by Nick Oldham
Kruger looked at the members of the public close by. He acknowledged that what Bussola had said was true. If he did anything foolish at this stage, he would die, possibly others too, and these guys would simply dematerialise.
And as much as Kruger didn’t want to die, he didn’t want others to be killed because of him.
Even the security cameras, which he knew were all around, wouldn’t be much use to him. They would never finger these bastards.
‘ How about you?’ Kruger enquired of the man to his left.
‘ Speak once more and you get it here and now,’ he said through the side of his mouth.
‘ Gotcha.’
They walked past the Disney Store.
‘ He’s gotta be here somewhere,’ Myrna Rosza gabbled agitatedly. She scanned the bank of TV monitors in front of her whilst the operator casually, but swiftly, clicked from shot to shot. ‘He’s gotta be here,’ she repeated desperately. She glared at Mark Tapperman. ‘This is your fault.’
The big Lieutenant shrank away from her eyes. He gave a pathetic shrug. ‘He might not be here,’ he said weakly.
‘ Don’t kid yourself.’ Myrna was caustic. ‘Once he gets an idea into his stubborn head…’
‘ You sound like you care about him.’
‘ I do — he pays my wages.’ She returned her attention to the screens. ‘Now, where the hell is he?’
They were in the security control area of the airport, in the CCTV room, peering over the shoulder of the operator who flicked through the images received from all over MIA.
‘ There!’ Myrna almost shouted, pointing to a screen. ‘Focus in there!’
The operator did as instructed.
‘ Shit,’ she said with disappointment as the high powered lens zoomed in. It wasn’t Kruger.
The frustration she was feeling could have been sliced open with a breadknife. Ever since Tapperman had called her at home with an hysterical edge to his voice and. explained what had happened, Myrna had been on a high.
Suppose Kruger had gone storming to the airport? Suppose he’d got himself involved in a situation he couldn’t handle? Suppose he was already dead meat?
Myrna had initially hung up on Tapperman and phoned Kruger. No reply. She called Tapperman again and instructed him to get a SWAT squad to the airport.
He had guffawed. ‘Just on the off-chance — impossible!’
‘ At least get some cops up there.’
‘ Right. And do you know how many cops are on-duty at this moment in Miami as we speak?’
‘ No.’
‘ Well, I ain’t gonna tell you. Suffice to say the public thinks there’s hundreds. I’d be lucky to scrape a dozen unoccupied officers together. No resources, babe. Usual story.’
‘ Then you’d better get yourself there. I’ll see you at the meeting point in twenty minutes.’ And she slammed the phone down without waiting for a response.
Myrna dressed in seconds. Tracksuit, trainers, her pistol around her shoulder. She kissed her sleeping husband and, grabbing her cell-tel on the way out, ran to her car. She constantly rang Kruger’s home and mobile numbers as she drove at warp factor six to the airport.
There was no reply.
She and Tapperman came together as arranged and using his badge and contacts, got into the CCTV room, where they had been ever since.
Myrna rubbed her eyes. She had been having trouble sleeping, not least because she had cheated on her husband not many hours before and could not get her mind off it. She had secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, been attracted to Kruger ever since she began working for him. Personal and professional considerations and responsibilities ensured it never went further than banter or mild flirtation. The previous couple of days had put an end to those issues and it had been an absolute necessity for her to finish up in Kruger’s bed. She had truly believed she could take it for what it was, keep it as a one-off, go back to equilibrium.
Instead she found herself completely disorientated. She couldn’t get Kruger out of her head, nor the memory of him out of her body.
She had been fully awake, if exhausted, when Tapperman rang, and for a while after, the adrenaline flowed. Now, it was ebbing in despair.
Standing there, in front of the bank of TV screens, she had to admit to herself that she loved Steve, had done so for longer than she cared to recall, and the prospect of not seeing him again caused her to panic.
A little squeak escaped from her lips. Tapperman shot her a quick glance.
Then; ‘There he is!’ Tapperman proclaimed confidently. He rapped the appropriate monitor with his knuckles. The camera shot in, focused. Myrna’s heart shuddered so hard in her chest she nearly fell over.
The screen showed Kruger, surrounded by four tough looking guys, stepping through a sliding door. There was an anxious expression on his face, as well as an injury of some sort which Tapperman could not define.
‘ Where the hell’s that location?’ he demanded.
Kruger, his four friends and a couple of other people were standing by a bank of elevators which would take them to the multi-storey parking lot.
The elevator arrived, the doors opened. A flood of people disgorged and dissipated. Kruger and the others stepped inside the large elevator, constructed to carry about twenty people plus luggage. A woman turned to him. ‘Which level?’
‘ The top, please.’
She pressed her own selection, then his.
Just before the doors eased shut, a big hand stopped the process and forced the doors to re-open.
Two extra people stepped in. A man and a woman… a couple, bickering about something, like they’d been together too many years.
‘ C’mon, you go damned bitch, we’re holdin’ people up here.’
‘ You stop bad-mouthin’ me, you asshole,’ the woman replied, apparently fuming with anger. ‘You ain’t done nothin’ but since we arrived.’
‘ Well, you deserve it, you lazy slut,’ the man said. To the rest of the people in the elevator he said, ‘’Scuse us.’ He yanked the woman between Kruger and the bodyguard to his left. ‘We’ll carry this on back here.’
Kruger’s expression did not change. His eyes showed no flicker of recognition. But inside, his stomach lurched. The hairs on the nape of his neck prickled with excitement. He hoped the guys behind him weren’t staring at his neck, otherwise the game would have been given away.
The doors closed. The elevator rose smoothly, stopping at various levels, allowing people to step out. No one else got in.
Kruger heard snatches of the couple’s argument which had been reduced in volume. It was clear there was a major domestic going on.
‘ You’ll be tellin’ me next it’s healed up,’ the man hissed. ‘I ain’t had it for weeks.’
‘ You don’t deserve it, the way you treat me.’
‘ Nag, nag, nag,’ the man said spitefully.
‘ An’ you do nothin’, nothin’, nothin’.’
Eventually the only people remaining in the tin box were Kruger, his four buddies and the warring couple, all obviously destined for the top level.
When the elevator arrived, the doors slid open.
Kruger was about to step out when one of his captors grabbed his elbow and held him back. Another said to the couple, ‘After you.’
‘ At last,’ the woman said, ‘a gentleman.’ She smiled maliciously at her partner.
‘ Bitch,’ hissed the man, shouldering his way out, pushing her ahead. They turned right.
Kruger got a shove in the ribs and stumbled out to the left. From the corner of his eye he saw the couple move towards a car.
Although they were on the top level, there was still a roof over their heads, and like most high-rise parking, the lighting was relatively poor.
Kruger led them towards his Chevy, parked at the very end of the level. His mind worked furiously, trying to decide what to do, wondering what Tapperman and Myrna, the perfect couple, had planned
… if anything.
> Shit, shit, shit, he said to himself, trying to make a decision.
The closer he got to his car, the more certain he was he would have to make the opening move.
Without further thought he went for it.
He stopped abruptly in his tracks. The bodyguard directly behind him walked straight into him. The ones either side went on a few paces.
As soon as he and the man made contact, Kruger swivelled at the hips and in a flowing, single motion, rammed the point of his elbow into the man’s chest, connecting with the sternum. Kruger’s arm rose and he smashed the back of his clenched fist into the man’s face, making a wonderful, crunching sound, like a wooden ruler snapping.
The whole movement took less than a fraction of a second.
Even so, fast as it was, Kruger saw that guns were already appearing from nowhere in the hands of the remaining three team members.
‘ Move, Steve, move!’ Tapperman bawled.
Kruger looked up, saw Tapperman and Myrna about twenty feet behind. Tapperman’s body was fully exposed. Myrna was crouching over the hood of a parked car. Both had weapons drawn, ready for combat.
Kruger knew he had to keep going.
He grabbed the lapels of the nose-smashed bodyguard and swung him round into. the gunman to his left, pushed and let go. They mangled together with spectacular success. Using the momentum generated by this manoeuvre, Kruger dived down between the two nearest parked cars, into cover, out of the line of fire. Tapperman yelled, ‘Armed police! Drop your weapons!’
The two bodyguards who were not busy turned instinctively towards Tapperman, guns rising.
They moved instantaneously as professionals should when faced with a situation for which they had been trained.
The two bodyguards who had been positioned to Kruger’s left side and were therefore not affected by this startling move, spun on their heels quicker than ice-skaters to face Tapperman and Myrna. Their firearms were rising and aiming as they did so.
The one who’d had his face broken by the back of Kruger’s fist, though dazed by the blow, still had the presence of mind to drop to his knees so he would not get in the way. The fourth one, who’d watched Kruger disappear between the parked cars, threw himself to the ground between the cars nearest to him. He also had his gun ready and as soon as he hit the deck he was looking underneath the car towards where Kruger had landed.
This particular bodyguard was certain of one thing: even if this little task of theirs got flushed down the pan, Kruger would still die.
That was professionalism.
Tapperman saw them swinging around at an alarming rate. He noted the glint of firearms and did not intend to hesitate.
As both of the bodyguards were moving at roughly the same speed — lightning fast — there was little to choose, target-wise. So, because Tapperman was standing on Myrna’s right-hand side, he chose to shoot the guy on his right.
Part of Tapperman’s mind begged Myrna to bag the one on the left. He knew he could take out one of them but only one. There would be no earthly hope of taking two.
Myrna had to act as quickly as he did — and go for the correct target.
‘ Shoot, Myrna, shoot!’ he pleaded silently.
The pad of his right forefinger pulled the trigger back.
The wind whooshed out of Kruger’s lungs as he thumped down onto the concrete floor. For a brief moment he did not move, other than to open his eyes and look underneath the car to his left where he saw the bodyguard, who had decided that, come what may, he would kill Kruger.
The man’s gun was pointed directly at Kruger’s face and his finger was on the trigger.
Myrna wasn’t consciously going through any thought process. She stood there, half her body protected by the cover provided by the car she stood behind. Her feet were positioned shoulder-width apart, knees bent, but flexible. The Sig was in her right hand, supported in the palm of her left.
There was a blankness in her mind. Yet, simply, she was aware — somewhere — that she had started to sweat from every pore in her body. As Kruger dived away, she saw the injured man drop to his knees, one of the bodyguards dive away too, and the other two start to turn… but in her mind it wasn’t a fast twist because she slowed everything down right into its component parts without even realising she was doing it.
The two men as they pirouetted, their guns drawn from under their jackets… the weapons coming round to be pointed at her and Tapperman… the weight of the pistol in her hands… the high-contrast sights down the barrel. Her finger tightening on the trigger…
Three weapons exploded simultaneously.
The ones in the hands of Mark Tapperman and Myrna Rosza.
The one in the grip of the bodyguard who was aiming at the prostrate body of Steve Kruger.
Within the confines of the parking lot, the noise of the combined discharges was deafening. A huge reverberating, eardrum-smashing roar.
Having to run made Claire Lilton’s cracked ribs hurt. When she thought she was out of catching distance, she slowed right down, dodged into a back alley and got her breath back. She reached into her sports bag and grabbed a cold can of orange Tango which she opened and gratefully gulped down. It was getting to be a hot day.
When recovered she tossed the can over a wall and wandered aimlessly around, until she was back on Dickson Road, about half a mile away from the shop.
She doubted whether the shopkeeper would call the cops, so she felt quite safe.
As it was approaching high season, Claire fitted in easily with the thousands of other kids thronging the streets of Blackpool, the single biggest holiday resort in the world. She knew that if necessary, she could mingle for weeks and never be noticed. All it required was a grain of common sense, some cunning and courage, a bit of luck and she would be able to survive indefinitely.
Within a few moments she had wandered onto Gynn Square, a large roundabout on the promenade in North Shore.
Wearily she went into a small recreation ground only yards away, off Warbreck Hill Road. She unhooked the bag and let it fall to the ground, slumped on a bench and stretched her tired legs.
She was dressed for the season in a cut-off T-shirt drawn tightly over her small, developing bust; then there was a gap showing her flat, white tummy; then there was a pair of Lycra exercise shorts clinging to her thighs. Nike trainers finished off her attire.
It had been Henry Christie’s intention to get the team turned out onto the streets as soon as possible.
With Danny’s efficient help, he succeeded.
He watched the last officer leave the briefing room, then turned to speak to Danny. ‘They’ll need all the luck in the world to catch this guy.’ He nodded towards a window. ‘And this weather won’t help us at all. Tourists will be flooding in today… needle in a haystack job.’
‘ At least we’re doing something. We need to catch him, otherwise he’ll start again. Can you imagine what all those years cooped up could do to a pervert like him?’
Before Henry could reply he heard an angry voice behind him. ‘DC Furness? Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?’
Jack Sands.
‘ My office — NOW!’ he shrieked.
Danny looked up at Henry for support, fear in her eyes. Henry gave her a sly wink, and turned to Sands with a simmering anger. In a measured tone he said, ‘Nobody calls people by their last names these days, and nobody says "my office — now" unless they want to come across as a real jerk.’
‘ Up yours, Henry,’ Sands snapped back. ‘She’s my officer, not one of yours — not yet anyway — and I’ll speak to her any way I want to.’
‘ Wrong on both counts,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Jack, we all need to sit down and chat — like now, if possible.’
‘ I haven’t got time.’
Henry stepped up to him and snarled, ‘You’d better make fuckin’ time, if you value your job.’
Trent saw her sitting alone, a faraway look on her face. He knew instantly she was the one
for him. She couldn’t have been more than eleven years old, but looked older. Trent could see through that. He was good at judging a youngster’s age and this one was just right for him. The age he liked. Their bodies beginning to develop, their womanhood not yet there. He looked again at this girl and experienced that old sensation, like someone had drawn a knife-blade down his back, triggering a sexual response in his genitals.
She had long slim legs, wore a minimum amount of clothing and was by herself. There was no one hovering nearby who could have been with her. She looked vulnerable, just right for plucking.
Trent seated himself at the far end of the bench. He opened his newspaper, crossed his legs. His eyes watched her reaction to his presence.
Initially there was no indication she had even seen him. He coughed. That seemed to break her trance. She glanced at him. Her face was painfully beautiful. Trent sneered inside himself as he pictured her down on him. Outwardly he returned a smile.
She gave a wan, slightly pathetic grin.
‘ My name’s Louis.’ He folded down the newspaper. ‘What’s yours? I’ll bet it’s a pretty one.’
She told him.
‘ Take a seat,’ Henry offered Jack. They were in Henry’s small office where Henry had arranged three chairs on the ‘public side’ of his desk, ready for the encounter.
Sands sat with a great show of reluctance and impatience, sighing heavily.
Henry indicated for Danny to do likewise. She chose the chair furthest away from Sands which was also the one directly opposite him. Instantly she regretted two things — taking the seat and her choice of clothing.
She was in a pencil skirt which rode up her thighs as she sat down and crossed her legs. Sands’s eyes homed in on the display and a look of wickedness flitted across his face. She pulled the skirt down and uncrossed her legs, sitting there with her knees pressed tightly together. It felt uncomfortable and unnatural and Sands knew it. She could tell from his face.