Captives

by Shaun Hutson

  DS Stuart Finn shielded the flame of his lighter as he tried to light the Marlboro he'd just taken from the pack. The wind was blowing strongly now; twice the lighter flame was extinguished. Cursing, Finn stuck to his task, drawing gratefully on the cigarette at last. He looked up to see Governor Nicholson being led out of the main building by two of his warders.

  The irony of the situation was inescapable. The two men looked bewildered, embarrassed almost as they led the older man towards the waiting transit. He allowed Finn only a cursory glance as he passed, clambering up into the back of the van and sitting down on one of the benches. A uniformed policeman joined him.

  Finn watched as Dexter was also led towards the van. He had taken off his lab coat and now wore just a pair of plain brown trousers and a brown jacket. His shirt was undone at the collar. Finn thought how weary he looked. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes sunken and lifeless.

  He was scanning the exercise yard as she walked, noting that there were a couple of unmarked police cars nearby as well as an official one besides, of course, the transit in which he was about to take his place with Nicholson.

  The plain clothes men who occupied the unmarked cars were standing around chatting, two with their hands dug in their pockets, collars turned up against the icy wind cutting across the open courtyard.

  Inside the van, Nicholson looked out and saw Dexter approaching. So this was how it was to end, he thought. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He glanced up at one of the windows of B Wing to see an inmate staring down.

  The two men would be held at the nearest police station until charges could be formally brought against them. What exactly those charges were, Finn wasn't sure as yet.

  Conspiracy. But conspiracy to do what?

  Pervert the course of justice?

  What did the rule book say about brain operations on convicted murderers? Where were the clauses on experimentation and release of those same murderers?

  That, he was relieved to think, was not his problem. His only problem was getting these two men to the nearest police station. He took another drag on his cigarette and patted the side of the transit.

  He'd ensured that the coffins had been reburied before they left. It was rather an empty gesture, considering they'd been without occupants, but Finn had a curious feeling of respect and dread for graves and he felt it only right that the cemetery be restored to its former state before he and his colleagues departed.

  Dexter was slowing down, looking at the transit.

  Perhaps the realisation was finally hitting him, Finn thought.

  The doctor looked at the black vehicle and seemed to swoon. He took a step backwards.

  Finn frowned, moved forward to help the older man.

  Dexter ran at him and crashed into him, the power of the impact unexpected enough to send Finn toppling. He spun round in time to see Dexter running towards the nearest of the unmarked cars.

  The drivers were standing about twenty feet away. They hadn't seen what had happened.

  Dexter was already behind the wheel of the black Sierra.

  'Stop him,' Finn bellowed, now chasing after the doctor. Dexter had started the engine, oblivious to the plain clothes and uniformed men running at him from all direction.

  The closest of the officers actually managed to get a hand inside the car through the open side window. His fist closed around Dexter's collar, but the doctor stepped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, dragging the policeman.

  With one hand Dexter hammered at the vice-like grip, speeding up as he approached the open prison gates. He braked hard and the jolting impact caused the policeman to lose his hold. He somersaulted, landing heavily on the concrete.

  Dexter drove on, glancing in the rear-view mirror, seeing that Finn had clambered into the blue Citroen and was following. The marked car was also in pursuit.

  Dexter roared through the open gates and felt the car skid on the slippery track, but he regained control and drove on, flooring the accelerator, the needle on the speedometer touching ninety.

  Behind him the Citroen and the police car followed, Finn hunched low over the wheel.

  The Sierra reached the road and Dexter wrestled with the wheel, guiding the vehicle to the right. It skidded madly on the road but he kept it under control, noticing that Finn was closing the gap on him.

  The police car had cut across in an attempt to head him off but Dexter saw what was happening and sent the Sierra speeding towards a ridge ahead. A wire fence separated the road from the field beyond, the bank sloping up like a ramp.

  Dexter gripped the wheel and drove straight at the fence, crashing through it, the Sierra hurtling up the low bank. It was moving at such a speed that all four wheels left the ground and the vehicle seemed to hang in mid-air, suspended as if on invisible wires, for long seconds before slamming down with a bone-jarring crash.

  The car skidded again, great geezers of mud spraying up behind it, but Dexter, his face covered by a thin sheen of sweat, kept control and sped on across the field.

  Finn, his face set in an attitude of concentration, followed. The Citroen hit the bank and hurtled through the air, banging down in the muddy field.

  The police car wasn't so lucky.

  The driver, either because of misjudgement or fear, eased up his speed and the car hit the bank. But instead of sailing through the air, it nose-dived into the mud, the rear end toppling over until the entire vehicle crashed onto its roof, metal buckling under the impact.

  Finn saw in his rear-view mirror that the other car had come to grief but he was more concerned with the Sierra now, roaring away from him across the field.

  Surely, he thought, Dexter would have had more chance of outrunning him on an ordinary road. The muddy field could only slow him down.

  What the hell was he playing at?

  The cars roared on.

  ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE

  How easy it would be to turn the gun on himself. To push the barrel of the.357 into his mouth and squeeze the trigger.

  End the pain forever.

  So simple.

  Scott sat behind the wheel of the Rover, his head spinning, his vision clouding. And all the time there was the pain, gnawing away at him like some parasite feeding off his brain.

  Take the gun and bite down on the barrel, taste the gun oil and the metal, then fire.

  He could picture his own head exploding as he fired. Could feel the blissful oblivion. Could see himself at peace.

  Could…

  Fuck it.

  No. He would not die yet. He refused to give up now. He had come too far, gone through too much to get to where he was now.

  He gazed across the road towards the block of luxury flats where Ray Plummer lived. The one at the top. The penthouse flat. The pinnacle.

  What had Cagney said in that film? 'Made it, Ma, Top of the World'. And then…

  Scott pulled the Smith and Wesson from his belt, worked the slide and chambered a round. Then he jammed the pistol back into his belt and reached for the.357, flipping out the cylinder, checking that every chamber was filled with its deadly hollow-tipped load.

  He was satisfied.

  So it had come to this. His quest was almost over. He felt like some kind of medieval adventurer, some searcher after a lost treasure who could see that prize just yards away.

  His prize was revenge.

  It had kept him alive so far. Now he needed to claim that prize.

  Scott swung himself out of the car, leaning against it for a moment as a fresh wave of pain hit him.

  Keep me alert.

  Stop the pain. Just for a while.

  If he'd believed in God he might well have whispered a prayer.

  Stop the pain.

  He began walking, heading towards the entrance to the small block of flats.

  Just for a while.

  Just until…

  He walked with his head down, gazing at the floor, only looking up as he reached the opposite pavement.
/>
  Had he looked up he might well have seen Ray Plummer watching him from the top window.

  Scott reached the main entrance and slipped inside, pausing as he looked first towards the lift, then the stairs.

  Which way to approach the penthouse?

  If he took the lift he would be a sitting target as soon as the doors slid open. At least the stairs offered a modicum of cover.

  He began to ascend.

  Scott moved slowly, to minimise the sound of his footsteps. As he reached the second landing he pulled the 459 from his belt.

  The doors on the other landings were closed, shut tightly like the eyes of onlookers at an accident who don't wish to see the carnage.

  He reached the third landing.

  One more left and he would have reached the penthouse.

  He paused.

  ***

  One floor above him, crouching at the top of the stairs, was John Hitch.

  He had the Beretta 92S loaded and ready.

  He listened as Scott ascended.

  ONE HUNDRED AND SIX

  'Get out of the fucking way.'

  DI Frank Gregson banged the steering wheel furiously and roared at the car in front of him.

  The learner who was driving the car had stalled at traffic lights and was now endeavouring to get the vehicle restarted as traffic built up behind.

  Gregson glanced up and saw that the lights were about to change to red.

  He would be stuck.

  'Come on, come on,' he snarled.

  The car in front remained stationary.

  The lights were on amber.

  Gregson reversed a few feet, almost bumping the radiator grille of an Audi behind him, whose driver now shouted at him. He then swung the Ford Scorpio around the back of the learner and, as the lights changed to red, shot across the junction, beating the oncoming stream of vehicles, ignoring the chorus of indignant hooter blasts that accompanied his move.

  He floored the accelerator and drove on, swerving to avoid some pedestrians who had stepped out into the road.

  The car sped on towards Kensington Road.

  Gregson didn't know if he would be in time; he could only try and reach Ray Plummer's flat before Jim Scott.

  The helicopter had landed back at New Scotland Yard less than twenty minutes ago. Gregson had gone straight to the armoury and checked out a Taurus PT-92 automatic and three magazines of 9mm ammunition. He'd been told that Commissioner Sullivan wanted to see him but he'd ignored the order, saying he must get to Plummer.

  Scott, he already knew, had destroyed one of Plummer's restaurants and one of his clip joints. It seemed only logical that he should now go after the man himself.

  Gregson tried to coax more speed from the Scorpio, but ahead of him, coming into Kensington High Street, the traffic was slowing down again.

  He had called once already for armed back-up, given the address of Plummer's flat.

  Would he be too late?

  There had been no answer yet.

  He snatched up the radio, banging the hooter with his free hand as a car turned left ahead of him without indicating, causing him to brake hard.

  'This is Lima 15, do you read me?' he rasped.

  'Lima 15, go ahead.'

  'I asked for back-up, armed back-up to some flats in Kensington. Where the hell is it?'

  Silence for a moment, just the hiss of static.

  'What address was that, Lima 15?' he was asked.

  Gregson gave the address again.

  'What the fuck are you playing at there? I need those men fast. Do you understand?' he added angrily. 'Affirmative, Lima 15. A unit is on its way…' Gregson snapped off the handset and replaced it, speeding on, cursing again when the traffic came to a standstill. He glanced to his right and left, thought about guiding the car up onto the pavement. No, too many fucking pedestrians about.

  He looked at his watch again.

  Something told him he was too late.

  ONE HUNDRED AND SEVEN

  The step creaked under this weight.

  Scott paused a moment, thinking how loud the sound seemed in the silence of the stairway.

  He was about five steps from the top now, ducked low, the Smith and Wesson automatic gripped in his fist.

  He prepared to move again.

  Another creak.

  From ahead of him this time.

  A sound not of his making.

  Scott looked up, saw a shadow. A dark shape crouched there.

  He moved down a step.

  There was more movement ahead, above.

  John Hitch took a couple of steps towards the head of the stairs, the Beretta gripped in his hands.

  Scott raised his own pistol simultaneously. There was a thunderous roar as both men fired. The stairway was lit by muzzle flashes so brilliant they could have blinded. The walls shook as the roar of the automatics bounced around, amplified in the stairwell.

  Scott felt a bullet blast through his shoulder, blood and portions of bone spraying the wall behind as he fell backwards, but he managed to get off three shots of his own.

  One blasted a huge chunk of plaster from the wall, another hit the step Hitch was standing on. The third caught the man in the right shin. The bullet shattered his tibia, the strident cracking of bone audible even above the monstrous discharges of the pistols. A part of the bone tore through the skin and also through the material of Hitch's trousers. He shrieked in pain and dropped to the ground as Scott tried to force his way back up the stairs. His left shoulder was already beginning to go numb but he forced himself to keep a grip on the 459, firing again.

  Another bullet hit Hitch in the forearm, but it passed through the muscle without touching bone.

  He shot Scott in the stomach.

  Scott felt as if he'd been punched by a red-hot fist. The air was knocked from him and the impact almost lifted him from his feet but he remained upright, blood running freely from the wound. The bullet exited through his side, taking muscle with it, spraying the bannister and stairs with blood, but Scott was lucky. No vital organs had been touched by the 9mm slug.

  Scott fired twice at his prone foe, who was now trying to drag himself away from the top of the stairs.

  The first bullet caught him in the left side of the chest, smashing two ribs as it blasted its way through, punching an exit hole the size of a fist and almost throwing Hitch against the far wall, which was sprayed with crimson and gobbets of lung tissue.

  The second shot hit him, more by luck than judgement, in the hollow of the throat, blasting two cervical vertebrae to powder as it exploded from the back of his neck.

  His head flopped back uselessly, his eyes rolling upwards in their sockets.

  Death was instantaneous and Scott heard the soft hiss as the sphincter muscle relaxed. He smelt the excrement, saw a dark stain spreading rapidly across the front of Hitch's trousers.

  Scott stumbled to the top of the stairs, the stench of blood and cordite strong in his nostrils.

  He had pain now, but it was everywhere.

  His head. His shoulder. His stomach.

  He coughed and tasted blood in his mouth. A thick crimson foam dribbled over his lips; streamers of bloodied mucus hung from his mouth. He spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, stepping over the body of Hitch, he could see the door to Plummer's apartment.

  He moved slowly towards it, ejecting one magazine from the automatic. Scott rammed another in and worked the slide.

  He moved closer to the door.

  The fucking pain…

  He thought he was going to faint.

  Not yet.

  He was outside the door now.

  Not yet.

  There was a spy-hole in the door.

  He threw himself to one side as a fusillade of bullets tore through the wood, blasting huge holes in it.

  Scott landed heavily on his injured side, more blood filled his mouth. He swivelled round, hauling himself upright, a
nd crawled towards the door.

  Silence had descended again; only his own wheezing breath was audible in the desolate solitude. Curtains of smoke wafted around, grey-blue smoke flecked with tiny cinders and pieces of wood that settled like dirty snow on the carpet.

  He dragged himself upright, smearing blood against the wall. Then he stood beside the bullet-blasted door, steadying himself.

  He gritted his teeth.

  Now. It was time.

  Scott swung his foot at the door with incredible force and it flew open, slamming back against the wall.

  He dashed in, firing wildly to cover his entrance.

  Bullets raked the apartment; ornaments were hit, blasted into oblivion.

  Scott kept his finger pumping the trigger, firing all fifteen of the bullets until the slide flew back, signalling the pistol was empty.

  He saw Ray Plummer standing to his left, in the entrance to the bedroom.

  Carol was behind him, her face blank, drained of colour.

  Scott turned on Plummer, realising that his gun was empty.

  Plummer held a 10mm Delta Elite on him.

  Scott opened his mouth to roar his rage but the sound was lost beneath the thunderous blast of the Delta.

  The bullet hit Scott in the chest, punctured a lung and exploded from his back, chipping the bottom of his left scapula, tearing an exit hole large enough to get two hands in. Portions of greyish-red lung tissue and pulverised bone erupted from the wound.

  Scott was lifted, as if by some invisible hand, and sent sprawling over the sofa, blood spraying out behind him.

  He crashed into a coffee table, the impact almost making him black out. Then he rolled onto his stomach, his mouth open, his eyelids flickering.

  He heard Carol call his name, heard Plummer tell her to shut up.

  Footsteps came close.

  Through pain-misted eyes he saw Plummer looking down at him, the 10mm levelled.

  Scott was lying on his right hand, his fingers within reach of the.357. He felt his shaking digits touch the wood of the stock.

  'You should have stayed away,' sneered Plummer. 'Stayed in prison. You came a long fucking way to die.' He aimed the pistol at Scott's head.