‘Someone came in the club a bit upset, it looked like something was about to go down,’ I tell her. She buys it.
We pass through a door, and down a grimy staircase that looks like nobody has passed through it in years. There is a fire door at the bottom. I waste no time.
We exit into the street, as still as it was before. We must have been inside two or three minutes. Job done.
‘You’re on your own, darling. Go home. Clean up your act,’ I tell her. She looks at me uncomprehendingly, as if I just revealed myself to be part alien. I don’t think she gets the message.
‘You fucking twat,’ she says, spitting the words at me as if they are throwing stars. I turn and start to walk. What a lovely girl. I check my phone. 3.40am. It’s time to ready myself for the next part. Part 1 has been an unqualified success. Word will reach Felix about what happened here. I just hope I can get a fix on him in time. If I lose him now, and he disappears into the mists, I’ll never forgive myself.
I start to run.
25
I light the rag, with one flick of a cheap lighter I had picked up from an all-night petrol station just moments before. The flame is more than happy to take hold of the scrap I am feeding it, and it reaches out along the rag slowly, like a miniature human torch crawling hand over hand up a climbing rope.
I step back, and keep pacing in reverse. The flame creeps higher, and I hear a crackle now, as well as that soft hot-air blow of a fire alive. It reaches the silver bodywork, bouncing off it almost reluctantly, then angling into the opening of the petrol tank. A second passes, and the Lexus rips from the inside out, a messy convulsion of metal and orange.
Goodbye Lexus, you have served me well. I turn and start the one mile walk to the waterfront. I picked this abandoned industrial estate on the edge of Stretford to be the car’s graveyard, since it is only a short walk from Salford Quays, but far enough away not to be visible from Felix’s vast windows.
I am supremely focused. Fixed on an objective. Unrelenting. Unwavering.
I arrive at the waterfront in no time at all, my stride having powered me here without effort. I have picked a secluded spot from which to begin my assault, and I have to drop over a roadside barrier, shimmy down a gravel slope for a couple of seconds, and enter into some unkempt urban vegetation at the bottom. The bushes aren’t supposed to be here, having forced an existence in an inhospitable environment. I sympathize fully.
I hear the water, lapping in the darkness to my right. The sky is brightening in its furthest corners, as the sun begins its slow, steady ascent once more. The timing is fine so far, but I want to keep that tempo up.
I search in the bushes, and find my hidden item with ease. When I was carrying out my surveillance earlier, I had searched for some way to get over to Felix’s house by water, considering the coverage of the security cameras over on land route. I was struggling with a solution, until I saw the kayaks paddling about on the water over where the Ship Canal enters the Quays. I followed their progress to a small watersports club further up on this side of the water. I checked it out after dark, when everyone had gone home, and the place had been locked up.
It was nothing more than a black shed with a side door, and a large jetty leading directly through two large double doors, all of which were locked. Looking through the window, I saw kayaks, one of which I had intended to borrow - that is until I got inside and saw the jetski. I pull the branches of the bush aside, and there it is now. Its propellor over the water, its nose up in the bush. I push the vessel back, lowering it into the water, which it enters silently. I’m not really dressed for the part, in my jeans and shirt, but I hop on the back, make sure my backpack is secure, and find the ignition button on the handlebars. The jetski roars to life.
I have never ridden one before, and as I squeeze the accelerator tentatively, I realize immediately that I have been missing out. I am very familiar with boats, and the way they surge through moving bodies of water. The principals are identical, albeit to a different scale, and before long I am maneuvering the jetski skillfully and easily. I see the twinkling night lights of Felix’s house across the water, and the vast conservatory, and accelerate hard.
I cut across the water with composure, gliding over the flat currents and bouncing over the slight rolls of water. I make no time at all - far quicker than a kayak - and I am on immediate approach within a couple of minutes. The lights on inside are dim and decorative, not searching and illuminative as if somebody was awake. It is still. There is a little jetty that I hadn’t seen before, to the far right of the conservatory at the bottom of the short garden, which I proceed directly towards. I kill the engine and float the remaining few yards. Seconds later, the jet ski is tied to the dock and I am scampering up the jetty, my eyes alive to the possibility of being seen. Keep moving, don’t stop. Don’t slow. Up tempo, up tempo.
The conservatory has a single glass door, which I check to see if I can prize open. It seems I can’t without causing an almighty racket. Inside, the water in the pool is still, and the rest of the house even stiller. I keep following the edge of the conservatory around the side of the house, until I reach solid brick walls. I search for a window or vent and I notice that the kitchen window is only slightly ajar. I check inside. Still nothing. Behind me, the sky is bleeding streaks of warm orange onto ever lightening blue. I ease the window open, and hop in, directly over the sink. I have entered hostile buildings under the cover of darkness before, usually with a team behind me. I’m amazed how much easier it is when you are by yourself, but just how naked you feel without that backup.
I pause in the kitchen, and listen. Silence, save for the gurgling of the pool filters next door in the conservatory. I don’t know which bedroom is Felix’s so I’ll have to conduct a search. My plan is to kill Felix and wait for Michael. I make my way through the kitchen, and ready my weapon. I travel them, one steady step at a time, Glock aimed upwards in readiness.
Stillness.
I reach the landing. The door on my left is the spare room I stayed in, in what seems a lifetime ago. The door to the right is the one I suspect is the master bedroom, judging by the layout of the house so far. I cross the landing in the spot where I imagine Felix and Royston swapped the baby and the brandy, remembering that cruel story and how everything has changed since that fateful night... and I stop. That huge window over the stairs, that looks out over the rear of the house and the water beyond. Something has caught my eye out there, and I try to focus on it.
There, out in the middle of the water, is a boat. A speedboat, just idling there. And on its deck I can make out three figures.
I squint, and strain my eyes to see in the darkness. And I can’t believe what I see.
Felix. Michael. Carolyn. The men are watching, standing by the steering wheel of the sleek craft, and Carolyn on her knees at the stern, her hands bound and her mouth taped shut.
My mind screams SET UP, and my body reacts in that same instant. I sprint at the view, and throw myself at it, over the stairs below, as an almighty explosion tears through the house. I am in flight, fire and debris chasing me, as I smash through the high window. It hurts, but the blast had weakened it a little.
I am outside in the dawn air, feeling cool hit my face, but now I am falling vertically, head first. Below me now is the conservatory, and through the glass, just before I crash into it, I see the flames blasting through. I hit the conservatory roof with an aching, brutal impact, which momentarily stops me, but only really slows me a touch. The roof gives way, and I rain down with the glass, straight through the fire, and into the pool.
The water is cool, and a most welcome respite from being tossed around and cooked at the same time. My clothes feel heavy and sodden, but I worry that I will be burned if I poke my head up just yet. I open my eyes, which sting a little from the chlorine, and look at the surface. It’s like an orange sky. I wait a few more seconds, and the orange reduces intensity. My breath is about to give, and I have no more choice other than to t
hrow my head through the surface and inhale hungrily.
The air tastes boiling and dry, and I open my eyes. I am floating with all sorts of debris, which cover the surface of the pool entirely. The conservatory is completely destroyed, with just a few struts of the metal frame remaining. Behind me, the house is pretty much flattened. There is nothing left. It’s been a demolition job. An erasing of the evidence. An attempt to wipe a slate clean.
I reach for the edge of the pool and hoist myself out. God, it hurts. I look out at the water for the boat. I can’t see it at first, then panic. But no... there it is, heading off up river, cruising at a solid rate. My fury doubles, but I temper that with how lucky I feel. That was the most narrow of escapes.
No need to find the door to the conservatory now, as there isn’t even a wall, and I simply run through the wreckage out into the garden, and down to the jetty. The jetski, fortunately, is untouched. I waste no time in pursuit, and guide the vessel away from the smoking, collapsing wasteland behind me on the bank. That will not have gone unnoticed to the authorities. Seeing the house disintegrated, some walls still standing, others not, I feel damn lucky to be alive.
I don’t know if they know I’m following them, and I don’t care. I have all my worldly possessions with me, and there is nothing else apart from the here and now. The past is where it lies. The present and future are along the river in pursuit of those awful men and that poor woman.
I crouch lower, to make myself more aerodynamic, and speed after the speedboat, as the dawn light grows moment by moment. I make good progress, and I can see the boat more clearly now, about 400 yards ahead of me. It is approaching a bridge, over which I can see a road, and it appears to be slowing down and pulling towards the bank - where a black SUV is parked.
Jesus - they are escaping. I see them pull up now, at a small wooden mooring, and Michael jumps from behind the wall to tie the boat off in what looks like a well-rehearsed move. They are skipping town, no doubt, and this looks like the enacting of an age old plan.
I’m going as fast as the jetski will take me, because if I lose them now, I don’t know whether I will ever get another chance.
Michael is carrying Felix off the boat, to save his arthritic limbs. He about throws him into the rear passenger seat.
I am 200 yards away. I’m closing in on them, but I’m worried it won’t be enough. Come on. Come on.
Michael is back on the boat now, throwing Carolyn over his shoulder. The poor woman, desperate for an escape but now dragged along for the ride. If both parents are there, I fret for where their children might be. Would Michael wax his own children? I don’t think anything is off the table for these people, even something so horrific. He carries Carolyn over his shoulder and thrusts her in the back with Felix. If only I had done something sooner to help her, instead of assuming I can help her simply by removing her husband. I can only assume they have brought her along to act as a human shield or hostage, ready to be discarded when they have got where they are going safely.
Michael gets in the front passenger side, the car immediately kicking up dust as soon as the door is closed. Shit. There was a driver ready to go. Extra shit. I’m still a good hundred yards away. I literally have no clue what to do now. Try to moor up myself and hijack a car at five in the morning? Not likely. I’m screwed.
The SUV moves up a dirt track to the road, and turns immediately left to cross the bridge over the water they just came from. I see Michael lower his passenger window, and he smiles as the breeze flickers his hair. That bloody hair. The car picks up speed as it approaches the left hand bank, which is a gravel slope leading up to the road itself.
To hell with it.
I turn sharply left and head for the bank, keeping my body low and my limbs in tight. This is either the most stupid idea I have ever head, or the dumbest. Possibly both. Either way, it’s my last shot. I brace myself, as the jetski accelerates along the last few yards of water.
It bumps and bounces sharply on the bank, skidding on the gravel. I hope my speed was enough, as the momentum carries me up the bank. Stones are spitting everywhere, and I am fully out of control now. With another clatter and a spray of gravel, the jetski is pitched into the road as the SUV passes. The two vehicles are yards apart, and the SUV swerves to avoid me, as I throw myself at Michael’s open window.
I reach with both arms, and my left hand catches the solid front wing mirror. I grab the roof of the car with my right hand, and try to find something for my feet. Fortunately, the elevated height of the SUV means it has a step around the trim. I place two feet firmly, and hold on for dear life.
I can hear them inside, screaming at each other, as the car skids along to outmaneuver the jetski, which is bouncing along end over end in the road behind us.
‘Get him off the fucking car!’ I hear Felix roar.
Carolyn is sobbing through her taped mouth.
The wind is suddenly knocked from me, and a horrible pain clatters me in the guts. Michael has hit me, hard. I want to double up, I want roll into a ball and be sick all down myself, but if I do that it’s certain death. I hoist myself up, relying on the adrenaline still coursing through my arms, up onto the roof of the vehicle. I roll onto my back, as the sky itself rolls by above me. I take a second, and breath hard.
‘Is he gone?’ I hear a man say, a voice I don’t recognize. It can only be the driver. You’re next, buddy.
I roll onto my front, gun in hand again, and peak down over the driver’s side door. I look up ahead, at where we are going, and I can see it immediately a short distance ahead. Manchester Airport, surrounded by high metal fences.
I lower my arm down the driver’s side of the car, and point the gun inside. I imagine where he is sat, my eyes still firmly on the airport, and fire three shots in quick succession. I look down over the front windshield and see blood up the inside of the glass. I got him, and I got him good.
‘Fuck!’ bellows Michael, as the car begins to loose control at high speed. A common risk of shooting drivers, is if they were in the process of accelerating, they more than often carry on doing so, as their muscles contract and spasm. We are being driven by a dead man. The bouncing jolts the gun from my hand, which bounces off down the road. Shit! Such a valuable tool, gone.
I throw my right arm down, through the smashed window, and grab the steering wheel, trying to direct us safely. It is tugged away from me, and I realize that Michael has had the same idea.
Before either of us can gain an advantage, the SUV crashes through the metal perimeter fencing of the airport. I hold on tight to the car radio aerial, central on the roof. It’s all getting a bit blurry now, and the screaming from inside the car is melding with the flashing, whirling, bouncing images into one wholly unpleasant singular experience of attempted survival.
I reach in again for the wheel, and pull it back again hard, hoping it will make the car tip. Again Michael pulls back, and we fight for possession of the wheel, tooth and nail. He punches my hand and I grip for dear life. The airport buildings themselves are very close now, and I feel Michael’s teeth on the back of my hand. I hold on and close my eyes, as a wall approaches fast. I lower my head and brace, thinking if there was ever a time to pray, now would be a good one.
The impact is all-encompassing, and the wall of the airport can’t stop us. I am thrown from the roof forward, out in front of the car, as it crashes through the wall at high speed. I’m flying for a brief moment, and not for the first time tonight. I see clinical bright lights, polished tiled floors, and a great open space. The floor is coming up fast, and I hit it. It’s an ugly impact, and I actually bounce. I’ve never bounced before, and I wouldn’t suggest anyone to try it. I feel like my bones are held together by my skin only, as I tumble to a stop on my front. That really fucking hurt. I’m not sure I’ll be able to stand, let alone get away or finish the job. Both seem far-fetched to my battered body.
I feel rain, tepid and wet, like a tropical downpour. I wonder if I am hallucinating. I open my
eyes, and with great effort and discomfort, look up. It is a devastating scene. There are clothes all over the floor and suitcases. We have ended up in baggage reclaim, and the sprinkler system has gone off. The car is completely written off, still upright but crumpled horribly, covered in cinderblocks and clothing, resting it’s rear wheels up on a conveyor belt. I don’t think anyone else was hurt, thank God, as the room seems empty of anything other than that we just caused.
I see movement inside the car. I remember I don’t have a gun.
I force myself, mustering all the effort I can, to get to my feet. It’s going to hurt for days, but I don’t think anything is broken. I begin to walk, my legs like jelly, but overall OK. Water soaks me again, running down my face and clothes. I reach the car and see Michael, in the front seat, trying to undo his seatbelt. Blood is trickling down his forehead, and their are bricks in his lap that must have come through the shattered windshield. The middle of the roof is so buckled that I can’t see into the back.
I throw his car door open. He looks at me surprised, but his features transform to a face of unhinged contempt.
‘Where are your children?’ I ask, firmly.
‘Fuck you,’ he replies.
‘Your own wife... Just another tool?’
‘You don’t know the half of it. Who knew she could be swayed by an ex-army nobody squadie like you?’
He reaches for jacket pocket, and I lunge for him. I apply a simple wrist lock, disabling him, and put my own hand into his jacket, right where he was searching. My fingers touch metal, slick with what I would imagine is sweat. A gun in a shoulder holster.
I release my pressure on his wrist, just for a second, enough for our eyes to meet. We are inches from each other and I whisper to him.
‘Goodbye, you fucking disgrace.’
Still inside the jacket, I squeeze the trigger twice. He jolts in agony. A soft tendril of smoke leaks out from under his arm, in between our faces. I pull the gun out in it’s entirety, and shoot him twice in the chest for good measure. Good riddance.
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 22