Nightmare City hc-2

by Nick Oldham

  ‘ Right,’ he said, consulting a piece of paper in his hand, ‘we’ve got thirty different weapons to show, so I suggest we set up about fifteen of the tables on the dance floor and put two on each with boxes of ammo. Then de Vere can wander about to his heart’s content. You do that, and I’ll go and help the others bring the gear across from the station.’

  He left, fuming.

  Twenty minutes later he returned with Siobhan and Tattersall. They were each carrying heavy holdalls which contained the guns. They had been removed openly from the armoury at the station because openly aroused less suspicion.

  Morton directed their distribution.

  Ten minutes later he walked round the tables, checking the merchandise.

  At one point he stood on some grit on the highly polished surface. He scuffed his shoes in it, gave it a moment’s attention, then forgot it. His mind was consumed with other matters.

  Thirty feet above, Rider and Henry peered down through the two-inch crack they had engineered in the ceiling to give them a restricted view down to the room below.

  ‘ What are they doing?’ Rider said more to himself than anything.

  ‘ Haven’t a clue.’

  From their position, laid out side by side in the old casino office, chins hanging over the edge of the trapdoor, squinting down through the minute gap, they could see a couple of the tables Gallagher had dragged onto the dance floor.

  ‘ Rearranging the furniture,’ Henry said.

  The top of Tattersall’s head came into view. He placed something on a table with a clatter of metal. His shoulders hunched over his task, obscuring the view. A minute later he moved away, revealing two guns lying on the table. One was a semi-automatic pistol, the other a big revolver. Boxes of ammunition stood by them.

  Tattersall moved to the next table within their view and left two more weapons on it. One could have been an Uzi, the other was a semi-automatic pistol. And ammunition to go.

  ‘ A gun bazaar, I’d say,’ Rider murmured. ‘Marketing their goods.’

  ‘ They’ve got police property tags on them too,’ Henry noted. ‘I think they’re the ones we found in the back of Dundaven’s Range Rover. The cheeky swines.’

  They drove in convoy to Blackpool, the Mercedes followed by the Mayfairs and then a Mondeo driven by Conroy’s minders. They arrived outside the club at 10.30 a.m.

  Morton met them at the door, then led them inside to the dance floor and main bar area. Gallagher and Siobhan were left to guard the entrance. De Vere sniffed the atmosphere huffily but said nothing. He began to browse through the display, lifting up and examining the goods closely. He was impressed.

  Hamilton introduced the Mayfairs to Morton as the men who would be killing Henry Christie and John Rider.

  ‘ I don’t think you’ll have to look far. I reckon they’re in Blackpool somewhere. That should make things easier for you.’

  After ten minutes amongst the tables, de Vere turned to Conroy. ‘We need to talk money now.’

  Which is exactly what Conroy wanted to hear, but he also needed McNamara’s presence because of the transport arrangements which were an integral part of the deal. ‘Just give me a second,’ Conroy said. He went to Morton. ‘Where the fuck is Harry?’

  At which exact moment the man himself walked hurriedly in through the door. His face was a mask of controlled grief, though none of the men in the room picked that up. They wanted him for his contacts, not his face.

  ‘ Ahh,’ Conroy announced with relief. ‘We wondered where you’d been hiding. Come over here. We’re talking business.’

  Kate picked up the phone on the first ring. ‘It’s for you. Somebody called Kevin Summers.’ She handed it across to Donaldson, then sat down again. Her eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark circles. Karen placed an arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug.

  There were only the three of them in the house. The girls had been taken to school without any explanations about what was going on.

  Donaldson asked a few muted questions and hung up.

  He turned to the women. ‘Developments,’ he said. Before he could expand, there was a knock on the front door. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.

  It was Detective Chief Superintendent Fanshaw- Bayley.

  Ten yards above the dance floor, two escaped prisoners watched and listened as intently as possible. Only the occasional word could be made out.

  Henry adjusted his position ever so slightly to relieve the pain he was feeling.

  Rider’s stomach gurgled obscenely, reminding Henry how hungry he was himself. It had been a long time since both men had eaten or drunk anything warm and they were both close to starvation and exhaustion.

  Donaldson and FB burst out of the front door and sprinted down the driveway to FB’s car, a Ford Probe.

  FB was shouting into his personal radio, ordering all the ARV patrols to go onto channel 71, the secure radio channel to which only firearms officers had access.

  ‘ How many teams are in Blackpool at this moment?’ Donaldson asked.

  ‘ Three. That means six officers, all armed and dangerous.’ FB slammed the Probe into first and accelerated away from the kerb. ‘All ARV s to meet me, as a matter of urgency, on the Promenade, near to the pleasure beach, opposite the Big One. Do not use two-tones, or blues,’ he said into his radio, then repeated the message and asked for acknowledgements. He then instructed them all to prepare their weapons and don their body armour.

  When FB had finished speaking, Donaldson said, ‘Henry thinks you’re one of them.’

  ‘ Henry’s an arsehole,’ FB muttered, negotiating a blind bend and slewing the back wheels across the tarmac.

  ‘ And he’s been used by you, hasn’t he?’

  FB slotted Donaldson a sidelong squint of contempt, then concentrated on his driving, choosing to make no reply to what was a very leading question.

  After discussing the planned demise of Christie and Rider with Morton, the Mayfairs sauntered between the tables of weaponry, watched closely by Morton who did not like, or trust them very much.

  They strolled until they were — accidentally — directly under the aperture in the ceiling through which the two escapees were peering. A table displaying two AK 47s was next to Tiger.

  Tiger’s trainer scuffed the dusty grit on the dance floor. He bent down, dipped his fingers into it, frowned and looked up at Wayne.

  The ARVs responded brilliantly. Within five minutes, each car had converged beneath the shadow of the Big One. The officers, all kitted out in their body armour, Glock pistols and MP5s, waited expectantly for FB who screeched to a halt a minute later.

  There was also another car present. The nondescript occupant got out of it and approached Donaldson. They shook hands. Donaldson then introduced the man to FB. ‘I’d like you to meet Kevin Summers, FB. Kevin’s with the MI5 Surveillance Branch. He’s been doing some superb work for me.’

  Coolly Summers said, ‘I think we’ve got a situation here and we should move as soon as possible with it.’

  McNamara, de Vere and Conroy paused at one of the tables which was displaying. 357 Ruger revolvers.

  McNamara nonchalantly picked up one of the empty guns in his left hand and flicked the cylinder release whilst continuing to discuss matters of transport and money with the other two. He held a speed-loader in his right hand which was fitted with six wad-cutter bullets.

  ‘ Yes, yes, I think so. We can arrange all that,’ he said, continuing with the conversation. ‘No problem. I’ll arrange for my company to distribute them however you require.’ He smiled, slotted the bullets into the chamber and twisted the release mechanism on the speed-loader.

  Summers was succinct. His team of twelve had been tasked to pick up Hamilton and de Vere at the airport. They did so and followed them with ease to the country club where they met up with Conroy, Morton and McNamara. The team of watchers settled in for the night, even though the weather was atrociously wet, cold and slushy.

  McNamara was the only o
ne to leave the club that night. Summers took the decision not to have him followed.

  In the morning, though, when Morton left early, Summers directed four of his operatives to tag him. This left eight to deal with the remaining gang. Easily enough to cope with people who were not expecting to be followed.

  A good set of Polaroids taken through a long lens recorded the departure of the men from the club — and the arrival of two more players.

  Summers handed the photos to Donaldson, who immediately recognised the Mayfairs. His face went white. And again he saw the scratch-marks on Tiger’s face and wondered whether it was his tissue underneath Sam’s fingernails.

  Perhaps he would soon find out.

  The MI5 team followed them, Conroy, Hamilton, de Vere and the Mayfairs to Blackpool, where they liaised with the four who had tailed Tony Morton and recorded his activities for posterity that morning. The four produced photographs of Morton, Tattersall and WDS Robson removing weapons from the armoury.

  FB looked at the photographs and began to boil.

  ‘ They took all these guns to a club,’ Summers said. He handed over the final shots of Conroy, de Vere and Hamilton entering Rider’s club.

  ‘ The place is under observation by my team and they’ve told me that McNamara has just turned up.’

  ‘ You have done some excellent work here,’ FB said genuinely. ‘Can you tune your radios onto our frequency?’

  ‘ They already are-’ Summers began, but was interrupted when the airwaves crackled to life and one of the MI5 watchers reported hearing the sound of gunfire from inside the club.

  ‘ You did a good job with the prostitute,’ McNamara said suddenly and savagely to Conroy. The conversation about financial arrangements was brought to an abrupt close.

  ‘ You know, then?’ Ronnie asked, slightly bemused. ‘I was going to tell you later. How did you find out?’

  ‘ The police were waiting for me when I got home last night,’ McNamara said. ‘You also shot my wife, or at least the tosser you hired did. I had to go and identify her body last night, for God’s sake.’

  Conroy had heard another woman had been hit alongside the prostitute named Gillian, but he’d assumed it was just another hooker.

  He was stunned.

  ‘ Philippa was with her. I don’t know why, but my wife was with that piece of filth.’

  McNamara closed the cylinder and pointed the Ruger at Conroy’s throat.

  Rider shifted uncomfortably, not realising that when he did so, more dust and grit were dislodged. They fell in a tiny cloud of particles onto Wayne Mayfair’s shoulder.

  He turned slowly and casually lifted an AK47 from the table and eased a magazine into the breech. Tiger reached for a Sig 9mm on another table.

  Morton approached them.

  ‘ You got someone watching from up there?’ Tiger asked. He raised his eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘Don’t look up,’ he added with a hiss.

  Morton caught on. He shook his head and thought: Rider and Christie.

  ‘ In that case, you won’t mind if I test this gun, will you?’ Wayne announced. He stepped back, knocked the safety off and swung the barrel of the gun up.

  He pulled the trigger back at the same time that McNamara shot Conroy in the throat.

  The bullet from the Ruger slashed into Conroy’s Adam’s apple and exited through the back of his neck, creating a huge hole. Conroy stood where he had been shot, astounded — it seemed — that someone should have the effrontery to even point a gun at him, let alone fire the thing.

  For a moment, McNamara could see daylight through the wound, but he didn’t peer through it. Instead he put another couple into Conroy’s chest. These two went right through him, leaving a swathe of organ destruction behind them.

  Henry saw — sensed — something was wrong below, then glimpsed the AK swinging upwards.

  He shouted something which stuck in his dry craw and rolled away from their viewing aperture as a spray of armour-piercing bullets exploded through the ceiling.

  Rider had not moved. He took two full in the face and as the shells came up through the floor, took another seven down the whole length of his chest and stomach, making his body twitch like it was being given a series of massive electric shocks.

  Wayne continued to hold down the trigger and kept firing through the ceiling in no particular pattern. The magazine was empty within two seconds, some thirty bullets having been discharged.

  Henry rolled and scrambled across the unsafe floor to the edge of the room where he curled into a ball, hands covering his head, as if this protective gesture would fend off bullets.

  The sound of the shooting died away.

  On the dance floor Conroy’s body lay twitching, floundering in a pool of blood like a stranded fish on a deck.

  McNamara stood impassively over him.

  Wayne stared at the ceiling and smiled when a gob of blood blobbed down through the gap. He glanced triumphantly at Tiger, grabbed another magazine, discarded the empty original and slammed the new one home.

  Morton stared, transfixed by the sight of Conroy and McNamara’s smoking gun and the pool of blood.

  Everyone else in the room was petrified, as in stone, trying to make sense of what had just taken place.

  Wayne raised the AK again and gleefully pulled the trigger.

  It was as though intercontinental ballistic missiles were coming through the wooden floor as the deadly shells forced their way all around Henry.

  He stayed rigid; one tore through the boards perilously close to his head.

  Then they stopped again.

  The gun was empty.

  ‘ We’re going hunting,’ Wayne said to Morton.

  He threw the AK down, grabbed another Sig and the two brothers ran to the door at the back of the ballroom and disappeared through it.

  ‘ I love her… I loved her,’ McNamara wept over Conroy’s body. ‘I treated her badly, but I loved her. I did.’ He sank to his knees.

  ‘ Get these fucking guns together and let’s get out of here,’ Morton screamed at his officers, shaking himself and them out of their trances. They reacted instantaneously.

  Hamilton grabbed de Vere’s arm.

  They walked quickly towards the door but were stopped in their tracks by the sight of Gallagher, Siobhan and Tattersall accompanied, and covered by, two firearms officers, guns drawn and pointed with menace.

  Four more officers sprinted into the club, followed by FB and Donaldson, then Summers and six of his team.

  ‘ Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?’ Donaldson said, standing in Hamilton’s path. Hamilton took a swing and gave the FBI agent the most pleasure he’d had in ages when he decked the other man with a perfectly weighted right which sent him staggering back over the tables.

  Henry breathed out, removed his hands from his head and looked across to Rider’s unmoving body. Henry struggled to see the damage. He dragged himself silently and unwillingly towards him. When he was only inches away, he gasped. Rider’s head looked as though he’d been chewing a grenade.

  Henry needed to vomit. He retched.

  Then he heard the sound of footsteps running down the corridor. They came to a halt. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he heard a man sing out playfully — Jack Nicolson style.

  ‘ Wherever you are, you’re fucking dead,’ came another voice. Less tuneful, less playful.

  Two voices. Two men. Two killers.

  Only one Henry.

  Henry had the advantage. He had been in the dark for several hours. He could see everything very clearly in the room. The broken furniture. Planks of wood. An old desk. Rider’s body…

  He also had a blood-soaked gun which he had prised out of Rider’s clammy, dead hand which didn’t seem to want to let go.

  And, supposedly, there were two bullets in the gun.

  So, yeah, technically, he had the advantage.

  Except he was a crap shot. His hand was shaking like mad. They were probably armed to the bac
k teeth and no doubt ex-SAS members, with the ability to kill with deadly efficiency in a darkened, smoke-filled room whilst fighting off Dobermans at the same time.

  So if he didn’t make the bullets count, he was dead.

  If he missed, he would have betrayed his position.

  And he would be dead.

  He lay on the floor, desperately trying to remember the intricacies of the prone firing position. Flat out on your stomach, legs together, gun in right hand (of course), supported by the left, forefinger on trigger — just the tip of it — breathing, watch the breathing, for fuck’s sake…

  I can hear them outside the door. They’ve gone quiet.

  Sweat drips down the forehead, collects in the eyebrows, then dinks onto the eyelids…

  And not two feet away lies a bullet-riddled body…

  Fuck, the door is opening!

  And suddenly Henry is very calm.

  Wayne came in first, low, rolling across the room to the left. Tiger second, the opposite way.

  As Wayne came up into a shooting position, Henry fired, remembering everything in that split second: don’t anticipate the kick, don’t snatch, aim up, slightly right, just below the chin… He didn’t even wait to see if he’d hit the man — he knew he had — and he turned his attention to the second man, who had disappeared…

  The calmness inside began to evaporate.

  There was an old desk over there — the only cover he could be using.

  Henry focused on the desk. Yes, he must be behind it.

  Silence.

  Then, to Henry’s right, there was a groan and a movement as Wayne rolled in his final death-throe.

  Tiger roared something incomprehensible in anguish and stood up from behind the desk, Sig in hand and fired repeatedly in the direction of his already-dead brother.