Severed (6 page)

'Whatever it contains must be very valuable.'

'It is to him. Something else, too. Something that I'm only telling you because we go back.'

'Forgive me if I don't kiss your feet in gratitude.'

His eyes narrow, and it's obvious I've annoyed him. 'Fuck you, Tyler. I don't have to help you. Now, listen carefully. At two thirty this afternoon, make sure you're not standing in the vicinity of this briefcase, and that goes for anyone you care about too. Because this thing can be detonated by mobile phone, so as soon as my client has the number, he can blow the case remotely.'

I lean forward angrily, grabbing his arm. It's wet to the touch. 'What's the client's name, Captain? I need to know his name.'

'I told you, I can't tell you. It's more than my
life's worth. Now, let go of me or I'll call in the three stooges.'

I assess my options, but the reality is I don't really have any, so I do as he says.

He reaches into his shirt pocket for another cigarette. 'Have you got the money, Tyler?'

I nod slowly, put my own case on the table and click open the locks, then swivel it round so the handle faces him. A smile creases his features and the tension in them eases a little as he opens the case and regards the money sitting there in front of him. He picks up a bundle of notes and stares at it close up with something approaching awe. Consequently, he doesn't hear the kitchen door open.

I do, though, and I turn to see Sellman's misshapen head emerge through the gap like a toad breaking water. His eyes go straight to the money, and a lustful expression not that far removed from the one the captain's wearing crosses his face before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. There is a great deal of greed in this room, and as far as I'm concerned, that usually spells trouble.

'Everything all right, chief?' asks Sellman, trying to make it sound like a routine question.

The captain glares at him, closing the case. 'Don't interrupt, Sellman. If I need you, I'll call.'

Sellman nods once, and the head slips back through the gap.

'Who the hell are those guys?' I ask.

'Security.'

'And they're the best you could get?'

'I don't want to involve anyone I used to know. So, yeah, they're the best I could get.'

'Watch them. I think they want your money.'

'Don't worry,' he says, getting to his feet, 'I'm watching everybody.' He picks up the briefcase with the money and motions to the one on the table. 'That's yours now, Tyler. Whatever you do, be careful with it, and don't let your curiosity get the better of you and try to open the damn thing. That bomb's perfectly constructed. And remember: by two thirty, be at least a hundred feet away from it.'

'I won't forget,' I say, standing up as well.

'Well . . . good luck.'

His words are awkward. He wants to feel sorry for me but in the end he's a lot more interested in saving his own skin. In the army, we were taught to be team players, but it's a lesson the captain seems to have long forgotten. Right
now, we are both men operating entirely on our own.

'Can I have my gun back?' I ask him.

He looks uncertain for a moment, then he reaches into the waistband of his jeans and hands it over.

This could have been a mistake. I could have turned it on him, shoved the barrel against his temple and explained in cold, quiet tones that if he didn't tell me the name of his client in the next five seconds his brains would be all over the grimy kitchen work surface. But I know he won't talk, and he knows I know it too. More importantly, he knows I can't pull the trigger. We served together. We may not have known each other that well, but we were still brothers in arms, and we were trained never to kill in cold blood.

The problem is, I'm convinced his client is the person who murdered Leah and set me up for it. And I need to know who he is. At the moment, nothing else matters.

'Do me one favour,' I say to him as he starts towards the kitchen door.

'What?' he asks, without turning round.

'Phone me after two thirty and give me your
client's name. That way it won't affect you. You'll be gone. But it'll help me one hell of a lot.'

Still, he doesn't turn round. 'What's your number?'

I give him the name and location of the showroom. He makes no move to write it down. Instead, he simply answers, 'OK.'

'Thanks,' I say, knowing I have no choice but to trust him to do it.

He doesn't speak as he leads the way out of the kitchen, at least not until he opens the door. Then he curses, and stops dead.

The lamp has been switched off, as have all the fans, and the room is once again in hot, stifling semi-darkness. Near the apartment's front entrance, Sellman lies on his side in the fetal position, not moving. To the right, Miami Vice sits against the wall, arms by his side, his head slumped forward, while to the left, Shaven Head lies face down on one of the sofas, only his legs visible as they jut over the edge.

The silence is ringing in my ears. My grip on the Glock tightens. The apartment's front door is a few inches ajar.

'Oh, Christ,' the captain repeats, his voice cracking. 'He's come for me. He's here, Tyler.'
He reaches into his jacket, scrabbling round for his gun.

I can hear my heart thumping away in my chest and I have to will myself to remain calm. One of the most important things I learned in the army was how to channel my fear and turn it into pure concentration. The world of the combat soldier is a wildly unpredictable place where you have to react coolly to whatever is thrown at you. Although I'm now thinking it's a lesson that was lost on the captain, who's looking close to panic.

I raise the Glock, my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom as they slowly circle the room. Searching for an unseen enemy.

And then I notice it.

There's no blood.

'It's a trap!' I yell.

But Sellman's too fast. He swivels round on the floor, revealing the sawn-off shotgun tucked in close to his belly, and without a moment's hesitation pulls the trigger.

The noise in the room is deafening as the captain takes the full force of the blast. It lifts him off his feet and sends him crashing into the sofa. The case of money flies from his hand and
lands on the floor. I don't think he even managed to get hold of his gun, because I don't hear or see it fall. Sellman pulls the trigger a second time and the captain's head snaps back as he clatters to the floor.

Miami Vice is fast too, but not fast enough. I am already swinging the gun in his direction, guessing that he will be the one to target me, and as he lifts his head and his gun, his eyes wide with the adrenalin of battle, I shoot him twice in the face.

I turn and aim at Sellman. At the same time I see Shaven Head out of the corner of my eye as he rises up on the sofa, the pistol from his shoulder holster clutched firmly in both hands. Sellman is smiling triumphantly, knowing he has the half-second advantage. He doesn't look under pressure at all. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the calmness in his leathery features, the absolute knowledge that this is a confrontation he's going to win. He's right too. In the tiny gap of time before he pulls the trigger, I know I'm too late.

The noise reverberates off the walls as he fires, and I feel a tremendous pain somewhere in my solar plexus as the force of the shot drives
me backwards into the kitchen. The case I'm holding flies off and hits one of the cupboards and my legs go from under me. I go down with all the agility of a lead weight and slam into the cracked linoleum, shoulder blades first, before rolling onto my side, the Glock falling uselessly from my hand. I gasp for breath but can't seem to get any, and my vision blurs and swims. I'm thinking of Leah, alive and laughing, as my eyes close and my body slumps in defeat.

'Right, let's move it,' hisses Sellman, limping over to the case containing the money. 'Before someone calls the cops.'

'How much is in there?' asks Shaven Head, getting up from behind the sofa and replacing the pistol in his shoulder holster.

'A hundred and fifty K. Not bad for a couple of days' work.'

'Seventy-five apiece. That'll do. What are we going to do about Ivanov?'

'Not much we can do, my boy. He's a goner.' Sellman picks up the case. 'Check whether he's carrying any ID on him. If he is, take it. We don't want anyone linking him to us.'

Shaven Head nods and crouches down beside
his fallen comrade, searching through the pockets of his cheap purple suit. 'Strange plan, lying down like that,' he says, concentrating on his task.

'It worked though, didn't it?' answers Sellman, leaning over and blowing Shaven Head's brains out of the front of his skull. 'Sucker,' he cackles, putting the sawn-off away. 'All fucking suckers. Even you, chief. Didn't your mother ever tell you, there's no such thing as vampires?'

He limps over to the corpse of the man he's addressing. Except he isn't quite a corpse yet. The captain's still breathing shallowly, and his eyes are open. Blood leaks slowly from the corner of his lip.

'Ah, I see you're not quite dead. Were you pretending so that I wouldn't see you? Oh, you're a naughty boy, chief. Very crafty indeed. But I'm afraid I'm an extremely thorough man, and the last person I want to leave alive is you.'

'Fuck you,' gasps his victim.

'Now, now, no need to be rude.' Sellman chuckles, enjoying the power he's wielding as he reloads the shotgun. 'Now, this might hurt a little,' he says. He slams the stock shut and takes aim.

'Not as much as this,' I announce, sitting up with the Glock in both hands.

He whirls round to face me, a hunted expression on his wizened features as he realizes the tables have been turned. In the darkness, his eyes flicker with an animal cunning, and I know that he'll react quickly, so I open fire, shooting him twice in the forehead.

For a long second, he stands absolutely still, staring right into my eyes, before crumpling onto the threadbare carpet and lying there in an ungainly heap.

Slowly, I get to my feet. The flak jacket I'm wearing might have taken the impact of the shot, but it hasn't been a painless process and my chest feels like someone has been hammering nails into it. I walk over to the captain, giving Sellman a kick en route, just to check he is actually dead, and crouch down beside him. He's been hit twice - once in the gut, once in the chest - and his shirt's already drenched in blood. His face is as white as a sheet and his breathing is becoming progressively more laboured. His eyes, though, remain alert.

He looks up at me. 'Oh God, Tyler, I fucked up.'

'It's OK. I'm going to get you an ambulance.'

'It's too late,' he gasps, his words echoing my thoughts.

He coughs, and more blood pours out of his mouth. Then his body jack-knifes and he rolls over onto his front, still coughing. I can see two melon-sized exit wounds, exposing organs and bone, in his back. It's clear he's beyond help.

But I'm not. 'The client,' I say, leaning closer. 'What's the name of the client?'

He tries to roll back but can't quite manage it, so I take his shoulders and gently help him onto his side. His eyes are no longer focusing, and his mouth is hanging open.

'Tell me the name of the client. And the code for the case. Can you do that?'

When he speaks, his words are slurred and final. 'God forgive me.'

Then his head goes limp.

I feel for a pulse. There isn't one. In desperation, I pump his chest. Nothing happens.

Finally, I accept the inevitable. He's gone. I exhale deeply and stand up. The room, already heavy with the heat, is now beginning to fill with the smell of death. I look round at the four corpses, all positioned unnaturally. Shaven
Head is on his knees, leaning forward into Miami Vice as if he's kissing him. One hand is still in the other man's inside jacket pocket, where he was hunting for ID. I can hear the blood dripping heavily from what is left of his forehead as it splatters into his friend's lap. It is the only sound in the room.

Four people dead, all for a measly one hundred and fifty grand. You can't even buy a shed for that in London these days. I shake my head at the futility of it all as I look down at the briefcase containing the money. I could pick it up and take it, and I'd be leaving here one hell of a lot richer, but what's the point? It's blood money, and with Leah gone, I wouldn't even know what to spend it on. The other case, the one I'm here to collect, is far more important, because that'll lead me to the person behind this.

But as I turn round to go to pick it up, events take yet another turn for the worse. Before I've even taken a step, there's a huge crash downstairs and I realize that the front door to the house has just been smashed from its hinges. A second later come the urgent shouts I'm dreading.

'Armed police! Do not move!'

Their footfalls are heavy on the bare, carpetless floor, and I can hear them coming up the stairs. They are moving fast, which tells me that they know exactly where they're going.

And, worse still, who they're looking for.

As the footfalls get louder on the stairs, I make a rapid calculation. There is no way I'm going out the front of the building, so that leaves only one alternative: the back. I run into the kitchen, scooping up the burgundy case with its mysterious contents. It leads into a short hallway, and I hurry through and into a bedroom that appears to be missing a bed as well as furniture. A set of ancient French windows with peeling paint running down the frames leads out on to an equally decrepit balcony with a less than attractive view to the rear of the houses on the next street. I try the handles but they're locked, and there's no sign of any keys. Behind me, I can hear the shouts of the advancing
coppers. It sounds like they're only seconds behind me. Only a few minutes have passed since the outbreak of gunfire and I don't know how they got here so fast.