by A P Bateman
“Aye, right enough.” O’Shea turned around in his seat and pointed to the small lay-by on the side of the road. “This will do. Pull in and kill the headlights.”
Neeson eased the Saab off the road and into the sandy lay-by, approximately sixty-metres past Holman’s driveway. He switched off the headlights and the ignition, then opened his door and stepped out onto the soft sandy earth, carpeted with pine needles.
As O’Shea got out of the passenger seat and quietly closed his door, Neeson reached behind the front seats and retrieved the .20 bore shotgun. He picked up the cartridge belt and took out a handful of the plastic-coated number 5 shot cartridges, then slipped them into his left-hand trouser pocket. He plucked two more from the leather belt, then opened the weapon’s breach and inserted one into each barrel. He closed the breach and eased the safety catch forward with his thumb, into the off position. With the weapon loaded and at the ready, he gently closed the door and led the way towards Holman’s driveway.
Neeson approached the veranda and hesitated, waiting for O’Shea, who was cautiously watching the lounge window. As O’Shea caught up, Neeson climbed the steps and stood to the side of the front door with his back to the wall, keeping the loaded shotgun pointed at the ground. “Knock,” he whispered quietly.
O’Shea walked up the steps, then reached out and banged his fist hard against the solid wooden door. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps from within and tensed as he heard Holman’s unmistakable south London accent.
“Who’s that?” Holman bellowed. O’Shea knocked twice more. “I said, who is that?”
“Non Anglaise! Telephone?” O’Shea called out in his best attempt of a French accent.
“Fuck off!”
“Non monsieur, telephone…”
Holman unlocked the door and caught hold of the handle, pulling the door aggressively inwards. “What do you want...”
Neeson spun around and barged the door inwards, pointing the shotgun at Holman’s face. “Three fucking guesses!”
Holman stumbled backwards, his hands raised above his head. “Danny! What the hell is going on?” He stared at him, perplexed.
“That’s what we want to know!” O’Shea stepped into the open doorway and pointed an accusing finger at him. “Now get your fat arse into the other room!”
Neeson jabbed Holman in the back with the business end of the shotgun, catching his right kidney. Holman grunted, but managed not to cry-out out at the painful blow. Neeson jabbed him again, this time achieving the desired effect. Holman reached his right hand behind his back, trying to place his hand on the pain, but his waist was too big to contort in such a way. He winced; sucking air through tightly clenched teeth then turned around and faced the two men. “Come on, lads, what is all this? We had a bloody deal!” He straightened up, regaining a little composure.
“That’s what we thought!” Neeson shouted.
“But I’ve done nothing wrong!”
Neeson nodded towards the nearby chair, motioning for him to sit down. “Sit your fat arse down!” Holman obliged, keeping his eyes on the double-barrelled shotgun. Neeson walked over to the marble fireplace. There was a base of small kindling pieces and chopped logs burning fiercely, with three larger logs on top. “I see you’ve lit a flame, still cold in the evenings at this time of year, isn’t it?” He bent down and picked up a long-handled fire poker, keeping the shotgun steady in his right hand, the barrels aimed at Holman’s midriff. Without another word, he swung the poker down onto Holman’s shoulder. Holman screamed, and was off guard for the next blow to his left elbow. Neeson stepped back quickly, then grinned as he slipped the poker into the glowing base of the log fire. “Might not hurt so much, if I warm it up a bit.”
“No!” Holman writhed in his chair, his whole left arm drooping, as if he’d suffered a stroke. He noticed that Neeson had lowered the barrels of the shotgun in line with his right knee. “For God’s sake, Danny! Tell me what you want!”
O’Shea said, “I’ll get a knife from the kitchen. Cut and cauterise! That will make the bastard talk!” He turned and ran out of the room, leaving Neeson pointing the shotgun at Holman.
“What do we want?” Neeson said quietly. “I’ll tell you what we want…” He stepped forward and bent down, picking up a pair of fire tongs from the hearth. “We want our fucking money! Tell us where it is, you fat piece of shit!” He lunged forward and thrust the tongs into Holman’s crotch, whilst keeping the shotgun dangerously close to him.
Holman remained motionless, staring at the tongs, which rested threateningly in his lap. He glanced up at Neeson, shaking his head slowly. “Please, Danny, don’t,” he begged; and then, “No!” he screamed, as Neeson clamped the jaws of the fire tongs together.
Neeson released his grip and smiled. “Come on, Holman. It’s not as if you use them, is it? If it was, then your wife wouldn’t have been so quick to let me take her on your kitchen table, would she?” He squeezed again, then released the pressure slightly. “Where is our money, and where is that bastard, Simon Grant?” Holman looked up at him, perplexed. He shook his head, tried to get up, but Neeson shoved him back into the chair with the muzzle of the shotgun. “Last chance, fat man!” He clamped the jaws of the fire tongs tightly together, then released them as O’Shea entered the room. He turned to O’Shea and smiled. “A bit more of this, and he’ll be singing like a soprano!” Neeson dropped the tongs to the floor and stood back, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve. He handed the shotgun to O’Shea, then walked over to the fireplace. O’Shea watched, as Neeson eased the red-hot poker out of the embers and turned back to Holman.
Holman breathed erratically, panic setting in as he stared at the glowing tip of the poker. “Please Danny, in the name of God...” He slumped in the chair, unable to summon the strength to resist.
“Tell us Holman. Tell us where Grant and our money have got to.” Neeson stepped forward, holding the glowing poker barely an inch from his right cheek, the heat from the metal making the man flinch. “Tell us, or I’ll bend your fat arse over and stick this where the sun doesn’t shine…”
“No!” Holman screamed, suddenly summoning a little strength at the terrible image. “Grant is dead, you killed him! Blew him to kingdom-fucking-come! I haven’t got your bloody money!” He stared up at the Irishman, knowing that there was nothing that the man would stop at. “Please Danny, I’m begging you…” he panted. “I’m telling the truth!” He started to slump in the chair, as if he were about to lose consciousness. Neeson put the poker closer to Holman’s face, then looked at him coldly before dabbing the glowing tip gently against his earlobe. Holman screamed, twisting his body to try and escape the agonising pain, and smell of burning flesh. “Argh! For Christ’s sake!” He raised his hand to his ear, catching his fingers on the dry heat of the poker as he did so. Neeson stepped back a few paces and replaced the poker in the fire, rattling the embers, before setting the handle down on the hearth. He turned around to O’Shea and nodded towards the ceiling. “I’ll go and take a look around the place, you keep the gun on him.”
***
Simon Grant closed his eyes and swallowed, suppressing the urge to vomit. Holman had betrayed him, set him up to die. He had felt sure that exacting revenge on the man in this way, albeit by proxy, would fill him with some kind of satisfaction, but it hadn’t. It just made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach. He could hear the man’s screams, felt them run through him. He felt an overwhelming urge to help the man, a primal instinct to aid his long-term running mate, his friend. He was helpless though. He was no fighter, not against men like O’Shea and Neeson, and King had the only weapon. He knew that if he tried, he would be killed. Holman was a dead man screaming. There was no hope for him now.
Grant stood up and walked out from the treeline, then paused at the side of the road. He was not entirely sure what he intended to do. The MI6 operative was holding his passport, which, even though it was a fake, would make the return journey much easier. It would
be practically impossible to cross the channel without it. But did he really want to return? There were many reasons why staying away would appear to make more sense. Lisa was with another man, a man who by all accounts would have been more of a father to his son than he had managed to be. He looked at the Saab, parked on the other side of the road, then suddenly realised that his main prerogative was to get away from this place. Away from Holman’s screams.
***
Danny Neeson looked around the main bedroom, which now lay in tatters, with the bed and furniture left upturned, and the sheets ripped from the bed, after his frenzied search. He turned around and walked across the landing to the closed door that was almost directly opposite. He opened it, pushing it savagely inwards, forcing it back against the plaster wall. The room was almost bare, but for the two single beds, a large wardrobe and dressing table. He looked around, then paused, his gaze fixed on the tall, pine wardrobe.
Holman shifted awkwardly in his chair, gritting his teeth in agony, and keeping a hand pressed to his groin. He soothed his other hand over the painful burn to his ear, then glared up at O’Shea, seething. “You’re a pair of sick bastards… We had a deal!”
“Aye, that’s what I thought,” he said. “You were warned not to cross us. It’s your mistake, and you will pay.”
“I should have expected this from you. You’re just a fucking thick paddy. Fit for digging the roads I drive on. Well fuck you, O’Shea! A deal’s a fucking deal!” Holman spat at him. He stared past O’Shea, a confused expression on his face as he watched Neeson come into the room with a large suitcase. “That’s not mine!”
Neeson dropped the suitcase onto the floor, staring daggers at Holman. He popped the catches and opened it up. The money was stacked in different currencies, not a gap or space to be seen. “That’s not what the label says.” He bent down and held the label, turning it over between his thumb and forefinger. “Frank Holman,” he said, a look of exaggerated understanding suddenly dawning on him. “Oh I see, it’s another Frank Holman, who just happens to live at your address. Sorry, our mistake, I think we had better be going now…”
O’Shea roared with laughter, keeping the shotgun aimed at Holman’s chest. “Aye, sorry for the confusion and any inconvenience! No hard feelings!”
“I’ve got a petrol can in the back of the car, we can clean up this mess, good and proper,” Neeson said.
O’Shea nodded. “Aye, get it done. I’ll wait here, see that our friend doesn’t have himself any sudden bouts of energy.”
***
Grant crossed over the road and headed towards the Saab. The vehicle was parked on the opposite side of the road in a sandy lay-by, overhung by the drooping bottom branches of huge pine trees. He was not concerned with the fact that the vehicle might be locked, he could get inside in an instant, and would be able to override the ignition, and any security systems. After all, car theft had been his bread and butter when he had been younger, before he had progressed to burglary and then on to safecracking. He had two screwdrivers in his pocket that he had not returned to the bag of equipment, they were all he would need.
Neeson stepped out from the steep driveway and into the road, then suddenly stopped in his tracks, having noticed the man at the door of his car. He broke into a run, clenching both hands into tight fists, ready to take on his opponent.
Grant looked around cautiously, checking to make sure that he had not been seen. He turned his head towards Holman’s house, then stared, almost frozen in horror. He attempted to run, but it was too late. Neeson was upon him, sending him heavily to the ground with a shoulder charge. The two men fell, then rolled into the road. Grant swung a wild punch, catching Neeson in the mouth. He reeled backwards, but managed to keep a hold on Grant’s jacket. He regained his senses, having been caught momentarily off guard, then punched Grant in his ear. He kept hold of him, moving around for better positioning, then punched him twice more, catching him both times in the face. Grant raised both hands to his mouth, lacking all combat instinct. Neeson moved himself around further, until he was on top of Grant. He caught hold of him by the throat, pulled him upwards and executed a savage punch to his jaw. Grant fell back, cracking his head against the hard surface of the road. He lay still, unconscious, bleeding from the base of his skull. Neeson sat back in the road, breathless and perspiring after the energetic brawl. He looked down at the man, only realising that it was Simon Grant now that the man lay still.
He got to his feet, then bent down and caught hold of Grant by his ankles and pulled him out of the road, and behind the bonnet of the Saab. He looked around cautiously, then walked around to the boot of the car and opened it with the key. The red plastic petrol can was wedged dangerously between the sports bags and the rear seats. He grabbed it by the handle, then closed the boot as quietly as he could. He placed the petrol can on the sandy ground, before walking over to where Grant lay. Catching hold of him around the belt and collar, he heaved him up and over his shoulder, struggling with the dead weight, as he bent down and slowly and picked up the petrol can.
***
King groaned inwardly. He had made it across to the far side of the rambling gardens, and was now crouched amongst a clump of bushes, not twenty-feet from the path that led from the driveway to the wooden veranda. He had seen his opportunity arise, and had been ready to take appropriate action. He had planned to tackle Danny Neeson upon his return from the vehicle. With surprise on his side, King was confident that he could overcome anybody. No matter how big, strong, or experienced they were, he knew that he only needed two-seconds. Two-seconds was all the time he needed to break a man’s neck.
Grant had ruined everything. King would not be able to strike an instant, deadly blow with Grant in the way, draped around the back of Neeson’s neck. If a struggle ensued this close to the house, O’Shea might well hear, and with O’Shea now armed with the shotgun, that was a risk he dared not take. The shotgun required less skill and precision to use. And at night, with little visibility it would have been the better weapon.
King took a deep, calming breath. It was no good. He would have to wait a little longer. He watched, as Neeson walked steadily up the drive and onto the gravel pathway. His footsteps crunched noisily as he passed King’s position, less than six paces to his right.
As Neeson stepped onto the wooden veranda, he turned, looked around cautiously, then opened the door and disappeared inside.
King moved quickly. Now was the time. Neeson would still be carrying Grant inside the house, probably into the lounge where the Irishmen could confront the two men together. He edged his way across the garden, leaping across the gravel pathway to avoid detection. He took the 9mm Browning out of the waistband of his trousers, gently eased off the safety, then held the weapon out in front of him in a double-handed grip. He carefully placed his left foot on the wooden veranda, then eased his weight slowly onto his leading foot, making sure that the wooden planks did not creak under the sudden weight. He stepped up onto the walkway then made his way silently towards the front door. The door had been left ajar. Carefully, tentatively, he eased the door inwards then stood to the side, scanning the area in front of him through the pistol’s open notch sights.
Clearing buildings should never be a one-man task, he had had that drummed into him at the killing house, the live-fire training facility, on the SAS base in Hereford. But King had little choice. The activity would clearly have had to have been taking place in the lounge, he would have to risk making it the first room he tried. He edged his way along the wall, keeping the Browning out in front of him as he went. He pulled the pistol back towards himself as he neared the doorway, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor, then stepped out from the wall and crept to the side of the open door. The Browning was loaded with thirteen rounds, there were two hostile targets in the building, hopefully within this room. King knew that if he could not put an opponent down fatally with two shots, then he should not be in this line of work. But then, there was always the unexpecte
d. And this was the first time he would have shot a man, let alone two. It had been paper targets and ketchup-filled mannequins up to this point. He took one more deep breath to steady his nerves, oxygenate his muscles, then swung into the doorway and dropped down onto one knee.
Holman lay on the floor, his body twisted at the most undignified of angles. It was clear he had been shot in the chest. Both O’Shea and Neeson lay next to him, bleeding from a fatal head-wounds. O’Shea had nothing left above the eye-line. Neeson had a neat little hole drilled in his forehead. Not as graphic as O’Shea, but ballistics were never predictable. A fee degrees’ difference in angle and a lot could happen on a bullet’s exit.
King stood up quickly, scanning the room for a positive target. He turned, as he saw Grant, spread-eagled on the floor behind the sofa. The man lay perfectly still, either unconscious or dead. He was not bleeding, and it looked as if he had rested where he had fallen after Neeson had been shot.
King stared at the scene in bewilderment, then snatched a breath as he suddenly realised what had transpired. He started to turn around, but was just a second too late. He tensed, flinching, as he felt the warm metal rest against the nape of his neck.
43
“Hello, old boy,” Forsyth said quietly. “Fools rush in, wouldn’t you say?”
King felt the barrel of the weapon push harder against his neck. “Be a good chap and drop the gun.” Forsyth waited for him to discard the Browning onto the floor then pushed him forcefully across the room. King stumbled for a few paces then regained his balance and slowly turned to face the MI6 officer. It wasn’t good, he was unarmed and the man had put some distance between them both.
Ian Forsyth stood in the doorway, dressed in his usual tweed outfit, complete with a yellow silk cravat and gold stock pin. He held the pistol loosely in his hands then smiled, as he slipped one of his handmade cigarettes between his thin, and now somewhat cruel-looking lips. “Sorry, old boy, just couldn’t be helped,” he offered by way of explanation. He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved his gold Dunhill lighter then flicked the wheel and brought the flame to the tip of the cigarette. He blew out a thin plume of smoke then grinned devilishly. “You see, old boy, the opportunity was just too good to pass up. It is an awfully large amount of money. And what better way to get my hands on it than to carry out a black-ops abroad.”
