Shoot to Kill

by James Craig

  Standing near the stern, Dom and Gideon were pulling on what looked like black jumpsuits. A third suit lay crumpled at their feet. Seeing Carlyle emerge, Dom kicked at it with his toe.

  ‘Get this on.’

  Carlyle nodded as he stepped over to the side of the boat, pulled off his gloves and unzipped his trousers. Careful not to aim into the wind, he sent a stream of urine into the darkness, listening in vain for a splash. As his eyes became accustomed to the night, he could just about make out that they were anchored in a small cove about fifty yards from a beach which was ringed by steep cliffs that rose up maybe two hundred feet.

  Try as he might, he couldn’t shake off the sensation that he was part of a bunch of kids playing a game of Cowboys and Indians. In some wretched way, it was like being eight again. There was a moment of panic when Carlyle thought that he might be expected to swim to the shore; when he saw Gideon lowering an inflatable dinghy off the stern of the yacht, he let out a sigh of relief. The firm breeze helped him get fully awake. The sea was calm and the air was noticeably warmer than in England. Finishing his business, he turned back to his companions as a beacon of light appeared overhead, briefly illuminated the sky, then disappeared.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Le Grand Phare,’ Dom explained. ‘The lighthouse. Nothing to worry about.’ Zipping up his suit, he slipped a pair of plastic covers over his shoes. Together, he and Gideon looked like a couple of the Met’s forensic technicians who’d gone over to the dark side. ‘Hurry up. Get dressed.’

  Once he had struggled into his suit and fixed his shoe coverings, Carlyle pulled his gloves back on, watching nervously as Gideon appeared from the saloon and dropped a large holdall on the deck. Kneeling down, Spanner opened it up to reveal an array of weapons. Carlyle’s stomach did a somersault. Appearing at his shoulder, Dom peered inside.

  ‘Give me the K100.’

  ‘Sure.’ Gideon threaded a silencer on to the semi-automatic and handed it to Dom. He nodded at Carlyle ‘What about him?’

  Dom grinned. ‘Which is the most idiot-proof?’

  Gideon shrugged. ‘They’re all simple enough – maybe the Beretta?’

  ‘Fine.’ Picking a gun out of the bag, Dom tossed it at Carlyle. ‘Here.’

  Carlyle caught it by the barrel, relieved that it hadn’t gone off.

  ‘Silencer?’ Gideon asked.

  Looking Carlyle up and down, Dom thought about it for a moment. ‘Have you ever used a gun before?’

  Carlyle shook his head.

  ‘Jesus,’ Dom said. ‘What kind of a cop are you?’

  Carlyle had to resist the urge to throw up. A British one, he thought.

  ‘Let’s leave it as it is,’ Dom sighed, ‘otherwise he’s bound to miss his target.’

  Gideon pulled a couple of handguns out of the bag and stuck them into his pockets. Then he added a couple of spare magazines and another silencer. ‘Just as long as he doesn’t shoot us,’ he grunted, zipping up the bag and stowing it back in the cockpit.

  With the wind at their backs, the three men marched in silence through the coarse grass of the flat terrain, Dom and Gideon shoulder to shoulder with Carlyle hanging back half a yard, as if that would somehow absolve him from getting involved when the shooting started. Having left the dinghy on the beach, they had scrambled up a steep path to the top of the cliffs and taken their bearings from the lighthouse, which stood a couple of miles to the south. Overhead, heavy cloud cover obscured the moon, adding to the sense of gloom. Despite everything, however, Carlyle felt invigorated by the exercise and the wind blowing in off the Atlantic. Filling his lungs with the bracing sea air, he felt almost giddy.

  Near the lighthouse, Dom pointed to a cluster of lights. ‘That’s the village of Bangor.’ He directed Carlyle’s gaze to a single light in a cluster of trees a mile or so to the north. ‘And that’s where we’re going.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Carlyle glanced at his wrist, staring at it blankly for several seconds before realizing that he wasn’t wearing a watch. Cursing himself, he returned his attention to the farmhouse. The lair of Tuco Martinez was a long, low building that radiated malevolence. It was sitting in darkness, apart from one window at the far end where light leaked through a half-closed shutter.

  How long had Dom and Gideon been inside? It had to be five minutes at least. Twice, he had heard what might have been gunshots but, with the noise of the gusting wind, it was impossible to be sure.

  Suddenly, there was a burst of light from behind a window and a muzzle flash, followed by another.

  Game on.

  Hopping from foot to foot, he shivered behind a Toyota Land Cruiser parked twenty or so yards from the house, wondering precisely what he should do. Gripping the Beretta tightly, he kept his finger as far away from the trigger as possible. If ever there was a man who would shoot himself in the foot . . .

  Another minute went by, feeling more like an hour. Carlyle felt an almost overwhelming need to piss but dared not try and release himself from his jumpsuit. He was contemplating the pros and cons of simply going in his pants when a second light went on in the house.

  Was that good news? He had no idea.

  Finally, he had an epiphany of sorts: the only way he was going to get off this fucking island – other than in a coffin – was if Dom sailed him home; either things were going okay, in which case there was no harm in taking a looksee, or they weren’t, in which case he was totally fucked whether he walked through the front door or not.

  ‘Glad we sorted that out,’ the inspector murmured to himself as he stepped out from behind the SUV and strode forwards.

  Finding the door ajar, he gently kicked it open with the toe of his boot. Creeping inside, his nostrils were assailed by a strong smell of damp and neglect. If anything, the temperature seemed 5 degrees colder than it had been outside. Standing in a long, empty corridor, a mixture of cold and fear began eating into his bones. His hands were shaking so badly he was unable to keep the gun pointed at the door at the far end. As he edged forward, the sole of his shoe stuck to the concrete floor. Looking down, Carlyle saw that he was walking through a trail of blood. With a sinking heart, he moved onwards.

  At the end of the corridor, he took a deep breath. Yanking the door open, he jumped into a filthy room, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its weak light flickered off the uneven brick walls, adding to the sense that he had walked into a torture chamber from a snuff movie. The stink made him want to gag.

  ‘About fucking time!’ Dom was sitting on the floor, next to Gideon. The two comrades presented a sorry picture; their hands were taped behind their backs and they had been chained to a metal ring driven into the centre of the floor. Standing over them, grinning like a lunatic, was Tuco Martinez. In his left hand was a machete, its curved blade shining dully in the poor light. If that didn’t do the trick, a semi-automatic was stuffed into the belt of his trousers.

  ‘Shoot the fucker!’ Dom demanded.

  Taking the Beretta in both hands, Carlyle planted his feet apart like they did in the movies, pointing the gun at a spot he hoped was somewhere near the middle of the Samurai’s chest.

  Tuco seemed completely unpeturbed by the new arrival. He looked at his blade and then he looked at Carlyle, shaking his head sadly. Finally, he turned to Dom: ‘So you brought your bastard flic, too, huh?’

  ‘Put down your weapons, and lie face down on the floor.’ Momentarily forgetting where he was, Carlyle spoke slowly and firmly. To his own ear, it almost sounded as if he was a bona fide officer of the law going about the legal execution of his duties.

  Almost.

  ‘Put them down.’ His breathing was becoming more regular and he was no longer aware of his heart trying to jackhammer out of his chest. Slowly it dawned on him that he could actually take control of this situation.

  ‘You’re not in London now, you metrosexual ponce,’ Dom hissed angrily, ‘Fucking do him!’

  ‘Okay, okay, just stay calm.’r />
  Tuco’s smile grew wider as he lifted his hands in the air and took a careful sideways step away from his prisoners.

  ‘Throw your weapons towards me,’ Carlyle demanded.

  ‘Sure. Anything you say, mister policeman.’ Arching his back, Tuco heaved the machete towards Carlyle’s head. But his throw was wild and he missed by a good two feet. Standing his ground, the inspector kept his weapon trained on the Frenchman.

  ‘I had to try.’ Tuco’s shrug was almost apologetic. He glanced round the room, as if finally realizing that it would all end here.

  ‘John, for fuck’s sake get on with it!’

  Carlyle shot his mate a frayed grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he rasped, ‘I’ve got it all under control.’

  As the words stumbled across his lips, Tuco reached for his gun. A jolt of adrenaline surged through Carlyle’s chest. Gripping the gun as tightly as he could, he jerked the trigger of the Beretta as hard as he could.

  Nothing happened.

  Fuck! What now?

  ‘The safety!’ Dom screamed. ‘The fucking safety!’

  ‘Shit!’ As he fiddled with the switch above the grip, a grinning Tuco aimed for his head. Flinching, Carlyle closed his eyes and yanked the trigger once, twice, three times.

  FORTY-FIVE

  ‘Enough, enough – ENOUGH!’

  He finally heard Dom over the buzzing in his head. How long had it taken him to realize that Tuco was down?

  ‘Behind you!’

  Carlyle swivelled round as the black woman from his apartment stormed through the doorway. Grabbing the machete, she screamed something unintelligible as she lunged towards him. Stumbling backwards, the inspector squeezed off another two rounds, sending her sprawling.

  Finally, there was silence.

  Released from his chains, Dom struggled to his feet. The colour was slowly returning to his face. Trying to fake a smile, he gave Carlyle a hearty pat on the back. ‘You don’t look too good.’

  Carlyle grunted as he watched Gideon reach down and pull the semi-automatic from Tuco’s hand.

  ‘There’s still one more out there.’ Stepping over the corpse, Gideon disappeared through the door.

  Feeling the cold sweat pooling at the base of his spine, Carlyle shivered, watching in silence as Dom dragged the woman’s body into the middle of the room, letting her drop next to her former lover.

  ‘United in death,’ Dom observed breathlessly. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

  I don’t know about that, Carlyle thought. Suddenly, his mind was a jumble of thoughts: regrets, recriminations and relief. What the hell had he done?

  He had just admitted double-murder?

  Or was it self-defence?

  He had no idea. It had all happened so quickly that he felt completely at the mercy of events.

  What was he even doing here, with these criminals? The word made him giggle.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Dom demanded, distinctly unamused as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

  ‘Nothing.’ A wave of euphoria washed over him: he had survived. ‘I think I’m going into shock.’

  ‘Save that for later, if you don’t mind.’

  Somewhere in the house came a shot, then another. A few moments later, they heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  ‘Give me the Beretta.’

  Carlyle handed Dom the gun.

  ‘Gideon?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Spanner appeared in the doorway, a battered red jerry can in each hand. He gestured back down the hallway. ‘The other guy is in the kitchen. Go and get him. Bring him here.’

  Carlyle assumed that the guy in the kitchen was Tuco’s footsoldier, the man who had pointed a gun at his head back in Covent Garden. It was hard to tell, however, given that most of his face was missing. He was quick to grab the guy’s ankles and let Dom take the shoulders as they carried him back to where his erstwhile employer was waiting. With the three bodies lined up in a row, Gideon doused them in the petrol from one of the cans; the fuel from the other was spread liberally around the room. Then he pulled what looked like a miniature bomb – a bunch of wires protruding from an outsized cigarette packet, attached to an old school kitchen-timer – from the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, placing it next to a pool of gasoline, alongside Tuco’s right foot.

  ‘Right,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’ He looked at Dom. ‘This place will go up with a bang in three hours.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Dom nodded. ‘No one’s going to find them before then and it gives us plenty of time to get the hell out of here.’

  They jogged back to the beach in silence. Carlyle struggled to keep up as Gideon set a punishing pace. Twice he stumbled and had to be helped back up.

  Back on the yacht, Dom sniffed the air as Carlyle felt the first few drops of rain on his face.

  Dom grinned at Gideon, who was already in the cockpit, pulling up the anchor. ‘Good timing. A nice bit of rain is just what the doctor ordered.’

  Gideon said nothing as he brought the engine to life and they headed for the open sea.

  FORTY-SIX

  The whiskey bottle was empty by the time Gideon steered El Nino gently into her berth at Brighton Marina. Shoving it under his arm, Carlyle stuck his head out of the cabin and scowled at the grey morning. He had not slept a wink on the return journey. The Jameson’s hadn’t been able to stop his mind from running in various directions all night, but at least it had helped him forget some of his physical aches and pains. Without waiting for Gideon to tie up the yacht, he scrambled off it as quickly as he could. Jumping onto the jetty, he stumbled, dropping the bottle and, somehow, managing to knock his glasses off the end of his nose. ‘Shit!’

  While the bottle bounced harmlessly on the wooden planks and rested at his feet, the spectacles went straight over the edge and into the water.

  Despair welled up inside him as Carlyle watched three hundred quid disappear beneath a patch of foamy scum. ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’

  ‘They’re gone,’ said Dom, picking up the bottle and placing it in a black bin liner. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to get a new pair.’

  They headed to a small lock-up garage on Marina Way. Inside, the space smelled of damp, motor oil and bleach. Feeling faintly nauseous, Carlyle looked around, trying not to imagine what earlier crimes might have occurred within these breezeblock walls.

  The garage was empty apart from three black bin liners which sat on a workbench running along one wall.

  ‘Here.’ Dom grabbed one of the bin bags and dropped it at Carlyle’s feet. ‘New clothes. Put the old stuff in there. Everything we were wearing on our little trip gets dumped.’

  Dom and Gideon began to strip. Emptying out the contents of his bag, Carlyle contemplated his new outfit. There was a pair of boxer shorts, socks, some cheap trainers, jeans, a red sweatshirt and a brown parka with a furry hood.

  ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Slowly, he did as he was told.

  ‘Get rid of the new gear when you get home,’ Dom instructed him. ‘Put the underwear in the rubbish.’

  ‘Not taking any chances, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, you berk.’

  Carlyle slipped off his boxers. Shivering against the cold, he dropped them into one of the bin liners. ‘Maybe I’ll just go commando.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Dom said gruffly. ‘Give the rest of the stuff to Oxfam if you want – but not the one on Drury Lane. Understood?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carlyle dressed quickly, stuffing his previous clothes into another bin liner. A thought suddenly crept across his brain. ‘What did you do with the guns?’

  With one leg stuck in a pair of fresh jeans, Gideon tutted at the stupidity of the question.

  ‘Stripped down and scattered in the middle of the English Channel,’ Dom explained as he pulled on a grey T-shirt. ‘Nothing to worry about on that score.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about on any score,’ Gideon muttered.

  ‘No, in
deed,’ Dom agreed.

  Gideon shot Carlyle a threatening look. ‘Just make sure you keep your fucking mouth shut.’

  ‘He will.’ Smiling, Dom put his arm round Carlyle’s shoulder. ‘Of course he will.’

  They drove back towards London in silence. Pulling in at the Pease Pottage motorway services, Dom donned a West Ham baseball cap, disappearing inside while Gideon stuffed the bin liners containing their soiled clothes into the trash.

  Sitting in the back of the SUV, Carlyle rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Twenty yards away, a woman was shouting at a screaming child as she dragged the unhappy girl across the car park.

  What should he make of the last twenty-four hours? Closing his eyes, the inspector tried to think of something suitably profound but nothing came to mind.

  After a while, the car door reopened and Dom placed a tray of coffees on the driver’s seat. ‘Hungry?’ he asked, offering up a bag of doughnuts.

  Carlyle thought about it for a moment. ‘Nah. Thanks.’

  Dom frowned. ‘John Carlyle refusing a doughnut! Whatever next? Are you ill?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Hungover?’

  ‘Amongst other things,’ Carlyle replied dolefully.

  ‘It was a tough night,’ Dom reflected, ‘but it’s over now.’ He stuck a hand in the bag, pulled out a doughnut and took a large bite, sending raspberry jam all over his chin. Groaning, he grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the mess. ‘Job done.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘It’s over,’ Dom repeated. Dropping the remains of the doughnut back into the bag, he began wiping his fingers clean. ‘I know you’re worried that you’ve crossed some kind of Rubicon here. Gone over to the dark side. Whatever. But it’s not like that. Think of all the shit you’ve had to deal with over the years. It’s all one big grey area. This is no different.’

  A very dark shade of grey, Carlyle thought as he watched Gideon reappear from behind the service station.

  ‘In difficult situations you have to make choices.’ Handing Carlyle the coffees and the bag of doughnuts, Dom settled in behind the wheel, ready to resume the journey home. ‘And you have to live with them.’