Deathlist (22 page)

Bald smiled inwardly and felt good about himself, and life generally.

I’ve still fucking got it.

As soon as the first shot had discharged, Deeds instinctively hit the deck. Now he scurried towards the semi-automatic lying next to Burberry. Deeds was twenty-five metres from the Range Rover and four or five away from his slotted mate. Twelve metres ahead of Bald. Which meant Bald had more than twice the distance to clear if he was to get to Deeds before the guy put the drop on him. He dug deep and sprinted forward, straining every sinew in his body. The blood rapidly pooled under Burberry’s lifeless corpse, running in the gaps between the flagstones. Deeds crawled forward and reached out a hand, making a play for the semi. Six metres to the target. Bald lunged madly forward. He bore down on Deeds as the guy clasped his thick fingers around the weapon grip.

Deeds shaped to raise the weapon. He never got the chance. Bald leapt forward and aimed his right foot at the guy. There was a satisfying crunch as the Jock’s Timberland connected with the ex-Para’s jaw. Deeds groaned and rolled onto his back. His grip automatically released the pistol. Bald swiped another kick at him, this time driving at the guy’s ribs. He hit him with such force that the air exploded out of his lungs. Bald kicked him again. He heard a sound like a branch snapping in two and figured he’d broken a couple of ribs. A shattered rib or two was nothing compared to the pain Deeds would be feeling by the time Bald and the others went to work on him. But it was a damn good start.

Deeds tried to fight back. He had a lot of muscle. But like most bodybuilders, it was all slow muscle. The kind that you got after spending hour after hour working on your one-rep max on the bench press. Bald had the other kind. Fast muscle. Less bulk, but more explosive power. The kind of muscle that, as any boxer will tell you, wins you fights. All slow muscle does is win you the occasional glance on a beach. Deeds kicked out at Bald, throwing all of his power into his leg muscles as he aimed for the Jock’s groin. Bald saw the move coming. He shifted quickly on his feet and dodged the blow, punching out with his gun arm and smashing the Glock barrel into the bridge of Deeds’s face. Then he dropped down and pressed the Glock into Deeds’s side, digging the muzzle hard into his broken ribs. The guy howled in pain.

‘On your feet,’ Bald ordered.

Deeds didn’t move. He glowered up at the Jock, blood trickling down his chin from his fucked-up nose. Beside him the blood continued to pump steadily out of Burberry’s multiple exit wounds. Bald drove the weapon harder into Deeds’s ribs, drawing another pained cry from the guy. By now Porter had reached them, his weapon drawn and the business end trained on Deeds. There was a flash of defiance in the ex-Para’s eyes as he staggered to his feet.

‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he rasped nasally.

‘Shut up,’ said Bald, keeping the Glock pressed to the guy’s broken ribs.

‘A big fucking mistake. You don’t know who you’re messing with, pal.’

‘Shut it. Get moving.’

Porter and Bald shoved Deeds back down Avenida Julio Iglesias. Towards the Sprinter. Around them people were screaming at the sound of the gunshot. One man lay on his front, hands over his head and begging Bald not to shoot him. Others ran for their lives, darting inside the nearest restaurants and screaming for someone to call the police. Bald hurried Deeds along. He figured they had maybe two or three minutes before the cops showed. Devereaux had drawn the Sprinter to a halt just before the alley, forty metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Coles stood between the alley and the van. Gesturing for the other guys to hurry up.

They were thirty metes from the van when Bald heard voices coming from the direction of the main strip. More than one of them. Maybe six or seven. Scarsdale’s people, he realised. The foot soldiers must have heard the gunshot on the main road. Another ten or fifteen seconds and the guys would be swarming over the alley like flies on shit. Bald pushed on alongside Porter, manhandling Deeds towards the Sprinter. The target stumbled forward, wincing in pain and clutching his busted rib. They were fifteen metres from the Sprinter now. It seemed to take an age to reach the van.

‘Move it!’ Coles yelled. ‘We’ve got company!’

Bald willed himself on. Muscles burning. Heart thumping so fast he could feel it pulsing in the back of his throat. The voices from the strip were getting louder now. Bald figured the foot soldiers must have reached the alley. Ten metres to the Sprinter now. Nine metres. Eight. Coles hurried over to the Sprinter and yanked open the side door. Ready to bundle Deeds inside the van.

Seven metres to go.

Six.

Five metres from the van, Bald heard a shout at his nine o’clock. He looked across his shoulder. Spotted four guys tearing down the alley. Racing towards him. One of the foot soldiers had seen Deeds and pointed him out to his mates. The nearest tough was fifteen metres away when he reached for his weapon. He was a thickset guy with a crew cut and a beer belly. He looked like a testicle with arms and he wore an England 1990 World Cup replica football shirt.

It was no contest. Bald already had his weapon drawn and ready to use. He twisted at the waist and simultaneously hefted up the Glock at England. There was no time to properly aim. No time to put the guy in focus between the weapon sights. Bald gave the trigger a quick squeeze. The muzzle lit up like a dope smoker at Christmas. The bullet struck England dead centre in the chest. Bald gave him a neat bullet hole to go with the Three Lions on his shirt. The guy crumpled. He dropped to a heap amid the scattered rubbish. Fuck him. Bald didn’t like England anyway.

Coles scurried over to the alley and put down three more rounds on the advancing foot soldiers. Covering Bald and Porter. The rounds glanced off the alley walls and sent the guys scattering. They darted for the nearest available cover. In the doorways, behind the bins. Wherever they could find somewhere to hide. They wouldn’t stay down for long, Bald knew. But the strike team only needed a few seconds. He turned and dragged Deeds the last few steps to the Sprinter. Porter had his Glock pointed at the nape of the guy’s neck. They hit the van in three breathless strides and shoved Deeds inside. Climbed in after the target. Porter slapped a pair of plasticuffs around the guy’s thick wrists and pulled a hessian sack over his head. Coles let off a final warning shot down the alley then jumped into the Sprinter and wrenched the side door shut.

‘Go!’ Porter shouted. ‘FUCKING GO! NOW!’

Devereaux didn’t need a second invitation. The Aussie put his foot to the accelerator and gunned the Sprinter engine. The van growled angrily into life as they slid out of the parking spot and lurched onto the main road. The shooting had emptied the streets of traffic and they quickly began to pull away. Through the rear window Bald could see the remaining three foot soldiers racing out of the alley, weapons drawn as they shouted at the van. They were twenty metres away, then thirty. Then forty. One of the guys fired twice at the back of the Sprinter. Porter heard the bullets hammering against the rear door. Then the Sprinter picked up speed and the foot soldiers finally gave up the chase. After three hundred metres Devereaux made a hard right on Avenida de las Naciones Unidas and they raced past the beach, the sands purple under the reflected glow of the moon. The rain was falling hard as they raced north towards the Autovia del Mediterraneo. Behind them, Puerto Banus started to shrink from view.

Then it was gone.

They were a mile outside Puerto Banus when Bald finally lost his rag.

‘The fuck was that about?’ he snapped angrily. He was looking at Porter. ‘Shoving the hooker. Jesus, you almost let the bastard get away.’

‘She was in the way,’ Porter hit back. ‘What the fuck was I supposed to do? Let Deeds escape?’

Bald simmered. It took every ounce of self-control to stop himself from lashing out. ‘You were supposed to not fuck up the mission. You were supposed to not make a ton of noise and warn the target before we had him cornered. That’s basic, that.’

‘We got him, mate,’ said Porter. ‘That’s all that matters.’

Bald snorted through his nostrils. ‘But we nearly fucking didn’t
.
Deeds was a cunt hair from giving us the slip. If I hadn’t slotted the driver, he might have escaped. That would’ve been on you.
Mate
.’

He looked away. Porter stared silently out of the window. He hated to admit it, but Bald was right. Porter had nearly shafted the mission. He was in serious danger of losing his touch. He didn’t respect Bald as a personality, but the guy was a first-class operator in the field. Porter had just seen that with his own eyes. The guy was sharp. Surgical. Lethal. But seeing the Jock’s skills reminded Porter of just how far he’d let his own standards drop.

You got lucky this time, the voice in the back of his head said. But you won’t get a second chance.
If I’m going to complete the mission, then I’m gonna have to sharpen up my act.

TWENTY-SIX

0128 hours.

The safe house in Fuengirola was a thirty-minute ride away, on the AP-7 motorway that ran between Guadirao to the west and Malaga to the east. Devereaux drove under the limit, keeping the Sprinter purring along at fifty miles per. They stopped to change vehicles at Ojén, a nothing town a couple of miles north of Marbella. There had to have been at least a dozen witnesses to the shooting in Puerto Banus and the van would soon be hot, if it wasn’t already. They pulled into the back of a disused garage on Calle Avellano, bundled Deeds out of the Sprinter and shoved him into the boot of a white SEAT Toledo that Devereaux had stashed the previous day. Then Coles took a jerry can filled with petrol, doused the Sprinter and lit the fucker up. Thirty seconds later they were pulling out onto the main road and motoring east to the safe house. By the time the cops showed up, any DNA evidence or fingerprints would have gone up in smoke.

Twenty-one minutes later the strike team pulled up outside an address on the outskirts of the town, away from the souvenir shops and the London-themed boozers along the bustling seafront. Places with names like the Elephant and Castle, the Mods and Rockers, the Nag’s Head. The safe house was a basement apartment set at the end of a rubbish-strewn street, flanked by ramshackle high-rises and shuttered shop fronts. The walls of the apartment had been soundproofed and they were half a mile from the centre of town. No one would hear Deeds once he started screaming.

The apartment was filthy. Bald had visited it two days before the mission to get the place ready for the grab. There were piss stains on the floor and bars on the windows, and a large brown stain covered most of the ceiling in the living room. The team had laid out clear plastic sheeting on the floor to cover any blood splatters. A single metal chair stood in the middle of the main room with a naked lightbulb hanging directly above. There was a fold-out DIY table to one side of the room with a bunch of tools laid out on it, along with a piece of 2 x 4 and a Bosch cordless power drill. There was also a portable blowtorch and a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches. They had more tools than Homebase, but they wouldn’t be putting together any kitchens tonight.

Bald ran his hands slowly over the tools while Porter and Devereaux hustled Deeds into the room. They stripped him naked and shoved him down onto the chair. Then they wrapped duct tape around his chest to bind him to the chair and tied his ankles to the chair legs with a length of paracord.

‘You can’t fucking do this,’ Deeds snarled. ‘You hear? I got friends in high places, pal. I’m talking serious fucking players. People will be out looking for me.’

They didn’t say a word. Porter and Devereaux finished tying Deeds to the chair. Then Devereaux left to stow the car in a back street while Coles waited outside to keep watch. Suddenly Bald and Porter were alone with the ex-squaddie. He groaned nasally. They’d slapped Deeds up a bit in the back of the Sprinter and now he looked like crap. Blood bubbled under his bruised nose. His bottom lip was purpled and badly cut. His right eye had swollen to the size of a walnut. Deeds spat blood on the floor then lifted his eyes to Bald and glared at him.

‘You’re a fucking dead man.’ He looked to Porter. ‘You too. You’re all fucking dead.’

Bald said nothing. Porter lit up a cigarette, watching the Jock as he calmly picked up a set of heavy-duty Stanley bolt-cutters. The two operators had agreed on a strategy before heading to the safe house. Bald would handle the torture, while Porter would play the role of the good cop. That way Deeds would naturally look towards Porter as the more reasonable of the two interrogators.

Bald tested the bolt-cutters. They made a delicate snipping noise that quickly got Deeds’ undivided attention. He glanced at the bolt-cutters then looked back to Porter, his face twitching with fear.

‘You got the wrong man,’ he said. He was trying to put on a brave face, but his voice was cracking around the edges. ‘I don’t know shit. That’s the truth, I swear. I can’t tell you nothing.’

Porter smoked some more, the nicotine helping to settle his nerves. Bald still said nothing. He turned his attention to a Spear and Jackson hacksaw. He held the blade up to the light and ran his fingers gently over the stainless-steel teeth. Deeds started shaking like a Scouse at a job interview.

‘Scarsdale will find you. Mark my words. He knows every nook and cranny between here and Malaga. He’ll find you and he’ll cut the pair of you up. You’ll fucking see.’

Porter went on giving Deeds the silent treatment and stubbed out his cigarette on the bare floor. Over at the DIY table, Bald set down the hacksaw and returned to the bolt-cutters. He picked them up along with the blowtorch and without saying a word paced over to Deeds. Porter took a dirty soiled rag and stuffed it in the guy’s mouth. Then Bald dropped to a knee in front of the ex-Para and placed the toe on his right foot between the steel jaws, making sure the edges were at a right angle to get a nice clean cut. The colour drained instantly from Deeds’s face. His eyes went so wide they looked like they might pop out of their sockets. He hadn’t been expecting this. He’d probably figured that they would start off with a few questions, rough him up a bit more first.