Brutal Revenge (16 page)

Then
he was off again, across a field, through a stream, around a lochan and over
the shoulder of a hill. He came to the road. He was on an incline there and
across the road and beyond it he could see the lights of the village glittering
in the darkness. Keeping to the road he turned right and headed towards the
lights.

The
vehicle, when he saw it, was a hundred yards ahead of him. Its rear lights
glowed like the devil's eyes, tiny luminescent blobs of red on black canvas. It
appeared to be stationary and occasionally the lights were blotted out by
figures moving in front of them.

He
left the road and keeping parallel to it he crept down the hill.

He
was careful not to make a sound as he approached the vehicle. He got to within
about twenty yards, his body merging with the blackness, and from there he was
able to see and hear what was going on.

There
were two men and a Land Rover. One of the men was kneeling next to the front
nearside wheel and Parker gathered from the snips of conversation he was able
to pick up that they had a flat tyre. The man kneeling was cursing as he
attempted to change it with the aid of a high powered torch nestling on the
ground. The other man, visible in silhouette, was standing a couple of feet
back smoking a cigarette and holding what looked like a rifle or shotgun.

“Come
on, man, hurry up, will ya,” said the man with the gun, his voice raised
impatiently.

“I'm
working as fast as I can,” the man kneeling replied. “If you think you can do
better then you're welcome to have a go. If not, just shut up and keep an eye
out. One of them could be out there right now watching what we're doing.”

Crouching
low, Parker moved around to the left until he was at the road and the Land
Rover was on his right. Then, after first checking to make sure no one was
looking his way, he crept across the road, immersing himself in the long grass
on the other side.

From
there he had no trouble getting up close to the Land Rover and as it turned out
he arrived just in time. He heard the clang of metal on the road and then a
voice. “At bloody last. Now get that old tyre on the back and let's get going.”

 
He watched and waited, crouching in the grass
near the front of the Land Rover. He heard the man with the tyre complaining as
he carried it to the rear.

The
other man, carrying the gun, came around the front, pausing for a moment to
drop the end of his cigarette and tread it into the road. Then he opened the
front passenger door and started to get in.

Parker
leapt to his feet, took two strides forward, and sent a solid punch into the
small of the man's back. The man yelled out and teetered back on his heels.
Parker aimed his next blow at his throat which stifled a cry and brought him to
his knees. The gun clattered to the ground and Parker managed to get hold of it
before the other man came around from the back to see what was going on. When
he saw the shotgun in Parker's hands he froze, almost choking on a word that
failed to materialise.

“Move
and I'll splatter your brains all over the island.”

The
man instinctively raised his arms. He was middle-aged and clad in duffle coat
and gumboots. It was too dark to distinguish his features.

The
man on the ground started moaning, so Parker brought the shotgun crashing down
on his skull. He fell forward and lay sprawled in the road, face down.

“Now
listen,” Parker said to his pal. “I want you to get behind that wheel and drive
wherever I tell you. You'll do everything I say as soon as I say it. Is that
understood? If you so much as speak without being told I'm going to blow you
apart. Got that?”

The
man nodded.

“Right.
Then let's get going. Take me into the village. And remember, I'll be in the rear
pointing this thing at the back of your head the whole time.”

TWENTY
SIX

The
suitcases and crates were where they'd left them. Maclean lowered himself into
the ditch and started lifting them out. It took over ten minutes to load them
up onto the back of the old truck he’d picked up in the village.

He
covered them with a tarpaulin and got in behind the wheel. He slammed the door
shut and glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock. Not bad. He was making good time
all things considered.

Next
stop was the harbour where he would fit a motor to a boat and stash as much
treasure on board as he could manage. Then he’d travel the half mile or so of
coastline to where Bella would be waiting on the old jetty. All being well they
would then leave the island together and embark on a new life.

He
drove slowly, headlights on, into the village and down to the harbour. He passed
over the spot where Stewart had been killed. The body had long since been
removed. He had no idea what they had done with it.

He
noticed the black form of a man outside the tackle shed. He wasn't surprised.
He knew someone would be stationed here like a sentry protecting the harbour.

As
the man stepped into the beam of the truck’s headlights Maclean saw that he was
armed with a shotgun. Maclean stopped the truck, switched off the lights and
climbed out.

“Oh,
it's you, Andrew,” the man said, obviously relieved. “You had me worried there
for a bit.”

Maclean
recognised him. He was Jamie Fraser. He was in his twenties and built like an
ox.

Maclean
glanced back over his shoulder but there was no sign of life behind him. The
pier was deserted and the houses with their backs to the harbour had their
curtains drawn.

Turning
back to Jamie, he said. “Sorry to disturb you like this, Jamie, but there's
something I want to ask you.”

Jamie's
brow creased into a frown and he took another step forward. He didn't even see
Maclean's first punch. He only became aware of it when he felt the pain on his
chin which tore a screech from his throat.

He
staggered back against the double doors of the tackle shed, causing them to
rattle on their hinges. The shotgun fell to the ground as he tried to steady
himself.

Maclean
quickly picked up the shotgun and used it to whack Jamie over the head. The
young man grunted as he doubled over. Maclean hit him three more times for good
measure and he collapsed in a heap, unconscious and spilling blood profusely
from the side of the head.

Maclean
wanted to make sure that he wouldn’t wake up after just a few minutes. And
having administered the beating he was pretty sure that he wouldn’t. But he
feared he had gone too far. Jamie was very still and might even have stopped
breathing. But there was no time to confirm it one way or the other. If he’d
added another victim to the body count then he was sorry but there was no time
to dwell on it now.

He
then turned his attention to the tackle shed. Luckily the double doors were not
locked. He opened one side and peered in at the darkness. He saw the
distinctive white outline of the small outboard motor just inside the door up
against the wall.

But
first he had to get Jamie out of sight. He took the young man's hands and
dragged him into the shed. Then he quickly covered the body with a pile of damp
and heavy fishing nets that he found on the floor. He was about to take charge
of the outboard when he heard a noise out front. A vehicle. His heart stopped
and he just stood there, not moving or breathing, as the engine note grew
louder. It was coming down the road from the village. He was sure of it.

He
moved to the door and pulled it to, peering out through the crack.

It
was a Land Rover and it had stopped just along the road to his left next to the
pier. Its engine was left running and its lights stayed on.

TWENTY
SEVEN

Parker
leant forward and spoke in the driver's ear.

“What's
that truck doing over there?”

The
man shook his head. “I don't know. I swear it.”

Parker
looked again at the truck and then at the large wooden shed outside which it
was parked.

“What's
the shed used for?” he asked.

“It's
a tackle shed,” the man replied. “Nets and fishing equipment are stored in it.”

“The
outboard motor you told me about. Is that where it’s kept?”

The
man glanced nervously at Parker's face in the rear view mirror and nodded.

Parker
studied carefully the area around the shed as they closed in on it. He couldn't
see any movement and the doors appeared to be shut.

The
Land Rover pulled up next to the truck and Parker ordered the driver to hand
him the keys. Then he got out before telling the driver to do the same. All was
still. Only the water murmured as it rippled around the hulls of the boats tied
to their moorings.

Parker
told the man to walk in front and they went up to the shed. He gestured for the
guy to open the door and go in first. The guy didn't argue.

Inside
nothing stirred. The place had a musty smell to it. There were fishing nets
strewn across the floor and lobster pots piled high. Parker saw the outboard engine
just inside the door. He breathed an audible sigh of relief.

“Is
there petrol in it?” he said.

The
man nodded. “It's always kept full.”

“D'you
know how to fit it to a boat?”

“Aye.”

“Then
let’s do it. And for your own sake don't do anything silly this late in the
game. With any luck I'll be away from here in a little while and you’ll get to
see another day.”

He
watched the man lift the engine and struggle outside with it. He carried it
across the road and down the stone steps opposite the tackle shed.

Parker
pointed to the largest boat, the only one that looked big enough to get him
across the ten miles or so of sea to Mull. It was a skiff with a small covered
area that could hardly be called a cabin and a large area of deck space.

When
the islander finished attaching the engine Parker nudged him at gunpoint back
to the tackle shed. Once inside Parker clobbered him with the rifle butt and the
guy went down like a sack of potatoes.

Then
Parker turned to go outside.

But
he never made it.

Too
late, he saw a dark figure spring up at him from behind the pile of lobster
pots to his right. Before he could react he felt something solid smash against
the back of his head and he was plunged into a deep, dark hole.

TWENTY
EIGHT

The
coughing of the engine woke him. It must have registered somewhere inside his
brain for it encouraged his mind to struggle free from under the blanket which
had dropped over it. The pain, when he became conscious, was severe enough to
paralyse him for a few seconds and only by a determined effort of willpower was
he able to stop himself slipping back into the void.

He
groped for a handhold, found it on the side of the lobster pot, and hauled
himself to his feet. Then he nearly tripped over the unconscious islander in
his efforts to get to the door. But he managed to get one side open and stagger
outside in time to see the boat. It was putt-putt-puttering away from him out
of the harbour, leaving behind a trail of churned-up water.

He
could just make out the figure crouched in the boat alongside what looked like
suitcases.

Maclean.
It had to be.

And
with some of the treasure.

He
watched with a sunken heart as the boat was devoured by the night. So Maclean
must have been in the shed when they arrived, preparing for his own escape from
the island. And the bastard had decided to go it alone rather than risk revealing
himself.

Parker’s
hatred for the Scot became such an emotional force inside him that for a moment
it prevented him from dwelling on his own hopeless predicament. That didn't
strike home until he was back behind the wheel of the Land Rover.

He
turned the ignition key and the engine roared into life. He felt a strange
numbness as he engaged gear and pressed his foot down on the accelerator pedal.

He
drove hard and fast back through the village and along the road that he knew
would take him nowhere. He had no idea what to do or where to go.

He
caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror and the strain of the past
two days showed on his face. There were new, deep lines around the eyes, which
themselves were empty of any kind of expression. His forehead was creased in a
permanent frown and his unwashed hair was an indescribable mess. He was a man
without hope; lost, scared and trapped.

He
saw the girl just in time and had to swerve to avoid her. She was hurrying
along the middle of the road, going his way, shoulders hunched, hands buried
deep in the pockets of her light coloured mac. He fought desperately with the
wheel to steady the Land Rover, braked hard and screeched to a halt in a cloud
of dust.

He
threw open the door and jumped out. Bella was already running across the moors,
her mac trailing behind her like a cape. She was carrying a small holdall.