Target

by Simon Kernick

  Maxwell and Shaven Head turned round almost as one, which was when I realized that Maxwell wasn't a part of this at all. His face was bloodied and he had a deep cut above one eye. A rope had been pulled tight round his neck, the pressure making his eyes bug out. Shaven Head held one end of it in a gloved hand while his other held a gun, which was pressed hard against Maxwell's side. Maxwell, who was dwarfed in size by his captor, looked exactly like I felt: terrified. He wasn't even making any attempt to hide it, and this more than anything else extinguished any hope that I'd had. If even a hard bastard like Maxwell could be overpowered by these people, what the hell chance did I have?

  'All right, let's go,' said the Irishman impatiently.

  Shaven Head nodded and dragged Maxwell out into the hallway. I was given a shove and made to follow.

  They seemed to know where they were going because they took us through the hall to the cottage's back door. I wondered immediately why they were taking us this way. It was only Maxwell's beloved vegetable patch that was out there.

  The answer became obvious as soon as we were outside: the Irishman picked up a pair of shovels that were leaning against the door and handed one to each of us.

  My heart beat savagely in my chest as I took mine and watched Maxwell take the other. Then I heard him groan because he too knew what we were going to have to do now.

  I can't adequately describe the fear I experienced then. It was total and all-encompassing. My life didn't flash before me. Nothing like that. There was only the sure, solid knowledge that this was the end, that soon there would only be black nothingness. I wished I was religious, that I could have some small hope of salvation to cling on to, but I hadn't believed since I was a child, and death had always seemed too far away to care about.

  But now . . . now it was right there at my side.

  I felt dizzy as we were taken across Maxwell's small but well-kept lawn. I started to fall, but the barrel of the Irishman's gun pressed tighter into my spine, forcing me forward. I straightened up, desperate to delay the inevitable as long as possible, and kept moving.

  Maxwell's vegetable patch was as big as the lawn itself and was bisected by a path that ran up to where his land ended and the woods began. We walked in dead silence up the path and then on to the soft soil so that we were standing side by side, facing the tree line. The night was warm and silent, and I was conscious of drops of light rain beginning to fall on my head. I swallowed and stood stock-still, staring blankly into the pines, ignoring Maxwell. Ignoring everything.

  The Irishman stood on the soil behind us, while Shaven Head remained on the path and produced a torch from his pocket. He shone it on the side of my face and I thought I heard him snigger. My bowels felt like they were going to open and I clenched my buttocks together, not wishing to humiliate myself completely in my final moments.

  'Time to dig, gentlemen,' said the Irishman, a genuine enjoyment in his voice.

  I didn't hesitate, slamming my foot down on the shovel with more strength than I thought I was capable of, and hurling up a pile of dirt.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Maxwell hadn't moved, and I felt a sudden slither of hope. Was he going to make some kind of move? Do something that might save us?

  Then he spoke. 'Listen mate, please. I'm nothing to do with this. He's the one you want. I don't know anything. He just came here tonight for a drink, that's all.'

  'You know you're going to die,' said the Irishman, addressing Maxwell. His tone was calm and even, almost reasonable. 'But there are different ways that you can meet death. It can be quick, and comparatively painless. Or it can be slow and agonizing.' He emphasized this last word, letting it slide almost playfully out of his mouth. 'It's your choice which way it is, but I can promise you that if you don't do exactly as you're told, then by the time I'm finished with you you'll be begging me to finish you off.'

  Maxwell at last got the message, and began digging.

  And so we dug together. Dug our own graves. The adrenalin coursed through me as I worked, and the rain grew steadily harder. I was terrified, but the act of thrusting the shovel into the soil gave me something to concentrate on, and even though I knew that the moment I finished it would spell the end, I kept on going, if anything increasing my pace, as I concentrated my fear and impotence on the task at hand. It was as if I wanted to make sure my final act in this world was done in the best way possible so that I could leave it with my head held high.

  'What's your name, my friend?' the Irishman asked Maxwell when his hole was half dug and mine two-thirds done. Shallow, but almost long enough for me to fit in. I pictured myself lying face down in it, a bullet in the back of my head, the rain drumming down on my corpse. Never to be found, or properly mourned by the two people I cared about most in the world: Yvonne and Chloe.

  'They call me Maxwell,' he answered listlessly.

  'And is that your real name?'

  This time he didn't hesitate. 'No,' he said. 'It's Harvey Hammond.'

  I almost laughed out loud. Harvey Hammond. What sort of name was that? How could you have a gangster going by the name of Harvey? I was beginning to realize now that the man whose violent past I was meant to be chronicling might not be all he had cracked himself up to be.

  'And what has Mr Fallon told you, Mr Hammond?'

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maxwell, Harvey, whatever the hell his name was, stop digging and stand up straight, turning round so he faced the Irishman. 'Everything,' he said, figuring no doubt that there was no way he'd be believed if he tried to lie. 'But I promise you, there's no way I'd tell a fucking soul about it. I'm not that kind of bloke. I don't get myself involved in things that don't concern me. And I'd rather die than talk to the law. I've never said a word to them in my life. Honest.' He wiped the rain from his eyes and I could see that his shoulders were shaking. 'Please,' he whispered. 'He's the one you want. Not me. I'll keep shtum. Not a word. I promise.' And then, louder, almost wailing with desperation, 'I fucking promise!'

  I realized he was crying. Sobbing softly. And I felt sorry for him. I couldn't help it, even though he was trying to get them to kill me rather than him.

  I kept digging, staring now at the sodden hole in the ground I was standing in, trying to remain as anonymous as possible, letting Maxwell get all the attention. Knowing, even without seeing it, that the Irishman had lifted his gun and was preparing to kill him.

  'Please!' begged Maxwell – Maxwell the growling hard man with the scar on his face; Maxwell who was never fazed by anything; Maxwell who was now shivering and shaking like a wet kitten. 'Please don't kill me. I won't say a word. I swear it. I fucking swear it!'

  'Turn round,' said the Irishman. 'Face the trees.'

  Maxwell made a weird moaning sound, and didn't move.

  I gritted my teeth and dug furiously, ignoring the burning feeling in my biceps as I tried in vain to shut the world out.

  There was a sound like a cork being popped from a champagne bottle, barely audible in the rain, and Maxwell's legs went from under him. He fell on to his behind and remained sitting upright, his grizzled face a mask of pain, both meaty hands clutching at his injured knee.

  The Irishman took two steps forward, stopping in front of Maxwell, the smoking gun barrel pointed down at his head.

  I stopped digging, stood up straight, eyes fixed on the scene in front of me.

  Maxwell looked up at his executioner and just for an instant his expression became calm as he accepted the inevitable. Then the popping sound came again and a line of blood sprayed from the back of Maxwell's head as the bullet hit him in the face. He stayed stock still for an incredibly long moment, then tipped over backwards, his eyes still open. A spent shell landed in the mud beside me as the Irishman casually pumped two further rounds into his body. Maxwell juddered violently, threw one arm uselessly into the air, then, as his fist hit the sodden ground with a loud slap, he lay absolutely still.

  The Irishman turned my way, grinning at me. He briefly glanced at
the hole I'd dug and seemed satisfied that it was adequate. Then he lifted the gun so that the end of the smoking barrel was pointed directly between my eyes. 'So, my friend, your turn. Same as before. I can do it quick, or I can do it slow. Now, be honest with me. Aside from Miss Boyd, is there anyone you've told about Miss Brakspear?'

  If I answered him, I died. If I didn't answer him, I'd get kneecapped like Maxwell, and possibly worse. Either way my life was completely over, and for several seconds I was utterly incapable of speaking. I simply stared at him, unable to avoid seeing Maxwell's body as it lay bleeding in its shallow grave, conscious of the warm trickle of urine running down my leg. I hunted desperately for any possible sign of mercy in the cold, staring eyes, knowing there would be none. But still you look, because in the end it is your only hope as you scrabble around for any chance of staying alive for a few moments longer.

  A stark choice. Give up Dom and enjoy a few more precious seconds, even though the end result would be the same. Or say nothing and go to my grave right now.

  'Tell me,' he said, lowering the gun so it was pointed at my kneecap.

  I opened my mouth. It felt as dry as a bone. The urge to give up Dom and stay alive just one more moment was almost unstoppable.

  But then he turned his head in the direction of the cottage.

  I turned my head too, because I'd also heard it. The sound of a car coming up the lane, its headlights illuminating the woods.

  It stopped. Directly outside the cottage. And I heard the doors open.

  Which was the moment I snapped out of the stony trance I'd been in and, with an angry shout, threw my shovel at the man who was about to kill me.

  Thirty-seven

  I didn't even look to see how my would-be killer had reacted. I saw the shovel hit him somewhere in the midriff while he was still turned the other way, and I heard him let out a surprised grunt, but by then I was charging for the tree line, splattering mud everywhere, knowing that salvation was only feet away.

  I half dived, half slid into the trees, rolling on the pine needles and scrambling to my feet. Behind me I heard the pop of a shot fired through a silencer, then the sounds of barked orders and pursuit.

  Sensing freedom, and with adrenalin coursing through me, I ran into the welcoming darkness, ignoring the branches that tore at my skin. I stumbled once, almost fell, but my sheer momentum, coupled with a desperate, exhilarating will to live, drove me onwards.

  A powerful torch beam moved in a steady arc through the sodden foliage, trying to focus in on me, and as I weaved to avoid its glare a bullet hissed quietly past my head and popped into the trunk of a pine just ahead of me, leaving a small round hole and a thin trail of smoke. I caught the whiff of cordite as I passed and tried to accelerate but my legs wouldn't go any faster and my lungs ached with the strain of all my exertions. I wasn't fit, and it was beginning to show. But I knew without doubt that the men following me would be fitter, so either I continued to run or I died.

  Without warning, the ground ahead of me simply disappeared, and before I knew it I was tumbling down a slope. I somersaulted once, hitting my head on something hard, and then I was immersed in water.

  I scrambled to my feet, saw that I was knee deep in a shallow stream, then charged across it and scrambled up the slope on the other side. As I reached the top, gasping for breath and blinking the rainwater out of my eyes, I dared for the first time to look over my shoulder.

  And saw him there. Standing in the darkness, at the top of the slope on the other side of the stream, barely twenty yards away, the snarling wolf face skewed slightly where it had taken a knock, but with the gun held outwards in both hands, taking aim.

  I dived forward into the mud as he fired, making myself as small a target as possible. The shot sailed somewhere above me and I crawled assault-course style on my belly until I had cover from the trees. Then I got to my feet and was running again, hearing him splash through the water of the stream as he continued his pursuit.

  I was tempted to drop down and hide in the thick undergrowth, knowing that it would be extremely difficult to find me there, but in the end my instincts told me that my best hope of survival was to put real distance between us and reach some kind of civilization.

  I could hardly breathe now – my lungs felt like they were about to burst – but my legs somehow kept going and I'd covered maybe another fifty yards when I finally saw a gap in the trees ahead. The sounds of pursuit had faded and I had this sudden elated feeling that they'd given up, having decided that I was proving too difficult to kill.

  The opening in the trees gave on to a quiet country road flanked on the far side by an impenetrable-looking hedge. As I ran on to the lane I saw the lights of houses about a hundred yards further down.

  Freedom. As soon as I got there I knew I'd be safe. And this time I'd go straight to the police, regardless of what they believed or didn't believe.

  But a hundred yards is a long way when every muscle in your body aches and each breath comes in a shallow gasp.

  And when there are two men chasing you with guns.

  I caught a flash of the torch beam in the trees to my right, but this time it was further ahead, between me and the houses. The bastards were trying to cut me off.

  I took off again, arms flailing, my gait little more than an exhausted, drunken stagger.

  A hundred yards. Eighty. Fifty. The torch beam had disappeared, and as I rounded a slight bend in the road I could see a red pub sign hanging outside one of the buildings. All the lights were on inside and there were several cars parked next to it. The rain was easing now.

  Thirty yards. Twenty. I could hear the clink of glasses, the welcome buzz of conversation. Safety.

  The pub door opened and a middle-aged man stepped out, turning his head to call out a final goodbye to those inside.

  'Help me!' I managed to shout, the effort physically painful. Barely ten yards away now. 'Please help me!'

  He was still grinning when he turned my way. I was, too. I'd never been so happy to see someone in my whole life. To have been so close to death and to be given a second chance at life is the sweetest, most incredible reward imaginable.

  The bullet struck him in the eye with a malevolent hiss and blood splattered the pub window. He tottered on his feet for a full second, his expression one of mild surprise, then he lost his footing on the pub step and went down hard, his head hitting the pavement with an angry smack.

  I stopped, all hope sucked out of me, and turned round slowly.

  The Irishman was twenty yards away from me, the gun raised and pointed at me.

  Strangely, I felt nothing. I think I was too exhausted for that. I'd tried everything. I'd done my best, and in the final analysis it simply hadn't been enough.

  And then there was a roaring sound, getting closer and closer, and the Irishman was suddenly bathed in bright light.

  A car. Coming fast, skidding now.

  Instinctively I swung round to meet it, blinded by the headlights as it bore down on me, realizing at the very last second that I was right in the middle of the road; and then I was flying through the air, flailing like a madman, seeing the ground come up to greet me.

  And then, bang.

  Nothing.

  Thirty-eight

  Mike Bolt took the corner way too fast. There were plenty of reasons why: it was dark; it was pissing with rain; the road was unfamiliar, winding and very narrow; and, most important of all, he was a man in a serious hurry.

  He slammed on the brakes, conscious of Mo Khan smacking a hand on to the dashboard to steady himself as he shouted instructions for back-up into his airwave radio, but the car was already going into a skid. Bolt turned the wheel hard, trying to straighten up before he hit the house looming up in front of him. He missed it narrowly, but the wheels locked and the car was temporarily out of control as it skidded along the rain-slicked road. A red pub sign appeared through the slicing of the windscreen wipers, and then suddenly Mo yelled out, his voice almost deafening h
im: 'Boss! Watch out!'

  A guy standing in the middle of the road facing them. Frozen like a deer in headlights.

  The car was slowing down thanks to Bolt's pressure on the brakes, but nowhere near fast enough. He could see the fear on the guy's face, the way his eyes were widening, recognized him from the photo he'd seen at HQ earlier that day as Rob Fallon, the man they'd gone to Maxwell's place to see, the one man who might help them locate Tina.

  And then, bang, they hit him.

  He flew over the bonnet, smacked bodily into the windscreen, cracking it, then bounced off and into the darkness.

  The tyres screamed, the car wobbled, and then, at last, it stopped. The two men lurched forward in their seats, Bolt's head narrowly missing the windscreen.

  That was when, through the rain, he spotted another figure standing in the road only a few yards in front of them. It was a man, but Bolt didn't get a good look at him, because he was pointing a gun straight at the car.

  'Get down!' he shouted, dragging Mo down by the collar as he ducked beneath the steering wheel.

  There was the sound of breaking glass as a bullet whistled through the car, followed by a second crack as it exited through the back window.

  Keeping his head below the level of the damaged windscreen, Bolt floored the accelerator and the Jaguar shot forward. Two more bullets smashed through the window in rapid succession, both missing their targets, and then out of the corner of his eye Bolt saw the gunman jump to one side as they passed him, then disappear from view. He lifted his head above the steering wheel, saw the guy running for the trees, but he was trying to do far too many things at once and before he had a chance to turn the wheel and give chase the Jaguar mounted a bank at the side of the road and ploughed into a hedge, before coming to a halt at a forty-five-degree angle to the tarmac.