The Double Tap (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Back in the foyer,’ said Allan, but as he spoke the Rover’s tyres squealed and the car leapt forward. Su-ming screamed. Allan reached for his gun with his right hand and pushed Cramer with his left. His fingers touched the butt of the gun, but before he could pull it out the Rover was upon him. He threw himself to the right but the wing clipped him and he heard his leg snap above the knee. The pain followed a second later as if his whole leg was on fire and he bit down on his lip to stifle a scream.

  The Rover veered to the left and sped away. Allan rolled across the pavement in agony, the gun falling from his fingers. The Mercedes accelerated towards them, its engine roaring in the confines of the car park.

  The Colonel blew across his coffee mug. The steam condensed on the window pane and he rubbed it away with his hand. Down on the luxury motor yacht, the trooper was washing down the decks with a bucket and sponge.

  A grey-haired man in a blazer and white slacks was helping two blonde teenage girls onto a fifty-foot motor launch. The Thames was at its lowest level of the day and the channel connecting the marina to the river was empty, so the man obviously wasn’t planning to take the boat out, not for a few hours at least. The taller of the two blondes stumbled as she stepped from the dock onto the boat and the man put a hand on her backside to steady her. The Colonel supposed the man might just be the girls’ father, but there was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes. They disappeared inside the boat. It was, thought the Colonel, entirely possible that the man was showing them the engine room. ‘And pigs might fly,’ he mused.

  The Colonel looked over at the tower block. Vander Mayer’s apartment was almost at the top of the tower. The sun was reflected off the windows so the Colonel couldn’t see inside. He shaded his eyes with his right hand but it didn’t make any difference.

  Behind him, his fax machine rang, three times, and then it hummed as a fax began to come through. Down in the marina, the motor yacht began to rock gently. The Colonel shook his head in amazement, then he realised that it made sense. Eyebrows might be raised if an elderly man booked into a hotel with two young girls, so a luxury boat moored close to the city centre made a perfect venue for illicit assignations, providing you had the money. The Colonel wondered how much the boat had cost. A hundred thousand pounds? Maybe more.

  The first sheet fell out of the machine. It was a memo from Dan Greenberg saying that he was faxing the notes on the killer they’d spoken about. His name was Anton Madeley, and he’d been held in Marrion Prison for the past nine years, mostly in solitary confinement. The Colonel stood by the machine as the second sheet began to spew out.

  It was halfway out of the machine when the transceiver crackled. It was Richards, the young trooper who was sitting in the foyer by the car park. ‘Allan’s been hit,’ said Richards. ‘Allan’s been hit in the car park.’

  The Colonel dropped his mug as he turned and grabbed the transceiver. He pressed the transmit button. ‘Move in!’ he yelled. ‘Everybody move in now!’

  Cramer and Su-ming dashed over to Allan. He was lying on the pavement like a broken marionette, his right leg sticking out at an awkward angle, blood pouring from the knee. ‘Get back!’ Allan shouted. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

  ‘It’s okay, she’s gone,’ said Cramer. As Su-ming examined the damage to Allan’s leg, the Mercedes pulled up in front of them. Cramer looked up, expecting to see Martin at the wheel. He did a double-take as he realised that the man in the chauffeur’s cap wasn’t Martin.

  Allan reached along the pavement for his gun. The man in the Mercedes threw open the car door and fired twice at Allan. The first shot screamed off the pavement inches from his hand, the second hit him in the right shoulder, close to the neck. Cramer got to his feet, pushing Su-ming behind him. Allan lay on the floor, gasping for breath as blood gushed around his shoulders.

  The man in the chauffeur’s cap pointed his gun at Cramer’s face. ‘No!’ screamed Su-ming from behind Cramer.

  Matt Richards didn’t hear the Rover accelerate but he heard the thud as it hit Allan. He yelled into his transceiver as he pulled his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun from under his seat, then leapt over the counter. He almost slipped on the marble foyer but quickly regained his balance as he brought his weapon up into the firing position. He ran towards the double doors, slipping his finger onto the trigger. On the pavement outside he saw Cramer and the girl standing in front of Martin, while Allan lay on the ground, blood pooling around his neck. The car that had hit Allan was screeching away, towards the exit. For a second Richards was confused; he couldn’t understand why Cramer and Martin weren’t firing after the car. Then realisation hit him like a shower of freezing water – it wasn’t Martin wearing the chauffeur’s cap, and whoever it was he was holding a gun on Cramer.

  The double doors hissed open as Richards got within three paces of the electronic sensor. He saw the man with the gun look over Cramer’s shoulder. The man’s eyes opened wide with surprise as he spotted Richards. Richards stepped to the side, trying to get a clear shot but Cramer and the girl were in the way. ‘Down! Down! Down!’ Richards screamed, the staccato commands piercing the air like bullets.

  Lynch had no idea who the doorman was or why he had a high-powered automatic weapon in his hands, but he knew that he was in big trouble. What had started as a straightforward hit was escalating into a full-scale war. He aimed the gun at Cramer’s face and tightened his finger on the trigger, but as he did so the doorman began to scream for Cramer to get down and Lynch knew that if he didn’t react immediately he was going to die there and then on the pavement.

  Lynch swung his pistol to the left and fired at the doorman. The bullet whizzed past Cramer’s face, missing him by inches. The first shot hit the doorman square in the chest and it knocked him back, but Lynch could see that there was no blood. The man’s face was contorted with pain but he kept hold of his weapon. Lynch realised he must be wearing a bullet-proof vest under his charcoal grey uniform.

  Cramer dived to the side, pushing the girl out of the way. Lynch ignored them. He fired two shots at the doorman in quick succession. The first hit the upper part of the man’s chest and from the dull thud it made Lynch could tell that it had hit the reinforced vest. There was no mistaking where the third bullet went. It hit the doorman in the throat, snapping the man’s head back. Blood poured down the man’s chest and his weapon clattered to the floor. Cramer and the girl were down on the pavement. Cramer was on top of her, shielding her with his body as he reached inside his coat. Lynch grinned and brought his aim to bear on Cramer’s face. He grinned. He had five shots left. More than enough.

  Marie Hennessy hit the brakes. She looked over her shoulder, wondering why Lynch was still standing in front of the apartment entrance. His instructions had been crystal clear. She was to take out the bodyguard with the car, Lynch was to pull up in the Mercedes, shoot Cramer, and then run to the Rover. They’d used the street map to work out the quickest way to Fulham Broadway Station, where they would abandon the car and disappear into the Underground system.

  Marie had done her bit, she’d hit the guy hard, though it appeared that she hadn’t hit him hard enough because she’d kept one eye on the rear-view mirror and had seen Lynch shoot him twice as he lay on the ground. There had been three more shots, but when she turned around she could see Lynch still standing there with his gun aimed at Cramer. Cramer didn’t appear to be dead, he was lying on top of the Oriental girl and staring up at Lynch. Cramer’s hand was inside his coat but it seemed to be frozen there. ‘Come on, Dermott,’ Marie hissed. ‘Come on.’

  Cramer glared up at the man with the gun, his teeth bared like a cornered dog. His fingers were touching the butt of his Walther PPK but he knew it would be futile to pull out the weapon. He slowly withdrew his hand, his eyes fixed on his attacker. Why hadn’t the man fired? It didn’t make any sense. All he had to do was pull the trigger and it would all be over. He felt Su-ming struggle and he rolled off her. The barrel of the gun followed him like
an accusing finger. In the distance he heard the Rover’s horn blare. The man ignored it. There was hatred in the man’s eyes, a burning contempt that suggested he was going to enjoy killing Cramer. A small part of Cramer was surprised by the man’s emotional intensity, because everything he’d read about the assassin suggested that he was a stone cold killer, a consummate professional.

  Su-ming crawled away until her back was against the wall, her eyes wide with fear. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, her hands covering her face. ‘Please don’t.’ Cramer wondered if she was pleading for her own life or for his, he had no way of telling which. Whatever, Cramer himself had no intention of begging for mercy.

  ‘Do it,’ Cramer growled.

  ‘No!’ shouted Su-ming.

  Cramer rolled over, putting more distance between himself and Su-ming. He looked into the barrel of the gun. He imagined he could see the bullet there, the bullet that would shortly smash through his skull and blow his brains across the concrete. The cold, clinical part of his mind hoped that the blood wouldn’t spray across Su-ming’s silk suit. He forced himself to look away from the gun and into the eyes of the man who was about to end his life.

  ‘Do it!’ Cramer hissed. He pushed himself up off the ground and sat back on his heels. He glared at the man with the gun.

  The man smiled cruelly. Cramer imagined he could see the knuckle of his trigger finger whiten as he increased the pressure. Cramer had an unexpected feeling of well-being, and he realised that he really wasn’t scared of death, that there were worse things than a shot to the head, and that the man with the gun was actually doing him a favour. Cramer smiled.

  The man with the gun seemed confused, as if a smile was the last thing he expected to see on the face of his victim. Then the confusion vanished, leaving only hatred in his eyes. ‘This is for …’ the man began, and then his face exploded outward in a mass of pink brain tissue and splinters of white bone. The bloody fragments splattered across Cramer, blinding him. He didn’t see the second shot or the third, but when he wiped the blood from his eyes he saw the man with the gun pitch forward and slam into the ground.

  Allan had levered himself up on one elbow. His gun was in his left hand, shaking from the effort of shooting the man. The Glock tumbled from Allan’s hand as he fell back onto the pavement.

  Marie Hennessy screamed as she saw Lynch pitch forward, blood streaming from his face. She threw the Rover into gear and stamped on the accelerator. She had no doubt that Lynch was dead; there had been hardly anything left of his face.

  The barrier at the exit to the car park was down but Marie didn’t hesitate. The Rover crashed through the pole, which collapsed in a shriek of tearing metal. The steering wheel bucked and twisted as if it had a life of its own and Marie fought to control it. She wrenched it to the right and the rear wheels skidded on the tarmac. A black taxi with its hire light on was heading down the road towards her and she narrowly missed colliding with it. The Rover banged against the kerb and a hubcap was ripped off in a shower of sparks but Marie regained control and sped off down the road.

  The white walls of an apartment block went by in a blur. She risked a quick look in her driving mirror and smiled grimly as she saw that there was no one following her. As her eyes flicked back to the road ahead of her, she noticed a man in a white turtleneck sweater and jeans standing by the roadside, a large automatic held in both hands. She saw the gun kick up and instantly her side window shattered. A piece of glass sliced through her cheek but she scarcely felt the pain. As she passed the man he fired again, and she heard a dull metallic thud as the bullet buried itself in the rear wing of the Rover.

  Marie was hit by a wave of elation as she realised that she’d got away. The road ahead was deserted, if she could just make it to the tube station she’d be free and clear. She pressed the accelerator to the floor, but suddenly she heard another shot and then the car juddered and veered to the left. The steering wheel twisted out of her hands and the car hit the kerb. Marie realised with clinical detachment that the man in the sweater had hit one of her tyres. The Rover slammed into a street lamp and then began to skid sideways. The car tipped up and Marie’s head banged against the back of her seat, hard enough to stun her. She closed her eyes and almost passed out. Her stomach heaved as the car rolled and the top of her head slammed against the roof. The windows exploded and she was showered with broken glass and then she was thrown forward against the steering wheel, so hard that the breath was forced from her body. The car came to a halt, upside down, rocking from side to side. Marie could taste blood in her mouth and she realised she’d bitten her tongue. She coughed and spat to clear her throat, then gingerly moved her arms and legs. She was all right. She wasn’t even really hurt. She felt lightheaded and giggled despite herself. She’d been shot at, she’d survived a car crash, it was as if the fates had decreed that she should emerge from the debacle relatively unscathed. She reached for the door handle and tried to open the door. It was jammed, the frame had been distorted by the crash. Marie wriggled around and managed to get hold of one of her shoes. She used it to smash away the remaining pieces of glass. All she had to do was to crawl out then she’d be able to run to the tube. She was going to be okay. That was when she smelled the petrol seeping out of the ruptured tank. There was a loud whooshing sound as the petrol ignited and Marie Hennessy began to scream as she realised just what a cruel sense of humour the fates truly had.

  Cramer crawled over to Allan. Blood was oozing from the wound in his shoulder but it didn’t look fatal. He took off his overcoat, rolled it up and stuck it under Allan’s head. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Allan, his eyes still closed. For a wild moment Cramer thought Allan was delirious but then he opened his eyes and grinned up at him. ‘I got him, huh?’ asked Allan.

  ‘And some,’ said Cramer. ‘It’s his blood I’m wearing all over my face.’

  ‘Su-ming?’

  ‘She’s okay. Now lie still and shut up.’

  ‘Okay, but tell me one thing first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What happened to all our fucking training, Mike? You stood there like a rabbit caught in headlights.’

  Cramer felt his cheeks redden. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You froze.’

  ‘Yeah. I froze. I’m sorry.’

  Su-ming came up behind Cramer. She took off her shirt and gave it to him. ‘Use this,’ she said.

  Cramer used the silk shirt to stem the bleeding from Allan’s shoulder. It looked as if the bullet had gone straight through. ‘Can you move your fingers?’ Cramer asked. He watched Allan wiggle the fingers of his right hand. At least the nerves weren’t damaged.

  ‘Do you think I’ll be able to play the piano again?’ Allan asked. Cramer couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Su-ming asked.

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘Now it’s over?’

  Cramer looked at the body of the killer, sprawled on the ground, the head surrounded by a halo of congealing blood. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’ As he said the words he was aware of a nagging doubt at the back of his mind.

  Cramer took off his tie and threw it onto a chair. He stared out through the picture window at the sprawling city. Six million people, give or take. He wondered how many would ever be aware of what had happened in the underground car park. Half a dozen, maybe. It wasn’t the sort of operation that would be trumpeted to the press. The bodies would be taken away; the trooper buried in Hereford with the minimum of fuss, his name added to the plaque on the regimental chapel wall where the SAS remembered those who had died on active service; the assassin probably cremated with no memorial to mark his passing. There would be no inquest, no investigation, no publicity. It would be as if it had never happened.

  The Walther was still in its holster but Cramer was reluctant to take it out. Removing the gun would signify that the operation was over, and that was something that Cramer wasn’t yet prepared to deal with. It had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had
time to think about the future. His future.

  He rubbed his stomach. The pain was pretty much constant, though occasionally it felt as if a knife was being twisted deep inside, a reminder that he shouldn’t be complacent, that there was worse to come. While he was being trained, and while he was waiting for the assassin to make his move, Cramer had managed to blot the pain out of his mind, but now it was over it had returned with a vengeance.

  He realised that Su-ming wasn’t in the room with him. He went in search of her and found her in Vander Mayer’s study, standing by the desk. She looked up as he walked towards her. ‘Cramer …’ she said, her voice trembling.

  She was shaking as if she had a fever and there were tears in her eyes. Cramer stepped forward and held her tightly, pressing her against himself as if his life depended on it. Her small hands slipped around his waist as she buried her face in his chest. Cramer stroked her black, silky hair with his right hand as she sobbed. ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ he soothed.

  He caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored wall. Su-ming looked like a child next to him and he suddenly felt big and clumsy. Cramer saw that he still had the killer’s blood on his face. He looked like he’d just walked away from a traffic accident; there were black circles under his eyes, his hair was in disarray and there was an unhealthy pallor to his skin. He hadn’t realised until then how sick he looked. She squeezed him but there was hardly any strength in the movement and she continued to cry softly. Cramer wondered if it was the first time she’d seen anyone killed. Flying first-class around the world with an international arms-dealer was one thing, seeing the effects of the tools of the trade close-up was a different matter all together.