Terror's Reach

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Terror's Reach Page 16

by Tom Bale


  here?’

  Oliver frowned a moment, as though he had to translate what she

  was saying. He shook his head.

  'Good.’ Priya kicked the front door shut. Pulled a pair of latex gloves

  from her pocket and put them on. Horrified, Oliver scrambled away

  from her, his feet slipping and squeaking on the marble floor. His

  prominent Adam’s apple worked frantically, bobbing up and down

  above his collar.

  At last he got the words out. 'What are you . . . what is this?’

  'What do you think it is?’

  'I don’t know. A robbery?’ Even as he said it, he seemed to relax a

  little. You’ve come to steal from my father?’

  Priya nodded. 'Not just him. The whole island.’

  Oliver stared at her for what seemed a long time, as if translating

  again. Then he shook his head, disbelieving. Finally he grinned. When

  he spoke, his voice bore the same note of admiration as Eldon’s.

  'What a fantastic idea.’

  The gunman dragged Donald into the living room. His accomplice

  took Angela at knifepoint, forcing her to lie down on the floor next

  to her husband’s body. When she tried to look at him the man slapped

  her face.

  'Please,’ she cried. 'Please don’t do this.’

  She heard a snigger from the gunman, as though he took an active

  pleasure from her distress. The other man bound her hands behind

  her back, using some sort of plastic cuffs. His flesh gave off the hot,

  meaty stench of ingrained body odour. Her skin crawled every time

  he touched her.

  'See if he’s alive,’ she implored them. 'Don’t let him bleed to death.’

  'Shut up.’

  'Please,’ Angela said again. 'We have hardly anything worth stealing,

  but take it all. Just let me see my husband. Let me help him, if I can.’

  The gunman shook her head. 'Will you get the message? He’s dead

  as a dodo.’

  'Why did you shoot him?’ she asked.

  'The stupid fucker came at me,’ the gunman said. 'I had no choice.’

  No choice. The fallback of every Nazi, every Stalinist, every craven

  bureaucrat. Angela could scarcely contain her disgust. She fell silent.

  Rested her cheek on the carpet and felt a tear squeeze from her eye.

  By tying her up and keeping their faces hidden, she understood

  that they didn’t necessarily intend to kill her. But it gave her little

  comfort. At that moment she would have welcomed death. She had

  nothing left to live for.

  Nothing, except perhaps for the first tiny spark of a desire for

  revenge.

  Liam stood outside Dreamscape, the ski mask in his pocket. He tipped

  his head back and shut his eyes, savouring the warmth of the setting

  sun. The brilliant orange glow through his eyelids seemed like the

  colour of success, the colour of victory.

  A gentle breeze had sprung up, stirring the thick air, flavouring it

  with the faint tang of salt water. The distant cry of gulls took him

  back to the summers of his childhood. Grim holiday camps on the

  north-west coast: soggy chips, dreary skies and an aching, pulverising

  boredom.

  After tonight he would never know boredom again. He would anticipate

  its onset and spend his way out of it.

  Priya and Eldon had gone next door a couple of minutes ago. Liam

  wondered how Priya intended to play it with Oliver Felton. He regretted

  not being able to watch her in action.

  At the sound of an engine he opened his eyes. Allotti was in the

  Ford Explorer. Liam directed him to park outside the footballer’s

  residence, tight up to the boundary wall. The wall was of brick construction,

  about seven feet high, topped with some kind of decorative tile.

  No deterrent to a serious intruder. The real security had been provided

  by live-in bodyguards, but they’d accompanied the footballer and his

  family to Rome. Only the father-in-law living there now.

  There was an intercom, but Liam decided not to use that. With

  no plausible reason to bluff his way in, he felt a different approach

  was called for.

  He put on the mask and drew his gun. A 9 mm Glock 17, with a

  silencer. He racked the slide to make sure there was a round in the

  chamber, then tucked it back into his belt.

  He clambered onto the bonnet of the Explorer and up onto the

  wall. Allotti climbed up alongside him. They paused for a second and

  examined the house. A couple of first-floor windows were open, but

  there was no one in sight.

  They dropped down onto a small area of lawn that ran alongside

  the driveway. Followed a concrete path to the front door, where Liam

  stopped and listened. He could hear music playing inside. Some kind

  of opera.

  He led Allotti to the corner of the house, made sure it was clear,

  then crept along the path towards the rear. Allotti’s breathing, muffled

  by the mask, sounded like a poor impersonation of Darth Vader.

  Liam peered round the corner. A stone terrace ran the full width

  of the property. In the centre there was a round aluminium table with

  two chairs. Terry Fox was sitting in one and had his feet propped up

  on the other. He was angled away from them, reading a magazine

  and sipping a glass of red wine.

  He was wearing blue swimming shorts and leather sandals. For a

  man in his early sixties he looked in good shape. The muscles in his

  arms and legs were still well-defined, and he had only a slight paunch.

  His skin was the colour of mahogany, with a nest of white hairs on

  his chest.

  The music was louder here. The singer was possibly one of those

  fat fellas from the World Cup concert, all those years ago. Opera had

  never been Liam’s thing, but now it came in useful, covering the

  sound of their approach.

  Liam walked towards the table, with Allotti just behind him. It took

  a few seconds before Fox registered their presence. First he looked up

  from the magazine and stared straight ahead, across the bay. Then,

  slowly, he turned his head in their direction. He had close-cropped

  silver hair and the strong, rugged features of an ageing movie star.

  His eyes went from the guns to the masks, then back to the guns.

  His hand jerked, slopping the wine in the glass. A couple of drips landed on his chest and he glanced down, studying the wine as though

  it might be the cause of this hallucination.

  Then he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it in one quick

  gulp. Smacked his lips together and declared: 'Well, bugger me.’

  'No, thanks,’ said Liam. Your daughter, maybe.’ He moved closer,

  saw the magazine was one of those glossy, celebrity-fixated rags. 'Is

  that how you find out what she’s up to?’

  Fox snorted. 'Funny.’ Then: 'She is in this one, as it happens. She’s

  got a new puppy. And a new tattoo.’

  He put the glass down, tossed the magazine aside and sat back.

  Laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach, a picture

  of mature composure.

  'So what now?’ he asked. 'Stand and deliver?’

  Liam nodded. 'Something like that.’

  Twenty-Eight

  The swim was a battle, but at no time di
d Joe ever consider that it

  was one he might lose. Partly it was experience, partly his training,

  and partly just the way he was wired. If giving up had been in his

  nature he’d have done it years ago, the day his wife and daughters

  were placed out of his reach.

  Eventually the pull of the current weakened and he began to make

  better progress, slicing through the water with clean, fast strokes. The

  island’s eastern coast was rocky and inhospitable, but Joe managed to

  weave his way through without getting cut to pieces, and finally he came ashore on one of the intermittent stretches of shingle beach.

  He crawled out of the water and collapsed. After resting for a couple

  of minutes, he checked himself over. His jeans were torn and he’d

  picked up a few scratches, but they weren’t serious. He took a look

  at his phone. He had nothing to dry it with, and decided not to risk

  putting the battery back in yet.

  Ahead of him, the beach rose steeply for about fifty feet, then gave

  way to clumps of brambles and blackthorn, growing along the side of

  the high chain-link fence that enclosed the old training camp. To

  reach the far side of the island, Joe would have to circle round the

  coast and head inland somewhere close to the road.

  He put his trainers on and laced them up. They squelched with

  every step but still allowed him to move a lot faster across the beach.

  He set off at a run, not yet dwelling too much on what might lie

  ahead. Better to have an open mind and face each challenge as it

  arose. After what had already happened today, he didn’t think there

  was much more that could surprise him.

  He was wrong.

  Terry Fox seemed more resigned than afraid. There was a polo shirt

  draped over the chair. Before submitting meekly to the handcuffs, he

  asked if he could put it on. Liam felt irritated that the old guy wasn’t

  begging for mercy, but he wouldn’t let it spoil the moment. Better

  that everyone should surrender so easily.

  Leaving Allotti to deal with Fox, Liam made his way through the

  house, barely glancing at what was on offer. As he’d suspected, the

  footballer and his wife had never really left their roots behind. There

  was very little art on display, and what they had was mostly tat. Every

  single picture on the wall was a portrait of themselves.

  Liam found the control panel which opened the main gates and

  let himself out through the front door. He tore off the mask and wiped

  sweat from his face. He’d be glad when this stage was complete and

  he didn’t have to wear the bloody thing any more.

  Eldon was waiting for him by the Ford Explorer. He sounded hyper

  as he described how Priya had waltzed past Oliver Felton.

  'It was like he was expecting her,’ he said. 'I dunno who he thought

  she was. I swear he had a hard-on.’

  Liam nodded vaguely, as though this didn’t interest him much. Then

  Manderson lumbered into view, and just from the grim satisfaction on

  his face Liam had an instant premonition: the Weavers were dead.

  'Had to snuff one of 'em,’ Manderson said.

  'Who? Why?’

  'The geezer. Silly fucker went apeshit on us. Threw himself at

  Turner. He had to put him down.’ Manderson mimed a gun with two

  gloved fingers and made an explosive sound, as though words alone

  couldn’t convey the message.

  Liam sighed. 'The next target is a lot more important. No casualties

  unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. You clear on that?’

  Both men nodded, though Manderson’s savage grin didn’t inspire

  confidence. One of the many stories about Manderson was that he’d

  once beheaded a man with an axe. Looking at him now, Liam could

  believe it.

  Once again they masked up, drew their weapons and set off on

  foot. They rounded the bend in the road and Nasenko’s house came

  into view.

  They were less than ten feet from the edge of the property when

  a man in a plain grey suit wandered out through the gates, cupping

  his hand around a cigarette as he lit up. He glanced in their direction,

  saw three masked men carrying guns, and reacted faster than

  they did.

  He didn’t freeze or do a double take, and he didn’t run back into

  the house. He took off along the road, heading towards the bridge.

  Maybe thought his chances were better out in the open. He’d probably

  forgotten how isolated it was here.

  Manderson dropped into a shooting stance, but Liam grabbed his

  arm. He didn’t want gunfire out in the street; not when they hadn’t

  yet taken Nasenko.

  'Go after him,’ he told Manderson. At the same time he undipped

  his radio and called Pendry.

  'The American’s driver is coming your way on foot, with Manderson

  on his tail. Make sure he doesn’t get away.’

  It took Joe several minutes to round the curve onto the north-east

  coast of the island. From here the mainland was in clear view. Joe

  could see the point on the ridge opposite where he had formed his

  plan to swim across. In the soft evening light the narrow strip of water

  in between looked deceptively benign.

  The foliage along the top of the beach grew thickly enough to conceal

  him, but after another hundred yards it began to thin out. Eventually

  he reached the last of the bushes and made the unfortunate discovery

  that he didn’t know the island as well as he’d thought.

  He was trapped. Caught in a corridor between the sea to his right

  and the MoD land to his left. The north-west corner of the training

  camp extended to within a few yards of the road. The only way Joe

  could move was directly ahead, across a patch of open ground. The

  bridge lay beyond it, about fifty feet away. The fisherman from earlier

  in the day was on the bridge, lounging against the Citroen van. The

  other guard was pacing up and down the approach road.

  Joe reviewed his options. The light was fading, but it wasn’t dark

  enough for him to sneak past. In any case, the ground underfoot was

  a mixture of soil, sand and pebbles. If he tried to move quickly they

  would hear him. If he moved slowly he would be seen.

  That left two choices. One was to breach the fence and go across

  the training camp. The other was to take the direct route. Rush the

  two men and overpower them.

  A big decision. Before Joe could make it, the man pacing the road

  reached for something in his pocket. A two-way radio. He listened,

  then made a brief reply. From this distance, Joe could see that he was

  in his forties, plump and sandy-haired.

  Replacing the radio, he shouted, 'Gough’ and gestured at the fisherman,

  who picked up on the note of urgency and propelled himself

  away from the van. The older one relayed a message, then both men

  drew ski masks and pistols from within their fluorescent jackets.

  Joe froze, wondering if he’d been spotted, perhaps by a hidden

  accomplice. Had there been another guard, posted somewhere along

  the route he’d just come?

  He prepared for the worst – not afraid; just angry with himself.

  Angry at the prospect of failure.<
br />
  But the guards showed no awareness of his presence. Both put on

  their masks and took up positions behind the van. They were facing

  inland, as though expecting a threat from the interior of the island.

  Joe had no idea what was happening, but it put paid to any thoughts

  of a direct assault. Pitching the short blade of his pocket knife against

  two handguns would be suicidal.

  That left just one option, for which his multi-tool was far better

  suited. He shifted up to the fence, lay flat and used the wire cutter

  to create a flap large enough to crawl through. It took him a couple

  of minutes. He was confident the guards couldn’t see or hear him,

  but that didn’t stop him glancing round every few seconds.

  He wriggled through the gap, his wet clothes slithering across the

  grass and weeds. He’d just got clear of the fence when one of the men

  shouted: 'Hey!’

  Liam watched Manderson set off in pursuit of the American’s driver.

  There was no question of waiting for him to return. He and Eldon

  would have to take Nasenko on their own.

  The routine was the same as with Terry Fox. They hurried across

  the drive, keeping a sharp eye on the front of the house. Crept along

  the path at the side and reached the back door. Liam checked his

  gun, took a breath and opened the door.

  He stepped into a boot room. Saw wet-weather gear and fishing

  rods and a pile of inflatable beach toys. There was a toilet or shower

  room to his right, and the kitchen lay straight ahead.

  Liam entered the kitchen. It was empty apart from the maid, a

  thick set Hispanic woman. She was cleaning a marble worktop, putting

  real effort into it. When she saw him she dropped the cloth, slapping

  her hands over the counter as if groping for a weapon. Liam was

  impressed. In this house even the maid fancied herself as a warrior.

  He pointed the gun at her face and shook his head: Don’t be silly.

  Eldon cuffed her hands behind her back, then Liam took a step

  closer, prodding the gun into her ample belly.

  'Where are they?’

  The maid’s eyes flashed. 'Yuri will kill you.’

  Liam shoved the gun in harder, and she groaned. Her whole body

  was trembling with fear and rage.

  'Where?’

  Another moment of defiance, then she flicked her head upwards.

  'Office,’ she said. 'Up the stairs, turn left.’

  Once inside the training camp, the ground fell away into a large

 

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