by Dc Alden
‘Evening, lads. Can you tell me where Iver village is? I’m lost.’
‘Fuck off,’ barked one of the men.
‘Wrong answer,’ he heard Villiers say.
Suppressed gunfire chattered inside the Mercedes. Shell casings rolled and rattled across the floor. Then silence.
‘Move.’
Josh climbed out behind his team. He waited as the bullet-riddled bodies were dragged from the road and dumped by the verge. Then he cocked his own weapon and led them beneath the trees in a silent column, the lights of the big trailer drawing him like a moth to a flame.
‘Shush now, there’s a good boy.’
Inside the caravan, Roy was struggling to keep Max quiet. The boy squirmed and sobbed, distraught in his arms. Roy hugged and kissed him, smoothing his hair until Max had calmed a little.
They had to go.
Right now.
He peered out the window, then eased open the caravan door. He stepped down and moved around the back, losing himself in the shadows. His escape route would take him in the opposite direction, away from the camp and towards the southern end of the lane where Vicky would—
The man appeared from nowhere, his face turned skyward, eyes squinting against the wind and rain. Roy froze in the shadows as the figure passed within six feet, conscious of his uncovered face, of Max’s pale legs dangling from his arms. Roy held his breath, and then the man was gone.
He looked skyward.
That’s when Roy heard it too.
Frank turned as the caravan door swung open. Another man entered, scraping his feet on the thick matt, rain dripping from his heavy wax slicker.
‘Can you hear that?’ he asked, pointing to the ceiling.
‘Hear what?
‘The plane.’
‘We’re near the airport, ya idiot.’ Connor’s eyes settled back on Frank.
‘No, this sounds more like one of those radio-controlled things. Right above us.’
Frank’s heart quickened, adrenalin flooding his system. He knew what the ‘plane’ was, what it meant. The only question was, how would it play out? Every fibre of Frank’s being pulsed with nervous energy, something he hadn’t felt in—
Through the window he saw a trailer door swinging in the wind. Then he saw Roy, the boy held in his arms, charging through a distant cone of light.
His eyes met Connor’s. The big man spun around, saw the retreating figure.
‘Fuck!’ He raised the shotgun, but Frank moved faster. He ripped the knife from his neck and grabbed the kid to his right in a single, explosive movement, slamming himself against a window. He held the blade against the younger man’s neck, pressing on the carotid artery that pulsed beneath his tattoos. His other fingers found and released the window catch behind him.
Everyone jerked to their feet. Connor lumbered forward, barging the others out of his way. Liquor bottles crashed to the carpet. He held the gun up, the knuckles of his hands white, his face twisted in rage.
‘Riley! Stevo! Go check on yer ma!’ Connor watched Frank with malevolent eyes as two of the men bundled from the caravan. The big man took another step forward. Frank pressed the knife a little deeper.
‘Pa!’ the boy cried, and Connor held his ground.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Frank warned.
Derek stood up. ‘Put the fucking shooter away, Jimbo. He’s my ticket out of here.’
Connor spun around. ‘Your flight’s cancelled.’
He fired the shotgun, the blast lifting Derek against the window and dropping him back onto the bench seat. Blood poured from his chest and throat, and his hands scrabbled at his neck, at the gaping wound. He wheezed a few times, his eyes widened, and then his hands fell away and his head lolled to the side. Frank’s ears rang from the blast, his nose filled with the stench of gunpowder.
‘Your boss is a dead man,’ Connor spat. Smoke from the shotgun drifted on the air. ‘You can tell him this is war.’
Frank looked at Connor, then beyond him, through the window where the bodies of Riley and Stevo lay sprawled in the rain. Frank smiled.
‘You have no idea of the concept of war.’
The lights went out.
Red laser beams flared across the windows.
Frank hurled himself backwards, crashing through the window and into the wet undergrowth as gunfire erupted on the other side of the trailer. He crawled along a drainage gulley, bullets ripping through the trailer’s thin skin behind him in a storm of lead. He got to his feet, stumbling, running towards the woods that bordered the northern end of the camp.
Roy’s escape wasn’t going as planned.
Max was now in deep shock and lay like a dead weight in his Roy’s arms. Any adrenaline he had left was being quickly displaced by exhaustion. He kept to his escape route, staggering through a copse of trees and out into a field. He’d only taken a dozen paces when he realised to his horror that it’d been recently ploughed. Now the rain had turned it into a quagmire.
He sunk to his calves, mud sucking at his boots, his legs, dragging them both down. He wasn’t moving fast enough. His lungs heaved and he fell once, twice, scrabbling in the cloying mud, scraping it from Max’s inert body. He looked over his shoulder, saw shadows near the treeline, heard a distant shout. He was dangerously exposed. His lungs burned. He clutched Max a little tighter, willed his legs to move.
He stumbled across the field towards the high hedge in the distance, a black wall that seemed so far away. Beyond, lay safety.
He kept his head down and kept moving.
Josh stepped into the trailer, pistol held ready, torch beam sweeping the scene. The walls were peppered with scores of bullet holes, the furniture splintered. He kicked over the bloody corpses but none of them were Frank. He caught a movement and saw a civilian lying beneath the table bleeding out, moaning softly. Again, not Frank. Josh put two safety rounds into his chest.
He was surprised; his guys had eaten through their magazines but Frank had escaped. Josh was suddenly consumed by a rare bout of panic. Then his eye caught something, a small object on the table amongst the broken glass and blood. He scooped it up, inspected it under the torchlight. Then he waved the light over the table, snatched at the printed pages scattered there. The words leapt out at him; Messina, Copse Hill, Cohen. He stared at the USB in his hand again. It was the one. It had to be. And now it was in Josh’s possession. His panic was suddenly replaced by a joyous, murderous intent.
‘Primary target is on the move,’ Eyes confirmed in his earpiece. ‘Heading due north from your location, one hundred metres.’
The contractors were already on the move, flashing past the shattered windows, sprinting towards the far end of the camp and the trees beyond. The Mercedes splashed through the puddles and braked to a halt. Villiers climbed out, a pistol in his hand.
‘Frank’s on the loose!’ Josh yelled above a long ripple of thunder.
He broke into a run, Villiers close behind him.
He’d waited until they were gone, his face buried in the mud, his body still.
He had no idea who they were but he knew he was the only survivor. He crawled for ten yards along the stinking ditch, gasping in pain as he got to his feet, hiding in the shadows of the caravan until he was sure he was alone. Then he picked himself up, mindful of the bullet that was lodged in his side, the blood that soaked his trousers. He knew he should head straight for the nearest hospital, but that was only a tiny, logical part of his consciousness. The rest of him was consumed by pure, unadulterated hate, and it was hate that kept him moving towards the Range Rover parked beneath the trees.
Gritting his teeth he climbed inside and started the engine. He gunned the vehicle towards the main road. He slowed at the junction, caught the crumpled heaps of his clansmen, dumped in the mud and rain.
Someone was going to pay, Jim Connor decided.
In blood.
Frank heard the UAV buzzing somewhere overhead, the sounds of pursuit behind him.
He
veered to the left, taking cover behind a thick tree, his chest heaving with effort. He looked up, searched the dark skies above, but he couldn’t see the craft that tracked him. He heard movement, saw shadows darting through the woods. He ran, branches whipping his face, stumbling over brambles, nature in league with his pursuers. An angry insect zipped past him, then another, chipping splinters off the trees ahead. The tall wire fence came rushing out of the darkness as another bullet snapped through the undergrowth.
Frank went to work quickly, ripping off his jacket, soaking the small hole punched through the back with his own recently drawn blood. He draped it over the barbed wire on top of the fence, tugging and snagging it. He shoved the blood bag in his pocket and climbed, rolling over the rusted wire and dropping to the grass on the other side.
He ran forward in the mud, saw the pit, and threw himself in.
Roy collapsed onto the grass verge by the roadside.
Caked in mud, breathless, exhausted, he cradled his son in his arms. ‘Nearly there, Max, Mummy’s coming to get us.’
Max was mute, a rag doll. He had to get help.
Vicky was waiting in a layby a couple of hundred yards along the lane, but to Roy it might’ve been ten miles. Frank said no phones, so Roy had to move and move fast.
He got to his feet, heaving Max into his arms. He stumbled forward, battling against the wind, the road dark and wet. He’d staggered maybe fifty paces when the hedgerows lit up around him. He turned, shielding his eyes as the vehicle’s full beam dazzled him. He hefted Max onto his left arm and waved as the car bumped to an unsteady stop against the grass verge. ‘Thank God,’ he wheezed. The driver’s door flew open.
Roy hesitated.
It wasn’t Vicky.
It was a man, a huge man, and then he saw the machete gripped in his hand. Roy swore. He turned to run, his legs filled with water, each intake of breath like a knife in his chest. He heard the man behind him, cursing, gaining. Roy looked over his shoulder.
He wasn’t going to make it.
He swung Max to the ground, pushed him away. ‘Run,’ Roy begged him, ‘run, Max! Run away!’ The boy staggered a couple of paces and then his muddy legs gave way. He plopped onto his backside, terror etched on his small, round face. He raised his little arms, reaching for Roy.
‘No, Max,’ Roy whispered.
The giant bore down on them. Roy turned, energy spent, tears of anger and frustration carving through his mud-splashed face. They’d almost made it.
He balled his hands into fists. ‘You touch my boy, I’ll fucking kill you.’
Ten paces away the giant swore, filthy, evil curses pouring from his mouth. Then he raised the machete. Roy felt a sharp wind, and a black object shot past him, colliding with the giant, sending him cartwheeling through the air. The Toyota slewed to a halt across the road. The door flew open.
Vicky.
She ran towards him, then past him, and fell beside Max. She scooped him off the ground and hurried back to the Toyota.
‘Drive,’ she ordered, dragging Roy by the sleeve.
Roy climbed behind the wheel and flicked on the lights.
‘Go,’ Vicky pointed, ‘that way.’
Roy dropped the Toyota into gear and floored the accelerator. Ahead, the giant had somehow found the strength to get to his knees. He turned to face the oncoming vehicle, his clothes shredded, his face a mask of blood, a broken hand shielding his eyes from the glare of headlights.
‘Don’t stop,’ Vicky said, her voice like ice.
Roy had no such intention, lining the gypsy up dead centre. He gripped the steering wheel, felt the thump of the impact, the big tyres dragging, then bouncing over the body in the road.
In the rear view mirror, road kill. Ahead, the narrow lane was clear.
Josh came to a halt by the fence, panting hard. He pressed his earpiece, frowning as he strained to listen to Eyes back in the command vehicle.
‘He’s gone to ground in the next field!’ he shouted. He reached up, and was almost over the fence when he felt Villiers’ hand on his coat, pulling him back. He dropped back down and spun around.
‘Take your fucking hands off me!’ he hissed, flipping his NVGs off his face.
The other contractors had reached the fence and were starting to scale it. Villiers waved them off. He pointed to a rusted sign further along the chain link: Danger – Slurry Pit.
‘You fall into one of them and you’re a dead man.’
Josh cursed. Wind and rain whipped through the surrounding trees. ‘He’s close. The bird lost him somewhere beyond the fence. We go, now!’
He shone a torch through the chain link, at the muddy prints heading out into the darkness. Cutters snipped at the fence and Josh dragged Frank’s torn jacket off the drooping barbed wire.
‘He’s hit,’ Josh said, poking a crimson finger through a hole in the material. He led them through the freshly cut fence.
‘Let’s take it slow,’ Villiers cautioned. ‘Use your NVGs.’
The rank smell hit them hard, despite the wind and rain. Josh cuffed a sleeve over his nose and mouth as a large, dark rectangle of ground loomed before them.
‘Lost the target right where you are now,’ Eyes told Josh through his earpiece. ‘You should be right on top of him.’
The rest of the team had fanned out in an extended line as Josh followed Frank’s muddy tracks with his NVGs until he saw a final, desperate boot scuff on the concrete lip of the slurry pit.
Then nothing.
Except a wide, deep lake of animal faeces, urine and other farmyard waste. Villiers appeared by his side, a hand clamped over his mouth.
‘See anything?’
Josh shook his head.
‘If he went in there he’s done.’
Josh knew Frank, knew what kind of man he’d once been. He swept the inky darkness of the pit, the perimeter fence, the ground beyond. Nothing moved. ‘You think?’
Villiers nodded in the dark. ‘Even Frank couldn’t survive a fall in that stuff, especially if he’s wounded. If the fumes didn’t get him the shit will have dragged him down like quicksand. Very fucking nasty.’
He backed away from the edge and Josh did the same. ‘Sweep the area,’ he ordered into his radio. ‘You see a heat source with two legs, I want to know.’ Above him the Desert Hawk buzzed through the rain. He turned to Villiers. ‘Take two guys and go around, make sure he didn’t climb out on the other side.’
‘The bird would’ve picked him up.’
‘Do it anyway.’
If it was really over then it hadn’t ended the way Josh wanted, but Frank drowning in a lake of shit would do the job just as effectively. And it was clean too. Frank’s corpse would probably decompose completely before the farmer noticed he was spraying bones and rotten rags across his fields. It didn’t matter anyway. The Transition would be underway before then.
Fifteen minutes later the hunter team had reassembled and gathered around him. No more tracks were found, no footprints, no trails of shit. If Frank went in, he never came out. Josh ordered Eyes to review the UAV feed. A few minutes later he got confirmation that Frank had taken the plunge.
‘We should clear the area,’ Villiers warned.
‘Film it all, the fence, the signs, the prints, everything.’
Josh waited until it was done, watching the huge pool of filth, wanting to believe it was over. Frank was a resourceful sonofabitch, but no one was that resourceful, right? Right, he consoled himself. If the USB drive was the one from Copse Hill, if the bloodied jacket confirmed Frank’s DNA, he’d write it all up and present it to Beeton and Lund. The UAV feed didn’t lie. Frank Marshall was no more.
Job done.
Mission accomplished.
Twenty minutes later and Josh was satisfied they’d gathered enough evidence. He turned on his heel and led his team back through the trees towards the distant campsite, the buzz of the Desert Hawk still sweeping the ground behind them. By the time he reached the bullet-riddled trailers the
reality was beginning to sink in. Whatever secrets Frank had possessed he’d taken them with him to the bottom of that stinking pit. He felt no remorse, no sympathy for the man he’d once considered a friend. The traitor was dead, and a shithole for a grave was the least Frank deserved. He climbed into the Mercedes. Villiers slid behind the wheel and started the vehicle.
‘You did good tonight, Dave. You endorse my report, I’ll send a jet for you in a month.’
‘Consider it done,’ Villiers smiled.
‘Torch the trailers, the bodies, all of it.’
Josh powered up the window. He was eager to get back to Chelsea and file the report. Beeton and Lund would stand the G-Men down and close the book on Frank Marshall. Then he’d be able to pack up and leave this damp, miserable country behind him for good. It things went as he hoped, he’d be congratulated on a job well done and welcomed back into the bosom of The Committee as a trusted acolyte.
After all, it was where he belonged.
Josh couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The rain had eased, the steady beat of the wipers the only sound that filled the vehicle. They were deep in the countryside now, the gypsy camp far behind them. Roy’s eyes flicked between the rear view mirror and the empty road ahead.
‘How is he?’
Vicky ignored the question. ‘Take the next left.’
‘What about the hotel?’
‘Do it.’
Roy swung the wheel, steering the Toyota along another empty road. He was exhausted and nauseous and a dozen other things, but he had to shut it all out. It wasn’t over yet. ‘This isn’t what we planned, Vicks.’
She jabbed a finger at the windscreen. ‘There, on the left, the garden centre. Turn in there.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Just do it!’
Roy complied, turning into the wide gravel cutaway that fronted the garden centre. Its gates were closed and padlocked, its glass buildings shrouded in darkness.
‘There they are.’