The Stretch (Stephen Leather Thrillers) (35 page)

‘If the filth find that here – Christ, my licence, the club . . .’ He put the champagne back in the ice bucket with trembling hands.

‘Relax, George,’ said Terry, caressing the barrel of the gun. ‘Why would the cops be here, huh? Not been serving afters, have you?’

Pike and Fletcher laughed loudly, but Kay looked uncomfortable. He sat down and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief, staring at the gun with wide eyes. ‘What are you doing with that?’ he asked.

Terry’s grin widened. ‘Ah, that’s for me to know . . .’

Kay took another pull on his inhaler.

Terry popped out the cylinder and peered down the barrel. ‘Smith & Wesson thirty-eight,’ he said. ‘Can’t beat it. Automatics look flash, but they spit shells all over the shop.’ Terry tipped the shells out of the cylinder and they clattered on to the table.

Kay stared at the bullets. He held his inhaler with both hands and his chest wheezed with every breath.

‘Number of twats that have ended up behind bars because they forgot to wipe their prints off the shells.’ Terry put a single shell in the cylinder and clicked it closed.

‘Remember that movie, George? The Vietnam one?’

Kay swallowed.
‘Apocalypse Now
?’

Terry shook his head. ‘Nah, that was the one with Marlon Brando. I mean the one with De Niro. The one where they played Russian roulette. Christopher Walken was in it.’ Terry spun the cylinder.

Pike sniffed.
‘The Deerhunter,
wasn’t it?’

Terry nodded approvingly. ‘Yeah, that’s it.
The Deerhunter.
Fucking great movie.’ He put the gun down on the table and spun it. They all watched as it gradually slowed, then stopped, the barrel pointing directly at Terry. Terry smiled laconically. ‘See. It’s just not my night.’

Terry slowly raised the gun and pointed it at his temple.

‘Terry!’ shouted Kay.

Terry’s eyes hardened, then he pulled the trigger. Click.

‘Jesus Christ!’ exploded Kay.

‘Maybe my luck’s changing, George,’ said Terry. ‘What do you think?’

Terry put the gun back on the table and spun it again.

‘Terry, what are you doing?’ asked Kay.

Terry didn’t reply. They all watched as the gun came to a halt. This time it pointed at Fletcher.

‘Come on, Kim,’ cajoled Terry.

‘Terry, this is fucking crazy,’ said Kay.

‘What’s wrong, George? Sense of humour failure?’

Fletcher picked up the gun. He looked at Terry. Terry nodded encouragingly. Fletcher slowly put the gun against his temple, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. Click. Fletcher sighed, then opened his eyes and grinned. ‘Fuck me, what a rush,’ he said.

‘Better than sex,’ said Terry. Kay stood up, and Terry pointed a warning finger at him. ‘Sit the fuck down!’ he said, his voice loaded with menace, then nodded at Fletcher.

Fletcher put the gun down and spun it. It whirled around half a dozen times then stopped. It pointed at Kay. Kay stared at the gun in horror.

‘Your shot, George,’ said Terry.

‘Yeah, come on, George. We’re behind you,’ said Fletcher.

‘You won’t feel a thing, George,’ said Pike.

Kay picked up the gun. The blood had drained from his face and his breath was coming in ragged gasps. Terry stared at him coldly as he raised the gun to his head. Kay looked at Terry with pleading eyes. He was close to tears. ‘Terry . . .’ he said.

‘Come on, George,’ said Terry. ‘Be lucky.’

Kay’s finger tightened on the trigger. The gun was shaking in his hand and he bit down on his lower lip.

‘Come on, George,’ said Terry. ‘You can do it.’

Kay’s finger was white on the trigger, and his whole body shook as though he’d been plugged into the mains supply. Fletcher and Pike sat transfixed, tight grins on their faces, silently urging him on.

Kay eventually broke. ‘I can’t,’ he said, slamming the gun down on the table. Tears streamed down his face. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I just can’t.’ His body was wracked with sobs.

Terry slowly smiled. He held out his left hand and opened it. On his palm lay a single bullet.

Kay frowned, not understanding. Then realisation dawned.

Terry, Pike and Fletcher laughed out loud.

‘Your face, George,’ Terry said. ‘A fucking picture.’ He leaned over the table and gently patted Kay on the cheek.

Kay started laughing, too, but it was a nervous, disjointed sound.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Terry, Fletcher and Pike left Lapland, laughing and joking. ‘He damn near pissed himself, did you see him?’

‘He’s an arsehole,’ said Pike.

‘Yeah, well, it’s like they said in
The Godfather,
right? Keep your friends close and your arseholes closer.’

‘What is with all these movie references, Terry?’ said Pike.

‘It’s his new DVD player,’ laughed Fletcher.

Terry tried to slap the back of Fletcher’s head, but he ducked away, chuckling. Terry pushed him, and as Fletcher staggered against a wall, three men in donkey jackets and ski masks rushed from behind a parked four-wheel drive. They had guns. Automatics.

‘Down on the ground, now!’ hissed one.

‘What the fuck is this?’ said Terry, a gun jammed against his throat.

‘Do as you’re told or we’ll end it here,’ said the man. He had wide shoulders and cold brown eyes that stared out of the two holes in the mask. Terry could smell garlic on the man’s breath. He had an Irish accent. Northern Irish.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ asked Terry.

The gun was jammed harder against Terry’s neck. The man was wearing leather gloves and Terry watched his finger tense on the trigger.

‘Okay, okay,’ said Terry. ‘Keep cool, yeah?’

One of the other two men pistol-whipped Pike and kicked him to the ground. ‘I said get on the fucking floor!’ he snapped. Like the man with brown eyes, he had an Irish accent, but harder and more guttural.

Fletcher got to his knees, then lay down with his hands outstretched. He turned his head towards Pike. ‘You okay?’ he whispered.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ shouted one of the men.

Terry started to kneel down, but the man with brown eyes kicked him in the stomach and pushed him to the ground. He kept the gun pointing at Terry’s face. Terry stared up at the man, refusing to show fear. The brown eyes glared back at him, unblinking, and Terry realised that he was looking into the eyes of a killer.

One of the other two men tore strips of insulation tape off a roll and used them to gag Fletcher and Pike, then he wound the tape around their wrists and ankles, binding them securely.

The man with brown eyes kept the gun aimed at Terry’s face as he roughly searched through his pockets. He found the Smith & Wesson and stuck it into the belt of his trousers.

Terry relaxed a little. If they were going to kill him, there’d be no point in searching him first. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘What is it you’re after?’

The man backhanded Terry across the mouth. ‘Shut the fuck up, Greene, or I’ll put a bullet in your head here and now,’ he hissed as he went through the rest of Terry’s pockets.

One of the other men came over and slapped a piece of insulation tape across Terry’s mouth, and another across his eyes. His arms were twisted behind his back and he was bundled into the four-wheel drive. He tried to struggle but a gun was pushed against the back of his neck. ‘Be still now,’ said an Irish voice. The doors of the four-wheel drive slammed shut and the vehicle sped off, leaving Fletcher and Pike on the ground, bound and gagged.

Terry lay with his face pressed against the floor of the vehicle. He had trouble breathing through his nose so he used his tongue to push the insulation tape away from his mouth. He sucked in air gratefully.

The four-wheel drive accelerated. They drove in a straight line and Terry figured they were on a motorway. He had no idea where they were going, or who the men where. When he’d first seen the men in ski masks, his first thought had been that it was the Kosovans, but the Irish accents put paid to that notion. So who were they? The only Irish that Terry had crossed swords with were a group of Liverpool-based gangsters who’d tried to double-cross him a few years back, but they’d ended up behind bars after they’d been caught with a container-load of cannabis
en route
to London.

Whoever these men were, it wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. The brown-eyed man had called him by name, and they’d snatched only Terry. Whatever it was about, it was personal.

They drove along the motorway for the best part of half an hour, then along rougher roads, twisting and turning. Eventually the four-wheel drive came to a halt and Terry was dragged from the vehicle and half carried, half dragged across rough ground. He was thrown forward, and he pitched on to wet grass and dead leaves.

‘On your knees,’ said an Irish voice.

Terry struggled to get up. He could feel the dampness of the ground soaking through his trousers. The tape was ripped from his mouth and eyes and he blinked. All around were trees, the wind rustling through them like restless spirits, whispering and taunting.

A man stood at either side of him, and when he looked up one of them hit him on the top of the head. ‘Eyes on the ground,’ said the man.

Terry looked down, clenching his fists. There were three of them and they had guns, but if they really were going to kill him Terry was determined to go down fighting.

The third man, the one who’d spoken in the vehicle, walked to stand in front of Terry. He was wearing brand new Timberland boots and Terry stared at them. ‘Big mistake, using our name in vain,’ he said.

Terry looked up at him. In the darkness all he could see was a large, dark shape. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ said Terry.

The man pistol-whipped Terry. ‘Spreading the word you were doing business with us,’ he said in his guttural Belfast accent. ‘Like we’d even piss in your pot.’ He pointed the gun at Terry’s forehead. ‘Any prayers to say?’

Terry stared up at the masked man. Off in the distance, a fox barked, then there was only the sound of the wind in the trees. Terry slowly smiled. He knew now that the men had no intention of killing him. If they were going to shoot him, there’d be no need for the lecture. ‘Fuck you, Paddy,’ he said, enunciating every syllable. ‘If you were going to do anything heavy, you’d’ve done it back there. So why don’t you do what you were told to do, give me the verbal and piss off back to Ballygobackwards.’

The gloved hand tensed on the gun, but Terry didn’t flinch. The hammer was already cocked and the man pressed the barrel against Terry’s forehead. Terry glared at the masked face but his insides went cold. One tug of the finger on the trigger and his brains would be splattered over the grass. He swallowed nervously, but resolutely forced himself to keep staring up at the gunman. No matter how this ended, he was determined not to show any weakness. If he was going to die, he’d die like a man.

Slowly the man took the gun away. Terry grinned in triumph as he realised he’d called it right. ‘How about a lift back, then?’ he asked.

The man smacked the gun hard against Terry’s temple. Everything went red, then black, but even as he passed out Terry was still grinning, knowing that he’d won.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

McKinley slowed the Lexus and put his headlights on full beam. The tunnels of light picked out Terry at the edge of the forest, waving. McKinley stopped next to Terry, and he climbed into the front passenger seat, holding a handkerchief to his head.

‘You took your fucking time,’ growled Terry.

‘Got here as soon as I could,’ said McKinley. ‘I was in the bath when you called. Are you okay?’

‘Of course I’m not fucking okay. I’ve been pistol-whipped by the IRA and left in the fucking woods. That sound okay to you, McKinley?’

McKinley grimaced and didn’t say anything.

‘Just drive. Take me home.’

McKinley headed back to London.

‘How did the fucking IRA get my name, Andy?’

McKinley looked pained.

‘I figure it was Sam, making waves,’ said Terry. ‘Think I’d be right?’

‘Not while she was with me, Terry.’

‘I thought I told you to stick with her. Watch her, I said.’

‘I did do.’

‘Well, she must have spoken to them some time. How else could they have known what I’d told her?’

‘She could have phoned.’

‘The IRA aren’t in the
Yellow Pages,’
said Terry.

‘I’m just saying—’ began McKinley.

‘Don’t say,’ interrupted Terry. ‘I don’t fucking pay you to say. I pay you to keep an eye on my missus, end of story. And right now I don’t seem to be getting my money’s worth.’ Terry took his handkerchief away from his head and examined the bloodstains on it. ‘Fucking Paddies,’ he said. He turned to look at McKinley. ‘Anything else I should know?’

McKinley frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Terry. ‘Did she talk to anyone else that’s gonna cause me grief?’

‘No,’ said McKinley.

‘You sure?’

McKinley nodded but didn’t reply.

∗      ∗      ∗

 

Sam was in the kitchen making herself a cup of hot chocolate when she heard Terry let himself in. She poured more milk into the saucepan. He walked into the kitchen, holding a blood-stained handkerchief to his head.

‘What happened?’

‘Don’t start,’ said Terry.

‘What do you mean, “Don’t start”? You’re bleeding.’

‘I’ve had a shitty day, love.’

‘Whereas my life’s a bed of roses?’ she said. ‘I’m making hot chocolate. Want some?’

‘I want a beer,’ he said. He tossed the handkerchief into the bin and took a bottle of lager out of the fridge. He popped off the cap and sat down at the kitchen table, drinking from the bottle.