Deathlist (21 page)

Three minutes later, Bill Deeds stepped out of the club.

‘Here’s our boy,’ said Porter.

‘About fucking time,’ grumbled Bald.

Deeds swaggered out of the door at the front of the Pony Lounge, thirty metres away from the Blades’ position at the bar. He looked pleased with himself, a massive grin plastered across his ugly face. He also looked even bigger than Porter remembered him. His biceps bulged out of the sleeves of his Lacoste t-shirt like a pair of basketballs stuffed into sacks. His thighs were as wide as tree trunks inside his dark blue jeans. His skin was the colour of mahogany from all the fake tan. Deeds’s left arm was strapped up in a dressing. Porter recalled shooting the ex-squaddie in the shoulder, moments before he’d sped away from the Beacons reservoir.

A heavy stood at his flank. Porter recognised him from the dry runs they’d made on the target over the last two days. A low-level operator in Scarsdale’s organisation. The driver. He was also thickly-built, but stood next to Deeds he looked like a contestant trying out for a Mr Muscle ad. He wore a baggy Burberry polo that hung like a tent from his wide frame and knee-length cargo shorts. His eyes were like buttons pressed into the folds of his face. He looked like the kind of guy who bench-pressed a hundred and fifty kilos at the gym and thought that made him tough. He was big and mean and dumb.

Low-grade thugs
, Lakes had said.
You could probably handle them.

But Porter wasn’t worried about the driver. The real difficulty was going to be getting away without alerting any of the other gang affiliates. He recalled what Lakes had said about Scarsdale’s people owning half of Puerto Banus. They operated several bars along the strip and had VIP lounges in all the clubs. Their foot soldiers worked the doors and supplied the drugs to the clubbers. From their surveillance Porter and Bald knew that there were at least a dozen of Scarsdale’s people inside a hundred-metre radius of the alleyway. No wonder Deeds was acting so chilled. He was in Scarsdale’s back yard. The idea of someone lifting him would simply never have occurred to him. But if Deeds did manage to sound the alarm, Porter reckoned they would have thirty seconds at most to bug out of the marina before things went south. Everything depended on the grab being quick and clean and smooth. Any delay risked turning the op into one big clusterfuck.

He looked on as Deeds pounded down the stairs alongside Burberry. As soon as the Brits hit the street level they turned and headed west along the strip, making for the darkened alley twenty metres away at Porter’s twelve o’clock. At the same time Coles calmly stood up from his table across the street, left his newspaper and a couple of notes for the bill, and paced ahead of Deeds and the driver. He hit the alley fifteen metres ahead of the target. Twenty metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Six seconds later, Deeds and Burberry stepped into the alley.

Then Bald turned to Porter.

‘Let’s grab this cunt.’

The two operators slid out of their chairs and made for the door.

A cool breeze hit Porter as he stepped out into the street, running its fingers through his hair and thrusting down the bones of his face. There was a salty chill in the air and the streets were spit-polished with the look of recent rain. They fast-walked towards the alley, fifteen metres behind Deeds and Burberry. By now most of the nearby joints had almost emptied out. The streets were brimming with dealers and pimps, jostling for custom with pissed tourists. Bald and Porter were now twelve metres behind Deeds. They had to force themselves to move at a slower pace in order to keep at a reasonable distance from their quarry. As they approached the alley Porter could feel his heart beating like a snare drum inside his chest. His muscles instinctively tensed. His guts tied themselves into a vicious knot, mixing with the alcohol glowing in his chest. They were getting close now. Another thirty seconds and Bill Deeds – the first name on their deathlist – would be in the bag.

Ahead of them Deeds strolled casually down the alley, laughing at something Burberry had said. Porter and Bald stayed fifteen metres back, eyes scanning the balconies and terraces that jutted out of the apartment blocks either side of the alley. Empty. None of the locals would dream of sitting outside in this crap weather, Porter thought. He lowered his gaze and saw that Coles was now approaching the far end of the alley. The South African would stop once he hit the exit, blocking off the only escape route for Deeds and Burberry. They would have nowhere left to run.

Porter felt his pulse quicken. Any second now Devereaux would kickstart the Sprinter and steer the van into position.

Twenty seconds.

He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the alley at his six o’clock to check that they weren’t being followed. Then he slid a hand under his leather jacket and reached for his holstered Glock. So did Bald. Porter tightened his hand around the polymer grip, his index finger resting on the trigger mechanism. He liked the heft of the loaded Glock, the weight of it with a full clip of brass. A hot thrill swept through his veins as they increased their stride and approached the target. The net was closing around Deeds now. He’d slipped through their grasp once before. But he wouldn’t get away. Not tonight. This time they were going to nail the fucker good and proper.

They were ten metres from the target when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Bald froze. Porter froze too. For a cold second both operators stood rooted to the spot as the figure slipped out of one of the doorways lining the alley and moved towards Bald. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he realised it was the hooker he’d had his eye on back at the Paradiso. The one who’d blown him a kiss. The Slavic stunner. Her bright blue eyes glowed like a couple of coins in a wishing well. She smiled wickedly at Bald.

‘You want good time, baby?’ the hooker said.

She had a husky eastern European accent. Bald’s favourite. She also had a cracking pair of tits on her, and on any other day he would have been tempted to take up the hooker’s offer. But not tonight. He tried to slide past her.

‘Maybe tomorrow, love.’

But the hooker wasn’t taking no for an answer. She stepped closer to Bald. She was so close Bald could smell her cheap perfume. Strawberries and sex. She ran her delicate hand over his crotch.

‘Suck and fuck, baby? I give you good time. Best fuck in all of Spain. Hundred thousand peseta.’

Porter gritted his teeth. He still had his right hand inside his jacket pocket, gripping his Glock. Bald had already retrieved his weapon. Deeds and Burberry were ten metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Ten short of the alley exit. But this hooker was going to wreck the mission. She stood blocking the operators’ path. Delaying them. Deeds and Burberry were twelve metres ahead. Now thirteen. Coles had already hit the end of the alley. He stopped and reached inside his jacket for his weapon. Porter and Bald had to act now. Otherwise it was going to be two on one. Coles against Burberry and Deeds. Porter flared with anger. He shoved the hooker aside with his free hand.

‘Out of my fucking way,’ he snarled.

The hooker let out a high-pitched shriek as she stumbled backwards on her high heels and crashed against the doorway she’d stepped out from, knocking over a bin overflowing with rubbish. The sudden noise made Deeds and his driver stop dead in their tracks four or five metres short of the alley exit. Deeds looked past his shoulder. Caught sight of the hooker in the doorway, spitting curses at Bald in her foreign accent. Deeds stared at her curiously for a cold beat, a question mark forming in his narrow eyes. Then he swivelled his gaze towards the two operators. He saw their faces in the reflected glow of the lights from the main strip. Saw the Glock in Bald’s right hand.

For a half second nobody moved. The world just stopped. Deeds stood there next to Burberry and stared at Bald and Porter. Then his eyes went wide with recognition. Then he looked really fucking scared.

Then Deeds turned and ran.

TWENTY-FIVE

0046 hours.

Everything happened fast. At the end of the alley, Coles heard the hooker’s scream and turned towards his six o’clock. Towards Bald and Porter and Burberry and Deeds. The South African was digging out his holstered Glock as Deeds broke into a run. The target was five metres from Coles. Too close. Not enough distance. Not enough time for Coles to retrieve his weapon, extend his gun arm, aim at the target and shout for him to stop. He was still retrieving his weapon as Deeds crashed into him, knocking Coles back and following up with a sharp knee to the groin. Coles stumbled backwards, grunting. He dropped his Glock. Deeds and Burberry bolted past him and raced towards the alley exit.

Bald reacted quickest. He snapped his right arm level with his shoulder. Trained the Glock on Deeds. Tensed his index finger on the trigger. Ready to loose off a shot.

‘Jock, no!’ Porter shouted. ‘We need him alive.’

Bald hesitated. A split second later, Deeds and Burberry were ducking out of sight. They swept past Coles and headed east on Avenida Julio Iglesias. Bald lowered his weapon and cursed under his breath. Then he broke forward, sprinting ahead of Porter and Coles and surging towards the end of the alley.

Bald swept out onto the sprawling main street that straddled Puerto Banus. Sixty metres away to his left on the corner of Calle Jesus Puente, Bald could see Devereaux gunning the Sprinter engine and steering the van onto the main road. Coles was on his feet, grabbing his dropped pistol. Bald swivelled his gaze to his three o’clock. He was looking east down Avenida Julio Iglesias. The road stretched on for maybe three hundred metres all the way to the fringe of the beach along Playa de Levante, downstream from the marina and the super-yachts. Twenty metres away Deeds and Burberry were charging down the wide pavement, barging past tourists as they hurried towards the Range Rover parked fifty metres away, directly outside a fast food joint.

Bald turned to Coles. ‘Stay here! Watch the alley!’

Coles nodded. Then Bald turned and chased after Deeds. Porter stumbled alongside the Jock. Still fumbling to deholster his weapon. He’s rusty, thought Bald. The guy’s been out of the game for too long. Not for the first time he wondered if Porter was really up to this mission.

Bald raced after the target. Adrenaline flooding his veins. His heart pumping furiously. Everything was a blur. Like watching a shaky home video. He was running on instinct, and fumes. Every sense was heightened. Bald scuttled past the stunned tourists. Some of them caught sight of the Glock in his right hand and screamed, diving for cover in the nearest doorways or ducking behind their cars. Others stood rooted to the spot in terror or confusion, or maybe both. Bald blanked them out and focused solely on grabbing Deeds. He had to close the gap and stop the fucker from bugging out. If he gave them the slip now, he’d be spooked, Bald knew. He wouldn’t stick around in Spain. He’d go to ground, somewhere way under the radar. Somewhere the Firm would never be able to find him. The chances of locating Deeds again would be virtually nil. The mission would be fucked.

If Deeds gets away now, it’s over.

The ex-Para pounded down the pavement as fast as his huge legs could carry him. Which wasn’t very fast at all. All that heavy muscle weighed the guy down. His injured left arm slowed him down even further and forced him to move along in a lumbering gait. Burberry was just as slow. The guy was fifty per cent muscle and fifty per cent body fat.

Bald quickly closed the gap on the target. He could hear Porter’s breathing behind him as he hurried along a few paces further back. They were fifteen metres away from the target now. Deeds and Burberry were forty metres from the Range Rover. Bald ran on, his lungs burning. Like someone had poured petrol down his throat and then tossed in a struck match. The wind was blowing hard, shivering the fronds of the palm trees lining both sides of the road, and he could feel drops of rain spattering against his face. He raced down the street. Past the tacky clubs and the designer outlets and the strip bars. Towards the man who’d killed fifty-five British soldiers.

Up ahead Burberry risked a glance past his shoulder. Saw the two operators bearing down on him. Realised he wasn’t going to reach the Range Rover in time, and panicked. That was his first mistake. He stopped. Did a one-eighty. Reached under his shirt and dug out a pistol stashed in the waistband of his cargos. Bald got a glimpse of the tool. A hefty-looking handgun with a stainless-steel barrel and gaping mouth at the end, the kind of thing you bought just because it looked good. Maybe a Taurus PT92, thought Bald. Something like that. The Porsche 911 of handguns.

Burberry shaped to take aim at Bald. That was his second mistake. The fatal one. Bald punished him lethally. He didn’t panic. He had ten thousand hours of Regiment training drilled into him and he knew exactly what to do. He dropped to a crouch and raised his Glock in a fast but controlled movement, his muscles tensed but not overly stiff. Then he lined up Burberry’s torso between the front and rear sighting posts on the Glock. He didn’t need to a flick off a safety. There wasn’t one. On the Glock, your safety was your trigger finger. You didn’t fire the gun unless you pulled the trigger, and you didn’t pull the trigger unless you wanted to fire the gun.

Bald exhaled.

Squeezed the trigger.

The muzzle flashed. The Glock barked.

Bald had cocked the weapon before leaving the safe house. Meaning, there was already a round nestling in the snout. The slider shunted back and then rocketed forward, spitting out the chambered bullet. He fired twice more. Three rounds in deadly, quick succession. The bullets hit Burberry in a close grouping, slamming into his upper chest with a dull wet
whump
. Like fists smacking against a punchbag. Burberry jerked wildly, doing the dead man’s dance. He made a deep grunt in his throat as he dropped like a sack of hot potatoes. The semi-automatic clattered to the ground beside him as the blood spurted out of an exit wound in his neck in a hot red gush. The discharges echoed like thunder across the street. A passing taxi picked up speed and bulleted away. Somewhere across the street, a woman screamed.