Brotherhood

by David Beckler

  Two bodies lay across the stairs, one keeping the door onto the landing open. Meehan signalled for his men to wait and studied the scene over the sights of his weapon. The sounds from the detectives several floors below carried over the noise of his breathing. He recognised the men in the doorway were both dead and signalled to one of his men to recover their weapons. Moving silently, he led his team past the bodies. The stench of death filled his nostrils.

  He stepped onto the landing. Two more bodies lay in the lift. Already at a high pitch, the sight made his pulse rate spike. The four doors facing them remained closed, but he knew the gunman could be behind any of them. From the floor above came a thud followed by a cry as something large fell. He ignored it — his job was to clear this floor.

  Siobhan, waiting on the half landing below, heard the same sounds. She hesitated for a split second before passing the dead bodies and heading for the next flight of steps. The armed officer guarding his team’s back signalled her to wait. She shook her head and indicated she intended to pass him. His demeanour changed and he rolled his eyes before charging up the stairs ahead of her, his gun held ready.

  “That’s it.” Adam indicated the long building up ahead.

  A memory from a school trip to the Museum of Science and Industry flooded back to Byron, a photo of the same mill taken at the end of the nineteenth century. He recalled it as one of the biggest cotton mills in Lancashire. The five floors now looked in a sorry state, with windows broken and boarded up. A high fence surrounded the mill, the only gap protected by two mismatched gates. The larger secured by a padlock but the smaller, too narrow for their car, swung on its hinges.

  Byron reconsidered his plans. He’d assumed the caller would keep a watch and intended to drive up to the building, with Adam hidden in the back.

  “You’d better get out here,” Byron said. “I’ll drive up to the gate and leave the car.”

  “I don’t like it, Byron. It smells of setup.”

  Byron shared his friend’s concerns, but he remembered Rebecca’s accusation of not looking after Philip. “I’ll take the pistol — the shotgun’s too big.”

  Byron checked the pistol and stuffed it into his jacket. Adam retrieved the shotgun and climbed out. Byron waited for him to disappear behind the vehicle before driving up to the gates. He left the car and examined the front of the building, looking for signs of life. A faded blue door in the far corner stood open. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, he headed for it, scanning the windows on his approach.

  He stopped beside the door and took out the automatic. After a few deep breaths, his anxiety eased and a familiar calmness came over him. Light leaked in through grimy windows and the place smelt of musty decay. A doorway on his right led into the ground floor, nailed shut, and a wide stone staircase in front of him lead upward. Taking care not to make a sound, he climbed to the next level. A massive, sliding steel-clad door blocked his way off the stairs. A rusty padlock secured it, and he found the same on every level until he reached the top floor.

  This door slid open. The uneasy sensation he’d experienced since arriving intensified and he checked the automatic again, releasing the safety catch. He edged his head through the opening. A long, empty corridor lined with doors bisected what had once consisted of a large open space full of looms.

  Byron eased through the opening and began a search of the corridor. What the hell was Kieron playing at? The first door he came to gaped open into an empty room. He moved to the next one and found the same.

  A scraping and rustling came from behind the fourth door. Nerves taut, he pushed at the closed door but it wouldn’t budge. After taking a slow breath, he kicked it. The flimsy lock gave way and he burst in, pistol at the ready. A pair of pigeons took flight in a cloud of feathers. He smiled in relief.

  Cold metal touched the back of his neck. He froze. The skin tightened making the hairs rise and he lifted his hands.

  “Sensible lad.”

  With a sinking sensation, he recognised the voice.

  McLaughlin took the weapon from him and pushed him into the room. Byron attempted to turn but McLaughlin pressed the barrel into the side of his head. Two men drew alongside, flanking him. One had a sharp ferrety face and a wiry build and he exuded a restless energy. The other had a large head with a creased forehead and a jowly, round face. Where the hell was Kieron?

  Round-face slid a thick noose over Byron’s head. He stiffened.

  “Easy,” the man said in a London accent.

  The cargo sling passed over his shoulders and Byron forced his muscles to relax. It slid to his elbows before tightening and he flexed his muscles against it.

  “It’s got a breaking strain of three tonnes. Too much even for you, I’m guessing?” McLaughlin walked round in front of him.

  Byron studied him, noting the tension in his posture. The automatic in McLaughlin’s left hand pointed at the centre of his chest. Byron glanced round the room. Light streamed in through three broken and dirty windows set into the far wall. The lino covering the floor looked like it had been down for decades. Pigeon excrement covered the faded pattern. A selection of tatty old desks and assorted broken office furniture stood under the windows. Attached to the wall behind him lay a workbench, covered in debris, and a chair sat in front of it.

  McLaughlin nodded to his men and heavy hands grabbed Byron, forcing him backwards towards the chair. He resisted, but a flick of the barrel from McLaughlin made him change his mind.

  “Nothing to say to an old school friend?” McLaughlin asked.

  “I think I said it last time we met.” Byron stared at the bandage on McLaughlin’s ear.

  McLaughlin flushed and raised his hand before grinning and letting it drop. “I’m sure you’ll agree, my riposte is appropriate.” He nodded to his men.

  The sling loosened and ferret-face grabbed Byron’s left bicep. He let the man pull his arm out of the sling and it tightened again, trapping his right arm against his body. Ferret-face pulled at his arm but Byron resisted. Red hot pain shot through his shoulder and he gasped. Round-face held a blade above his shoulder, ready to plunge it in again. Byron relaxed his arm. Ferret-face pulled it straight, forcing it onto the top of the bench. Blood soaked through Byron’s shirt and the pain spread across his shoulders.

  Round-face came round to his left side and wiped the bloody knife on Byron’s top. He put it away and produced a hammer. Byron’s insides fluttered and he struggled against the grip on his arm but McLaughlin pointed the barrel towards his groin.

  “Your choice.” He smiled.

  Byron stopped struggling. “I’m guessing you want the trailer.”

  “That? Oh yeah, but it can wait.”

  Round-face raised the hammer and paused. He grinned before slamming it down. The debris on the bench top jumped and the vibration went through Byron’s arm. The hammer ripped a dent in the wood, less than three inches from his hand, and the three men laughed.

  The laughter died and round-face lifted the hammer again. They looked at Byron hungrily; this time it was for real. Byron braced himself. Round-face focussed on Byron’s hand and he grinned. The hammer descended. Byron looked away and twisted his arm. His hand moved. At first it felt numb, then intense pain shot up his arm.

  Bile rose in his throat and he hyperventilated. He swallowed and forced himself to examine his hand. The blow had landed on the outside edge, splitting the skin where the impact had crushed it against the worktop. Blood oozed round the hammerhead as it lifted for a second blow.

  CHAPTER 28

  Mugisa endured a difficult few weeks back in the transit camp. Following the build-up to his homecoming, the realisation that a return to his old life was impossible and he was now alone in the world hit him hard. He withdrew into himself and the people who ran the transit camp worried. His will to live weakened and his physical condition deteriorated.

  One morning, he woke and decided he would survive. He ate breakfast, ravenous after weeks of neglecting himself. He realised h
e needed no one else, but he wanted to get out of this country and escape his painful memories.

  Other children had gone to far-off countries, making new lives, so he studied English, a language with which he was already familiar, and took active part in the rehabilitation classes. The decision not to make friends sometimes hurt, but he knew it was the best way.

  The people who ran the camp seemed happy and eager to help him and, before long, he understood what they wanted. When they quizzed him, he observed their reaction to his answers. In a few short months, he gave the desired answer to every question. More people came and, this time, one of them asked him if he wanted to go to England.

  It was far from here and so he agreed. A man with kind eyes collected him but nobody came to see him off. Mugisa didn’t mind, he was on his way to start his life again, and this time it would be better.

  The first shots rang out and Philip struggled to his feet, fear helping him ignore the pain. He held his breath, hoping it was his rescuers. When nobody came, he worried, thinking they’d been shot. Different scenarios played in his mind and he imagined his uncle lying in a pool of blood. Or maybe he had killed the kidnappers and would soon be here.

  The door flew open and he jumped. Lenny’s silhouette in the doorway destroyed his hope. Lenny carried his pistol and Philip knew, this time, it wouldn’t be for a mock execution.

  “Come on, we’re going.” Lenny gestured with the automatic.

  Philip didn’t move.

  Lenny stepped into the room and grabbed his arm, twisting it behind his back. Philip tried to resist, but the man was too powerful. Lenny pulled him close and screwed the barrel of the pistol into Philip’s ear.

  “Just give me an excuse to use this.”

  Paralysed with fear, Philip didn’t respond. Lenny shoved him towards the door. He gasped in pain, but his captor ignored him, opening the door and pushing Philip out into the corridor. The lights made him squint after the darkness of his cell. He stumbled and Lenny kicked him.

  More shots rang out, making him jump. The fact Lenny’s body also jerked made him feel better. The front door loomed as a rectangle of brightness and he stumbled towards it. Pushed out onto the landing, he looked around frantically. A cardboard box on the floor prevented the lift doors from closing.

  Lenny pushed him towards it, then the door at the top of the stairs eased open. Lenny ducked back into the flat, dragging Philip with him. A tall dark figure appeared at the top of the stairs before the door to the flat slammed shut. Philip cried out in pain as the grip on his arm tightened.

  “Shut up, you soft bastard.” Lenny released him and pushed him down the corridor.

  Lenny used his free hand to bolt the door. His eyes darted from side to side, his breathing fast and shallow. Once he’d secured it, he returned his attention to Philip who, grimacing in pain, showed Lenny his teeth.

  “I don’t know what you think’s funny, you little shit,” Lenny hissed. “Anyone comes through that door and you’re the first one to get it.” He levelled the gun at Philip with an unpleasant grin.

  The door behind him shook as someone hit it. The impact made Lenny jump and seeing his enemy’s obvious terror gave Philip courage. Philip stared at the door but instead of a second blow, someone crashed to the floor outside with a groan. Was that Byron he’d glimpsed at the top of the stairs? What had happened to him?

  Lenny took out his phone and made a panicky call. Philip realised he wasn’t paying him any attention. He looked around for a weapon. A long piece of timber lay against the skirting board in the kitchen. He slid towards it, careful not to make a noise.

  Philip crouched down and grabbed it, lifting one end. The end other scraped against the floor. He froze and checked on Lenny. He’d ended the call but didn’t seem to have heard him. Philip gripped the timber in both hands and stepped towards the door. Remembering Jenna’s cry and the terror and pain this man had inflicted on him, he swung it. Lenny turned, but too late.

  The impact caught him across the side of his head, the force of it almost ripping the timber out of Philip’s hands. Without checking, he knew Lenny wouldn’t get up again. He threw the piece of timber away and examined his hands, surprised they weren’t bleeding. He retrieved Lenny’s pistol, then as if in a trance, he drew the bolts on the front door. It swung open and, desperate to meet his rescuers, he stepped out onto the landing.

  “Hello Philip.”

  His insides froze when he recognised the voice. He looked down. Mugisa sat against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. A bloody stain tracked down the wall above his left shoulder and more blood ran from a wound in his forehead. In his right hand he cradled a pistol, pointing at the centre of Philip’s torso.

  Philip swallowed. The pistol he carried pointed at the floor. He wasn’t even sure if the safety catch was on or, if it was, how to take it off.

  The door to the stairs flew open and Philip’s pulse jerked, until he realised it was a policeman. He carried a gun, and breathing hard, he stepped onto the landing.

  “Armed police!” he shouted. “Drop your weapon.”

  Philip glanced down at Mugisa but realised with a start that the policeman’s weapon pointed at him. Still stunned from finding Mugisa here, he didn’t respond.

  “Armed police! Drop your weapon.” The man raised his voice.

  Sweat poured into Philip’s eyes and he opened his mouth to explain, but it was too dry and no words came out. Mugisa moved. The barrel of his pistol swung towards the officer and Philip realised what he planned to do. He must stop him.

  The officer spoke a third time. “Drop your weapon, or I will fire.”

  Philip swung the pistol at Mugisa’s head. A shot rang out.

  Byron’s arm trembled and he resisted the urge to cry out as round-face raised the hammer. The phone drowned out his laboured breathing and the three men froze. McLaughlin frowned but checked the screen and took the call.

  “Lenny, what the fuck do you want?”

  “He’s shot Ian and…” Lenny’s voice carried to Byron before McLaughlin covered the speaker. He strode to the window and muttered into the microphone. Byron swallowed the acid and examined his injured hand. Already it had swollen like an inflated rubber glove. Then he saw something which made his pulse race. The shock wave from the hammer blow had exposed a rusty screwdriver from under the detritus on the bench.

  The two men waited for their boss and the grip on his arm relaxed. Byron flexed his hand — the ring and pinkie fingers didn’t move but the thumb and other two fingers responded. Ignoring the pain, he tore his arm out of ferret-face’s grip and swept up the screwdriver in a clumsy grip between thumb and index finger. Before the others could react, he plunged it into round-face’s neck, puncturing his carotid artery.

  The man dropped the hammer and collapsed. Byron held on to the screwdriver which pulled free with a sucking sound and blood sprayed from the wound. He struggled to his feet and attacked ferret-face before he assimilated what was happening. Sweeping his arm round the man’s neck, he pushed the blood-stained screwdriver into the soft flesh under the corner of his jaw. Byron stepped behind his prisoner and faced McLaughlin.

  McLaughlin looked at him, surprise changing to rage. He dropped the phone and raised the automatic, pulling the trigger twice. Byron saw the flash and closed his eyes.

  Adam worked his way round to the rear of the mill complex and tried to climb the fence, but he struggled to find purchase on the smooth boards. It was too high for him to reach the top. With the shotgun tucked into his waistband under his jacket, he couldn’t jump up without dislodging it. He searched for something to help him. Someone had dumped five barrels near the edge of the road. With unaccustomed thanks to the fly-tippers, he examined them.

  Four were full and too heavy to move but he shifted one. The liquid in it sloshed around as he wrestled it towards the fence and climbed onto it. The top bowed and he reached up, grabbing the top of the fence and boosting himself over. Heart still pounding, he l
owered himself on the other side and checked his surroundings while retrieving and reloading the shotgun. Piles of old rubbish and overgrown weeds filled the ground behind the mill. Coarse brickwork sealed the lower windows’ openings. He headed for the nearest corner and peered round it.

  Two large cars waited at the side of the building and someone moved in the front of one. He swore and ducked back. There could be six or seven men here and he had five cartridges. He returned to the rear of the building and fought his way through the debris. By the time he reached the far corner, he was sweating and filthy. His heart shrank when he saw the far side harboured as much refuse as he’d already traversed. Byron was on his own until he could join him so he pressed on.

  He’d covered a few yards when the shots rang out. His stomach flipped and he tightened his grip on Gary’s shotgun. He hesitated for an instant before deciding which way would be quicker. He ran forward, careless of the obstacles in his way.

  Warm liquid splashed Byron’s cheeks and ferret-face stiffened. The weight on his arm told him the man was dead or unconscious. The roar of the shots echoed in his ears.

  McLaughlin laughed. “I see your hostage, and raise you,” he said, his accent, a poor imitation of Sean Connery playing Bond. “Your call, Mr Mason.”

  Byron dropped the screwdriver and released his prisoner. The man fell and a red pool spread from his head to join the one from round-face. The stench of blood and death filled the air. McLaughlin gestured towards the chair and Byron sat down again. McLaughlin walked round behind him and shoved the still warm barrel into his ear. Byron waited, believing his end had arrived.

  McLaughlin picked up a metal object. The hammer? The pistol barrel was no longer there. Before Byron could react a bar swung at him. He raised his free hand and something hard slammed it against his neck, trapping it. The pain as McLaughlin crushed the already mashed flesh against his neck almost made him pass out.