Soft Target (2 page)

'It's empty. We used the cash to buy the gear.'

'I'm not going to tell you again.'

'Fuck you.'

Frankenstein lashed out and whipped the gun barrel across Moran's cheek. More blood flowed. 'Open the fucking safe.'

'Open it yourself.'

Frankenstein grabbed Moran by the shirt collar and pulled him along the floor towards the bedroom.

A shot rang out, the noise deafening in the small room.

Frankenstein let go of Moran's shirt and whirled round,

cursing. Jackson was still on his knees but he was holding a small gun in his right hand. Alien staggered against the door.

Jackson fired again and a second bullet thwacked into the wall above Alien's head.

Moran rolled over towards a red plastic sofa. Jackson fired again and hit Alien in the chest. Everyone was staring at the gun in Jackson's hand. Alien straightened up, then grunted and levelled his gun at Jackson.

'They're wearing vests!' screamed Moran. 'Shoot him in the head, man! Shoot the fucker!'

Jackson pointed his gun at Alien's head but before his finger could tighten on the trigger Frankenstein fired and a bullet slammed into Jackson's chest. Jackson pitched forwards,

his face screwed up with pain.

Moran rolled again and slammed up against the sofa. He groped underneath for the loaded submachine pistol he kept there. An Ingram MAC 10 with a bulbous silencer and thirty rounds in the clip. His fingers found the butt and he pulled it out.

Frankenstein whirled round as Moran rolled on to his back, ducked low and fired twice, hitting him in the head both times. The Ingram fell from Moran's hand and clattered on to the floor.

'Shit, shit, shit,' cursed Frankenstein.

Another shot rang out and a bullet thudded into the ceiling.

Bang! Another. Frankenstein flinched but it was Alien who screamed. He dropped his automatic and clasped his hands to his groin. 'I'm hit!' he shrieked. Jackson was lying on his side, his .22 still pointing at Alien. He was grinning in triumph,

blood seeping between his teeth. Frankenstein fired the Magnum again and Jackson lay still.

Blood seeped through Alien's fingers. He looked at Frankenstein. 'I'm hit,' he said again, quieter this time. 'I'm fucking hit.' Then his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.

Frankenstein ran over to him and crouched to examine the wound. The bullet had gone in under the vest, missing the Kevlar by less than an inch.

The intercom buzzed. Frankenstein hurried across the room and answered it. 'What the hell's going on up there?'

said a voice.

'Get up here,' said Frankenstein, and pressed the button to open the door down below. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a man in a werewolf mask came in, holding a gun.

'What the fuck's going on?' he said.

'Andy's been hit.'

'Shit.' Werewolf pointed his gun at Dexter. 'How do we play it?'

Dexter held his hands high in the air. 'Don't shoot, man!'

Frankenstein looked around the room. Two men, bound and gagged. Two dead. Another on his knees, pleading not to be killed.

'How do we play it?' repeated Werewolf. 'It's your call.'

Frankenstein's mind raced. 'Let me think,' he said.

The driver pulled the van to the side of the road, switched off the engine and killed the lights. The werewolf mask was in the glove compartment, along with the short length of lead pipe bound with masking tape that he'd used to club Eaton unconscious. Eaton was bound and gagged, lying face down in the lock-up. The van had been stolen: it was fitted with false plates and had the name of an emergency plumbing firm on the sides. Werewolf had wanted to drive to the nearest Accident and Emergency Unit but Frankenstein had told 10 him to drive out of London. Now they sat in the darkened lane, the nearest house half a mile away, the engine clicking as it cooled.

'This has turned to shit,' said Werewolf.

'Yeah,' said Frankenstein, in the passenger seat. He had taken off his mask and pulled back his anorak hood. His hair was cropped close to his skull and he was balding on top.

He had a curving Mexican-style moustache. 'What the hell are we going to do?' He twisted in his seat to look at Alien,

who was curled up on the floor in a foetal ball.

'You know what we have to do,' said Werewolf, drumming his palms on the steering-wheel. 'We've got to get Andy to a hospital.'

'And what do we tell them?' said Frankenstein.

'We leave him outside. We don't have to say anything.'

'Get real,' said Frankenstein. 'As soon as they identify him,

they'll come looking for us.'

Werewolf slammed his hands down hard on the wheel. 'So we deny everything,' he said. 'What can they do?'

Frankenstein glared at Werewolf. 'Don't be so naive,' he said. 'They'll dig out the bullet, and if they can match it to any in Moran's flat that puts Andy at a murder scene - in a gunfight with a Yardie posse.' He slapped the dashboard with his gloved hand. 'God damn it, we should have slotted them all.'

'Rosie, listen to yourself,' said Werewolf.

Frankenstein stared through the windscreen. 'They're witnesses,' he said. 'They started the bloody fireworks, we should have ended it. They know how many of us there were.

If they identify Andy, they go looking for two others. How long do you think it'll be before they come knocking on our doors?'

'We can alibi each other,' said Werewolf. 'What are they gonna do? Call us liars?'

ii 'I'm not doing a twenty stretch,' said Frankenstein. 'Before we went into this we knew what the downside was, and we agreed to take the risk.'

'We said that if one of us got killed, the rest of us would cover it up,' said Werewolf. 'Andy isn't dead.'

'He's got a slug in the guts,' said Frankenstein.

'But he's not dead.'

Alien groaned. Frankenstein had given him an anorak to clutch against the wound but blood was pooling around him.

'Let's take this outside,' said Frankenstein. He climbed out of the van and waited for Werewolf to join him. Their breath feathered from their mouths in the cold night air. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and high overhead the green and red lights of an airliner were heading for Heathrow.

'Let's look at this logically,' said Frankenstein, his voice just above a whisper. 'The way I see it, Andy's a goner anyway. It was a bloody .22 so the slug'll have spun round in his guts and done God only knows how much damage.'

'Best will in the world, you're not a doctor, Rosie,' said Werewolf.

'But I've seen enough people shot to know what's bad and what isn't,' said Frankenstein. 'And Andy's bad.'

'He's not going to get any better lying in the van, that's for sure.'

'Agreed,' said Frankenstein. 'So, what are the options? We take him to hospital, then hold up our hands to shooting two Yardies and stealing their heroin? What if Andy goes and dies anyway? Where does that leave us? Looking like twats staring at twenty years behind bars for nothing.'

'So we wait for him to die, is that what you're saying?'

said Werewolf.

Frankenstein shrugged.

'Why don't you spit it out?' said Werewolf.

'I shouldn't have to,' said Frankenstein.

'You want to finish him,' said Werewolf flatly. 'You want to put a bullet in his head. What if it was me lying on the floor of the van bleeding? Would you put a bullet in me?

Look me in the eyes and tell me that's what you'd do.'

'If it was me, I'd expect you to do the same,' said Frankenstein.

'Easy for you to say, standing there while Andy's bleeding to death,' said Werewolf. 'Look, maybe there's another way.

We take him to a doctor instead of a hospital.'

'They've all got to report gunshot wounds.'

'A hookie one,' said Werewolf. 'Someone who'll take the bullet out and not say anything.'

'You know someone?'

'There's a guy in Peckham. We could be there in thirty minutes at this time of night.'

'He needs major surgery, not a couple of stitches,' said Frankenstein, 'and blood. Lots of it.'

'At least we can try,' said Werewolf.

'Then what?' asked Frankenstein. 'Your quack patches Andy up, then what? Andy goes on sick leave for six months to recuperate? For God's sake, how's he going to explain away a bullet wound? And what about the quack? Does he know you? Are you going to spend the rest of your life waiting for him to grass you up?'

'We pay him enough he'll keep schtum.'

Frankenstein threw up his hands. 'You're mad,' he said.

'Maybe,' said Werewolf. 'But if it was you, Rosie, I'd be out here saying the same.'

'He'll probably die anyway,' said Frankenstein.

'But at least I'd know I tried,' said Werewolf. 'Let's just get him to the quack and see what the quack says.'

Frankenstein took a deep breath and exhaled. 'Okay. Just don't expect me not to say I told you so when the shit hits the fan.'

'The shit has already hit the fan,' said Werewolf, but Frankenstein was walking back to the van. Werewolf hurried after him.

As Werewolf got into the front, Frankenstein climbed through the rear door and knelt down beside Alien. 'It's okay,

Andy, we're going to get you to hospital.'

Alien didn't respond. Frankenstein took the glove off his right hand and felt for a pulse in his neck, but as soon as he touched it he knew the man was dead. He looked up at Werewolf. 'You might think I'm a callous bastard, but thank heaven for small mercies is what I say.'

'What now?' asked Werewolf.

'We bury him where he'll never be found. Then it's back to life as normal.'

'What about the gear?' asked Werewolf, gesturing at the two bloodstained duffel bags.

'Leave that to me,' said Frankenstein.

'We didn't go into this to steal drugs,' said Werewolf.

'You think we should have left with nothing?' snapped Frankenstein.

'I'm just saying we went there for cash, that's all.'

'And there wasn't any. And Andy took a bullet in the gut.

You want us to go through all that for nothing?'

Werewolf pointed at the MAC 10, which was lying on the floor of the van next to Alien. 'What the hell did you bring that for?'

'Souvenir,' said Frankenstein.

'It's a bloody liability, a weapon like that,' said Werewolf.

'Spray and pray.'

'Looks the business, though, doesn't it?' said Frankenstein.

'A gun like that could be useful.'

'You're not thinking of doing this again, are you?' asked Werewolf. 'After what's just happened?'

'I'll sort it,' said Frankenstein. 'Don't worry.' He sounded 14 a lot more confident than he felt. Werewolf was right. Cash was one thing - even dirty money could be cleaned, moved and spent. Drugs were trouble, plain and simple.

The man stared through the windscreen at the rainswept supermarket car park. Housewives were pushing trolleys towards hatchbacks, their shoulders hunched against the rain. Office workers on their way home huddled together at the entrance, their frozen meals-for-one thawing as they waited in vain for a break in the downpour. The sky overhead was gunmetal grey and the forecast had been for rain all night. Every few seconds the wipers flicked across the windscreen.

It occurred to the man that a murder should always be discussed after the sun had gone down, ideally when it was raining. A storm added atmosphere - a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder. It could be planned just as easily on a beach under a blazing midday sun or on a pleasant spring afternoon,

but there wasn't the same sense of menace.

He tapped his fingers on the steering-wheel. He didn't need to wear gloves but they were part of the image. Hired killers wore gloves. It was expected. His were black leather,

moulded to his hands like a second skin. A strangler's gloves.

The man had been many things in his life, but he liked being a hired killer best of all. It was probably the job satisfaction,

he thought, and smiled. It was okay to smile when he was on his own but he'd have to watch it when he was with Hendrickson. Hired killers didn't smile.

He spotted the man driving into the car park. It was a convertible Mercedes with a personalised number-plate. A flash car, designed to impress. It would be noticed and remembered.

The hired killer drove a grey Volvo: a nondescript car in a nondescript colour with a nondescript registration number. In his business it was important to blend into the 15 background. It was the same with his clothes. He never wore designer clothes when he was working, or anything other than a plastic wristwatch. He had no tattoos, his hair was cut short, but not too short, and he spoke with no discernible accent. His clothes were simple, off-the-peg, and the black wool jacket he wore was one of thousands sold through a mail-order company.

Larry Hendrickson climbed out of his Mercedes. He was wearing a dark suit, well cut, with three buttons on the jacket.

Probably Armani and certainly expensive. He unfurled a red,

green and white golfing umbrella. His gleaming black shoes were made-to-measure.

The man knew that on Hendrickson's wrist there was an expensive Gucci watch. His hair was expensively cut,

his fingernails manicured, and on the two occasions that the man had met him, Hendrickson had used the same aftershave.

Hendrickson walked across the car park, taking care to avoid the deeper puddles on the Tarmac. He was carrying a slim briefcase made from the skin of some exotic animal. He looked over his shoulder, so quickly that the man knew he wouldn't have spotted a tail even if there had been one.

He hurried to the Volvo and climbed in, shaking the rain off his umbrella and dropping it behind the front seats before he flashed the man a smile. A frightened smile.

'Great day for ducks,' said Hendrickson.

'I guess,' said the man flatly.

'Did everything go okay?' asked Hendrickson. He put his briefcase on his knees. Sweat beaded his forehead and there was a nervous tic at the side of his left eye.

'Of course,' said the man. He reached into his jacket and Hendrickson flinched. 'You wanted pictures,' said the man.