by Lex Lander
‘I love you,’ she said, and signed off on the conversation.
Ordinarily I would have spent longer on my surveillance. A rushed job is all too often a botched job. In this instance, I was going to run that risk. I had to get back to Andorra and salvage Maura and me, if such a thing were achievable.
I had been unable to detect a regular timetable for the brothers O’Brady. One or the other of them might arrive or leave on Tuesday at 9pm every week. Or not. The hit would have to be opportunistic. Sit and wait until one came out for his car. This would give me a window just about long enough to descend the three levels to the ground floor of the warehouse, let myself out of the front door on Lordship Lane (there was no direct access to the alley), and run around the corner into the alley before he drove out of the garage. Even with a silencer, downing him in the alley, overlooked as it was by the upper floor of the pub, several floors of the warehouse, and two occupied apartments over the garages, was not an option.
For the benefit of the warehouse manager and his staff, I wore my basic disguise when moving about inside the building: baseball cap, portable moustache, sunglasses, and stubble. Out of sight I carried a Beretta Storm sub-compact automatic, with a sound suppressor, courtesy of Tagd Corry, another Irishman. Also the best armourer resident in these British Isles.
On the tenth day, I decided to go for it. Sam had come storming out of the back entrance a little after 3pm, slamming the door behind him, his face almost contorted with rage, his trademark fat cigar jutting from his mouth.
I descended the stairs several at a time, fortunately encountering none of the warehouse employees, and shot through the door into Lordship Lane like a popped cork, blundering across the path of a young black woman pushing a double stroller.
‘Sorry,’ I gasped, just managing not to fall over her. I didn’t hang about to hear her response but nipped around the corner into the alley. I slowed to a brisk walk, so as not to draw attention to myself.
Through the steady London drizzle, as I hurried towards the end of the alley, I saw that the garage double door was up. Sam’s E-type was there; the Lexus was absent. Sam was standing by the car, relighting his cigar, his back to me. A puff of smoke rose above his head just before I cannoned into him, propelling him deeper into the unlit interior. The cigar stump flew off in a shower of sparks, while he bounced along between the wall and the E-Type’s fender before coming to rest on his back on the concrete.
Down but far from out.
‘What the fuck?’ he bellowed, struggling to rise.
‘Shut up!’ I snarled at him, planting a foot on his chest, and treating him to a close up of the Beretta.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ He was still more furious than scared, and those were his last words before I put a 9mm bullet in his head.
For minimum fuss and bother, the Eurostar train is miles ahead of flying. No reservation necessary. It leaves every half hour in the evenings, and you are in Paris Gare du Nord two hours fifteen minutes later.
Beretta dumped in somebody’s green bin, left at the curbside for collection, I was at the station a few minutes before the 6.30pm departure. Forty minutes later, I was under the Channel and thinking about Maura and Lindy. With any luck Sam O’Brady’s body would lay undisturbed until the morning, jammed under the sharklike snout of the E-Type. It was a makeshift place of concealment, but it would be invisible unless someone stumbled over it. Even then there was nothing to connect it with me. My fake passport, in the name of Harold Basnett was still in my pocket, but would soon be lost in France.
In Paris I collected my rented Merc, which was waiting for me at the Hertz Eurostar Terminus office. It carried me around Paris on the Périphérique – fairly quiet at nine in the evening – and then it was all open highway, the autoroute south.
To Maura and Lindy and to learn my fate.
I drove through the night, pulling over into a rest area whenever sleep claimed me, and dozing in the car. My fake passport, ripped to shreds, went into three different bins. Come mid morning, I was crossing the border into Andorra under grey skies, the trees along the route bending under strong winds. Fatigued but eager to insinuate myself into the bosom of my new family – if I still had a new family.
We had a visitor. A silver Toyota Land Cruiser was parked by the front door. I parked my Hertzmobile behind it. For what seemed an age I just sat there, frowning at the windshield. Alarms were buzzing inside my weary head, the tried and tested instincts still functioning. When finally I stepped out of the car, instead of entering the house I backtracked down the drive to the garage, opening it with the remote on my key ring. Inside the glovebox of the Aston was a hidden compartment. Nestling inside the compartment was a Korth .357 Magnum revolver with a three-inch barrel – the best compromise between accuracy and discretion. Made in Germany, and the most expensive handgun in the world. It was my preferred shooter when no silencer was needed. I owned three – the other two I kept on Seaspray and in my bedroom respectively.
With the Korth snuggling up to my lower spine I made my delayed entry.
The house was silent but for the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
‘You around, honey?’ I called out, half expecting to find she had already left.
‘In here,’ came the reply, and the rush of relief on hearing her voice made me feel weak.
I had to restrain myself from running into the living room. She was there all right, huddled at the end of the curved couch, her legs tucked under her. Calm, composed, and even lovelier than the image in my mind. Sitting across from her, in my favourite armchair, was Nick Heider. Smooth, good looking, in jeans and a brown sport jacket.
The shock of seeing him, here, in my house, tied my tongue.
‘Hi, Andy,’ he said with a smile that was as reassuring as the smile of a snake about to attack.
My larynx finally unjammed itself.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ I growled. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I invited him,’ Maura said.
I shifted my attention to her. ‘You’ll need to explain that.’
‘Let me,’ Nick said, standing. ‘Maura called me and brought me up to speed with the problems you two are facing. She was pretty upset, so I offered to come over and maybe mediate. Help her make a decision.’
‘The decision’s already made,’ Maura said quietly. ‘I just need help to implement it.’
‘You need him to help implement a decision?’ It made no sense to me. ‘What decision anyway?’
‘The decision to leave.’ Maura avoided my eyes. ‘I was afraid you would make me weaken.’
‘You really believe we need outside help to resolve this?’
Maura swallowed, cleared her throat. ‘Nick’s not an outsider. He ... we had an affair when Jeff was still alive, and afterwards ... for a while.’
That stunned me. No wonder her husband’s death hadn’t brought her out in a bout of grief. I could see now that it would have been convenient in ways that had never occurred to me.
‘You never thought to mention it?’
‘It didn’t seem relevant to our relationship. It was over when you came on the scene.’
‘So when you needed rescuing from me, your first thought was your ex-boyfriend. Why not Richard?’
‘Richard wouldn’t be able to stand up to you the way Nick can.’
‘Not only that,’ Nick cut in, ‘she wants me back.’
That was the second shock. Maura instantly denied it.
‘Deflate your ego, Nick,’ she snapped at him. ‘If you’re going to help me, it’s out of friendship, the family connection, call it what you like. But don’t delude yourself you and I will ever get back together.’
He smirked, kept his thoughts to himself.
‘About us,’ Maura said, looking at me properly for the first time. ‘I can’t stay here now. Even if I were prepared to overlook what you do, I couldn’t let Lindy ...’ She gulped, making a sobbing sound in the back of her throat. ‘Ther
e’s fresh blood on your hands, Drew. How could I let you touch her?’ A shudder. ‘Or me.’
She was socking it to me in plain English. I was a pariah. By doing what I had to do to protect her and Lindy, I had forfeited the right to their love.
Nick was watching me, his expression wary. I wondered if he were armed. As I considered pre-empting a showdown by drawing the Korth, the door buzzer sounded. Probably Maurice, wanting to know when I would need his horticultural services after the winter lay-off.
‘I’ll go,’ Maura said, rising.
‘No, stay here and keep our honoured guest company. It’ll only be Maurice.’
As I entered the hallway, the front door was opening without any assistance from me. Propelled by a blast of wind, three new visitors surged in – Gratrix and the African-American thug I had encountered at the house in Perpignan were in the vanguard, both toting handguns. Bringing up the rear, like any good general, was Carl Heider.
‘Good morning,’ he called out to me. ‘What a pleasure to see you again.’
Gratrix and the black guy crowded me back into the living room.
‘So you couldn’t manage it alone,’ I sneered at Nick, as I gave ground.
But I was wrong. Nick was on his feet, as surprised as I was to judge from his clenched fists and a glare that would have stripped paint.
‘Hey, Dad, this is nothing to do with you.’
‘Oh, yes it is.’ Heider said, his eyes slitted. ‘This scumball killed my brother. I’m here to fix him personally. As for you ...’ He turned towards Maura.
She had been staring at him, speechless. Now an expression of fury replaced the shock. She launched herself at him and managed to land a solid punch on his jaw. Its only effect on Heider was to cause him to stagger slightly. Recovering fast, he caught her arm and slapped her across the face, forehand, backhand. She cried out and kicked at his crotch, a near miss. I was already moving to her aid but Gratrix lashed me across the temple with the barrel of his gun, and I sank to the floor, dazed, vaguely aware of Maura rushing to my side.
‘Darling, darling ... Oh my God, you’re bleeding ...’
‘I’m okay,’ I mumbled, staying on my knees, my vision full of floor, exaggerating my debility. ‘I’m okay, love.’
‘You bastard!’ she snarled at someone.
‘Butt out, Dad.’ This from Nick. ‘You can do what you like with this fuck, but leave Maura alone.’
‘It’s thanks to you we knew where to find her.’ I recognized Gratrix’s voice.
‘Thanks to me?’ Nick choked. I almost felt sorry for him, set up by his own father.
‘You and a few bugging devices,’ Heider confirmed. ‘Knowing how you feel about her, I thought you might lead me to her sooner or later, and through her to him.’
Him being me. By contacting Nick, Maura had drawn Heider to our sanctuary. Head bent, I was happy to let them argue amongst themselves while the fog swirled around in my brain.
‘You bugged me?’ Nick’s disbelief was a tangible thing. ‘Your own son?’
‘You proved me right, didn’t you?’ an unrepentant Heider sneered.
‘You’re fucking paranoid. You’ll be bugging your own office next.’
The fog was thinning, as if it were being sucked out by an extractor fan. I was as ready for action as I would ever be. Trouble was, still being down on all fours, all I could see were feet. I had no means of telling whether Gratrix and the goon were pointing guns at me.
Then someone hauled me upright.
‘Frisk him,’ Heider ordered.
‘Leave him alone!’ from Maura. ‘Can’t you see he’s hurt?’
‘Better start worrying about yourself, bitch.’ This from Gratrix.
Hands were fumbling under my armpits, seeking a weapon. Only seconds were left before they hit on the Korth. I made myself a dead weight, letting my whole body sink to the floor, dragging the frisker along with me. At the extreme edge of my line of vision, I saw Maura hurl herself at Gratrix, sending him reeling. That took one gun briefly out of the equation. The goon was trying to lift me. That was my cue. I kicked him between his legs while reaching behind my back for the Korth.
‘Watch out!’ someone yelled. Sounded like Nick.
By then I was already pumping lead. At Gratrix first, two shots, both striking home. Rolling over onto my back, I brought the goon into my line of fire. A single slug in the chest was enough. He crashed to the floor face down, his gun sliding past me. I had lost sight of Maura. Nick was there though, white-faced, peeping out from behind the armchair as if it were bullet-proof. That at least told me he wasn’t armed.
With Gratrix and the goon both down, that left only Carl Heider to settle with. I did a fast sweep of the room. He was either hiding or gone.
Maura came to crouch beside me again, an arm around my shoulder as if to help me to my feet.
‘Where did he go?’ I yelled at her. ‘Where’s Carl?’
‘He ran off.’
I pushed myself up off the floor without any input from Maura and made for the hallway. She tried to restrain me but I elbowed her away.
‘It’s all right,’ she said, keeping pace with me. ‘I don’t think he’s armed.’
She was probably right. He would have killed me otherwise.
‘Good.’
‘No, no, don’t kill him, Drew! No more killing – I beg you!’
As we reached the hallway, she clung to my neck and wouldn’t let go.
‘Nick, stop him!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
The idea that an unarmed Nick Heider was going to prevent me from ending Carl Heider’s life was a joke.
‘Nick, he’s going to kill your father!’
It was a wasted appeal. I ripped Maura’s arms from my neck and blundered down the hallway. The front door was open, the wind howling through the house, the fronds of the tiger palm thrashing like a semaphore signaller gone berserk. Still semi-dazed, I staggered outside. Maura called after me, but the wind tossed her words away.
A Jeep stood behind my rented Merc. That Heider hadn’t used it for his getaway meant Gratrix or the goon had the keys. The bastard was running up the trail that led past the Bos residence. As I came to the start of the driveway, slithering on the gravel, he glanced back. Seeing me, he put on a spurt, veering off towards the forest. One moment in charge and bent on murder, the next running for his life. Such are the fortunes of crime and criminals.
The wind helped, pushing me up the trail. If I had been firing on all cylinders, I would have overhauled him before he reached the tree line. In the event, he plunged into the forest and was enveloped by the wall of green while I was still slogging up the trail. Unluckily for him he was wearing a cream-colored parka and, unless he dumped it, would stand out against the gloom of the forest like a blazing fire. I crashed through the undergrowth bordering the trees and stopped there to listen. For a while all I could hear was my own panting and the frisson of the branches overhead, unsettled by the wind. My breathing steadied and I heard the snap of a branch over to my left. So densely packed were the trees it was impossible to travel fast. If he tried it, he would create a disturbance and I would zero in on him eventually. If he stayed still, it might take me longer but unless he held out until dark, he was screwed.
He did both, and got it completely wrong. He remained motionless, providing no clues as to his whereabouts as I flailed about, cursing, fighting the low branches that intersected my path. I was closer him than I realised. Suddenly he broke cover. Less than ten metres separated us when he appeared off to my left, some distance from where I had expected him to be. If he had held back a few minutes longer, allowed me to pass him by and get deeper into the forest, he could conceivably have retraced his steps to the trail without my being aware of it.
As he darted between trees, I sighted the Korth on him. My thumb was in the process of cocking the hammer when I had second thoughts. With only three shots remaining, in the cylinder, I couldn’t afford to miss. Even now I couldn’t be su
re he wasn’t armed. I lowered the hammer, jogged forward in pursuit, weaving between the black tree trunks, their lower branches whipping at me as I passed.
He started to zigzag, maybe to avoid trees in his path, maybe to put me off my aim. He was ten or more years my senior, and though in reasonable shape for his age, he didn’t strike me as good for a long haul of physical exertion. It was a matter of wearing him down, like reeling in a marlin until he tires and the fight goes out of him. I would reel in Carl Heider and the outcome would be a foregone conclusion.
It didn’t take as long as I expected. Maybe I had over-estimated his fitness, or he might even just have given up, accepted the inevitable. Or even, in his cunning, decided the showdown should take place while he was still in a condition to defend himself.
When I caught up with him, he was propped against a tree, bent forward with his hands on his thighs. His breath was coming in bursts, his face red, his expression defiant.
This far into the forest the wind was no more than a faint whooshing, the treetops still agitated by it, but here at ground level all was still.
‘What’s it worth to you to back off?’ he panted, his dark eyes probing, as if for a weak spot to exploit.
‘That’s funny, coming from you. Not so long ago I would have paid you to back off Maura and me.’
‘Well?’ Impatiently. ‘How much?’
‘Too much. Your demise is the price, and I don’t think you want to pay it voluntarily.’
He came at me, as I expected him to, but I was ready and skipped aside, bringing the barrel of the Korth down on the back of his skull as he plunged past. He crashed into the undergrowth and lay there grunting and snorting.
I stepped away from him. I wanted him fully sentient and facing me when I delivered the coup de grace. The snorting ceased. He sat up wearily and shuffled along on his backside to the nearest tree trunk, using it as support. A rill of blood ran from behind his ear, down his neck and inside his shirt collar.
‘Don’t bother with any last words,’ I said. ‘Nothing you could say would be worth hearing.’
Opening up a few more feet of space between us, I raised the Korth.