dolled up in party clothes and thick make-up, stood outside looking worried.

She shrieked, ‘I smelled smoke, what’s happening?’

‘There’s a fire, call nine-nine-nine.’

He ran down the corridor; more people were emerging to see what was happening. Mac ran on but he stopped when he realised one of the people was Jeff, the manager. He pulled out one of his collection of guns and pressed it against Jeff’s forehead. ‘What kind of car do you drive?’

Jeff instantly raised his hands, his eyes going wide. ‘Take it easy, let’s stay calm.’

‘Car?’

‘It’s a Bob Marley, sports version.’

‘The keys,’ Mac demanded.

‘Don’t take my motor, it’s new,’ the younger man pleaded. ‘We’ve got a Honda. Pretty nippy. It’s painted to look like an emergency paramedic’s bike with blue sirens, the lot. One of those kidney transplant delivery ones. We use it here when we need some speed. It’s in the garage.’

‘Paramedic’s bike?’

‘Sure. Have you ever seen the cops pull over one of th—’

‘What’s the time?’ he cut over Jeff.

Jeff hesitated as if he dared not lower his hands. But at Mac’s brisk nod he checked his watch.

10:11.

That meant the delivery was going down in nineteen minutes’ time.

seventy-four

10 p.m.

I’m not going to make it. Not going to make it.

Mac carved up the tarmac. He wore the high-vis jacket and crash helmet that had been stored with the bike. The motorbike raced through the streets, blowing its siren, lights flashing electric blue. Shot traffic lights, ignored bus lanes and didn’t give a damn about speed cameras that clicked as it zoomed past. All that mattered was getting to the delivery. He cranked the speed up. Took Tower Bridge at 60 mph, the wind propelling him, making it feel like he was flying in the air. Weaved his way through the lines of traffic and did an illegal turn on the other side. Headed south back towards the river, leaping the traffic humps. The bike did a strange up-and-down dance as tarmac gave way to Victorian cobbles. Mac began urgently searching for a place to park.

The dock was surrounded by walls on three sides that had once – in another lifetime – been warehouses teeming with imported and exotic goods. Now they housed shops, restaurants, bars and pubs. The lights from the buildings were low, as if trying to give privacy to the patrons in and outside. Despite its old walls, St Katharine Docks had the newness of a place that had been built the day before. And the stench of money blew from the mile-high apartment prices, via the upmarket cuisine, to the yachts and boats that were like sleek playthings on the water. This was a part of East London that had managed to successfully bury its history of crime and grime. The delivery was about to change that.

He checked out the masts and the soft glow of red and white lights on yachts and pleasure craft, trying to ID one that could be used for a delivery. But it was hard to figure out which size boat could be used since he still didn’t know what the delivery was. Pulling up between two cars, leaving the engine running, he checked his watch.

10:28.

The delivery would be about now, but it would take time for contact to be made between shore and boat, establish the good faith of the crew and shore party and, of course, make sure no one was going to be ripped off. It didn’t give him a big window of time to find the abandoned warehouse, but it was all he had.

Mac turned off the engine, flicked down the rest and eased off the bike. On the back of the vehicle was a carrier in which Mac had put his guns and cap, in the spot where the transplant kidneys were supposed to be kept chilled. He kept his yellow jacket and helmet with its insignia on, put the carrier over his shoulder and moved off to inspect the area. At an access point to the docks, he noticed a telephone van illegally parked. Exactly as it had been indicated on Reuben’s map back at Club Zee. There would be two gunmen inside, protecting the gang’s flanks and providing support if there was any trouble.

Casually he walked past the van, snatching a quick look inside when he got near the window. Two men, dressed as telephone engineers. Seeing him, one of the men slipped his hand inside his jacket.
Take it easy, Mac, stay calm.

Then the man’s hand came back out, empty. The last thing Mac saw as he passed the van was the tense way both men’s eyes darted around. He still didn’t know which warehouse he was after, but from the position of the men it couldn’t be far. Mac walked down to the waterfront. Across the black, inky water and its shimmering, reflected multi-coloured lights, he could see a row of warehouses. But which one? He scanned them. His gaze skidded to a stop when he saw a redevelopment sign on one; well, it looked like a sign to him.

He sat on a bench, took off his crash helmet, tied it to his belt and put his cap on. But he left the jacket on for now. No one would suspect a man in a high-vis jacket. Gangsters and cops preferred more low-key disguises. A man in a suit came sauntering along the waterfront, talking into a mobile phone. Mac recognised him straight off as one of Reuben’s men, so dipped his head slightly, taking advantage of the shadow. He felt the man’s eyes on him, but soon he drifted off, keeping up his pretend chat on the phone. The Russian probably had more people out and about in the harbour than he had in the warehouse.

Mac couldn’t take the chance that one of them might recognise him; he needed to step up his game and that meant only one thing – heading off to the warehouse. He reached into his carrier. Took out one of the guns. Star Megastar, heavy-duty, double-action trigger, fourteen-rounds capacity.
Impressive
. He checked the magazine. Fully loaded. Tucked it into the front of his trousers and then pulled the front of the jacket over it. With an urgent intake of chilled air, he set off to the warehouse.

Out on the water, there was laughter coming from a yacht looking for a docking place. The fact that a family was on deck with a cute dog didn’t mean this wasn’t the boat carrying the delivery. In fact, it was more likely to mean that it was. Respectability was always good cover. As Mac turned ninety degrees to follow the waterfront, he noticed a council street-sweeping vehicle working the cobbles, long after it should have been returned to its depot. Another nervous man at the wheel with his equally nervous colleague, looking the area up and down.

As he closed in on the warehouse, Mac spotted a group of youths in hoodies, wheeling and circling on bikes. They took a keen interest in him as he got closer to them.

A mixed-race youth rolled up and parked his bike directly in front of Mac. ‘Where you think you’re going?’ He had that accent so many young people now used which, as far as Mac was concerned, made him sound like a Neanderthal.

Mac didn’t show his irritation. Instead he tapped his carrier and explained carefully, ‘Paramedic. I’m on duty.’