by Paul Finch
He darted back to the corner and around into the main corridor, just in time to see the tall shape of Cooper loom out of the shadows at the far end, gun levelled.
‘You total prat!’ Heck shouted, barging back into the office.
Farthing was still working on the corrugated metal, half of which had been bashed through, though the rest of it wouldn’t shift. ‘Didn’t know where you were!’ he wailed. ‘I thought he’d nabbed you!’
‘Fucking idiot!’ Heck grabbed up an office chair, hurling it through the air.
The impact was cacophonous, and the rest of the corrugated shutter fell away, more dim light spilling inward. Farthing vaulted out through the empty frame first. Heck followed, sensing the figure appear in the office door behind.
‘Oh shit!’ Farthing screamed.
They weren’t outside.
They were in another enclosed space; some kind of garage, empty except for dust and debris. Farthing staggered across it towards a set of double-doors, the central cleft of which promised daylight. Heck twirled back to the window. Cooper was framed on the other side, bloody-chinned, gazing along his pistol barrel.
Heck threw the wrench.
It flashed through the air, a spinning blur, and struck its target in the middle of his chest. He went down with a choked gasp – Heck tensed, ready to pounce back through the empty frame and overpower him, but there was no clatter of a firearm dropping loose. So he turned and hurtled across the garage, to where Farthing was throwing his shoulder at the double doors. Heck joined him, left foot first. With a splintering crash, the bolt on the other side gave way. The doors swung open, and fresh air poured in. They tottered out into a yard, which seemed to run along the back of the main building and was dotted with the relics of car and trucks. Another brick wall, maybe twelve feet high, hemmed them in.
‘That way,’ Heck said, pointing left.
About seventy yards in that direction stood a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. They were closed and chained, but there was a gap between the top of the gates and the overarching brickwork. It was a climb, but it wouldn’t be impossible.
Farthing shook his head. ‘N-no … that way!’
He pointed right, where only thirty yards away, beyond the gutted shell of a van, stood a single gate – this one wide open. Some instinct told Heck this was a mistake – but Farthing was already stumbling towards it. Heck followed, glancing over his shoulder. There was still no sign of Cooper. The wrench had caught him a good one; there was even a chance it had done the job for them, but that would be a hell of a gamble.
‘Bloody hell, no!’ Farthing cried. Now that he’d circled the van, he could see through the narrow gate – into a cul-de-sac; a smaller yard encircled by yet another high wall, this one surmounted with shards of glass.
With a creak of hinges, the garage door opened behind them.
Heck snatched Farthing’s collar and dragged him down to his knees, so the wrecked van would fleetingly screen them. He flattened himself on the concrete to gaze underneath it. Cooper’s feet limped into view on the other side. The guy was obviously hurt, limping and breathing heavily; he only moved away from the garage slowly, warily – scanning for his prey.
‘Doesn’t give up, like, does he?’ Farthing breathed. He slumped alongside Heck, shoulders pressed back against the crumpled bodywork. His face was pasty-white, and dabbled with beads of hanging sweat. ‘Really … really wants to kill us.’
‘Got no choice,’ Heck mumbled, still watching.
Cooper had advanced about ten yards, and now appeared to be pivoting around. If he ventured right, he’d locate them in seconds. But if he went left, towards the double-gate, there was a possibility they could sneak into the garage and double-back.
Only after several torturous seconds did the gunman make his choice, cautiously edging left. Heck held his breath, though Farthing appeared to be struggling with his. He gave a slow, sharp gasp.
‘Shhh!’ Heck said.
Cooper progressed into the wider yard, checking every nook and cranny.
‘Can you make it back through the building?’ Heck asked, glancing up.
Farthing looked dismayed. ‘All that … all that way again?’
‘I’m guessing he already knows that smaller gate leads nowhere. So he’s covering the other one. He’s got us bottled up in here. All he needs to do now is find us. We’ve got to make a run for it.’
‘I don’t know …’ Farthing shook his head, clutching the side of his chest. ‘I don’t know if it’s my heart, but …’
‘Your heart?’
Fresh sweat streamed down the older PC’s face; he wasn’t so much white now, as green. ‘Something’s wrong. I’m not in shape … as you’ve probably seen.’
Heck glanced back under the vehicle. Cooper’s legs were a considerable distance away – maybe sixty yards. If he was short-sighted, that might be an adequate distance for them to chance it. But now Farthing had a problem with his heart …?
‘It never bloody rains,’ Heck said under his breath. He glanced back up. ‘And you’ve got a wife and three daughters, haven’t you?’
Farthing nodded and swallowed, his brow tightly furrowed.
Heck sighed and made his decision. ‘If I can get back inside and leg it through the interior, it may draw him away. If I manage that, can you at least make it to that double-gate over there?’
‘Don’t know if I’ll be able to climb over it …’
‘Jerry … rough as you may feel, you’re going to have to do something. The SAS aren’t going to turn up!’
Farthing looked agonised by the choice he was facing, but finally nodded. ‘Suppose I’ve … more chance getting over that gate than of making it all the way back through this place … especially if you’ve drawn him off. But … what if you get lost in there? He knows his way around!’
Heck shrugged. ‘Chance I’ll have to take.’
‘A bloody hell of a chance!’
‘Least there’s no one at home who’s going to miss me.’
Heck glanced under the van again – Cooper had reached the far end of the yard. It was now or never. He turned to Farthing and offered his hand. Farthing at first looked surprised, but then nodded and gripped it, his palm moist, clammy.
Heck got up and ran, bombing the short distance towards the garage.
It hadn’t been so complex a route through the old factory, he was sure – but he couldn’t picture it easily. All he could do was keep going – and yet that resolve faltered when he was half way over and he spied the tall shape of Cooper sprinting back towards him. Heck had the brief, crazy notion to swerve away from the garage and barrel straight at the nutter, taking him down with a head-on rugby tackle. But no … all the bastard needed was proximity. The second he got Heck in range, he’d shoot.
So thinking, Heck veered into the garage. The window yawned ahead of him, and he was so pumped with adrenaline that he felt he could dive straight through it. Maybe get hold of the wrench again, maybe peg it at Cooper a second time, wind him even more badly …
He tripped.
His toe caught on the corrugated sheet when he was ten feet short of his goal. He went sprawling forward, landing hard, the palms of his hands grinding over the glass-strewn concrete, his jaw striking it with dizzying force.
Struggling against grogginess, he rolled over onto his back – only to see the rangy form of Cooper come ghosting through the gloom of the garage and stop about three feet away. Despite his exertions, the oldster looked remarkably cool; aside from the sweat on his brow and dabs of dried blood on his chin, he was amazingly unflustered. He’d drawn the khukuri, and now raised it aloft with one hand. With the other, he pointed his Luger down at Heck.
‘For all the trouble you’ve put me to, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I still regret this. You were a worthier opponent than the others. Please take that as a compliment.’
And he fired.
Or tried to. It was the aged, internally rusted mechanism that betrayed him. It deton
ated in his fist with a blinding blot of flame and a clung of rending metal.
Heck blinked and flinched as hot fragments scattered over him: splinters of scalding metal, and flecks of softer, wetter material. His heart almost skipped a beat as he lay there, but he was unhurt. Warily, he opened his eyes again – to find that Cooper was still on his feet, but white-faced and with eyes glazed. Only slowly did he twist his head around to survey the smouldering lump of meat where his right hand had once been. Ironically, what remained of the gun was still present, dangling from his sole remaining finger, though that was more bone than flesh.
The shriek of agony rising in Cooper’s chest didn’t get a chance to erupt, before Heck had sprung upright and rammed two heavy punches into his lower body. The third caught Cooper in the mouth, and knocked his head spinning.
‘I don’t often hit the afflicted,’ Heck said, circling as the guy tottered, and then firing in a fourth and a fifth, the latter hurling the gunman senseless to the ground. ‘But at least it’s the kind of firm response your dad would have appreciated.’
‘I guess I’m somewhat diminished in your eyes,’ Farthing said.
Heck glanced around. He stood by the garage door, sipping coffee from a paper beaker. His clothes were still damp, the palms of his hands stinging where they’d been skinned, though a couple of light dressings had since been applied. The factory yard was alive with radio static and filled with police vehicles, their blues and twos swirling in slow, lazy patterns. The ambulance carrying Ernest Cooper, now cuffed safely to one of DI Higginson’s oppos, pulled slowly away through the open double-gate. The DI herself followed in an unmarked car.
Farthing, still pale around the gills, clutched his hat to his belly – a vaguely sheepish gesture. His expression was tense, worried.
‘Diminished?’ Heck still had half an eye on the garage interior, where the firearms team, who, having made safe the bloody tangle of metal that had once been the Luger, had picked it up with a pair of forceps and were feeding it into a sterile sack.
‘Well if I’m not, I should be. I was shit-scared.’
‘You think I wasn’t?’ Heck replied.
‘Aye … but you kept it together. Me … I just sat there, like.’ Farthing’s cheeks reddened. ‘Didn’t know what to do. Just sat there, waiting for it.’
Heck shrugged. ‘You were tired … and you weren’t feeling so good.’
‘That’s another thing. There was nothing wrong with me.’
He let that point hang, waiting nervously for Heck’s response – which, when it came, was no more than a raised eyebrow.
‘I know I’m not fit,’ Farthing said. ‘Let’s face it, I’m a fat bastard … I couldn’t have run much longer. But I wasn’t having a heart-attack. I was just paralysed with fear. I’d have done anything to get you to take the risk … while I sat it out.’
Heck shrugged again. ‘My head was scrambled too. I’d already figured he couldn’t see very well. I mentioned that his gun was probably kaput … the odds would likely have been better if I’d just taken him on.’
‘What a thought.’ Farthing shuddered – he’d already vomited once, not long after support units had arrived; briefly, Heck thought he was going to do it again. ‘Taken him on? A madman like him?’
‘It’s about survival,’ Heck said. ‘If you’re worried you let me down, Jerry, you didn’t. Your wife and daughters are more important to you than I am … course they are. No one would argue with that.’
‘That’s the other thing.’ Now Farthing really did avert his gaze. ‘I haven’t got a wife and daughters. Haven’t even got a girlfriend. I mean face it … who’d have me?’
Heck regarded him long and hard, too tired to voice the brief, fierce annoyance he suddenly felt.
Farthing shrugged as he watched the ground, shuffling his feet. ‘Might as well own up to it now. We’ll be living in each other’s pockets for the next few days, getting the story straight. Bulldog’ll be all over us …’
‘And I’d learn the truth from someone else?’ Heck said. ‘At the same time, I might inadvertently let it slip how you behaved back there? So even though you’re coming clean now, you’re not exactly doing it for honourable reasons, are you?’
But just as quickly as his anger had risen, it subsided again. Shouting and kicking-off would serve no purpose now. Plus he had no energy for it.
‘It was just chat,’ the PC added unnecessarily. ‘I was trying to save my own arse.’
‘Well … it worked. In a roundabout sort of way. Don’t knock it.’
‘I’m sorry, like.’
‘Let’s just say you owe me one.’
‘I’m sorry about something else too.’ Farthing blew out a long, weary breath. ‘Sorry that I don’t have anyone to go home to. First time I’ve ever thought that … just about now, that little house of mine is going to feel a bit empty.’
‘We’ve got our lives, haven’t we?’ Heck grunted. ‘Bloody hell, Jerry, we can’t expect everything.’
Want more?
Read the rest of The Killing Club here.
About the Author
Paul Finch is a former cop and journalist, now turned full-time writer. He cut his literary teeth penning episodes of the British TV crime drama, The Bill, and has written extensively in the field of children’s animation. However, he is probably best known for his work in thrillers, dark fantasy and horror.
Paul lives in Lancashire, UK, with his wife Cathy and his children, Eleanor and Harry. His website can be found at: www.paulfinchauthor.com.
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published as Him! in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
This ebook edition 2014
Copyright © Paul Finch 2013
Cover design © Toby Clarke 2014
Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © April 2014 ISBN: 9780007590414
Version: 2014-03-19
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