by Chris Ryan
Ahead of them Deeds strolled casually down the alley, laughing at something Burberry had said. Porter and Bald stayed fifteen metres back, eyes scanning the balconies and terraces that jutted out of the apartment blocks either side of the alley. Empty. None of the locals would dream of sitting outside in this crap weather, Porter thought. He lowered his gaze and saw that Coles was now approaching the far end of the alley. The South African would stop once he hit the exit, blocking off the only escape route for Deeds and Burberry. They would have nowhere left to run.
Porter felt his pulse quicken. Any second now Devereaux would kickstart the Sprinter and steer the van into position.
Twenty seconds.
He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the alley at his six o’clock to check that they weren’t being followed. Then he slid a hand under his leather jacket and reached for his holstered Glock. So did Bald. Porter tightened his hand around the polymer grip, his index finger resting on the trigger mechanism. He liked the heft of the loaded Glock, the weight of it with a full clip of brass. A hot thrill swept through his veins as they increased their stride and approached the target. The net was closing around Deeds now. He’d slipped through their grasp once before. But he wouldn’t get away. Not tonight. This time they were going to nail the fucker good and proper.
They were ten metres from the target when a figure stepped out of the shadows.
Bald froze. Porter froze too. For a cold second both operators stood rooted to the spot as the figure slipped out of one of the doorways lining the alley and moved towards Bald. His eyes adjusted to the gloom and he realised it was the hooker he’d had his eye on back at the Paradiso. The one who’d blown him a kiss. The Slavic stunner. Her bright blue eyes glowed like a couple of coins in a wishing well. She smiled wickedly at Bald.
‘You want good time, baby?’ the hooker said.
She had a husky eastern European accent. Bald’s favourite. She also had a cracking pair of tits on her, and on any other day he would have been tempted to take up the hooker’s offer. But not tonight. He tried to slide past her.
‘Maybe tomorrow, love.’
But the hooker wasn’t taking no for an answer. She stepped closer to Bald. She was so close Bald could smell her cheap perfume. Strawberries and sex. She ran her delicate hand over his crotch.
‘Suck and fuck, baby? I give you good time. Best fuck in all of Spain. Hundred thousand peseta.’
Porter gritted his teeth. He still had his right hand inside his jacket pocket, gripping his Glock. Bald had already retrieved his weapon. Deeds and Burberry were ten metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Ten short of the alley exit. But this hooker was going to wreck the mission. She stood blocking the operators’ path. Delaying them. Deeds and Burberry were twelve metres ahead. Now thirteen. Coles had already hit the end of the alley. He stopped and reached inside his jacket for his weapon. Porter and Bald had to act now. Otherwise it was going to be two on one. Coles against Burberry and Deeds. Porter flared with anger. He shoved the hooker aside with his free hand.
‘Out of my fucking way,’ he snarled.
The hooker let out a high-pitched shriek as she stumbled backwards on her high heels and crashed against the doorway she’d stepped out from, knocking over a bin overflowing with rubbish. The sudden noise made Deeds and his driver stop dead in their tracks four or five metres short of the alley exit. Deeds looked past his shoulder. Caught sight of the hooker in the doorway, spitting curses at Bald in her foreign accent. Deeds stared at her curiously for a cold beat, a question mark forming in his narrow eyes. Then he swivelled his gaze towards the two operators. He saw their faces in the reflected glow of the lights from the main strip. Saw the Glock in Bald’s right hand.
For a half second nobody moved. The world just stopped. Deeds stood there next to Burberry and stared at Bald and Porter. Then his eyes went wide with recognition. Then he looked really fucking scared.
Then Deeds turned and ran.
TWENTY-FIVE
0046 hours.
Everything happened fast. At the end of the alley, Coles heard the hooker’s scream and turned towards his six o’clock. Towards Bald and Porter and Burberry and Deeds. The South African was digging out his holstered Glock as Deeds broke into a run. The target was five metres from Coles. Too close. Not enough distance. Not enough time for Coles to retrieve his weapon, extend his gun arm, aim at the target and shout for him to stop. He was still retrieving his weapon as Deeds crashed into him, knocking Coles back and following up with a sharp knee to the groin. Coles stumbled backwards, grunting. He dropped his Glock. Deeds and Burberry bolted past him and raced towards the alley exit.
Bald reacted quickest. He snapped his right arm level with his shoulder. Trained the Glock on Deeds. Tensed his index finger on the trigger. Ready to loose off a shot.
‘Jock, no!’ Porter shouted. ‘We need him alive.’
Bald hesitated. A split second later, Deeds and Burberry were ducking out of sight. They swept past Coles and headed east on Avenida Julio Iglesias. Bald lowered his weapon and cursed under his breath. Then he broke forward, sprinting ahead of Porter and Coles and surging towards the end of the alley.
Bald swept out onto the sprawling main street that straddled Puerto Banus. Sixty metres away to his left on the corner of Calle Jesus Puente, Bald could see Devereaux gunning the Sprinter engine and steering the van onto the main road. Coles was on his feet, grabbing his dropped pistol. Bald swivelled his gaze to his three o’clock. He was looking east down Avenida Julio Iglesias. The road stretched on for maybe three hundred metres all the way to the fringe of the beach along Playa de Levante, downstream from the marina and the super-yachts. Twenty metres away Deeds and Burberry were charging down the wide pavement, barging past tourists as they hurried towards the Range Rover parked fifty metres away, directly outside a fast food joint.
Bald turned to Coles. ‘Stay here! Watch the alley!’
Coles nodded. Then Bald turned and chased after Deeds. Porter stumbled alongside the Jock. Still fumbling to deholster his weapon. He’s rusty, thought Bald. The guy’s been out of the game for too long. Not for the first time he wondered if Porter was really up to this mission.
Bald raced after the target. Adrenaline flooding his veins. His heart pumping furiously. Everything was a blur. Like watching a shaky home video. He was running on instinct, and fumes. Every sense was heightened. Bald scuttled past the stunned tourists. Some of them caught sight of the Glock in his right hand and screamed, diving for cover in the nearest doorways or ducking behind their cars. Others stood rooted to the spot in terror or confusion, or maybe both. Bald blanked them out and focused solely on grabbing Deeds. He had to close the gap and stop the fucker from bugging out. If he gave them the slip now, he’d be spooked, Bald knew. He wouldn’t stick around in Spain. He’d go to ground, somewhere way under the radar. Somewhere the Firm would never be able to find him. The chances of locating Deeds again would be virtually nil. The mission would be fucked.
If Deeds gets away now, it’s over.
The ex-Para pounded down the pavement as fast as his huge legs could carry him. Which wasn’t very fast at all. All that heavy muscle weighed the guy down. His injured left arm slowed him down even further and forced him to move along in a lumbering gait. Burberry was just as slow. The guy was fifty per cent muscle and fifty per cent body fat.
Bald quickly closed the gap on the target. He could hear Porter’s breathing behind him as he hurried along a few paces further back. They were fifteen metres away from the target now. Deeds and Burberry were forty metres from the Range Rover. Bald ran on, his lungs burning. Like someone had poured petrol down his throat and then tossed in a struck match. The wind was blowing hard, shivering the fronds of the palm trees lining both sides of the road, and he could feel drops of rain spattering against his face. He raced down the street. Past the tacky clubs and the designer outlets and the strip bars. Towards the man who’d killed fifty-five British soldiers.
Up ahead Burberry riske
d a glance past his shoulder. Saw the two operators bearing down on him. Realised he wasn’t going to reach the Range Rover in time, and panicked. That was his first mistake. He stopped. Did a one-eighty. Reached under his shirt and dug out a pistol stashed in the waistband of his cargos. Bald got a glimpse of the tool. A hefty-looking handgun with a stainless-steel barrel and gaping mouth at the end, the kind of thing you bought just because it looked good. Maybe a Taurus PT92, thought Bald. Something like that. The Porsche 911 of handguns.
Burberry shaped to take aim at Bald. That was his second mistake. The fatal one. Bald punished him lethally. He didn’t panic. He had ten thousand hours of Regiment training drilled into him and he knew exactly what to do. He dropped to a crouch and raised his Glock in a fast but controlled movement, his muscles tensed but not overly stiff. Then he lined up Burberry’s torso between the front and rear sighting posts on the Glock. He didn’t need to a flick off a safety. There wasn’t one. On the Glock, your safety was your trigger finger. You didn’t fire the gun unless you pulled the trigger, and you didn’t pull the trigger unless you wanted to fire the gun.
Bald exhaled.
Squeezed the trigger.
The muzzle flashed. The Glock barked.
Bald had cocked the weapon before leaving the safe house. Meaning, there was already a round nestling in the snout. The slider shunted back and then rocketed forward, spitting out the chambered bullet. He fired twice more. Three rounds in deadly, quick succession. The bullets hit Burberry in a close grouping, slamming into his upper chest with a dull wet whump. Like fists smacking against a punchbag. Burberry jerked wildly, doing the dead man’s dance. He made a deep grunt in his throat as he dropped like a sack of hot potatoes. The semi-automatic clattered to the ground beside him as the blood spurted out of an exit wound in his neck in a hot red gush. The discharges echoed like thunder across the street. A passing taxi picked up speed and bulleted away. Somewhere across the street, a woman screamed.
Bald smiled inwardly and felt good about himself, and life generally.
I’ve still fucking got it.
As soon as the first shot had discharged, Deeds instinctively hit the deck. Now he scurried towards the semi-automatic lying next to Burberry. Deeds was twenty-five metres from the Range Rover and four or five away from his slotted mate. Twelve metres ahead of Bald. Which meant Bald had more than twice the distance to clear if he was to get to Deeds before the guy put the drop on him. He dug deep and sprinted forward, straining every sinew in his body. The blood rapidly pooled under Burberry’s lifeless corpse, running in the gaps between the flagstones. Deeds crawled forward and reached out a hand, making a play for the semi. Six metres to the target. Bald lunged madly forward. He bore down on Deeds as the guy clasped his thick fingers around the weapon grip.
Deeds shaped to raise the weapon. He never got the chance. Bald leapt forward and aimed his right foot at the guy. There was a satisfying crunch as the Jock’s Timberland connected with the ex-Para’s jaw. Deeds groaned and rolled onto his back. His grip automatically released the pistol. Bald swiped another kick at him, this time driving at the guy’s ribs. He hit him with such force that the air exploded out of his lungs. Bald kicked him again. He heard a sound like a branch snapping in two and figured he’d broken a couple of ribs. A shattered rib or two was nothing compared to the pain Deeds would be feeling by the time Bald and the others went to work on him. But it was a damn good start.
Deeds tried to fight back. He had a lot of muscle. But like most bodybuilders, it was all slow muscle. The kind that you got after spending hour after hour working on your one-rep max on the bench press. Bald had the other kind. Fast muscle. Less bulk, but more explosive power. The kind of muscle that, as any boxer will tell you, wins you fights. All slow muscle does is win you the occasional glance on a beach. Deeds kicked out at Bald, throwing all of his power into his leg muscles as he aimed for the Jock’s groin. Bald saw the move coming. He shifted quickly on his feet and dodged the blow, punching out with his gun arm and smashing the Glock barrel into the bridge of Deeds’s face. Then he dropped down and pressed the Glock into Deeds’s side, digging the muzzle hard into his broken ribs. The guy howled in pain.
‘On your feet,’ Bald ordered.
Deeds didn’t move. He glowered up at the Jock, blood trickling down his chin from his fucked-up nose. Beside him the blood continued to pump steadily out of Burberry’s multiple exit wounds. Bald drove the weapon harder into Deeds’s ribs, drawing another pained cry from the guy. By now Porter had reached them, his weapon drawn and the business end trained on Deeds. There was a flash of defiance in the ex-Para’s eyes as he staggered to his feet.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he rasped nasally.
‘Shut up,’ said Bald, keeping the Glock pressed to the guy’s broken ribs.
‘A big fucking mistake. You don’t know who you’re messing with, pal.’
‘Shut it. Get moving.’
Porter and Bald shoved Deeds back down Avenida Julio Iglesias. Towards the Sprinter. Around them people were screaming at the sound of the gunshot. One man lay on his front, hands over his head and begging Bald not to shoot him. Others ran for their lives, darting inside the nearest restaurants and screaming for someone to call the police. Bald hurried Deeds along. He figured they had maybe two or three minutes before the cops showed. Devereaux had drawn the Sprinter to a halt just before the alley, forty metres ahead of Bald and Porter. Coles stood between the alley and the van. Gesturing for the other guys to hurry up.
They were thirty metes from the van when Bald heard voices coming from the direction of the main strip. More than one of them. Maybe six or seven. Scarsdale’s people, he realised. The foot soldiers must have heard the gunshot on the main road. Another ten or fifteen seconds and the guys would be swarming over the alley like flies on shit. Bald pushed on alongside Porter, manhandling Deeds towards the Sprinter. The target stumbled forward, wincing in pain and clutching his busted rib. They were fifteen metres from the Sprinter now. It seemed to take an age to reach the van.
‘Move it!’ Coles yelled. ‘We’ve got company!’
Bald willed himself on. Muscles burning. Heart thumping so fast he could feel it pulsing in the back of his throat. The voices from the strip were getting louder now. Bald figured the foot soldiers must have reached the alley. Ten metres to the Sprinter now. Nine metres. Eight. Coles hurried over to the Sprinter and yanked open the side door. Ready to bundle Deeds inside the van.
Seven metres to go.
Six.
Five metres from the van, Bald heard a shout at his nine o’clock. He looked across his shoulder. Spotted four guys tearing down the alley. Racing towards him. One of the foot soldiers had seen Deeds and pointed him out to his mates. The nearest tough was fifteen metres away when he reached for his weapon. He was a thickset guy with a crew cut and a beer belly. He looked like a testicle with arms and he wore an England 1990 World Cup replica football shirt.
It was no contest. Bald already had his weapon drawn and ready to use. He twisted at the waist and simultaneously hefted up the Glock at England. There was no time to properly aim. No time to put the guy in focus between the weapon sights. Bald gave the trigger a quick squeeze. The muzzle lit up like a dope smoker at Christmas. The bullet struck England dead centre in the chest. Bald gave him a neat bullet hole to go with the Three Lions on his shirt. The guy crumpled. He dropped to a heap amid the scattered rubbish. Fuck him. Bald didn’t like England anyway.
Coles scurried over to the alley and put down three more rounds on the advancing foot soldiers. Covering Bald and Porter. The rounds glanced off the alley walls and sent the guys scattering. They darted for the nearest available cover. In the doorways, behind the bins. Wherever they could find somewhere to hide. They wouldn’t stay down for long, Bald knew. But the strike team only needed a few seconds. He turned and dragged Deeds the last few steps to the Sprinter. Porter had his Glock pointed at the nape of the guy’s neck. They hit the van in three breathl
ess strides and shoved Deeds inside. Climbed in after the target. Porter slapped a pair of plasticuffs around the guy’s thick wrists and pulled a hessian sack over his head. Coles let off a final warning shot down the alley then jumped into the Sprinter and wrenched the side door shut.
‘Go!’ Porter shouted. ‘FUCKING GO! NOW!’
Devereaux didn’t need a second invitation. The Aussie put his foot to the accelerator and gunned the Sprinter engine. The van growled angrily into life as they slid out of the parking spot and lurched onto the main road. The shooting had emptied the streets of traffic and they quickly began to pull away. Through the rear window Bald could see the remaining three foot soldiers racing out of the alley, weapons drawn as they shouted at the van. They were twenty metres away, then thirty. Then forty. One of the guys fired twice at the back of the Sprinter. Porter heard the bullets hammering against the rear door. Then the Sprinter picked up speed and the foot soldiers finally gave up the chase. After three hundred metres Devereaux made a hard right on Avenida de las Naciones Unidas and they raced past the beach, the sands purple under the reflected glow of the moon. The rain was falling hard as they raced north towards the Autovia del Mediterraneo. Behind them, Puerto Banus started to shrink from view.
