Assassin (16 page)

'You don't say much do you?' she smiled and moved across to sit next to him, gritting her teeth as the vile smell assaulted her nostrils once more. She edged closer, her professional skill overcoming her revulsion. She reached for the top button of his coat but he gripped her hand, pushing it down towards his groin instead, guiding it towards the spot between his legs.

Nikki allowed herself to be manipulated, allowed him to press her hand to his crotch. She felt his erection through the material of his trousers and she squeezed it.

The man looked at her, only his eyes visible over the top of the scarf. There wasn't a flicker of emotion in them. It was like looking into the eyes of a fish on a fishmonger's slab. No warmth. No life. The twin orbs seemed to bore into Nikki and she looked away, putting her drink down.

With his other hand he gently touched the back of her head, pushing it down towards his groin.

She hesitated, the hairs at the nape of her neck rising slightly. It felt as if someone were running a freezing feather up and down her spine.

'It's going to cost you more,' she said, realizing what the man wanted.

He dug his free hand into the jacket of his pocket and pulled out five twenty pound notes which he held up for a moment before shoving them down her T-shirt.

Nikki nodded, feeling his hand tightening on the back of her neck. As she lowered her head towards his groin she tried to hold her breath, struggling to undo his zip with her other hand. It came free with difficulty and she slipped her fingers inside, freeing his penis.

It felt cold but she ignored this peculiarity, anxious now merely to finish the job and rid herself of this client.

She bent lower, his erection now pointing up at her, brushing her lips as he pressed harder on the back of her neck.

She closed her mouth around the bulbous head and almost gagged.

There was liquid already seeping from the glans but it tasted unlike any glandular secretion she'd encountered before. It stuck to her tongue like mucus, oozing with greater urgency as she licked the swollen organ. The stench was now almost unbearable and Nikki knew that she was going to be sick. She tried to straighten up but the gloved hand held her firm, her mouth fixed over the throbbing penis which seemed to be swelling even more.

She clutched at his testicles, rubbing them in an effort to finish the vile task more rapidly. She felt them begin to undulate beneath her probing fingers, felt them contract, ready to spill their contents.

Yet above her she could not hear any breathing from her client. He seemed very calm for a man about to climax.

Instead, she was only aware of that stiff, reeking rod which had impaled her mouth and the frightful stench which was almost palpable in its intensity.

She worked her hand up and down his shaft, realizing with relief that he was at his peak. She sucked harder. He thrust violently into her mouth, driving his penis up until it touched the back of her throat.

She retched, tried to straighten up but the hand gripped her and held her. She tasted more fluid on her tongue then the cascade began. His penis jerked violently and the end seemed to open, expelling his emission.

Nikki's eyes bulged madly in their sockets as she felt her mouth fill to bursting point. Her cheeks swelled as she struggled to retain the ejaculation but then she realized that her mouth was filled not with fluid but with dozens of tiny objects.

Objects which were moving.

Twisting and turning on her tongue.

She sat back as the pressure on her neck was released, her mouth opening wide.

The maggots poured from it in a sickly white torrent and, as she looked down, she saw that the penis was still jerking, still spurting, propelling the minute monstrosities from the glans in a thick fountain. Some had already found their way down her throat despite the vomit which now rushed up from her stomach and gushed from her mouth, carrying with it hordes of the parasites.

Then the gloved hand was at her throat again, pulling her closer and she saw that the scarf had fallen from the man's face.

Beneath it his flesh was yellowed, peeling away from his bones like wallpaper, portions of it almost liquescent as it hung from his cheeks and chin.

She felt more of the maggots twisting in her mouth and throat, smelled the incredible stench of decay in her nostrils and, in one last second of consciousness, she gazed once again at the man's penis and saw a bloated, wriggling white shape haul itself from the slit in the bulbous head and drop into his lap.

Nikki Jones blacked out.

Frank Harrison poured himself another glass of Jack Daniels and downed half of the fiery liquid in one swallow. He cradled the expensive crystal tumbler in his hand as if threatening to crush it. He looked at the man who stood opposite him.

'I told you when this business first started that I wanted something done and you've given me nothing,' Harrison said. 'No leads. No names. Nothing.'

Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe sipped at his own drink and shrugged.

'Look Frank, there are other things going on at the moment. I've got three corpses in a house in Primrose Hill that look like they've been put through a mincer. This nutcase, Crawford, we got him but he's got others working for him. That case takes priority over everything at the moment. I can't carry on making enquiries about who had a crack at you while this other business is still going on.'

'And in the meantime? What am I supposed to do?' demanded Harrison.

'Sort it out yourself.'

Harrison downed what was left in his glass and slammed it on the desk top.

'Fine. Because that's just what I intend to do.' He crossed to a large wooden box in one corner of the room. It was padlocked. 'Open it,' snapped the gang boss and Billy Stripes fumbled in his pocket for the key. He finally pulled the padlock free and lifted the lid.

Harrison reached inside, his back to Thorpe.

When he turned, the DI found himself looking down the barrel of a Sterling AR-19.

'Where the hell did you get that?' he asked, the colour draining from his cheeks. 'That's army issue equipment.'

'Yeah, like you said, perhaps I ought to take care of things myself,' Harrison said. 'So far I've been sitting around waiting for some joker to blow me away. Perhaps it's time
I
did some of the shooting.'

'If you start a gang war, Frank, then I can't protect you. It

was all I could do to keep Special Branch away from the murders of Joule and Dome. If you decide to go on a bender you can count me out.' He put down his glass and turned to the door.

The gunshot, when it came, sounded thunderous in the small room. The single bullet from the Sterling hit Thorpe's glass, exploding it into a thousand tiny fragments before hurtling into the desk top, blasting a sizeable lump of woo from the expensive piece of furniture.

'Remember what I pay you, Thorpe. You ain't going nowhere,' Harrison said.

The DI turned slowly, trying to remain composed. All around him, Harrison's bodyguards looked on impassively as the gang boss raised the rifle to his shoulder, drawing a bead on Thorpe, fixing his head perfectly in the cross-threads of the sight.

'I own you,' Harrison said, his finger hovering over the trigger. 'Try earning your bloody money. Find out who's having a go at me and do it quick otherwise I'm going to find out myself. And my methods might be a little bit more
direct
than yours. Then I think your superiors might wonder what the hell was going on.' He gripped the rifle more tightly. 'London's set to explode, Thorpe. Just make sure you don't get caught in the cross-fire. You make up your mind who's side you're on but don't take too long doing it.'

'Like I told you,' the policeman said. 'We've got to find whoever killed those three people up at Primrose Hill. That's the case I'm working on.'

`Then do some fucking overtime and find out who wants me dead, otherwise it might be you who ends up on a meat hook.'

Harrison squeezed the trigger.

The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.

Thorpe let out a gasp of relief, watching angrily as Harrison chuckled and threw the gun to Billy Stripes.

'You've got forty-eight hours, Thorpe,' Harrison told him. 'Then it's
my
turn.'

The flesh had been taken, stripped away from Nikki Jones' face just as it had been from Danny Weller and Adam Giles.

Now there were three bodies nailed to the wall of the derelict supermarket, hanging there like the bizarre trophies of a crazed hunter.

The man who had once been Charles Ross touched the skin of his face and gazed at the trio of crucified bodies before him.

His coat was open to reveal the holes in his jacket, holes that had been put there two years earlier. Put there by a Smith and Wesson snub-nose .38 pistol. He gently pushed his index finger into one of the holes and then withdrew it, noting that the digit was dripping with dark, yellowish fluid. He raised it before him, watching as the mucoid substance dribbled down on to his hand.

Beside him, his face still wrapped in a scarf, the man who, in life, had been known as Liam Kelly stood motionless, eyes fixed on the three bodies. Kelly wore a hat to conceal his mottled scalp. He had never possessed much hair during his short life but now all that covered the patchwork of dark veins were a few silver threads of gossamer.

The one they had called Peter Burton smoothed the flesh over his face as if anxious to remove any creases, ensuring that it fitted as closely as possible over his rotting features.

Ian Massey plucked a piece of dangling skin from his neck, touching the ragged wound in his throat. The bullet which, two years earlier, had killed him, had exploded his larynx and left a gaping gash as large as a fist. Unlike the others he could not utter even the most strained of words.

The fifth man looked on impassively.

Each of them was armed with a variety of weapons but most potent in their armoury was their hatred.

'So why do we have to wait?' Burton wanted to know. 'Why not kill him now? Why not kill Harrison immediately? We've killed some of his men.'

'I want him to suffer,' Ross said. 'I want him to wonder where the next attack is going to come from, never being able to relax, not able to trust anyone, even those closest to him.'

'And the rest of his gang?' Kelly wanted to know.

'They'll die, every last one of them,' Ross snapped. He looked at the fifth man who turned to him and nodded.

`Bastard.'

Tina Richardson studied her reflection before the full-length mirror in her bedroom and inspected the scratches on her breasts. She muttered more curses to herself as she stood there in her panties, spotting the bruises which marked her body in numerous places. She raised one leg and placed it on the stool in front of her dressing table. Running her fingers up the inside of her thigh, she felt the small scar where Harrison had burned her over a week ago.

He'd been drunk when he'd arrived at her flat the previous night. At first she'd tried to resist his inebriated advances, trying to persuade him to go to bed and sleep it off but he'd struck her with the back of his hand. She leaned closer to the mirror, relieved to see he hadn't marked her face. It was her back and arms which he'd bruised. Mottled patches of blue skin showed vividly beneath her shoulder blades and on her upper arms. She gently touched the damaged areas, wincing as she did so.

Harrison had pushed her into the bedroom in his drunken rage, frustrated by his own inability to remove his trousers. She'd tried to calm him but it had been useless. He'd managed to wriggle them down as far as his thighs then, tearing her housecoat open, he'd penetrated her, thrusting violently until he climaxed. Then he'd passed out.

She'd lain beneath him, sickened by his very presence, finally managing to roll his heavy form off her. She hadn't attempted to get him into bed, merely thrown a blanket over him and left him on the floor.

The sounds of retching had awoken her that morning but she had not left her bed.

Now, Harrison sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and nursing a hangover while Tina got dressed.

She pulled on a leather skirt, stepped into a pair of high heels and sat down to do her make-up.

As she reached into her handbag for her mascara she caught sight of the .25 Beretta in the bottom of the bag.

She looked towards the bedroom door, then carefully took the small pistol out, holding it in her hand, snaking her index finger through the trigger guard and pressing gently. She studied her own reflection in the dressing table mirror for a moment before dropping the gun back into her bag.

Not now.

Not yet.

She began applying her make-up.

'What are you doing today?'

The voice startled her and she caught sight of Harrison standing in the doorway. His voice was even more gravelly than usual and there were dark rings beneath his eyes, as if someone had coloured them with charcoal during the night. He looked ten years older than usual. Closer now to fifty than forty.

'I'm going shopping,' she told him.

'Not on your own you're not,' he replied. 'I'll send someone with you.'

'Frank, I'll be all right.'

He walked towards her, gripping her shoulder a little too hard.

'You've got to be careful,' he reminded her. Then he turned and headed back into the sitting room where she heard him using the phone. He returned a moment later.

'Carter and Mendham are on their way. They'll go with you,' he said.

She suppressed a smile at the mention of Carter's name.

'They'll be bored, trailing round shops with me,' she said.

'I don't pay them to enjoy themselves,' Harrison said, moving towards her once more. He began massaging her neck and, again, she winced slightly as she felt his fingers digging just a little too roughly into her flesh. 'Don't want anything happening to my little girl, do I?’ He smiled, bent forward and tried to kiss her but she pulled away slightly.