Dead Men (3 page)

Hickey looked down the barrel of the gun, checked the sights, then flipped out the cylinder. It was fully loaded. ‘No problem here, boss. It’s just that I’m more comfortable with automatics.’

‘Automatics jam and they spew cartridges all over the place,’ said Paxton, dismissively. He zipped the bag and closed the boot.

Hickey slid the gun into the pocket of his jacket. ‘You’re not carrying, boss?’

‘There’s no point in having a couple of dogs and barking myself, is there?’ said Paxton. ‘Right, stick with me. I’ll do the talking, you look mean, and only pull the shooters out if I say so.’ He walked down the pavement. Hickey and Clarke hurried after him.

The Algerians were living in a row of terraced houses, several of which had for-sale signs by the front doors. It was early evening and the street-lamps came on as they headed along the pavement. Three Asian boys with gelled hair and earrings walked towards them, stepping into the road to get past. ‘Bloody suicide-bombers,’ Paxton muttered. ‘Should ship ’em all back to Paki Land.’

‘They were probably born here, boss,’ said Clarke.

‘Yeah, well, just because a dog’s born in a stable it doesn’t make it a horse,’ said Paxton. He jerked his head at the door they were approaching. The black paint was peeling and the wood was rotting at the bottom. The window frames were also in a bad state, and one of the panes on the upper floor had been broken and patched with a sheet of hardboard. ‘This is it,’ he said. He jabbed at the doorbell, then kept his gloved finger on it until the door opened. They caught a glimpse of a man in his early twenties with a goatee, then the door started to close. Paxton forced it open and the man inside swore. ‘Slam the door on me, would you, you bastard?’ yelled Paxton. He used both hands to push it wide, then Clarke and Hickey followed him into the hallway. The Algerian scrambled for the kitchen but Paxton grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. ‘Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Ben?’ He slammed the man against the wall.

Hickey closed the door and stood with his back to it. ‘Where’s my fucking drugs, Ben?’ said Paxton. He put his hand round the man’s throat.

‘Leave him alone!’ shouted a voice from upstairs.

A second Algerian was at the top of the stairs, a big man with forearms that bulged in his sweatshirt. He wore a thick gold chain round his neck and a bulky watch.

Paxton kept his fingers tight round Ben’s throat. ‘Get the hell down here, Ali, and fetch me my drugs or I’ll snap this little shit’s neck.’

‘We haven’t got your drugs,’ said Ali. ‘They didn’t arrive.’

‘Yeah, well, I heard different,’ said Paxton. He pulled Ben away from the wall, then shoved him backwards down the hallway towards the kitchen. ‘So come down here and we can get things straightened out.’ Ben’s feet scrabbled along the threadbare carpet as Paxton kept him off balance. He tried to speak but, with Paxton’s grip on his neck, could only grunt. Paxton forced him into the kitchen. ‘Check the rest of the house, lads. Make sure there’s no surprises.’

‘Will do, boss,’ said Clarke. He kept the sawn-off shotgun pressed to his side as he opened the door to the living room.

Hickey looked up the stairs at Ali. ‘You’d better do as he says and get down here,’ he said. Ali glared at him. ‘Don’t make me come up there and get you,’ warned Hickey.

As Clarke stepped into the living room, a third Algerian appeared from behind the door and stabbed at him with a flick-knife. Clarke yelped and staggered back into the hallway, clutching his left arm. The shotgun clattered to the floor. ‘He stabbed me,’ said Clarke, in disbelief. ‘The bastard stabbed me.’

Hickey ran down the hallway. The Algerian with the flick-knife bent down, reaching for the shotgun with his free hand. Hickey kicked out, his foot catching the man in the chest. The Algerian roared as he fell backwards, arms flailing.

Clarke slid down the wall, his face ashen. ‘He stabbed me,’ he whispered, his hand pressed to the injury. ‘I can feel the blood,’ he whined. ‘I can feel it running down my arm.’

The Algerian in the sitting room got to his feet and went into a crouch, the knife darting back and forth. Hickey heard Ali rush down the stairs behind him.

‘What the hell’s happening?’ shouted Paxton.

The Algerian with the knife lunged at Hickey, who stepped back, hands up. Ali reached the bottom of the stairs and charged down the hallway. Hickey fumbled for his revolver but couldn’t get it out of his pocket before Ali slammed into him, shoulder first. Hickey stumbled over Clarke’s legs and staggered against the wall, trying to regain his balance.

Ali picked up the shotgun. Hickey threw himself towards the man and clamped his right hand over the weapon’s hammer. Ali tried to force his index finger into the trigger guard but Hickey twisted the gun down.

Again the Algerian with the knife slashed at Hickey, who twisted the shotgun so that Ali was between him and the knife-man. Ali tried to pull the gun away from him, but Hickey tightened his grip round the hammer. So long as he kept his hand on it, the weapon couldn’t be fired.

Paxton let go of Ben and rushed to the kitchen door. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he roared.

Hickey pushed Ali towards the Algerian with the knife, then twisted the shotgun free.

A scraping sound made Paxton turn – in time to see Ben snatching a breadknife from a wooden block. Before he could react Ben thrust it to his neck. Paxton stood still, the serrated blade against his flesh. ‘Don’t do anything stupid, Ben,’ he said.

In the hallway, Hickey levelled the shotgun at Ali’s stomach. ‘Stay where you are or I’ll blow a hole in your gut,’ he said.

Ali sneered at him. ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said.

‘Then you’re as stupid as you look,’ said Hickey. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

‘I’m bleeding to death here,’ whimpered Clarke, on the floor.

‘You’re fine,’ said Hickey, his eyes locked on Ali’s. ‘If he’d hit an artery you’d be dead already. Just keep pressure on the wound and you’ll be okay.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ said Clarke. ‘You’re not the one who’s been stabbed.’

‘Hands on your head, Ali,’ said Hickey, slowly. His finger tightened on the trigger. Ali started to lift his hands but as they got to shoulder height, the Algerian behind him shoved him in the small of the back and Ali staggered forward.

Ali’s eyes widened in horror as Hickey raised the shotgun. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything Hickey took a step back, reversed the shotgun, and slapped the butt against the side of his head. Ali slumped to the ground. Hickey reversed the shotgun again and levelled the shortened barrel at the Algerian’s groin. ‘Drop the knife or I’ll blow your balls off.’ The knife clattered on the floor and the Algerian raised his hands. ‘Turn around slowly,’ said Hickey. The Algerian did as he was told. As he turned, Hickey hit him on the back of the head with the shotgun and the Algerian fell without a sound.

‘I need an ambulance,’ said Clarke.

‘If you don’t stop whining, I’ll shoot you myself,’ said Hickey, striding towards the kitchen door.

Ben had dragged Paxton to the sink, the breadknife pressed to his neck.

‘Shoot the prick, why don’t you?’ said Paxton.

‘Well, first of all, if I pull the trigger on this, the neighbours are all going to start dialling three nines and there’ll be an armed-response vehicle outside before you can say, “life sentence”. And, second of all, the shot from this will rip you both apart.’ Hickey put the shotgun on top of the fridge and took the revolver out of his pocket.

‘Just get this prick off me!’ said Paxton.

‘That’s the plan,’ said Hickey. He weighed the gun in his hand as he stared at Ben. The Algerian’s face was bathed in sweat and a pulse was throbbing in his forehead.

‘I’ll kill him,’ said Ben, but his voice was trembling.

‘The thing is, Peter, if I shoot him and he doesn’t die right away, he can still slit your throat.’ Hickey pointed the gun at Ben. ‘Drop the knife,’ he said.

‘You shoot me and I can still cut him,’ said the Algerian. ‘I’ll slit his throat.’

‘Which affects me how exactly?’ said Hickey.

‘What?’

‘Listen to yourself,’ said Hickey. ‘I shoot you and you stab him. Where does that leave me?’

Ben frowned.

‘I’ll tell you where it leaves me,’ said Hickey. ‘Standing here with a shit-eating grin on my face while you bleed to death on the floor. So stop being an arsehole and drop the knife.’

‘I’ll cut him,’ said the Algerian again, but with less conviction now.

‘That’s no skin off my nose, is it?’

‘He’s your boss.’

‘I’ll get another,’ said Hickey. ‘Bosses are easy to find.’

‘Hickey, you are starting to piss me off in a big way,’ said Paxton. ‘Shoot him in the leg.’

‘Peter, best thing you can do right now is to keep quiet. If I shoot him in the leg he’ll cut you. If I shoot, I’ll have to shoot to kill, which means blowing his brains out.’

The Algerian pressed the knife harder against Paxton’s neck. ‘He’s going to cut me,’ said Paxton.

‘No, he’s not,’ said Hickey. ‘He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.’ Hickey walked slowly across the kitchen, his eyes locked on Ben’s.

Ben had backed up against the sink so there was nowhere he could go. ‘Stay away!’ he shouted.

‘Stay calm, Ben,’ said Hickey. ‘I just want to talk.’

‘Stop moving!’

Hickey raised the gun and pointed the barrel at the man’s face. ‘I’m just talking, Ben. Just chewing the fat.’

‘If you’re going to shoot him, just shoot him,’ said Paxton.

Hickey ignored him. He continued to hold Ben’s eyes as he moved slowly across the kitchen floor. ‘Listen to me, Ben. Listen to me carefully. We can still stop this without anyone getting really hurt. Vince there will need a couple of stitches but he’ll be okay. Your two friends will wake up with sore heads but they’ll be fine. But if you cut my boss there, everything changes.’

‘I want you out of the house, now.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Hickey. ‘That’s what I want.’ He took two steps towards Ben and placed the barrel of the gun against the man’s forehead. Ben tried to move his head away but Hickey kept the gun pressed to it. ‘Stay calm, Ben,’ he said quietly. ‘Just chill and listen to me.’

‘For fuck’s sake, what are you playing at?’ hissed Paxton.

‘This can go one of three ways, Ben,’ said Hickey. ‘I can pull the trigger and blow your brains over the sink and we’ll all live happily ever after. Except you, of course, because you’ll be dead. Or you can cut my boss’s throat with that knife, he bleeds to death, I pull the trigger and blow your brains over the sink.’

‘Hickey . . .’ warned Paxton.

‘Now, there’s a third way, Ben. You put down the knife, I take a step back, and we do what we came here to do, which is have a chat.’

‘You came here with guns,’ said Ben.

‘Your mate attacked us with a knife,’ said Hickey. ‘He stabbed Vince there. We just came to talk.’

‘You came here with guns,’ repeated Ben, pressing the knife harder to Paxton’s throat.

‘And if we hadn’t, we’d all be sitting in the hallway bleeding,’ said Hickey. ‘Now, drop the knife. I don’t want to do anything melodramatic like counting to three, but trust me, Ben, I will put a bullet in your face.’

Sweat was pouring down Ben’s face and he licked his lips. ‘Maybe I let him go and you still shoot me?’

‘Why?’ said Hickey. ‘I’ve nothing against you. My boss here still wants to talk about his drugs. So drop the knife and we can all go home.’

Ben was breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling as his mind raced. Hickey waited, his eyes never leaving the man’s face. Eventually the Algerian took the knife away from Paxton’s throat. He held it to the side and dropped it on to the work surface. Paxton staggered across the kitchen, cursing.

Hickey slammed the gun against the side of Ben’s head and grinned as the Algerian slumped to the floor. ‘Twat,’ he said.

Charlotte Button put down her cup of tea. ‘You hit him?’ she said. ‘He did what you wanted and you still hit him?’

Dan Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m David Hickey, bouncer turned enforcer. It’s what I do. If I hadn’t hit him, I wouldn’t have been in character.’

Button sighed. ‘Spider, even an undercover SOCA agent has to follow some rules. You really can’t go around hitting people willy-nilly.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Willy-nilly?’

‘You know what I mean. I’m your boss, remember? I’m supposed to ensure that you at least come close to following approved procedure.’

‘I just clipped him,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ He leant back in his chair and stretched. They were sitting in a third-floor office in Soho, one of several where Button met the undercover operatives who worked for the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Spring sunshine streamed in though the two skylights. One wall, to the left of the door, was covered with surveillance photographs of Peter Paxton and his crew. Shepherd featured in several, never far from Paxton’s side.

‘So what happened?’

Shepherd ran a hand over the stubble on his head. He didn’t like cutting his hair so short, but it was part of Hickey’s character. He’d be glad to get rid of the garish jewellery, too. ‘Paxton had us haul them into the kitchen and tie them up. Then he found an iron and switched it on.’

‘Spider, please, don’t tell me you tortured them.’

‘It didn’t come to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘The one called Ben started to cry as soon as the little light went on. The drugs were in the loft. Twelve kilos of Afghan heroin. It was a trial run and it had gone exactly as planned, except they’d decided that as it was so easy they might as well cut out the middle man.’

‘Where’s the heroin now?’

‘Still in the house,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at his watch. ‘Probably being picked up as we speak. Paxton didn’t want to risk driving around with twelve kilos of smack in the Jag so he’s sending some of his boys around to pick it up.’