Kill Clock (9 page)

Pearce nodded. Couldn't see Banksy. Couldn't see anything.

Could hear, though. Footsteps approaching from behind. He turned. Able to see again with the lights behind him. Big guy, gun drawn, silencer on it. Probably one of the guys who'd whisked Julie away earlier. Wasn't wearing a ski mask now, though.

"Got to pat you down."

Pearce shrugged. Held his hands out to the side, still clutching the tool-bag.

The guy frisked Pearce carefully. Wasn't new to the job, you could tell. "Let's see in the bag."

Pearce swung his arm out of the way. "Not until Julie walks."

"In your dreams, Big Man. Give that to me." He pointed his gun at Pearce.

Pearce didn't move. "Don't make me hurt you."

"No?" He leaned in close, held the gun an inch from Pearce's forehead. "I'll make you hurt me if I want. You hear what I said?"

"Yeah. Did
you
hear what you
said?"

The guy stood for a moment, not sure what to do. He took a step back, gun still aimed at Pearce. "He won't let me look in the bag, Banksy."

"Is he clean?" Banksy shouted back.

"Yeah. Sparkling."

"Then let him go, Jack."

Jack. Julie had mentioned him. The older guy. Pearce hoped Banksy’s brother, Ray, was hanging around somewhere, too. He'd enjoy explaining to him why stealing dogs was a very bad idea.

Pearce faced the lights again, shaded his eyes, peered.

"Move." Jack pushed him between the shoulder blades.

"That's incredibly annoying."

Jack pushed him again.

Pearce slammed his head backwards and hit something solid with the back of his skull.

Jack grunted.

Pearce swivelled round and kicked him in the side of the head as he stumbled. Jack went down, sprawled on the ground and lay still.

"Pearce!" Banksy shouted. "What the bleeding bejesus do you think you're doing?"

Jack's gun lay inches from his hand. Pearce booted the weapon out of reach just in case he woke up anytime soon.

"Pearce, stop ignoring me! Leave him!"

Pearce stood where he was, the back of his head throbbing pleasantly.

"Get away from Jack!"

Pearce strode forward. Kept going till he'd covered half the distance between himself and Banksy. The lights made his eyes smart.

"That's close enough."

Pearce stopped, waited.

The lights dipped.

Slowly, Banksy came into view, his arm held out, the gun at the end of it pressed under Julie's chin, forcing her head back as he moved her into position directly opposite Pearce. Banksy's gun was fitted with a silencer, too.

"Let her go, Banksy."

"Give me the money first."

"Pearce." Julie's voice was shaking. "Do what he says. Please."

"Shut it, bitch. I don't need you talking for me." Banksy placed the tip of the silencer on her lips. Turned back to Pearce. "You got the whole twenty grand?"

"Would I be here if I didn't?" Pearce unzipped the bag. He reached in, waited a second with his gloved hand wrapped around the Uzi, then whisked it out and let the bag fall. He pointed the gun at Banksy, finger on the trigger. "Oh. Looks like I would."

Banksy shuffled in behind Julie, his gun pressed to her temple. "I'm disappointed, Pearce. I had high hopes we could settle this without bloodshed."

"We can."

"Yeah? I'm listening."

Pearce heard a slight crunch behind him. Forced himself not to turn around. Then a scraping sound. Like … wheels on gravel? A car? That's exactly what it was. Lights off. Engine off. Free-wheeling towards him. Some pillock trying to sneak up on him, catch him out. The slope in the road levelled off pretty quickly, so it would come to a standstill soon enough. "Tell the prick behind me to stay where he is."

Banksy shrugged. Raised his free hand and shouted, "You heard the man, Ray. Put the brakes on."

Ray Banks was here. Good.

For now, Pearce kept his eyes on Banksy. It was hard to drag his gaze away from the gun. It was back under Julie's chin again. "You want twenty grand, right?"

"You know I do."

"Here's my proposal, then."

"Oh, you have a proposal? That's very business-like. Let's hear it."

Pearce waited.

Banksy shuffled his feet. "Come on."

"It's simple. Lend me the money."

"That's it?" Banksy laughed. "Now that's funny."

"Why? You're a loan shark, right? You can lend me twenty grand. I give it back to you, plus I pay you all the interest. Everyone wins."

Banksy looked thoughtful. "You trying to trick me or are you just really thick?"

Pearce felt something against the back of his neck. Cold and hard. Digging into the skin. Then a click.

Shit, Ray had got out of the car, crept right up behind him and he hadn't noticed. Shit, shit, shit. He should have been paying attention.

"You think I'm really stupid, is that it, Pearce?" Banksy jammed the gun into Julie's throat.

"Banksy." Julie's head tilted to the side with the pressure. "He was just joking. He didn't mean anything by it."

"Who asked your opinion?" Banksy shoved her forward. She stumbled. Managed to stay on her feet.

Pearce didn't see Banksy's hand move, but he heard a slapping sound and saw a jagged flash of light strike Julie in the back of the head.

She dropped onto her knees. Then fell forward onto her face.

And lay there, completely still.

No. Christ, no.

"Well, she's not laughing," Banksy said. "You got any other jokes?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Banksy was supposed to get angry, distracted, confused. He was supposed to slip up, let Pearce make his move. "You killed her?"

"I hope so, Pearce. But you're right. There might be some doubt." He leaned over her and fired again. The slapping sound once more. The flash of light again. The twitch of her body. "I think we can safely say she's dead now."

Pearce felt as if someone had poured a truckload of sand down his throat. It filled his stomach, choked his lungs. He lifted his Uzi.

"Drop it, pal." Behind him, Ray rapped the gun against the base of his skull.

Pearce recognised the voice from earlier. Ray was the gunman who'd fired a shot into the tarmac at Pearce's feet when they'd bundled Julie into their car.

Pearce thought about pulling the Uzi's trigger. Holding it down for the whole two seconds. Firing every last one of those thirty-two rounds. Filling Banksy full of holes.

He thought about it. Wondered what would happen to him if he did. Imagined how it would feel to have a bullet enter the back of his head. Was it worth it? Was it?

He lowered his arm and dropped the gun. Couldn't let Ray win.

"Good boy." Banksy clapped. "You want to pick that up, Ray?"

"Can do. Where's Jack?"

"The hard man here caught him with a lucky headbutt. Jack's lying in the road back a bit."

"Oh, crapbags," Ray said. "Is that what that was?"

"What was?"

"That crunch."

Pearce had heard it too. Could it be?

"Tell me you didn't run him over," Banksy said.

"I think I might have."

"Jesus pishing Christ."

"I couldn't see." Ray's voice rose. "No lights. Wasn't expecting Jack to be lying in the bastard road, was I?"

Banksy shook his head. "Go take a look. See what the damage is. Did you at least get the kids?"

"No problem. They're in the back of the car with the stupid looking dog."

Pearce breathed in, squeezed air into his lungs.

Banksy said, "What about their granny?"

"Put up a bit of a fight. Told her I'd chop off more than a finger this time if she didn't behave."

In front of the kids.

And to cap it off, they'd just seen their mother being executed.

"Very nice weapon." Banksy ran his finger along the muzzle of the Uzi Ray had given him. "Cacked my pants when you pulled that out, Pearce, I don't mind telling you. Serious hardware. Seen a few Mac 10s around, but not one of these little lovelies. Worth a few grand, too." He pointed it at Pearce's chest and pushed. "Makes up a bit for you not bringing any money." He shifted his aim to Pearce's head. "Can you think of a single good reason I shouldn't empty this into you?"

From behind Pearce, Ray said, "Hang on a minute, Banksy. Jack's not breathing."

"Don't say that, Ray."

"It's true."

"Just what we need." Banksy let his arm drop to his side. "Can you get him in the car?"

"Tight fit with those kids in there."

"I meant my car. In the boot."

"OK. Might need a hand, though."

Banksy waved the gun at Pearce. "Looks like you've been granted a moment's reprieve. Would you be so kind?" He smiled, his teeth showing.

Pearce wondered what Banksy would do if he said no. Shoot him, probably, then help Ray carry Jack himself. No point risking it.

He'd only taken a few steps when a sharp cracking sound made him freeze. The sound came from a distance away. Somewhere near the broken staircase. Another of Banky's goons must have been lying in wait over there, ready for the signal to shoot Pearce.

But there was no pain.

He turned to see Banksy on his knees, staring down at his chest.

"Ray," Banksy said. "Ray! Some arsehole's—" He coughed. And again. "Ray! I can't—"

"What the crap?" Ray ran towards him.

Pearce grabbed Ray's arm as he passed, twisted his wrist hard enough for him to drop his gun and scream. More of a squeal, in fact.

Pearce picked up the gun and pointed it at Ray.

"Ow, man." Ray was holding his sore wrist with his good hand. "That hurt."

Pearce glanced at Banksy. "Drop it."

Banksy looked at the Uzi as if he'd forgotten he had it. He started to raise his arm. Didn't get very far, though, before his head snapped back.

The whipcrack followed.

Banksy dropped the Uzi and slumped onto his belly.

"Oh, man." Ray raised his hands. "His head's … God." He looked around him, then back at Pearce. "Don't let them shoot me too."