by Mark Newman
Frank’s moving back in to the other room. ‘I got four of the guys here now, I’ll send one for you. The rest of us can go and jump in the van, and shake down a few of the players down town, see what comes out.’
‘Hold up, Frank. We can’t be starting a war. And send George, not one of your boys. I need to keep this tight, just the three of us.’
‘Whoa, hold on, my lads are kosher, all of ’em.’
‘You ain’t the one with a gapping hole in you right now. We do this my way.’
‘OK you want George I’ll send George. Just keep your eye on the street. Don’t move. Sit tight.’
Malkie terminates the call. He watches the building opposite. Still no sign of the cops on the rooftop. He imagines by now they’ll be securing the area out back, checking out the Mercedes. Won’t take long for his name to bounce back. In the meantime, they’ll have the battering ram at the ready, the reinforced steel door should be enough to buy some extra time before the Armed Response Officers bust in with their weapons drawn.
He’s watching the steady stream of commuters, keeping his eye on the lookout for George, sitting and waiting it strikes him that they’re all like clones on autopilot. A solitary cyclist, a middle-aged runner decked out in luminous yellow Hi-Vis vest and lycra leggings, and a young, fashion conscious twenty-something walking her small Pug dog, letting it stop to defecate on the sidewalk. All of them stuck in their safe little worlds, oblivious to the chaos around them. They got no idea…
The shooter’s out there somewhere. He’ll be frantic by now. With the job gone to shit, he’ll be doing his best to blend in. Malkie’s eyes are darting left to right, what would I do? He already knows the answer; don’t let the trail go cold. Pursue the prey. Finish the job.
Chapter 14
Malkie’s phone vibrates in his pocket, interrupting his thoughts. He checks the caller ID: GEORGE.
He picks up. ‘I’m still breathing Georgie Boy, not dead yet.’
George is accelerating down the road, his phone connected via Bluetooth ‘…the fuck’s going on Malkie?’
‘Frank, fill you in?’
He brakes hard to avoid the paperboy loping across the road, iPod in situ, oblivious to the world around him. The car fishtails. George blares the horn long and loud. He grits his teeth, mouthing ‘arsehole,’ as he rights the car.
‘Say what?’
‘No, not you, some idiot kid on a board – damned near killed him… Christ knows why he’s not in school this time of morning?’
‘What’d he say?’
George is checking his rear view mirror. The kid on the board is giving him the finger. ‘Who, the kid?’
‘Not the fucking kid – Frank. What’d he say?’
‘Right, yeah. Shit, he said Mimi’s…gone?’
Malkie’s considering his options. ‘Those his words, his exact words?’
‘Yeah, think so. Shit. I’m sorry, Malkie… Don’t know what to… I know how fond of her you…’
‘Aye, that can wait. Let’s concentrate on the here and now. Where you at?’
‘Just coming up on Pritchard Street, about two minutes out. The police are already starting to block the approach roads, beginning to flag down cars you know.’
Malkie’s shifting to the front of the laundromat. ‘I’m good to go. Stay in the car, and keep the motor running. Just open the back door so I can slide in.’
‘Need to get you patched up, mate. We best get you to that out of town doctor.’
‘Too risky. Needle and thread and a bottle of the Irish is all I need.’
George is less than a minute away now. ‘You’re a regular Johnny Rambo, well if that’s how you want it?’
‘Way it’s got to be till I get some answers.’
He terminates the call.
Chapter 15
George is weaving through the traffic. The Lexus LS460 gliding through the gears, the speedo hitting fifty. Malkie’s out of sight, laying across the back seat, his eyes scrunched tight, his hand clutching at his ruined shoulder willing the pain away.
‘This thing got any booze?’
‘With my Mrs.? Not a chance.’
‘Thought as much.’
‘Let’s get you to Frank’s place, get that shoulder looked at. I’m sure he’ll have a stash. Keep you going till we can fix you up with some proper meds.’
‘Not Frank’s.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’ll have surveillance by now. We go within two blocks of his place we’re all getting lifted.’
‘You reckon? Nah. Can’t see it. The police aren’t that switched on, still be running round with their heads up their arses, trying to figure out what the hell went down.’
‘They got the Merc, George. All they gotta do is run the plates through the ANPR, or whatever the fuck it’s called. When my name comes up, the warrant’ll be in place in no time. How long do you think it’d be before they rip through my place and come looking to round the pair of you up?’
‘Best give Frank the nod so he’s prepped.’
‘Frank can look after himself – leave him be.’
George gives Malkie a quizzical sideways glance, then fixes his eyes back on the road and remains silent.
‘Just drive, George, take the east bound carriageway.’
‘OK.’ George is spying a glance at Malkie, he doesn’t look good, a translucent, sickly pallor to his face. ‘East you say?’
‘That’s what I said.’
Malkie strains his necks, and fixes on the rear view mirror, checking for a tail car. He sees nothing, he rests back down, and closes his eyes trying to block out every little bump and vibration that jars at his shoulder.
Thirty minutes later, they’re pulling up at an abandoned farmhouse set in the middle of scrub land, ramshackle out buildings forming a natural barrier between the single lane farm track and main road.
George is out of the car taking in the scene. ‘You sure about this place?’
‘Renovation project – just waiting on the green light from the planning office.’
‘Arse end of nowhere you ask me.’
‘That’s the idea, solitude. Place to get away from it all, you know?’
George escorts Malkie toward the dilapidated cottage, guiding him by his good arm.
Malkie points to the floor, ‘keys under the cracked slab, just lift it up.’
‘Burglar proof eh.’ George retrieves the key, opens the door. The stench of damp rot and cat piss attacking his senses.
‘Jesus, something died in here?’
‘Not yet they ain’t.’
George raises his hand to his mouth, and advances in to the gloom. ‘This place connected to the mains?’
‘Not for the last fourteen years at least. There’s a wind-up camping lantern someplace.' Malkie points to the doorway, 'check through there, try the cupboard under the water heater.’
George follows the stench in to the connecting room, finding himself in what passes for a kitchen area.
Malkie slumps down in to a tattered, dusty olive green high-backed armchair. He rests his feet up on a tea chest doubling as a makeshift coffee table then reaches under the shoulder of the jacket, probing fingers inspecting the damage, he eases of the jacket, wincing as fresh spikes of pain awaken.
The ringer tone of George’s mobile forces him to ignore the pain. ‘Leave it.’
George shouts through from the gloom of the kitchen, ‘It’s Frank.’
‘I said leave it.’
‘Come on he needs to know we made it out.’
‘Am I talking a foreign language here?’
George stomps in from the kitchen, lantern in hand. ‘This is bullshit. You think Frank set you up? Come on, that’s bollocks.’
‘Is it? Think about it a second. Who’s got most to gain with me out of the picture?’
George is shaking his head, ‘I reckon the infection’s setting in, addled your fucking brain. You’re not thinking right.’
‘My brain
’s fine.’
‘Yeah, so what about me, where do I figure in this conspiracy?’
Malkie ignores the question. ‘That car of yours got a First Aid kit?’
George waits for an answer. Nothing forthcoming. ‘I’ll go check, shall I?’
Malkie hauls himself from the chair, ‘leave the phone.’
George is halfway out the door, he turns and stares, ‘you’re serious?’
‘You heard me.’
He takes two paces back in to the reception room, and tosses the phone down on to the tea chest, it skims across the rough surface in to Malkie’s left hand. Their eyes connect, Malkie’s icy stare searching for deceit. George holds both his arms out to the side, ‘need to pat me down… Boss?’
Malkie says nothing. George turns, shakes his head, cussing under his breath as he makes his way out to the car.
Chapter 16
Malkie’s at the window, he uses two fingers to rub a peephole through the decade plus of grime and decay. He can just make out George’s frame busy at the car. He needs to work fast, estimating that he has two minutes at most. He’s moving away from the window, making his way towards the middle of the room. Malkie uses his left arm to reach up to the low-slung wooden beam running the width, wall to wall, he runs his hand over the surface, knows it’s there somewhere. He finds it, slots his index and middle finger in to two pre-drilled holes, pushing them in up to the joint then tugging, he feels it loosen. One more pull, the fake cover comes away. He shakes his fingers free, and drops the cover to the floor. He inserts his hand in to the cavity, brushes the detritus aside, a mixture of sawdust and cobweb. There it is, still bound in the original oiled rag. Malkie takes it down and unwraps it. Just as he left it, an unused Walther 9mm and full clip – ready to go.
George crashes in from the cold, holding the First Aid kit aloft. ‘Weather’s turning. Good news is you’re in luck.’
Malkie points to the tea chest, ‘set it down over there, open it up, lets’ see what we got.’
George complies, he starts working his way through, listing the contents. ‘Tape, gauze, lint, couple of plasters, some padding. Shit out of luck on the needle and thread though.’
Malkie returns to the armchair, the Walther 9mm hanging loose in his grip.
George observes the weapon, and chooses to ignore its presence. Instead, he starts repacking the kit in to the box.
Malkie eases himself back into the chair, resting the Walther on his lap pointing towards George.
George narrows his eyes, and faces Malkie straight on. ‘You think I’m in on it, that what this is?’
‘Insurance, don’t take it personal.’ He places the 9mm down on the tea chest. ‘Won’t take ’em long now.’
‘Them?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough, Georgie Boy.’
‘So we’re holed up here like Butch and Sundance, and you reckon on making a last stand with one handgun.’
‘You’re not carrying?’
‘Fucksake, when have you known me to carry a piece?’
‘Special occasion like this thought you might have come packing. No bother.’ Malkie’s pointing to the cover on the floor. ‘See that over there, reach up to the beam above it.’
George stands looking up at the modified beam. ‘You really think Frank ordered the hit?’
‘Can’t rule it out, not yet.’ Malkie moves in the chair, wincing at the sharp pain in his shoulder as he twists round. ‘You see it?’
‘Yeah, bloody big gaping hole.’
‘Go on reach in there, take it slow. Careful now.’
He pushes in both arms, his fingertips finding purchase. He pulls out a plywood box, twelve inches by eight. ‘…the fuck’s this, GI Joe’s toolkit?’ He returns to the tea chest, and rests it down.
‘Wait and see.’
George rubs at the two-day stubble on his chin, his thoughts clouded. ‘Not Frank, doesn’t make sense. Can’t be him.’
Malkie brushes away the cobweb remnants from the box. 'Frank don’t know any other life, he’s institutionalised. Can’t live without it. The thought of going legit scares the shit out of him. What’s he gonna do? Same reason he lords it up over the younger ones. His stories about the old days, most of it bullshit on his part. He can't let go.'
George thinks it over, shifting uncomfortably from side to side. 'I don’t see it.'
‘No, you must have a theory though, who’s your money on?'
George takes a moment to answer, careful to find the right words. 'If it was me, I’d be looking closer to home.’
Malkie narrows his eyes. ‘Cunningham... No way. Out of his league.’
‘Ties in though, you think about it.’
‘With what?’
‘The rumours about him reaching out – making friends. You’re too close to it, Malkie. Need to step back, look at it like an outsider. You do that, that’s when it all starts to fall in to place.’
‘Aye, and there’s no love lost between the two of you, now is there?’
‘It’s not just me thinking that way, ask around.’
'Meaning?'
'Walter Browne.’
‘Ah come on, I’m not buying it, George, he’s a wee shite granted, but this…’
‘Boy’s got ambition; he’s never hid that. More than enough time to brood on it, to make plans. Let’s suppose for a moment that he’s gone and contracted out, done a deal.’
Malkie’s got a disbelieving smile on his face. ‘No way. Cunningham won’t take me on, not after...'
'Come on. No denying he fancies himself as the heir apparent. He wants’ it all. He’s not interested in negotiations, or handovers, or going legit. He's a ponce, flash cars, young impressionable girls, and parties that’s all he’s interested in.’
Malkie rubs at his shoulder. He doesn't dispute the claim; George's rationale has a certain logic to it. ‘Time will tell… Time will tell, George.’
George locks eyes with Malkie, ‘should’ve let me deal...’
Malkie cuts him off mid-flow. ‘Way things are we don’t know shit. So leave it. OK? Now let’s open this beauty up – see what we got here.'
George takes a flat head screwdriver sitting atop the mantelpiece. He prises open the lid, his fingertips delve into the mass of white polystyrene balls, he brushes them aside. 'Shit… That what I think it is?' He pulls it out slow, gives Malkie a look, ‘you planning to start a war?’
‘Finish it more like.’
He places the object back in to the box, brushes aside the remainder of the packaging to reveal three dark grenades in situ.
Malkie reaches for the lint and gauze, applies it to the wound. 'Pass me that padding there.' He tapes it over the top. ‘Still think I should’ve capped the bastard eh?'
'He's your blood not mine, it’s your call.'
Chapter 17
12:33pm he can’t put it off any longer, his prey’s vanished and gone to ground. Time to call it in. He retrieves the pay-as-you-go mobile phone, and inserts a new sim card. He punches in the eleven memorised digits – time for an update.
The recipient picks up on the third bleep.
The gunman keeps it simple, just the bare outline, no names. Nothing to incriminate himself or the client. ‘Wounded, but still running.’
There’s silence at the other end, he keeps tally in his head, reaching four…fi
‘And the woman?’
‘Gone.’
He zeroes out, and starts the count again, one…two…
‘Unexpected…considering your credentials. You’re in breach of contract. Keep this phone on, and wait for my call.’
The phone clicks off.
It’s unfamiliar territory, he’s never had a job go this way. Not over yet, he tells himself. He can still rectify it. Failure’s not an option. No loose ends. The client’s brief was specific, anything but Thompson’s death would be unacceptable. If he fails to deliver on his promise, they’ll come for him. He already knows too much, he’s a liability. At best, he’s
got twenty-four hours – that’s all he can hope for now.
His choice is stark, even finding Thompson and finishing it won’t be enough. He’s caused them embarrassment; they won’t let that go, they won’t allow his failure to go unpunished. He could flee, but they’ll come looking, no matter how far away he gets it’ll never be far enough for them to stop. His only remaining option is to showcase. Give them something unusual, something to satiate their blood lust. He needs to get close, the kind of closeness that comes with gutting a man, ramming the blade in through soft tissue and thrusting in an upward motion to maximize the damage. That’s it, that’s what he’s got to do, get close enough to Malkie Thompson to open him up, to get intimate, to taste his last stinking dying breath, to leave him squirming in his own mess to die slow, his eyes dulling to the light.
The pay-as-you-go phone’s vibrating in his pocket. He takes it out, the ID caller unknown. His index finger taps at the green telephone icon. ‘Yes.’
‘Brantock Hill Farm. Two for one. Last chance, don’t mess it up.’ The line goes dead. Five, maybe six seconds at best. Enough for him to analyse the background noise, the sound of heavy traffic. He guesses the caller’s using a motorway services payphone to ensure anonymity.
The gunman takes out his second handset, his personal iPhone; on any other job he’d never contemplate using it, but needs must. He uses the satellite view to scope the area. He identifies the farmhouse and the surrounding scrubland, his eyes scan the grid format, he uses the zoom-in function to locate the entry and exit points. There are a couple of outbuildings obscuring the approach road. Scrolling across the screen, he identifies a single-track road not much wider than a sheep trail approaching from the northwest. He checks the grid reference; it’ll take him within quarter of a mile of the house.
He screenshots the image, and saves it to file. Satisfied, he nods his head. Malkie Thompson—dead man walking. No more mistakes, it ends here.
Chapter 18
2:54pm. He checks the weather app on his iPhone, forecast indicates heavy rain, he leans forward over the steering wheel and looks up, storm clouds already rolling in. The Land Rover Defender gets him close, but not close enough. He still has a quarter of a mile to cover on foot. He estimates a three to four minute light jog to be enough to get him in position, to get eyes on the target. He knows that by now they’ll be expecting someone to come for them, they’ll be prepped. Could be holed up in the house or any of the outbuildings. The dynamics have evolved, two for one. Thompson’s got back up in the form of Mayer or Patterson, they’re both legends. He doubts that Thompson would have gone outside the inner circle. Least that’s what he hopes for. He doesn’t need any further complications. The clocks ticking, he has to get in fast, get it done, and get out.
