by Paul Finch
Heck watched and waited, determined to keep his head down – there was no guarantee the glory boys in the chopper would ID him as a cop – until that vehicle too had lofted away. He got warily to his feet, discarding the Tavor.
He could now hear shouting and bursts of gunfire from what sounded like every quarter of the village. Palls of smoke rose above rooftops. He could also hear a loudspeaker; the Nice Guys were being ordered to surrender, to lay their weapons down. He scaled several feet up a nearby flying buttress, from where he could scrutinise the surrounding landscape.
Some of those choppers that had landed had lifted off again. Others had taken their place, and were depositing further sticks of armed, black-clad assaulters. By the echoing cacophony, fire-fights were underway everywhere, but the armed units had already worked their way into the conurbation. Another loudspeaker began hailing. This one sounded as if it was coming from the direction of the anchorage and pier. Highly likely the Northumbrian Police would have offshore launches they could bring across. Heck gazed in that general direction, and was able to see along several streets and passages beyond the museum. Motion was visible, but it was mainly armoured cops advancing behind ballistics shields, pistols and rifles levelled over the top.
‘No time to be hiding in church,’ Heck said to himself, jumping down and alighting on the grass.
He placed another call to Gemma, but now the phone appeared to be lacking a signal – which he perhaps should have expected. Most likely the Nice Guys had activated some kind of scrambler device, to try and cut themselves and the islanders off. He crouched, wondering how he could help. The best thing seemed to be to hook up with the police assault teams. He could then hand over the company phone personally, and tell them everything he knew. He poked his head above the boundary wall, and saw the coast was clear. He clambered over and scampered across, taking a side alley, which brought him into a narrow road next to a bakery, the front door to which stood wide open.
He glanced left and right. Again, the coast seemed clear. But some instinct nailed him to the spot.
The white stucco cladding on the wall above his head was then cross-stitched by gunfire, showering him with dust and debris. Heck dodged inside the bakery, slamming the door behind him and throwing a bolt. Through the window, he glimpsed two figures advancing up the adjoining road – Klausen and the bearded Russian. Both opened fire again, the bakery’s door and plate-glass windows flying inward.
Heck raced back through the building, crashing amid pots in the kitchen, then opening a door at the rear and running into a small yard with a slatted gate.
‘Get him now!’ he heard Klausen shrieking.
The gate was closed, but Heck barged through it shoulder-first, the flimsy wood breaking apart, and finding himself in a cobbled alley.
Where the African was waiting.
He was no more than a yard away, and treating Heck to a manic, pearly grin. He’d laid his 870 to one side, and now hefted a gleaming, foot-long machete.
Heck swayed to evade a vicious backhand swipe, and then threw himself forward, landing a heavy right hand, which seemed to take his opponent by surprise. The African tottered, spitting blood – but now goaded to greater fury. He lurched forward, grappling with Heck, twisting and flinging him across the alley. Heck bounced over the cobbles, slamming into the brick wall. The African lunged after him, the machete flashing in an arc. Heck rolled aside, as its blade drew a streak of sparks along the bricks. Heck tried to crawl away, but a second figure now appeared at the bakery’s rear gate. It was the Russian. He saw what was happening, and bawled with harsh laughter, lowering his Borz.
‘You the man who give us so much trouble?’ the African said. ‘You give me a broken lip too, man.’ Heck winced as he was caught by the ankle. The African raised the machete in his right hand. ‘You can have this quick or slow … you give us the phone, or tell us where … or you lose first one foot, then the other. After that, we show more imagination, yeah?’
‘Fuck you,’ Heck murmured.
Laughing, the African took him by the waistband and flung him back across the alley, slamming him into the other wall. Every inch of Heck’s wind was driven out.
‘Okay, White Lightning …’ The African stood over him, briefly spinning the machete between his two hands, one finger at the point, one at the pommel, and then raising it again. ‘Say goodbye to your foot!’
He never even saw the flying roundhouse kick that caught him in the middle of the back and basically pole-axed him. Heck barely saw what happened either.
Someone clad in tight black coveralls, as well as a glinting ballistics helm, and yet moving with extreme athleticism, cavorted past, going into a balletic martial arts routine. The African blundered to his feet, still wafting his machete, but it was kicked from his hand, and three quick-fire karate blows knocked his head left, right and backwards, dropping him to the cobbles in a senseless heap.
The bearded Russian was up next. He came from the gate with Borz levelled – only for another flying kick to send it spinning, its overheated barrel striking the gatepost and bending double. A second kick caught his crotch, and as he lurched over, a chop to the nape knocked him cold.
‘Bravo,’ Heck said, as his rescuer turned and lifted his visor – to reveal, yet again, that ‘he’ was in fact ‘she’. ‘Oh great … you again.’
‘Like it warms the cockles of my heart to find out you’re here,’ Steph Fowler said, dabbing sweat from her brow, drawing her Glock and moving to the wall alongside the smashed gate. She peered through it towards the bakery. ‘You injured?’
Heck realised she was referring to the blood clotting his clothes. ‘Not significantly.’
‘Good … get up. Any more in there?’
‘One … Klausen.’ Heck hobbled across the alley and picked up the 870. He turned it in his hands. It bore a ‘US Army Rangers’ stamp on its stock, suggesting it had probably been pillaged from a dead US serviceman at Mogadishu back in 1993.
‘Who’s Klausen?’
‘Their gaffer.’ Heck tried to pump a new shell into the shotgun’s breech, but found it was empty. He glanced at the body of the African. The guy still lay unconscious, but now Heck knew that he wasn’t just a merc, he’d probably been a Somali guerrilla too. On top of that, he was a big unit – even unarmed he could probably break most opponents to pieces. Deciding he didn’t want to get any closer than necessary, Heck discarded the 870 and fell into place bare-handed at the other side of the entrance. ‘He ought to have shown himself by now.’
Fowler shook her head. ‘If he’s in charge, he’ll have more to worry about than you. We’re closing them down fast. A few have surrendered already, but others seem pretty hardcore.’
‘You got that right.’ Heck prodded at his broken nose.
She darted past him along the alley. ‘That’s only a taste of what you actually deserve.’
‘How’s Nick?’ he said, following.
She turned, lip curled. ‘How do you think? He’s got a fractured collar bone and a fractured right wrist. And he lost three teeth.’
‘He said I had to batter him.’
‘It was hardly a fair fight.’
‘He was the one who volunteered for light duties.’
‘I’m not laughing, okay?’ She jabbed a finger. ‘The only reason I’m not kicking your arse right now is because you saved my life in the river. Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘And because there are others here who deserve it more.’
They moved on, turning a corner and following a passage between gardens.
‘Don’t let that stop you,’ Heck hissed. ‘I’ll meet you on some car park after.’
‘Deal!’ She halted as they reached another road.
They waited, listening. Sporadic shots were still being fired elsewhere. But more choppers lofted by overhead, and they could hear further loudspeaker messages. On the opposite side of the road, there was a small row of shops.
‘How’s the fight
actually going?’ Heck asked.
‘We’d taken the harbour when I last looked,’ she said. ‘We’ve got at least forty guns on the plot from SOCAR. Another twenty from Northumbria, ten from Durham. These idiots can stick it out all they want, but it’s only a matter of time. Okay … keep low and move fast.’
‘I have done this before, you know.’
‘Yeah. And you’ve been shot before too. Follow my lead.’
She took off across the road in a crouch, pistol dressed down. Heck followed, and almost immediately a shot was fired. Fowler fell with a scream, one hand clamped to her right hip. Heck didn’t halt to commiserate, just grabbed her by her harness and continued across, lugging her after him – which induced more screams. He dragged her into the recessed doorway of an estate agency, the door to which opened under the impact of his shoulder. He thrust Fowler inside, where she curled in an agonised ball on its parquet ball.
‘H … Heck!’ she stammered. ‘Here …’ Her gloved hand shook as she offered him her Glock. ‘Eight … eight rounds left. Go easy …’
He took it and glanced around the corner. Klausen was advancing up the other side of the road, assault rifle in hand – it looked like an L85. He ducked repeatedly behind parked cars, never visible for more than half a second, though he still managed to unload three more rounds, banging holes the size of hubcaps through the estate agency window, forcing Heck to withdraw inside.
Fowler still lay in a foetal posture, face white, blood pooling around her.
‘Guess our car park date’s off,’ Heck said, pulling down a display stand covered with property photographs, and jamming it across the open door.
‘Could … do you on one leg,’ she stuttered. ‘Oh God, oh Christ …’
‘Shhh!’ he hissed.
Voices sounded outside. One of them was Klausen’s. The other sounded like the African’s. There was a sharp clack-clunk.
‘Shit!’ Heck said, diving for cover.
The entire middle of the display board, an area approximately five feet by four, was blown through with a single blast of the 870. Dust and splinters fogged the shop, as Heck knelt up and fired three rapid shots back through the aperture.
‘Sergei!’ Klausen shouted. ‘Round the back!’
‘Our Ruski friend’s come round too,’ Heck said, hearing heavy boots recede down a side-passage. He heaved Fowler up into a fireman’s lift. ‘What did you hit them with, sugar plums?’
‘I didn’t see … see you knocking ’em round like skittles. Oh, Christ …’
Lifting the hatch on the counter, he sidled through it, still carrying her. On his immediate left was an arch with a curtain. He stumbled towards it, and as he did something clinked across the parquet tiling behind. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a grenade.
‘Hang tight!’ he yelled as he fought his way past the curtain.
The ear-numbing explosion almost certainly demolished what remained of the agency’s front office. In the adjoining passage, Heck was showered with plaster and other debris, and blown from his feet, dropping Fowler heavily. The pain of her collision with the floor knocked her unconscious. Behind them, the curtain had caught fire. There was a smashing of wood and glass as the assailants forced their way in. Heck levelled the Glock at the arch and pegged off three shots, only for movement at the rear of the shop to distract him. He spun around. At the far end of the rear corridor was another room, a dimly lit utility area. A shadowy shape was stealing forward from this – straight into a patch of light. Heck recognised the Russian, just as the bastard opened up with a Serdyukov pistol. Heck flattened himself on top of Fowler, shells like cannonballs whipping over their heads. On the other side of the curtain, there was a familiar clack-clunk.
Heck had two shots left. He pegged one through the smouldering curtain, the other down to the rear of the shop, where the Russian dived for cover, then wrapped his arms around the casualty, hoisting her up again, heaving her to his shoulder.
The only avenue of escape was a narrow wooden stair. He tromped exhaustedly up it. The stair switched back on itself once, the upper flight ascending steeply to a small landing with a single door. Grunting and sweating, Heck made it up there, barging the door open – to find a storeroom. It contained a table and chair, and filing cabinets down either side. The single window was tall but narrow – too narrow for an adult human to climb out through.
Feet hammered up the lower stair. Heck dropped his burden, turned to the nearest filing cabinet and lugged it out of place – which he only managed with difficulty, as its drawers slid open, revealing masses of paperwork. With every muscle screaming, he manoeuvred it around and shoved it at the open doorway. The Russian was halfway up the final flight, when the cabinet appeared overhead – and toppled down towards him with a sound like a train derailing, the entire building shuddering.
Half a second later, Heck risked a glance.
The stairwell was filled with dust, splinters and fluttering sheets of paper.
When it cleared, Sergei lay motionless at the switchback corner, his face a mask of blood, the entire cabinet, its back broken, lying skewwhiff on top of him.
But Sergei hadn’t been alone, and even now a grinning ebony face peeked around the switchback corner. The enormous muzzle of a Remington shotgun followed. Heck ducked back as the blast tore up the stairwell, a cascade of shot ripping the walls, peppering the ceiling. As the African bounded up the last flight, Heck slammed the door in his face. There was only one bolt, which he rammed home before backing across the room. He had no time to make use of another cabinet. The only thing he could do was overturn the table, turn it into a barricade, and drag Fowler behind it – all of which he duly did.
The African’s feet halted at the top of the stair.
Fleetingly there was silence. No clack-clunk of the 870.
For some reason, Heck’s skin crawled.
Then he heard a furtive fumbling at the foot of the door – and a thunder of boots descending. He threw himself behind the table, again covering Fowler with his body.
When the grenade blew, it blasted the door inward, catapulting it across the upper room in blistered, smoking fragments, which, if it hadn’t been for the bulwark of the table, would have smashed the cowering police officers to pulp. The usual gale of smoke, plaster and masonry followed as the walls to either side of the door also shattered. The concussion alone was so much that it almost did for Heck, who afterwards lay only vaguely conscious amid broken, charred wreckage.
It seemingly took an age for him to wriggle his way back to wakefulness, and all that time he heard the slow, steady tread of boots re-ascending the stair. Through watery eyes, he focused on the lopsided entrance – and the tall figure with the sickle-shaped grin who appeared there and looked down at him.
This time the African didn’t bother speaking; he simply raised his shotgun to his shoulder. He was only nine feet away. With a weapon like that, one shot would tear them both to bloody chunks.
But in fact, two shots were fired.
And not from a shotgun.
Heck’s eyes narrowed, his dazed vision clearing – as the African staggered in the doorway, fresh gore bursting from his nose and mouth. Without a word, the eyes rolled into his head and he fell backwards down the stair.
Heck lurched weakly to his feet and crossed the room.
Gemma, in helmet and partial body armour, was standing midway up the stair, peering along the barrel of her Glock, its muzzle smoking.
They gazed at each other blankly for several moments.
Gradually, Heck became aware of multiple voices outside, dogs yipping, the crackle of radio static. He descended towards her. She lowered her weapon.
‘Where’s Klausen?’ he asked.
‘Klausen?’
‘Tall, blond, scar-faced.’
She shrugged, looking too shaken to string two thoughts together. She had just shot someone of course. ‘I … haven’t seen anyone like that.’
‘Oh … brilliant!’ He shoul
dered past her. ‘Bloody brilliant!’
‘Excuse me!’ she snapped at his back. ‘Some gratitude would be nice!’
Heck glanced around and pointed up the stair. ‘Sergeant Fowler’s up there, ma’am. Gunshot wound to the hip. Losing blood fast. Needs an ambulance.’ He continued down, passing the point where Sergei lay groaning beneath the cabinet, ensuring to step on the Russian’s face as he did.
Outside, the air was rank with acrid smoke. There were armed cops everywhere, both SOCAR and Northumbria. Many had their weapons holstered, their relaxed state suggesting the battle was over. From their gruff conversations, it became apparent that quite a few of the Nice Guys had surrendered early on, giving full info on their former comrades’ strength and disposition. In consequence, the rest had soon been overwhelmed by sheer police numbers – teams were still searching properties on the outskirts of the village, but most hostiles were believed accounted for. Heck still waylaid a few cops, asking if there was a tall, scar-faced Dane among the prisoners. The majority shrugged, or stared at him as if he was some kind of buffoon. A couple looked as shaken as Gemma; ashen-faced, cheeks stained by smoke. It eventually took a Northumbrian firearms inspector to confirm that he hadn’t spotted anyone matching that description among the captured.
‘Sent those last two bastards in while you hightailed it, did you?’ Heck said to himself, as he turned up a nearby alley, scanning every adjoining passage and doorway. ‘Sent ’em in as rearguard, eh … while you got your fucking arse out!’
He stopped alongside a half-open garage door, from beneath which protruded two upturned feet clad only in socks. Warily, he lifted the door.
