by Shaun Hutson
The scream distracted him.
It came from deeper inside the house. From the direction that Mitchell had gone.
Carter stupidly turned slightly and, in that split second, Grant struck at him again, kicking him hard in the stomach.
Carter dropped like a stone, winded but still holding on to the pistol. Grant drove another kick into his opponent's side and Carter felt a rib crack. He rolled over in an effort to escape the onslaught, trying to bring the automatic to bear on Grant.
The floor was spattered with blood, both Carter's and his adversary's. Carter finally reached the wall and tried to rise but Grant ran at him once more, driving his shoulder into Carter's chest, slamming him up against the wall. Carter gasped for breath, the pain from his shoulder almost unbearable now, but he gritted his teeth and gripped Grant by the throat. Then, with lightning speed, he drove his head forward. His forehead connected with Grant's nose, splintering the nasal bone, stunning the other man who backed off a few paces, dazed.
It was all the respite Carter needed.
He levelled the pistol and fired repeatedly.
Bang.
The bullet tore through Grant's right lung.
Bang.
As he put up a hand to shield himself, the heavy grain shell blasted off two of his fingers.
Bang.
The third shot hit him in the chest, lifting him off his feet as it stove in his sternum, the loud crack of shattering bone audible even above the roar of the pistol.
Grant sprawled on his back, spread eagled, blood spilling from his wounds, forming a dark red cloak around him.
The stench of cordite in the air mingled with the smell of excrement but Carter seemed to ignore the odorous confirmation that his opponent was dead. He fired two more shots into Grant's head, watching with relish as the cranium was ripped apart by the staggering impacts. The skull exploded as the bullets entered it, Grant's corpse jerking as the lethal loads struck him.
Carter sucked in a deep breath and staggered past the body, almost slipping in a thick puddle of brains and blood.
But he stumbled on, trying to find Tina.
Trying to trace the scream he'd heard, praying he wasn't too late.
Sixty-Two
She hadn't screamed when she'd heard the door being broken down.
She hadn't even screamed when she heard the gunshots.
But now, as Paul Gardner rose and staggered towards her, the machete gripped in his fist, Tina had finally found the breath to scream in terror.
Gardner moved slowly, clumsily, the large-bladed weapon moving menacingly before him. He was grinning, but the smile of triumph was tempered by fear. The gunshots had startled him. The sounds of struggle had alarmed him. He knew that he must kill Tina and do it fast. He had no idea who the intruders were but he did realize that they would soon reach him.
Tina continued to struggle with the ropes which held her, openly trying to free herself as her would-be executioner drew nearer.
He steadied himself, raising the machete as if to strike.
She lashed out with her left foot, bringing it up hard between his legs.
Gardner grunted in pain and dropped the machete, one hand clutching his throbbing testicles. With the other he struck Tina, a blow which knocked her off the chair.
'Fucking bitch,' he wheezed, reaching again for the weapon, determined now to finish the job as she lay helpless, her hands still twitching, trying to remove the rope which held her to the chair.
Gardner moved closer, turning slightly as he heard footsteps approaching.
He raised the machete again, his eyes bulging wide with rage and frustration. She must die. She would die.
Tina screamed.
The sound was drowned by the deafening retorts of the Browning and the Smith and Wesson.
Tina saw both Carter and Mitchell silhouetted in the doorway guns flaming as they pumped shot after shot into Gardner.
Four. Five. Six.
Bullets continued to hit him even as he was sent skidding across the room by the deathly impacts, each fresh one blasting a new hole in him. Each wound spraying blood into the air, on to the walls. On to Tina.
Eight. Nine. Ten.
The sound of gunfire was deafening and Tina wanted to scream again as the crescendo of explosions throbbed in her ears and skull. The barrels continued to flame. Smoke wafted like a dirty curtain across the dusty room and the smell of cordite filled her nostrils.
Eleven. Twelve.
Carter felt the hammer of the 9mm slam down on an empty chamber but he watched as Mitchell put one more shot into the body which now resembled a sieve. The hit man finally released the trigger and re-holstered the pistol, the afterburn of the muzzle flashes still seared on to his retina, the thunderous roar of the pistols still reverberating inside the room.
Carter crossed to Tina and untied her, helping her to her feet.
'Are there any more of them,' he asked.
She shook her head.
'What about Frank?' she wanted to know. 'Is he dead?'
There was a note of anticipation in her voice but Carter merely shook his head almost disappointedly. He helped her up and the three of them moved back towards the landing.
Tina looked at Carter's injured shoulder with concern but he seemed oblivious to the raging pain from the stab wound, more concerned with the injuries which Tina had sustained.
Mitchell followed them on to the landing, Carter turning towards the stairs.
He had taken just two steps when he realized that the body of Jennifer Thomas no longer lay where it had fallen.
He heard movement behind him, heard the arc of the wood as it came crashing down onto his head. Heard the roar of Mitchell's Beretta.
Then the floor was rushing up to meet him.
Pain was forgotten.
Darkness.
Sixty-Three
Daylight was flooding through the half-drawn curtains, touching his face as if trying to coax him from his stupor.
Ray Carter felt the warmth on his skin and opened his eyes slowly. He blinked hard and rolled over.
Sudden savage pain shot through him as he flopped on to his side. His shoulder felt as if it was ablaze and he hastily moved on to his back once more, relieving the pressure. He reached up tentatively towards the injured shoulder and was surprised to feel a large pad of gauze covering the wound, held in place by a bandage which had been expertly applied.
Carter blinked again, trying to clear the fog which seemed to cloud his memory. He had another bandage on his head and, as he sat up, he felt a dull ache at the back of his neck.
Events slowly came back to him.
The chase through Whitechapel. The gunfire. The stabbing. The shattering blow across his head.
And Tina.
She was alive, or at least she had been last time he'd seen her. He hauled himself further up in bed, suddenly realising that it was his bed. He was in his own flat, cleaned up and bandaged as if by some phantom nurse.
'I thought you were dead,' a voice snapped, close to him. Carter rubbed his eyes and turned to see Frank Harrison standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee in his hand.
'What are you doing here, Frank?' Carter wanted to know, wincing as he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
'Looking after your nurse,' said the gang leader, emphasising the last word with irritation.
As he spoke, Tina appeared beside him.
`Are you all right, Ray?' she wanted to know, taking a step towards him.
'He's fine,' snapped Harrison, extending an arm to block Tina's advance.
'How did I get back?' Carter wanted to know. 'I remember being laid out by one of those bloody nutters, then nothing at all.'
'I told Mitchell to bring you back here,' Tina explained. 'I dressed your wounds.'
'What else did you do?' Harrison wanted to know, gripping Tina's shoulder. 'You were alone here for a couple of hours before you called me.'
'I was unconscious
for fuck's sake,' Carter said. 'Talk sense, Frank.'
Harrison took a step forward, one finger pointing menacingly at Carter.
'Don't pop off to me, Carter. I want to know what happened here last night. I want to know what you two got up to before I arrived.'
'Like Ray said, he was out cold.'
There was an uncomfortable silence while Harrison took a sip of his coffee, glaring first at Tina and then at Carter.
'What happened to Mitchell?' Carter wanted to know.
'He's waiting for us now,' Harrison said. 'He called here to say he'd be at the Mayfair casino to pick up his money.'
The gang boss glanced at his watch. 'That was an hour ago.'
Carter nodded gently, pain throbbing inside his head but, nevertheless, he began to unwind the bandage around his cranium, feeling the large bump at the back of his skull.
'What are you going to do about Mitchell?' Carter wanted to know.
'Kill the bastard,' Harrison said flatly. 'I said I would when all this was over.'
'That might be easier said than done,' Carter reminded him.
'Well it better work because you're going to help me. Get your clothes on and let's go.'
The driver glared at Harrison before reaching for his shirt and pulling it on, wincing as it slid over his injured shoulder,
'And Tina? What about her?' Carter asked.
'She comes with us.'
'It could be dangerous ...'
Harrison cut him short.
'I'II worry about that,' he said. 'She's my concern not yours.'
Harrison downed what was left in his coffee cup and turned towards the kitchen, leaving Carter to dress. The driver glanced briefly at Tina who chanced a smile and then followed Harrison.
Carter reached for his pistol, strapping it on, ensuring that the 9mm automatic nestled beneath his left armpit. Then he pulled on his jacket.
'Come on,' Harrison snapped. 'I want to get this over with.'
Carter glanced at his watch.
It was 11.36 a.m.
Sixty-Four
'He's late.'
David Mitchell glanced at his watch and then at the clock on the wall of Harrison's office.
'That's not my fault,' Damien Drake protested.
'Maybe I'll just take the money and go anyway.'
'You can't do that.'
Mitchell raised one eyebrow quizzically and looked at Drake.
'Why? Who's going to stop me? You?' The hit man's voice was low but full of menace.
'I don't know the combination of the safe. I can't get to the money. You'll have to wait for Harrison to get here.' There was a note of concern in Drake's voice. Even the pistol beneath his left armpit didn't give him the reassurance he needed in Mitchell's presence. The hit man got to his feet and began pacing the room slowly.
He stopped abruptly as he heard footsteps outside the office door.
Drake smiled thinly, relieved that Harrison had finally arrived. However, there was a moment of silence outside the door, the handle was turned slowly, almost tentatively.
The figure which entered was not Harrison.
This man was taller, older. Dressed in a dark coat which reached as far as his knees. Both hands were tucked into his pockets. As the man entered the room Drake and Mitchell became aware of a growing chill in the air and also of a rank odour which made the hit man frown.
The newcomer remained motionless, eyes flicking slowly back and forth between the two men.
Mitchell took a step backwards, his fingers flexing slightly.
'How the fuck did you get up here?' Drake wanted to know. 'The casino's closed. This area is private.'
'You're Damien Drake,' said the figure, his voice low and rasping, as if his throat was clogged with mucus.
Drake frowned.
'How do you know me?' he demanded.
'We met. Once. A couple of years ago. In the East End.'
'What do you want?' Drake asked but some of the bravado had gone from his voice, replaced instead by uncertainty. Fear?
'You could say I've got some unfinished business.'
'Who are you?'
'Charles Ross.'
Drake frowned; then his mouth began to curl up at the corners in a smile. But the gesture never touched his eyes.
'Ross,' he chuckled humourlessly. 'Charlie Ross is dead.'
The smile faded.
'Yes. And so are you.'
The movement was swift. So swift that neither Drake nor Mitchell had time to reach for their own weapons.
Ross pulled open his coat, both hands closed around an Ingram M-10, the normally compact sub-machine gun looking huge because of the bulbous silencer attached to the barrel. He tightened his finger on the trigger and opened fire, spraying the stream of bullets back and forth across the room, the deadly fusillade drawing dotted lines of death across both Drake and Mitchell.
Mitchell was hit four times in the chest, flesh and shattered bone propelled from the wounds by the impact. He was catapulted back over the desk, crashing against a wall, his blood spurting from the holes.
Drake shouted in pain as the first of the bullets hit him in the left shoulder, powering through the scapula as it exited. The next caught him on the point of the chin, shattering his jaw and causing splintered teeth to fly into the air. Another shot took off most of the right side of his head and he was thrown backwards, slamming into the wall where he remained upright for several seconds as Ross pumped more shots into him. Then Drake slid down to the floor leaving several thick crimson trails on the paintwork behind him.
The smell of cordite filled the room and Ross stood motionless for a second, glancing at the two dead men. Then he jammed the Ingram into his belt and walked across to the twisted body of Drake, kneeling beside it.
Ross grabbed a handful of hair and lifted the man's head so that he was gazing into the blank eyes, tilting his pulverized skull backwards to expose the throat.
Then he slid the knife from his pocket.
Sixty-Five
As Carter brought the Daimler to a halt across the street from the casino he saw Billy Stripes come scuttling towards the vehicle.
`What the hell is going on?' asked Harrison, flinging open the door and clambering out. Tina followed him.
Carter walked behind, puzzled by the look on Billy's face, the concern in his voice.
'We don't know how it happened? Or who it was,' he blurted as Harrison strode towards the main entrance of the club. 'They'd been dead about half an hour when me and Joe found them ...'
'Who's dead?' snarled Harrison, grasping Billy by the lapels.
'Someone hit Drake and Mitchell. In your office,' Billy said, shaking loose of his boss's grip.
Harrison pushed past the younger man and ran into the club, past Joe Duggan and Martin McAuslan who were standing in the main games room of the club.
Carter pushed Tina back and sprinted after Harrison. She hesitated a second before following. Billy also tried to restrain her but she continued up the stairs.
Harrison reached his office and paused on the threshold. Even from there he could smell the stench of death, see the blood spattered on the carpet and walls. There were bullet holes in the far wall, the desk had been drilled full of the lethal projectiles. Carter and Tina caught up with him as he paused in the doorway, his face drained of colour. Then, slowly, he stepped inside.
'Who knows about this?' Harrison wanted to know.
'No one,' Billy told him. 'We haven't even called the law.'
'Well don't. Get rid of the bodies yourself.'
'Who could it have been?' Tina wanted to know, looking away after glancing at the bullet-torn corpse of Mitchell.
'Mitchell was supposed to have killed them all,' Carter added. 'There aren't any gangs left.'
'Then who the fuck did this?' snarled Harrison, his voice cracking. He looked down at Drake's body, at the bullet holes. At the savage gash which ran from ear to ear.
Blood had spread out in a thick dark pool ar
ound the dead man.
'We found this,' Billy said softly, reaching for the door. It had been pushed back on its hinges, hiding part of the wall but now, as he pushed it forward Harrison swallowed hard, felt his bowels loosen as he read the words, written in Drake's blood, which covered the wall:
SEPTEMBER 3RD
IN MEMORIUM
CHARLES ROSS
The gang boss opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. He merely stepped back, eyes still fixed on the words, and perched on the edge of his desk, ignoring the spots of blood which spattered it.
Tina read the scrawl and glanced fast at Harrison then at Carter.
`Who's Charles Ross?' she wanted to know.
`You mean who was he?' Carter said softly, his own eyes also riveted to the wall. `He's dead. Him and his men. Dead for two years now. Two years to the day.' He nodded at the date scrawled in blood on the wall. `Ross and four of his boys were taken out on September 3rd two years ago.'
`The bastard was dangerous,' said Harrison quietly, as if he had difficulty speaking. 'He was always a mad fucker. Ran wild after I ordered a hit on his brother. He swore he'd kill me.' The gang boss's voice had mellowed and become almost reflective. 'There was a building development being stated in the East End, I forget the name of it now, something Towers I think.' His face was very pale as he spoke, his eyes never leaving the bloody letters. 'I called Ross, told him and his blokes to meet me at the building site, told him I wanted to make peace. The gang war was fucking up business for everyone, the law were down on us all. He turned up with four men. We were waiting for him. Me, Drake, Joule
and Pat Mendham. We took them all. Waited until they were lined up and then shot the fucking lot. We put the bodies in the foundations of one of the tower blocks, they were due to be filled in the next day. We figured no one would ever find them inside thousands of tons of concrete.' He smiled humourlessly. 'They disappeared. Like they'd never existed. The other gangs knew what had happened, and none of them bothered me after that. London was mine.'
