by Nick Oldham
Crane grabbed Smith’s elbow and pulled him across to the holdall in which the guns had been stashed.
The faxed photograph from the airport camera was good quality. It showed the Russian clearly, standing on a travellator at Manchester Airport, and was timed and dated. His face was circled with a black ring to highlight him. To be honest, Henry could not be certain if it was the same man who had so publicly taken out Jacky Lee at the transport cafe. But that fact did not concern him too much. He pushed the fax over to Danny. She peered at Ivankov, as he knew she would.
‘Recognise him?’ Henry asked.
‘No, can’t say I do.’
‘I don’t mean Ivankov - I mean the guy standing next to him.’ Danny looked closely. She sat up sharply. ‘It’s Billy Crane ... is it?’
‘Sure looks like him.’
‘But what’s he doing with Ivankov?’
‘That’s a good question.’ Henry sighed. ‘But, whatever, this gives you something very good in terms of the job at Blackpool - a time and a date. That shows Crane was in the country on the morning after the murders. If you can pin him down by means of some good ID evidence to the Imperial Hotel the night before, at least you can prove he was in the vicinity at the right time. Proving he actually pulled the trigger might be a trifle more problematic. What you could do with is finding out exactly where Crane is living now. I know we think it’s Tenerife, but we could do with finding out for sure. You also could do with trying to check the passenger lists for all flights leaving Manchester around that time.’ Henry picked up the fax. ‘This could mean absolutely nothing, but on the other hand. . .’
‘It might mean a big conspiracy,’ Danny finished. ‘My head hurts.’
Crane jogged ahead of Smith, a black Ruger P85 in his hands, the one he’d used for the robbery, now reloaded, one in the chamber, fifteen in the magazine, another mag tucked into his waistband just in case. Smith was armed with a heavier Skarab Skorpion.
Crane stopped momentarily at the office door and took a deep breath. He counted with his left hand, slicing the air, one, two, three. Then he twisted into the office and said, ‘Sorry boys, but this is the way it is,’ and began firing, aware that Drozdov was not in the room, just Gary and Gunk. Where the hell was the Russian?
It did not make Crane hesitate. He shot them where they sat.
Gary was hit first. One in the face, one in the neck, two in the chest. The massive impact of the bullets lifted him from the chair and toppled him backwards, legs rising upwards and over.
Gunk threw himself to one side with a scream. Crane was surprised by his speed for an instant. Then he was back on track, aiming and firing at the bulk of Gunk’s moving body, hitting him in the shoulder, ribs and hip. Gunk contorted and writhed on the floor of the office, dragging a metallic filing cabinet down on top of himself
Crane rushed forwards and finished him off with one to the side of the head.
He checked Gary, who twitched like he was being tickled, but was very definitely dead.
Crane ejected the magazine from the handle and dropped it into his pocket, replacing it quickly with the full one from his waistband. His eyes made contact with Smith who stood in the doorway, astounded by his partner’s deadly efficiency.
‘Where’s the other fucker?’ Crane hissed. He was hardly out of breath, but in control, enjoying this.
The response to the question was immediate and fatal.
Suddenly Smith began a wild, macabre dance as bullets riddled into him, discharged from the Uzi held by Drozdov. Black holes burst open across his chest, hurling him backwards. His gun flew out of his grasp and he was slammed violently against the office wall. There was a short pause - long enough for Smith to look down and inspect the wounds across his chest and then look up at Crane, disbelief on his face - by which time Drozdov had readjusted his aim and opened fire again. He put a line of bullets across Smith’s face which removed his lower jaw.
Crane dropped to the floor like a stone, cursing. He then crawled behind the filing cabinet which had fallen over Gunk’s body.
Drozdov strafed the office. As the wall was only thin plasterboard, little protection was offered to Crane who was pinned down, nowhere to run.
The firing stopped abruptly when the magazine clicked empty.
Crane knew he had to move now. His current position was indefensible and he was dead if he stayed there.
He scrambled to his feet, using Gunk’s neck as purchase to achieve momentum, and launched himself head first out of the office. He threw himself into a forward roll which took him to the back wheel of the Audi where he crouched down, protected by the car, dry-mouthed, now breathing heavily, his senses at their most acute, listening hard, unsure of Drozdov’s exact position, which was not a good thing. He could hear re-loading taking place and knew he was out-gunned. Pistol versus machine pistol. Bad odds at this sort of range.
Where the hell was the Russian?
Behind the BMW? Near to the Sherpa?
Christ, he was good, Crane thought magnanimously. How had he managed to get out of the office without being seen? Crane gave a short, bitter laugh. He realised that he and the Russian were two of a kind. He’d seen it in the eyes. Watched it in the way he’d disposed of the security guards. Cold. Clinical. No fuss, just business. And the problem was, when people like this clashed, there could only be one victor. A draw was unacceptable.
Crane peered cautiously over the boot of the Audi. He guessed the Russian was probably over by the BMW, protected by the bulk of its engine, probably no more than twenty feet away. Beyond was the gloom of the warehouse. Floor-to-roof shelving, stacked with goods, mainly cigarettes, booze and perfume. The shelves were end-on to where Crane was positioned and he could see down the aisles which were wide enough for forklift trucks to operate down. Around the inner warehouse wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, was a metallic walkway reached by steps next to the office door, about eight feet to the right from where Crane was hunched. Fifteen feet to his left was the Sherpa parked in the loading bay. That vehicle, maybe, offered some protection, but at that moment, Crane could not even think of reaching it.
Incredibly there was a sudden movement in the office. Crane’s head snapped round and he saw something amazing.
It was Don Smith. Jaw-less, riddled with bullets, he was dragging himself through the door, slipping and slurping in his own pool of deep red, nearly black, blood. Most of his face had been ripped off by Drozdov’s shooting. Crane could not believe what he was seeing.
‘Don!’ he gasped.
Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull ‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head exploded with their impact.
And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the BMW and took advantage of the distraction.
He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and Drozdov.
Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like hailstone.
Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire, but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents - when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.
The stench of cordite hung heavily in the atmosphere. Smith’s body lay grotesquely positioned in the puddle of his blood, coagulating like tar, his head destroyed. Beyond him, Crane could just see Gunk underneath the filing cabinet, his head a gory mess too and though he too was dead, his mouth popped open and closed repeatedly, like a fish.
Nothing had happened for at least a minute. Maybe longer, maybe not. Time had lost its substance.
Crane was convinced Drozdov had not moved, was still behind the BMW He was reluctant to make the first move because he didn’t want it to go to rat-shit and be his last. Yet to have to react to Drozdo
v could be fatal. From what Crane knew of the Russian Mafia, shoot-outs like this were ten a penny in Moscow and people like Drozdov were experienced in dealing with such situations. Conversely, Crane’s shoot-outs had always tended to be one-sided. His opponents were not usually armed, which was a big advantage. This was a new scenario for Crane, but he wasn’t fazed by it. It was like a game of chess - but with consequences.
He was squatting down by the front offside wheel of the Sherpa, close to the driver’s door, taking his main cover from the engine. He knew car panels were useless against bullets and had known people die behind them, thinking they were safe. The front of the vehicle faced the roller door and the operating panel was on the wall, about five feet above ground. The control button was ten feet away from Crane himself.
A grimace creased his face as he weighed up the possibility of doing a runner. The keys were still in the ignition. All he needed to do was open the door, get in and drive away with the money.
Yeah, sure. Dream on.
The roller door would take an eon to open and Sherpa vans were notoriously bad at quick starts.
Stalemate.
‘You did what I would have done. I respect that,’ Drozdov called out from behind the BMW ‘We can talk. I know there is far more money than you led us to believe. We can split it. We are businessmen, after all.’
‘You killed my friend, Jacky Lee.’
‘You butchered my colleagues.’
‘Big difference,’ Crane shouted. ‘Fucking big difference.’
‘And you would have killed me.’
‘Likewise, wanker.’
‘Such is life. It is not easy, but we can negotiate. I am a man of my word.’
‘Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could spit. I smelled you for trouble as soon as I saw you.’
‘I’m honoured. So what is it to be? Sit here until we grow old and die of natural causes - or do we compromise? Remember, you are outgunned and out-positioned. I can be a very poor shot with this Uzi and yet still mow you down; you have to be a marksman with a pistol. Compromise, Billy Crane - a good word - a very good offer.’
Crane looked at the Ruger. The Russian was right. It is very difficult to be accurate with a pistol other than at very close range, whereas it’s dead easy with a machine pistol set on automatic. Aiming did not come into it. Point, pull, shoot, sweep, kill.
In that case, Crane decided, I’ll have to get in close to the bastard.
He reached up with his right hand for the driver’s door handle which he gripped firmly and pressed quietly with his thumb.
There was a click which seemed loud and echoey, but drew no response from Drozdov. The door opened a quarter of an inch. Crane released the handle and eased his fingertips under the bottom edge of the door and pulled it slowly open. All the while he was expecting a hail of fire from Drozdov, but nothing came; he assumed the Russian was either squatting down behind the BMW and not looking, or was manoeuvring his way round for a better shot. Whatever, Crane knew his time was limited. When the door was open wide enough, he reached up towards the key in the ignition in the steering column, just behind the wheel. His idea was to try to see if the engine would start and use the noise as a distraction to cover the sound of any movement. He just had to hope the thing would get going without use of the gas pedal because he could not safely contort himself to turn the key with one hand and dab the accelerator with the other. Climbing up and sitting in the driver’s seat was obviously out of the question.
Crane turned the key. The engine coughed, died.
‘Shit!’
He was about to try again when Drozdov stood up and sprayed a line of bullets in to the Sherpa, sending Crane diving back behind the engine block.
Not a good idea, he thought, as the sound of gunfire died away. If nothing else it would be folly to put the Sherpa at risk from damage by bullets. If one hit something vital, he would be struggling to transport the money - if he came out of this alive.
He controlled his breathing again. The only way to win this, he decided, was to take direct action. He had to take the fight to the Russian.
Crane checked the Ruger again, making damn sure there was one ready in the chamber and that the magazine was full. Yes, on both counts.
He leaned back against the front wheel and inhaled deep, slow breaths, calming himself, thinking of tactics.
The only way he could imagine taking the Russian was by a sudden, unexpected, frontal assault, using the element of surprise and, if necessary, going out in a blaze of glory.
His wet right hand gripped the handle of the gun. The sweaty tip of his forefinger curled around the trigger. He cupped his left hand underneath his right and lifted the gun. 32 oz seemed very heavy.
Before he moved, he visualised every step of the way in his mind’s eye. First, the relative positions of the vehicles. He imagined he was a bird, looking down, seeing the layout from above. The Sherpa in the loading bay, the Audi in the warehouse, almost parallel to it and in front of that, skewed at an angle, the big BMW behind which Drozdov was taking cover. What was on the floor that might trip him? Crane thought hard. Nothing, he could recall nothing. Then he began to envision his course of action, frame by frame. Up on to his feet - then into a roll which would take him the ten feet or so to the rear of the Audi, and on the way loosing off two shots to keep Drozdov’s head down. Once behind the Audi, no pause. Dive fast and low towards the BMW, somewhere in the region of the rear nearside wheel. Down to the floor and fire underneath the car to take out Drozdov’s feet and legs and arse if he happened to be sitting on it, using every last bullet in the gun to do as much damage to the bastard as possible.
He counted down from five.
On ‘one’ he came to life and moved, twisting across the front of the Sherpa and suddenly seeing that the gap between that vehicle and the Audi was wider than he remembered. As he threw himself into the dive which would become his roll, this reality hit him and he knew he would be exposed twice as long as he intended.
‘Bam! Bam!’ He fired his planned two shots and launched himself, hit the ground hard, jarring his left shoulder and morphed what should have been a single forward roll into a double.
Drozdov reacted immediately, rising and raking the blurred figure of Crane with fire from the Uzi, but all the while shooting just a fraction behind him - until Crane disappeared behind the Audi and half a dozen of Drozdov’s slugs slammed into the tough, Teutonic bodywork.
The gunfire was deafening. But Crane still managed to hear the metallic click of the hammer on the empty chamber and the muted curse from Drozdov’s lips as the Uzi dried up. A competent gunman would have the new magazine slotted in within seconds. Crane had no illusions that the Russian was anything less than competent, but at the same time knew that the moment had come and he had to grab it, or die.
He scrambled to his feet, his toes losing purchase on the concrete floor for a precious moment before they gripped. He ran across to the BMW veered around to it far side, handgun ready to fire. He found the Russian leaning against the car, fumbling to ram in the new magazine.
Drozdov, magazine in his right hand, useless Uzi in his left, stopped instantly and looked up at the menacing figure of Billy Crane. He held up the separate parts with a shrug and a smile of resignation and hurled them at Crane, crabbing away backwards.
Crane dodged the metal. He aimed deliberately at the retreating Russian and pulled the trigger six times, blasting 9mm holes into his chest and stomach until Drozdov lay there without moving, probably dead.
Crane stood over him like a Colossus and put another two into his head.
Chapter Eighteen
It was midnight. Danny emerged from her bathroom smelling of Johnson’s body wash. She had a robe wrapped tightly around her and was rubbing her short hair with a hand towel. She felt refreshed after the shower. It had been a long day. She went into the back bedroom and settled down to dry her hair at the dressing table.
A curiously
pleasant feeling came over her as she went downstairs into the lounge and drew the curtains. She switched on a couple of table lamps, keeping the lighting subdued, and inserted a CD into the stereo and waited for the first track to start playing. The serene, deep and uplifting music of Ladysmith Black Mambazo filtered out of the speakers and sent a tingle down her spine. It was wonderful, atmospheric stuff and Danny hated herself for not discovering it many years before. She adjusted the volume so it was just right to fill the room, yet not intrusive or overpowering, then wandered into the kitchen.
She opened the new fridge and poured an ice-cold glass of Chablis and found an unopened tube of Pringles in a cupboard. Before leaving the kitchen she hesitated at the door, looking around. A half-smile came to her face. She thought, Good. He’s not here any more. Jack Sands has gone.
Back in the lounge, she flopped down on to the settee, legs stretched out, glass of wine within arm’s reach on the coffee table. She leaned back and fed a few crisps into her mouth, followed by a few slurps of wine. Then it was time to light up. Although she was breaking a rule - never to smoke in the house - Danny didn’t give a toss. The first drag of the B&H Special felt so-o-o good.
She relaxed and closed her eyes, about to review the day in her mind. It had been unusual and eventful - extraordinary, even - but before she could begin to dissect it, the front doorbell chimed. At first Danny thought she was hearing things. She hit the mute button on the stereo remote ... then it chimed again. She shot bolt upright. It was ten after midnight. Who the hell could be calling at this hour? Her stomach churned.
Suspiciously she got to her feet, sliding them into her fluffy slippers. She was not happy answering the door at this time of night. In the hallway she stood behind the front door, hand hovering over the panic alarm button.
