The Last Big Job (44 page)

‘
It might mean a big conspiracy,’ Danny finished. ‘My head
hurts.’

Crane jogged ahead of Smith, a black Ruger P85 in his hands,
the one he’d used for the robbery, now reloaded, one in the
chamber, fifteen in the magazine, another mag tucked into his
waistband just in case. Smith was armed with a heavier Skarab
Skorpion.

Crane stopped momentarily at the office door and took a deep
breath. He counted with his left hand, slicing the air, one, two,
three. Then he twisted into the office and said, ‘Sorry boys, but
this is the way it is,’ and began firing, aware that Drozdov was
not in the room, just Gary and Gunk. Where the hell was the
Russian?

It did not make Crane hesitate. He shot them where they
sat.

Gary was hit first. One in the face, one in the neck, two in
the chest. The massive impact of the bullets lifted him from the
chair and toppled him backwards, legs rising upwards and
over.

Gunk threw himself to one side with a scream. Crane was
surprised by his speed for an instant. Then he was back on track,
aiming and firing at the bulk of Gunk’s moving body, hitting him in
the shoulder, ribs and hip. Gunk contorted and writhed on the floor
of the office, dragging a metallic filing cabinet down on top of
himself

Crane rushed forwards and finished him off with one to the
side of the head.

He checked Gary, who twitched like he was being tickled, but
was very definitely dead.

Crane ejected the magazine from the handle and dropped it into
his pocket, replacing it quickly with the full one from his
waistband. His eyes made contact with Smith who stood in the
doorway, astounded by his partner’s deadly efficiency.

‘
Where’s the other fucker?’ Crane hissed. He was hardly out of
breath, but in control, enjoying this.

The response to the question was immediate and
fatal.

Suddenly Smith began a wild, macabre dance as bullets riddled
into him, discharged from the Uzi held by Drozdov. Black holes
burst open across his chest, hurling him backwards. His gun flew
out of his grasp and he was slammed violently against the office
wall. There was a short pause - long enough for Smith to look down
and inspect the wounds across his chest and then look up at Crane,
disbelief on his face - by which time Drozdov had readjusted his
aim and opened fire again. He put a line of bullets across Smith’s
face which removed his lower jaw.

Crane dropped to the floor like a stone, cursing. He then
crawled behind the filing cabinet which had fallen over Gunk’s
body.

Drozdov strafed the office. As the wall was only thin
plasterboard, little protection was offered to Crane who was pinned
down, nowhere to run.

The firing stopped abruptly when the magazine clicked
empty.

Crane knew he had to move now. His current position was
indefensible and he was dead if he stayed there.

He scrambled to his feet, using Gunk’s neck as purchase to
achieve momentum, and launched himself head first out of the
office. He threw himself into a forward roll which took him to the
back wheel of the Audi where he crouched down, protected by the
car, dry-mouthed, now breathing heavily, his senses at their most
acute, listening hard, unsure of Drozdov’s exact position, which
was not a good thing. He could hear re-loading taking place and
knew he was out-gunned. Pistol versus machine pistol. Bad odds at
this sort of range.

Where the hell was the Russian?

Behind the BMW? Near to the Sherpa?

Christ, he was good, Crane thought magnanimously. How had he
managed to get out of the office without being seen? Crane gave a
short, bitter laugh. He realised that he and the Russian were two
of a kind. He’d seen it in the eyes. Watched it in the way he’d
disposed of the security guards. Cold. Clinical. No fuss, just
business. And the problem was, when people like this clashed, there
could only be one victor. A draw was unacceptable.

Crane peered cautiously over the boot of the Audi. He guessed
the Russian was probably over by the BMW, protected by the bulk of
its engine, probably no more than twenty feet away. Beyond was the
gloom of the warehouse. Floor-to-roof shelving, stacked with goods,
mainly cigarettes, booze and perfume. The shelves were end-on to
where Crane was positioned and he could see down the aisles which
were wide enough for
forklift trucks to
operate down. Around the inner warehouse wall, about fifteen feet
from the ground, was a metallic walkway reached by steps next to
the office door, about eight feet to the right from where Crane was
hunched. Fifteen feet to his left was the Sherpa parked in the
loading bay. That vehicle, maybe, offered some protection, but at
that moment, Crane could not even think of reaching it.

Incredibly there was a sudden movement in the office. Crane’s
head snapped round and he saw something amazing.

It was Don Smith. Jaw-less, riddled with bullets, he was
dragging himself through the door, slipping and slurping in his own
pool of deep red, nearly black, blood. Most of his face had been
ripped off by Drozdov’s shooting. Crane could not believe what he
was seeing.

‘
Don!’ he gasped.

Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull
‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head
exploded with their impact.

And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the
BMW and took advantage of the distraction.

He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the
loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and
Drozdov.

Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells
smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like
hailstone.

Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more
protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire,
but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He
had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents
- when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.

The stench of cordite hung heavily in the atmosphere. Smith’s
body lay grotesquely positioned in the puddle of his blood,
coagulating like tar, his head destroyed. Beyond him, Crane could
just see Gunk underneath the filing cabinet, his head a gory mess
too and though he too was dead, his mouth popped open and closed
repeatedly, like a fish.

Nothing had happened for at least a minute. Maybe longer,
maybe not. Time had lost its substance.

Crane was convinced Drozdov had not moved, was still behind
the BMW He was reluctant to make the first move because he didn’t
want it to go to rat-shit and be his last. Yet to have to react to
Drozdov could be fatal. From what Crane knew of the Russian Mafia,
shoot-outs like this were ten a penny in Moscow and people like
Drozdov were experienced in dealing with such situations.
Conversely, Crane’s shoot-outs had always tended to be one-sided.
His opponents were not usually armed, which was a big advantage.
This was a new scenario for Crane, but he wasn’t fazed by it. It
was like a game of chess - but with consequences.

He was squatting down by the front offside wheel of the
Sherpa, close to the driver’s door, taking his main cover from the
engine. He knew car panels were useless against bullets and had
known people die behind them, thinking they were safe. The front of
the vehicle faced the roller door and the operating panel was on
the wall, about five feet above ground. The control button was ten
feet away from Crane himself.

A grimace creased his face as he weighed up the possibility of
doing a runner. The keys were still in the ignition. All he needed
to do was open the door, get in and drive away with the
money.

Yeah, sure. Dream on.

The roller door would take an eon to open and Sherpa vans were
notoriously bad at quick starts.

Stalemate.

‘
You did what I would have done. I respect that,’ Drozdov
called out from behind the BMW ‘We can talk. I know there is far
more money than you led us to believe. We can split it. We are
businessmen, after all.’

‘
You killed my friend, Jacky Lee.’

‘
You butchered my colleagues.’

‘
Big difference,’ Crane shouted. ‘Fucking big
difference.’

‘
And you would have killed me.’

‘
Likewise, wanker.’

‘
Such is life. It is not easy, but we can negotiate. I am a
man of my word.’

‘
Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I
could spit. I smelled you for trouble as soon as I saw
you.’

‘
I’m honoured. So what is it to be? Sit here until we grow old
and die of natural causes - or do we compromise? Remember, you are
outgunned and out-positioned. I can be a very poor shot with this
Uzi and yet still mow you down; you have to be a marksman with a
pistol. Compromise, Billy Crane - a good word - a very good
offer.’

Crane looked at the Ruger. The Russian was right. It is very
difficult to be accurate with a pistol other than at very close
range, whereas it’s dead easy with a machine pistol set on
automatic. Aiming did not come into it. Point, pull, shoot, sweep,
kill.

In that case, Crane decided, I’ll have to get in close to the
bastard.

He reached up with his right hand for the driver’s door handle
which he gripped firmly and pressed quietly with his
thumb.

There was a click which seemed loud and echoey, but drew no
response from Drozdov. The door opened a quarter of an inch. Crane
released the handle and eased his fingertips under the bottom edge
of the door and pulled it slowly open. All the while he was
expecting a hail of fire from Drozdov, but nothing came; he assumed
the Russian was either squatting down behind the BMW and not
looking, or was manoeuvring his way round for a better shot.
Whatever, Crane knew his time was limited. When the door was open
wide enough, he reached up towards the key in the ignition in the
steering column, just behind the wheel. His idea was to try to see
if the engine would start and use the noise as a distraction to
cover the sound of any movement. He just had to hope the thing
would get going without use of the gas pedal because he could not
safely contort himself to turn the key with one hand and dab the
accelerator with the other. Climbing up and sitting in the driver’s
seat was obviously out of the question.

Crane turned the key. The engine coughed, died.

‘
Shit!’

He was about to try again when Drozdov stood up and sprayed a
line of bullets in to the Sherpa, sending Crane diving back behind
the engine block.

Not a good idea, he thought, as the sound of gunfire died
away. If nothing else it would be folly to put the Sherpa at risk
from damage by bullets. If one hit something vital, he would be
struggling to transport the money - if he came out of this
alive.

He controlled his breathing again. The only way to win this,
he decided, was to take direct action. He had to take the fight to
the Russian.

Crane checked the Ruger again, making damn sure there was one
ready in the chamber and that the magazine was full. Yes, on both
counts.

He leaned back against the front wheel and inhaled deep, slow
breaths, calming himself, thinking of tactics.

The only way he could imagine taking the Russian was by a
sudden, unexpected, frontal assault, using the element of surprise
and, if necessary, going out in a blaze of glory.

His wet right hand gripped the handle of the gun. The sweaty
tip of his forefinger curled around the trigger. He cupped his left
hand underneath his right and lifted the gun. 32 oz seemed very
heavy.

Before he moved, he visualised every step of the way in his
mind’s eye. First, the relative positions of the vehicles. He
imagined he was a bird, looking down, seeing the layout from above.
The Sherpa in the loading bay, the Audi in the warehouse, almost
parallel to it and in front of that, skewed at an angle, the big
BMW behind which Drozdov was taking cover. What was on the floor
that might trip him? Crane thought hard. Nothing, he could recall
nothing. Then he began to envision his course of action, frame by
frame. Up on to his feet - then into a roll which would take him
the ten feet or so to the rear of the Audi, and on the way loosing
off two shots to keep Drozdov’s head down. Once behind the Audi, no
pause. Dive fast and low towards the BMW, somewhere in the region
of the rear nearside wheel. Down to the floor and fire underneath
the car to take out Drozdov’s feet and legs and arse if he happened
to be sitting on it, using every last bullet in the gun to do as
much damage to the bastard as possible.

He counted down from five.

On ‘one’ he came to life and moved, twisting across the front
of the Sherpa and suddenly seeing that the gap between that vehicle
and the Audi was wider than he remembered. As he threw himself into
the dive which would become his roll, this reality hit him and he
knew he would be exposed twice as long as he intended.