The Killing Club

by Paul Finch

  Gasping, Heck turned back to the wheel. They were still headed inshore, and were perhaps no more than a hundred and fifty yards from the beach. The swell here was lighter, and he was able to bring the vessel about due south, the line of chalets falling to his rear. His own lungs were wheezing, his heart throbbing; every part of his body ached. He’d known all along that to mix it hand-to-hand with these guys, even one as badly injured as the American, was ill-advised.

  But even from a distance, they could be deadly.

  Klausen and the other three were running along the beach in pursuit, but its pebbles were slowing them down and the boat was drawing further ahead.

  The Dane skidded to a halt. ‘Elwood!’

  Keith Elwood, who while serving with the Blues and Royals was consistently the best long-range marksman in his unit, dropped to one knee, unslung his Parker-Hale M82 sniper rifle and put it straight to his shoulder. Through its telescopic cross-hairs, the small motorboat flying across the whitecaps and the weary figure slouched over its wheel looked a lot closer.

  ‘Got him,’ he said.

  ‘Do it,’ Klausen replied.

  Elwood adjusted position slightly, his bead fixed directly between Heck’s shoulder-blades. His gloved finger tightened on the trigger – just as a second figure leapt up to block his view.

  Heck would never have believed Cullen had enough malevolence left in him, let alone energy, to jump up yet again – this time with the fisherman’s knife in hand. But Heck barely had time to turn before a distant boom rolled across the waves, and a 7.62mm slug hit Cullen with such force that it chopped his spine, punched through his cardiovascular system, and erupted from his chest at a deflected angle, leaving an exit cavity the size of a dinner plate.

  Heck dropped into the bilge and stayed there, panting and sweating, gazing point-blank and for long minutes at a travesty of flesh, bone and shredded inner organs that no longer resembled anything human.

  There were three more booms as the boat roared on, each one diminishing further into the distance. It might have been Heck’s imagination that the craft juddered at least once in response, but there was no damage caused that he could see. When he finally risked peeking over the gunwales, the entire shore was different: the beach had given way to broad, flat, weed-slathered boulders. To the southeast, the castle on the mound, while still a quarter of a mile away at least, was so much closer that he could see its windows and turrets. He peered back northward. He couldn’t see them, but they’d be coming; they couldn’t afford not to – but now at least he had a head start. It struck him that if he had enough fuel to get around the island’s southeast corner, he might be able to reach the mainland. Then it would be game, set and match.

  He straightened up, one hand on the wheel as he dug the company phone from his pocket – and spotted three missed calls. He hit the log, and saw that each one had come from Gemma. Giddy with relief, he made to call her back – only for the boat to judder again, and shake as it suddenly decelerated.

  Heck overbalanced and grabbed at the gunwale. Glancing around, he saw a plume of brackish smoke unfurling at the rear, and an erratic, purplish trail zigzagging across the sea behind. The sniper had got lucky after all, and had punctured the fuel tank. Heck turned the craft towards shore, which was still over a hundred yards distant. If it conked out on him now, with the paddle gone, he’d be in big trouble. He could easily swim, but not with the iPhone.

  ‘Shit,’ he said through clenched teeth. The bloody thing was already chugging.

  When it finally did die on him, he was perhaps thirty yards from the beach. A dull, ear-pummelling silence followed as he rode the green swell. When he peered over the side, he could see the bottom, but that didn’t mean anything. With no choice, he clamped the phone and the folded list of Nice Guy contacts between his teeth, and carefully lowered himself over. It was freezing, as he’d expected, but that wasn’t his main concern – it could be three feet or thirty.

  But in actual fact, it was just over five.

  The waves slopped under his chin as his feet found purchase on greasy, shifting stones, and then, his treasures held overhead, he commenced the slow march to shore. That whole distance he kept his eyes skinned northward along the beach. He’d almost fully emerged, the surf crashing around his waist, trying its level best to upend him, when he spied them coming.

  They were a good distance away, but were approaching paratrooper-style: moving in single file at a fast jog, guns across their chests. Klausen was at the point.

  Heck scrambled up the beach, determined to cut back inland. In the right of his vision, he saw them halt – they’d spotted him – and then come on even faster.

  He struggled to breathe as he followed a muddy path running between arable fields. The castle loomed large on his left, but was no real option. Sure, he could bar its door. But the only route to that was steeply uphill, at which point the special forces-trained Nice Guys would easily overhaul him. Besides, directly ahead now lay buildings – the eastern outskirts of Holy Island village. Surely there was somewhere he could find sanctuary here?

  With this thought in mind, Heck clambered over a wall and found himself crossing an open space, and the next thing weaving among the ruins of the monastery; through broken gateways and along roofless cloisters, but seeing no one around. Perhaps this wasn’t a surprise. It was early evening now, the daylight leaching slowly away. On top of that, the Nice Guys most likely had imprisoned the populace at some central point, where they could guard them all together. He jumped over an iron gate onto a village road with terraced cottages down the other side – only to round a corner and spot one of the bastards.

  The Nice Guy was standing at the next corner, partially turned away. He was lean and tall, about six-three, with a shaven head and dark ebony features. The weapon in his hands looked like a high-tech pump-action shotgun.

  Heck edged back onto the previous road until he was out of sight. Again, the remnants of the monastery lay before him. Lindisfarne Priory – a holy place for sure. With the sun slowly setting in the west, multiple shadows lengthened through its crabbed, lichen-covered monuments. But there was nothing encouraging about this pretty scene. At any moment, Klausen and his team would emerge through the ruins.

  Heck glanced at the modern structure alongside it: a single-storey, pebble-dashed affair, attached as an annexe to a larger, less functional building done in decorative salt-and-pepper stone. He currently faced it from its rear, in the middle of which an exit door stood open. Over the top, a notice read:

  Museum Staff Entrance

  Heck slid along the pebble-dashed wall, and stepped inside. He attempted to close the door behind him, but found that it wouldn’t catch – the exit-bar was bent and stained by a bloody handprint. Someone had attempted to escape this way, but had been caught in the act.

  Stepping around an overturned wire-mesh wastebasket, he pressed on along a narrow passage with unlagged pipes across the ceiling. It took him past various rooms filled with boxes, paperwork and other curios, finally joining a broader corridor laid with carpet tiles. The several offices adjoining this were deserted but wrecked, a desktop computer lying smashed in the first one. As Heck checked the second, he heard voices. He crept in and peeped around the side of a Venetian blind – to find that he was on a level with the shaven-headed black guy, who had now been hailed by someone walking towards him along the street. Heck shifted position, and saw Klausen and two others approaching, all three of them drenched with sweat. The black guy exchanged a few words with them, and shook his head. Klausen shouted: ‘Fuck!’

  Which was when Heck heard movement elsewhere in the building. He darted back to the corridor and glanced down it. It was empty, but somewhere beyond his vision there was a metallic clatter – a stray foot had struck the overturned wastebasket.

  Klausen had chased Heck along the coast with three men – but only two had come up the street with him outside.

  Heck hurried on, passing through another staff door, enter
ing the first of the exhibition areas. Maps adorned the walls in here, not just covering the Northeast coast, but the whole of Britain and Ireland, and much of western Scandinavia. Sea lanes were marked with the sorts of pins and different-coloured ribbons that crime scene analysts used in incident rooms. On his right, a long glass cabinet was filled with tarnished Dark Age trinkets: brooches, buckles, knife-hilts blackened by rust, each one carefully labelled. But what most caught his eye was on the other side of the chamber, against the wall. It was a raised, roped-off dais, on which a life-size wax mannequin of a Viking in a chainmail coat and an elaborately carved full-face helmet stood over the kneeling form of a black-habited monk. In the Viking’s two hands, which were high above his head, he clasped an imitation battle-axe.

  Beyond this, an arched passage connected with another area. Heck ventured that way, only to stop after ten yards. He could now see a glazed outer door, but on the other side of this Klausen and his two minions were standing in debate. Again there was movement in the building. Somewhere behind Heck, a door was kicked open.

  Native Queenslander Brad Perkins had a bigger beef with that pommie bastard cop than he’d ever known in his life. Though he’d fought often and savagely as a juvenile gang member in Mount Isa, not to mention being bombed and shot at during his countless actions in the military, he’d never felt antipathy like it as he wended through the empty rooms and passages of the Lindisfarne Museum.

  Despite his many scrapes, Perkins had always somehow maintained his ‘surfer guy’ looks, which in turn had helped him keep a lot of ladies busy in a lot of ports. But now his conk was so squashed that he couldn’t breathe through it; he was constantly gargling blood and snot. He also thought he might have fractured his left cheekbone and maybe the eye-socket too.

  To say he had unfinished business with Heckenburg would be the understatement of all time. They’d said the bastard was a hard-case, and he’d sort of proved it – but he wouldn’t be hard enough.

  Perkins kicked another door open, Tavor levelled – but the room beyond contained nothing more than a shattered desktop. He prowled on. Heckenburg had actually done incredibly well making it this far. But according to Elwood, he’d looked half-dead in that boat. He couldn’t keep going much longer.

  He opened another door, and slid into what looked like a display area. There were charts on the walls, and a glass case filled with archaeological treasures. Directly in front, a wax monk cowered in terror from a wax Viking holding an axe. It seemed deserted, but when Perkins walked forward, he did so slowly, warily, surprised to feel sweat on his brow. There was something about this that bothered him. It was tempting to open fire, to blow the room to pieces and hopefully smoke the shit-arse out. But unfortunately he was low on lead. He’d left the farm that day with only two magazines, and now had only half of one remaining.

  He stood in front of the dais, scanning every corner, and finally spotted something curious: on the wall opposite, alongside the fire alarm, there was a hook from which the fire axe was suspended – except that this fire axe, inexplicably, resembled a plastic medieval battle-axe.

  Perkins spun back to face the Viking facsimile – just as its eyes rolled towards him and the real fire axe descended. Instinctively, he blocked the blow with his left forearm, the blade cleaving flesh and bone. It didn’t pass all the way through, but lodged deeply – only jerking loose as the Aussie threw himself backwards, gore spurting from the wound. He tried to swing his Tavor around, but it was difficult with one hand, especially as the Viking now tore off its fake helmet and leapt over the rope, kicking at the gun, sending it flying. Perkins landed on the floor hard, gasping, hot blood raining all over him. His legs were spread, and Heck drove his foot between them with battering ram force.

  The Aussie yelped, but still managed to roll away, heading for the fire axe. Heck dived, body-slamming on top of him, grabbing for the axe as well, reaching it at the same time. Neither was able to use it as they rolled together, blood streaking the pair of them, one of Heck’s feet smashing through a low cupboard, the dismembered wax parts of the real facsimile spilling out. But his opponent’s gasps had now become snarls. Though gruesomely injured, the Aussie’s superior strength and training were telling. He threw Heck over onto his back, the axe and the hand grasping it trapped underneath, exerting downward pressure on Heck’s throat with his good forearm.

  Heck gasped, choking. Dizziness set in as, with his one free hand, he raked at the Aussie’s nose. Perkins jerked his head sideways, the plaster coming away in Heck’s hand, revealing a jagged piece of cartilage. With a roar, the Aussie drove his forehead down. White fire exploded between Heck’s eyes: his own nose had clearly just broken. But that was nothing compared to the compression of his larynx. A last, desperate thought occurred to Heck before his awareness expired.

  He stuck his sweat-soaked hand into his pocket, fumbling out the second sodium flare. He banged it on the floor to strike it – a searing crimson flame blazed out – and drove it upward, grinding it into the right side of the Aussie’s head. Flesh sparked and sizzled, and with falsetto shrieks, Perkins rolled away, one hand clamped to his right ear. Heck scrambled upright, hurled the flare across the room and lunged for the fire axe again – only just grabbing it in time, because almost immediately the Aussie was also back on his feet, froth and bile venting from his snarling mouth.

  Heck swung the axe two-handed, aiming it downward. The blade bit deep into his opponent’s left knee, hacking both that and the right knee clean out from under him. Perkins landed on his back with pile-driving force. Heck dropped down on top of him, pressing the axe handle across his throat. Horribly wounded though he was, his entire right ear a blackened, seething mass, Perkins still fought like a wildcat. So Heck dragged his knees forward, planting one at either end of the handle; his entire weight was now compressed downward.

  The blows the Aussie struck with his good right hand were initially savage, but gradually weakened until they were no more than slaps. Even then it was another minute and a half before that hand locked into a rigid, shuddering claw, and slipped lifeless to the floor. With a low gurgle, his breathing abruptly ceased.

  Heck fell onto his side, lungs heaving … it was several seconds before the blood-red glow and noisy hissing of the flare faded away. But almost immediately after that there came a series of clattering impacts on the main doors at the front of the museum.

  Heck grabbed up the Tavor, cracking off its magazine. The thing was half-empty.

  The impacts on the door stopped. As abruptly as they’d begun.

  He moved to a curtained casement and peeked out.

  Two Nice Guys had been attempting to force entry: the shaven-headed black guy, who, from the slanted horizontal scars on either cheek, was clearly an African, and an equally tall but thicker-set white guy with a black beard, whom Heck recognised from the pursuit along the coast. They’d now moved away from the museum into the middle of the road, heads cocked as though listening. A few yards away, Klausen reappeared with two more henchmen. They too halted, listening. And now Heck could hear it as well: the distinct whirring of a helicopter.

  Rapidly, Klausen began issuing orders. His men split up, vanishing over fences or down side alleys. Heck dashed from the window, tearing off his fake chainmail. He ran down to the museum’s glazed double doors. Their glass had been partially shattered, but was holding. A few blows from the butt of the Tavor put it through. He stepped outside. The racket of rotor blades was much closer now. In fact Heck sighted them – six copters, sailing in neat formation over the island from the west, three bearing official police insignia, while the other three were larger-bellied and coloured dark blue.

  As Heck watched, their formation broke apart and they commenced circling, two of the heavier craft descending first. He hurried across the road, rounded a corner and peered over a garden fence. They looked to be putting down on the open farmland northeast of the village. Even as the first two landed, large numbers of men in black coveralls, body armour
and ballistics helms, armed with shields and MP5s, began piling out and deploying to cover behind clumps of scrub. Almost immediately, there were bursts of shooting from concealed positions among the houses. At least one police assaulter dropped, though other officers now under cover returned fire.

  From somewhere nearby, Heck heard Klausen barking hoarse commands.

  ‘Check the villagers are locked in the Town Hall! Doesn’t matter if we’ve missed a few – don’t waste time looking for them. They’ll only go to ground! No guards! Put extra men on the harbour. And find that fucking phone. Never mind the list … just the phone. We can’t exfil without it!’

  Heck bolted back down the road. He was minded to secrete himself inside the museum, where, if the worst came to the worst, he could hide the iPhone and send Gemma a text explaining its whereabouts. But he was only halfway back, running along the wall bordering the monastery ruins, when two figures rounded the corner in front of him. It was the same two as before: the African, now carrying his pump shotgun across his belly – at this proximity Heck recognised it as the much-feared Remington 870 combat shotgun – and the bearded guy, who by the make of his own weapon, a Borz, was possibly Russian.

  They skidded to a halt. Neither had expected to see Heck out in the open. Nor had they been expecting he’d be armed with an Israeli TAR-21, which he now levelled at them, unleashing a hail of fire as he scrambled left to the wall. But frantic flight was not conducive to good marksmanship. Slugs ricocheted everywhere, from the road surface to the walls of the nearby cottages. The two Nice Guys ducked and dived, and though neither of them were hit, at least they weren’t able to return fire straight away, allowing him to vault the wall and fly back into the ruins.

  They reached the wall seconds after him, taking aim and discharging, the rapid-fire dudududu of the Borz alternating with the louder clack-clunk-BOOM of the Remington 870. Heck dashed among the ancient pillars and arches, bullets careening around him, kicking off chunks of weathered stone. He slipped on the grass and threw himself flat behind a step, from where he tried to return fire, only to find that his clip was empty. Scenting blood, the Nice Guys clambered onto the wall, shooting and reloading as they did – consummate battlefield professionals – until another big-bellied helicopter swept without warning about sixty feet overhead, abruptly turning and wallowing back towards them. Gunfire erupted from its starboard port, sending the duo back over the wall and scampering for cover among the cottages.