by Zoe Sharp
The extinguisher toppled over onto its side, but the discharge valve must have snapped off, because the powder kept billowing out of it even when there must have been no more force on the handle. I was enveloped in a choking layer of talcum-like dust.
My neck was stinging and my head felt dazed, but I knew the powder wasn’t going to keep my assailants occupied for long. It takes under thirty seconds to empty a cylinder that size, and the clock was ticking. I had to move – now. Anyone who comes calling armed with a gun has to be pretty damned serious about killing you.
The thought chilled me, but I pushed it to the back of my mind as I scuttled across the carpet on my hands and knees. I cannoned into a stack of weights as I brushed past, and sent them crashing to the floor. Immediately, another shot fractured the air, pinging off the frame of the machine directly above my head. Shit! Too close for comfort.
I heard the men stumbling and swearing as they moved further into the room. In the dark the gym equipment was even more of a hindrance to them than it was to me.
Unless they were very experienced and knew to shut their eyes, every time the gunman pulled the trigger, the flare of the muzzle flash from the un-silenced weapon was obliterating whatever night vision they’d managed to build up. I hoped.
I eased my head up over the bench behind which I’d been hiding. I could just make out the shape of them, about ten feet apart, with the gunman in front, making a sweep of the place. They were moving gingerly through the swirling clouds of powder from the still-discharging extinguisher. Was it really less than half a minute since the first shot had been fired?
I ducked down again. Who was trying to kill me? And, more importantly, why? Maybe the man at the building site had told Langford and Mr Ali about this mysterious bike courier. The thought seemed so outrageous, I dismissed it almost straight away.
Or, maybe, despite his apparent nonchalance Garton-Jones had taken his dismissal a lot more personally than had been thought. I could follow the reasoning that, with me out of the way, the residents of Lavender Gardens might suddenly decide his services were cheap at any price . . .
Surely there were easier ways of dealing with me than sending a pair of thugs to shoot me dead? Or was it Garton-Jones himself out there in the darkness?
I knew that I was going to have to come up with something fast if I wanted to get out of this alive. I reached out carefully to the stack of weights I’d knocked over and quietly picked up a couple of two-and-a-half kilo ones.
With a final furtive check on the position of the two men, I quickly lobbed one of the weights into the gap between them, ducking back down fast.
I saw them both react to the noise the weight made when it crash-landed into the gloom beyond them. Trigger-happy wasted another couple of rounds firing rapidly in that direction. Having their backs turned gave me the chance to half-rise up from cover, take a bit more time over my aim with the second weight.
I flung it at the gunman with as much power as I could put behind it. I nearly missed. Something must have alerted him at the last moment and he began to turn. The weight clouted the shoulder of his gun arm hard as he came round, and I heard him cry out.
In a flash I was on my feet. This was my only chance, and I couldn’t afford to bungle it. I jumped onto one of the benches, and used that as a springboard to launch myself at the second man.
I body-slammed him hard enough to smack the breath out of my lungs. I hit him at around mid-chest height, my momentum carrying him off his feet and hurling him skidding onto the floor. The air was punched out of his body in an explosive grunt as we landed, with me still on top. I jabbed a short blow to his head, then scrambled to my feet and sprinted for the open doorway.
As I reached the aperture, it became obvious that Trigger-happy had regained use of his gun arm. Another two rounds came whistling out after me. One of them clipped the door frame as I ran through it, splintering the wood and peppering the back of my shoulder-blades with shards as I ran through.
I dodged sideways out of sight, flattening against the outside wall of the building. I could see my breath in clouds against the bitter night air.
I bit down on my fear and anger as I waited for them to show themselves. I was past caring about how stupid it was to stand and fight. I wanted blood over this. Preferably not mine.
I didn’t have time for second thoughts. It was only moments before the thud of running footsteps grew louder from the doorway. As the first figure burst through it I pivoted sideways and swung my leg hard into his stomach like I was doing a high-kick aerobics routine.
The impact jarred right through me, but he dropped instantly, the gun clattering away from him as he fell. My body was already spinning to continue the attack when my mind registered the face of my enemy, now visible under the lights, and put the brakes on. I stumbled to a halt, my movements suddenly jerky and uncoordinated.
“Nasir?” my voice came out incredulous.
The boy on the floor gave me a look of such intense and vicious hatred that I staggered back from it. I entirely forgot to take the other assailant into account. He rammed into me and sent the pair of us sprawling. I managed to get an elbow to his face, but it was no more than a superficial blow.
Still, it was enough to send him reeling, and when I glanced at him, I knew why. Harlow and Drummond were professionals. They’d obviously been told to make an example of Roger, and when they’d worked him over they’d made sure they marked him where it would show.
His face was still a mass of tender bruises, and the left side seemed to be one big scab. The swelling was pulling his lip down, showing his teeth. Both eyes were open now, but the white of one was flecked with blood.
I took the opportunity to roll away from him fast, hearing him screaming to Nasir, “Get the gun! Shoot her, for fuck’s sake!”
If I’d known Roger was going to be so damned unfriendly, I would have left him to get what was coming to him in that alley.
Ah well, too late for regrets now.
I got to my feet to find that Nasir had indeed regained his grip on the gun, and had it pointing firmly at me. Closer, and in better light, I could see it was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. A Browning Hi-Power design, made by FN in Belgian. I’d fired enough of them on the army ranges for the weapon to be familiar.
This one hadn’t had the benefit of military upkeep, though. It was battered and abused, with traces of rust along the barrel. It didn’t look like the sort of thing the FN Herstal company would want to use pictures of in their latest brochure. A workmanlike killing tool, no trophy piece.
Slowly, and without any sudden moves, I brought my hands up to shoulder height, and kept them there.
It was a strange tableau. We were all of us covered in the pinkish powder from the fire extinguisher. I’d been closest and come off worst in the exchange. I looked like a slightly effeminate ghost.
Roger’s face had opened up again where I’d caught him, the blood leaving red trails through the powder and dripping down onto his T-shirt. He was holding himself stiffly, like an arthritic old man.
I just couldn’t believe that he’d risen from his sick bed with the express purpose of coming down here with his mate to slaughter me. It seemed ludicrous overkill. In more ways than one.
“So, Nasir,” I said conversationally, “are we going to stand around all night, or are you just going to shoot me?”
“Shut up!” he yelled, seeming close to tears. The gun was wavering alarmingly. “Just shut up!”
Roger glanced at him, worry creasing his face. “Come on, Nas, get it over with!” he urged nervously.
Ungrateful little bastard.
For a moment Nasir looked as though he was going to comply. I tensed, then he let out a tortured groan.
“I can’t!” he wailed, letting the muzzle of the gun drop.
Roger jumped to his side, grabbing his arm and almost seeming to forget about my presence. “You’ve got to,” he said sharply. “She’s got to die, tonight.”
I knew I should be asking questions, but for the life of me I couldn’t utter a word. It was like watching the actors on a film set. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be my own cold-blooded execution they were talking about . . .
Nasir gave out a sob. “I can’t,” he said again. He brought his hands up to cover his face. “Oh, God help her.”
“You bastard!” Roger screamed at him. “Don’t you know what’s going to happen? Don’t you care?”
Before Nasir could respond, there was the roar of an engine turning off the road into the gym entrance, and the blaze of headlights as they cut a swathe across the car park.
Nasir took a horrified look at the Dutch-plated Grand Cherokee that was leaping over the loose surface towards us, and panicked completely.
By this time his gun hand was shaking so much he could barely take aim, but he loosed off three quick, startled shots in the general direction of the jeep. I was standing so close to him when he fired that my eardrums seemed to explode.
More by luck than by skill, his first shot hit the windscreen. It bloomed instantly into an opaque mesh of fracture lines, radiating out from the point of impact like ripples.
The second two shots cracked harmlessly overhead, way high.
As soon as the first round struck, the Cherokee’s wheel was wrenched over, with the driver’s side furthest away from us. It skated to a halt and I saw the door fly open.
Sean came out hard and fast, moving straight into cover. Even if Nasir had his nerve intact, he would have to have been at marksman standard to have stood half a chance of hitting him.
I took the opportunity presented by this new distraction to dodge forwards, stepping quickly in to Nasir’s body and wrapping my arms round his right hand. I locked on to his wrist with a tenacity that Friday would have been proud of, and dug steely fingers into the nearest available pressure points.
With hindsight, it was a damned stupid move. Tackling someone who’s pointing a loaded gun at you, I mean, but the whole thing had a surreal quality about it. Any moment the unseen director was going to shout, “Cut!” and we’d all go off to grab a coffee together before the next take.
As I twisted my fingers, Nasir’s grip on the weapon started to loosen, which would have worked out just fine, had Roger not realised what was happening. He gave a kind of strangled scream and jumped me, landing a vicious punch in my kidneys.
My legs buckled. I let go of Nasir’s hand, and went down on my hands and knees. He jumped away from me and I looked up to stare straight into the muzzle of the FN, only a few feet away.
I could see Nasir’s face beyond the wobbling barrel, watched as he screwed up the courage to pull the trigger while he still had the time to do it. At that range, there was no way he could possibly miss.
“Roger!” Sean’s voice suddenly yelled out from somewhere behind the Cherokee, making all of us jump. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?”
“Just stay out of this,” Roger shouted back desperately. His voice gave way, close to tears, as he flicked his gaze back to Nasir, and then to me. “You don’t understand,” he cried. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“Leave you alone to become an accessory to murder, you mean?” Sean gave a harsh laugh. “Oh yeah, sure.” He paused, then added more gently, “Whatever she’s done, Rog, it’s not worth killing her for.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Roger told him bitterly. “You don’t know what’s going on round here.”
Nasir glanced to Roger, agitated, and while his attention was off line I brought my hands up sharply, scattering gravel into the boys’ faces. It was never going to do them much damage, but at least both of them jerked further away from me.
At that moment, as though on cue, Sean burst round the front wing of the Cherokee and came charging across the ground between us like an avenging angel. Dressed in black, face set, he was enough to strike terror into an enemy far more resolute than Nasir.
As it was, Nasir got off one wild shot before the FN mis-fed the next round and locked up solid. If he’d been halfway proficient he could have had the blockage cleared in moments and slotted Sean while he was still yards away.
As it was, he rattled fruitlessly at the jammed slide, threw a forlorn, fearful look to Roger, and bolted, taking the useless weapon with him. Roger was only a stride or two behind him.
They took off towards the area to the back of the gym. Sean came thundering past me and there was a deadly intent in his eyes as he followed. The boys were heading for the broken-down wire fencing behind the building. An easy escape onto open ground piled with the rubble of a demolished factory. If they made it that far, they’d be free and clear.
I hauled myself upright and, with more misgivings than I cared to count, I turned and gave chase.
I wanted to find out why Roger and Nasir were so keen on killing me, and if the look on his face was anything to go by, I needed to do that before Sean got his hands on either one of them.
Eleven
As I burst round the corner of the main gym building there was enough ambient light for me to see the boys separate. Sean’s stride faltered, uncertain for once which to follow.
I was about to thank him for probably saving my life, but as he heard me closing he turned fast and made a snap decision. “Go after Roger,” he rapped out. “I’ll take the other one.”
My words of thanks were swallowed quickly. “Roger’s your brother,” I argued, stubborn, as I reached him. “You should go after him yourself.”
His face tightened. People didn’t question Sean’s orders, least of all me. “The other kid may have managed to work out how to clear that pistol,” he said darkly as he started forward again, offering back over his shoulder. “I can take care of myself.”
I opened my mouth to say, “And I can’t?” and then shut it again. Did I really want to persuade him to let me go chasing somebody who was fleeing, scared half to death, and armed?
Instead, I held my tongue as I set off in pursuit of Roger.
Sean’s brother had made it through the tattered wire fence leaving a torn strip of T-shirt behind to mark his hasty passing. The pale cloth flapped feebly as it caught the light, like a pennant. I ducked through the spiked gap and followed, slithering precariously over the rubble under foot. In the darkness it was lethal.
Some months before, the demolition team had brought down the structure of the old factory building behind the gym and then knocked off – permanently, it seemed. In the intervening period the weeds had done their best to camouflage the ruins they’d left behind with tough-stemmed grasses that whipped against my legs as I ran.
Roger had a decent head start on me, but he wasn’t exactly at his peak when it came to physical fitness. He was fading fast, and he knew it. I caught a glimpse of him, dodging clumsily out of sight behind one of the huge piles of broken bricks. He was stumbling as though exhausted and it galvanised me into an extra burst of speed.
That was probably what saved me.
Behind the bricks, I found Roger wrestling with a length of three-by-two that was tethered into the hard-packed ground by loops of rusty wire.
I came hying into view just as he managed to wrench it free, but he had no time to prepare his ambush. His head jerked, and he tried to wrench the timber up more quickly, but his reactions were badly off.
Hesitation would have been fatal, and I didn’t have time to mess around. I shifted my direction slightly, locking my arm out straight to the side. I hit him from a flat run, just about where his collarbones met, putting the whole of my bodyweight and momentum behind my clenched forearm.
Roger’s feet literally flew up in front of him as the top half of his body was snapped back, like he’d just had a belt off the mains. All it lacked to complete the picture was a gentle wisp of smoke and a bad home perm.
It took him a while to think about getting up again and I admit I made no move to help. Instead, I thoughtfully toed the lump of wood so it was well out of his reach, and s
tood waiting for him to recover enough to take an active part in conversation.
I knew I should have felt guilty about the placing of that punch. I’d deliberately aimed a fraction high, which was malicious at best, and could have been very unhealthy if I’d got it wrong. Then I remembered his urgent commands to Nasir to shoot me, and faced him coolly unrepentant.
After a minute or so, Roger’s breathing returned to some semblance of normality. He used one hand to push himself up into a sitting position, rubbing at his throat with the other and eyeing me warily. I made sure I was standing with my back to the lights.
“So, what’s this all about, Roger?” I asked, surprised that I could put the question without rancour.