by Paul Finch
‘We’ll break you in half, pig!’ the young one called Trevor shouted. ‘We’ll see you in the fucking Pain Box!’
Ship threw a swift, freezing glance in his direction.
Though fleetingly elated to hear those crucial words ‘Pain Box’, Heck immediately realised that it was even more crucial not to react, not to show that it meant anything to him.
‘I’ll treat those threats with the contempt they deserve,’ he said, ‘given that some lone operator with a flamethrower is doing a total number on your Bradburn operation …’
Ship’s eyes narrowed.
‘Or is that what the pooches are for?’ Heck asked. ‘You thought I’d have something to tell you about the Incinerator, eh?’
The encircling bodies were now taut with tension. Lips quivered; there were low, profane curses. The dogs whimpered and snarled.
Heck dug the Makarov deeper into the side of Nayka’s head.
‘You!’ he shouted.
A burly guy with a shaven dome and a face as nicked and mauled as any of the dogs’ was hanging onto the harness straps. He held them with one hand, though no doubt it would require two when he was raising and lowering someone in the midst of those snarling, slashing snouts.
‘Let it go, bud,’ Heck said.
The chrome-dome hesitated.
‘Let it go … or Nayka gets the first and you get the second, right in the middle of your fat froggy face.’
‘Do it,’ Ship said tightly.
Grudgingly, the chrome-dome obeyed, and the harness fell to the floor, the straps whipping up and over the beam and fluttering down on top of it.
‘Good,’ Heck said. ‘In the meantime, Mr Ship, here’s a tip you won’t need to rip out of my flesh. Brutalising coppers is a bad idea. Long term, it’s likely to backfire on you.’
‘You’re supposed to be a copper?’ Ship replied scornfully. ‘Aren’t coppers meant to be upstanding citizens? Aren’t they supposed to be clean as whistles? Yet not so long ago you were in conflab with a right bunch of tearaways.’
Heck didn’t reply straight away. He ought to have realised that Ship’s firm would have spotters in Bradburn, probably sitting on Shaughnessy and his crew, during the course of which they’d noted the gang leader in close conversation with Heck outside the police station. They’d put two and two together and come up with five, but it was an easy mistake to make.
‘That’s right,’ Heck confirmed. ‘Just like I’m in conflab with you now … and I’m gonna tell you exactly the same thing I told him. Someone is stirring it. Some privately employed mad-dog, who’s either got an axe to grind with you, or Shaughnessy, or both of you. I don’t know who he is, but he’d clearly like nothing better than for you two to tear each other a new one.’
‘So that’s it?’ Ship’s deputy said. ‘Shaughnessy’s not behind these burnings … and we have to take your word for it?’
‘What do you think, Vic?’ Heck asked Ship. ‘Are these attacks Shaughnessy’s style? Are they even within his capability?’
Ship smirked. ‘He doesn’t have any fucking style … or any fucking dignity. Soft little twat even rang me up the other day to reassure me it wasn’t him.’ Ship shook his head, tutting with disdain. ‘And as for his capability, well … we live and learn, it seems.’
‘You’re fighting a war for no reason, Vic – and you know you are. You also know it’s a war you can’t win because you don’t even know for sure who your opponent is.’
‘This the best he can do, the little shit?’ Ship’s deputy scoffed. ‘Send a bent copper round to plead his case for him?’
‘This is all great talk, Vic,’ Heck said. ‘But you’re fooling no one. The truth is, Shaughnessy would have to be off his rocker to pick a fight with a firm like yours. And you know he would.’
Ship looked thoughtful. ‘Just for the sake of argument, Detective Heckenburg, let’s say you’re not on young Lee’s payroll. How well do you think you know him?’
‘I’m learning more about him all the time.’
‘Well, learn this: he’d rape and strangle his own mother and sell her carcass for meat if he thought there was a quid in it. He’s a lowlife of the worst order.’
‘I understand that he’s pissed you off.’
‘Pissed me off?’ Ship laughed. ‘That’d be the understatement of all time.’
‘Yeah, but you haven’t hit him as hard as you could,’ Heck said. ‘You haven’t wiped him off the face of the map yet. Instead you grabbed two of his boys on March 24 and tried to torture some intel out of them –’
‘I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about,’ Ship said.
‘But they didn’t give him up, did they … the Incinerator? You know why, Vic? Because my guess is they didn’t know who he is any more than you do. So you got uneasy about it, didn’t you? And your next move was to try and drag me here – a so-called Shaughnessy insider, and a copper to boot. If I couldn’t give you the inside track, no one could, eh?’
‘You done?’ Ship asked simply.
‘He’ll be done like a fucking kipper!’ one of them said.
Heck could sense their agitation growing, becoming overwhelming.
‘Scared yet?’ Nayka chuckled. ‘You should be.’
Heck backed up a couple of yards, increasingly unhappy about the black entranceway behind him. He shuffled sideways so that it stood to his right, dragging Nayka with him.
‘You really think I’d come all the way here to plead Shaughnessy’s innocence if I knew he was guilty?’ Heck said. ‘How much would he need to pay me to take a chance like this? And how do you think my real boss would react if she knew I was on someone else’s roster tonight? You’ve already had it confirmed that she knows what I’m doing.’
Ship gave Heck another long, probing gaze.
‘The Incinerator’s real enough, Vic,’ Heck said. ‘No one’s denying it. And whether he works for Lee Shaughnessy or not, he’s quite clearly targeting your Bradburn connections and doing a damn good job of it. And again … you know that already without needing to hear it from me.’
Ship remained blank-faced. There was stone silence from the rest of his firm.
‘You’ve got a deadly enemy out there,’ Heck added. ‘Even if it is Shaughnessy, it won’t be an easy fight, and how open it leaves you to GMP Serious will be anyone’s guess. Ever since this thing kicked off, they’ve been watching you, old pal. They can’t wait to bang you away. You saw the sentences the Wild Bunch got. How’d you like a bit of that action?’
Still Ship said nothing.
‘And what if it’s not Shaughnessy?’ Heck asked him, ‘and you’ve put all your efforts into the wrong crew? Won’t be your finest hour, will it?’
Now all the hoodlums stood in silence. They might not like what they were hearing, but they had no option but to listen. Heck’s eyes roved across them and focused on their leader again.
‘No more torture murders, Mr Ship. Those two bodies in the landfill – that was nasty. I mean really nasty. Any more like that and all deals are off the table.’
Ship half-smirked. ‘Deals?’
‘Anything you get on who’s doing this to you … you give it to me. Especially the Incinerator. I’d really be interested in meeting him.’
There were disbelieving sniggers at the sheer audacity of this.
‘And we just walk away, is that it?’ Ship still smirked, but it was noticeably lacking in humour.
‘That’d be your most painless option.’
‘Yeah … there are no such options facing you!’ someone else retorted.
‘Your call, Vic,’ Heck said. ‘Call off your torturers, walk away from this war with your firm largely intact. Leave us to deal with the human fireball.’
It would have been a hopeless plea even if Heck had possessed the authority to make such a deal. He knew the gang boss would reject the offer outright, if for no other reason than to save face. At least four of his people had been wiped out, and he would sit back and let the cops
do the running? No chance. His reign of power would be over in an instant. But it was worth doing this to plant the germ of an idea in Ship’s mind that maybe – just maybe – he was fighting the wrong enemy. It had also been useful to Heck as a probing exercise. Without him even trying hard, they’d confirmed that Sagan was on their team. That info alone was worth the risk of this confrontation. The main problem now was how to get out of here alive, and deliver it to the taskforce.
‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘I’m off. With or without a promise from you that you’re going to leave this to us. I’ll consider it’s been worth the trip from Bradburn if you at least think about it … and when I say it, I mean your business, your cash-flow, your liberty …’
‘You’re a ballsy bastard, I’ll give you that,’ Ship said.
‘You invited me here. And in return I’m doing you a big favour.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I could’ve come to this shithole team-handed, I could have locked you and every one of these goons up for attempting to abduct a police officer. But instead I came alone. Like I say, to talk.’
‘So I owe you one, do I?’
‘Maybe.’
Ship pursed his lips and nodded. ‘All right, that’s fair. You’ve got a count of three.’
Heck held the pistol up. ‘This is loaded. And I’m not relinquishing it.’
‘One,’ Ship said.
Heck planted his foot in Nayka’s backside, shoving him violently forward. Then ran.
‘Two!’ the voice echoed behind him. ‘Three … fuck him up!’
Heck hit the night air outside at what felt like a hundred miles per hour, but already his ears were ringing with the yowling and snarling of the five dogs. He didn’t know what kind of start he had, and it was only forty-odd yards from the factory entrance to the factory gate, but already he could sense them gaining, could hear the accelerating skitter of paws. As he ran, the gangster Kemp, still chained to the open gate, craned his neck around to face him.
‘Whoa!’ Kemp shouted. ‘What’s going on?’
Heck dipped into his pocket as he ran, to try and find the key, but he already knew that he wouldn’t have time to unlock the guy’s cuffs.
‘Genuine apologies, pal!’ He ran on past the struggling captive.
Kemp shrieked as the first of the beasts tore into him. A few yards down the street, Heck spun around, Makarov in hand. Despite the darkness, he could see the dogs were all over Kemp, savaging him, though one, the fifth, had ignored this easy target and was venturing forward. More distantly, triumphant shouts sounded from their keepers. But they had only just emerged from the building and weren’t yet clear about who was being attacked. Heck pegged off three quick shots in their basic direction, but in all cases aimed high, seeking only to drive them to cover. He turned and ran on. The fifth dog bounded in pursuit.
Heck thumbed the electronic fob. Just ahead, the soft-top’s lights flickered. Ten yards and he was home and dry. But then he tripped, and though he didn’t fall, he went staggering forward, losing impetus and coordination. Slaver-filled snarls sounded at his heels.
Even though the car was unlocked, he wouldn’t have enough time to get inside. He turned again, taking aim, but it was too late for that – the dog, a frothy-jawed, pop-eyed monstrosity of a Rottweiler – reared up, snapping at his hand. Heck yanked it out of the way, turned frontward again, and caromed headlong into the soft-top’s front grille – it slammed his midriff, smashing his upper body down on its bonnet.
The Rott also crashed into the stationary object, stunning itself.
For several stupefied seconds, they lay on the cobblestones together. But as Heck dragged himself to his feet, the dog jumped up too, rearing again, jaws snapping savagely. Heck hammered down with his pistol, cracking it on the skull once, twice, three times. Yelping and whining, the dog ducked and rolled. He couldn’t shoot clean as it squirmed crazily away from him. Still winded, Heck felt his way around the vehicle – only for the dog to barrel into his legs from behind. He clubbed it again, raining blows on its back and head.
It cowered, squealing. But now another of the brutes approached, a squat, brutal shape galloping down the street from the factory gates.
Heck kicked the dazed Rott away from him, scrambled to the driver’s door, lugged it open, threw himself inside and slammed it closed. As he threw the Makarov onto the passenger seat and jammed the key into the ignition, the second dog, an American pit bull, sprang onto the bonnet, its muscular body ramming the windscreen, which spider-webbed with cracks.
Heck knocked the car into reverse and tromped the gas. The soft-top roared backward down the alley, but still failed to dislodge the dog, which initially was only visible as a mass of fur and gnashing teeth. Heck swung the car round a tight corner, mounting the kerb and smacking the base of a cylindrical steel post with a road-sign at the top. He jolted against the back of his seat, but the dog was flung upward onto the roof. He felt the weight as it landed on the soft leather overhead, and heard the scraping and scratching of its claws as it tried to gain a purchase. Frantically, he switched gears, dragged the wheel left and floored the pedal, accelerating away down the next alley. Framed in his rear-view mirror, the damaged street-sign teetered and toppled, crashing slantwise across the passage, blocking the procession of headlights now spilling out through the factory gates.
Heck got his foot down all the harder, pushing the needle up past thirty towards forty. But somehow the pit bull was clinging on, rending the fabric of the roof. Trained to assail its quarry until death, it ripped and tore, burrowing its way through directly above Heck’s head. He braked hard, trying to unsaddle it, but also to avoid a wheelie bin – in which he failed. The soft-top struck the bin side-on but explosively, the car screeching to a halt. The dog was hurled sideways, spinning through the air, and yet such was the clasp of its jaws on the shredded leather that it didn’t fly loose but swung around to the front. It bounced onto the bonnet on its back, righted itself and scampered back up the windshield as Heck changed gears. When he hit the pedal again, it was already back above him. The hole it had ripped was large enough for it to force its snout through, its hot drool spattering down Heck’s face.
He clawed at the passenger seat, but both the Makarov and the SPS had been thrown into the footwell by the collision, and were out of reach.
With no other choice, he jammed his foot to the floor.
Snarling like a wolf, the dog worked its way down, feral bloodlust gurgling from its throat. But directly in front now, the alley ended at what looked like a proper road. Heck saw real streetlights, cars passing. He sped towards it, banging over potholes and bits of rubbish. This time the bastard thing had surely had it; even a pit bull’s jaw muscles couldn’t resist an emergency stop at this speed. But then it touched the top of his head, nudging him with its nose, grizzling his scalp with its teeth.
Heck ducked. Its entire head was now through the gap as it slashed and bit. He threw an arm up to fend it off, and half-forgot about the road, only hitting the brake when it was too late.
Tyres smoking, the soft-top careered into the middle of a junction. Despite the hour, there were other road users around. They veered past, horns blaring, as he skidded 360 degrees through the intersection. The dog, its head trapped in the roof fabric, was flung violently forward, and then back, and then from side to side, battering the car with its body.
At what point its spinal cord shattered, Heck couldn’t say, but when he came to a halt in a park gateway over a hundred yards from the alley, its lifeless corpse hung limply down the outside of the driver’s door. He shoved upward, slamming his hands again and again into the mangled muzzle, until he’d pushed the grotesque thing out through the hole.
It dropped heavily out of sight.
Heck wanted to sit there for several minutes, shaking, teeth chattering. But how long would it take so many guys to move a fallen street-sign? He threw the car back into gear, pulled a three-point turn in the park entrance, and swung out onto
the road. Fleetingly, he didn’t know where he was or which way he needed to go, but none of that mattered so long as he went somewhere.
Chapter 24
Vic Ship was in the old soap-making plant, behind the bare desk in his makeshift office, when his minions finally reported back that the cop had got away. It didn’t trouble him – he’d half expected that; in some ways it suited him. Otherwise, he’d never have given the guy a head-start.
This wasn’t a real office, not any more – just a slightly private place in which to insulate himself from the common herd whenever they assembled here, and to reinforce the impression that he was the man, the one you needed permission to actually speak to. But there was no decent equipment or furniture in here, just scraps and relics left over from the days when this gutted structure had been in normal use. Rubbish cluttered the corners; dust-laden blinds covered its outer windows, which were uniformly dingy and cracked. Ship and his number one fixer, Alan Cornish – the young presentable guy who’d accompanied him during Heck’s brief interrogation – now sat one at either side of the litter-strewn desk.
While they waited, Cornish flicked through pages on his iPad.
Slowly, the rest of the crew reconvened on the old factory’s shop-floor, dogs yipping and whining, men arguing. The first one to come to the office was Nayka. He didn’t bother to knock, but noticeably – further lessening his ‘iron man’ image, along with the blood and bruises he still sported – he now wore a hoodie top under his fleece-lined doublet, even though it concealed his notorious cobweb insignia. It amused Ship to see the Russian in this reduced state. Ever since arriving in Manchester, this semi-official spokesman for the St Petersburg syndicate had adopted a leadership role, treating his British colleagues as newcomers to the urban crime scene.
At present, he was fuming.
‘You gotta kill this Goddam cop!’ the Russian stated flatly. In the fashion of most of the psychopaths Ship knew, Nayka’s humiliation had enraged him but it hadn’t humbled him. ‘You gotta kill his family, his friends, everyone who knows him.’