Assassin

by Shaun Hutson

  'We could be killed,' Paxton told her:

  'Better to die than be locked up for the rest of our lives. The police will find us eventually. I say we kill him,' she decided.

  'We need to make the gesture,' Grant told them all, standing in the centre of the small circle they had formed on the mildewed floor of the room. 'We've executed people in the media, in the public eye. We've killed the respectable rich. It's time we struck elsewhere. We have to show that no one is safe from us. We have to kill Frank Harrison.'

  'And what brilliant idea have you come up with?' asked Walton, hawking loudly and spitting into the empty fireplace. 'It won't just be Harrison we'll be fighting, it'll be his gang too.'

  'Are you afraid?' asked Grant.

  Walton regarded him angrily.

  'No, I'm not afraid. I'm just being realistic. If we're killed, who's going to carry on the war? Have you thought about that?'

  'We won't be killed if we do it right.'

  'Our weapons are no match for guns,' Maria Chalfont said, holding up a knife.

  'There are other weapons we can use,' Grant said, enigmatically.

  'Like what?' asked Walton sarcastically.

  The assembled group looked closely at the photo which Grant held up.

  The photo of Tina Richardson.

  Forty-Four

  He spotted Mitchell immediately.

  Carter slowed down as he caught sight of the hit man standing in a doorway, the familiar black attaché case at his feet like a sleeping dog.

  The driver had received the phone call less than an hour ago. Mitchell had given him instructions tersely, repeating them as if Carter were an idiot. He'd named the place in St John's Wood where he was to be picked up and given Carter a time. The driver had been about to say something about the traffic holding him up when Mitchell had put the phone down.

  Carter pulled up at the side of the road and looked across at Mitchell who strode towards the car and climbed into the back seat.

  'You're late,' he said flatly. The rebuke only served to irritate Carter further.

  'I warned you about the traffic...'

  Mitchell cut him short.

  'Just drive,' he snapped. 'Regent's Park. I'll direct you once we get closer.'

  'Who's the bunny this time?' Carter wanted to know.

  'Michael Cleary,' Mitchell told him. 'He owns a restaurant close to the park itself.'

  'You're not going to hit him inside a restaurant, are you?'

  'Just drive.'

  'I thought you blokes were supposed to have some kind of code of honour. You never hit anyone in front of their families, you never involve bystanders, that kind of thing.'

  'You've been watching too many films,' Mitchell told him scornfully. He glanced into the rear view mirror and saw that the driver was looking at him, eyes narrowed slightly.

  'Two hits in two days,' said Carter. 'That's a little risky isn't it?'

  'Let me worry about that. 'You just drive the car.'

  'But it does worry me,' Carter said. 'If you fuck up on one of these hits then it's my head that's likely to get blown off too.'

  'I never make mistakes.'

  'Famous last words.'

  'Have faith, Ray. Faith moves mountains,' Mitchell chuckled.

  'Yeah, but it doesn't knock over gang bosses.'

  'If it's 9mm faith, it does.'

  They drove some way in silence then Carter glanced at his passenger in the rear view mirror once again. Mitchell was gazing out of the windows to his right and left like a tourist on a sightseeing trip. As ever, the attaché case was laid across his lap.

  'What are your plans when you finish this job?' Carter asked, tiring of the silence.

  Mitchell shrugged.

  'I don't know. Something will turn up. It always does.' You'd be amazed how many people in the world use my services. People you'd never imagine. Politicians, businessmen. Anyone with a grievance,' the hit man explained. 'Killing is my business.' He smiled. 'And business is good.'

  Carter was about to speak again when Mitchell leant forward, pointing past the driver to an impressive looking white building about fifty yards ahead.

  'Park as close as you can,' Mitchell said, his eyes riveted to the front of the restaurant, scanning back and forth in search of his pray. He reminded Carter of a terrier that has just caught the scent of a fox.

  Carter managed to park the Escort thirty or forty yards beyond the restaurant. Mitchell turned and gazed out of the back window for a moment and then he flipped open the attaché case.

  Inside lay the Spas and the HK33.

  Mitchell took the shotgun from the case and pushed in three cartridges, working the slide to chamber a round. Then he replaced it in its case. From his shoulder holster he withdrew a Browning automatic, pulled back the slide and slipped off the safety catch, before he also returned it to the case.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  Carter glanced at the dashboard clock and noted that it was almost 8.30 p.m.

  `We've been sitting here for over two hours,' the driver protested. 'What if he's not in there?'

  'He's there,' Mitchell said softly, his eyes never leaving the front of the restaurant.

  Carter lit up a cigarette, blowing out a long stream of smoke and shaking his head wearily.

  'There,' snapped Mitchell, spotting the man he sought.

  Mick Cleary emerged from the restaurant in the wake of two other men.

  Mitchell smiled as he caught sight of the gang leader.

  There was a woman with him. Young, beautiful. She clung to Cleary's arm as if glued to it, like some immaculately coutured leech. The small entourage moved to the edge of the pavement and, as Mitchell watched, a Daimler drew up and Cleary climbed in. The girl scrambled in beside him, careful not to wrinkle her expensive dress. One of the bodyguards got in front beside the driver and the car moved away.

  Carter saw it glide past then he started the engine, swung out into the traffic and carefully kept a couple of car lengths between himself and the Daimler.

  'Don't lose them,' said Mitchell, his eyes never straying from the other vehicle.

  Carter didn't answer.

  There was a set of traffic lights up ahead. He eased the Escort ahead of the car in front, leaving just one other vehicle between himself and the Daimler.

  The sleek vehicle pulled away sharply and Carter had to restrain himself from speeding up to keep close enough to it. Although he doubted if Cleary was aware that he was being followed.

  As they drove, the sodium glare of the street lamps shone back off the wet roads. It was like driving over a carpet of burnished gold. The traffic was fairly light and Carter kept his eye on the car in front at all times, afraid that it would speed off and force him into a chase. So far he'd been lucky but a police car passing him in the other direction reminded him that no one's luck held forever.

  Mitchell was silent in the back, leaning forward slightly over the seat to keep his own vigil on the Daimler. Then, after a moment or two, he reached into his pocket and produced the Walkman. It seemed to be as much a part of his persona as the weapons, Carter thought, glancing briefly at him as he put on the headphones. He pushed a tape into the machine but didn't turn it on. The time hadn't come yet.

  The Daimler turned into Albany Street.

  Carter followed.

  He could see Cleary in the back of the car with the girl.

  She was kissing him. The big Liverpudlian had his arm around her. Both seemed preoccupied with each other. Neither bothered to glance out of the window but, Carter reasoned, even if they had done so they would have seen nothing unusual.

  The Escort remained a measured two car lengths away from the Daimler, sometimes dropping back further, allowing other vehicles to filter into the gap.

  They turned another comer.

  Carter didn't even see the man.

  He stepped into the road mere feet ahead of the Escort.

  The driver stepped hard on the brake, t
he sudden halt causing the car to skid slightly.

  Carter grunted as he was thrown forward, his seat belt cutting into his shoulder.

  Mitchell sprawled on the floor of the car, pitched from his seat by the abrupt jolt.

  The pedestrian was unhurt. He turned angrily towards the Escort, slapping the bonnet with the flat of his hand. Then he stalked round to the driver's side.

  `You could have killed me,' he shouted, banging on the side window.

  In the back Mitchell's hand slowly reached inside his jacket.

  `Steady,' muttered Carter, winding down the window a fraction.

  `You were going too fast, you stupid bastard,' the man roared.

  'And you should look where you're going, you prat,' Carter said. 'What's wrong? Did you leave your fucking guide dog at home tonight?'

  The man snarled something and grabbed the handle of the door but, quick as a flash, Carter shot his hand through the partially open window and grabbed the man by the collar, pulling his head towards the window, forcing it into the tiny gap. The man grunted in pain.

  'Do you remember your birth?' Carter asked him. 'Because we're about to re-enact it.'

  He pulled the man a little further into the car then pushed him away. He sprawled on to the wet pavement, looking up in bewilderment as Carter drove off.

  'You've lost them you bloody fool,' snapped Mitchell, scanning the road ahead for the Daimler but failing to spot it.

  Carter turned into Camden High Street, eyes alert, hitting the wheel angrily when he could not see the other car.

  'I told you to be careful,' said Mitchell.

  'Shut up, for Christ's sake,' the driver retorted.

  He'd spotted the Daimler ahead.

  It had pulled into a petrol station, the driver and bodyguard had stepped out of the car. The driver was filling the tank. Cleary and the girl remained in the back, still kissing.

  A smile spread slowly across Mitchell's face.

  Carter pulled into the kerb, the engine still running.

  'How do you want to play this?' he asked, his eyes never leaving the other car.

  'When I tell you, drive past as fast as you can,' Mitchell told him, slamming a magazine into the HK33. He gripped it tightly in one hand, with the other he pressed the 'Play' button on the cassette. Music filled his head.

  Carter waited for the signal.

  Waited.

  The driver was glancing up at the electronic figures on the petrol pump.

  The bodyguard had just pushed another piece of chewing gum into his mouth.

  Cleary and the girl hadn't moved from the back seat.

  'Well?' said Carter impatiently.

  Mitchell didn't answer, words and music were all he could hear now, thunderous in his ears.

  'Behind the smile, there's danger and the promise to be told...'

  He gripped the HK33 across his chest.

  'You'll never get old...'

  'Go,' he shouted and Carter stepped on the accelerator.

  The Escort bore down on the petrol station, passing other cars as it increased its speed.

  `Life's fantasy, to be locked away and still to think you're free...'

  The driver of the Daimler tapped the nozzle against the mouth of the fuel tank, draining the last few drops.

  The Escort came roaring towards the garage.

  Mitchell rested the barrel of the HK33 on the window frame and hugged it tight to his shoulder.

  'So live for today...'

  The bodyguard shouted a warning to Cleary who spun round.

  'Tomorrow never comes...’

  The girl screamed.

  'Die young...’

  Mitchell gritted his teeth as he opened fire, the recoil slamming the HK33's telescoped stock back against his shoulder.

  The barrel flamed as the magazine discharged its deadly load. A stream of bullets tore across the petrol station forecourt, riddling men and machines alike.

  The heavy grain rounds punctured the bodywork of the Daimler and shattered its windows, blasting them inwards to shower Cleary and the girl who had thrown themselves down as the roar of automatic fire began.

  The bodyguard was hit in the stomach, the impact doubling him up as the bullet ripped through his intestines, exploding from his back, destroying a kidney in its wake. Blood spurted up the side of the elegant car which, in seconds, was riddled with bullets.

  As the Escort sped past, Mitchell fired another concentrated burst.

  The second fusillade was even more lethal.

  Two bullets hit the Daimler's petrol tank.

  There was a deafening explosion and the car disappeared beneath a ball of orange and white flame. The rear end was sent spiralling several feet into the air, the blazing body of the girl still inside it.

  Cleary, his body transformed into a human torch, was hurled from the wreckage. He rolled over half a dozen times on the wet ground, screaming as the flames ate at his flesh.

  The driver was catapulted backwards by the blast, lifted by an invisible hand and hurled through the plate glass window which fronted the cashier's office.

  But an instant later the blast which had destroyed the Daimler was eclipsed by an explosion of awesome proportions. Half a dozen of Mitchell's bullets hit the petrol pumps and they promptly went off like huge sticks of dynamite, igniting the thousands of gallons of fuel in the tank beneath them.

  Plumes of fire fully sixty feet high leapt skyward, colouring the heavens with a hellish red glow. Blazing petrol spouted across the forecourt, spilling into the road beyond. Passing cars were sent skidding across the greasy tarmac by the massive blast. People within fifty yards felt the air sucked from their lungs by the massive conflagration. The very air itself seemed to be on fire.

  And, in the midst of it, lay the bullet-tom, twisted remains of the Daimler.

  The bodies of Mick Cleary and those who had died with him were scattered around the forecourt in a mixture of blood and burning petrol.

  The Escort sped on.

  'Die young...’

  Forty-Five

  `Drop me here,' said Mitchell, tapping Carter on the shoulder as they passed a tube station.

  The driver hesitated a moment before pulling up and allowing the hit man to get out. Clutching the black attaché case, Mitchell headed for the entrance to the station.

  Carter watched him disappear inside and then reversed into a side street and scuttled across the road himself, certain that Mitchell had not seen him follow.

  Harrison had said to tail the hit man and that was precisely what he intended to do. As he ran, he felt the 9mm automatic bumping against his side.

  Carter hurried down the steps to the ticket machines, grateful for the crowd which hid him from any possibility of detection by the man he was tracking. He saw the familiar black attaché case. Saw Mitchell feeding coins into one of the machines. He passed through the automatic barrier towards the escalators. Carter waited until the hit man had begun to descend then dashed to the ticket machine, rummaging through his own pockets for change.

  He had none.

  Only a five pound note.

  He cursed under his breath and spun round, looking at the ticket office.

  There were only a couple of people waiting so he joined the short queue, muttering impatiently as the woman in front of him tried to explain in broken English that she wanted to get to Buckingham Palace. By the time the ticket seller had finished explaining that no tube trains ran directly to the Palace, Carter was frantic. He pushed past the woman, shoved the five pound note through the pay slot and vaulted over the automatic barrier.

  Ignoring the shouts of the ticket seller and the flabbergasted stares of his fellow travellers, Carter ran down the escalators, pushing past a couple of people who chose to ignore the instruction `Please Stand on the Right'.

  At the bottom of the escalator he heard music.

  A young man with a white face was energetically tap-dancing in time to a tune which floated from a ghetto blaster. He glanc
ed at Carter as he hurried by, frowning when he tossed no money into the battered top hat which was propped up by the moving staircase.

  Carter took the next flight of steps and made it on to the platform.

  The air was dry and rank in the subterranean environment. Sounds echoed around the curved walls, litter was scattered beneath the rails like filthy confetti.

  Carter glanced down the platform, past two Chinese men who were consulting a street map.

  He could not see Mitchell.

  Gritting his teeth, Carter moved further along the platform, past a drunk who lay on a wooden bench, snoring loudly. Two young girls were staring at him, giggling.

  Carter heard the familiar crackle run along the tracks and the gust of wind which ruffled his hair told him that a train was coming. He could hear it rumbling closer.

  Still no sign of Mitchell.

  Could he have lost him in such a short time?

  The train roared out of the tunnel like some swiftly moving, animated worm from the mouth of a dead animal. As it drew to a halt Carter scanned the faces on the platform once more.

  He spotted Mitchell.

  The hit man stepped into a carriage as the doors slid open.

  Carter ran down the platform and jumped into the adjacent carriage. Through the window of the connecting door he could see that Mitchell had sat down and was gazing abstractedly at the advertisement panels.

  The train pulled away and Carter kept glancing at the hit man.

  Tottenham Court Road station.

  Mitchell didn't move.

  Leicester Square.

  He rose from his seat.

  Carter prepared to step off the train with him but at the last moment noticed that Mitchell had only risen to give his seat to an elderly woman. The train moved on again.

  Piccadilly Circus.

  This time Mitchell did leave the train.

  Carter waited a moment, allowing the hit man time to get clear and jumped out just as the doors were sliding shut.

  Mitchell pushed through the crowd, heading for the Bakerloo line.

  Carter followed.

  A black man was sitting in one of the passageways, his filthy trousers already stained darkly around the crutch. He was clutching a half empty bottle. Carter smelt the acrid scent of urine as he passed the man.