He delved in his pocket, flicked out the ASP baton and jammed it in the door just as Kirsch tried to kick it closed.
With a growl of frustration, Kirsch stamped on the offending article, but Stark had already let go of it to retrieve the CS spray. As the door bounced open he crouched and sprayed upward at the silhouetted figure.
He was rewarded with a choking howl and kept his finger down as Kirsch twisted aside, shielding his face, but a panicky kick sent the little door crashing into Stark’s arm and the spray bouncing across the roof.
With deep regret, he ditched the radio too. Intel was king, but, much as he’d wanted to hear of the cavalry’s approach, Kirsch mustn’t. Crawling through was also a poor option, but all Stark had left. If Kirsch made it to the roof …
Fortunately, Kirsch decided a face-full of CS solvent was enough to be going along with, and a free kick at Stark’s head wasn’t worth waiting around to see what other tricks he might produce. Slinging rifle and backpack over his shoulder with a grunt, he fumbled for the external ladder and began climbing.
Dragging himself through the small opening, Stark creaked upright and reached for the rungs, hoping Kirsch would pause to stamp down and give him something to grab, but the big man seemed more interested in building a lead; in buying time to clear his vision, and ready a weapon. He disappeared over the top.
Gritting his teeth, Stark followed, topped the ladder and peeked over the parapet. Kirsch was on the far side of the little roof, frantically pulling something from his backpack.
Stark recognized the pistol shape, weighed the variables, climbed and leapt.
The pistol came up, and the world turned white.
79
The Taser crackled its vicious, pitiless laughter, clamping Stark’s teeth as his convulsing body travelled through the air towards Kirsch.
The impact barely registered but, as he’d hoped, the Taser shorted between their two bodies with a loud POP and a grunt from Kirsch as they crashed to the roof.
The relief was instant, but incomplete. Stark’s plan, such as it was, was based on his experience of being Tasered during Special Forces selection. But where legal Tasers deliver a short burst of oscillating shock with no lingering effect, the illegal thing in Kirsch’s hand had more dangerous frequency and power. Stark could hardly breathe as he fought to regain command of his body. Misjudgements were common in combat. The critical thing was to make sure they didn’t kill you.
Cursing, Kirsch shoved Stark off and kicked him away, getting to his feet. Stark did likewise, rolling, practised, fast despite the lingering spasms, and lunged – and this was where luck finally failed him; his foot snagged on the strap of the backpack, robbing him of impetus. Kirsch tripped backwards, swinging his arm defensively, and the stock of the discharged Taser caught Stark a back-handed blow across the cranium.
Concussion-thump like a truck side-swipe. Stark hit the ground without seeing it coming, brain exploding like a fireworks finale … Like the whining scream of an RPG … Blackness. Stars … Above the deafening shower of debris, the distant sound of a chopper, an Apache? Too quiet for a Chinook. His stomach heaved but didn’t vomit, not quite. Vision swimming, he caught a glimpse of camouflage, legs, body, arms, face … Soldiers crowding round, mouths moving … or was it just one?
MAN DOWN! MEDIC!
The medic rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a massive revolver.
‘Deb!’
The reporter’s techie was beckoning her frantically to the van’s side door. Inside were banks of tech crap and several TV monitors. On one was footage of the clock tower roof. Where one figure stood over another, waving … a pistol.
The flashing red word read LIVE.
‘Shit,’ breathed Fran. ‘Where is this coming from?’
‘Our chopper.’
Fran glanced up, registering the faint chopper noise for the first time.
‘Tell them to back away, for Christ’s sake. The gunman has a rifle. And he hates you lot almost as much as us.’
‘They’re a mile out,’ said the techie, ‘gyro-stable camera.’
Fran stared at the screen, trying to make out who was who, desperately hoping it was Stark standing over Kirsch and not the other way around, desperately wishing the sodding news helicopter would do what all despicable hacks did, and go closer.
Stark raised his hands to ward off danger, confused; dry-swallowing the nausea and panic.
The medic stared down the barrel, grinning.
But it wasn’t a medic … it was Simon Kirsch, sneering, eyes red and streaming from CS but wild with victory … wheezing, coughing, saying something … but Stark’s head was still ringing.
Keep talking, thought Stark. He rolled over and threw up, retching painfully, waiting for the explosions to subside, for his vision to clear, for something better to happen. Blood ran down the side of his face.
Rushing in headlong might already have cost him his life, but the longer he could distract Kirsch the fewer other lives might be lost. Every second was precious, keeping Kirsch from picking up that rifle again, bringing armed officers closer. Recklessness. Hazel’s word. But Stark knew hesitation was the greater killer. Luck decided the difference. He owed his life to the Lady, several times over, but he would never bow to her. Her gaze was the cold snake-eyes of the dice, the unblinking barrel of the gun, beyond care or reason. Hope was as futile as prayer. You did what needed doing and accepted the cost; making damn sure it cost the enemy more.
He’d prevented Kirsch from barricading the little door below. Kirsch might kill him any second, but every moment he didn’t added to Stark’s victory; time for SFOs to scale the tower, lob flash-bangs up over this parapet and storm the roof without Kirsch pinning them down from above. That was Plan B.
Stark had yet to formulate Plan A.
Even if he could force himself up he wouldn’t stand much chance. He needed another distraction. ‘It’s over, Kirsch.’ Hollow words; they rang inside his skull like a bell hammer but came out like a croak.
Kirsch shook his head, hate filling his eyes, raised the pistol and fired.
‘No!’ Fran slammed her palm against the van door, adding to the echo of the gunshot around the abandoned streets, brutal in contrast to the silenced rifle.
But the prone man on screen peered over his raised arm, alive.
The aggressor wore green, she could see that now. Camouflage. Kirsch.
He fired again, and again Stark flinched but didn’t die.
‘Bastard,’ hissed Clark, beside her.
Kirsch was toying with Stark. They could see him shouting, or laughing.
‘What was Stark thinking?’ she said, to herself.
‘Buying us time,’ said Clark, checking his watch.
Then where the bloody hell were the firearm goons? Fran ground her teeth. For the first time in her career she wished for an armed police force. Not just specialists; everyone. It went against everything she believed, but if she could have it today she would. If she had a gun she’d be legging it up that tower herself. Every bone in her body ached to do so anyway. If Stark had a gun this would’ve been over two nights ago outside Chase Security.
Instead she was reduced to standing here, watching it play out on TV of all things; useless, helpless, hopeless in the cold certainty that it was about to end in the worst possible way. ‘Right, I’m not waiting a moment longer …’
She turned towards the tower but at a nod from Clark, the recently arrived Sergeant Dearing blocked her path with his giant frame, a one-man roadblock, calm, polite and immovable.
‘Yes, thank you, Jim … As you can see, events have taken a dramatic turn here, with what is believed to be a police officer at the mercy of the gunman.’
Fran whirled round to see the reporter spouting her smug summary to camera, her face appearing in the corner of the screen in the van with the main image still displaying the unfolding nightmare.
‘With exclusive live footage from our own eye in the sky we are the on
ly channel with up-to-the-second live coverage. Sources tell us the gunman is believed to be Simon Kirsch, though police are still refusing to confirm so at this stage …’
Fran thought about confirming the microphone between the woman’s perfect, pearly teeth and scrawling the word VULTURE across her botoxed forehead in scarlet lipstick.
‘There are believed to be casualties in the police station itself,’ continued the reporter, ‘and up to six people still trapped inside the college building …’
Where are they getting this from? Fran wondered, before another gunshot tore her attention back to the screens.
80
‘Oops … Missed again.’ Kirsch gave a braying, scornful laugh at the rents in the roofing bitumen by Stark’s feet.
Three. Stark winced, each shot splitting his head and twisting his stomach. But another not fired into the street, another moment stolen from Kirsch’s plan and given to the SFOs. If Kirsch wanted to string this out, Stark would try to oblige. ‘What do you want?’ he managed, wiping blood from his brow before it gummed up one eye. ‘What can you possibly hope to achieve?’
‘Want?’ spat Kirsch. ‘Hope?’ His expression twisted with fury. ‘I want to forget!’ he shouted. ‘I want every memory wiped. But there’s no hope of that, is there? You ruined my life! Police, press, you’re all the same – filling in the gaps with lies and threats … like your precious Detective Inspector Harper! I never stood a chance, then or now. So I want everyone who betrayed me to know what they did. That this is all their fault!’ The words tumbled out of him like a confession long withheld, finally bursting free on a wave of bilious self-pity. ‘They have to remember!’
‘Remember what?’
‘Remember me!’
Stark shook his head but regretted it as fresh stars detonated. ‘Christ … why not save everyone the bother and just blow your tiny brains out?’ Kirsch’s face darkened, but Stark pressed on. ‘Leave a note if you want some sap to feel your pain, but this? You think people will remember you for this? You’re a moron.’
The pistol fired into the roof between Stark’s knees, the terrible percussion of it tangible. A handgun so ridiculously powerful it only had space for five rounds. One left now. If Kirsch could be provoked into wasting it, Stark’s odds would even up. ‘People won’t even remember your name. There’s been too many of these sick sprees now. If anyone does, it will just be to remember what a colossal arsehole you were. Just another narcissistic prick with no feelings in him but selfish rage – hiding behind his rifle like a coward.’
Kirsch looked fit to explode.
The gun shook … but didn’t fire.
His eyes narrowed. Then his fury warped into dark amusement, lips parting into a vicious sneer. ‘I can count too, shithead,’ he chuckled darkly, slowly raising the gun from pointing at the roof, to pointing at Stark’s face.
So much for that idea, thought Stark bitterly. More seconds, though. Every exchange used up more seconds. Back to Plan B. You couldn’t play for time if you were dead. ‘There’s still time to walk this back a little. I know what Harper whispered to you. God knows you’ve endured provocation –’
‘Don’t talk to me about GOD!’ shouted Kirsch, spittle on his lips. ‘I had my fill of that shit from my lying bitch of a mother.’
A sore spot, thought Stark, picturing the yellowing scroll of paper, Miriam’s brief, neatly written confession. ‘Told you, did she? Or did you know all along?’
‘I loved her!’
Not his mother, clearly. Kirsch was thinking of Kimberly now. Misery welled in his chemically afflicted eyes. ‘We met in the castle as usual … our special place. I brought candles, and flowers. It was beautiful. She was beautiful … But after, walking her home … it was raining and I lent her my coat, but she just said it …’ His face twisted with anguish as if he still couldn’t comprehend it. ‘That it was over. Like it didn’t matter.’
His eyes looked almost pleading, as if Stark could explain it to him. Stark could, unequivocally, but first needed to keep Kirsch talking.
‘The things she said to me!’ Kirsch said bitterly. ‘Everything she’d done behind my back! I slapped her … and she fell and hit her head and I couldn’t wake her up … It was an accident!’
And he’d carried her to his mum, the nurse, and begged for her help; and she’d sent him into the house to pray and then held his defiler’s nose and lips closed until her heart stopped.
Maybe Kimberly would have died from a cracked skull, who knew? Miriam only cared that the filthy whore who’d stolen her child’s innocence, his immortal soul, now threatened to steal him bodily by sending him to prison for murder and probably rape too. A mother’s soul for her son’s, her confession concluded bluntly; her penance for letting him stray, rolled up and hidden away for only Jesus to know. And Simon’s penance – twenty years to repent for a killing he didn’t commit. And in the end he’d chosen sin over repentance and she’d punished him with the truth, suspecting what might follow, consigning herself to the hell she’d had one foot in all along.
What a waste.
Kirsch’s eyes were crazed now, the gun wavering. Stark weighed his chances, but even moving his head still made it spin.
Kirsch shook his head, as if dispelling the memory, shaking it off. ‘Get on your knees,’ he snarled.
Stark sighed. ‘What for?’
‘Get on your knees and beg.’
Stark rolled his eyes and rolled up to sitting with his back against the parapet, blinking away the dizziness, taking his time. ‘No.’
An execution, thought Fran. We’re about to watch an execution live on British TV. This image would be on the front of every newspaper in the country tomorrow.
Behind her the reporter chirped on, barely pausing for breath between the crushingly obvious and rabid hyperbole. This was her Pulitzer moment and she was seizing it.
A screech of tyres announced the arrival of two armed response vehicles. About time, thought Fran bitterly. But what the hell was keeping Specialist Firearms?
Out of one car climbed Detective Inspector Owen bloody Harper, square jaw set, wife presumably tucked safely away, ready to take command.
‘Right,’ he barked. ‘Someone tell me what the fuck is going on.’
Clark waved him towards the monitors, then turned to speak hurriedly with the firearms officers, who quickly looked up at the tower, swearing crossly, probably at Stark’s disregard for protocol.
‘Who the hell …?’ Harper stared at the screens in horror. ‘Tell me that’s not … Stark? What the hell does he think he’s doing?’
‘Buying us time,’ said Fran, dull-voiced. But at what cost?
Harper looked stricken, a wild glare in his eye, almost demented, glancing this way and that as if searching for a better reality. But for him that was just one where Stark wasn’t stealing the glory, and to hell with any other considerations …
Disgusted, Fran turned away to watch her friend die.
81
‘Beg!’ sneered Kirsch.
Stark stared down the quivering barrel. ‘No.’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘You’ll kill me anyway.’
‘Maybe I’ll let you live to tell my story.’
‘Great idea,’ scoffed Stark. ‘Shouldn’t take too long to tell the world what a loser you were right to the end.’
Kirsch thrust the pistol forward again. ‘You think you’re funny?’
‘I’m not the one standing there in surplus camouflage with guns you had to buy online; pretending to be a soldier when everyone knows you’re defective. Real men earn their ink,’ sneered Stark scornfully. ‘The Légion Étrangère threw you back like a minnow and that tornado on your arm might as well be a steaming turd. Soldiering, biker gangs, cage fighting, your gypsy mother, it’s all bullshit. The best thing I could say about you is that you’re a lousy fucking shot.’
Kirsch’s anger flared visibly. ‘Couldn’t catch me in the woods, though, could you, war hero? I know w
ho you are. Who’s the better soldier now, eh? Get up on your knees, war hero. It’s time to beg for my mercy.’
‘Mercy?’ Stark laughed bitterly, creaking up on to one knee. ‘You don’t have the heart.’
‘I’M ALL FUCKING HEART!’ Kirsch exploded, waving the gun like a lunatic. ‘I’m all fucking heart! And they took it! They crushed it and laughed! Pretending to care as they crushed and stamped and laughed behind my back!’
‘Oh boo-fucking-hoo!’ mocked Stark, disgusted. Bloke Rule One – no sympathy. But Simon wasn’t a man; he was an amoral, selfish child. Instead of taking his pain he’d pushed it on to others, inflicting exponential horror on strangers to eclipse his own humiliation. ‘Look at you. Headline for a day; the fetid arsehole with a gun and nothing to say. You’re pathetic. Just another snivelling shit failing to compensate for life without love. The only person who ever loved you was your mother, and only because that’s what mothers do.’ Stark was pushing every button he could think of. ‘And even she turned on you in the end.’
‘Leave my mother out of it!’ Kirsch growled threateningly.
‘She knew you’d kill her for it. I saw it in her eyes. She knew that bullet was coming, but she was just too tired of being scared of you, too tired of hating you.’
‘I said shut up!’
‘You blew her brains out and left her cooling in the woods for the bugs and crows.’ Stark braced himself. ‘Right where you left Kimberly for the worms.’
With a guttural growl Kirsch took a stride forward, thrusting the oversized pistol in Stark’s face.
Stark jerked his head aside, reaching for the gun and twisting. His posture was all wrong for a disarm, he stood no chance of taking the gun, but he had the satisfaction of hearing a snap and Kirsch’s howl of pain.
Let’s see how good your rifle aim is with a broken trigger finger, arsehole, he thought with vicious triumph. Short-lived, of course. Victories, however small, always came at a price. Overbalanced on hands and knees, he was wide open.
Between the Crosses (Joseph Stark) Page 36