All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  ‘You seem fairly laid-back about that.’

  Scutter sighed. ‘I never meant him any harm, you know, your brother. I mean, I personally never meant him any harm, but it’s true that my aim was to deliver him into the hands of people who would have meant him harm, and for that I fully deserve more than the sentence I served. For that I deserve to die.’

  ‘Who? Who were you going to give him to? Doyle?’

  Scutter laughed. ‘The Doyles are paid employees, bouncers, enforcers. Nothing more.’

  ‘They seem to command an awful lot of respect.’

  ‘Round here they do. Say my uncle’s name and watch them shake with fear. But that’s the locals.’

  ‘OK.’ Abbott raised his pistol. ‘This is the bit where I ask you questions, and you answer them. I need to know about the fat guy.’

  ‘Fat guy?’

  ‘This second guy who was in your car the day you picked up Chris. Who was he?’

  ‘How about I tell you after you and I cut a little deal?’

  Abbott gave a short, dry laugh.

  ‘I’m holding a gun on you.’

  It was as though Scutter wasn’t listening. ‘You can help me get out of here safely.’

  ‘I don’t care about your safety.’ He nudged with the Glock. ‘Who was he?’

  A bead of sweat ran down Scutter’s temple. ‘And if I tell you?’

  ‘Try if you don’t.’

  Scutter swallowed. A second bead of sweat escaped his hairline. ‘OK, look, as a gesture of good faith, I’ll tell you. How about that?’

  ‘How about you tell me as a gesture of wanting to stay alive?’

  Another prod.

  ‘OK, OK . . . His name is Sweaty.’

  ‘“Sweaty”? Now there’s a name to conjure with.’ And something told Abbott that a man who went by the name ‘Sweaty’ was far more likely to conform to his paedophile preconceptions.

  ‘Yes. I know. You’d say that if you saw him. I think, if anything, it was Sweaty who panicked your brother. He isn’t the most savoury of people, if you know what I mean. Sweaty by name, sweaty by nature.’

  ‘What happened to him, this Sweaty?’

  ‘If I tell you more, can we do a deal?’

  ‘Just talk.’

  ‘OK. He left Matlock. He came here, in fact.’

  ‘Both of you from Derby, eh?’

  Scutter nodded. ‘They set him up nicely.’

  ‘They? Doyle?’

  ‘Something like that. Point being that we can make a deal and I can help you find Sweaty. And if you find Sweaty, you’ll find yourself that much closer to the heart of the machine. You’ll practically be in the engine room. Would you like to do that? What do you say, Abbott? Do you fancy being my bodyguard?’

  Abbott shook his head. ‘You are seriously pushing your luck, mate. Nothing changes the fact that you killed my brother.’

  Scutter opened his mouth to object, but Abbott stopped him with a sharp jab of the suppressor. ‘Shut up. You were responsible for the people who killed my brother. And, no, I didn’t come here to kill you, but on the other hand, I didn’t come here to do you any favours either.’

  Scutter had lost a little of his confidence now. A gun barrel at the side of your head will do that. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘I understand. How about this? You be my bodyguard. You protect me from the hooded claw, and I’ll lead you to the men that you really want, the organ grinders, not the monkeys. I’ll take you to Sweaty. And I’ll show you the whole organisation.’

  ‘What do you mean, the organ grinders?’ said Abbott. At the same time, he saw a movement outside the French windows and swung to see a guy in the garden, a suppressed MP7 at his shoulder, taking aim.

  Abbott dived.

  And a bullet that was meant for him blew Scutter’s brains out.

  CHAPTER 19

  Blood, bits of skull and grey brain matter bloomed in the front room. Abbott wheeled, bringing the Glock up in a two-handed grip to see that in the glass of the French doors was a single bullet hole. He was about to squeeze off, but was too late, as the garden guy fired again, this time a short burst that destroyed the glass of the French door, sending Abbott diving for cover and giving the guy enough time to step through the shattered glass and into the lounge.

  Another short burst. Dum-dum rounds stitched the sofa behind which Abbott crouched, gun held by his thigh. Rounds tore through the frame, destroyed cushions, dug divots in the carpet, none of them, thankfully, finding Abbott. He shifted position, correctly anticipating the gunman would vary the direction of attack. Sure enough, another burst, furniture mauled by high-velocity gunfire, the whole exchange wildly destructive and yet at the same time strangely quiet, a series of muffled pops, the sound of somebody thumping a pillow.

  Traditionally, Abbott had been calm in the heat of a gunfight, and maybe that was because he’d always had a low opinion of his own life. Here the same applied, at least some of the SF training coming back as bullets rained around him, so that instead of being panicked into reacting prematurely, he held fast.

  And then when the assault rifle fired dry, he rose fast from behind the sofa, making a quick forty-five-degree motion in order to find his target.

  What would a combat instructor have said? Marks for patience. For waiting. For keeping cool under fire.

  Points deducted for underestimating the enemy. Failing to anticipate his next move.

  Sure enough, the attacker had shifted, expecting Abbott to launch his counter. Rather than trying to reload, he decided to resort to close combat. Pain lanced along Abbott’s forearm as from outside of his peripheral vision, the attacker came, using the butt of the MP7 to knock the Glock from his hands.

  Abbott let go of the gun but held onto the pain, refusing to be overwhelmed by it and turning to meet his attacker. He found himself staring into the eyes of a guy just like him, almost the same age, probably ex-forces, maybe even SF. A kindred spirit. A man who in another life he might have found himself fighting beside but was now his mortal enemy.

  His mortal enemy.

  Abbott’s arms came up to grasp the MP7 before the attacker could swing it at his skull, and for a moment or two they wrestled until with a surge of strength and a grunt of effort, Abbott shoved the guy backwards. He was gratified to see the panic flare in the man’s eyes as the backs of his legs made contact with the coffee table and he was sent off-balance.

  The attacker fell, smashing into the coffee table, rolling off and slapping a hand into the exploded head of Scutter. Abbott dived for his Glock and almost got there but the other guy was up and on him. Thoughts of guns were gone now, the guy’s hands going to Abbott’s face, his thumbs trying to find his eyes.

  Trying to gouge them out.

  It was an old combat trick. The very act of trying to gouge out your victim’s eyes was so barbaric that it could have a shocking, even paralysing effect on them, and the advantage might be just enough to gain the upper hand.

  If your opponent was inexperienced, that was. If he wasn’t trying to do to you what you were trying to do to him.

  They rolled over broken bits of coffee table and brains and blood and beer and Fast & Furious DVDs, grappling and both trying to find purchase, not just with their hands but with legs and feet, with moves more intricate than any gymnast, any pair of lovers, reason being that there was more at stake. The guy’s thumb found its way into Abbott’s larynx, but he twisted away, using Scutter’s body as cover and managing to scramble to his knees. At the same time the attacker shifted likewise, and for a second they were at rest, on their knees on the carpet, shoulders rising and falling as they caught their breath.

  Guns. The MP7 not far away. Abbott’s Glock close at hand. And it was there that Abbott went, diving for it, finger-tips finding it, bringing the butt into his palm, the feeling as welcome as a warm dog and roaring fire in the grate, and swinging it around to bear on his opponent.

  It was all the guy could do to stop Abbott pulling the trigger as he launc
hed himself haphazardly forward, crashing into Abbott, who was unable to fire but was able to take advantage of the sudden imbalance, twisting around, bringing his foe with him and using his forward motion against him.

  The guy crashed down, Abbott over him, Abbott standing, lifting his foot, stamping hard on the guy’s face once, twice and then a third time for good measure. And then, satisfied that his opponent was beaten, rolled away.

  For perhaps thirty seconds he lay there, recovering from the battle. Next, he grabbed the guy by the lapels of his denim jacket, grunting as he heaved him onto the sofa. He was out cold for the time being so Abbott rooted through his pockets and came up with a wallet where, according to his driving licence, his name was Owen Flyte.

  Like Abbott, Flyte had carried a backpack, just the size to conceal an MP7. Abbott rooted through it. In here were spare mags for the weapon as well as duct tape. There were also two pieces of paper, folded. One was a photocopied photograph of himself, taken from his forces ID. Scrawled on it was the single word, ‘Abbott’.

  A second piece of paper, a picture of Scutter, again the name.

  And then the killer’s phone rang.

  ‘Number not recognised.’

  He shouldn’t answer it, he knew. On the other hand, this might be his best chance at moving forward.

  He answered. Held the mouthpiece away from himself, mumbled the word, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Flyte?’

  ‘You might be in luck. Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s McGregor. You haven’t replied to my text.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  Abbott tried to piece events together. Evidently Flyte and this McGregor hadn’t previously spoken, just communicated by text.

  ‘I’m after an update. Is clean-up required?’

  ‘You might say that. My recommendation is that you come and see for yourself.’

  ‘OK. Stay where you are. Be there soon.’

  ‘Wait,’ instructed Abbott. ‘The passphrase will be Sasquatch. To which you have to reply, “We always called him Bigfoot in my house.” No deviation will be tolerated.’

  McGregor paused and Abbott wondered, was he pushing it?

  ‘Understood,’ said McGregor. ‘Just wait there.’

  Abbott ended the call, taking a deep breath. The fact that the enemy knew he’d taken a taxi to Scutter’s house meant the pub had relayed that information. Which in turn meant that they would have been provided with a description by the barman or someone else in there.

  He took a look at Owen Flyte. At best guess, Flyte was ex-forces like himself, and there were certainly superficial similarities in height, build and age. Flyte’s hair was darker but also short. Squint your eyes and you perhaps could mistake one for the other.

  He looked down at himself. What might the barman remember?

  The T-shirt. The Finchley Sportsman. His quiz champion prize. Never mind what he looked like. What was he wearing?

  Which meant . . .

  Abbott had never in his life tried or even attempted to try swapping clothes with a half-dead bloke but, if asked, he might have said that it wasn’t too difficult a process.

  Wrong. Special forces training was less difficult than swapping clothes with the unconscious Owen Flyte. But he did it. Anything else? The picture. He’d just flushed it when the doorbell rang.

  He took a hold of himself. Although he’d drawn the line at changing trousers, he now wore Owen Flyte’s navy polo shirt and denim jacket, but more to the point, Flyte wore the Finchley Sportsman T-shirt, and if Abbott was right – and him being right was these days a somewhat rare occurrence – then that’s the aspect of his appearance they would remember most.

  Otherwise . . .

  Otherwise he was dead.

  As he made his way to the front door, he said to himself, You are Owen Flyte. Your name is Owen Flyte. He tried to think like that guy. Tried to put himself in that man’s shoes and what went through his mind as he reached for the Yale of the door was that it shouldn’t be too difficult because after all, they were both trained killers. They both took lives for money.

  ‘Sasquatch,’ he said, when he opened the door and saw the man on the other side.

  ‘We always called him Bigfoot in my house.’

  Pleasantries were exchanged. Abbott held the gun on McGregor and then appeared to relax, allowing McGregor into the house and showing him the man on the sofa.

  ‘This guy?’

  ‘Out cold.’

  ‘I can see that, Dr Zhivago. This is Alex Abbott, is it?’ asked McGregor. He was in his late-thirties and wore a cheap leather jacket over a shirt that was open by at least two buttons too many, his dark hair in need of a wash.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘From his wallet. And the fact that he matches the description I’ve been given,’ said Abbott, surfing a wave of weirdness, as though he was having an out-of-body experience, pointing a gun at himself as he lay, out cold on a sofa, wearing a Finchley Sportsman T-shirt.

  ‘Well, you better finish the job, then.’ McGregor indicated the state of Flyte’s face. ‘Better do it quick, too. Looks like he almost killed you.’

  ‘Sure. He was tough.’

  Abbott raised the Glock. Sorry, brother, he thought. You or me. I choose you.

  He double-tapped Flyte, whose body jerked on the sofa, bloody beer bottle-tops appearing on his chest. He wouldn’t have felt a thing.

  ‘OK,’ said McGregor. ‘So now I’m going to take you to meet the boss.’

  CHAPTER 20

  As they stepped outside the house, Abbott still couldn’t get his head around it. The whole Argos-catalogue setting. The carnage within. McGregor had made a call and assured him that the cleaners were on their way.

  ‘How did you get here?’ asked the Scotsman now.

  Abbott wondered if it was a test. ‘Taxi,’ he said.

  ‘Well, it’s lucky I got a car then, isn’t it?’ said McGregor, pointing at an electric blue BMW parked at the kerb.

  As they left the estate, a white van was arriving, and the two vehicles drew up alongside one another. McGregor’s window slid down and he spoke to the guys in the van. ‘Thanks to our friend here, there’s a lot of cleaning up to be done.’

  Three men in the front of the van all looked past McGregor and at Abbott. Strong-arm guys. The kind who worked security, who did odd jobs for the local villains. Right now, Abbott still had his own Glock on board. He had Flyte’s MP7 and the extra mags in his rucksack, too, so he was feeling protected, but if his instinct was correct, then he would be relieved of any weapons as soon as he met the big boss.

  He was right.

  McGregor drove them out of town to an area that was characterised by a series of car dealerships on either side of a dual carriageway. Gleaming cars. Flags waving in a breeze. Unbeatable offers and incredible credit deals giving way to what looked like a series of industrial estates on the edge of town. McGregor took a left onto a service road, where there was no branding, no parked cars, vans or lorries, and just the one sign saying, ‘Kemptown. No Entry’.

  ‘Kemptown? What the hell is that?’

  ‘Aye, well therein lies a tale, my friend. Used to be a time when all the drugs in this town were run by a bloke named Ronald Kemp. And they were all run out of here. Kemp had the drugs, Doyle had just about everything else. Well, you can imagine that neither of them was very happy with that, and it was only a matter of time that one of them launched a takeover bid. It was before my time, but apparently there was a lot of blood spilled that night.’

  ‘Grinder?’

  ‘You’ll see. The point is that Kemp was moved out and Doyle moved in. What you have here now is a twenty-four-hour operation. Anything that goes on in this town starts here. Drugs. Guns. Prostitution. This is like Derby’s crime depot.’

  On either side of the service road was undeveloped scratch land. Ahead of them were two white vans parked on either side of the road end-to-end. McGregor, as they ap
proached, flicked the BMW headlights. The doors to the vans opened, two men got out, one of them tucking something into the belt of his jeans.

  McGregor stopped. The window glided down. ‘Mr McGregor,’ said one of the sentries looking into the car, past McGregor. On Abbott’s side was the second guy. His hands were behind his back. On the butt of his gun. ‘Is your guest armed?’

  ‘Aye, our guest is indeed armed. He is by profession a contract killer.’

  Abbott had no idea how much of what was taking place was meant for his benefit but observed with interest anyway as the guard pointed a finger at his own face. ‘Scared,’ he said. And then looked across at Abbott. ‘You all right, mate? Got no beef with you, just that any guns, you have to give them up here.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Abbott. ‘I’ve got an MP7 in the rucksack and a Glock in my belt.’

  The guy made an impressed face. ‘Hand them over,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be needing them back.’

  ‘Soon as Mr Doyle says so.’

  Abbott did as asked, instantly feeling more vulnerable. They drove on. Abbott saw more men. None had visible weaponry and yet from the way they stood it was clear that all were armed.

  They drove on. Abbott looked around, seeing three or four buildings. A main factory building as well as ancillary outposts that in the past might have been workshops or administrative units, now presumably repurposed in order to serve the cause of human misery.

  ‘Open all hours, you say?’ he said to McGregor.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  ‘And Doyle? Does he live on site?’

  ‘No, he’s got his mansion out among Derby’s golfing set, but you’ll find him here most nights till about seven, eight, nine o’clock.’