Never anything wrong with my part of a job.
Capper risked another look in the mirror, wanting to double-check on that patrol car, catching a glimpse of Gladstone getting double-teamed instead. Wincing, he studied the road behind. One set of headlights, almost a hundred yards back, but not the police. Yet that I'm-being-followed feeling hit him again. He’d been getting it a week or more now without telling anyone, not wanting to be laughed at. And not wanting to provoke Gladstone, come to that. He could be vicious, could Gladstone. Not to mention murderous.
Capper glanced to his left.
‘What?’ Murdo knew Capper was worried without needing to return his glance.
Twat’s super-alert.
‘That Peugeot seems familiar.’
Murdo had a quick gander. ‘How do you know it's a Peugeot?’
‘Shape of the lights. I saw it behind me yesterday.’
‘And you recognize it now, in a blizzard and total darkness?’
‘Yeah, course I do. Shall I lose it?’
Murdo sighed. ‘Don't start pissing about in this stuff. It's getting icy.’
‘What if he's tailing us?’
‘He's probably just going home to his bed, like any sensible person out this late.’
‘I'll get him at this roundabout,’ said Capper. ‘Snooker him.’
The roundabout was a big one. Indicating right, Capper steered onto it and did two full three hundred and sixty degrees. Then felt like a prat when the Peugeot, never deviating, sailed sedately through and off into the night.
‘Tosspot,’ said Murdo, laughing.
Capper took the correct exit and continued towards Bradford.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ he mumbled.
Theirs was the only vehicle on the road now. The snow was steadily getting heavier and suddenly there were no tracks to follow. Thankful for ABS, Capper moderated his speed and kept going.
After about a mile they came to a familiar blot on the landscape. Major house builders had been ravishing this last stretch of greenfield land for what seemed like years. Just recently the council had joined in, replacing damaged tarmac or pipes or something, no doubt at massive cost to the ratepayer. The roadworks were half a mile long.
Capper drove this way often so didn’t need telling that three lanes had been condensed into one. Or that traffic flow was controlled by temporary lights that were starting to seem permanent. He’d seen all the signs too: the ones apologizing for delays expected to last until autumn. Not that he believed them. Last time through they’d only been delayed five minutes.
Five minutes was bad enough, months and months until autumn would be ridiculous.
Tonight his luck was in. Getting a green he immediately entered the single lane, very sturdy concrete blocks either side of him making U-turns impossible.
‘What do you think,’ he said, pointing towards the flashing orange lights over the brow of the rise ahead, ‘gritter or plough?’
‘Fiver says gritter,’ Murdo replied, peering into the worsening snow.
‘It's a JCB, not a plough. And it's blocking the road.’
‘Honk the fucker. He'll move.’
Capper braked progressively, stopping a safe twenty yards short.
The JCB appeared to be empty.
He honked.
Nothing happened.
This time Murdo did turn to meet his glance.
‘Oh shit,’ they said as one.
* * *
Bri had climbed into the JCB when Gladstone left the night club. He moved it into place when Barney’s commentary got to the limo leaving the roundabout. Switching off the ignition but not the lights, he jumped out and threw the keys into a distant snowdrift.
Jonjo had left the portacabin and was more tensed up than ever. He swore when he saw the keys vanish but didn’t bawl the dickhead out. Instead he cradled his assault rifle and kept on waiting.
It didn’t take long. He could see approaching headlights even as Bri slipped away into black shadows. Forcing his breathing steady, he stayed in his hidden position, his attention focused on the stretch of road directly in front of the JCB.
Then Smith’s limo was there, halting perfectly, not the slightest hint of a skid.
Bingo!
All doubts and nerves were gone as Jonjo opened up from the rear right, loosening off thirty rounds on full automatic.
The bullets all found targets, shredding tyres, punching through metal and shattering toughened glass.
Kev was hidden to the rear left. He leapt up and ran forwards as Jonjo reloaded.
Quite incredibly there was still fight in the ambushed limo. The passenger-side door burst open and Murdo emerged, drawing his gun as he spun around.
Kev’s Uzi machine pistol spat fire, killing him before he could make his stand.
Reloaded, Jonjo closed in, only faintly conscious of his prosthetic limb moving over the snowy terrain, quickly arriving at the back driver-side window.
Semi-dressed figures moved inside, arms and legs tangled.
Jonjo let loose again, aiming downwards into the vehicle, firing off another thirty, going for overkill.
* * *
Capper had always lived on his wits. Always. Five years' bird had only sharpened his reflexes. He was unfastening his seat belt and reaching for the door handle even before the first volley of shots. Murdo's reflexes were even sharper; he'd already unbelted and thrown open his door.
‘Watch it!’ Capper yelled, ducking instinctively.
Murdo seemed to duck too. Then he threw himself out of the open door.
Capper screamed as he saw the minder's body exploding in the courtesy light. He dived into the footwell before the same happened to him.
No! No! No!
The night was filled with thunder and breaking glass. Terrified, he crammed himself underneath the steering column, covering his head with his arms. Shots resounded inside his skull. He didn't realize they'd stopped until they started up again, from even closer in.
Gladstone’s taking the brunt of that! Him and his girls!
It was all too much. Capper tried to burrow through the carpeted floor, anything to get away.
Then everything went silent and this time he did realize the shooting had stopped.
Shaking with fear, expecting the guns to be turned his way any second, he stayed where he was.
Nothing happened.
Finally, what seemed like years later, hoping the men had finished and gone, he peered upwards.
The partition had been blasted away, together with all the windows. Snow was swirling into the car, some of it travelling all the way through and out again. He could smell shit and something metallic, most likely bullet impacts on bodywork.
Or blood.
He didn’t want to think about blood.
And that howling wasn't the wind; it was coming from him.
‘Gladstone?’ he called.
Still nothing happened.
He tried to get up, banging his head on the steering wheel, finding himself jammed.
‘For fuck’s sake . . .’
He counted to ten then tried again, banging his head even harder.
There was a sudden flash of white light. Capper squeezed his eyes shut, afraid he’d stunned himself and was going down for the count. Then he felt a savage blast of heat.
Fire bomb!
Oh fuck!
UNCONSECRATED GROUND Page 47
