Dead Man's Gift 01 - Yesterday (5 page)

Instinctively, he jumped backwards, letting go of the gun arm and only just managing to avoid the blade as it swung in a vicious little arc at belly height. The gunman brought the gun back round to aim at Scope, trying to steady himself after the knife lunge. But Scope was quicker. Keeping low, he leaped at the gunman, using his body weight to trap his knife arm in front of him, and drove his own knife deep into his gunman’s side, trying to knock the gun out of the way at the same time.

The gun went off close to Scope’s ear, the bullet passing very close by. But already the gunman was weakening as the life seeped out of him. The gun clattered to the floor and, as Scope pulled out the knife, the gunman slipped down the wall into a sitting position, his eyes staring helplessly, as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened. A low moan escaped from his throat, and he tried to get up but no longer had the strength.

Scope felt sick. A knife was a hugely personal way of taking someone out. There was something barbaric about it that he knew diminished him as a human being, but there was no time to think about that now. He crouched down so his face was only inches away from the gunman’s, seeing him properly for the first time. He was mid to late thirties and spray-tanned, with a thick head of dark, curly hair that looked dyed, and a face that would probably have been described as boyishly handsome a few years ago, but which was now tight and drawn, from a combination of hard living and cheap Botox. Even the gym muscles looked fake, as if they’d been Photoshopped onto him.

‘Where’s the boy?’ demanded Scope. ‘Where’s Max?’ The guy had to know, he was sure of it. Orla’s attempted murder, and the timing of it, was no coincidence.

The gunman turned his head slowly, a mixture of hatred and surprise in his eyes. ‘Fuck you,’ he whispered defiantly.

Scope grabbed him by the hair and pushed the blade hard against his cheek, drawing blood. ‘Tell me.’

But the gunman’s eyelids were flickering and, as Scope held him, his eyes shut altogether and his head slumped to one side. Scope hurriedly felt for a pulse and got something very faint, but even as he held his finger there, it faded away. He let the knife fall to the floor, knowing there was no way it could be traced back to him. He’d bought it in cash years ago from a shop in France and it looked like a million other hunting knives.

Even so, what had just happened was a bad development on a number of different levels. With one of those involved in his kidnapping dead, Max was suddenly in a lot more danger. Orla was gone too. The flat door was wide open where he’d kicked it and he could no longer hear her in the house.

Scope cursed. He needed leads, and he needed them badly, but he had very little time. The gunshots hadn’t made that much noise, but they would definitely have alerted people in the other flats. Moving fast, he rifled through the gunman’s pockets, finding a wallet, keys and a mobile phone. The wallet didn’t tell him anything. There was about three hundred in cash, a wrap of white powder that was probably coke, and nothing else. Scope threw it on the floor and put the keys and the phone in his jacket, along with the dead man’s gun – an old Webley .22 that still contained three rounds in the chamber.

There were two wine glasses on the bedside table, both of them overturned. This meant that Orla knew her attacker and had let him in. Scope searched the table drawer, found nothing of use, but then spotted a handbag on the floor over the other side of the bed. As he picked it up, he heard an unfamiliar ringtone coming from his jacket pocket. It was the mobile he’d taken from the gunman and the screen was showing that the number calling was blocked.

Scope pressed the Answer button. ‘Who’s this?’ he grunted, trying to disguise his voice.

‘Who the fuck do you think it is?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone – male, middle-aged and sounding stressed. ‘It’s Frank. What’s going on? We’ve had reports of gunfire coming from inside her flat. The ARVs are already being scrambled. Are you still there?’

‘Just leaving now.’

‘Is she dead?’

Scope didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah.’

‘Good. Now get the fuck out of there, and fast.’

The caller cut the connection, and Scope pulled back the curtain an inch. His heart sank.

As he watched, two cop cars pulled up on the street directly below him, and the first officer out was holding a Heckler & Koch MP5. It seemed the big guns had arrived.

Scope let the curtain fall back, feeling the adrenalin pumping through his system.

He was trapped.

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