Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  He blinked in dismay as his bullets stitched a harmless line across the top of the tarmacked surface, a good ten feet from where Stratton was now running towards the car park exit. He watched him hand-vault across the other LonWash vehicle and heard a blare of horns as he ran out into the main road.

  Devon cursed, threw open the door and set off in pursuit. He felt a spike of adrenaline flushing into his blood stream, delivering a burst of energy to tired legs and propelling him forward with the thrust of a one-hundred metre sprinter leaving the starting blocks. He knew it was not the thrill or excitement of the chase; it was a cold, ruthless determination not to let Stratton escape. One way or another, he would put an end to the madness of the past week.

  He slowed to look at Cheadle slumped across the seat of his vehicle and prayed it was nothing more than impact trauma. He fought an urge to rip open the door and check for vital signs, but knew he couldn’t stop the pursuit. When he rounded the front of the barricaded Rover and saw what was left of Mortimer’s face, his anger erupted in a blood-curdling scream.

  Two hundred yards ahead he could see Stratton running down the centre of the busy street, waving his weapon at startled motorists. He knew if Stratton grabbed a taxi or commandeered a vehicle he could disappear into the inner city lunchtime traffic. If that happened, the chances of picking up his trail again would be remote.

  Doyle ran up behind him. “What are we waiting for?”

  Devon flung an arm across the big man’s chest in a gesture of restraint. “No, you stay here and see what you can do for Cheadle. I can take this bastard on my own.”

  Chapter 47

  THE LAMBETH PALACE Road was beginning to clog with traffic, typical of a Friday afternoon on one of London’s main tourist routes. It snaked along the South Bank of the Thames, sweeping in front of the main access to the historic Lambeth Palace, home to the Archbishop of Canterbury, the senior cleric of the Church of England, and onwards past the entrance to St Thomas Hospital and beyond to Westminster Bridge.

  Stratton knew the location afforded a number of opportunities to melt into the background, not least by using the cover of an extensive garden area immediately adjacent to the large Lambeth Palace building. His first thought was to track through the garden and work his way back to Waterloo train station, barely two hundred yards from the rear perimeter.

  He immediately dismissed the notion, reasoning there was bound to be increased security at one of the city’s main passenger terminals. He decided instead to head for the Kensington area where he could hail a taxi, get himself across town, and regroup as far away from this area as possible. All he needed to do was find a large department store, make a number of purchases, and spend thirty minutes in its toilet area to transform his appearance. By nightfall he would be well away from London and heading for any one of a number of European destinations.

  He sprinted from the road to the footpath leading past a small queue of tourists outside the palace gates. He slowed to a walk and glanced behind, his plans suddenly flying out the window at the sight of Mike Devon bounding down the central reservation. Another two minutes and the bastard would be onto him!

  Stratton picked up his pace, scanning frantically ahead for an unwitting motorist parking a car or even hoping for the off-chance of a discarded bicycle - anything that would help him get the hell out of here. There was nothing.

  He ran past the railed-off garden and saw a row of bars and restaurants directly ahead. He decided his best chance was to duck into one of the buildings and take a rear exit that was bound to lead to the vast sprawl of Kensington. There was no time to think further ahead. He crashed through the first door, ignored the startled looks, and raised the Beretta, firing two shots into a plasterboard ceiling.

  He turned the gun on a startled woman behind the bar. “Where’s the back door?”

  She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead she lifted her arm to point to an archway.

  Stratton pushed his way past a row of tables, sending glasses and bottles flying as he fought to clear a path. Behind, he could hear the patrons scrambling for the front door.

  Devon reached the end of the railings just in time to see Stratton run through a pub doorway. He heard the shots as he approached the entrance and was impeded as frightened people spilled out onto the pavement. He was forced to wait in mounting impatience until the last person flew past before taking a deep breath and stepping into the interior.

  He held the Sig Sauer rock-steady in his right hand and began a slow sweep with his eyes. A woman was standing rigid with her hand pointed to the right, her eyes glazed over in shock. She bore all the symptoms of going into a catatonic trance.

  Devon walked towards her, leant across the counter and slapped her firmly on the cheek. Her eyes refocused and her arm dropped to her side. “Best if you leave now, Miss,” Devon told her.

  He watched as she walked unsteadily towards the door and disappeared into the street. He turned his attention back to the archway where she had been pointing and noticed a small hallway that led to a push-bar security door. A small glimmer of light could be seen down one side where the door had failed to close automatically.

  Devon moved carefully, checking into a recessed drinks alcove before lifting his foot and slamming the security door open. A walled yard stretched ahead of him, the place cluttered with stacks of empty beer crates and wheeled dustbins. A slight movement to his right caught his attention and he looked up to see Stratton atop a ten-foot wall, his knees bent as he prepared to launch himself to the other side.

  Before Devon had a chance to aim his weapon, Stratton hurled himself off the wall and was gone from sight.

  A mound of crates sprawled against the wall provided a makeshift ladder from the yard. Devon holstered his weapon and ran forward, planting his right foot on the edge of the bottom container and scaling up the rickety structure. The top crate slipped under his weight, but he had already grabbed for the top of the wall and was hanging on when the mound disappeared below him.

  Straining every sinew he fought his way to the top, hooked his right leg over the wall, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Instantly, he saw Stratton running along a grass verge at the back of the row of buildings, heading for a small footbridge that crossed a confusion of rail tracks stretching into the distance.

  Devon dropped to the ground and took up the chase.

  He reached a flight of concrete steps leading to the bridge in time see Stratton’s head dip out of sight on the far side. He summoned up an additional reserve of energy and tore across the bridge at breakneck speed, his boots drumming a hollow beat on the wooden planks.

  A second set of steps led down from the bridge to a pathway that arrowed directly towards a row of dilapidated sheds. Judging by a mountain of discarded wooden sleepers and two abandoned carriages lying forlornly outside the open doorways, the units were used as some sort of a service area for the nearby railyards. Stratton disappeared into the first opening.

  From his vantage point Devon paused a moment longer, taking in the scene to the side and rear of the building, and decided to approach the area by skirting the sheds, using the sleepers as cover to get to the rear of the site unnoticed.

  He ran as if his life depended on it and slid to a halt behind a low concrete wall overlooking a small rear exit door, less than twenty yards away. He retrieved his Sig, leaned across the wall, and aimed at the doorway.

  Stratton’s head appeared a few seconds later.

  Devon fired twice, chipping shards of wood from the door frame and forcing Stratton back inside the shed.

  A glance to his left told Devon he could now cover both ends of the building. Finally, he had his man trapped!

  Chapter 48

  THE INTERIOR OF the shed was strewn with the detritus of a railway chop-shop. Stratton noticed two carriage axel bases tossed haphazardly against piles of rotten wood, rusted and twisted sections of track and a mound of outdated tieplates and dogspike fasteners. One corner
of the building was covered by a sloping hill of crushed stone that was once used as underbed ballast, but was now clogged with dust and patches of dried cement. The air was rank with the smell of creosote and decay.

  Stratton moved away from the rear door and found a small peep-hole that provided a view of Devon’s position. He watched as his pursuer’s eyes darted left and right - and that could only mean one thing. Devon had a bead on both doors. He needed to find an alternative exit.

  He crossed to the far end of the shed, but could find no openings. The timber-framed walls looked sturdy, although the chances were he could dislodge enough struts to climb through into the next unit. Even if Devon heard the sound of his efforts it would give him an edge. The big man would have to come out from behind his cover to pursue him – and that might just provide a more level playing field.

  He stood back and aimed a kick at the wooden wall. To his horror it refused to budge. The solid timbers were reinforced at intervals by iron cross-girders which prevented any movement or flexibility in the structure. Apart from using a sledgehammer – and where do you find a sledgehammer when you need one? – there was no way of breaking through.

  He made his way back to the other side, knowing time was not on his side. The longer Devon kept him pinned down the greater the chances of support arriving on the scene.

  He wondered briefly if he could use his knife to widen the peep-hole enough to push his gun barrel through the gap. He dismissed the thought immediately, realising that even if he completed the task without Devon seeing him, he would be firing blindly with little hope of doing any real damage.

  He was running out of options.

  He had one last card to play. It was a long-shot, but he believed it might work. He walked back to the rear door, careful to stay inside the framework, and yelled a challenge.

  “How about we settle this like men?”

  There was a pause before a response came echoing back. “What exactly have you in mind?”

  Stratton smiled. The idiot was taking the bait. “It’s really rather simple. I toss out my weapon, step outside and we find out who’s the better man.”

  From his vantage point Devon couldn’t help but admire the gall of the man. He knew he could take Stratton, but guessed there would be more to it than a simple case of unarmed combat. “Tell me, Carl, why should I give you a chance when you didn’t offer the same courtesy to Dave Carpenter or Bob Mortimer or any of the other people who have come within your sick shadow. Why don’t I just toss a few grenades over there and mop this up in time to go home and have supper with my wife?”

  Stratton burst out laughing. “Come on, Devon. If you had grenades you would have used them by now. I’m betting this is so personal for you that you want to see the whites of my eyes when you kill me. Why deprive yourself of the pleasure?”

  “Nothing doing. You’ve nowhere to go. I can afford to wait for back-up. You’re right about one thing though and that’s how much I’m looking forward to seeing you go down. I’ll bet when the time comes, your eyes will betray you. I’ll be looking into the frightened soul of a man who knows that what you tried to do has come to nothing. Allah will not be pleased with your feeble efforts. You can forget about having forty virgins waiting for you on the other side.”

  Stratton bristled at the taunt, but he fought to keep his emotions in check. “You know, Devon, if I was a betting man I would say your reluctance to take me head-on has more to do with the fact that you’re scared than because you think you hold all the aces. I’m conceding more than twenty years to you, but deep down you realise I’m the better man and it rankles that you won’t be able to get the better of me. From where I stand I’ve already won the fight.”

  Far from being stung by the words, Devon allowed himself a smile at the brazenness of the man. He reached a decision. “Okay, Carl, let’s do it your way. Toss your weapon where I can see it and step out with your hands above your head.”

  Behind the cover of the doorway Stratton bent down to unclasp a Walther PPK from a strap around his right ankle. He tucked the weapon into the waistband at the base of his back, smoothed his jacket over it, and flung his Beretta out into the courtyard. Then he raised his arms and stepped out into the sunlight.

  Devon ordered him to walk forward a few paces before he rose from behind the wall, his Sig aimed at Stratton’s centre mass.

  The two men glared at each other in silence for more than thirty seconds before Stratton broke the spell. “I’m taking a lot on faith here. What say you lose the Sig?”

  Devon thought fleetingly about pulling the trigger. The man within his sights had come close to causing an untold number of deaths with his bombing campaign. He could not be allowed to live a second longer. But even as his finger squeezed down lightly on the trigger, he knew he couldn’t do it.

  He lowered the Sig and let it fall to the ground.

  Alan Doyle felt a chilling sense of foreboding as he cradled Alfie Cheadle’s head in the front of the crashed Range Rover. He was not unduly concerned about his young colleague, who was beginning to stir and trying to force himself away from the embrace. Doyle’s thoughts were much farther away, somewhere down the Lambeth Palace Road where Devon was in reckless pursuit of one of the most dangerous opponents the agency had ever faced.

  He didn’t doubt for a moment his best friend could handle himself, or that he would allow Stratton to sucker him into a trap. Yet the feeling persisted. Something kept telling him this was a situation that would not end well. It was Devon who needed his help, not Cheadle.

  He looked at the youngster and came to a decision. “You’re gonna be okay, but stay put and let someone take a look at that bump in your head. At the very least you’ve probably got concussion, so no heroics. Don’t move from this seat until I get back.”

  Doyle clambered out of the vehicle, drew his Glock 19 to check for a chambered round, and bounded down the road in the direction Stratton and Devon had taken.

  Ahead he could see a large crowd gathered on the pavement outside a row of pubs and made straight for them. He roughly grabbed the arm of a tall city gent, dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit, and demanded to know what was happening.

  “Some bloke ran in there,” the man responded, pointing to the first door, “and began firing. Another guy with a gun arrived shortly afterwards and went inside after him.”

  Doyle sprinted for the door, but was stopped by a woman sitting sobbing on a stone flower plinth. “I think they both went out the back door which is straight ahead when you go through the foyer.”

  Without hesitating, Doyle pulled open the door and stepped inside. He made his way carefully to the rear compound, noting the fallen stack of beer crates lying against the perimeter wall. He grabbed a wheeled dustbin, dragged it across the compound, and used it to scale the wall.

  He looked both ways on the other side. To his left was nothing – just an open expanse of overgrown grass banks stretching for hundreds of yards along rail tracks leading to Waterloo station. The right side offered better options as an escape route, particularly a bridge that seemed to be the only way to cross to the distant area of Kensington.

  Five minutes later he stopped to scan a spot with old sheds standing forlornly in an uneven row. His heart soared when he saw Devon step from behind a wall, his pistol aimed at a figure emerging from the rear of one of the buildings. It was Stratton, his legs spread apart in a defiant gesture, but his hands were hoisted in surrender.

  Doyle was about to shout out to congratulate his boss when he saw Devon toss away his weapon. Jeez, Mike, what are you doing?

  Chapter 49

  STRATTON LOWERED his arms and smiled. At last he had his chance. He would dispense with this upstart and make a clean break, his mind already focussed on replenishing his stock of Malponium 23 and returning someday to London to finish the job. Next time, he would make sure there would be no hiccups.

  He stared at Devon, almost wishing he had time to see what the younger man was made of. He
was forced to admit the LonWash operative was way better than he had expected – it was a misjudgement that had stymied him at virtually every turn, and one he would not repeat in the future. But now was not the time for grandstanding. It was time to move on.

  Stratton made a show of slowly removing his jacket. As his right arm cleared the sleeve he moved it slightly behind him, his hand reaching out for the concealed Walther. If Devon detected the subtlety of the manoeuvre, there was nothing in his eyes to betray it.

  Suddenly there was movement to his right. He turned to see the figure of Alan Doyle racing towards him, the black outline of a Glock held firmly at arm’s length as he bore down on his position.

  All three men seemed to want to speak at once. It was Stratton who shouted the first words. “I see you decided on getting some help. I might have known you didn’t have the guts to face me in a fair fight.”

  Devon turned towards his friend. “Stand down, Alan. I’ve got this covered.”

  Doyle fumed. By now he was within twenty feet of Stratton, his gun pointing directly at the terrorist’s head. “Fuck the macho bullshit, Mike. We came here to kill this fucker and that’s what we’re going to do.”

  Stratton’s lips parted, but Doyle cut off his attempt to speak. “Not another word from you. Isn’t it just typical that scumbags like are not prepared to play as fair…..”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stratton yelled back.

  “Try this for size, asshole,” Doyle said. “Your right hand is at a curious angle, almost as if you’re trying to reach for a concealed weapon. So here’s the deal. In about two seconds from now I’m going to start shooting. You can use that time to try to draw your gun, or you can simply raise your arms and take what’s coming to you like a man.”

  “What if I don’t have a weapon?”