by Graham Smith
The two bullets I put in his back had enough force to knock him flat, but not so much that they were able to penetrate the bulletproof vest he must be wearing.
88
I roll to my feet and dive into the lounge where the hookers and Tagliente’s buddies are. My gun is in my hand as I look for cover and an escape route. There are French doors leading to a balcony, but to get the doors open I’ll have to turn my back to the entrance. The idea of doing that doesn’t seem appealing.
There’s a sturdy occasional table in the middle of the room. It looks thick enough to stop a bullet, so I tip it over. If nothing else, it will protect me enough to give me a chance.
I hear The Mortician’s voice – he’s singing a lullaby; there’s a cough, followed by a loud scream.
The screaming must have come from Tagliente, as the pitch is way too high to be either Ike or Baruch.
As much as I want to go to their rescue, I know The Mortician is trying to draw me out, rather than come hunting for me. He’s aware I have a gun and, while I know a little about him, he knows nothing about me.
He’ll be wondering if he’s facing someone as good as he is, or a rank amateur. In his position, I’d assume I was facing a pro and take the necessary precautions. So far as I can tell, that’s pretty much what he is doing.
I risk a peek over the upturned table. There’s nothing to see, other than an empty door showing me the corridor. I’m about to make a run for the French doors, when I notice the light in the doorway changing.
The machine pistol comes around the door frame and starts barking as it spits out bullets.
I duck behind the table and watch as The Mortician stitches bullets one way then the other.
The table holds firm when a bullet hits it, but the glass of the French doors shatters, as do ornaments and various other fripperies that decorate the room.
When the machine pistol clicks empty, I bob up and train my gun at the door in case The Mortician has entered the room.
He hasn’t.
Instead, I see him whirl across the doorway with his silenced pistol looking for a target. I fire a couple of shots his way, but I don’t hear the slap of a bullet hitting flesh.
The fact he’s wearing a bulletproof vest makes things even more difficult for me. It means I have to aim for either his head or his legs. Both of these targets are far smaller than the torso, and both are liable to be in constant motion.
That Ike has wounded one of The Mortician’s legs gives me something of an advantage; yet my own leg is stiff, and it aches whenever I move with anything approaching urgency.
I put another shot through the doorway and turn to run through the starred glass of the French doors.
My shoulder charge sends square marbles of safety glass cascading across the balcony.
As soon as I reach the railing, I vault onto the sloping roof and slide towards the gutter.
Not knowing what I may land on, I flip on my stomach and use my toes as brakes. They don’t work too well, and I bounce over the gutter when I reach it, but the action has at least slowed me enough for me to grab it with both hands.
I hang on to the gutter until I have seen how far I have to drop, and what I’m going to land on.
My feet slam down on the pathway and I throw myself into a roll to break the impact. It was only ten feet or so, but the paving blocks are hard and unforgiving.
I swap the used magazine in my gun for the full one in my pocket. I now have ten shots again, plus a spare five should I need them.
I hope to God I don’t.
89
Cameron eases his feet to the floor and levers himself upright. He’d seen no point in staying in hospital, but had gone along with it for one simple reason: when he’s in here, he’s not under Ivy’s watch.
He retrieves his clothes from the cabinet beside his bed and tiptoes to the bathroom.
It takes him longer than usual to dress himself, as he feels weak and unsteady, but he doesn’t worry too much about time. The nurse did her hourly check a few minutes ago and he’s content in the knowledge that he’ll be gone before she returns.
Taking an extra two minutes to dress won’t matter either way; once he’s out of hospital, he’s answerable to nobody.
He peeks through the door’s porthole and sees the nurse’s station is devoid of life.
Ivy is sitting on a chair in the corridor, outside his door, but her head is on her chest and he can hear her gentle snores.
He makes his way past her with his shoes in his hand.
Cameron chooses the stairs over the lift – it’s only one floor and there’ll be no beeps or floor announcements to wake a sleeping dragon.
The news broadcasts he’d watched on the hospital TV had brought him the best of news. Somehow, Jake had prevailed and had managed to take out Olly Kingston.
This means the price on Cameron’s head will be lifted; that he won’t have to spend the rest of his life looking over both shoulders at once.
He sits on the third from bottom step, pulls on his shoes and ties the laces.
While today is the first day of the rest of his life, the last day of his old one had turned out well enough.
He’d saved the life of one son, while another had eliminated his enemies. On the whole, Cameron figures it has worked out even.
He doesn’t know which way he’ll go, or where he’ll end up, but that’s fine by him.
Life is an adventure, and he plans to live it to the full.
Cameron whistles as he walks out of the hospital and looks for a taxi.
Behind him, unseen, a woman places her hand flat against a first-floor window and tries to suppress the tears pricking her eyes.
90
I get back into the house via a door that leads into the kitchen. The people we’d left tied up now have bullet holes in their heads.
All my senses are on full alert as I try to not only locate The Mortician, but get the jump on him too. I’m positive he’ll be doing the same as me, and although I’m feeling a massive amount of guilt at leaving Ike and Baruch at his mercy, I’d be less use to them dead.
I hear a rustle and whirl towards it with my gun extended, ready to fire, but it’s only the breeze blowing a drape. The last thing I want to do is pull my trigger and alert The Mortician to my location.
I grab a vase with my left hand and launch it from my vantage point at the base of the hall. It arcs through the air, bounces off a wall, and lands on the thick stair carpet.
The crash of breaking glass I’d been hoping for doesn’t happen, but there is a dull thud.
I wait for a reaction.
Gunshots at the vase would be ideal.
The sound of running footsteps would do.
I hear neither.
What I see is something I don’t want to.
There are wisps of smoke coming from the door to Tagliente’s study.
As I’m becoming aware of the smoke, I see the door to the downstairs lounge teasing its way open.
I sight my gun, but The Mortician sees me and whips up his machine pistol as I pull my trigger.
There’s no way I could have hit him – I was ducking away as my finger tightened on the trigger. The bullet will have been wild and, so far as I’m concerned, it’s a waste of a precious round.
I retreat to the kitchen and wait for him to come to me.
The position I’ve taken up gives me cover behind a central workstation and I can see the doorway clearly. As soon as he steps through it, I’ll have him.
I hear footsteps and there’s a sudden crash as he charges through the door. He’s less than a step inside when he pulls the triggers on Baruch’s sawn-off shotgun. I get a shot off, but there’s no way of knowing if it’s hit him.
The top of the workstation erupts in splinters by my head and I feel a thousand pinpricks in my scalp. While it hurts like hell, I don’t think there’s any real damage done.
I hear his machine pistol chatter, and as soon as it clicks on empty I whi
rl to the opposite side and fire three shots of my own.
We’re now on either side of the workstation.
Both of us have to guess which way the other will go.
To go the wrong way will bring us face to face. To go the right way, but too slowly, will expose our backs.
I pull a pan from a cubbyhole and toss it to one side.
He shoots at it and there is the clang of metal as his aim is accurate.
I dive to the other side and aim two shots at the booted feet protruding from the safety of the workstation.
One of my shots produces a puff of red from his ankle and a pained yelp.
First blood to me.
In a fight like this it doesn’t matter who draws first blood, only who is left standing.
At least my bullet will have further affected his mobility.
Above anything else, I now have the advantage as I’m able to move more freely.
‘Hey there, Mr Mortician. How does it feel to be shot?’
My taunt is enough to make him fire a couple of shots my way, but he recovers his composure far quicker than I’d hoped.
‘It stings a little, but don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.’
He fires three shots my way and there’s a clicking sound.
I throw myself towards him with my gun firing, until it too clicks on empty.
91
The Mortician is unscathed by my bullets but he’s on his ass, while I’m on my feet, so I aim a kick at his head.
He ducks under my boot and one of his hands snakes out and grabs my ankle. He yanks, and I fall.
I land face down and he clambers up my back.
His fists batter at my kidneys and ribs until he’s in a position where he can land his blows on my head. Due to his wounded ankle he’s lying on top of me, instead of properly straddling me, and getting plenty of purchase behind his punches.
Rather than squirm round to offer him my face, I lever both of us from the floor and whip my hands on the one he’s trying to snake round my throat. We fall together, but now one of his hands is beneath me and that means he’s off balance.
I push up with one hand while holding on to his wrist with the other.
I tip him off me and whip myself away from him, delivering a kick to his ankle as I go.
He yelps and suggests I’m of a similar nature to Oedipus.
I pull myself to my feet and kick him in his gut as he tries rising to his knees.
He grunts, but the bulletproof vest must have taken most of the venom from the blow.
I’m about to deliver another kick when his hand grasps at his jacket and produces a knife.
Ike’s blood still taints it, and I’m not fool enough to go near him while he’s holding it.
The Mortician uses my reticence to clamber up to his good leg.
I use the time to pull out my own knives.
He’s better than me with a knife, I have no doubt about that.
His eyes flick to my knives, and an understanding brightens his face when he sees they are ordinary domestic knives, rather than the hunting knife he holds.
He now knows I’m an amateur, that I don’t have any great amount of training, and that every piece of hurt I’ve inflicted on him so far has been achieved by dumb luck.
‘If you walk away now, there’s very little I can do to stop you.’
‘You shot my girlfriend. I’m only going to walk away when you’re dead.’
He pauses.
‘The girl on the boat?’
I nod affirmation as he slashes his knife towards my throat.
Instinct makes my hands go up to deflect his blow and I feel his knife slice through my jacket, opening deep cuts on my forearms.
One of the knives slips from my hand as the pain causes my fingers to uncurl.
Adrenaline takes a stance and my empty hand grasps the handle of a large frying pan.
It’s longer than his knife and, with the right amount of force behind it, is heavy enough to break a bone.
I take a few half-assed swings with the frying pan. I’m not trying to hit him: I’m judging his range and the speed of his reactions.
He’s quick and there’s a certain mobility to him despite the fact he’s only putting any real weight on one leg.
I swing the pan again, taking care not to put so much power into a missing swing that the momentum carries me to a point where I’m vulnerable.
His face shows he’s assessing me as much as I’m assessing him.
A spark in his eye warns me of a counter lunge, and I deflect his attempted stab with the frying pan.
With his arm knocked out wide, I swing the frying pan upwards towards his balls. It gets trapped between his legs, but he’s off balance. A yank on the frying pan forces him to put weight on his smashed ankle and he yelps as I bury my knife into his bicep.
His knife goes into my shoulder and I feel it scrape my collarbone as we fall to the floor.
We both roar in pain as we fight for control of the knives.
I use both my hands to twist his wrist to breaking point. He drops the knife and I give his wrist a sudden rotation that makes the bones crack.
I’m not done there though. I lever myself off him and do the same to his other arm.
He’s now only got one limb that doesn’t have broken bones.
I pull my knife from his arm and lay the blade against his throat.
There’s fear and pain in his eyes, but also acceptance. I guess with his kind of profession you expect that one day it may well be you who dies.
‘This is for Taylor.’
I slide the knife across his throat and leave him gushing arterial blood onto terracotta tiles.
92
When I open the door from the kitchen to the dining room, I see the room is already filling with smoke.
I double over, and half limp, half trot, to the door that leads to the hall. It’s warm to the touch, but there’s not a lot I can do about that.
I duck lower to avoid the billowing flames that come in when I open the door. Once the initial gust has passed, I dash through the burning hallway to the stairs as fast as my wounded leg allows.
My thoughts are on those who’re left upstairs: Baruch and Ike; Tagliente and his buddies; the five hookers.
The heat is intense, and the smoke has me coughing and choking by the time I reach the foot of the stairs.
I reach the upstairs corridor on hands and knees to keep the worst of the smoke from being sucked into my lungs. While the heat hasn’t yet reached here, the smoke is thick and noxious. It pervades the whole building and shields the ceiling from view.
The pain in my shoulder is riotous to say the least, but I ignore the agony as I scurry, still on my hands and knees, to where Baruch and Ike are.
Ike is unconscious, but I see a spark of life in Baruch. I go to lift him and fail.
He shakes his head. ‘That ain’t gonna happen. I’m done for, and so is Ike. Ain’t no way you’re gonna be able to carry us out of here before the fire gets all three of us. Even if you do, I can’t see us making it.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ I try to be sincere and determined, but he looks at me knowingly.
‘You got a gun? Burning and screaming in agony ain’t the way I want to go.’
I pull out the gun I retrieved from the kitchen floor, and insert the clip containing five bullets.
Baruch lifts his good arm, with his hand open, and I lay the gun in his palm. The pistol looks tiny in his great paw.
I look at his face and see nothing but calmness.
‘No regrets, Jake.’ He swallows and coughs. Bright arterial blood seeps from the corner of his mouth. ‘Now, get yourself out of here.’
I give him a nod of thanks and sneak a look at Tagliente before I leave.
He’s still laid out on the bed, but now he has a bullet wound in his left side. I stand and take a better look. There’s a huge, ugly exit wound on his other side, but his chest is still rising and falling.
I’m hit with a sudden new level of comprehension. The Mortician was here ahead of schedule because he was coming here anyway. His purpose was murder. Whatever had gone on between him and Tagliente had angered someone to the extent that Tagliente’s death had become a priority.
Perhaps he’d pissed off The Mortician, but my guess is that he’d tried to hire him to take out Chellini, and whoever else was in the running to take over Chellini’s organisation.
The length of time The Mortician had been away was enough for him to have been able to get to New York, speak with Chellini, and return.
The damage that The Mortician’s bullet will have wrought to Tagliente’s intestines is unimaginable and, while I’m the first to acknowledge I’m not a doctor, I really don’t fancy his chances of surviving a rescue attempt.
With the fire blazing away downstairs, the only way left for us to escape is over the balcony I’d used earlier.
I take the gun from Baruch, put its muzzle against Tagliente’s forehead, and pull the trigger. It’s a mercy killing and, while I’m not sure he deserves my mercy, I feel released from murderous instincts and the desire to inflict serious pain now that both The Mortician and Tagliente are dead.
Baruch takes the gun from me and looks to his brother. As I leave the room, he’s lifting the gun towards Ike’s head.
He shoots once as I cross the hallway, and again when I reach the lounge door.
Their deaths, along with those of Taylor and Yerik, are something I know will eat at my conscience, but that’s a matter for another time.
93
I enter the lounge and slam the door shut. It won’t stop either the fire or the smoke, but it will slow them. The open French doors that were smashed by The Mortician’s bullets, and my mad dash, are drawing the fire upwards, so everything I can do to limit the free movement of air will buy us time.