Krilov was crouched in a cluster of valves when he heard his name being called from above. He looked up at the ship’s bridge. The captain was on the bridge wing shouting at him. He wanted Krilov to release the lines so that the ship could get away.
Krilov ignored him. He couldn’t care less about the ship. His heroin crates were scattered all over the landing. Most of the consignment was still on the ship’s deck. His men were either dead, wounded or had taken their chances to escape by jumping into the estuary. It was over. He needed to save himself. The only thing keeping him there was an intense hatred for whoever was responsible for this attack.
Krilov’s lieutenant scurried over with a rifle to report something but he seemed ambivalent. Krilov could read it in his eyes. ‘You want to go?’ Krilov shouted. ‘Go! I give you permission.’
‘It’s only one man,’ the lieutenant said.
‘What?’ Krilov asked, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
‘I’ve been watching. It’s only one man, boss. I’m sure of it.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘It’s too late. We cannot get the cargo off the jetty. I see you, boss.’
And with that the man left his rifle, ran along the jetty and jumped off the end.
Krilov was left staring at the flames wondering if his lieutenant could possibly be correct. The question was, who was crazy, or angry enough to attempt such a thing?
The thug Boris had tortured was lying on a hospital bed, a nurse seeing to his wounds. A police officer was on guard outside the room.
The nurse left the room leaving the thug alone. He checked to see the policeman wasn’t looking, retrieved a phone from a pocket, brought up a number with bloody, shaking fingers and put it to his ear.
Jedson made his way over to Krilov with Bethan in tow. ‘We have to go,’ he said to the Russian. ‘Let’s get on the escape boat. This has all gone tits up.’
‘Who attacks us?’ Krilov asked.
‘I told you! Not the police!’
‘You are sure?’
‘We don’t have bombs for a start.’
‘Then who is it?’
‘It has to be a rival gang. We’re dead if they catch us.’
‘That’s no gang-man,’ Krilov said. ‘It’s Special Forces.’
‘I’d know if the bloody SAS were here!’
Krilov’s phone chirped. He wanted to ignore it but reluctantly answered. It was the thug in the hospital.
Krilov listened, his mouth hardening with anger as the thug told him what had happened with Gunnymede. He put the phone down, got to his feet and stared beyond the flames, along the pipe jetty. ‘It’s the intelligence officer,’ he said.
‘What intelligence officer?’ Jedson asked.
‘The one from the farm. Last night.’
‘Gunnymede?’
‘Yes. Gunnymede?’
‘Gunnymede?’ Bethan echoed in a mixture of disbelief and hope.
‘Bollocks,’ Jedson said. ‘On his own? Impossible.’
‘Not impossible,’ Krilov said, a hint of admiration in his tone. ‘I could do it.’
‘Whoever it is, we’re out of here,’ Jedson said, making ready to go with Bethan.
She remained where she was, looking defiant.
‘Don’t even think about making it hard for me. You either come with me,’ Jedson said, picking up a shackle. ‘Or I crack your skull open right here.’
He grabbed her tied hands and yanked her up. ‘You coming, Krilov?’
Krilov didn’t hear him, his gaze fixed towards the pipe jetty.
‘Suit yourself.’ Jedson grabbed his suitcase and dragged Bethan to the side of the ship. ‘Get on board,’ he shouted angrily. She climbed over the side. Jedson threw his suitcase after her and followed it.
Krilov stepped onto the valve to look through his binoculars. His angle allowed him to see the road beyond the flames. He saw a figure moving towards the burning vehicles. Krilov wanted to kill him so badly he could taste it.
Jedson could see the roof of a cabin cruiser and dragged Bethan across the ship’s deck to the other side to find it's narrow bows touching the side of the ship where a man was waiting. He shouted something in Russian on seeing Jedson and appeared anxious to get going.
Jedson dragged Bethan to a short rope ladder down to the cruiser's bows. ‘Climb down!’
Bethan didn’t move. Jedson lifted his suitcase onto the rail, shouted to the man to catch it and tossed it at him. The man ducked out of the way as the suitcase bounced off the side of the boat, the impact smashing it open and it fell into the water along with its contents.
Jedson was livid. He faced Bethan with a snarl. ‘Get on that boat!’
‘No.’
‘If you don’t, I’ll throw you over.’
She stood defiantly, her tied hands clenched in solid fists.
Jedson lunged at her. She swung wildly at him, catching him on the side of his face. The blow stalled him. Out of the pain grew a very much darker Jedson. A murderous Jedson. He straightened up. This was her end.
Gunnymede ran down the pipe jetty and stopped in front of the flames. Bethan was the other side. So was Krilov and Saleem. He could wait for the police to arrive but that might be too late.
He went to the rails the opposite side of the road to the piping and looked along it. He could see the landing, on and off, between gouts of flame. He put down the rifle and emptied the pouches of explosive ordnance. He held the last grenade and decided he might as well use it. He loaded into the G36, raised the barrel and fired. As the shell sailed through the air, Gunnymede dropped the rifle, pulled the webbing up around his face, pulled down his helmet and charged into the flames.
The shell landed on the deck a few metres behind Jedson sending him flying. Bethan was knocked back by the explosion but was unhurt save a few scratches. The grenade had punctured several oil drums on the deck, at the same time igniting a pile of canvas beside a poorly maintained lifeboat.
Saleem and his men, in their room below, looked up at the sound of the explosion. Those with experience of war had no doubt what it had been. Saleem grabbed his backpack and hurried out of the room followed by the others.
A copy of the Koran remained on the table.
Saleem led the way along a narrow, dingy corridor to a set of stairs. One of the men realised he’d forgotten something and stopped.
‘What is it?’ a colleague asked.
‘I left my Koran.’
‘Leave it!’
‘No!’ he said and hurried back.
The colleague frowned and went with him.
Gunnymede ran through the blaze keeping a hand on the rail using it as a guide. Seconds later he emerged the other side, smouldering but otherwise undamaged. He pulled his pistol and aimed ahead as he panned left and right. The only people he could see lay still on the ground. Scattered around the landing, between the ship and the vehicles were boxes, some spilled open. Much of it was heroin.
He removed his helmet and moved closer to the ship. A shout came from above and he aimed his pistol at the bridge. It was the captain, directing his crew to deal with the fire. Several crewmen hurried across the deck towards the flames. Gunnymede saw someone beyond the fire. The far end of the deck. It was Bethan. A man was facing her.
Gunnymede ran to the ship’s side to climb over when four men hurried through a door at the base of the superstructure a dozen metres away and climbed over the side onto the landing. Gunnymede and Saleem stopped dead on seeing each other. Smoke drifted between them but they knew each other instantly. Their images were ingrained. Saleem couldn’t believe his eyes. It wasn’t possible. His colleagues also stopped. The man was holding a pistol towards them.
Gunnymede’s finger tightened on the trigger. Saleem’s head was in his sights.
Saleem could see it coming. He stood his ground, unable to do anything, refusing to run.
Krilov stood up from where he’d been crouching on the deck of the ship and with hatred in his eyes, sprang ov
er the side hitting Gunnymede as he fired. The bullet missed Saleem by an inch and slammed into the body of a man behind him, killing him.
Krilov had hit Gunnymede like a charging bull. He could’ve chosen to shoot him but he wanted to tear him apart with his hands, break his bones, rip out his eyes, cut off his face, slice open his body, pull out his organs and watch him die slowly, knowing who’d killed him. It could be no other way for Krilov.
Gunnymede hit the ground beneath the weight of the Russian with such force it concussed him. His pistol bounced out of his grip and tumbled away. Russian spetsnaz were trained in the art of unarmed combat. Krilov’s speciality had been jujutsu and he relished it. As Gunnymede fought to recover, Krilov punched him in the face. Another blow struck his ribs. Krilov slipped around his back, gripped him with his legs and looped his arms around his neck to place Gunnymede in a powerful stranglehold while at the same time trying to push his eyes into his brain. Gunnymede grabbed one of Krilov’s little fingers and ripped it sideways, breaking it at the knuckle joint which released the grappling hands from his face. But it was a minor defence as Krilov’s muscular limbs tightened around Gunnymede like a boa-constrictor and he brought all his power to bear in order to suffocate and break Gunnymede’s bones at the same time.
Gunnymede could feel the life draining from him as he struggled to breathe. He grabbed at Krilov’s arm in a futile attempt to prevent it from crushing his throat. He couldn’t budge it. Krilov was too strong by far.
Saleem stood watching, enjoying the fight. Gunnymede’s eyes started to bulge and his face swell. Saleem didn’t notice his men had all but hurried away. One of them tugged at him and urged they get going. Saleem looked to see the others were already climbing over the rails. He wanted to watch the end of Gunnymede. There was something extremely satisfying about seeing this man die. His colleague tugged him again anxiously, urging him to get going.
Saleem had to pull himself away. He disconnected from the execution and followed the others over the side and down a ladder to the water.
Gunnymede began to lose consciousness. The Russian was too strong, the stranglehold too perfect. Stars filled his eyes as his brain began to close down. He made one last effort to pull Krilov’s arm from around his throat. His fingers touched the knife at his shoulder below Krilov’s forearm. He ripped it from its sheath and shoved the blade into Krilov’s arm with every ounce of strength he had left. The blade went through the arm, the tip digging into Gunnymede’s kevlar vest. Krilov howled in pain and although his grip weakened he held on. Gunnymede twisted the knife to one side and yanked it down hard with his final effort, cutting through arteries and tendons. Krilov’s grip failed.
Gunnymede pulled himself free and rolled away to draw in deep breaths as blood began to flow back into his brain.
Krilov’s hate and tenacity drove him on and he got to his feet. Gunnymede looked up at the beast, a wall of roaring flames behind him, and from his crouched position, launched himself with everything he had left. He struck Krilov below his chest with his shoulder in a classic rugby tackle and propelled the man backwards. Gunnymede released him at full stretch and fell to the ground. Krilov tumbled backwards into a puddle of burning oil that immediately soaked him. Flames licked at him. He screamed as he ignited, rolling out of the oil but by then he was a human torch. Unable to see, his eyes shut tight against the flames, knowing there was water in every direction, he ran, hit a rail, somersaulted over it and, in a fireball, plummeted to the water.
Gunnymede immediately flipped his focus to Saleem but the Daesh commander was gone. He hurried along the landing, searching over the side in every direction but there was no sign of him. The water was a rippling black emptiness. The beach was a few hundred metres away and in complete darkness. If there was anyone there he would not have seen them.
He suddenly remembered Bethan and spun around to look towards the ship. He hurried to the side and climbed onto the deck. The fire still burned. Crewmen had broken out hoses and were throwing burning debris overboard. There was no sign of Bethan.
Bethan was in fact below decks fighting for her life.
Jedson had recovered from the explosion without serious injury and had come at her with a pole, ready to bash her, his eyes filled with malice. As he lunged at her he slipped on an oily patch and fell. At the same time she stepped back to avoid his blow, her ankles hit the raised rim of a hatch and she fell into it and down a flight of stairs. With her hands still tied she’d been helpless to stop herself.
She struck the lower deck which knocked the wind out of her. Two men hurried along a corridor and stopped on seeing her. Arabs, one of them holding a copy of the Koran. He said something in Arabic to the other and they stepped over her and quickly climbed the stairs.
Bethan got to her feet while deciding where to go. On deck was Jedson. The only other option was to hide on the ship. She faced a long corridor with doors left and right, hurried along it to the end, down a flight of steps and through a metal door into a noisy room filled with machinery.
To one side was a greasy workshop. She grabbed the first tool she saw, a pair of pliers, and tried to cut her bonds. She couldn’t grip them well enough and they fell to the floor. As she picked them up she peered round the doorway and up the stairs in fear Jedson might be there. It was clear.
Frustrated, she looked around for something better and saw an electric grinder. She rubbed the plasticuffs against the stone wheel but it turned with every movement. She found a switch and the motor burst into life. She touched the plastic against the spinning stone which cut it instantly. She pulled her hands apart with relief. As she turned to leave she stopped dead. Jedson was in the doorway, his eyes filled with murder.
He lunged at her. She sidestepped, pushing him to one side. His back hit the spinning grinder cutting into him, his jacket getting sucked around the stone, jamming it to a stop. He yelled in frustration as he reached for her unable to advance. As he fought to release his jacket she grabbed a metal rod and slammed his shoulder with it, snapping his collar bone. His reaction was even wilder rage and he swung out a fist that connected with her face sending her flying back into shelving.
Bethan was rocked by the blow and staggered out of the room with a bloody nose while Jedson fought to free himself. She pulled herself up the stairs but as she reached the top, Jedson stepped from the workshop in time to grab her trouser belt. With all his might he wrenched her down, flinging her to the metal floor.
The effort sent a bolt of pain through his broken collar bone, delaying him long enough for Bethan to scramble up and stagger away along the gangway, through a steel doorway and into the engine room.
Jedson grabbed a long hammer from the workshop and went in pursuit of her.
Bethan hurried along a narrow bridge suspended between the two main engines, one silent, the other rumbling away, its camshaft spinning rhythmically as the piston arms pushed it around. She went through a door at the end, into the steerage locker, but there was nowhere else to go.
She stepped back into the engine room as Jedson entered from the other side, hammer in hand. She looked around for a weapon. There were bits and pieces everywhere. A bin of rags, cans of various oils and lubricants, tools and an iron bar. She went for the bar, gripping it with both hands like a baseball bat as she faced him.
He stepped onto the bridge, smirking with confidence. ‘I should be on my way. But I just can’t leave you. It’s true. I’m obsessed with you. I always have been. From the first time I ever laid eyes on you I wanted you. Strange how I’m just as eager to break you into pieces. What kind of love is that, do you think?’
‘It’s called a mental disorder.’
He came at her, swinging the hammer wildly. She managed to block it with the bar but the blow was painful. She sidestepped his next awkward swing, the blow striking the engine with a heavy clang. He swung again and missed. Growing frustrated, he changed tack, swinging across his front. She blocked it but the bar was slammed out of her hands. Seeing
her defenceless, he came at her for the death blow. She grabbed up the lid to the rag bin and held it like a shield. He swung at her head. The hammer glanced off the lid and went into the spinning camshaft where it was ripped from his grasp, almost breaking his wrist, and thrown back at him with double the force, hitting him in the chest. He lost balance and fell against the engine, inches from the spinning camshaft.
She seized her chance and lunged at him with the bin lid in an effort to push him into the cams. He held on. She slammed the lid into his face. He weakened. Again she hit him. Another blow and his grip loosened. Another and he fell back, his head dropping between the cams where it was instantly crushed. Blood and brains spurted over her as she looked away, horrified.
She sensed someone nearby and spun round, bin lid at the ready. Gunnymede, out of breath, was looking at her from the doorway.
She dropped the bin lid, went over to him and hugged him desperately. The emotion flowed out of her.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’
She looked at his battered face and scorched clothing. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I feel worse than I look.’
She smiled for a second before growing serious again. ‘Krilov?’
‘Gone. Come on.’
They climbed through the ship and onto the main deck where the crew had the fire under control. The vehicles were still burning, the air thick with smoke. Gunnymede climbed over the side and helped her down onto the landing.
‘How did you know to come here?’ she asked.
‘They tried to kidnap me too.’
She looked around at the bodies. ‘Why are you alone?’
‘You’re not very popular. I couldn’t get anyone else to join me. You would’ve done the same for me.’
She looked down at a box of heroin, the broken packets strewn around. ‘This was about something more than just drugs wasn’t it?’
He didn’t answer.
‘There were Arabs on board,’ she said. ‘Were they illegals or something more?’
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