The Killing Club (46 page)

The Aussie yelped, but still managed to roll away, heading for the fire axe. Heck dived, body-slamming on top of him, grabbing for the axe as well, reaching it at the same time. Neither was able to use it as they rolled together, blood streaking the pair of them, one of Heck’s feet smashing through a low cupboard, the dismembered wax parts of the real facsimile spilling out. But his opponent’s gasps had now become snarls. Though gruesomely injured, the Aussie’s superior strength and training were telling. He threw Heck over onto his back, the axe and the hand grasping it trapped underneath, exerting downward pressure on Heck’s throat with his good forearm.

Heck gasped, choking. Dizziness set in as, with his one free hand, he raked at the Aussie’s nose. Perkins jerked his head sideways, the plaster coming away in Heck’s hand, revealing a jagged piece of cartilage. With a roar, the Aussie drove his forehead down. White fire exploded between Heck’s eyes: his own nose had clearly just broken. But that was nothing compared to the compression of his larynx. A last, desperate thought occurred to Heck before his awareness expired.

He stuck his sweat-soaked hand into his pocket, fumbling out the second sodium flare. He banged it on the floor to strike it – a searing crimson flame blazed out – and drove it upward, grinding it into the right side of the Aussie’s head. Flesh sparked and sizzled, and with falsetto shrieks, Perkins rolled away, one hand clamped to his right ear. Heck scrambled upright, hurled the flare across the room and lunged for the fire axe again – only just grabbing it in time, because almost immediately the Aussie was also back on his feet, froth and bile venting from his snarling mouth.

Heck swung the axe two-handed, aiming it downward. The blade bit deep into his opponent’s left knee, hacking both that and the right knee clean out from under him. Perkins landed on his back with pile-driving force. Heck dropped down on top of him, pressing the axe handle across his throat. Horribly wounded though he was, his entire right ear a blackened, seething mass, Perkins still fought like a wildcat. So Heck dragged his knees forward, planting one at either end of the handle; his entire weight was now compressed downward.

The blows the Aussie struck with his good right hand were initially savage, but gradually weakened until they were no more than slaps. Even then it was another minute and a half before that hand locked into a rigid, shuddering claw, and slipped lifeless to the floor. With a low gurgle, his breathing abruptly ceased.

Heck fell onto his side, lungs heaving … it was several seconds before the blood-red glow and noisy hissing of the flare faded away. But almost immediately after that there came a series of clattering impacts on the main doors at the front of the museum.

Heck grabbed up the Tavor, cracking off its magazine. The thing was half-empty.

The impacts on the door stopped. As abruptly as they’d begun.

He moved to a curtained casement and peeked out.

Two Nice Guys had been attempting to force entry: the shaven-headed black guy, who, from the slanted horizontal scars on either cheek, was clearly an African, and an equally tall but thicker-set white guy with a black beard, whom Heck recognised from the pursuit along the coast. They’d now moved away from the museum into the middle of the road, heads cocked as though listening. A few yards away, Klausen reappeared with two more henchmen. They too halted, listening. And now Heck could hear it as well: the distinct whirring of a helicopter.

Rapidly, Klausen began issuing orders. His men split up, vanishing over fences or down side alleys. Heck dashed from the window, tearing off his fake chainmail. He ran down to the museum’s glazed double doors. Their glass had been partially shattered, but was holding. A few blows from the butt of the Tavor put it through. He stepped outside. The racket of rotor blades was much closer now. In fact Heck sighted them – six copters, sailing in neat formation over the island from the west, three bearing official police insignia, while the other three were larger-bellied and coloured dark blue.

As Heck watched, their formation broke apart and they commenced circling, two of the heavier craft descending first. He hurried across the road, rounded a corner and peered over a garden fence. They looked to be putting down on the open farmland northeast of the village. Even as the first two landed, large numbers of men in black coveralls, body armour and ballistics helms, armed with shields and MP5s, began piling out and deploying to cover behind clumps of scrub. Almost immediately, there were bursts of shooting from concealed positions among the houses. At least one police assaulter dropped, though other officers now under cover returned fire.

From somewhere nearby, Heck heard Klausen barking hoarse commands.

‘Check the villagers are locked in the Town Hall! Doesn’t matter if we’ve missed a few – don’t waste time looking for them. They’ll only go to ground! No guards! Put extra men on the harbour. And find that fucking phone. Never mind the list … just the phone. We can’t exfil without it!’

Heck bolted back down the road. He was minded to secrete himself inside the museum, where, if the worst came to the worst, he could hide the iPhone and send Gemma a text explaining its whereabouts. But he was only halfway back, running along the wall bordering the monastery ruins, when two figures rounded the corner in front of him. It was the same two as before: the African, now carrying his pump shotgun across his belly – at this proximity Heck recognised it as the much-feared Remington 870 combat shotgun – and the bearded guy, who by the make of his own weapon, a Borz, was possibly Russian.

They skidded to a halt. Neither had expected to see Heck out in the open. Nor had they been expecting he’d be armed with an Israeli TAR-21, which he now levelled at them, unleashing a hail of fire as he scrambled left to the wall. But frantic flight was not conducive to good marksmanship. Slugs ricocheted everywhere, from the road surface to the walls of the nearby cottages. The two Nice Guys ducked and dived, and though neither of them were hit, at least they weren’t able to return fire straight away, allowing him to vault the wall and fly back into the ruins.

They reached the wall seconds after him, taking aim and discharging, the rapid-fire
dudududu
of the Borz alternating with the louder
clack-clunk-BOOM
of the Remington 870. Heck dashed among the ancient pillars and arches, bullets careening around him, kicking off chunks of weathered stone. He slipped on the grass and threw himself flat behind a step, from where he tried to return fire, only to find that his clip was empty. Scenting blood, the Nice Guys clambered onto the wall, shooting and reloading as they did – consummate battlefield professionals – until another big-bellied helicopter swept without warning about sixty feet overhead, abruptly turning and wallowing back towards them. Gunfire erupted from its starboard port, sending the duo back over the wall and scampering for cover among the cottages.

Heck watched and waited, determined to keep his head down – there was no guarantee the glory boys in the chopper would ID him as a cop – until that vehicle too had lofted away. He got warily to his feet, discarding the Tavor.

He could now hear shouting and bursts of gunfire from what sounded like every quarter of the village. Palls of smoke rose above rooftops. He could also hear a loudspeaker; the Nice Guys were being ordered to surrender, to lay their weapons down. He scaled several feet up a nearby flying buttress, from where he could scrutinise the surrounding landscape.

Some of those choppers that had landed had lifted off again. Others had taken their place, and were depositing further sticks of armed, black-clad assaulters. By the echoing cacophony, fire-fights were underway everywhere, but the armed units had already worked their way into the conurbation. Another loudspeaker began hailing. This one sounded as if it was coming from the direction of the anchorage and pier. Highly likely the Northumbrian Police would have offshore launches they could bring across. Heck gazed in that general direction, and was able to see along several streets and passages beyond the museum. Motion was visible, but it was mainly armoured cops advancing behind ballistics shields, pistols and rifles levelled over the top.

‘No time to be hiding in church,’ Heck said to himself, jumping down and alighting on the grass.

He placed another call to Gemma, but now the phone appeared to be lacking a signal – which he perhaps should have expected. Most likely the Nice Guys had activated some kind of scrambler device, to try and cut themselves and the islanders off. He crouched, wondering how he could help. The best thing seemed to be to hook up with the police assault teams. He could then hand over the company phone personally, and tell them everything he knew. He poked his head above the boundary wall, and saw the coast was clear. He clambered over and scampered across, taking a side alley, which brought him into a narrow road next to a bakery, the front door to which stood wide open.

He glanced left and right. Again, the coast seemed clear. But some instinct nailed him to the spot.

The white stucco cladding on the wall above his head was then cross-stitched by gunfire, showering him with dust and debris. Heck dodged inside the bakery, slamming the door behind him and throwing a bolt. Through the window, he glimpsed two figures advancing up the adjoining road – Klausen and the bearded Russian. Both opened fire again, the bakery’s door and plate-glass windows flying inward.

Heck raced back through the building, crashing amid pots in the kitchen, then opening a door at the rear and running into a small yard with a slatted gate.

‘
Get him now!
’ he heard Klausen shrieking.

The gate was closed, but Heck barged through it shoulder-first, the flimsy wood breaking apart, and finding himself in a cobbled alley.

Where the African was waiting.

He was no more than a yard away, and treating Heck to a manic, pearly grin. He’d laid his 870 to one side, and now hefted a gleaming, foot-long machete.

Heck swayed to evade a vicious backhand swipe, and then threw himself forward, landing a heavy right hand, which seemed to take his opponent by surprise. The African tottered, spitting blood – but now goaded to greater fury. He lurched forward, grappling with Heck, twisting and flinging him across the alley. Heck bounced over the cobbles, slamming into the brick wall. The African lunged after him, the machete flashing in an arc. Heck rolled aside, as its blade drew a streak of sparks along the bricks. Heck tried to crawl away, but a second figure now appeared at the bakery’s rear gate. It was the Russian. He saw what was happening, and bawled with harsh laughter, lowering his Borz.

‘You the man who give us so much trouble?’ the African said. ‘You give me a broken lip too, man.’ Heck winced as he was caught by the ankle. The African raised the machete in his right hand. ‘You can have this quick or slow … you give us the phone, or tell us where … or you lose first one foot, then the other. After that, we show more imagination, yeah?’

‘Fuck you,’ Heck murmured.

Laughing, the African took him by the waistband and flung him back across the alley, slamming him into the other wall. Every inch of Heck’s wind was driven out.

‘Okay, White Lightning …’ The African stood over him, briefly spinning the machete between his two hands, one finger at the point, one at the pommel, and then raising it again. ‘Say goodbye to your foot!’

He never even saw the flying roundhouse kick that caught him in the middle of the back and basically pole-axed him. Heck barely saw what happened either.

Someone clad in tight black coveralls, as well as a glinting ballistics helm, and yet moving with extreme athleticism, cavorted past, going into a balletic martial arts routine. The African blundered to his feet, still wafting his machete, but it was kicked from his hand, and three quick-fire karate blows knocked his head left, right and backwards, dropping him to the cobbles in a senseless heap.

The bearded Russian was up next. He came from the gate with Borz levelled – only for another flying kick to send it spinning, its overheated barrel striking the gatepost and bending double. A second kick caught his crotch, and as he lurched over, a chop to the nape knocked him cold.

‘Bravo,’ Heck said, as his rescuer turned and lifted his visor – to reveal, yet again, that ‘he’ was in fact ‘she’. ‘Oh great … you again.’

‘Like it warms the cockles of my heart to find out
you’re
here,’ Steph Fowler said, dabbing sweat from her brow, drawing her Glock and moving to the wall alongside the smashed gate. She peered through it towards the bakery. ‘You injured?’

Heck realised she was referring to the blood clotting his clothes. ‘Not significantly.’

‘Good … get up. Any more in there?’

‘One … Klausen.’ Heck hobbled across the alley and picked up the 870. He turned it in his hands. It bore a ‘US Army Rangers’ stamp on its stock, suggesting it had probably been pillaged from a dead US serviceman at Mogadishu back in 1993.

‘Who’s Klausen?’

‘Their gaffer.’ Heck tried to pump a new shell into the shotgun’s breech, but found it was empty. He glanced at the body of the African. The guy still lay unconscious, but now Heck knew that he wasn’t just a merc, he’d probably been a Somali guerrilla too. On top of that, he was a big unit – even unarmed he could probably break most opponents to pieces. Deciding he didn’t want to get any closer than necessary, Heck discarded the 870 and fell into place bare-handed at the other side of the entrance. ‘He ought to have shown himself by now.’

Fowler shook her head. ‘If he’s in charge, he’ll have more to worry about than you. We’re closing them down fast. A few have surrendered already, but others seem pretty hardcore.’

‘You got that right.’ Heck prodded at his broken nose.

She darted past him along the alley. ‘That’s only a taste of what you actually deserve.’

‘How’s Nick?’ he said, following.

She turned, lip curled. ‘How do you think? He’s got a fractured collar bone and a fractured right wrist.
And
he lost three teeth.’