by Nick Oldham
Hawke couldn’t re-aim in time and Henry powered low into him, his bad shoulder connecting with Hawke’s gut, sending the air out of his lungs, then driving the both of them, locked together, over the side of the jetty into the icy embrace of the water below, hitting the surface hard, grappling as they went under. The gun flew from Hawke’s grip.
They fought violently in what was immediately pitch blackness beneath the surface, each scratching the other, each trying to grip the other, and then they shot up, wheezing for breath. Henry knew then that he was going to struggle badly here. They broke apart for a moment, but then Hawke went for him and took him under, managing to get his right forearm around Henry’s neck and pull him down, at the same time crashing his forehead into Henry’s temple, curling his legs around Henry’s hips and clinging to him like a monkey, using the strokes of his left arm to take them both under again.
And of course he didn’t have to strangle Henry – that would have been counter-productive, actually to constrict his throat. He wanted to drown him, so he gripped on just tight enough so that Henry’s mouth was open and the cold Atlantic water, tinged with diesel from the boats, went down his gullet.
Henry fought, squirming manically, unable to get free, feeling his strength sapping from him, trying to prise Hawke’s arm from around his throat, but it wasn’t happening, his lungs involuntarily sucking in sea water, which started to saturate them.
He knew he was going to die here and had almost accepted that fact when, for the second time, he shot up to the surface, free from Hawke’s grasp, splashing madly with his arms, coughing and choking horribly as he retched and breathed at the same time.
He reached out and wrapped his arms around a stanchion under the jetty, then looked around and saw Steve Flynn’s head bob to the surface about a dozen feet from him. Alongside him was Hawke. Flynn was holding Hawke’s shirt by the collar, but Hawke wasn’t moving. His face was still in the water, his body lifeless.
Using the lifesaving stroke, Flynn paddled across to Henry dragging Hawke in his wake.
‘You OK, mate?’ Flynn asked Henry, who still had water cascading up his throat and down his nostrils.
Henry made a snotty gurgling noise that meant yes. Thank you.
Henry looked up as Flynn sat down at the restaurant table and the two men eyed each other warily for a few seconds.
It was one hour later. In front of them, the jetty had been cordoned off and beyond the barriers there was a lot of intensive police activity, but not much to see now, as several screens had also been erected to hide the horror that had taken place from prying eyes.
None of the bodies had been moved, even Hawke’s, which lay where it had been dragged on to the jetty like a huge fish. Further down there were three more bodies, all killed by gunshots to the head. Somewhere in amongst the police activity were Donaldson and his FBI colleague, and a Spanish detective called Romero, who was in charge of proceedings.
‘Thanks again,’ Henry said.
Flynn held up his hand. ‘Enough. I just leapt in and dragged him off you and then he went for me, so I just held on tight.’ He shrugged and smiled. Henry nodded. ‘So, Henry, you going to tell me what all this has been about?’
Henry was about to speak when they saw Karl Donaldson duck under the cordon tape and walk towards them, accompanied by a Spanish cop and carrying a box of some sort.
He came up to them and placed the box on the table. Henry looked at it. It reminded him of an old-fashioned biscuit tin, but instead of jolly Victorian street scenes on it, the metal was rusted and discoloured.
Donaldson said nothing, but prised the lid off to reveal its contents.
‘These,’ Henry said, ‘are what this is all about, and they have cost far too many lives … may I?’ he asked Donaldson, who nodded. Henry dipped his hand into the tin and picked up a handful of raw, uncut diamonds which he then allowed to dribble through his fingers.