Honour Bound (19 page)

-32-

The
chain link fence surrounding the
Holflight
headquarters looked a formidable obstacle from a distance, but close up, the
neglect was obvious, its upkeep given little thought. The out of the way
location would add a certain amount of lethargy to any maintenance schedule,
and by the state of the fence, he doubted there even was one. The odometer in
the car had clocked eight miles since he had driven through the last village,
and the walk from the dark track between the two fields where he left the car
was at least another mile. It would have to be a determined thief to try his
luck out here, knowing the place was operating around the clock.

Although not out to steal, Remy
Vousson
was very determined.
He picked a spot along the fence where a security
light was broken leaving a twenty-yard section shrouded in darkness. Directly
to his front stood a large prefabricated building that, according to Langdon,
was a storage shed. Across to the left was the rear of the maintenance hanger,
and to the right, an aircraft taxiway that led to the runway. A fuel station
sat between the perimeter fence and the taxiway. It was set apart from the
other buildings and surrounded by a twelve-foot mound of earth to protect the
fuel pumps and three fuel trucks from stones and debris thrown up by jet engine
backwash. Out of sight, on the other side of the taxiway, according to the
diagram in his pocket, stood another hanger, an office block with a small
control tower perched on top, and the passenger reception centre.

Kneeling
by the fence, he took a pair of wire cutters from a bag slung over his
shoulder, and cut the rusting mesh next to a supporting pole. He folded the cut
section back on itself and hooked it in place, leaving an open triangle big
enough to crawl through. Once inside, he ran to the side of the maintenance
hanger, stopping only when he reached the shadows cast by a massive extractor
unit, one of four evenly spaced along the wall. He controlled his breathing and
edged forward to the corner.

The
entrance hall to the office block across the taxiway was bathed in light. The
rest of the building and the passenger reception centre were in darkness. On
the roof of the office block, the control tower was also in darkness, its
outline standing out against the night sky like a giant mushroom. To the left
of the offices the tall sliding doors of the second hanger were partially open,
the silver nose of an aircraft poking through the gap as though sniffing the
cool night air in preparation for its next
flight.      

Vousson
edged further
forward and looked around the corner of the maintenance hanger. The doors were
wide open, folded like giant metallic curtains into recesses at each end of the
building. Four men were working on the
Skycrane
helicopter that stood under a bank of floodlights suspended from the roof by
thick steel chains. Two of the men were standing on a raised platform changing
an oil filter in the winch gear at the top of the load carrying area. The other
two were standing together at the bottom of the platform, checking the
information held on each other’s clipboards.

Langdon
had told him earlier that the helicopter would be in the final stages of
preparation, and because of that, he had brought with him the makings of a
simple distraction. Retracing his steps, he walked between the fence and the
storage shed, pausing at the corner as a Land Rover came through the main gate
and turned in front of the office block, its headlights sweeping over the
taxiway before pulling to a halt. He waited while the occupants left the
vehicle and entered the building before sprinting across the open space to the
fuel station. He climbed into the cab of the centre lorry, turned off the
courtesy light and took a candle and a can of lighter fuel from his bag. He
slashed the passenger seat with a penknife and wedged the candle between two of
the exposed springs. He gave the tattered seat a liberal sprinkling of lighter
fuel before he wound the window down on the driver’s door and lit the candle.
In his estimation the candle would burn for about five minutes before the flame
reached the material and his diversion started. Satisfied, he shut the door and
ran back into the shadows behind the storage shed. Cloaked by the darkness, he
made his way to the end of the maintenance hanger furthest from the fuel
station just in case the fire got out of hand, and settled down to wait.

Seven
minutes crept by before an alarm bell sounded. He stood up and looked into the
hanger. The maintenance men were running towards the doors, towards the fuel
station, their speed hampered by the fire extinguishers they were carrying.

As
soon as they were out of view, he ran into the hanger and climbed into the
co-pilots seat in the
Skycrane’s
cockpit. He looked
at his watch. "Five minutes, no more," he said to himself. He took a
package, about the size of a paperback from his bag, pulled out a two inch
aerial from one corner and pushed it into a gap below the pilot’s seat. He
glanced at his watch again, only half a minute gone. "A
doddle
,” he whispered, “I’ll have this done in no
time." He quickly unscrewed the top of the winch control box on the
control panel between the seats and placed a small pulse transmitter into a
space at one end. After connecting the wires to the winch release button, he
replaced the cover and looked around for anyone returning. The hangar was
deserted and silent, the maintenance crew still occupied at the fuel station.
He jumped from the helicopter and walked quickly out of the hangar. Once out of
the glare from the lights, he made his way to the hole in the fence and crawled
through. He took a brief look at the men trying to put out the fire in the
lorry's cab then began the walk back to his car.

-33-

The
pain in his head was terrible. It felt as though his brain had somehow worked
loose and scraped the inside of his skull with every intake of breath. He could
not remember the last time it had hurt so much. His fuddled senses wondered why
his hands didn’t respond when he tried to massage his temples, so he opened his
eyes.

"Ah!
The intrepid burglar," a deep voice boomed, "I see your back with
us."

Norton
looked at his hands. The skin was pale due to the restriction of blood caused
by the bindings securing him to a chair. He vaguely noticed that his gloves,
along with his balaclava had gone. Raising his head, he looked at the owner of
the voice, not liking what he saw. Leaning casually against the door on the
opposite side of the room, thumbs tucked into the top of his jeans, was a huge
man who looked like he'd been chiselled out of an enormous lump of granite. He
was staring intently at Norton, dark eyes glaring from a face that must have
belonged to a professional fighter. A network of old scars around his eyes
stood out clearly against the lightly tanned skin like misplaced wrinkles. A
nearly flat, many times broken nose and badly misshapen lips added stark
testimony to the number of vicious punches the face had taken. A black 'T'
shirt strained at the seams with the effort of covering the broad muscle bound
chest that seemed to taper into the waist of his jeans. The faded blue denim,
covered thighs with trunk-like proportions, before disappearing into a pair of
leather motorcycle boots with vicious looking shiny steel toecaps.

Memory
flooded back. He remembered opening the door to the workshop. Somebody was
waiting, he thought, I knew there'd be a bloody camera.

"Strong
silent type eh?" the man said as he approached Norton. "Well not for
long."

The
man flexed his fingers, cracking knuckles as though preparing to perform a
delicate operation, knotted cords of muscle animating the tattoos on his
forearms as he did so. A huge fist powered into the side of Norton's head just
above his ear, causing him to grunt as pain lanced through his skull like bolts
of lightening. He tensed, waiting for a second vicious blow and was silently
thankful when it did not come. Instead, he heard the door open and a female
voice say, "Bring him into the workshop, the boss wants a word with
him."

The
big man slid a long bladed knife from the top of his right boot. Before he cut
the plastic ties securing Norton's wrists, he rested the blade just below his
left eye and applied sufficient pressure to cause a small ruby of blood to form
around the point.

"This
is for you later on," he said. "I'll make you eat your eyes before
you die."

Norton
was half carried half pushed along a brightly lit corridor. Twice he tried to
fall over in an attempt to get the big man off balance, but the huge fist
gripping his left arm kept him upright and moving forward. The blood supply had
started to return to his hands with a sharp tingling sensation. He was flexing
his fingers to aid the circulation when he was shoved through an open door and
onto the floor of the dimly lit workshop. Head down, he got to his knees, about
to stand when a sharp voice stopped him.

"Stay
where you are!" it snapped.

Norton
sat down on the cold concrete floor, crossed his legs and turned to face the
speaker. This man was no thug, Norton thought, at least not the fighting kind
.
He ran his eyes over the man standing before him. An expensively tailored suit
surrounded his obese body. His tie had been pulled down an inch and his shirt
collar was undone, giving the impression he preferred to be dressed in
something less formal. Although it was cool in the workshop
a
sheen
of perspiration glistened on his ruddy face. He stared at Norton
for a few moments before taking a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping
the moisture from his forehead and cheeks. His hands were very delicate for a
man of his bulk. The long slim fingers seemed to be a contradiction to the rest
of his body, as if they had been forgotten in the original mould and grafted on
later.

His
right hand held a fat cigar, a column of blue smoke rising from it like a
noxious pheromone signal to the woman standing at his side. Norton could not
help but give her an extended glance. She looked totally out of place in this
company. She was dressed in a pair of tight fitting blue trousers that clung
tantalisingly to a shapely pair of legs and ended half an inch above a pair of
slip-ons. A white blouse mostly covered by a honey coloured jacket, matching
the colour of her hair, completed her ensemble. She was the proverbial rose
between two thorns.

"Stay
where you are," the fat man repeated, "I very rarely trust my invited
guests. I never trust uninvited ones, especially when they carry guns."

The
Sig appeared in his hand, as if by magic from his jacket pocket. "A very
nice piece," he said, turning his hand as though to view the gun from both
sides, "not the usual sort carried by the local riff-raff."

He
threw the gun to the fighter. "Gerry," he said, "keep him
covered him with that."

"Yes
Mr. Holmes." Pleasure sounded in his voice as he dutifully pointed the gun
at Norton. It looked like a toy in his massive fist.

So
you're Peter Holmes, Norton thought,
a
man living on
borrowed time.

"Now
let me see," Holmes said, "you don't fit the bill for a common or
garden burglar, so how about the Old Bill."

Norton
remained silent, neither acknowledgement nor denial on his face. His eyes
flicked between Holmes and the woman. He could see her eyes moving between the
fat man and the muscle mountain. She appeared to be ill at ease, uncomfortable
with the scene before her. An ally, he wondered.

Holmes
shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Nothing to say, well never
mind, because it doesn't matter a shit."

He
turned to the big man and said, "Kill him," with as much emotion in
his voice as if he were ordering a stack of pizzas. "But not here,"
he added, "get rid of the body in the incinerator at the dock."

"Yes
Mr. Holmes." The man grinned at Norton, a look of pure evil in his eyes.
"It will be my pleasure."

Holmes
walked to the door that Norton had been pushed through, pausing before opening
it. "Sarah will go with you," he said, nodding at the woman,
"she can drive while you take care of him."

As
the door banged shut behind him, the big man growled at Norton, "Alright,
on your feet."

Norton
rose, watching the gun in the gnarled fist. The barrel was steady, never
leaving the centre of his body.

"To
the door," he indicated to a roller shutter with a flick of his head,
"you can try and run if you like, I don't care where I kill you."

The
door began to open as Norton approached it, the woman operating it from a
control panel fixed to the wall at one side.

"The
blue Transit," she said, pointing to a van in front of the first row of
parked vehicles.

Norton
noticed a slight tremor in her voice, excitement, or just scared.

The
group approached the van, Norton in the lead followed by Silver keeping three
or four paces behind. The girl brought up the rear, stopping to use a remote to
close the garage door.

Silver
threw her a bunch of keys. “Lock my car,” he said, “then
get
in the van.”

Norton
watched as she walked to a Lotus Esprit parked a short distance from the
Transit. She bent down and inserted a key. The snap of the central locking
seemed loud in the quiet of the compound. She looked quickly at Norton before
hurrying to the van.

“Open
it,” Silver said, pointing at the rear doors with the Sig.

Norton
opened the doors and pushed them wide. The back of the van was empty apart from
several nylon load restraining straps hanging like decorations from welded
hooks at various points around the walls. A thick metal grill separated the
load space from the front seats. No chance, he thought, of getting at the
driver through that.

"Get
in," Silver said, taking a set of keys from his pocket with his free hand.

Norton
turned around, sat on the ridged metal floor and shuffled slowly backwards.
Silver closed the first door, the securing bolts dropping automatically into
place. Norton knew that if the second door closed, he would be dead, a literal
sitting target without means of defence. Silver was closing the second door, a
grin of anticipation on his face.

Norton
grabbed one of the straps for balance and kicked the door as hard as he could
with both feet. He heard the clatter of the Sig on the concrete as the door
connected with the side of Silver's head. Already half out of the van, he
jerked himself upright and kicked out at the stunned fighter's groin. The kick
landed high and all but bounced off the wall of muscle covering his abdomen.
Silver recovered quickly, his years of street fighting had taught him to endure
pain. He faced Norton, stooping forward, arms outstretched, hands open like two
shovels.

"You stupid twat!
I'm
gonna
fucking rip you apart for that."

Norton
moved to the right, away from the van. "Best you have a go then," he
said, with more conviction than he actually felt.

Silver
darted forward. He was fast, very fast for a man of his size. His speed had
given him the advantage many times before. Like now, he caught his prey before
he had time to react. He folded his huge arms around Norton's waist and yanked
him off the floor. He began to squeeze, slowly at first, gradually increasing
the pressure to draw out the agony before he broke first his ribs and then his
spine. Norton felt the pressure increasing. Already he was finding it difficult
to inhale. He tried pushing Silver's arms down at the same time as trying to
wriggle upwards to ease the pressure on his ribs. It was no
use,
the muscles in Silver's arms were like iron, rigid and inflexible. The demon
lovers hug was getting tighter and tighter, he could feel the first tendrils of
approaching unconsciousness. He had to break the grip, and soon. He arched
backwards and brought his forehead down on the bridge of Silvers nose. His
relief was short-lived when Silvers face, a bloody triangle spreading from nose
to chin, broke into a grin.

"You'll
have to do better than that," he said, voice straining with his efforts.
"What's it like, dying?"

Norton's
vision was blurring, his lungs starved of oxygen. The pain in his body was
spreading from his back and ribs into his chest. It would only be seconds
before the crushing power of Silver's arms began to break his ribs.

With
an effort, Norton rammed his thumb into the corner of Silver's left eye. The
big man screamed and took a step backwards, turning his head this way and that
trying to dislodge the thumb. Norton increased the pressure, digging his
thumbnail into the eyeball, squeezing it mercilessly against the bone of the
socket. Silver screamed again as a white-hot poker of pain flashed through his
head. Norton felt the pressure on his back and ribs slacken. He took deep
breaths and removed his thumb from the now empty socket. The eyeball hung like
a macabre bauble on the big man's cheek, gelatinous fluid leaking from the
wound where his thumbnail had punctured the
conjunctiva.        

Still
encircled by powerful arms but now able to breath, he pressed home his
advantage. He punched the dangling eyeball and shuddered as it burst like an
over ripe plum between his fist and Silver's cheekbone. Norton fell to the
floor as the vice-like grip relaxed. Silver had both hands pressed against his
face, bellowing like a wounded animal. Norton rolled away and got to his feet
as the big man began kicking out hoping his boots would find a soft target.
Norton moved to Silver's blind side and timed a kick to perfection. The big man
screamed again and staggered backwards. He tripped and sprawled on the bonnet
of the Lotus, a kneecap shattered by the steel in Norton's toecap. Silver
groaned then began breathing deeply.

Norton
moved towards the van looking for the Sig. It was time to get out of here.

"Jesus
Christ!" He swore as Silver began pushing himself off the car, attempting
to balance on one leg. The big man looked like a vision from hell. The bottom
half of his face plastered with drying blood. His deflated eyeball hung from a
black, empty socket half covered by a drooping eyelid. As Norton stared in
disbelief, Silver slid the knife from its scabbard inside the top of his boot
and held it in front of his body, with a superhuman effort fuelled by adrenaline
and hate the big man began hobbling forward.

Norton
stared at the abomination approaching him. "Don't you know when to give
up?"

Silver
snarled out the words, "I will
fuckin
'
see you in
hell."         

Using
the power in his undamaged leg, he launched himself at Norton. It was a clumsy,
wasted effort, born out of desperation. Norton sidestepped the attack. Silver
slammed into the back door of the van, rocking it on its suspension, before
falling to the ground. Norton acted mechanically. The big man's sole intention
was to kill him. Even though he was in agony, his thoughts were concentrated in
that single direction. With his left hand, he grabbed Silver's hair and pulled
his head sharply back. At the same time, he picked the knife from the ground
where it had dropped, and drove it into the side of the fighter's neck.
Silver's final scream stopped as the sharp blade severed the carotid artery and
windpipe. He convulsed as his lifeblood jetted from the gaping wound. Moments
later, he became still, his body, in its final relaxation lay in a widening
pool of blood.