“It was necessary at the time.”
“Paying a ransom! Whose idea was that?”
“It was mine. I needed McQuillan off balance and out of the picture. I knew he wouldn’t care about money or drugs if his daughter was under threat.”
“What’s happening with McQuillan now?” the Boss asked.
“My guys will be dumping his body in the Severn sometime later today.”
“So, are we in business?”
“We are,” Richards replied. Something caught his eye.
“When do you-” The Boss was cut mid-sentence.
“Wait a minute.” Richards stooped down. He had been looking directly at the holdall dropped in the middle of the carpark. Picking up one of the bundles, he flipped it over.
“You’re going to have to wait for your money a little bit longer, I’m afraid.”
There was screaming and swearing from the handset but Richards didn’t hear it, he just stared at the single fifty pound note at the top of a bundle of cut newspaper; the same bundles that had been left in the boot of the BWM originally.
Whatever it took, Dom and Georgia would have to be found.
Chapter 78
With the sound of gunfire and shattering glass still ringing in his ears, Dom had had to make an instant decision. A missing rear window and a bullet hole through the windscreen rendered the car almost un-drivable. He would need to dump it.
Initially, he had wanted to clear the city and be away from the gangsters. That plan now had to change. He wanted some kind of conversation about the next move but Georgia had returned to a near-catatonic state, barely moving and not responding to any external stimuli. He would leave her be for now.
As if there wasn’t enough to consider, the fuel light blinked on the dashboard display. Dom had filled the tank on the drive back to Mach Tech on the night of the money run, so there should have been at least a half tank remaining. He would need to dump the car sooner, probably around the corner from Bob’s house, in Brunel Street, which had a recreational ground in the middle and not too many houses overlooking it, which meant reverting to his back-up plan.
Dom took a sharp left turn and then another, heading back towards the house. It also meant heading back toward the warehouse but he was gambling on his pursuers not following in the narrower urban streets, figuring that Dom would hit the motorway as soon as possible.
He drove straight over at the crossroads and then took a right into Brunel Street. There was a large parking space, enough for six cars, alongside the rec ground. Dom parked the car in the middle of the space. As he was about to switch off the engine, the fuel light started to flash. He could smell something familiar - petrol.
Jumping from the car, Dom was quick to listen out for approaching cars. He heard nothing. Turning toward the rear of the car, he could see the source of the smell. Fuel was dripping rapidly from underneath. On closer inspection, Dom counted six bullet holes in the BMW’s rear panels and bumper. One had hit the fuel tank, ripping two holes, entry and exit, through the thin metal skin. It had been wise to stop because a breakdown on the M32 would have been difficult to hide from.
It was time to move.
Dom opened the passenger door. “Georgia, we need to go now.”
There was no response. She was hunched back with her head on her shoulder, as she had been since they’d got back into the vehicle.
“Georgia, I know this is tough, but we need to get going.”
Nothing.
Dom touched her shoulder, gently shaking her. “Georgia?”
Her body fell forward, held in place by the seatbelt. Dom lifted her head. It flopped back down to her chest. She wasn’t breathing.
He unclipped her belt and her lifeless body slumped against the dashboard. In the seatback was a large bloodstain with a bullet hole in the centre. One of the rounds fired in anger back at the warehouse had found a target. An innocent target. Georgia was dead.
Chapter 79
Driving angry was not the best of ideas. The Boss was raging so much that he felt the road was the place to exorcise it. The old van could only reach sixty after the guts had been revved out of the engine. He had planned to buy a new van once he had received the money he was owed but now he had to wait a little longer. Too long for his liking.
The plan hadn’t been fool-proof. It had been a bit too contrived. He had struck a deal with Richards for cutting the cocaine and using his distribution network. The Boss had more people available to him. Even though most were slave labour, he could shift large quantities of the white stuff without too much effort. The deal was sweet. Richards would give him a taster of a couple of hundred grand to get his operation up to speed and as a gesture of good faith, but there would be a sacrifice.
In the criminal fraternity, most hardened gangsters had been bad to the bone since birth, cutting their teeth in extortion by stealing lunch money from the weaker kids or perfecting their thieving techniques while ripping off the local shops on a near daily basis. The Boss had been one of those kids.
So had Richards, and he’d used to run in a gang with Gibbo.
Loyalty is earned, and lost, in seconds when others on whom you rely act on their true nature. Gibbo was a ruthless, brooding thug with little thought for others, even those he worked with and for. When a cast iron deal had gone pear-shaped twenty years previously, Gibbo had dipped his hand into the biscuit jar and grabbed whatever he could take.
What he took was Richards’s share of the deal. Although it was in the distant past, it could not be forgotten.
One clause in the deal was that Gibbo had to go before money changed hands.
In the original plan, Dom would have been carrying about three hundred thousand pounds, instead of three million, which the Boss would have taken from Dom had the hijack gone to plan. Unfortunately, McQuillan had heard that there was something amiss with the plan and had swapped out the money bags, using Dom as a decoy. Richards was forced to go along with it as he didn’t have access to the money. That was why he cooked up the kidnap of Georgia. In order to make McQuillan hand over some of the money, Richards had to create a situation in which McQuillan would pay without question. It was Richards who had told Georgia about the double-cross which made her seek Dom out and put her right in the hands of the Boss, making her valuable to the tune of several hundred thousand pounds.
But with the massive deal taking so much of McQuillan’s money, there was only a quarter of a million pounds left in the coffers. That money should have been paid to the Boss for the return of Georgia, but it hadn’t been. It was missing.
The Boss leaned on the horn as the driver in front of him dared to wait a half second before pulling away once the lights had turned green. A middle finger was raised in defiance. If there hadn’t have been more pressing issues, the Boss would have rammed the car off the road and dished out his own brand of justice. He wanted to smash the world into pieces; and then smash those pieces into pieces.
How dare Dom fucking Carver take his money? He was going to pay. And pay dearly.
The Boss had a scheme in mind. Knowing how much Dom loved cars, he was going to drive over each of his of his limbs until they snapped and then throw Dom’s broken body off the Severn Bridge to see how well he could swim. It was a plan he liked, even if it was a little restrained and convoluted by his usual standards.
Slow and painful was the new black, and the Boss was wearing it well.
Chapter 80
It was probably a hundred yards, no more, but it could have been a hundred miles. It wouldn’t have mattered, he would have carried her. Her lifeless body hung in his tired arms as he trudged toward Bob’s house. As odd a spectacle as it should have been, no one saw him. There were no eyes on Dom carrying Georgia to a dead man’s house.
He was even able to unlock the door without putting her down.
Placing her on the old beige sofa, Dom took the opposite sofa and allowed himself a moment.
Tears were not something with which he w
as overly familiar. In prison he had cried on only two occasions. The first night of his sentence, and the day he heard about his mother’s death. Other than that, Dom was not one for emotional outbursts.
Emotions were for other people. Not him. Not the criminal he had often pretended to be. Crying was a sign of weakness, so the old guys said. They were wrong.
Dom needed the release. He needed to feel whatever it was coursing through him. Pour it out and be done. This level of sorrow was of no use to him at all. In a matter of the last several hours he had lost everything. He had lost the father-figure who was always there for him, even when it wasn’t necessary. He had lost his estranged brother, who was caught up in the game by playing the other side. And now he had lost this incredible woman who had started to make a difference in his life.
So much sorrow.
So much needless loss.
Who could he blame?
Nobody but himself.
Although he hadn’t pulled the trigger that ended Bob or Georgia’s lives, he was responsible for putting them in harm’s way. As for the trigger that killed his brother, that guilt was solely his to bear.
Pulling several tissues from a box on the coffee table, Dom blew his nose and wiped his eyes. The release had taken the edge off his emotional overload, though it hadn’t freed him of any guilt. There were many things that could be lived with, but three lives so dear to him, gone in an instant. He would need to live the rest of his days as a saint to redeem his soul, he thought.
There was nothing to do but flee.
He couldn’t keep living in the city of his birth. Every day he would be looking over his shoulder, looking for someone loyal to either Richards or Dunstan who would be coming to harm him. Even if he did stay, the police would have something to say about the activity he had been involved with since leaving prison and lock him up for breaching the terms of his probation. Plus there would be some charges to face after killing two men, even in self-defence.
Whichever way he looked at the situation, Dom was royally fucked.
However, he had a head start and he had money.
Shaking himself out of the stupor, Dom took a quick scout around the house. He found a sleeping bag and a rucksack, and forged a minor plan. The rucksack was filled with cans of soft drink, packets of crisps and a couple of packs of biscuits. It resembled a poorly constructed picnic rather than a survival kit but it was all he had at his disposal.
He was about to rush out to the blue mark four Astra parked on the drive, when he caught himself in the mirror. His face was battered. A blackened eye, a split lip and caked blood in a gash on his forehead. He would be spotted as being trouble as soon as he was seen. There was also a large patch of blood on the t-shirt he was wearing. He suspected it didn’t belong to him.
After a few minutes in the bathroom, and Bob’s wardrobe, Dom had cleaned up what was obvious of his injuries and changed his clothes. While Dom and Bob had been roughly the same height, Bob was bigger, especially around the waist. A pair of Bob’s old jeans and a belt, plus a blue sweater, and he was good to go.
One last look at Georgia and he was out the door, but not before grabbing a baseball cap that Bob frequently wore from the coat rack mounted in the porch.
He locked the door, more out of habit than anything. Then he popped the lock on the old car, dropping the sleeping bag into the boot and the rucksack into the passenger seat.
There was also the matter of his handgun.
Dom placed it in the door pocket. Just in case.
The car started on the second attempt. Dom drove out of the driveway and turned the corner back onto Brunel Street. He halted the car in the middle of the road.
About midway along the street he could see the black, bullet-holed, BMW. It wasn’t alone. Parked directly behind was a shabby white Transit van. They were common enough, but the lumbering shape of the Boss was not. The Boss and his remaining henchman were examining the car, probably looking for the money.
Dom pulled down the cap and reached for a pair of old-style aviator sunglasses sticking out of the coin well. As a disguise, it was the best he could do at short notice.
There was a decision to be made. He could drive down the road, hoping not to be recognised. Or he could race down the road and get away. The only problem with being spotted was the potential for gunfire. The Boss wasn’t shy with violence, even in public.
Dom looked down the road. Then at himself in the rear-view mirror, looking for the balls he used to have. Then back down the road again. He saw something. Something he could exploit.
He had a quick recce around the car, in the door pockets, glove compartment, and even on the floor. There was nothing he could use.
Tick tock.
The Astra purred in the middle of the road.
The Boss was still digging through the BMW.
Then he saw the Boss walk around to the boot and open it.
Just at that moment, Dom saw what he was looking for. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but it was close enough.
He pressed the button and started to move the car forward. Slowly.
It was the best he could come up with. Jesus, he hoped it would work.
Chapter 81
The Boss hadn’t seen the car approach; neither had Wade. They were too busy looking over the BMW, checking for the missing money, to watch the traffic. So when the car slowed as it approached them, they weren’t prepared. More fool them.
The ‘whoosh’ was followed by the flash as the petrol leaking from the fuel tank ignited. Both men leapt away from the vehicle. Wade didn’t jump far enough. He was still within the flaming circle that surrounded the car. Stumbling back even further, the henchman fell over, allowing some of the unlit petrol to absorb into the material of his jeans. Wade scrabbled to his feet but not before the flames leapt to the unburnt puddle he was standing in.
Not content with the burning fuel on the tarmac, the flames greedily raced toward the soaked denim, taking sustenance from the liquid and burning everything.
The hardened, wiry man danced to the tune of the flames, slapping away at the burning material, but just giving the flames more cloth to ignite.
The Boss stood back, not wanting to let the flames touch him. He’d watch his henchman burn to death before he’d risk singeing a single hair on his own head.
The flames had ideas of their own. They just wanted to burn. They just wanted more fuel to feed on. Their blue-orange hue searched the floor, looking for something more to burn. Looking for more life.
Then the flames found something more.
The flames licked up against the underside of the stricken vehicle. Finding the bullet-hole. Finding the fumes of ether and the remaining few litres of petrol, untouched. The expanding rush of the igniting fuel contained within the tank could not be held back.
The explosion lifted the back end of the car. The once closed fuel tank was now a twisted mess of mangled metal, opened to the elements.
The sudden shockwave launched the Boss into the wire fence bordering the rec ground. He had escaped the flames. Wade was not so lucky.
The loyal leg-breaker had burns to his legs and feet, and to the hands he was so desperately trying the slap out the flames with. There were no flames on him now but the damage had been done. Blood red blisters ran from his ankles to mid-thigh. The skin of his hands looked like a pair of flesh-coloured gloves, too big for his hands, the tips of his fingers drooping and weeping.
“Help me, Boss,” the hard man pleaded.
Nothing was said. The Boss lifted the injured man from the road, helping him to the rear of the van.
Wade fell onto the filthy floor. The dust was like salt in his wounds. He yelped like a dog chastised by his master.
The Boss slammed the payload doors. He hadn’t seen where the car had gone but he had a fair idea who had been driving it, this close to Bob Deakin’s house. There was no doubt this was Dom Carver’s work.
People had started to gather on doorsteps. The explos
ion had drawn a crowd. Somewhere in the distance, maybe a mile or two away, a siren could be heard, most likely a fire engine in response to a 999 call.
It was time to get going. Time to make himself scarce. But the Boss couldn’t help taking one last look at the carnage still burning away at the side of the road. He could see something resting on the ground. It was a smouldering nob of black plastic, the cigarette symbol just visible.
The Boss contained his rage – held it inside – to save for another time. If Dom Carver was going to use a car cigarette lighter to try and burn him, then the Boss would gladly return the favour and hold a cigarette lighter to Dom’s skin until it smelled like scorched meat.
He would have to find him first. It wouldn’t be hard. There was nowhere - not in this city - where Dom could hide.
Chapter 82
As big as Bristol was, it was no place to hide. Dom was a face. Dom was known. There was no hiding place in the city centre or the expansive suburbs. He could have holed up in a bedsit somewhere, staying out of view, but what kind of life was that? As it was, he didn’t have much of a life anymore. Even as a free man there was nothing for him here. He was no longer welcome in his hometown. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that.
Distance was what was required, just enough to feel safe, not enough to feel lost. The battered and weary Vauxhall Astra, with its ripped seat covers and musty smell, felt like a haven. He recalled some of the good times spent in the car. Trips up to London. Daytrips to Western-Super-Mare. Weekends by the sea. He thought of all those experiences now because there was nothing about the present he could latch any joy onto. Those trips with Bob and his mother were his attempt to break the cycle of bad behaviours in which he felt more comfortable. More alive.
In his heart he knew the truth. He was a bored, stupid kid who had never truly grown up until fate had forced him into taking responsibility for his actions.
Responsibility had cost him twelve years to be spent in an eight by ten cell with dog-eared books and a radio for company. His new reality felt much the same. While he wasn’t confined to a cell anymore, freedom was not a word he could use to describe the life he had now. He was imprisoned by his own loneliness. There was nobody here for him - nowhere to run to - nobody to hear his hopes and dreams, or woes and fears. This was the sentence of his recent crimes. This was his punishment.
Cog in the Machine Page 21