Lynch

by Merrigan, Peter J

  María crouched in front of her daughter. ‘Eleven years I’ve kept you safe,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to stop now. Te amo.’ And she kissed her and wiped the saliva from Lucia’s chin and tried to hold her briefly before she stood erect and looked at Walter. ‘Leave. Keep her safe. Or I swear I will fuck you with a rifle.’

  Walter nodded and María turned away.

  ‘Thank Christ,’ Scott said as Clark ran towards him. He held the phone out for her. ‘I’ve called the police. Do you know where we are?’

  She took the phone, pressed it to her ear. ‘This is Detective Ann Clark, NCIS. Has he told you what’s going on?’

  Scott looked over her shoulder. ‘Rhodes?’ he asked.

  Clark shook her head, negative. It was a tough blow to lose the two officers.

  ‘Can we keep moving?’ John shouted. He, Jesse and Katherine had already moved ahead, both men supporting Katherine as they went.

  Clark said into the phone, ‘Can you get a lock on the phone’s GPS signal? We’re somewhere near Oxford, that’s all I can say. Get in touch with Interpol in London. My colleague pushed our coordinates to them before he went down.’

  A gunshot was fired and everyone ducked. As Scott turned in a squat, he saw the woman standing by the corner.

  Clark had gone to her knees, dropped the phone, and was rolling back to a sniper-crouch, gun extended, and she fired. The woman backed up behind the wall.

  ‘Go,’ she said to Scott. ‘Get everyone to safety.’

  ‘I’m not going without you.’

  Their assailant blindly fired another round from her protective spot behind the wall and Clark retaliated in kind. She got to her feet, stayed low, nodded to Scott, and they backed away.

  ‘Are we in the O.K. fucking corral?’ John asked.

  ‘Move it,’ Clark said.

  On a Sunday, the industrial park they found themselves in was deserted. They approached a squat, red-brick, single-storey building that had an iron security gate in front of the entrance door. A single padlock held it closed and a large shutter beside the door was dropped all the way to the ground. The van parked outside was branded Softerns—Office Supplies and Equipment, and they stood behind it, out of view from the dark-haired woman. They had no idea how close she might have been, or if she was still behind the corner.

  Clark touched the padlock. It was a circular Master disc lock, stainless steel and solid. The shackle said Boron Carbide. She glanced across the lot but couldn’t see the woman.

  ‘Stand back,’ she said. She didn’t know how many rounds she had left in the gun, but she remembered reclipping it just before Rhodes told her to run. How many had she fired since then? Three? Four? It could have been more.

  ‘Keep behind the van,’ she told them. She didn’t want to waste any shells but to hold their attacker off a few seconds more, she reached around the van and fired unsighted. Then she turned, aimed at the padlock, and fired again. A cascade of glowing sparks fanned from the gate and the bullet ricocheted off the ground near her feet. The lock was broken and she pulled it from the barrel, dropping it and cursing from the heat of the metal.

  When she pulled open the security gate, the door that it had screened was sealed with nothing more than a standard Yale lock. She had busted enough of those over the years and knew exactly where to force her foot against the door.

  As the doorframe splintered and the door swung inwards, there was a quiet beeping sound coming from the alarm. Alarm systems don’t care who enters the building, or by what means—so long as you can enter the disarm code within the required number of seconds. Within the next thirty seconds or so, Clark knew, the alarm would start to scream its violation and—she hoped—would be linked to a security firm who would be on the scene pretty quickly.

  ‘If we go in there, we’ll be trapped,’ Scott said.

  Clark was already ushering them through the door when the alarm exploded into a dissonance of wails. ‘It’s better than being out in the open. If there’s only one way in, we can cover it and stop them before they can get in behind us.’

  She knew the busted door would give their location away, but she was counting on the woman trying to come in the same way. It was too late for capture and interrogation; she was going to shoot and shoot hard.

  Inside, they stood by what appeared to be a makeshift reception desk and Scott said, ‘There has to be more than just that woman. Was there anyone else in the van?’

  Jesse said, ‘Looked like there might have been someone in the front. Probably more in the back.’

  ‘So why didn’t they come out?’ John asked.

  Clark dropped the magazine from the butt of her weapon and counted.

  ‘How many?’ Scott asked.

  ‘Four,’ she said. ‘And one in the chamber.’

  Katherine leaned against the desk. She looked winded and exhausted. ‘Here’s hoping there aren’t any more than five of them, then.’

  ‘Look around,’ Clark said as she pushed the clip back in. ‘Find a weapon. Anything.’

  John turned in a circle. ‘It’s office supplies. Do you want us to paper-cut them to death?’

  ‘You can kill them with your humour if you prefer,’ Clark said.

  Scott and Jesse moved down the room looking for anything they could arm themselves with.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Scott asked.

  ‘I’m still alive,’ he said. ‘I think. How’re you?’

  Scott shrugged. He remembered that night eighteen months ago in the Belgrave Gentleman’s Club and the bomb that David Bernhard had strapped to his chest. ‘This is a breeze,’ he said. The smile he offered was crooked and sad. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, touching Jesse’s arm.

  ‘You don’t have to apologise again,’ Jesse said. He ran his fingers down Scott’s cheek. ‘But when this is over, you owe me big.’

  ‘Huge,’ Scott said.

  ‘And don’t forget it.’ Jesse leaned in, kissed him hard. Then he turned and picked up a stapler. ‘Let’s pin these bastards to the notice board.’

  It wasn’t the funniest thing he’d ever said but they laughed regardless.

  When they reassembled at reception, Jesse had swapped the stapler for a heavy metal tube, like a smaller version of a scaffolding rod, and Scott held a blade that he had ripped from a guillotine. The wooden handle of the blade was slick with some oil but he had wiped it on his shirt.

  John wielded a nail-gun he had found in a cupboard and Katherine, using all her energy to remain on her feet, stood behind them like a celebrity surrounded by her bodyguards.

  Clark turned back to the door, standing in front of the others, and assumed the correct stance with her legs slightly apart, one foot behind to take her weight, and she raised the gun in a double-handed grip.

  Scott took Jesse’s free hand in his and smiled at him. There was nowhere to run to now. They would fight or they would die. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Ready,’ Jesse said.

  John rolled his eyes. ‘Get a room,’ he said. ‘I don’t want vomit on my shirt while I’m kicking ass.’

  Chapter 24

  She’s a feisty one, María thought. She had kept cover and watched as they broke into the warehouse building and the blonde woman with the gun clearly knew what she was doing. She had to be a cop.

  When she heard a car screech up behind her and Fernandez exploded from the driver’s seat, María motioned him down. Fernandez came up behind her and flattened himself against the wall. ‘What’s the situation?’ he asked her in Spanish.

  María pointed. ‘They’re inside. Trapped like rats in a maze.’

  ‘Unless they went out a back door,’ Fernandez said. ‘Where’s the fat man?’

  ‘Hiding.’

  Fernandez shook his head. ‘Englishmen,’ he denounced. He looked back at the building opposite.

  ‘The woman is the only one with a gun,’ María said. ‘She’ll be covering the entrance.’ She followed Fernandez’s gaze to the warehouse. ‘You’ve hotwired
vehicles before, yes?’

  He looked at the van parked outside the building and knew what she intended. ‘One of my specialties,’ he said.

  In a stoop, they ran across to the adjacent building and held firm for a few seconds, listening. From the warehouse beside them, with the busted door and the blaring alarm, they could hear nothing else.

  María pointed two fingers, nodded at Fernandez, and they ran. As they passed the threshold of the office supplies building, she took a dive, fired through the open doorway, and rolled under the van. She heard Fernandez smash the driver’s side window and she pulled herself under the van and cleared the other side. By the time she had gotten to her feet, Fernandez was inside the van and reaching across to open the passenger door for her.

  Fernandez removed the plastic casing under the steering wheel, breaking the panel without the use of a screwdriver, and ripped two red wires bare and twisted them together. He pulled on the brown starter-wire, stripped the end, and touched it to the exposed red wires. The engine coughed awake and he revved it, a plume of black smoke choking from the rear exhaust.

  He shunted the van into reverse gear and braked at the end of the drive. They buckled up and he ploughed forward towards the shutters. When they hit the shutter, it buckled and moved but did not give way completely. He hoped it was a window behind the shutter and not a brick wall.

  He reversed again, a little further this time, and floored the accelerator, hitting the shutter just before the speedometer needle reached 25mph. The combination of speed and weight, and his heavy foot on the pedal, meant the shutter buckled further and tore from the wall. The van continued into the building.

  When the shot had come through the doorway, Clark pushed herself out of the way and told the others to get down, to get back. She kept her aim steady on the entrance and was expecting someone to come through it at any second.

  What she hadn’t counted on was the shuttered window smashing in beside the door and shards of glass exploding around them.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Everyone get back. Get into the other room.’ But they had little time. The window frame and the shutter came in towards them a few seconds later and the Softern’s van pushed in behind. It continued to bounce towards them, pushing up carpet tiles and throwing boxes around. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jesse getting hit on the head by some flying debris, and she watched him fall.

  ‘Get back!’ she shouted again.

  Scott was by Jesse’s side a second later and hauling him to his feet. As one unit, they all backed through a doorway into the warehouse proper. When the shutter rolled down in front of the van, Clark fired two quick shots but the passenger door was already open and in the driver’s seat she saw Fernandez twisting out and onto the ground. Letting the door close in front of her, she thought, Three rounds left.

  She turned. ‘Move it. Find another way out.’

  ‘He’s bleeding,’ Scott shouted.

  Clark came to his side and inspected the wound on the side of Jesse’s head. A gash of about three inches from above his right eye, across his temple and towards the back of his head, was oozing thick, dark blood that stained his face. ‘It’s a flesh wound,’ she said, though she knew it had to be deep. ‘Keep him upright and keep moving. Where’s Margaret?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Katherine called. ‘There’s a door back here. But it’s locked.’

  John was throwing himself against the door in a bid to force it open but it was no use.

  ‘Look for a key,’ Clark shouted. ‘Where the fuck is the security firm?’

  She kept her eyes on the door through which they had just come. It opened slightly and a shot was fired through it. Clark ducked and rolled behind a pallet of boxes. She couldn’t blindly waste her bullets; she needed a clear shot or they’d all be dead. She had been surprised to see Fernandez at the wheel and expected the Spanish woman was already in the building with them. One of Ramirez’s colleagues, she figured, likely trained in combat and adept at strategy.

  Clark counted off her current charges: Katherine, an elderly woman who was tired and limping; John, a drag queen with a quick mouth and a short temper; Jesse, good with horses but probably never fought anything more than bullies on the playground in his youth.

  And Scott Lynch, formerly Kane Rider, a civilian whose total warfare experience was the result of a block of C4 strapped to his chest eighteen months ago, and a few adrenaline-fuelled acts of self-defence that would have ended in voluntary manslaughter had Interpol not intervened.

  Clark took a deep breath and knew that either Fernandez or the Spanish woman—or both—where now in the same room as them. She got back to her feet and into a crouch, gun arm ready. If she wasn’t already suspended and facing dismissal, she should have followed Pat Wilson’s advice into early retirement.

  Scott Helped Jesse to the far wall where the others were standing. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Bit dizzy,’ Jesse said.

  ‘Help me look for a key,’ John said.

  Scott looked around, keeping one supportive hand on Jesse’s shoulder. The warehouse was about thirty foot wide and seventy or eighty long. There was row upon row of pallets, stacked two high in places. There was sufficient cover as long as Fernandez didn’t come out into the final aisle and see them.

  ‘Is there a pallet truck?’ Katherine asked.

  ‘What?’ Scott looked at her.

  ‘If they can come through the front wall in a van, we can break through a wooden door in a pallet truck,’ she said.

  Jesse was wilting against the wall. ‘Stay with me,’ Scott said. ‘John, can you look for a forklift truck or something?’

  In the commotion at the front of the building, both he and Jesse had dropped their weapons. John now picked up the nail gun from where he’d placed it by the door and held it out to Scott.

  Scott shook his head. ‘Take it with you. Just in case.’

  John forced it into Scott’s hands. ‘Keep the others safe.’ He looked at Katherine, back at Scott. ‘She might not be your real mum, but she’s the closest thing you have. Keep them safe. Here, it’s got a trigger. And this is the nail dispenser but I’ve no idea how many nails are in it. They have to be close; this isn’t the movies, it won’t fire thirty feet.’

  Scott nodded. ‘Hurry back,’ he said, and John disappeared between two rows of office supplies.

  Scott ran his fingers over the top of the doorframe, hopeful but not expectant. There was no stashed key. He tried kicking the door but it didn’t budge.

  Katherine was leaning against the wall and holding on to Jesse. The events of the day had really sapped her strength. Jesse’s face was now covered in blood, his shirt turning crimson. The wound on his head was more than flesh deep, he knew. If they didn’t get out of here and get him to a hospital very soon, he’d probably lose consciousness and die.

  Scott held the nail gun in front of him. They couldn’t retreat any further.

  Clark used her free hand against the pallets to guide her as she backed from row to row. She thought she saw movement up ahead but couldn’t be sure which of their assailants it was, and without a clear view, she wasn’t going to fire—that would only succeed in decreasing her available ammunition and pointing out her whereabouts to Fernandez and his partner.

  If they were clever, and she suspected they probably were, they’d have split up and were likely combing the aisles from opposite directions. She kept her head in constant flux, left and right, looking both in front and behind her, and she continued to make her slow way towards the back of the warehouse, jumping from aisle to aisle and back again in order to further avoid detection.

  At the end of one row, she pressed herself tight against a pallet and listened. For a few seconds she heard nothing, and then the squeak of a rubber sole on the rough painted floor. She couldn’t determine where the noise had come from but she knew it wasn’t far.

  She peered into the aisle on her left and saw a figure moving out of sight in a cross-aisle. Clark spun
and planted her feet at the end of the neighbouring aisle, arm extended, and fired a round at the woman who appeared at the head.

  The woman dived for cover and Clark knew her bullet hadn’t hit.

  Two left.

  She took shelter in the opposite direction and hoped they could stay alive long enough for backup to arrive. Before she dropped the phone outside, she had given the police operator enough information, she hoped, to pinpoint their location. And she was still counting on the security firm sending a guard out to investigate.

  But they were taking their damn time getting here.

  ‘Come on, come on, come on,’ Scott whispered. His eyes moved left and right as he tried to cover all bases. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked, without looking behind him.

  Katherine said, ‘It’s getting harder to keep him awake. He’s bleeding heavily. Come on, Jesse, talk to me.’

  ‘Jesse,’ Scott said. ‘Stay with us. I owe you, remember?’

  Jesse tried to laugh. ‘Big,’ he said.

  ‘Huge,’ Scott confirmed. ‘Do you want to go get some ice cream after this? We can drive back to Scarborough, throw chips at the seagulls. Make fucking sandcastles.’

  Jesse said something, his voice a murmur.

  ‘What was that, baby?’ Scott asked. His arms were beginning to ache as he held the nail gun up.

  Jesse spoke again and Katherine said, ‘Horse beach?’

  Scott said, ‘Horses on the beach? Yeah, we can take them for a ride on the shore. I like that idea.’

  Katherine’s voice was a hoarse shout. ‘Kane! There!’

  Scott turned and saw Fernandez running towards them down the aisle. His gun was in his hand but he wasn’t aiming it at them. Scott raised the nail gun and fired but the nail fell ten or twelve feet in front of him.

  And now Fernandez was raising his own gun, a real gun, and Scott turned to dive out of the way.