by Gus Ross
He handed his ticket to a rather spotted youth who looked like he had spent most of the day, no, most of his life, gorging on the sweets and popcorn that were all around him. He took the ticket stump and went through.
The doors to the Hall 7 were still closed but that was ok, his earlier walk and the cold night air meant he could do with a pee anyway. The gents was located just a short way back up the corridor and, having placed his tub of popcorn carefully on the sink surround, he walked over to the nearest urinal. The footsteps that had followed him into the toilet would have sounded perfectly normal to Mr Joe Parsons, who was currently sitting behind the door of the first cubicle directly opposite Charles Hanson and trying desperately not to let the excess of wind in his abdomen explode in an embarrassing rasp.
To Charles Hanson there was just a momentary hesitation in the footfall that set his alarm bells ringing. He moved instinctively to his left, narrowly avoiding the blow that had been intended to smash his head against the neatly tiled wall in front of him. Instead it caught him on the shoulder but it was still enough to send him sprawling to the piss stained floor. A smartly polished shoe swung violently and caught him in the midriff with sickening intent, yet somehow he managed to kick out his own legs before his body automatically doubled in two, catching his assailant just below the back of the knee and knocking him temporarily off balance.
It was all he needed. He rose from the cold hard floor like a rugby player who had just shrugged off a pretty solid hit but not a great one, and thrust his head and body full force into the figure before him. This time both men went down. Hanson’s arms were flailing for purchase and he could feel a hand move to his throat and another grabbing at his face, intent on gauging out his eyes. He smashed his head forward against the bridge of the nose in front of him sending blood splattering everywhere and the hand loosened its grip from his neck. Spinning round he thrust his hands around the blood soaked head and snapped it round and towards him. There was a satisfying crack, followed by a thud as the body of his would be assassin slumped to the floor. Inside the cubicle, Mr Parsons lost all control of his bowel and let out an enormous rasp. He would remain in his cubicle too scared to move, until his son had come looking for him as their movie had been about to start.
Hanson quickly searched inside the dead man’s coat pockets, but there was nothing; he was not even sure why he had bothered looking, he knew who was behind this. He caught his reflection in the mirrors above the sink; there was blood all over his face and he threw water on it, wiping furiously in an attempt to look like he had not just gone five rounds with Mike Tyson. Swiftly pushing his hair back into place, he took one last look at the body sprawled on the floor and left.
The occupants of Hall 5 had just started to decamp from their family film experience and he was more than thankful as the extra bodies filled the corridor; he knew that his assailant would not be alone. He neatly slipped in behind a woman and her three children, and kept pace until he was out in the foyer.
Three sets of eyes watched him with intent as he approached the exits doors but there were too many witnesses and Hanson knew it. Once he set foot outside he would have to be quick, there would be no time for hesitation and he could feel the eyes bearing down on him without even knowing where they were. He had taken a taxi to the multiplex but this was no time to try and find another and then he saw his chance.
The multiplex’s car park was the usual large sprawl of vehicles, with the most immediate rows reserved for the blue disabled badge holders. To his right, a blue vehicle was just in the process of pulling up. He sprinted from the door and down the stairs towards the vehicle. Behind him he could hear the commotion as three burly gents tried to force their way through the crowds in order to cover his move. He got to the vehicle and simply dragged the occupant, a bewildered old gent, from the driving seat before he had even managed to complete his parking manoeuvre.
The old gent’s passenger, an equally bewildered old lady, let out a scream. He shouted at her to get out but she was frozen with fear. Just at that point, the windscreen cracked as a bullet whizzed through the vehicle. There was no time, he threw the car into reverse and screamed it backwards, narrowly missing both a group of young girls and shunting the car into the row of neatly parked cars behind. The second bullet took out the passenger side window and with it the terrified old lady. Her head threw violently sideways and forwards and the car filled with blood. He rammed the gear lever into first and without any care for those trying to cross in front, the car sped from the car park amidst a hail of bullets.
My stupidity in using an ATM in the vicinity of Waterloo station was about to be rewarded. Thomson was still incandescent with rage at yet another botch up, not to mention the loss of one of his valued operatives, but when the news had come in as to my whereabouts; it had not taken long for them to establish just what train I had parked by sorry ass on and the welcoming party I had feared might be waiting to greet me was already assembling.
Once things had started to go pear shaped, and right now this was fast becoming a prizewinning pear, Thomson had hoped that I would be the one to lead him to the girl (it happens in all the good spy films). He had even harboured the possibility that Boardman might have had his uses in that respect; that relationship had seemed to get a lot more personal than he had bargained for. But that was before the sad bastard had thrown himself from the roof of his Georgian mansion. It had been a shocking way to go and he was already feeling the heat for that one, but deep down he understood Boardman’s reasons, and in the cold light of day it was actually quite a bit neater that he was no longer around even if his masters did not agree; one less loose end to tidy up.
Yes, I had served to make good old George Thomson’s day seem not quite as bad as it had been turning out and in doing so made my own particular predicament more complicated than it should have been. Still as I nodded and dribbled my way between stations, I was happily oblivious to the world, just as I liked it.
My good wife Eva, if I could still call her that, knew she could not outrun the man who had stepped out of the shadows. He was closing in on her and soon she would have no choice but to engage. She could see the Pier at East Cliff Promenade up ahead but she would not reach it and when the first bullet whistled by her ear her decision was made.
She leapt to the sandy beach to her right, the tide was out and it was a dark dismal night with plenty of low cloud; if she ran hard enough soon it might be her turn to be nothing more than a shadow. But he was too close, another shot met the sand to her side with a dull thud sending up a fine spray of muck, closely followed by another and then another. The supporting pillars of the pier were not far and if she could only just reach them then perhaps she might have a chance, but the damp soft sand sucked and clung to her feet with every stride, stripping the strength from her legs, as if trying to pull her back and prevent her escape. Her lungs were bursting and she was close to giving up but then shots from behind stopped, only momentarily, but it was enough to provide her with the opportunity she required; she threw herself to the sand, turning as she fell, taking the impact on her right shoulder and whipping her gun from its shoulder holster as she went. Within an instant she had discharged almost a full clip and she saw the dark shadow of her pursuer go down. She waited, motionless, covered in sand, waited to see if it moved, but it did not. She threw her head back and gasped for air.
A feeling of relief and despair hit her almost immediately. How could they have known she was here? She had been so careful. But they were here and there would be more of them, she could bank on that.
For a brief instant her thoughts were for me, I was on my way to meet her and now it was no longer safe, if it had ever been safe. But there was no way she could contact me and she thumped at the sand with her fist in frustration.
Hanson was driving like a madman, he was well trained and could handle just about any vehicle you could throw at him, but even he was pushing hard on lady luck’s door. He had sped through the red light
s that marked the entrance to the multiplex, narrowly missing at least three vehicles and took the right hander almost on two wheels; the body next to him, which thankfully still had its seat belt on, was thrown against the passenger door and then back towards him as he struggled to straighten his getaway car. The wind was howling through the space where the window had been so rudely removed by the bullet, which now resided in the head of the poor old dead lady passenger, and already he knew that tonight was not going to end well.
With one hand he removed the mobile from his breast pocket and punched the speed dial. This was a call he had hoped he would never have to make, but if tonight he was on his way out, then he was going to make sure he took the whole god damned circus with him.
The call was made and at least now he could play the game properly; the final game, his final game, the one where he knew the inevitable outcome, but in some way it felt liberating, as if someone had taken off the stabilisers and had removed all the restrictions and barriers and rules that kept us all from ever being free. The feeling rushed through him like the greatest hit of adrenaline he had ever experienced. He had no fear left in him now. What was there left to be afraid of? And that made him twice as dangerous.
He could see the lights of the car closing rapidly behind him and they stayed with him as he took the next left at ridiculous speed. The little car he had ‘commissioned’ had a silver insignia in the centre of the steering wheel which told him he was now the proud owner of a Mazda, and, as it slewed sideways round the bend, it was already on the wrong side of the road (or perhaps the right side in Hanson’s mind). An approaching car swerved to avoid collision.
“Fuck off out of my way ya’ Limey Fuckers. Learn to drive on the right side of the road. Fuck Off !!!” Hanson screamed the words as he hurtled the little Mazda through the streets. He was mad with rage and excitement and wanted to scream at the world for everything that had pissed him off in life. He found himself wishing that he had chosen a slightly better vehicle for this, his final performance, but what the hell, how many invalids drove around in an Aston Martin.
“Come on you piece of shit, can’t you go any faster, come on!” The rev counter needle was almost off the dial and the engine screamed back at him in protest, but they were still gaining on him. He flipped the red seat belt button and with one had on the wheel, lent across and opened the passenger door. He then spun the car into a right hander, sending the poor dead women flying out into the road and into the path of the chasing car.
“Sorry old dear but you were slowing me down. Why don’t you slow those fuckers down instead.”
She smashed of the radiator with a horrendous crunching, thudding sound, but he was going to have to do a lot more than that to shake off Howison’s men.
“Ok you bastards. Let’s see what you’ve really got.” He turned the steering wheel full and hard and at the same time pulled on the handbrake with all his might. There was a disgusting smell of burning as the little Mazda performed its one and only ever handbrake turn perfectly. He was now staring down the barrel of the fast approaching vehicle and he was fully intent on driving straight for it. He took his Beretta M9 from its shoulder strap, it felt solid and powerful and exciting; it had been a long while since he had been called on to discharge it anywhere other than a firing range, but he would not hesitate.
The driver of the pursuing vehicle slammed on the brakes and came up two hundred yards or so from the small Mazda. There then followed that split second where each party waits for the other to show his hand, like two wild west gunmen waiting for the neckerchief to hit the ground before reaching for the weapons strapped to their hips, or two gladiators sizing each other up before the inevitable battle to the death.
Hanson would be the one to move first. He hit the button on his left and let the driver’s window come all the way down. He took a deep breath of the damp night air which left a sweet taste in his mouth and reminded him of something he could not quite place, but he liked it. It felt like something from his childhood, some fond memory of his days back in Connecticut when life was simple and everything new was met with childlike innocence and intrigue, triggered by the simple act of taste and smell, but it reassured him. Somewhere in his head he could hear the voice of his dear late mother, but he could not hear what she was saying to him and he did not want to hear it. She would no doubt be about to scold him for what he was about to do, but it was a bit late for that. He pushed the little car into first gear and with one had holding his gun out of the window he drove straight at the car in front of him.
“He’s a fuckin’ madman. He’s coming straight for us. Quick.”
The driver of the pursuing vehicle hurled at the steering wheel to avoid the collision, just as the first of Hanson’s bullets pinged off the bonnet, but he was too late. The small Mazda smashed into the near side of the vehicle and in an instant Hanson was out of his car. He rolled along the bonnet of his badly smashed vehicle to the passenger side on his back, righted himself and, gun in hand, deposited three shots into the side of the stunned drivers head. It had all happened in an instant, he was now a ruthless killing machine without hesitation or fear.
Suddenly there was gunshot everywhere, he took one in the leg but it was a through and through; clean, no bones, no major arteries, although it stung like hell. He flipped back over the bonnet of the poor old Mazda that was in the middle of the greatest adventure of its life and was secretly delighted by all the excitement, not to mention that it had finally been driven by a real driver.
The shooter had to be at the rear end of the other car, but he had no idea how many of them had been in the vehicle: two, maybe three? Then, as if in answer to the question that had just flashed between his ears, a shadow stepped out from the front of the vehicle which still had pieces of blood splattered hair and grey matter from the poor old dead lady mashed into its bumper and radiator grill. Hanson caught the movement in his peripheral vision and spun round and down, just in time to miss the hail of bullets with his name on them.
“Wanker.” He dropped the assailant with two perfect upward shots; the first entered just below the chin and proceeded to take the top of its targets head off as it exited, the second, just below the left eye, penetrated right to the cortex.
Hanson could hear the sound of distant sirens but they were not that far off, perhaps a mile or so and they sounded like they were calling his name, like they were coming just for him and that nothing he could do would stop them. He was fully prepared to die that night and fully expected to, but there was no way he was going to be brought in.
He knew that Thomson was already beginning to suspect that he must have been the one who fingered Hendrick, no, he was smarter than that; the old man knew that he was the one.
Hanson had made sure that the intel’ report that had alerted him to Hendrick’s movements in the first place had been buried deep, but like a deep routed cancer, such things had a habit of coming to the surface eventually. And if the old man was intent on going on an excavation, then ‘eventually’ was liable to be a very short time in coming.
No, he was not going to be brought in and let the whole thing get pinned on his lapels.
The sirens were getting closer and there were more of them now, coming from the other direction, and there was still at least one more of these bastards to take care of.
He got up slowly to his feet from behind the white smoke that was now rising in a gentle wisp from the badly damaged engine of the little Mazda, like some kind of gunslinger intent on making his final stand and run the bad guys out of town or die trying. He held his Beretta in both hands expectantly, waiting for the slightest hint of movement. There was a strong smell of diesel in the air, it gagged at his throat and he could feel it nipping at his eyes. The man behind the vehicle did not move, he was breathing hard and waiting for the surge of courage to hit him, the one he would need to see the job out. The sirens moved ever closer.
Perhaps this was not quite his time.
Hanson coul
d see the trail of clear fluid glistening in the streetlight, throwing out all the colours of the rainbow in some weirdly contorted spiral that seemed to move and twist as if somehow it were alive. The diesel vapour seemed to be rising from it in slow motion. He took aim and fired three quick shots into the heart of it, and then turned and ran.
There was only a momentary lapse as the petrol ignited, just long enough for gunman number three to realise what was coming and look into the eyes of his reaper, and then he was gone, in an almighty flash of light, and heat, and then noise. The small Mazda was thrown outwards and upwards away from its tender embrace with the now exploding vehicle and crashed to the ground in a heap of smashed metal. The force of the blast sent Hanson forward and down, smashing hard against the road. He could feel the heat behind him, could smell the burning singed stink in the air, but he was alive.
The sirens were almost upon him now, but they sounded dull and muffled; his ears would take a while to recover from the sound blast of the explosion but at least he was grateful that the incessant wailing was not quite so grating. He would rather be shot by one of Howison’s goon squad than have to face the sanctimonious questioning of George Thomson and that thought alone was enough to get him back on his feet.
His leg was bleeding about halfway down his right thigh where the bullet had gone clean through but it was not life threatening. He had not paid too much attention to the spot he had chosen for his showdown with the car full of assassins, but now his eyes were everywhere as he ran, desperately seeking for a way out.
The first of the many armed response vehicles was already pulling into the street, which already looked like a scene from the previous summer’s riots, when the disgruntled and disenfranchised inner city youth had decided to simply help themselves to anything they fancied before the real thugs had decided to make it a bit more interesting by setting fire to random vehicles that got in the way, and burning down a few shops and houses for good measure. But this particular street scene also had a generous spattering of dead bodies.
