Exit wound ns-12 Read online

  Dex checked his watch. ‘Twenty minutes.’

  We settled cross-legged between the two wagons and waited.

  I scooped up handfuls of sand and let it run through my fingers. Dex stretched to ease the tension in his shoulder muscles. ‘Chaps, what about us chipping away just a few ounces to take back home? We’ll get it through Customs, no problem. I thought I’d get three rings made for us.’

  Red Ken lit yet another B amp;H. ‘Soft in the head.’

  ‘I was thinking of inscribing mine with my new motto. “Saddam gratias tibi ago.”’

  I had to ask. ‘Which means?’

  ‘“Thank you, Saddam.”’

  36

  The navigation lights were clearly visible in the black sky long before we heard the jets. A few hundred metres ahead of us, the landing-strip lights suddenly fired up and the desert turned into a stretch of the M25.

  We climbed on top of the Tata. No other light sources were visible in any direction.

  Red Ken flicked his B amp;H into the sand to join the others. ‘Nick, make sure you grip that girl. Keep a bound away and back us.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for, mate.’

  Dex held out a hand to each of us. ‘Good luck, chaps.’

  We jumped down and got to work. Dex and Red Ken were going to drive down to the aircraft in the Tata. I’d follow.

  The plane screamed in. The moment it had taxied to a halt, the landing-strip lights were doused. We bounced onto the tarmac. Spag was supposed to be waiting on the link road between the single track and the perimeter fence.

  I kept the window up.

  ‘Sherry?’

  I got a muffled ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stay low. Don’t move, no matter what. Help us by keeping out of the way and you could be free in a couple of hours.’

  The brake-lights ahead glowed red. I kept a distance of thirty metres, headlights on full beam. The Taurus was under my right thigh. My lights picked out what looked like a white version of Postman Pat’s van at the junction with the metalled track. Spag was in the driver’s seat.

  Red Ken jumped down from the Tata and Spag wriggled out of the Nissan Cube. They waffled for a while. Red Ken waved me up to them and Dex also got out. By the time I’d joined them, Spag was going ballistic about the missing crate.

  Red Ken was calm. ‘You’re lucky we got that many out before we got compromised. You could have lost the lot.’

  Spag spun on his heel. ‘Jee-sus Christ!’

  Red Ken put up an arm. ‘You’re Mr Fucking Sirloin. You sort it, or go and get it yourself.’

  Spag turned back, pointing up at Red Ken’s chin. ‘If I find you’ve screwed the deal over-’

  ‘You’ll what? Listen, crap-hat – if we’d wanted to play silly buggers we’d have taken the lot and wouldn’t be here. So let’s crack on and get the job done.’

  It was Red Ken’s turn to do the pointing. ‘OK, this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay with me all the way through. If we get stitched up, you’ll be the first to get the good news. Dex?’

  Dex drew down his weapon.

  Spag’s finger shook like a battery-operated vibrator. ‘We agreed – no weapons!’

  Red Ken wanted to move on. ‘How many on the aircraft?’

  ‘Two pilots and two or three guys to load up. That’s it.’

  ‘OK. I go with you in your car. We load, and then we come back here and we all go our different ways. Until then, you’re mine.’ He was already heading for the right-hand seat of the Cube. Dex climbed back into the Tata. Seconds later, all three vehicles were paralleling the black strip of tarmac, lights killed.

  The aircraft was ahead. A dim glow came from the open cargo door at the rear. It got brighter as we got closer. Soon I could make out four bodies and a long conveyor-belt sloping from the tarmac to the plane’s interior.

  I held back as the Tata and the Cube pulled up alongside it. The flatbed became a blur of activity.

  I got out of the Yukon to the whine of idling jets. These boys were going to turn around as quickly as they could and fuck off again. The markings on the fuselage told me it was a French-made Dassault Falcon business jet. It had three engines at the back. Its registration mark was on the centre engine covering that made up part of the tail. It looked big enough to cross from Europe to the USA without a refuel, so its destination could have been pretty much anywhere. I’d never seen the RF designation before. I hadn’t a clue what country it belonged to.

  All four crew were in the pool of light spilling from the cargo door. They were all white. The pilots wore crisp white shirts and black ties. The two loadies were in jeans and short-sleeved shirts. Both had short back and sides. The smaller had sideburns that ended below his ears. The larger had a tattoo on the back of his neck, a phoenix surrounded by flames that seemed to rear from his collar. His arms were almost solid black with designs.

  The pilots walked back through the cabin and into the cockpit.

  There was a whine as the crane began doing its stuff. Dex stood on the ground with the control box. He manoeuvred the hook towards the two in jeans, who were attaching straps in readiness.

  I could make out Red Ken’s head the other side of the cab. Spag’s bobbed into view now and again.

  I kept my eyes beyond the activity, checking the periphery for movement, light or sound.

  37

  The final crate was about to hit the rollers. I watched from just beyond the light. Dex stood on the Tata’s flatbed with the control box. Spag and Red Ken were the other side of the cab, just out of sight.

  A movement caught my eye from inside the aircraft. A body crossed the front cabin window. My eyes flicked to the cockpit. I could only see part of it, but the pilots were both mincing about with the controls.

  Spag had said two or three, plus crew. The body crossed the next window, heading to the rear of the aircraft. It wasn’t running.

  The last crate disappeared into the hold and the two loadies jumped down to dismantle the conveyor. Dex brought the crane back into the idle.

  The face that appeared at the cabin door was Middle Eastern – with a nose like a Roman emperor. The body was tall and angular. He surveyed the scene. He wasn’t in uniform or jeans. He wore a tan windcheater and trousers. His eyes scanned the pool of light, like an ageing rock star looking out at his audience. His eyes were hooded, but unforgettable.

  As quickly as he’d appeared, he jerked back inside the cabin and the two loadies drew down.

  ‘Gun!’

  The first rounds kicked off.

  My pistol was out but Dex was already falling. He hit the edge of the flatbed and cartwheeled onto the runway, drilled by Tattoo’s semi-automatic.

  I broke into a run.

  38

  At this range, it was going to be difficult to take them down. I closed in. I could now see the second loadie. His muzzle flashes bounced around in the darkness. He was firing into the other two down on the tarmac.

  Dex lay very still in a pool of his blood. His face was in lumps.

  The other two were covered with blood. It looked like Spag had tried to make a run for it. He was lying a short distance from Red Ken.

  Tattoo must have detected movement.

  He dropped to his knee in Dex’s blood and his head swivelled like a reptile’s. His eyes homed in on me. As he pushed the mag-release catch with his thumb, his left hand went behind him. The mag fell onto what was left of Dex’s head. Tattoo’s left hand returned, clutching a new mag.

  I didn’t have time to go stable to take my shot. But even ten metres was too far for a revolver on the move. He didn’t flinch as I fired. The top slide was back on his weapon, ready to receive the new mag. He was calm and controlled.

  I made more ground, weapon up.

  I fired the Taurus twice more. Tattoo had a whole magazine – twelve, thirteen, maybe twenty rounds if it had an extension. I had just three left, and then the speed loader. I hoped he might turn away or fumble the mag change to
give me time for a decent close-range shot, but this boy was too good. In almost the same movement he pushed in the fresh mag and released the top slide with his thumb. It flew forward and picked up a round as he brought it up.

  The guy behind him went down on his knee and reloaded.

  Tattoo had both eyes open as I ran into his sight picture.

  I jinked left.

  He fired.

  I jinked again, and this time I turned. I ran hard, focused on the Yukon, blanking out the gunshots behind me. No evasive action, none of that shit now. I just kept going. The three of them were dead. There was nothing I could do for them.

  The firing behind me was more distant. Only a lucky shot would take me down. All he could do was pump out the rounds and hope.

  Just metres to the car.

  The tiniest movement of the barrel translates into an enormous diversion of the round.

  Head down, almost at the door.

  No shouts behind me, no confusion, just more shots.

  I grabbed the door handle, jumped into the seat and saw both of them running forward, dumping magazines and throwing in new ones.

  I took a breath to slow everything down.

  Key in, ignition on.

  The windscreen took a round top right. It crazed like a spider’s web but the toughened glass held. I pushed my foot to the floor and the auto-transmission did its stuff. I steered for the gate on full beam, hit the main road and swung the vehicle left.

  There was no follow-up in the rear-view – at least, none using headlights.

  Why would they bother? They’d got everything they wanted, apart from one crate.

  I fought to contain the emotion that boiled inside me. Anger wasn’t going to help get me out of here. First I had to pick up my passport and then get out of Dubai – maybe head east for Oman a couple of hours’ north. Once I was safe, I’d call Julian. He’d get me out of the shit.

  I was back on the coast road. The city soon glowed on the horizon. A few K more and, as I passed the rest area where we’d loaded the Suburban, I could see the warning lights blink on top of the skyscrapers.

  Six K later I was pulling into wasteland just inside the city limits. I jumped out, looking for something hard to do some damage. ‘Sherry, it’s OK – get up.’

  The ground was littered with piles of broken-up concrete blocks and reinforcement rods from the construction sites all around us. A lump of concrete would work for me.

  By the time I got back to the wagon she was sitting up with the blanket still over her head. ‘You don’t need that any more.’ I opened the rear door. One look at what I had in my hand confirmed her worst fears. ‘God, please, no!’

  I headed for the windscreen. ‘Shut up and get out!’

  I started by giving the bullet hole a couple of hits to disguise it. Sherry stood there, the blanket still in her hand. ‘You’re safe, Sherry. It’s all over. I’m fucking off now and so should you. If you want to see your husband, don’t say a word to anyone. If you do, you’re in the shit with the UAE.’

  I didn’t give her time to answer. She just needed gripping. ‘Go get the windscreen replaced.’ I gave her half the money I had on me. She took the cash and didn’t say a word or even draw breath before jumping into the driver’s seat and hitting the gas. Fair one.

  I watched her rear lights melt into the mass of streetlights and neon before I started walking in the same direction.

  39

  First light

  I asked the driver to drop me off along the Creek, just past the tunnel. I walked along the waterfront towards the toilet block a K away. There were a lot of people about, despite the time of day. Indians and Filipinos, of course. The traffic was constant but not dense.

  I stopped short of the toilet block, taking a seat inside one of the space-age bus shelters. I looked and watched, clearing the area around one of our known locations. It would have appeared a long shot to the lads who’d been following us, but one they would have considered.

  I’d take the others’ passports and cash as well. They had no use for them now.

  A couple of old Indian women came and sat down beside me. They ignored the white man in shit state who was waiting for a bus.

  I couldn’t see a Toyota or Mazda, no one sitting in any vehicle, just the odd guy going in and coming pretty much straight out again. Everything looked normal.

  I nodded goodbye to the women and headed down the subway. I turned left as I emerged and went straight into the toilet block. It was empty.

  I felt along the shelf. There was nothing.

  Shit.

  I started running to the door. I was heading out into the market area, anywhere I could make distance and lose myself down alleyways, behind buildings, anywhere to escape.

  A body crashed into me in the doorway. I stumbled backwards. There were another two, maybe three, behind him. They flooded me, and as my head hit the wall I caught a flash of blue shirt. The next thing I heard was the crackle of a Tazer. A nanosecond later, my body exploded and I dropped.

  PART FOUR

  40

  I came round feeling like I’d been on a four-day bender. My mouth was as dry as sand and my teeth were coated with fur. I breathed out and the blanket bounced it back at me. It wasn’t my best day out.

  I forced my eyes open and looked around. I was in an orange jumpsuit. I was in a cell. There weren’t any windows, just a fluorescent light with a mesh cover fixed flush with the ceiling. The walls were plain plaster. I could see scrawls in English. There was a familiar institutional smell, a mixture of school dinners and cleaning fluid.

  I vaguely remembered being moved and shoved about…lying on a stretcher… the horrible feeling of waking up wet because I’d pissed myself.

  I rubbed my face. My hands grazed a good two days’ worth of stubble.

  They definitely had eyes on me. It wasn’t more than a minute before I heard boots squeaking down a corridor. I studied the sheet-metal door. There was no peephole or any of that stuff off The Bill. There’d be fibre-optics or some sort of shit chased into the walls.

  Keys jangled and the lock turned with a heavy clunk. I got my head under my arms, curled up and waited.

  The door burst open and boots and blue trousers headed my way. They were black Hi-Tec, high-leg boots. This was feeling more familiar by the second. I ventured an eye upwards to see two Brit policemen in white short-sleeved shirts, one balding, one with a shaven head. Neither looked in much of a mood to fuck about. They grabbed hold of me. The shaven-headed one had ginger-freckled hands. He did the business with issue cuffs, the ones with a rigid link between them. Even the sight of those was comforting.

  His massive fist closed around the link and jerked me to my feet. No words, just actions. He tugged the link behind him and I followed as fast as I could to relieve the pain of the steel against my wrists. My legs took a while to spark up and I had to keep my arms horizontal.

  Metal doors lined the narrow corridor. Every one of them was closed, and the ID plates bore no name, blood group or religion. Either I was the only one in here, or they were playing mind games.

  Were they trying to disorient me? Then why wear watches that agreed with the big wall clock ahead of us? They all said just after three o’clock. A.m. or p.m., what did I care? At least I wasn’t lying dead on an airstrip or banged up next to Sherry’s old man. Whatever, it was time to buckle up. Things could still get hairy, depending who had brought me here.

  They hauled me into an interrogation room. Why they called them interview rooms I hadn’t a clue. We all knew what went on inside them.

  The steel table in the middle had four tubular legs bolted to the floor. The two bench seats either side were also fixed. The walls were cream. The paint, I could smell, was fresh. I wondered what had happened to the last occupant to prompt a makeover.

  Fluorescent lights were set into the ceiling, like in the cell. Nothing to grab, nothing to pull out.

  The two handlers’ boots squeaked over the polished
tiles and came to a halt. They turned me round and plonked me by the bench furthest from the door. I kept looking down. My bare feet had left a trail of sweaty prints across the floor.

  I was allowed to sit myself down, but they attached my cuffs to the retaining chain welded to the table. I was free to move my hands, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

  They turned and left the room. I was being watched, of course. There weren’t any two-way mirrors. This place had cameras in each corner.

  I sat there with the strange sense of comfort that came from being somewhere that felt familiar. Red Ken and Dex had been right. There was no way I was going to fester in a Dubai jail.

  The squeaks came down the corridor once more, and the door was unbolted. It wasn’t Ginger who came in armed with two steaming mugs, but Julian, the Premiership player from the funeral.

  He unbuttoned his single-breasted pinstripe. Even though he was dressed like an upmarket estate agent, always had an annoyingly perfect Windsor knot in his tie and an immaculately pressed, double-cuffed shirt, I had him down as one of the good guys from the Security Service.

  I’d been hoping this had something to do with him, and couldn’t hide my relief. But now that he was in front of me I couldn’t be sure if it was going to be good or bad. After all, he still had me chained up.

  At least he was smiling. That made me feel a little better.

  I smiled weakly back. ‘Hello, mate.’

  The door closed behind him but it wasn’t locked. Ginger and his baldy mate would be hovering just in case I did a Houdini and went for the throat of one of MI5’s big cheeses.

  He sat down opposite me and passed across a mug of mud-coloured instant. ‘I’m not sure if you wanted it, but I added sugar.’

  I picked it up between my manacled hands and went to get it down my neck. Old habits die hard. You never know when the next one’s coming, or whether they’ll whisk this one away just as you take your first sip.