Exit Wounds (32 page)

Paul dropped flat to the ground instantly. It had been nothing more than luck and the darkness that had saved him by inches from the shotgun blast. The drop, had winded him, but he fought the urge to gasp out. He remained silent and controlled his breathing.

He knew that the gunshot had come from somewhere on his left ahead of him. He had listened intently since the blast but heard no sound of movement. Paul judged that the firer could be no more than maybe fifteen feet away from him, but in this darkness it was impossible to make out even the slightest trace of his outline.

Paul’s arms were spread out in front of him and slowly he moved them along the concrete surface of the ground towards his sides, his fingers caressing every crevice and imperfection in the floor. When his arms were at a right angle with his head, he straightened his shoulders and slowly lifted himself off the ground. His eyes fixed on the area in which he had seen the muzzle flash come from, he brought up his feet one at a time until he stood crouched on all fours.

Slowly he edged forward, careful not to make the slightest of sounds. He kept his eyes centred on where he was sure the shot had come from, but it was no use. No matter how much he inched forwards, he still could see no trace of the gunman.

Paul spread his fingers out flat, feeling for something in the darkness. He kept his eyes forward and slowly he moved his palms along the surface, probing for something he could use. His left fingertips pressed over something sharp yet round and metal. Paul picked up what felt like a torn drinks-can and passed it over gently to his right hand without bothering to look down. He wouldn’t be able to see it in this darkness anyway.

Paul slowly twisted his body slightly to the right and back, his sight, impaired by the lack of light, but still fixed on the same area. He raised his right arm above and behind his head, and threw the metal object in the direction of the brick wall.

The can crashed against the wall, making a similar noise to the one Paul himself had made just before the shotgun had fired. In a strange replay of events, a small burst of bright yellow and white deafeningly lit up in front of him.

Already on his feet, Paul charged forward, curving slightly to the left but then back round. He leapt up at the last minute and closing his fists together as one, brought his full weight smashing down on the mass of a slightly different shade of blackness than its surroundings.

The gunman and Paul dropped together in a tangled mess on the concrete. Paul was, as far as he could make out, on top. The gunman struggled beneath him, his laboured breathing whistling down the back of Paul’s neck.

Paul twisted to turn but a strong arm rose up under his chin and clutched him tight as their two bodies scuffled around in the dark.

Paul raised his right arm across his own chest and then sent his elbow down into what must have been the gunman’s ribs. It winded him badly. He was already panting and with the impact, Paul felt his painful gasp on the back of his head.

Paul rolled over, at least then he would have control of the floor, and he was confident he’d be able to shrug the gunman off his back, clearing for attack. But the gunman had gotten a good grip and even though Paul had turned round, he remained stuck round Paul’s neck like a heavy chain. His bodyweight pinned the gunman down underneath his, but neither could move to make any precise attacks, even if they did somehow manage to see each other in the endless black.

Paul reached up with his right arm, as he continued to fight the gunman’s grip with his left. He felt round, his fingers tapping on ground and face until he felt hair beneath his fingers. Paul clenched his fist, snatching up a handful of the gunman’s hair. He forcefully lifted up his fist, dragging the gunman’s head up with him and then he smashed it back against the concentre with a crack.

The grip on his neck weakened and Paul knocked the arm away and twisted as he sat up to stand astride, hunched over the huddled heap of moving black on black. He quickly grabbed up a handful of the clothing beneath him, pulled his fist back and shot his fist downward. It connected with a face and Paul felt the crunch of a broken nose between his knuckles.

The gunman yelped in pain. His hands came up, reaching out for Paul, to bring him back down. Paul raised his fist again, already feeling the wet and sticky blood of his enemy. He punched down again, but this time a sharp pain shot up through his knuckles, shuddering all the way up his arm as his hand connected with concrete instead of flesh.

The hurt was such a shock, that Paul’s footing stumbled, as he clutched his hand in the other. He came down on his knees, heavy. The gunman, still beneath him kept reaching out, his hands opening and closing around Paul like a crab’s pincers.

Paul fought through the pain, he felt out again in the darkness beneath him. Eventually grasping hold of the gunman’s head in both hands, he again cracked it down on the ground. The gunman’s hands tugged and pulled at Paul’s hoody, desperately, as he cried out with each continuing blow. Paul lashed out again, and again, and again. Each time the same sharp thud of bone on stone, accompanied by the screams of a fully grown man. Until finally... silence.

Paul sat there for a moment, with only the sound of his own breath. The events that had just taken place, replayed themselves in his head. It was a trait that had been with him ever since his first kill. As if his own mind was trying to punish him, forcing him to relive the murder. Paul knew it wouldn’t be the last time he would relive this moment and as he picked himself up and took up his victim’s weapon, he thanked the darkness for never showing him the man’s face. One less to haunt his dreams.

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Richard had chased Dean through the dark outbuilding and around the zigzagged maze of wire fences and concrete walls that they had found themselves in. He had kept eyes on him round each bend and even when he had been forced to take cover when Dean blind-fired behind him as he ran. Now he had him cornered.

Dean had run into a dead end. Faced with brick wall in front of him and to his right he spun round and went to scramble up the wire metal fence to his right.

“Dean!” Richard shouted as he centred his sights on Den’s chest, ready to pull the trigger.

Dean dropped back down to the ground. He shook his head and laughed. “Alright, officer! You win!” He said, tossing his weapon away with a grin. “I’ll come quietly. No rough stuff.”

Richard’s finger flinched on the trigger. Dean had killed Andrew. His friend. His mentor. The only real father figure he had ever known. The man who had stuck by him no matter what and had paid the ultimate price for his loyalty. All he wanted was to blow Reynolds away. But he was unarmed. He was surrendering. He had to bring him in. Arrest him. Put him on trial. That was what he believed in. Justice not revenge.

Dean smiled at him.

How many had died because of him?
I could still shoot. No one would ever know.
Richard’s finger pressed against the trigger but didn’t squeeze.
I would know.

Richard breathed through his nose, his fingers tightening around the gun’s grip.

Just shoot him! Shoot him!

Dean chuckled aloud. “You can’t do it can you?”

“Turn around!” Richard spat suddenly. “Now!”

Dean slowly turned around with an arrogant sway.

“Hands behind your head!”

Dean raised each hand in turn and rested them on the top of his skull.

Richard moved forward slowly. His weapon still trained on Dean, he reached behind him with one hand to unhook the handcuffs from his belt.

Hearing the movement, Dean spun round quickly. He knocked the gun from Richard’s hand and pulled out the hidden Beretta tucked down the side of his trousers.

Richard reacted faster than Dean expected. He clasped both hands over the top of his, pushing the gun away from himself just as Dean pulled the trigger.

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Paul could hear that the distant gunfire behind him had grown less frequent now. One way or another, the battle was being won. Paul just hoped that it was a closing victory for the right side.

Suddenly two shots clapped like thunder. They were louder, and close by.

Paul instinctively knew it was his brother. He ran in the direction of the sound. Another shot rang out as he sprinted up a concrete embankment. Again yet another shot, just as Paul appeared over the slope. Straight away he spotted Richard. Less than fifteen feet away Richard was locked in a struggle with Dean. A long, metal fence separated him from them.

He couldn’t risk firing from here. Shotguns weren’t known for their accuracy, and with Richard and Dean fighting each other, Paul could just as easily hit his brother. He would have to go round, but that would take time and he couldn’t be sure he would find opening. He moved to climb over the top and –

Paul would never forget that sound. He’d heard countless other gunfire over the years but that single gunshot would now forever be engraved into his memory. Distinct and terrible. The noise echoed off the concrete and metal surroundings as Paul stopped running and came to a slow, gradual stop in front of the metal fence.

Time slowed down as Richard staggered backwards, his hands reaching for his chest. Dean watched him, the gun held in his hand tight to his waist. Richard tripped, and fell backwards. His face was carved with shock. He looked down at his torso confused, like he couldn’t quite work out where all the blood had come from.

Paul tried to move, but his limbs failed him. He felt his fingers slacken and the shotgun dropped to the ground. He collapsed forward, barely managing the strength to grasp hold of the fence in front of him. He felt sick and breathless at the same time as if he had been hollowed out from the inside.

Richard slowly looked up. Dean stepped forward and promptly put a bullet in his forehead.

Paul tried to shout. He wanted to scream in denial. But he wasn’t even sure if any sound had actually left his mouth or if he had screamed in silence.

Dean turned to look at Paul, noticing him for the first time. Their eyes met. A split second stretched out for eternity as Paul stared, desperation and despair swelling up, and then finally, another gun blast shattered the perpetuity.

Pain ripped through Paul’s chest as the bullet tore through his skin, muscle and lung. The sheer force caused his already weakened legs to fail him completely, and he dropped to the ground alongside the wire fence. His head came down hard on the concrete surface and the world spin round him. His own blood felt cold to him as it began to seep and spread all over his chest and down the back of his neck. Paul shivered with each breath, as the wound in his lung shredded more with every movement.

His vision started to blur and the edges of his sight darkened. But despite this, the image of Dean looking down at him through the wire fence remained sharp and clear. Up close, Paul recognised the gun as his own. The one he had been given by Richard. The one that he had been forced to hand over to Dean that morning. It was his own gun that had killed his brother, Paul realised in horror. And as Dean raised the Berretta up to Paul’s head, he knew it was his own gun that would kill him too. Dean pulled the trigger.

This time, no gunshot came. Only the faint, metallic click of an empty chamber. Dean ejected the magazine cartridge from the pistol and checked it. He raised an eyebrow and held it up with a shrug of his shoulders for Paul to see. “All gone.”

Dean crouched down lower, his face level with Paul’s. He wrapped his fingers wrapped around the thatched wire between them. “This must be you lucky day.” He smiled slowly, letting his words linger and then with a turn, he too was gone.

Paul did his best to twist round to see which direction he was going, but his head had hit the ground hard and he was losing blood fast from the hole in his chest. His eyes had already began to cloud, and under the weight of his already closing eyelids, Paul caught only a short, last glimpse of his brother’s lifeless body in a pool of its own blood, before darkness took him.

13.47 BST (British Summer Time)

Three Weeks Later

Cardiff. Wales. Great Britain.

Thornhill Cemetery and Crematorium, Thornhill

Paul watched his brother’s burial from behind a tree. Jade hadn’t visited him whilst he was in hospital and when he had tried to see her after she’d given birth to her and Richard’s third child, a baby girl, the nurses turned him away.

His days since being discharged had been spent mostly in windowless rooms with two officers, a solicitor and a tape recorder. Every detail of that fateful day and those leading up to it was being scrutinised down to the inch. The curious part was they seemed keen to shift any blame away from Paul himself. They kept leading him towards the idea that somehow the entire thing was Andrew Colgan’s fault. They described him as a man obsessed with his shortcomings in catching the Blind Lover murderer who took reckless and dangerous actions to prove himself. Paul’s solicitor advised him to go along with their spin.