Facing Justice

by Nick Oldham

  Henry took all this in and said, ‘And then Tom married Cathy, who must have discovered all this somehow . . . thanks, Jerry. Speak later.’ Henry was about to hang up, but before he could, Tope said quickly, ‘Be careful, boss – you might have a tiger by the tail here.’ Henry suppressed a giggle at the irony of that and ended the call, turned to see Flynn leaning on the office door watching him. He lifted up the phone and said, ‘Your mate Jerry Tope.’ He knew Flynn and Tope were old friends. ‘Tom and Vincent go way back, and it transpires that Tom knows just about everything there is to know about Jonny Cain’s operation.’

  ‘I gathered – I eavesdropped.’

  Henry slumped back in the chair, his shoulder feeling as though it was being squeezed by six tiny vices. He gasped.

  ‘You OK?’ Flynn asked. Henry shook his head. Then, in the hallway, Donaldson hurried past clutching his stomach and ran upstairs, saying, ‘You know I said I had an hour? So wrong.’

  Flynn’s head went from one man to the other in disbelief.

  Donaldson came downstairs a few minutes later, shaking his head despondently, entered the office and said, ‘Hell, I thought I had that beat.’

  Henry, who had been sitting at the desk with his eyes closed, trying his best to deal with the pain, the feeling of sickness and dizziness, also shook his head.

  ‘We’re not going to be much use,’ he admitted.

  ‘No,’ Donaldson agreed, ‘so where do we go from here?’

  Henry’s whole body deflated, a feeling of defeat overpowering him, something he had rarely experienced. One thing he always did was keep going to the bitter end, never gave up. Being shot in the shoulder shook that up somewhat. ‘Where’s Steve?’ he groaned. ‘We need a conflab.’

  ‘Kitchen, I guess.’ Donaldson walked down the hallway, peered into the dining room at the worried faces of Dr Lott and Ginny, still tending Laura, who looked very ill, but was now awake and talking. He went into the kitchen saying, ‘Steve . . . we need to— Shit,’ he said as he saw that the Skorpion machine pistol and the Chinese-made semi-automatic pistol had gone, as well as the bag of ammunition. Nor was there any sign of Flynn.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was tough going. The snow was deep, and trudging through it in jeans and trainers was energy-sapping and unpleasant. Flynn followed the tyre tracks up the road until they veered off and disappeared underneath the gates at the end of the driveway leading up to Mallowdale House. The high, wooden electronically controlled gates were closed. Flynn surveyed them for a moment, then looked up at the CCTV camera with which he’d had a conversation about a million years before.

  He knew assumptions were bad things to make, but he guessed that under the present circumstances it would be unlikely that the security system was on and the CCTV was being monitored. Tom and Jack Vincent, plus cronies, would be scurrying around like rats to get out of the place. They were hardly going to settle down and bust open a bottle in celebration. They had to get moving soon, although Flynn didn’t quite see what their plans for escape might be. But that wasn’t his problem. They’d made the play, killed people, shot cops, destroyed a house, sprung a man from lawful custody and the rest. They’d opened that particular door and had to accept whatever it was that came charging through.

  In this case, Steve Flynn. A man driven by the fact that one of his best friends of the last twenty-odd years had been murdered and he did not wish to see the murderer get away. If Tom did escape somehow, then there would be no chance of Flynn ever coming face to face with him again, which would be a tragedy. Flynn wanted to get his hands on him now, not have to sit back whilst the cops carried out a manhunt that would probably be a shambles. People like Tom and Jack Vincent, Flynn suspected, knew how to evade the police and it was highly likely they would be out of the country within hours.

  He stood in front of the gate, then unslung the Skorpion he’d snaffled and flung it over. He scrambled up and over and dropped untidily on to the other side, where he crouched in the shadows, getting some of his breath back and brushing the snow off the machine pistol.

  He’d thought of using Alison’s four-wheel drive to get him up to Mallowdale House, but decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. Although it was a fair distance from the police house to the gates, he thought approaching on foot would give him the greater advantage.

  First, if he had used the car it would have alerted Henry Christie instantly. As it was, with Donaldson firmly rooted to the toilet and Henry half-comatose from the shotgun wound, sneaking off on foot probably gave him the lead he wouldn’t otherwise have had. Also, if he turned up in a car, it might have alerted Tom straight away. As tiring as it was on foot in the snow, to Flynn this seemed the better option all round and he knew his fitness would see him through.

  So far, so good. He was on Mallowdale House property and hadn’t yet been spotted, he hoped. But he did have a slightly queasy feeling about the big cat that had cropped up in conversation a few times, the one Jack Vincent was supposed to own. Did it really exist? If so, where the hell did he keep it? Did he allow it to roam free? Flynn doubted it was real, sounded like a local myth. And if it was a mountain lion, that didn’t bother him too much anyway. He knew they were cowardly cats where humans were concerned . . . but if it was some other species . . . He dismissed the thought.

  He cut into the trees by the driveway and made his way slowly and carefully to the house, a distance of about two hundred metres, following the snaking drive like a river. Then the tree line stopped and the drive cut through a wide lawn, opening out into a semicircular gravel-covered parking area at the front of the house.

  Flynn crouched, keeping cover. There were external lights on the house walls which would normally have illuminated the building, but they were all switched off and the house was a big black shadow. As Flynn’s eyes adjusted and took in the light available, he could make out the features of the building, and the fact that Jonny Cain’s Range Rover was parked directly between himself and the front door, which provided some cover for his approach to the house.

  He remained perfectly still for a minute, watching, listening. There was no movement, nothing to hear, just his heart pounding against the wall of his chest, the throbbing pulse in his temple.

  He thought he heard a swish of movement behind him. Gritting his teeth and not allowing any sound to pass from him, he turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. There it was again, up in the branches. A large, dark shape, and he relaxed and exhaled. An owl.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  He took another moment to control his breathing and get ready. The Skorpion was slung across his chest at an angle, the iffy Chinese pistol tucked down the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Keeping very low, he emerged from the cover of the tree line and ran towards the Range Rover, maybe fifty yards away from him. He ran quickly, scrunching the gravel underneath the snow, then dropped by the vehicle, twisted and leaned against it, once more catching his breath. He’d only come a short distance, but it had felt like a quarter of a mile, exposed, and fully expecting to be picked off by a sniper at one of the house windows, or brought down by a fucking lion.

  Scratch the cat crap from your brain, he ordered himself. He could not resist checking the tree line, though, to see if there was movement other than a barn owl. Or a pair of feline eyes watching him.

  Satisfied there was nothing, he looked at the house through the rear passenger windows of the Range Rover, except that the view was obliterated by something smudged and smeared across the nearside window.

  For a moment, Flynn could not work it out, then it clicked. The inside of the window was covered in blood and for a horrible moment he thought it was Alison’s. He rose a little higher so he could see inside the car, making out the figure in the back seat, slumped over. Not Alison, but the bigger shape of a man – one of their own guys.

  Flynn came up even higher, knees still bent, but getting a better view inside. Yes, definitely a man, he reassured himself
, his head lolling between his legs. Flynn swallowed and suddenly realized how reckless he was in coming here alone. Thinking he could take on these men, when clearly they had no hesitation in killing members of their own gang. They would simply be conditioned to put him down. But on a lighter note, the odds had improved slightly. Now three to one.

  He came up almost to his full height, still using the cover provided by the rear offside of the car, his head ducking in and out, checking the front door, the windows – and then something else caught his eye. The second body in the vehicle, Jonny Cain stuffed into the luggage space behind the back seats.

  Flynn dropped down again and ran a hand across his face, then over his hair to flick off the snow.

  Jonny Cain. According to Donaldson he had been kidnapped alive. Obviously they would have had some reason for that, some purpose – then they must have had a change of mind and killed him. Too much of an encumbrance under the circumstances, Flynn guessed. No time for anything fancy with him – like torture – so let’s kill him.

  Which begged the question – what about Alison?

  Flynn could not come up with one good response to that. They had taken a hostage to facilitate their escape, now what use could she be? If none, he knew he would find her dead.

  He took firm hold of the Skorpion, a gun he’d been introduced to during weapons training all those years ago in the Marines. He knew about it, how to handle it, knew its capabilities, though he’d never fired it in anger, just down a range. That was over twenty-five years ago, when he’d been nothing but a lad. Bracing himself, he bent low and ran to the front door of the house, flattening himself next to it, one hand reaching out to the handle and turning it slowly. It had to be locked, he told himself. Surely they wouldn’t have . . . There was a click and Flynn’s insides tightened . . . it was open.

  Now – fast or slow? High impact or sneakiness?

  He opened it slowly, took the chance, sidled in and found himself in a huge deserted hallway. A staircase ran up to the first floor just to his right and at ground level there were five doors off it. Lounge, dining room, kitchen, another lounge perhaps, he guessed, not knowing the layout of the place.

  He took a few paces, his senses working at full tilt. He could hear the sound of muffled voices from behind one of the doors. He swallowed dryly, held his breath, moved forward again, bringing the Skorpion down into a firing position, concentrating on the origin of the voices. Not from behind the first door, nor the second . . . the third. Was this the kitchen? It was certainly a room at the back of the house. Then he cursed himself for not being cautious enough, spun around and saw the huge figure of Ox Henderson hurtling towards him silently, but powerfully and terrifyingly.

  Even then, Flynn knew that if Henderson could not be taken down instantly, soundlessly, the little adventure would be over and nothing would have been achieved. The only advantage Flynn had was that Henderson had not shouted a warning or war cry.

  He bore down, a murderous look on his face, reminding Flynn of a James Bond baddie – but without the humorous side.

  It had to be done perfectly. Flynn had only one chance, one blow. He stood his ground, a mock-horror look on his face, hoping it would lull the big man into subconsciously believing that this would be easy. Which it was – until the very last moment. Flynn stepped aside with the agility of a ballerina, a skill honed by years of balancing on a sportfishing boat. Henderson grabbed nothing but fresh air and Flynn crashed the butt of the Skorpion into the side of his unprotected head. It was a hard blow, perfectly aimed, another skill perfected on a fishing boat when using the gaff to hook a deadly shark in the gills, waiting for exactly the right moment. Henderson’s head was as hard as a rock, but the shockwave stunned him.

  Flynn thought he had hit hard enough, but realized how wrong he was when Henderson staggered sideways, shook his head like a bull – flicking the blood from the newly acquired cut – and launched himself at Flynn again. Flynn did a neat sidestep and, using the Skorpion once more, smashed it across Henderson’s head, successfully putting him down. His legs went to jelly and he dropped. Not out cold, but well out of it.

  At which point the kitchen door opened. Tom stepped out and saw Flynn standing over the big man.

  There was a moment as both men computed their predicament.

  Tom’s right hand came up, the pistol in it coughing twice, but Flynn was already moving away, readjusting his grip on the Skorpion as he leapt, firing in mid-air. The gun kicked hard, but he was expecting it. A burst of slugs sliced through the air, then the gun jammed. They were badly aimed, but one caught Tom and he fell backwards into the kitchen. There was a female scream from behind him.

  Flynn threw the Skorpion away in disgust and pulled the pistol out of his waistband.

  Tom’s feet were sticking out of the door, moving as though he was trying to propel himself backwards. Flynn flattened himself against the wall by the kitchen door, pistol in both hands, pointing downwards.

  ‘Vincent,’ he called. ‘Vincent.’ There was no reply. He called the name again and added, ‘It’s over, this stupid game is finished.’

  Tom moaned, ‘Oh God, I’m shot.’ His legs continued to kick out.

  In the hallway, Henderson moved.

  Flynn shouted again. ‘Vincent, Jack Vincent.’

  ‘Flynnie,’ came Alison’s weak voice.

  ‘Alison?’

  ‘He’s gone, out the back door.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Flynn licked his lips, exhaled. He ensured he was holding the pistol correctly – in the right hand, fingertip resting on the trigger, left hand cupped underneath, supporting – then he inhaled and pivoted into the doorway, coming into a combat stance. Legs shoulder-width apart, bouncing down slightly on his knees and the gun at the point of the isosceles triangle formed by his arms. The gun covered the room, top to bottom, side to side, and unless Vincent was behind the door – and Flynn did check through the gap – he had gone.

  Alison, battered and bedraggled, with blood smeared over her face and around the neck of her jumper, was sitting on the floor by the cooker, knees drawn up, arms clasped tightly, shaking.

  ‘He’s gone?’ Flynn said. She nodded. Flynn cautiously lowered the weapon, reversed into the hallway and went to Henderson, who was just about to push himself up on to all fours, blood dripping on to the tiled floor. Flynn callously cracked him hard with the pistol on the back of his head and he went down like a squashed insect, his arms splayed, face down in his own blood. Flynn waist-banded the gun, pulled Henderson’s arms around his back and cuffed them with the cable ties he had snaffled from the desk in front of Henry.

  Next he crossed to Tom and kicked away the pistol. He was laid out at an angle on the kitchen floor, the bullet from the Skorpion having torn apart his upper right biceps. He bent over him and they locked eyes. ‘She found you out, didn’t she?’

  Injured though he was, his defiance remained. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped nastily.

  With a sneer of contempt and a complete disregard for the wounds, Flynn kicked Tom over, pulled back his hands and cable-tied them together, ignoring his screams of pain. This done, he stood up and pulled out the gun again.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked Alison. ‘Is this your blood?’ He wiped away some from her cheek with his thumb.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she nodded. ‘Not good really. Where’s Henry?’

  ‘Getting forty winks, I think. Look, I’m going after Vincent.’

  ‘Let him go,’ Alison pleaded.

  Flynn pretended to think about this for a second, but said, ‘Nah.’ He went to the outside kitchen door, opened it and looked out. Parked there were two long-wheelbase Shoguns, both with their hatchbacks open. Foot trails in the snow led from the kitchen to the cars and back. Flynn stepped out and a security light came on, bathing the whole area with brightness.

  Instinctively he bobbed down beside one of the cars, then glanced in the back of it and saw a stack of several half-brick si
zed blocks made of polythene and wound with gaffer tape. He assumed they were drugs, probably cocaine, and next to them was a cardboard box filled with bound wads of Bank of England notes. Although Henry Christie would probably never believe him, Flynn had never seen so much money. He thought there could be in excess of a million.

  ‘Now then, my old cocker.’

  Flynn froze. The cold hard muzzle of a gun had been pressed into the back of his head. An arm reached around and wrenched the pistol out of his grip.

  ‘Didn’t think I’d actually do a runner, did you?’ Jack Vincent sneered, dropped back a stride and glanced at the gun he’d taken from Flynn. In his right hand he was pointing a similar handgun at Flynn, who had turned slowly to face him. He waggled the gun. ‘I imported fifty of these two years ago . . . very fucking iffy guns, always jamming. Like those fucking Skorpions, useless shit.’ He tossed the gun away into the snow. ‘I really don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Vincent said, ‘but you’re a real handy guy. Flynn, is it?’

  Flynn kept his mouth tight shut, incensed at himself for dropping his guard. Who the hell would leave money and drugs like that behind? Certainly not Jack Vincent. Should have known he wouldn’t be far away.

  ‘By yourself, though, eh?’ Vincent said. ‘Silly chap.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Flynn said.

  ‘Long enough – walk that way, boyo.’ Vincent gestured with the gun and Flynn looked into the darkness beyond the pool of light.

  ‘Why don’t you just shoot me here?’

  ‘Cat food . . . now move away from the car and start walking. It’s not far.’