As the architect’s drawings indicated, he’d dropped into one of a dozen attic store rooms. Save for cobwebs, a rust-encrusted bed, and an old wardrobe, this one was empty.
Keeping to the edges of the room where the floorboards were anchored directly into the brickwork and likely more secure, Kaine worked his way to the room’s only door. He twisted the old-fashioned, ball-shaped handle, expecting it to be locked, but it screeched as it turned. The lock disengaged and the door opened inwards.
The narrow corridor beyond was equally as dark as the storeroom, but the NVG worked its magic. Closed doors, the same design as the one he’d just opened, lined the internal walls, eight in all.
According to the plans, the corridor ran the full length of the school, chimney stack to chimney stack. Each end terminating in a landing at the head of a staircase. Kaine turned right, heading for his first target which lay one floor down, more or less directly below where he stood.
He reached the head of the stairs and stopped. Still no sign of life in the building. For a brief moment, he wondered where Freeman had ended up, but didn’t waste time on the matter. Freeman had his task, and Kaine had his own things to do.
Tentatively, he lowered his foot to the top tread and added his weight slowly. Again, the woodwork squealed in protest under the loading, but the ancient timbers held. Walking on the outsides of each tread, Kaine descended to the third floor and turned west, back on himself. He counted off three doors on the rear of the building and stopped. The faint but familiar acrid tang of gunshot—nitro-glycerine, sawdust, and graphite—hung in the still and musty air.
Kaine turned the handle. This time, the lock held firm and the door remained closed. The old-fashioned lock mechanism wouldn’t be difficult to pick but, standing exposed in an open hallway made the little hairs on the back of his neck prickle, and he didn’t have the time for finesse.
Kicking the door in would have worked, but the noise …
He twisted the handle again to disengage the latch bolt, pressed his shoulder against the door, and leaned. The vertical jamb—rotten and weak—cracked and the door squeaked open.
Kaine paused for a moment. Breaking the lock had taken less force and created less noise than he’d expected, but only a hard-of-hearing optimist would have called it silent.
The building still creaked and groaned, breathing under the stress of the wind and rain, but otherwise, all remained quiet.
He stepped inside what might once have been a bedroom, but now contained cardboard boxes, stacked four high against the interior walls. A single window looked out over the rear courtyard and the rail tracks beyond.
Inside, the tang of gunpowder was much stronger. Little air movement in the room meant the molecules holding the odour would take a good while to dissipate, and it had only been a few hours since the shooter, undoubtedly TM, had taken the wild pot-shots at him.
Kaine inspected the window and the sill. Both indicated recent activity. Clear areas in the dust that had built-up over the years showed where TM had rested his elbows to steady his aim. The window catch hadn’t been fully re-engaged, and scratch marks on the frame revealed where the casement had been forced open to allow the shot without the need to break the glass.
The shots—downhill and in the dark, but close range and easy—had been pretty inaccurate. Much less accurate than a shot he’d expect from a regular weekend hunter. It indicated little skill or marksman training and, by poking the muzzle through the window, the shooter had allowed his target to see the weapon and, therefore, time to escape. No properly trained soldier would have been so careless. An amateur. As such, the shooter might have made other rookie errors.
Kaine searched the bare floorboards below the window.
Yep, there it was, shining bright in his optics. A spent shell casing. He picked it up and examined the markings pressed into the base. A 7mm-08 Remington. US made and designed for small game hunting. Millions of rounds were sold annually in the States, but they were illegal in the UK.
Interesting.
Most illegal weapons in the UK originated from the former Eastern Bloc, like the AK 47, and the majority of which were chambered for 7.62 Soviet cartridges. Other illegal weapons on the UK streets tended to use the slightly more accessible 5.56 NATO ammo. The Remington casing was relatively rare and therefore significant.
Whether through carelessness, ignorance, or overconfidence, TM had ignored another basic rule of sniper training. The fool hadn’t policed his brass. In all probability, he’d left some trace evidence on the casing, too. At some stage in the not too distant future, Kaine expected the Palmerston School to be the focus of a police forensic investigation. Kaine returned the casing to the floor, but tucked it under one of the cardboard crates, nicely out of sight of the casual viewer.
He stood back from the window and cast his eyes around the room. This time, he found nothing else of interest and, after making sure no sign of his presence remained, he left the room, pulling the door tight behind him. Despite his clumsy break-in, the door held closed and looked no more damaged than any other he’d seen in the building so far.
Outside in the hallway once more, Kaine reversed his steps and headed down to the next floor. On the half-landing, he paused. Below him, somewhere in the bowels of the school, a door creaked open and slammed shut.
Not Freeman. No skilled jewel thief would make so much noise.
Voices.
Male voices, muted by the distance, but growing louder, drawing closer.
Kaine padded down the rest of the stairs two at a time, fetching up on the first floor landing. On tiptoes, he raced along the corridor, pausing only long enough to test each door in turn. On the fifth try, he struck lucky. The door opened and he ducked inside another empty, dust-filled room, moments before the light from a torch lit the stairwell.
He closed the door softly behind him, leaned against it, breathing deep and slow, listening hard.
Heavy footfalls climbed the staircase, moving slowly. The voices grew sharper. Kaine pressed his ear to the door panel.
“…see him? Spitting nails he were. Nearly wet m’self, didn’t I? I mean, literally,” the first man said. His voice was fairly high-pitched and youthful, the accent pure Essex.
“Who are you talking about?” the second man asked. This one’s voice was quieter, and the accent almost scholarly in comparison to the first.
“Demarcus Williams, you pillock. Like, who else would I be talking about?”
“He’s back?”
The footsteps stopped and, by the sound of it, were close to the top of the stairs, but the conversation continued.
“Yeah, man. Apparently TM called him back in, before the blackout. Didn’t you hear him, Demarcus Williams, I mean, cussing and swearing? Sounded like a scalded cat, man. Kept saying as how he were gonna take them Parksiders apart on account of making him look bad and ruining his fave jacket. Hilarious, y’know? Like, I nearly pissed my pants. Literally.”
“I just arrived, man. What did TM have to say about it?” Scholar asked, and the footsteps started up again.
“He starting laying down the law, y’know. Saying as how nobody does nothing without him giving the orders. Fucking megla… megala …”
“Megalomaniac?” Scholar offered.
Essex Boy laughed. “Yeah, man. That’s what I meant. You and your big words is rubbing off on me. TM’s a fucking nut job.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if he could hear you. Right?”
The footsteps stopped again and a door handle rattled.
The Goons were running a security check.
Kaine leaned harder into his door and jammed the heel of his boot against the kickplate and into the floor. He slipped the Sig from its holster, slowly racked a shell into the breach, and placed his finger along the trigger guard. He had no intention of shooting these idiots, but he understood the petrifying effects of having a loaded gun pointed at you by an unknown madman. Simply showing them the weapon would likely end all
resistance.
“Too fucking right I wouldn’t,” Essex Boy said, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “Like, I mean, what’s up with this blackout, man? Nothing works. You got any idea?”
His voice grew even louder and another handle rattled.
“Search me, buddy. All the landlines are dead and I can’t get a signal on my mobile. Weird.”
They stopped outside Kaine’s room. He raised the Sig to eye level, pointed it at the panel, and braced himself. The handle twiddled and rattled, and the door shook against the jamb.
“This is a waste of fucking time, yeah?” Essex Boy said as the footsteps started up again and the Goons carried on their way.
“Agreed,” Scholar answered. “No one in the neighbourhood has the balls to attack this place, not even the Parksiders. On the other hand, Demarcus Williams is unlikely to rescind his order to search on your say so.”
“Huh?”
“Forget it.”
“Yeah, right.”
Two doors further along, the lock disengaged and the Goons entered. They searched loudly for a short while, moving what sounded like heavy boxes and metal furniture, before slamming the door closed and carrying on. More handles rattled.
“You hear what happened with Red?” Essex Boy asked.
“No. Tell me.”
“Fucking scarpered, didn’t he! Never knew the slimy fucker could run so fast, man. Like, I always knew he were a coward, but fancy taking off like that. Scalded cat, man.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Anyway, good riddance, I say. Probably halfway back to Ireland by now. Him and his, ‘I was in the IRA before the Good Friday Agreement fucked everything’. Total effing bullshit.”
“Yeah, what you said,” Essex Boy said, hesitantly.
Kaine doubted Essex Boy understood what, to the lad, would be a historical footnote to the ending of The Troubles.
“Yeah and anyhow, like, what about them rifle shots? You should of seen it,” Essex Boy said, his voice fading into the distance. “Bullets weren’t far off plugging Crabapple in the arse where he were laying.”
“Really?” Scholar answered over the creak of another door opening.
“Yeah, man. Saw it with my own eyes. Heard it, too.”
“You know what that means?” Scholar asked after a slight pause.
“Nah. What’s it mean?”
“TM’s in the building.”
“Really? You reckon?”
“Well, think about it, mate. Who else around here would have a rifle?”
“Like, er … Demarcus Williams always carries a shooter. Keeps flashing it around like he’s a fucking cowboy.”
“Robbie, sometimes, you can be a real plonker.”
“Whatcha mean by that?” Essex Boy Robbie asked, his voice rising in pitch.
“Demarcus Williams has a handgun, not a rifle. And the way you tell it, the big black fucker was flat on his face at the time, on account of being laid out cold.”
“Oh, yeah, man. Like, I didn’t think of that.” A door slammed shut, cutting off another of Essex Boy Robbie’s embarrassed laughs.
Kaine de-cocked and holstered the Sig and buttoned the retaining strap before stepping cautiously back out into the hall. Far from being empty, it seemed as though the school was crawling with Goons. Another problem with attacking a building without a full advanced recon—he had no idea how many troops he faced.
He read the digital numbers on his watch. 02:38. Time was flying.
According to his briefing, Freeman wouldn’t be able to keep the blackout running all night. Kaine needed to take his leave of the school, discretion being the better part of valour and all that. He would return another day, preferably with more backup.
Retracing his steps to the roof was out of the question. Without a rope, a roof ladder, or a bunk up, he’d never reach the ridge or the chimney. He had to find an alternative exit. And so added another highlight to the problems associated with a half-baked, half-cocked plan.
He reached the head of the staircase and stood still, listening to the increasing sounds of foot traffic and raucous conversations filtering up from below, some of it barely more than expletive-filled ranting.
Demarcus Williams’ high-pitched, testosterone-fuelled harangue sounded loud over the others, practically screaming his orders. Heavy boots pounded throughout the ground floor, lights flickered on and lit the previously darkened ground floor.
Lights! Damn it.
Something had happened to Freeman’s disruptor. The return of power had certainly excited the ants below.
Kaine ran the calculation. The standard mag on his Sig held twelve rounds. He had a full mag in the weapon, and he carried one spare. With his marksmanship, twenty-four shots would be plenty to force an exit, assuming he didn’t mind injuring a bunch of drug-pushing thugs, which, given the changed situation, he didn’t. Not in the slightest.
According to the architect’s plans, the gable end to the west of the school led to the door to the rear courtyard, the layout of which he knew pretty well. Fieldcraft 101—if in trouble, withdraw to familiar terrain.
Kaine turned, intending to start back along the first floor hallway. He didn’t get far before a shout stopped him dead.
“Griffin!” Williams yelled from somewhere in the depths of the school. “Oh Griffin! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Kaine grimaced. They not only knew he was in the building, but knew his identity, too. It could only mean one thing.
Kaine eased away from the staircase, treading soft, breathing shallow.
“Griffin? Oh Griffin,” Williams howled from the ground floor, somewhere near the bottom of the main staircase, “I know you’re up there somewhere. If you don’t show yourself in the next sixty seconds, your blond friend gets a bullet in the kneecap. Sixty seconds after that, he loses the second kneecap. Sixty seconds later, an elbow. A minute after that … Get the message, asshole?”
My blond friend?
The Goons had Sean Freeman!
Chapter 36
Monday 20th February – Barcode
Walthamstow, NE London
02:31.
Barcode lit another Camel, his fourth, and blew the smoke through the small crack he’d left between the window and the door frame. With the back of his hand, he wiped the mist off the windscreen and flicked the wiper stalk to clear it of rain and sleet. If things got much worse, he’d have to turn the car at an angle so he could see the school through his half-open window. Fuck that though. Too pissing chilly.
At the end of his fag, he cranked the window a little lower and flicked the butt into the night. The embers died before it joined its three mates on the pavement.
Barcode sneered. Among all his other failings, they could call him a “Litter Lout”.
Who gives a fuck?
He stretched the cramp out of his shoulders, cricked his neck a couple of times, and tapped the screen on his mobile. Still plenty of charge left. He dialled the emergency number for the thousandth time and, again, the automated voice told him the line was busy and, “Please try again later.”
What the fuck were going on inside the school?
Barcode shifted in his seat. The stuff from the take-down at the Parksiders’ was starting to weigh more heavy, burning a hole in his pocket. If nothing happened soon, he’d have to make a decision, and there was only one he could make. If he took off with the stash and the money roll, his plans would be fucked, and he didn’t give much hope for his survival chances in the longer term. TM would think he’d gotten greedy and would send people after him.
Nah, he’d have to grow a pair and head into the school. Maybe he’d make the difference between the Goons winning or losing the battle, if there were a battle going on. Pretty damned quiet in the school, though. No gunshots meant that Demarcus Williams hadn’t been let loose. At least not yet.
Whatever those buggers who’d broken in were up to, they were doing it all quiet, like.
He’d give it another half hour
before calling again. Three o’clock would be a good time to start the rest of his life—or end it.
#
The dashboard clock ticked on. Barcode finished his fifth Camel. All the while, the sleet and rain landed on the car roof and bonnet with the force and volume of a hammer drill. Started to give him a headache. Or maybe it was down to the ciggies.
Should think about giving up again.
Would do, too, but the buzz it gave him helped even out the stresses of the executive lifestyle.
He snickered at the idea of him, Barcode, being an executive, wearing a business suit.
Ha!
That wouldn’t be a bad idea, though. Wearing a suit would give him the right image. An’ the contract killer in that movie, the one he got the idea of the barcode tattoo off in the first place, always wore smart threads. Somehow, the suit made him look more scary.
Barcode grabbed the mobile from the passenger’s seat, swiped life into the screen, and …
The ground floor lights in the school lit up like a playing field on bonfire night. The floodlights out back lit up too.
Barcode blinked against the dazzling brightness compared with the surrounding gloom.
What the fuck? ’Bout fucking time.
He thumbed the numbers and hit the call button.
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
He recognised the voice as one of the Geeks who manned the computers in the Hub, but never did catch the runt’s name. Had no interest in filling his head with useless details.
“It’s me, Barcode. What the fuck’s going on, man? Been tryin’ to call for a fuckin’ hour.”
“Hold for TM,” the runty Geek said, and the call clicked into silence.
Rude fucker, but it stood to reason TM would let the Geeks know to put him through right away. After all, Barcode were holding a load of product and readies.
Play it cool, Barcode. Be the iceman. You don’t know nothing about what’s going on at the school.
“Barcode, where the fuck are you?” TM’s voice crackled in its usual electronic way, but he seemed more aggravated—speaking faster.
On the Money Page 30
