All Or Nothing

by Ollie Ollerton

  In the conference room, Lady Norton turned to Kilgore. ‘Kilgore, I think they’re cheating. The bullet that hit our man, was that fired by Yellow? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Of course it was, Grandmama, don’t be a sore loser,’ roared Ross, who could barely remember a time when he had enjoyed himself more. If only he had drugs, he thought. If he had drugs, the situation would be perfect.

  ‘No, no,’ Lady Norton shook her head. ‘Something’s not right here. There’s another gunman.’

  ‘Somebody on the grassy knoll,’ snickered Ross.

  ‘If you like,’ she growled, returning her attention to her right-hand man. ‘Kilgore?’

  ‘I agree, ma’am,’ said Kilgore, looking to Kennedy.

  ‘Well, you would,’ sneered Kennedy as Kilgore switched his attention to Jeffrey Coombs in search of an executive decision. At the same time, Kennedy turned blazing eyes on Ross. ‘Settle down,’ he hissed quietly, but not quietly enough.

  ‘I heard that,’ roared Lady Norton. ‘Why would he need to “settle down”? That’s it. That simply proves to me that there is something going on. Coombs? Coombs?’

  Coombs was staring at the screens, pale beneath his crinkly tan, mouth working up and down. ‘I’ve no idea, Lady Norton. It’s impossible to tell. I’ve no experience in these matters.’

  But now they watched as Abbott stripped off his overalls.

  ‘Oh, he’s at it now,’ said Ross. ‘What’s he doing that for?’

  ‘I think I know,’ said Kilgore, and Kennedy shot him a hateful look.

  Up above, Scolar saw him do it. He saw how Abbott had taken note of his blood trail and then taken off his boiler suit before taking refuge behind a booth nearby. He saw what was in his thinking, and he adjusted his aim accordingly.

  In the conference room, Wilson touched a finger to his ear. ‘Roger that,’ he replied, and then to the room said, ‘There’s been a breach. Armed unfriendlies inside the park.’

  ‘Well, can your men stop them?’ demanded Kilgore.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘See if you can take one of them alive, so we can find out who’s paying them,’ said Kilgore, still looking at Kennedy.

  ‘Grandmama, call off your dog. I don’t think I care for his insinuations,’ said Ross, waving an arm, the voluminous sleeve of his white shirt flapping. ‘I can tell you that we have absolutely nothing to do with this. In fact . . .’ he turned, saying quietly to Kennedy, ‘should we be going? Should I be worried about this?’

  Lady Norton echoed his thoughts. ‘Well?’ she said to Kilgore. ‘Should we? Should we be worried?’

  Kilgore, who fielded the question to Wilson.

  Who shook his head.

  ‘Report is of just three men,’ he said. ‘We have over a dozen on site. You have nothing to worry about.’

  And then the gunfire began.

  CHAPTER 56

  Abbott heard it. The rattling of semiautomatic gunfire. Nothing to do with him and, as far as he knew, nothing to do with the game. Which meant . . .

  What?

  That things had gone FUBAR. The game was off?

  Should he come out of hiding and go for Tess? He decided to hold his position a moment longer, just until he was more certain of the status outside. Whether he thought the game was over or not was immaterial. The salient detail was whether Trent thought it was over. Whether the people in control of them thought the game was over.

  And something else he thought about. That ricochet. It had clearly been intended to warn Trent about Heidi’s proximity. The sniper and Trent had no doubt worked out some kind of system. A good sniper, though, a good operator with superb cranial cartography. There was no way they couldn’t make the system more sophisticated. Maybe evolve it to go beyond ‘the enemy is nearby’ and to ‘the enemy is in this exact position’.

  And that made his mind up for him. He couldn’t just stay put. He had to move. And as he raised himself, intending to make a run – oh, OK then, a limp-dash for it – Abbott heard something. A noise from behind him.

  ‘He’s behind you!’ roared Lady Norton in the conference room. She stood with her palms planted on the conference table, watching the action unfold. Wilson had left the room to coordinate his security force against the three invaders. List remained, M-16 at the ready, although like everybody else in the room he was transfixed by events on the screen and had watched as Abbott hid and waited for Trent. But instead of falling into his trap by following the bloodstained path to the door of the Scales of Justice attraction, Trent had instead taken the long way round to work his way behind Abbott, pausing to cock his head as the sounds of the battle started up from over the other side of the park but otherwise refusing to be diverted from his task.

  Coming up behind Abbott, oblivious Abbott, his gun held as Abbott, clearly having made a decision of some kind, rose from his hiding place and then, having heard Trent, wheeled around suddenly.

  Oh God, he thought. You idiot.

  Trent, standing there, gun trained on Abbott, squeezing the trigger.

  Then Trent. His head exploding.

  ‘My God.’ A collective shout went up in the conference room. Trent’s head had literally disintegrated into a mist of blood and bone and brain, as though a bomb had been planted in his skull.

  Scolar in his perch knew at once. He knew, and he scuttled into a seated position, snatched up the spotting scope, sweeping it around the park, trying to find him.

  A rival sniper.

  Down below, Abbott heard a voice that he recognised. ‘Abbott,’ a voice that he knew at once was Ward. His feelings cycled through plain relief that Ward was here, which meant that Miller was here, which meant that the shooter who had just saved his life was Tom Brace, who was also here, to fear that Ward had put himself in the firing line, and then back to relief.

  Ward appeared. He shouldered his AR-15, squeezed off three quick shots and sent a member of the Norton’s security team scurrying for cover.

  ‘Miller has an AR-15 for you,’ Ward said to Abbott, reaching him and crouching. ‘As soon as he gets here we can make a move.’

  ‘No,’ said Abbott. ‘There’s something I need to do first.’ He indicated in the direction of the quadrangle.

  Ward shook his head with irritation but understood. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll draw them in this direction. You make your way over there.’

  ‘OK, and look, if I don’t see you . . .’

  ‘We have plans.’ Ward tossed him a phone. ‘Use this when you’re done and we’ll reorg prior to extraction home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Ward, ‘home.’

  Abbott was about to move off, then stopped. ‘Ward?’ he said. ‘How did you know to get here?’

  ‘Your mate told us where to come. McGregor.’

  ‘McGregor?’

  ‘Yeah, now go. Go.’

  And with his head spinning, Abbott set off for the quadrangle.

  Up in his perch, Scolar found him. The other sniper. He’d made his nest in a huge noose that acted as a tunnel for the rollercoaster. Scolar saw that the other man was using a Barrett and at the same time realised with horror that the guy was aiming directly at him.

  ‘Mon dieu.’ He scuttled and heard the whistle of the bullet as it smacked into the brickwork.

  And now Scolar dived down to his own rifle. He would be forcing the other sniper to adjust his aim, could maybe get a shot off in time.

  ‘Damn,’ cursed Brace from his own vantage point. The second sniper had adjusted his height, gone flat, had his own weapon as cover. A round banged into the housing of the rollercoaster nearby. Both men firing a little too hurriedly now, trying to find their aim through a process of trial and error.

  ‘Tom Brace,’ came the call from below. It was Miller. ‘We’re pulling out.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a moment,’ called back Brace, pulling a face, slightly irritated at having his concentration broken. His opposite number squeezed off another, and he could tell
from the proximity of the strike that his aim was improving. This, he knew, was where the Barrett suffered, certainly in comparison to the weapon the other guy was using. Brace was under fire now, finding difficulty in maintaining the composure needed to draw a fine bead on a target so far away. The other guy had the same problem, but by the same token, the other guy had more suitable equipment.

  Then again . . .

  Up on the water tower, Scolar watched the other sniper doing something. Reloading.

  Yes, that was it. Reloading. He put his eye back to the scope, wanting to use the pause in combat to his own advantage. He squeezed off a quick shot, hoping to keep his opponent off balance, prevent him being able to regroup and refine his aim. He flinched slightly as over on the noose, the other sniper fired in reply, a round that smacked harmlessly into the cladding of the water tower below, almost comically wide of the mark.

  And then something belatedly occurred to Scolar.

  How the Barrett was designed not as an antipersonnel rifle, but to penetrate military vehicles and even buildings.

  How the Barrett could be loaded with high-explosive incendiary rounds.

  Below him the water tower exploded, and Scolar was swallowed, screaming, in a mass of water and rubble, while over a mile away nestled in the noose at Murder World, Tom Brace paid homage to a worthy opponent, gave his rifle a kiss to thank it, and then began the climb down from the rollercoaster.

  CHAPTER 57

  The shooting continued behind him as Abbott made his way back to the quad. There would be more guards here, he knew. Men whose only job would be to keep the Nortons safe and who would, no doubt, be stationed on the balcony, able to pick him off from an elevated position, should he get too careless.

  ‘Abbott,’ came the call, an accent he recognised. It was McGregor, who clearly had been waiting for him. Were it not for what Ward had told him, then Abbott would have put him down there and then. Instead, he swung his Sig towards him as he came out of cover.

  ‘Talk,’ demanded Abbott. ‘Tell me everything and tell it now, or I swear to God I’m going to put a bullet in you right here, right now.’

  ‘Come on now, Abbott,’ said McGregor, his arms up, not quite in surrender, just in supplication, ‘who did you think it was that brought Ward and Tom Brace and the muscleman here?’

  ‘I know that. It’s the only reason you’re not laid out on the concrete now. You need to tell me right now who you’re working for.’

  ‘Me?’ said McGregor. For the first time, Abbott noticed a wildness in his eyes. Excitement or anticipation or something else. ‘I’m working for me. And together, you and me are going to bring these people down.’ He shifted slightly, twisting a little so that Abbott could see the gun in the waistband of his jeans. ‘Let me pull my weapon, Abbott. We’ve got to go to work. They have to die. Every one of them. The whole fucking lot of them, Abbott. Come on. Together. You and me.’

  Abbott shook his head. And instead of letting McGregor draw the weapon, he stepped forward and snatched it, tucking it into the back of his jeans, much to McGregor’s exasperation.

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Abbott. ‘What the fuck are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I mean,’ said McGregor. ‘Those videos. The ones on the CD. Guess who has a starring role as “little boy on bed”?’

  Abbott’s face fell. ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, aye, that’s right. Yours truly. You might say that I hold a grudge, Abbott. You might also say that I’m a man who’s happy to bide his time, especially when it comes to plotting my revenge – and you of all people can understand the need for revenge, eh, Abbott? You of all people. I didn’t have the special forces training, but I had patience. I had cunning. I had resolve. And then – oh, God must have been smiling on me – I got you. I wasn’t able to make Charles Norton pay for what he did to me, but I sure as hell made Doyle pay, eh? And now it’s Juliet Norton’s turn – she and the rest of her corrupt and poxy brood.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Abbott, who despite the situation, the need to reach Tess, the battle raging at his back, still felt a numbness creep over him, a sense of shock. ‘I thought I was a proxy for Lady Norton, but this whole time, pretty much since I arrived in Derby, I’ve been yours?’

  ‘You went to Derby to seek justice for your brother,’ insisted McGregor, ‘I’m helping you deliver it. We’re on the same side, you and I.’

  Abbott shook his head. ‘Fuck this. I haven’t got time for this. I’ve got to get to Tess.’

  ‘There are guards up there. They’ll pick you off. I know a back way,’ said McGregor. ‘Let me take you there.’

  He had that same wildness in the eyes that Abbott now knew as a sense of the prize being so close. ‘We have them where we want them,’ said McGregor breathlessly. ‘We’ll never have this chance again. We’ll never get them together again. We can finish the job.’

  The irony of his own intentions repeated back to him was not lost on Abbott, but he followed McGregor anyway as he led them along the side of the building to a wooden fence, ducking through the slats and then around the back to where a fireescape door had been propped open.

  He put a finger to his lips. Abbott acknowledged him and took point, climbing steps to the floor above, where there was another fire exit leading out onto the balcony.

  Abbott peered out, saw Wilson with his M-16, the barrel trained on the entrance to the court. Across the way, on the other side of the square, was List, similarly preoccupied, neither of them expecting the direction of attack to change.

  Abbott motioned McGregor to stay behind and then stepped smartly out onto the balcony. He took out List with one shot, being forced to use only his good arm as the functionality of the other started to subside. Not ideal but it worked. Just. He swung the Sig and took Wilson.

  His second shot had wounded Wilson and Abbott took a quick step forward, looking down at him as he lay in agony on the balcony. ‘You bastard,’ he said to Abbott, through bared and bloodstained teeth.

  ‘I’m going to have to take a raincheck on that talk me and you planned to have,’ he said, and finished the job.

  Then he was dashing along the balcony with McGregor at his heel until they reached the ‘Guest Suite’ where Tess was being held.

  At the door they paused, Abbott telling McGregor to take up position on the other side. Inside the room, he knew, was Tess, plus – if the live feed he’d seen earlier was still current – another member of the security team. The last thing this guy would be expecting was Abbott. He’d be anticipating gunfire from the balcony outside, something to herald Abbott’s arrival. Or, at least, that was what Abbott was depending on.

  He kicked in the door. The guy on the other side was reasonably alert, but not alert enough, and he was still bringing the M-16 up to bear when Abbott double-tapped him.

  What Abbott hadn’t anticipated, though, was the presence of Morris and Kilgore. Morris was cowering by the door, his arms raised over his head. But Lady Norton’s personal assistant stood with Tess held close to him, a gun to her head.

  ‘Hold it there, Abbott,’ said Kilgore.

  Abbott squinted at him along the sights of his Sig, blood now a constant stream from his left arm, useless and unworkable.

  ‘Put the gun down, you’re injured,’ insisted Kilgore, trying to sound commanding although his voice betrayed the nerves of the situation. ‘Put it down now.’

  Tess said nothing. Her head was tilted, pushed that way by the pressure of Kilgore’s gun barrel. His finger was through the trigger guard and Abbott could see that the safety was off. If Kilgore, already nervous, was startled or twitched then he’d put a bullet in Tess, whether he meant to or not.

  ‘It’s over, Kilgore. The best you can hope for is prison time,’ Abbott told him.

  ‘Over?’ scoffed Kilgore, a little too loudly and a little too suddenly for Abbott’s liking. ‘It’s not over.’

  ‘It is,’ said Abbott, as calmly as he could manage.

  ‘
Put down the gun, and I’ll explain to you how and why it’s not “over”,’ said Kilgore.

  ‘I’m not putting down the gun,’ Abbott assured him. He looked into Tess’s eyes. Eyes that told him to maintain his course. He knew enough of her to know that they would be of one mind.

  Oh, but please don’t let it go bad. Visions of Nathan were swimming in his head. Needing not to have another death in his debit column. Not Tess. Please not Tess.

  ‘You couldn’t take the shot anyway,’ said Kilgore. ‘You don’t have it anymore, Abbott. Too many years being a pisshead.’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we?’ replied Abbott evenly. The barrel of his weapon never wavered. His aim remained steady. Tess’s eyes stayed on him, trusting him.

  ‘I can take the shot,’ said Abbott, and he was speaking to her but also to Kilgore, unnerving him, forcing his hand.

  ‘Then take the shot,’ she said, either understanding or perhaps just putting her faith in him.

  Abbott was aware of everything – of the sounds of battle in the distance, of McGregor breathing hard with excitement just behind him, but mostly of Tess and Kilgore – and also aware of nothing but himself, his weapon, his aim.

  ‘Wait,’ said Kilgore quickly. ‘We have men at her house. If you kill her, her family dies.’

  Abbott paused, his gaze went to Tess, whose eyes widened, nostrils flaring with fear, and it was all the hesitation that Kilgore needed. His gun whipped forward as he tried desperately to take advantage of the moment, squeezing off a round that would have been a perfect shot if he’d been aiming for Morris. The round killed him outright.

  Kilgore just had time to register his terrible effort – an effort that left him even more exposed than he had been before.