My Kind of Justice: How Far Would You Go For Justice (D.I. Jack Striker Book 1) (30 page)

Davison saw Bardsley rather awkwardly taking Kingston’s weight below and felt the rope’s tautness ease in his hands. Standing on the bed that was wedged tight to the wall, he quickly turned and jumped off. He’d struggled to untie the rope previously, due to his unwieldy position under the bed, but now he found he could lift the bed and access the knot more easily.

Bob the Dog entered the first-floor bedroom, tying Rhys’s lead to a radiator pipe.

“Here, Ben. Gimme that.” Bob took the elevated bed’s weight and Davison went to work unhooking the rope from the upturned bed post. A few seconds later, Davison had the rope in his hand and Bob eased the bed down to the floor, pulling it from the window to create better access.

Davison leaned out of the window and saw a group of his colleagues holding on to both Bardsley and Kingston, the latter looking as floppy as a rag doll among a mass of black uniforms. There was an ambulance parked up nearby with two green-uniformed paramedics at its rear holding the doors open.

“Think we were too late, Bob,” said Davison resignedly.

“We did all we could.”

“Now then, what about helping DI Striker?” Davison headed for the hall.

Following, Bob said, “You heard Mr Halt. Armed Response will deal with it from here, lad.”

“Where are they then? He’s on his own, Bob. Come on. This is what I joined the Job for.”

They both looked up at the loft opening ten feet above them. They bounced stern looks and Davison said, “You’ve got your pension waiting and I’m the tallest.”

“Think of Louise.”

“I am, Bob.”

“Ach, Ben. You’re as mad as Jack Striker.” The dogman shook his head and crouched, cupping his hands together.

Davison placed his foot onto Bob’s hands and was thrust upward with a Scottish “Uu-saaah”. He grabbed onto the rim of the loft and did an English version of the same exerting noise that they’d coined together in the work’s gym.

The rookie constable clambered into the loft.

***

Striker soon sussed the quickest way to run across the lengthy ridge and got into a rhythm, one foot either side. Closing on the point where he’d lost sight of Powers, his right foot gave way on a loose tile. He cursed, slipped and rolled down the roof like a kid on an inflatable slide. The sky somersaulted in his vision. His radio clattered down the tiled slope and disappeared over the edge. He scrambled his feet frantically, using his leather shoes as brakes. He heard gasps and screams coming from below as he continued, albeit more slowly, skidding toward the edge. The buckle and cuffs of the utility belt scraped the tiles, slowing him further.

About five feet short, he came to halt, looked down and exhaled. He took a deep breath before turning and climbing back up to the apex.

Within a minute, he saw another skylight ajar and guessed that was where Powers must have gone. He lay on his stomach and crawled closer so he could peek inside. When he did, a sturdy hand grabbed his hair and wrenched him downward.

Powers pointed the Glock at Striker, who lay in a heap, groaning on the wooden floor.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Striker, you’re a tenacious bastard. But I already knew that from when I marked you at football, didn’t I, eh?”

Striker sat up, staring at the muzzle of the handgun. “If you recall, it was me who ‘marked’ you.”

Powers laughed exaggeratedly. “Yeah, I know. I’ve still got the stud marks,” he gestured with the pistol toward his right leg.

“Come on, Vic. It’s over, fella.” Striker shaped to stand up.

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong, Jack. It’s far from over,” Powers said, forcing the DI back down with a foot to the chest.

The whirring of the police helicopter overhead emanated through the open skylight.

“You’re surrounded. You got Kingston, and probably got me the bloody sack.”

Powers grinned. “Yeah, your methods are somewhat unorthodox, to say the least.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Especially, since you’ve been dumped off the case.”

Striker fixed a stare. “Tell me something…”

“Shoot.”

“Poor choice of word, Vic, but tell me… why the baton?”

“Am I under caution here?”

“Not yet.”

Now Powers eyed Striker. “Don’t suppose it matters now. My weapons of choice are obviously guns, so when I saw a baton in the locker room a year ago, I thought, why not? You wouldn’t be linking me to it, being ex-forces. I practised using it on my punchbag for a year and, as you know, got pretty damn good with it.”

“You used a cop’s baton?”

“Sure. I bet some of you guys wished you could use it the way I did.”

Striker didn’t answer.

Powers dipped his head for a second. “Sorry about your nephew, by the way. He just happened to be there.”

Striker bit his lip. He then thought about Danny Powers, thankful Vic didn’t know what had happened in the cellar, or the hospital for that matter. If he had heard, things would have certainly been much different here. Striker guessed that he probably wouldn’t broach the subject, so as not to incriminate his brother.

“Apology reluctantly accepted, since he’s okay now. Good job he is, though.”

“Don’t you ever learn? You’re in no position to make threats, Jack.”

“You always have a weapon. Why not put the gun down and let the best man win?”

Powers shook his head. “Good try. It’s tempting, but I can’t risk that. My list is still incomplete.”

“So you carry on, until you’re shot dead. Because that’s what will happen.”

“Yeah, but now I have a hostage. A window of opportunity to escape.”

Striker considered rushing him now. He wondered whether the covert body armour he was wearing could stop a bullet from such close range. But from what Bardsley had told him, Powers preferred the shot to the forehead.

“There’s no way you’ll get out of this now. There have been too many killings. Ten is it now, with Kingston? You can’t carry on doing this.”

“They were all scum, Striker and fuckin’ deserved it, and the world is a better place without them. I didn’t hear too many objections from the city’s decent folk either. Reckon they secretly admired my work. Bet some of you cops did too.”

“Come on, we can’t condone cold-blooded murder. If we did, there’d be anarchy on the streets. Who do you think you are anyway, Charles-fuckin-Bronson?”

Powers edged the gun closer, face expressionless, eyes fixed on Striker.

“Anyway, why mess about hanging Kingston when you knew we were chasing you?”

Powers sighed, lowered the gun slightly. He took a pace back and shrugged, his taut features relaxing a touch. “It’s no big deal…
if
I’m caught. I had to make that statement with Kingston, just in case. It was always the plan, but maybe not so rushed. It’ll be all over the internet already. I saw some of the gathering crowd below recording it on their phones. People need to know there’s a consequence for scumbags like Kingston. My kind of justice is much more effective than yours, don’t you think? I mean, just look at that farcical court case when Castro and his pricks jumped Josh. You’re a decent detective and even you couldn’t get them convicted.”

Striker stared at the loft’s dusty floor then looked up and said, “You can never justify murder.”

“So, you’re telling me I’ve not done the public a service, mopping up the scum from the streets? Come on, Jack, there’s barely a hoodie in sight around here now. I bet you’re secretly pleased with my work, especially with Kingston.”

“What do you want me to say? That the bastard had it coming?”

“Well, yeah. They all did.”

He was talking freely. Good.
“You’ve certainly been busy. I don’t know how you managed it. Who’ve you had helping you?”

“I acted alone.”

Just as Striker was about to probe further, a metallic voice interrupted them, echoing from outside: “VICTOR POWERS, THIS IS DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT HALT. YOU ARE SURROUNDED BY ARMED OFFICERS, WHO HAVE BEEN BRIEFED TO SHOOT TO STOP IF YOU DO NOT CO-OPERATE. RELINQUISH YOUR WEAPON AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD.”

Striker lowered his voice, “Come on, Vic. At least end it by saving your own life. Do you think Lenny and Josh would want you to carry on the killings?”

Powers became momentarily quiet. Clearly deep in thought, his temples and jawline appeared to almost pulse. Then he said, “I won’t tell them about your shady past, you know, Jack.” For the first time, there was an air of resignation in his voice.

“Don’t think that matters now. In our own ways we’re both, as they say, ‘fucked’… I may even see you in the slammer.”

They chuckled in unison, albeit nervously, Striker clocking that the Glock was now dipped.

“Watch each other’s backs, eh?”

“Yeah, something like that. So why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

“I still have the chance now.” He jiggled the gun in the air.

“You’re an ex-Para, aren’t you? And you shot at me twice.”

“True. I aimed to miss. Killing cops isn’t on my agenda. You know that.”

“I could just take that gun off you now then?”

“Try it if you want.”

Striker stood up and Powers pointed the Glock. “Striker, no, stay the fuck there!”

Striker edged forward. “Come on, Vic. It’s over. Now, give me the gun and we’ll walk out together.”

***

Davison looked heavenward past the chopper and stood up above the skylight. Forcing thoughts of Louise away, he took a deep breath.

Then, feeling a rush, he plummeted onto Powers’s head, both of them collapsing to the floor. Striker grabbed Powers’s gun hand and twisted it. Davison gripped the killer in a headlock, but struggled to hold him as he raged and grappled. The gun went off and splintered a nearby joist. Striker withdrew the baton from the utility belt Davison had lent him earlier. Powers broke free, cursing, and rolled Davison so he was on top of the constable. Striker clicked the baton open and whacked the raising gun hand. Powers let out a grunt, though still held the weapon, directing it at Davison’s head. Striker swung the baton again, connecting with Powers’s head, knocking him backward into a diagonal wooden beam. The DI dived onto him, feeling the boarded floor giving slightly underneath. He gripped the Glock’s barrel, the vibration of the next discharge rattling his palm violently free as the bullet hit the wall behind them.

Davison wriggled out of the melee with an exerting groan. He punched Powers repeatedly in the head and face. Striker stooped and bit Powers’s gun hand, feeling the bitter tang of blood in his mouth. Powers cried out, the Glock dropping onto the boarded floor with a thud. Striker took a hefty right to the nose, making him stagger back. Davison extracted the cuffs from Striker’s belt, expertly clicking one onto Powers’s left wrist. He yanked on the cuffs and Powers fell sideways. Striker straddled Powers’s back and both officers pressed him into the floor. The DI grabbed Powers’s left arm and forced it awkwardly behind his back. Davison yanked on the cuffs, wrenching the right wrist closer. He struggled briefly until the welcoming click of the second cuff finally incapacitated Powers.

Both officers were sprawled across the boarded floor, their elbows leaning on Powers’s back. Struggling to catch his breath, Striker turned to Davison.

“Do you want to… do the honours… Ben?”

His heart rate still racing, Davison tried to compose himself, pleasantly surprised at the offer. “With pleasure, sir.” He leaned closer to Powers’s left ear. “Victor Powers, I’m arresting you on suspicion of ten counts of murder… You do not have to say anything… but it may harm your defence… if you do not mention… when questioned, something which you later rely on in court… anything you do say may be given in evidence… do you understand?”

Silence.

Striker prodded Powers in the gut with the baton. “Any reply, Vic?”

“Yeah. The world is better off without them.”

Bardsley was standing amid the growing mass of police officers on the opposite side of the road to the long block of shops. Media cameras had already arrived to join with the gathering public on both sides of the one-hundred-metre cordon. News travelled fast around these parts, the proverbial bushfire slow in comparison.

Bardsley was virtually in the centre of the scene, in among the half a dozen armed response vehicles, a couple of divisional vans and a few plain cars. A fire engine was parked up to his left, its crew still inside, now redundant, since Bardsley and co. had managed to, somehow, get Kingston down. Kingston had been hastily rushed off to hospital, amazingly still showing signs of life.

Bardsley’s main concern was Striker and the equally over-exuberant Davison. Mr Halt had just spoken into the hand-held loud speaker, informing Powers that firearms officers had surrounded the building.

He’d earlier caught both Stockley and Cunningham deriding Striker, basically saying he was finished. He’d defended his friend vehemently, probably to the detriment of his own career, saying that even added together, they didn’t have half Striker’s gumption. However, deep down he feared they were right, though to gloat about it was just bang out of order. He’d also got the impression that Stockley’s dealings with Striker’s sister Lucy and her family had provided further ammo to fire at Striker.

The force helicopter did yet another circuit of the skies directly above, no doubt filming the scene in its entirety. Bardsley noticed a Sky News chopper doing the same in the distance, but with undoubtedly more critical eyes. He was glad it wasn’t there earlier, when he was struggling to save Kingston. However, he did see some young locals recording him on their phones. No doubt he’d be on YouTube before long.

Firearms officers had covered the front and rear of the block, as well as evacuating all the occupants who were now huddled together in a couple of large police people carriers parked to the extreme right of the cordon.

Unexpectedly, a door opened at the front of a hardware store about ten shops down from Kingston’s Community Project. Armed officers instantly pointed their weapons in unison. Bardsley craned to see between cops’ heads until relief swept him. A beaming smile spread across his face, accompanied by a knowing shake of the head.

Slowly exiting the store, Striker raised his left arm, his right clutching Powers, who was cuffed to the rear. Davison held his right hand aloft while his left held onto the killer. All three had blood tricking down their faces. A few “whoop-whoops” were heard as the trio crossed the road. Sergeant Roache opened the rear doors of a divisional van just as someone starting clapping.

The applause spread among the crowds on both sides of the cordon and then Bardsley joined in, grinning. Within a few seconds, the mass of officers were clapping, including Halt, who looked on, almost disbelievingly, at the unusual phenomenon. Bardsley mentally noted that neither Cunningham nor Stockley were clapping.

Powers just stared straight ahead, impassive.

Firearms officers shadowed the trio all the way as the other cops parted creating a path up to the van. Striker placed a hand on Powers’s head to dip it slightly as he helped the vigilante into the rear of the van. Davison wore a proud grin as broad as the sentence awaiting Powers.

Striker wiped his brow, half-heartedly held up an acknowledging palm. Next, he began to trudge over to Halt, probably to see if he still had a job.

An explosion of gunfire made everyone pivot and cower. Bullets clanged and ricocheted off the back of the van.

Striker flinched at the repeated blasts and then span round to see the manic Dessie Bowker charging at the police van, pistol in hand, emptying the gun’s magazine in the direction of Powers.

“You killed my son, you bast-aaard!” yelled Bowker, his face twisted, eyes bulging.

All cops took cover, some just hitting the deck. Screams emanated from the crowd of onlookers, many spinning to flee the scene. The van doors weren’t shut yet so Powers was the proverbial sitting duck. Still cuffed, he jumped out, blood dripping from his right shoulder where he’d taken a hit. Striker sprinted to Powers and dived across him as more shots fired and Bowker closed in. Striker felt a shockwave to his chest, a reverberation in his ribcage, just before he landed, dragging Powers with him. Firearms officers unleashed a volley of sharp, accurate shots to Bowker, his upper body an eruption of blood as he fell, almost in slow motion, onto the crimson tarmac.

If Bowker the gangster hadn’t retired before, he definitely had now.

Bardsley rushed over to Striker and Powers, as relentless, haunting screams filled the air, intensifying the horror. The detective crouched down and leaned over the two sprawled bodies on the road. “Shit, Jack… Jack? Are you okay, mate?”