by Shaun Hutson
'Hey, hey, hell is to pay...'
Mitchell fired in short bursts, raking the sub-gun back and forth.
The blast hit Tucker in the chest, ripping holes in his clothing and his body. Two shells tore through his chest, one of them shattering a rib, the other bursting his heart. He was flung backwards by the short-range discharge, blood spraying wildly from the wounds. He crashed into a gravestone and Mitchell fired two more shots into him, the second of which caught him in the face. The bullet shattered his cheekbone and one side of his head seemed to collapse in on itself. The heavy grain round erupted from the back of his skull, spattering the headstone with fragments of bone and brain.
'Dare you to spit on my grave...'
The other bodyguard reached for his pistol but Mitchell spun round, dropping to one knee as he opened up again.
The burst of fire from the Ingram stitched a dotted line of holes across the man's chest and he fell backwards, the gun spinning from his grasp. He sprawled in the long grass, blood pumping from his wounds. He tried to drag himself towards the pistol, feeling the cold air hissing through the rents in his lungs. He coughed and blood spilled over his lips. He had one hand on the pistol when Mitchell turned on him again.
A single shot hit him in the base of the skull, bursting his head as if someone had placed an explosive charge inside his cranium. The top of his skull was lifted off, sticky gobbets of brain spraying into the air, propelled by a gout of blood. His body twitched once and then lay still.
'I will take your sweet dreams with me...'
Mitchell turned towards Hayes who had already used the brief time to turn and run. The gang boss leapt over a gravestone and ran towards the church, with Robson close behind him.
'Nightmares will come true...'
The hit man tightened his finger on the trigger, raking the Ingram back and forth, the bullets slicing into the running figures.
Hayes felt as if he'd been punched in the side with a red hot sledgehammer. The wind was knocked from him and he pitched sideways, slamming into a tree. He tasted blood in his mouth, felt the sharp end of a rib when he probed the wound with his fingertips. He glanced round to see that Robson had also been hit.
The younger man had taken one shot in the neck and was screaming madly as blood ejaculated from the wound, spurting into the air as if forced from a high pressure hose. He held his hands to the wound until a second blast caught him in the side, one bullet shattering his hip. The strident cracking of bone was audible even above the chattering of the Ingram. Bullets ploughed up the ground around Hayes, tiny geysers of earth erupting on all sides. Others whined off gravestones, blasting chips of marble and granite into the air.
The gang boss clambered to his feet, noticing that Mitchell was reloading.
`When you find the keys to madness...'
The hit man slammed a fresh magazine into the sub-gun, pulled back the slide and opened fire again.
Robson was screaming for help, his hand held out imploringly towards his lover who was running towards the church, clutching his side, racing with a speed born of fear.
`Don't leave me,' shrieked Robson, dragging himself along the slippery ground. He still held out one hand, blood dripping from the fingers.
Mitchell fired another burst at him, one which blew off three of his fingers. As the dying man continued to scream, two more bullets hit him in the face, the second catching him in the eye, drilling the socket empty before exploding from the back of his head.
‘I will pray for you...'
Hayes tripped, fell over a gravestone and rolled twice in the mud. But he dragged himself up and scuttled on, feeling the blood running over his hand as he clutched at the ragged sides of the bullet hole.
Mitchell followed with measured steps.
`If you whisper for my protection ...'
Startled by the sounds of gunfire, the priest had emerged from the church only to duck back hurriedly inside when he saw the bodies of Hayes' men scattered over the cemetery.
The gang boss himself, face drained of colour, blood staining his shirt and trousers, crashed into the door and sprawled on the cold stone floor of the church.
'Help me,' he coughed, blood dribbling over his lips.
The priest tried to support him, to drag him inside the building.
He saw Mitchell advancing steadily, the Ingram lowered in readiness.
The priest faced the awful realization that the God he so often spoke of might soon be greeting him personally. He tried to push the church door closed but Mitchell merely drove his weight against it causing the priest to fall backwards as the heavy door swung open..
Hayes had managed to crawl to the altar, where he pulled open his coat and managed to drag the .38 from its holster.
'It will suit me just fine...'
'You can't come in here,' the priest shouted, looking down at the gun. 'This is the house of God. You cannot bring weapons into the house of God.'
Mitchell turned and looked at him.
'This is God,' he said, indicating the Ingram.
Then he fired.
The priest was hit in the stomach and chest by the blast, hurled off his feet. He crashed into a nearby pew, blood jetting from the wounds which had shredded his torso.
Mitchell moved purposefully up the aisle towards the stricken Hayes who tried to steady himself, tried to fire a shot.
The explosion reverberated around the inside of the church as the pistol was fired, echoing away as Mitchell squeezed his own trigger.
The sound even drowned out the noise of the music which was thundering from his Walkman.
Bullets tore into Hayes, jerking his body as if it had been subjected to a massive charge of electricity. Rounds pierced his chest, his neck, his face, his legs, until he was reduced to little more than a bloodied rag. The stench of excrement mingled with the pungent odour of cordite. Cartridge cases rained from the Ingram like brass confetti, bounding on the stone floor with a loud clank. Only when the hammer slammed down on an empty chamber did Mitchell finally release the pressure on the trigger. Then he turned and walked briskly but unhurriedly down the aisle and out of the church.
`Dare to spit on my grave...'
Forty-One
As he brought the car to a halt at traffic lights Carter glanced into his rear view mirror and caught sight of Mitchell.
The hit man was carefully wiping the Ingram with an oily cloth, making sure he kept the weapon well hidden from any prying eyes that should happen to peer into the car. Once the task was completed he flipped open a black attaché case and placed the sub-machine-gun inside.
'You enjoy your work don't you?' Carter asked, driving on.
'It isn't a question of enjoying it; Mitchell told him. 'I do my job well. I take pride in it.'
'How long have you been doing it?'
'Long enough.'
The driver again studied his passenger in the mirror.
'What about you? Have you ever killed a man?' Mitchell wanted to know.
Carter shook his head.
'Never.'
'It isn't as easy as everyone thinks, you know,' Mitchell said, as if he were confiding some staggering revelation.
'Films and TV portray it too cleanly. One bullet sometimes isn't enough. Depending on where you hit a man and with what calibre of shell, you can't be sure of killing him with one shot.'
'Thanks for the lecture,' Carter said acidly. 'I don't suppose you realise what all your work is going to mean, do you?'
Mitchell never answered.
'You may kill the other gang leaders but their firms are going to fight back. No doubt you'll have moved on to another job by then,' Carter muttered.
'Once the other leaders are dead there won't be any more trouble,' said Mitchell with a certain amount of assurance.
'Cut off the head and the body dies.' He smiled.
They rode a little further in silence before Mitchell spoke again.
'Are you afraid of death, Ray?' he asked.
&nbs
p; Carter frowned.
'I haven't thought about it.'
All the driver heard was the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back.
The movement had been so swift he was unable to react. Mitchell had pulled the Browning from his shoulder holster, pressed it against Carter's head and pulled back the hammer.
'Think about it now,' Mitchell told him, smiling.
Carter felt his bowels loosen slightly. What was this maniac playing at?
'If you pull that trigger the car will go out of control,' the driver told him. `You'll end up spread all over this road.’
'Why should I pull the trigger? We're on the same side aren't we?' Mitchell chuckled and the sound sent icy fingers trickling up and down Carter's spine. But as he saw the hit man sit back in his seat he pulled the car over to the kerb.
His own movements were as swift as those of the hit man.
Carter pulled his own automatic from its holster and shoved it into Mitchell's face.
'Now,' he said. 'Are you scared of death? Because if you ever do that to me again I'll blow your fucking head off.'
Mitchell merely smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. Carter slowly lowered the pistol and holstered it. He turned very slowly in his seat, one eye on his passenger.
Before he could speak, Mitchell had snatched up the attaché case, pushed open the door and climbed out. He waved a hand in the direction of a passing taxi and Carter saw the other vehicle's brake lights flare as it came to a halt.
Mitchell jumped in and the black cab sped off. Carter shook his head wondering what the hell was going on. For long moments he sat in the car, watching as the taxi disappeared into traffic and then he pulled out as he realised that it was time he contacted Harrison, told him that the hit had been successful. That Eugene Hayes and three of his men were dead. He should have done it when they changed cars earlier but another hour or so wasn't going to hurt.
Besides, thought Carter, he needed to see Tina.
He waited for a break in the traffic and swung the car around and drove back in the direction of Kensington.
Carter parked the car around the corner from the flat and walked the short distance to the building. Once inside he climbed the stairs, running a hand through his hair as he approached her door.
It seemed like an eternity since he'd seen her. Just to see her, to be with her for a few minutes would be enough. Then he'd go and tell Harrison about the hit.
Carter rang the bell and waited.
No answer.
He rang again.
The door opened slowly and Carter smiled a preparatory greeting but the gesture disappeared rapidly.
Frank Harrison was standing in the doorway.
Forty-Two
'What are you doing here?'
There was a hard edge to Harrison's voice and it was all Carter could do to keep his composure.
'The hit,' he said. 'It's done.'
'So? That still doesn't explain why you're here?' Harrison said angrily.
Carter saw Tina appear behind the gang boss, wearing only a long shirt. She dared not chance a smile at the driver.
Harrison spun round and snapped his fingers, pointing at her.
'Go and put something on,' he said. 'What is this, a fucking whorehouse?'
She hesitated.
'Do it,' snarled the gang boss. Then he turned back towards Carter, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and hauling him inside the flat. He slammed the door and turned to face the driver.
'Why did you come to Tina's flat?' Harrison persisted.
'I was looking for you,' Carter lied. 'I tried the Mayfair casino, a couple of the strip joints. I guessed you'd be here.'
'Why didn't you ring? Why just turn up?'
Carter shrugged, wondering if his charade was working. God help him if it wasn't.
'I couldn't get to a phone. Besides, I dropped Mitchell off near here so, it was easier to call in.'
'Dropped him off? Where the fuck is he?'
'He jumped out of the car and got in a cab. I don't know where he went.'
'I told you to keep an eye on that bastard. I don't like the way he works. All this secrecy.'
Tina re-entered the room wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She asked Carter if he wanted a drink.
'No he doesn't,' Harrison answered for him. He noticed that Tina's nipples were prominent beneath the material of her top and he shot her a withering glance. 'I've told you to wear a bra,' he said and looked at Carter to see if he had also noticed.
If he had, he made a good job of concealing the fact.
'Get back in the bedroom,' Harrison ordered, as if he were talking to a dog.
Tina swallowed hard, hesitated a moment and then complied. She pulled the bedroom door behind her, leaving just enough space so that she could see through into the sitting room.
'You were looking at her weren't you?' Harrison challenged. 'Don't think I didn't notice.' He got to his feet.
'Give it a rest, Frank,' Carter said, aware that the gang boss was moving towards him, the veins on his forehead bulging.
'Fancy her, do you?' he said. 'Do you?'
Tina watched with growing anxiety as Harrison drew nearer.
Carter stood his ground, his eyes meeting those of his boss.
The two men locked stares.
'Like to fuck her?'
'I came here to tell you that the hit on Hayes was successful, right?'
'I asked you a question. Do you want to fuck her? It's a simple question.' Harrison's tone had become deceptively soft. 'She's a good looking girl isn't she? Most men would want to. I'm just asking your opinion, Ray.' As he smiled, he became all the more menacing. 'Come on, man to man, give me your opinion. Tina's a good looking girl, isn't she? She's got a good body, hasn't she? If you got the chance you'd fuck her, wouldn't you? Come on, Ray, don't be modest. You've known me a long time. Tell me.' His smile was beginning to fade, the razor edge was returning to his voice.
'Do you want to hear how Hayes went down or not?' Carter said angrily. 'Or do you want to discuss your girlfriend's tits? It's your choice.'
There was a moment of silence and Carter knew that his boss was either going to fly at him or back down.
That moment stretched into what seemed like an eternity.
'Do you know about her tits, then?' asked Harrison, as if he were genuinely interested. 'Have you seen them? Touched them?'
In the bedroom, Tina crossed to her handbag and reached inside.
Her hand was shaking as she pulled out the .25 Beretta.
Had the time come at last? Must she use the gun now?
She opened the door slightly, the pistol gripped in her fist, her index finger curled around the trigger.
'Do you want to hear about this fucking hit?' snarled Carter.
'No, I want to know how you know what Tina's tits look like. Have you been here before without me knowing? Is that why you came here today? Hoping you'd find her alone. Hoping you could fuck her. Is it?'
Tina raised the pistol so that it was level with Harrison's head. She steadied the weapon by gripping her right wrist, not sure how much recoil there would be, praying that her shot would bring him down.
'Fuck you, Frank,' said Carter. 'What do you want to hear? You want me to say yes? Would that make you feel better?'
Harrison didn't answer.
'I told you why I came here,' the driver continued. 'If you believe me then listen to what I'm saying.'
Harrison's eyes narrowed until Carter found himself looking into two steely slits.
'Mitchell killed Hayes and three of his men. The hit was clean. We ditched the car, picked up the new one and now he's gone again. That's it, end of story, right?'
Tina lowered the gun slightly.
Harrison let out a long, almost painful breath. As he did, he seemed to relax slightly. He took a step back, and that sinister smile returned to his lips.
'You're clever, Ray,' he said. 'Your brother was clever to
o. But just remember what happened to him.'
It was Carter's turn to feel anger.
'Next time you drop that bastard Mitchell off you tail him,' the gang boss said. 'I want to know where he's hanging out. I'm tired of this hide-and-seek shit.' Harrison sat down and reached for the bottle of Haig on the table in front of him.
He poured himself a large measure, then offered one to
Carter, who accepted.
Tina exhaled deeply and lowered the Beretta, noticing that her hands were still shaking violently. She returned the pistol to her handbag, sucked in a couple of deep breaths and then padded through into the sitting room where she sat down beside Harrison.
'So, that's Barbieri and Hayes out of the way,' the gang boss said. 'Two down, two to go. Just that fucking scouse bastard Cleary and his mob and then Sullivan.' Harrison chuckled. 'That red-necked mick.'
'And then?' said Carter.
'Then London's mine,' declared Harrison. 'No more sharing. No more competing. It's all mine.' He took a long swig of his whisky. 'Then we take care of Mitchell.'
Forty-Three
'We'll be killed before we get close to him.'
Paul Gardner's voice echoed around the darkened room.
'He's too well protected.'
'That's rubbish, we managed to get at the others,' Maria Chalfont intoned.
'But they didn't have bodyguards,' Gardner persisted.
'This is all bullshit,' said Phillip Walton. 'We either go after him or we pick someone else. I'm not sitting around here all night talking about it.'
'I agree with Paul,' Mark Paxton added, bursting a large spot on the end of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sniffed the thick yellowish pus then sucked it into his mouth rather like a child would lick the inside of a cake bowl.
Michael Grant looked around the room at his companions.
'Jennifer, what do you think?' he asked.
Jennifer Thomas ran a hand through her hair scratching at her scalp.
'What's the worst that can happen to us?' she asked.
