He swung as hard as he could. The right front light shattered, sending glass everywhere. Turning on his heels, he swung around and took out the left. The next few blows put heavy dents in the bonnet. Glass shards crunched beneath his feet as he decided on his next target, walking quickly from left to right. Travers was breathing hard now and sweat poured down his back. He jumped on the bonnet, denting it further, and brought an overhead swing down into the front windscreen. The bat struck with a thump and a web of cracks formed along the glass. Another swing put a dent in the screen and a third put the bat clean through the glass.
Travers jumped off the bonnet, went around to the back of the car and started swinging again. Because he was too preoccupied, he didn’t realise that every time the bat struck the car he said I’m sorry under his breath like a mantra.
22.
George took a knife from his holdall and scrawled a rough X at the edge of the door, close to the mortise lock. He pushed the blade in deep enough to tear off the paintwork, which dropped to the carpet in flakes, so that his brother had a visible target. Anthony ran his finger over the spot and nodded. George did the same again with the cylinder lock. As predicted, his attempts at lock-picking had been utterly unsuccessful, and had done more damage to his fingers than the locks, and a few equally ineffective attempts at kicking the door suggested that Dave had replaced the standard locks with something of the sturdier police-resistant variety.
Anthony started rummaging around in the bag, looking for semi-automatic and a silencer. “Maybe we should just snap the cylinders?”
“And maybe we shouldn’t. You saw what happened when we tried to kick it. Shooting it out is faster. Less time for them to react.”
Anthony started screwing a silencer on the end of a gun barrel. “I’m telling you, Dad’ll be seriously pissed.”
“So?”
“He wants them contained.”
“Containment’s for fags,” George said. “I’m sick of all this waiting around.”
The sound of nearby movement made Anthony throw the gun back in the holdall. He positioned his body in front of the bag and tried to appear innocent, which consisted of a gormless expression, whilst he looked around as if trying to locate something. It made him look ten times guiltier. George leaned in towards the door when he realised that the sounds were coming from inside the flat. He put his ear to the wood and listened. Loud crashes and bangs emanated from inside, along with a lot of grunting. He heard the sound of splintering wood.
“They’re up to something in there.”
“There’s nowhere for them to go,” Anthony said.
George arched his eyebrows. “That’s as maybe, but if they’ve got anything planned I want it nipped in the bud now, not later.”
“Which one of youse owns a green MG?” a voice said.
The shock of hearing a voice through the door made them both jump and pull back slightly. Anthony went to say something, but stopped when George put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Anthony sat in uncomfortable and tense silence as he thought about his pride and joy.
“It’s a nice car. Shame you’re gonna have to fix it up again.”
Anthony shot his brother a worried glance, wanted to speak, but George kept the finger firmly against his lips. Sweat trickled down his forehead freely and nestled within the fat black mono-brow until it glistened. He started shaking.
“Either of youse two know a good panel beater?”
This time Anthony groaned, and his body tensed. One of his hands went to a jacket pocket and pulled out a knife. His fingers squeezed the handle so hard that they turned white and his hand quivered. George grabbed him by the shoulders and shook his head again.
“My car,” Anthony whispered.
“No,” his brother said, leaning close.
“Some fucker’s remodelled your bonnet with a baseball bat…”
Anthony grabbed at his chin and tugged it till the flesh turned red, his face drawing into a snarl. George dug his fingers into his brother’s shoulders and tried to draw him closer, but he could already feel him pulling away.
“Cheeky bastard’s already taken out your front lights and grille. Now he’s working on your windows and…”
Anthony roared and pushed his brother away. George staggered back and fell on his arse. He shouted his brother’s name repeatedly, but it did him no good. Screaming incoherently, Anthony turned on his heels and sprinted off down the corridor. George heard his footfalls and screams echoing off the walls of the stairwell as he took the steps in massive leaps.
George jumped to his feet and made a run for the holdall. He stopped as the door snapped open and the big lad emerged, swinging a hefty claw hammer. George ducked under and heard the plasterboard crunch as the hammer hit.
He realised that it was pointless trying to get to the gun, so instead he grabbed his knife and charged.
23.
Darren Travers stepped back and lit a cigarette. He knew it wasn’t going to help him catch his breath, but he did it anyway. He needed it – anything to take his mind off the shame he felt about destroying something beautiful. He took in his first drag and held it until he felt lightheaded. When he finally breathed out, the light from the lobby caught the smoke as it drifted away on the breeze.
The car was going to need more than one panel beater to fix it up again. It was going to need a team of them – that or a completely new shell. The body was badly dented, and in places the racing green had come away completely, revealing the primer and metalwork beneath. The windows existed only as a collection of shattered fragments, and he’d ripped the soft-top by stamping on it with his feet. The only thing that remained undamaged was the tyres, and he was seriously considering getting a knife from his holdall to finish them off. He figured that amounted to three grand’s worth of work, more or less.
Travers dropped the cigarette on the tarmac and ground it out with his foot. He started walking back in the direction of his holdall when he heard a god-awful scream, something that sounded like two cats spinning in a washing machine. When he turned he saw Anthony Karagounis staring wide-eyed at the damaged vehicle, clawing at his face and mewling. Travers knew that he should run, but there was something compelling about the sheer misery and despair on display. Then he noticed what Anthony had in one of the hands that he was pressing against his face; saw the light glint and gleam off it.
And still he couldn’t run.
Anthony looked up from his vehicle. His grimace slowly melted away, replaced by gritted teeth and clenched jaw muscles. He frowned in Travers’ direction and lowered his hands to his sides. The grip he had on the knife tightened. He took a step forward.
Now Travers could run.
He turned on his heels and started sprinting. Behind him, he could hear the soles of Anthony’s feet slap against the tarmac. They sounded fast, faster than he was capable of running. The urge to turn and look around was overwhelming, but he knew that it would slow him down if he did, so he focused on the lights of the Trunk Road and ran towards them. Then he changed tack, turned left and headed towards Cargo Fleet Lane, thinking that if he could get across the road and on to one of the estates he might be able to lose his pursuer by jumping a few back garden fences. His sudden change of direction caused Anthony to slip and fall on the wet pavement.
Travers allowed himself a quick glance, but nothing more, and kept sprinting, even though his muscles were starting to burn. Cargo Fleet Lane was close, just a few feet away, and the glare of the streetlights was welcome. He heard the slap of Anthony’s footfall again and realised that the slip had only delayed him momentarily. As Travers hit Cargo Fleet Lane, he realised that Anthony was close, too close and turned to look round. He was about ten feet away, and closing fast, his expression a combination of physical exertion and extreme rage, his teeth gritted, eyes glinting.
Travers heard the screech of car brakes way too late for it to do any good.
He saw the dazzle of the headlights from the corner of his eye
and braced himself for impact. The first thing he did was jump in the air, instinctively, so that he went over the bonnet rather than under the wheels. He felt his shins break as the bonnet of the car struck them. He screamed as his body hit the windscreen and then he was flying.
As he twisted and turned in the air, weightless, Travers wondered if this was what dying was like.
24.
The Austin Healey tore through the glistening streets, kicking up rain spray. The engine roared every time the car hit a straight road. It was late, and there were very few cars around, so the driver had the opportunity to press down on the accelerator.
John Karagounis paid little attention to the roads, as he was too busy with his phone call. Besides, there weren’t any people around at this time of night, so he didn’t have to worry too much. “We have them boxed in. They’re not going anywhere. Well, I thought you might like a go at them, particularly after what they did to your knee.”
“Knees.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Knees, as in plural. Never gonna walk proper again.”
“Then that should be extra incentive.”
“An’ whass in it for you?” said the man at the other end of the line.
“Money.”
“I guessed that ‘un, like.”
“Ten grand, Barry.”
“And what do I get for that?” Barry Ogden said.
“The Stanton’s tied down in a room. And as much torture equipment as you can handle. And if you have trouble standing we’ll help you stay on your feet.”
“What kind of equipment?”
“Whatever takes your fancy.”
“Can’t say’s I’m not tempted, an’ all that, but ten grand’s a bit steep, like.”
“Now, now, Barry, we both know that’s a lie.”
“Business is as slack as a prostitute’s twat.”
“The Stanton’s aren’t stupid, and neither am I. They don’t risk their necks for pound coins and coppers. They knew you were loaded long before they hit you.”
“An’ they took a lot of cash.”
“Thirty, if the rumours are to be believed. But they knew you had more than that.”
“Make it five an’ you have a deal.”
“Eight.”
Barry paused briefly. “Six.”
“Seven. And that’s my final offer.”
“Fine. It’s a deal.”
“Well, wait for my call. I’m nearly there.”
Karagounis bombed along Longlands Road towards a junction, getting ready for his turn. The traffic lights went from green to amber. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and raced towards the lights. Just as amber bumped noses with red, he hit the turn into Cargo Fleet Lane, enjoying the total lack of control as the car began to drift.
That was the moment he saw the idiot in a hoodie running towards him, not paying attention to where he was going. He panicked and hit the brakes.
The car stopped drifting and started skidding.
The idiot turned and noticed his mistake far too late.
The idiot hit the bonnet with a scream, smashed the windscreen on his way past, and then he was gone. Karagounis saw a quick flash of him in the rear-view before he dropped out of sight.
Then he closed his eyes and the car kept skidding.
25.
Derek twisted his body side-on, but not quite fast enough. George Karagounis’ knife blade sliced across the flesh of his upper left arm. He knew it wasn’t deep, but it hurt nonetheless and he roared angrily. Throwing himself against the wall, he watched as his attacker rushed past. Propelled by the speed of his charge, George kept travelling forward down the corridor. He skidded along the carpet until he came to a halt and turned back around, ready for a second go.
Derek looked down at his arm. Blood oozed from the wound, soaking his T-shirt sleeve and trickling down his huge bicep. He gritted his teeth and stepped away from the wall, dropping into a crouch, hammer at the ready.
“You’re going in the fuckin’ grave for that, you fat Greek cunt.”
George grinned and spun the knife in his hand, bobbing and weaving like a boxer. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”
Derek moved forwards, which made George move back, mirroring his footsteps, drifting from left-to-right in a crab-like motion. Both men watched the other carefully, trying to spot weaknesses and the first signs of an impending attack. Then George juddered forward, sending Derek into retreat. They continued like this for a good thirty seconds, moving back and forth, until George rushed headlong into an attack. The big lad let him come forward a couple of steps and then swung the hammer.
The head struck the bridge of George’s nose and shattered it to the right, sending bone through the flesh. He squealed but kept moving and sliced through the big lad’s left love handle. Derek staggered back, slamming into the wall, leaving behind a blood trail.
George kept moving forward until he fell on his knees, just in front of Bellman’s doorway. He lifted his hands to his face for a second, letting the blood stream through his fingers and onto the carpet. When he lowered his hands, he got a tight grip on the knife and turned his head, so that he could see his prey. Beneath the bright corridor lights his face looked like a bloody death mask.
“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, suddenly looking at the gun in the holdall. “The only person going to the fuckin’ cemet…”
He never got to finish the sentence.
Mark ran through the doorway and kicked him in the face, just as he was reaching for the holdall. His jaw broke with a gunshot crack. His head struck the opposing wall with a thump and he slumped forward, resembling a man in prayer.
Mark approached George warily, prodded him with his toe and jumped back, as if expecting the man to slice at him with the knife. The only thing George did was fall on his side and drool blood on the carpet. Out cold.
Mark bent down and picked up the knife.
“What the fuck you do that for?” Derek said.
Mark looked at him. “You’re welcome.”
“I said…”
“I heard you. We don’t have time for this.”
“I had it under control.”
“Much as I enjoy watching two fat men re-enacting the fight scene from Oldboy, I’ve got more important shit to think about, like escape.”
“I had it under control.”
“Sorry to piss on your bonfire – it was taking too long.”
“Bullshit…”
“You wanna continue this argument, or would you rather get the fuck outta here and live to spend that money? It won’t take long for Anthony to turn on his heels and come back here, and when he does he’s gonna be pissed. Now go get the car.”
Derek stormed down the corridor and descended the stairs. Mark watched him as he left before going back into the flat.
The bedroom door lay on the floor. The hinges were still attached to it, though the wood around them had been splintered badly. Eric held Bellman up against a wall, trying to keep him on his feet, but his size and weight made it difficult. Every inch of him was drenched with sweat and his head lolled from side-to-side, as if he was too weak to hold it up. Eric patted his face to prevent him from passing out.
“I dunno why we don’t just leave him?”
Eric glowered at him. “Because if he dies, the police are gonna poke their noses into this. That’s attention we don’t need. I mean, seriously, look at this fuckin’ place.”
“This is probably what it looks like after a long weekender.”
“Broken fuckin’ doors, dead man on a bed; it’s not gonna take Columbo’s good fuckin’ eye to spot that something’s amiss. But if he’s alive, it hits a nice big fuckin’ wall of silence. Bellman may be many things but a snitch isn’t one of ‘em.”
“So what we gonna do with him?” Mark said. “We’re not fuckin’ takin’ him with us, I can tell you that now.”
“I have an idea. Come on, gimme a hand.”
26.
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John Karagounis got out of the car and moved quickly towards his victim, even though all he could think about was the damage done to his vehicle. The man in the hoodie lay on his back. An occasional tremor shook him, but other than that he didn’t move. His lower legs were splayed at unpleasant angles, and blood had soaked his jeans and the surrounding pavement. John cursed quietly and stepped closer.
The man’s eyelids fluttered and his facial muscles twitched and flexed. At least he was alive, even if he wasn’t in the best of shape. John heard the scuff of sole on tarmac from behind and spun around.
His son was staring at them with a confused expression, like he wasn’t quite sure what to feel, his face flitting from anger to fear and back again. John noticed that he was holding a knife.
“What are you staring at?” he asked.
Anthony stepped forward, his face finally settling on anger. “Cunt trashed my fuckin’ car.”
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
“You watch it,” he said, focusing his gaze on the man in the hoodie.
“You want to say that again?”
Anthony’s fingers tightened around the knife handle. “Step outta the way, Dad. I’m gonna finish him.”
John blocked his son’s path and stared him down. Anthony didn’t hold his father’s gaze for long. He slowly lowered his head until he was looking at his feet, which he kicked together in frustration.
“Where’s your brother?”
Anthony screwed up his face and wafted his knife in the direction of the flat block. “He’s… he’s upstairs.”
“With the Stantons? Alone?”
Anthony paused, bit his lower lip and finally nodded.
John gritted his teeth. “You moron. Get back there and help him now.”
“But…”
John hit Anthony with a two-handed push to the chest. He staggered back into the wet road and almost lost his footing. “Do it,” John said. “I’ll deal with this idiot. Don’t think. Go. Now!”
Bone Breakers (A Stanton brothers thriller) Page 8
