Nightmare City (61 page)

When FB had finished speaking, Donaldson said, ‘Henry thinks
you’re one of them.’

‘
Henry’s an arsehole,’ FB muttered, negotiating a blind bend
and slewing the back wheels across the tarmac.

‘
And he’s been used by you, hasn’t he?’

FB slotted Donaldson a sidelong squint of contempt, then
concentrated on his driving, choosing to make no reply to what was
a very leading question.

After discussing the planned demise of Christie and Rider with
Morton, the Mayfairs sauntered between the tables of weaponry,
watched closely by Morton who did not like, or trust them very
much.

They strolled until they were - accidentally - directly under
the aperture in the ceiling through which the two escapees were
peering. A table displaying two AK 47s was next to
Tiger.

Tiger’s trainer scuffed the dusty grit on the dance floor. He
bent down, dipped his fingers into it, frowned and looked up at
Wayne.

The ARVs responded brilliantly. Within five minutes, each car
had converged beneath the shadow of the Big One. The officers, all
kitted out in their body armour, Glock pistols and MP5s, waited
expectantly for FB who screeched to a halt a minute
later.

There was also another car present. The nondescript occupant
got out of it and approached Donaldson. They shook hands. Donaldson
then introduced the man to FB. ‘I’d like you to meet Kevin Summers,
FB. Kevin’s with the MI5 Surveillance Branch. He’s been doing some
superb work for me.’

Coolly Summers said, ‘I think we’ve got a situation here and
we should move as soon as possible with it.’

McNamara, de Vere and Conroy paused at one of the tables which
was displaying .357 Ruger revolvers.

McNamara nonchalantly picked up one of the empty guns in his
left hand and flicked the cylinder release whilst continuing to
discuss matters of transport and money with the other two. He held
a speed-loader in his right hand which was fitted with six
wad-cutter bullets.

‘
Yes, yes, I think so. We can arrange all that,’ he said,
continuing with the conversation. ‘No problem. I’ll
arrange for my company to distribute them however
you require.’ He smiled, slotted the bullets into the chamber and
twisted the release mechanism on the speed-loader.

Summers was succinct. His team of twelve had been tasked to
pick up Hamilton and de Vere at the airport. They did so and
followed them with ease to the country club where they met up with
Conroy, Morton and McNamara. The team of watchers settled in for
the night, even though the weather was atrociously wet, cold and
slushy.

McNamara was the only one to leave the club that night.
Summers took the decision not to have him followed.

In the morning, though, when Morton left early, Summers
directed four of his operatives to tag him. This left eight to deal
with the remaining gang. Easily enough to cope with people who were
not expecting to be followed.

A good set of Polaroids taken through a long lens recorded the
departure of the men from the club - and the arrival of two more
players.

Summers handed the photos to Donaldson, who immediately
recognised the Mayfairs. His face went white. And again he saw the
scratch-marks on Tiger’s face and wondered whether it was his
tissue underneath Sam’s fingernails.

Perhaps he would soon find out.

The MI5 team followed them, Conroy, Hamilton, de Vere and the
Mayfairs to Blackpool, where they liaised with the four who had
tailed Tony Morton and recorded his activities for posterity that
morning. The four produced photographs of Morton, Tattersall and
WDS Robson removing weapons from the armoury.

FB looked at the photographs and began to boil.

‘
They took all these guns to a club,’ Summers said. He handed
over the final shots of Conroy, de Vere and Hamilton entering
Rider’s club.

‘
The place is under observation by my team and they’ve told me
that McNamara has just turned up.’

‘
You have done some excellent work here,’ FB said genuinely.
‘Can you tune your radios onto our frequency?’

‘
They already are-’ Summers began, but was interrupted when
the airwaves crackled to life and one of the MI5 watchers reported
hearing the sound of gunfire from inside the club.

‘
You did a good job with the prostitute,’ McNamara said
suddenly and savagely to Conroy. The conversation about financial
arrangements was brought to an abrupt close.

‘
You know, then?’ Ronnie asked, slightly bemused. ‘I was going
to tell you later. How did you find out?’

‘
The police were waiting for me when I got home last night,’
McNamara said. ‘You also shot my wife, or at least the tosser you
hired did. I had to go and identify her body last night, for God’s
sake.’

Conroy had heard another woman had been hit alongside the
prostitute named Gillian, but he’d assumed it was just another
hooker.

He was stunned.

‘
Philippa was with her. I don’t know why, but my wife was with
that piece of filth.’

McNamara closed the cylinder and pointed the Ruger at Conroy’s
throat.

Rider shifted uncomfortably, not realising that when he did
so, more dust and grit were dislodged. They fell in a tiny cloud of
particles onto Wayne Mayfair’s shoulder.

He turned slowly and casually lifted an AK47 from the table
and eased a magazine into the breech. Tiger reached for a Sig 9mm
on another table.

Morton approached them.

‘
You got someone watching from up there?’ Tiger asked. He
raised his eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘Don’t look up,’ he added with
a hiss.

Morton caught on. He shook his head and thought: Rider and
Christie.

‘
In that case, you won’t mind if I test this gun, will you?’
Wayne announced. He stepped back, knocked the safety off and swung
the barrel of the gun up.

He pulled the trigger back at the same time that McNamara shot
Conroy in the throat.

The bullet from the Ruger slashed into Conroy’s Adam’s apple
and exited through the back of his neck, creating a huge hole.
Conroy stood where he had been shot, astounded - it seemed - that
someone should have the effrontery to even point a gun at him, let
alone fire the thing.

For a moment, McNamara could see daylight through the wound,
but he didn’t peer through it. Instead he put another couple into
Conroy’s chest. These two went right through him, leaving a swathe
of organ destruction behind them.

Henry saw - sensed - something was wrong below, then glimpsed
the AK swinging upwards.

He shouted something which stuck in his dry craw and rolled
away from their viewing aperture as a spray of armour-piercing
bullets exploded through the ceiling.

Rider had not moved. He took two full in the face and as the
shells came up through the floor, took another seven down the whole
length of his chest and stomach, making his body twitch like it was
being given a series of massive electric shocks.

Wayne continued to hold down the trigger and kept firing
through the ceiling in no particular pattern. The magazine was
empty within two seconds, some thirty bullets having been
discharged.

Henry rolled and scrambled across the unsafe floor to the edge
of the room where he curled into a ball, hands covering his head,
as if this protective gesture would fend off bullets.

The sound of the shooting died away.

On the dance floor Conroy’s body lay twitching, floundering in
a pool of blood like a stranded fish on a deck.

McNamara stood impassively over him.

Wayne stared at the ceiling and smiled when a gob of blood
blobbed down through the gap. He glanced triumphantly at Tiger,
grabbed another magazine, discarded the empty original and slammed
the new one home.

Morton stared, transfixed by the sight of Conroy and
McNamara’s smoking gun and the pool of blood.

Everyone else in the room was petrified, as in stone, trying
to make sense of what had just taken place.

Wayne raised the AK again and gleefully pulled the
trigger.

It was as though intercontinental ballistic missiles were
coming through the wooden floor as the deadly shells forced their
way all around Henry.

He stayed rigid; one tore through the boards perilously close
to his head.

Then they stopped again.

The gun was empty.

‘
We’re going hunting,’ Wayne said to Morton.

He threw the AK down, grabbed another Sig and the two brothers
ran to the door at the back of the ballroom and disappeared through
it.

‘
I love her ... I loved her,’ McNamara wept over Conroy’s
body. ‘I treated her badly, but I loved her. I did.’ He sank to his
knees.

‘
Get these fucking guns together and let’s get out of here,’
Morton screamed at his officers, shaking himself and them out of
their trances. They reacted instantaneously.

Hamilton grabbed de Vere’s arm.

They walked quickly towards the door but were stopped in their
tracks by the sight of Gallagher, Siobhan and Tattersall
accompanied, and covered by, two firearms officers, guns drawn and
pointed with menace.

Four more officers sprinted into the club, followed by FB and
Donaldson, then Summers and six of his team.

‘
Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’ Donaldson said,
standing in Hamilton’s path. Hamilton took a swing and gave the FBI
agent the most pleasure he’d had in ages when he decked the other
man with a perfectly weighted right which sent him staggering back
over the tables.

Henry breathed out, removed his hands from his head and looked
across to Rider’s unmoving body. Henry struggled to see the damage.
He dragged himself silently and unwillingly towards him. When he
was only inches away, he gasped. Rider’s head looked as though he’d
been chewing a grenade.

Henry needed to vomit. He retched.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps running down the
corridor. They came to a halt. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you
are,’ he heard a man sing out playfully - Jack Nicolson
style.

‘
Wherever you are, you’re fucking dead,’ came another voice.
Less tuneful, less playful.

Two voices. Two men. Two killers.

Only one Henry.

Henry had the advantage. He had been in the dark for several
hours. He could see everything very clearly in the room. The broken
furniture. Planks of wood. An old desk. Rider’s body. .
.

He also had a blood-soaked gun which he had prised out of
Rider’s clammy, dead hand which didn’t seem to want to let
go.

And, supposedly, there were two bullets in the gun.

So, yeah, technically, he had the advantage.

Except he was a crap shot. His hand was shaking like mad. They
were probably armed to the back teeth and no doubt ex-SAS members,
with the ability to kill with deadly efficiency in a darkened,
smoke-filled room whilst fighting off Dobermans at the same
time.

So if he didn’t make the bullets count, he was
dead.

If he missed, he would have betrayed his position.

And he would be dead.

He lay on the floor, desperately trying to remember the
intricacies of the prone firing position. Flat out on your stomach,
legs together, gun in right hand (of course), supported by the
left, forefinger on trigger - just the tip of it - breathing, watch
the breathing, for fuck’s sake. . .

I can hear them outside the door. They’ve gone
quiet.

Sweat drips down the forehead, collects in the eyebrows, then
dinks onto the eyelids. . .

And not two feet away lies a bullet-riddled body. .
.

Fuck, the door is opening!

And suddenly Henry is very calm.

Wayne came in first, low, rolling across the room to the left.
Tiger second, the opposite way.

As Wayne came up into a shooting position, Henry fired,
remembering everything in that split second: don’t anticipate the
kick, don’t snatch, aim up, slightly right, just below the chin. .
. He didn’t even wait to see if he’d hit the man - he knew he had -
and he turned his attention to the second man, who had disappeared.
. .

The calmness inside began to evaporate.

There was an old desk over there - the only cover he could be
using.

Henry focused on the desk. Yes, he must be behind
it.

Silence.

Then, to Henry’s right, there was a groan and a movement as
Wayne rolled in his final death-throe.