A Time For Justice (18 page)

Henry lay there terrified.

The man started walking down the alley to where Ralphie and
the girl were hiding.

She was crying.

Ralphie was immobile. He exchanged a glance with Henry, whose
expression said nothing.

‘
Stand up,’ the man ordered Ralphie. He ignored Henry and the
girl.

‘
No, please, don’t, don’t, what’s this all about? Please, I
haven’t done anything.’

The target finished squirming. Henry eased himself to one side
underneath the weight and his right hand slowly snaked out towards
his revolver which was still in the target’s outstretched right
hand.

‘
I said stand up.’

Ralphie, quivering, got slowly to his feet.

‘
Face the wall,’ the man said. He spoke with an American
accent. The gun was six inches further than Henry could reach
without drawing attention to himself.

‘
Nooo!’
screamed the black girl. She
was already on her knees, her hands covering her face, rocking back
and forth like a baby in a cot.

Ralphie faced the wall, his nose pressed up to the
brickwork.

The man walked across to the girl and gave one violent blow to
the back of her head with his revolver butt; she fell silent. He
went to Ralphie then and said, ‘You know what this is for, don’t
you?’

‘
No.’

‘
Double-crossing Corelli. No one does that, Mr
Brown.’

‘
Look. . . Jesus Christ!’

‘
Too late for Him.’

He pulled the trigger four times, putting the bullets into the
back of Ralphie’s head. Ralphie jerked into the wall with the
impact and slithered to the ground. The man didn’t bother to check
if he was dead: he knew. Even whilst Ralphie was slithering he was
walking away down the alley.

Shocked for an instant by what he’d witnessed - an execution -
and still unable to believe it, Henry heaved the target’s body off
himself, prised the gun out of his dead fingers and pointed at the
man’s retreating back.

‘
Stop!’ he shouted. He aimed the gun, but his hand was
shaking. The man barely glanced round before turning left at the
top of the alley and disappearing.

Henry, who’d shouted his command from a seated position, rose
quickly to his feet. He looked at the bloody scene which surrounded
him. It was like a street in the capital of Rwanda, littered with
bodies. The girl moaned.

Henry knew he had a decision to make. He made it quickly. He
went after the man.

Running was very painful. His ribs jarred each time a foot
crashed to the pavement. He kept his left arm pressed tightly
across his chest in a V-shape to support himself.

As he ran he checked that his gun was loaded, releasing the
cylinder with the thumb of his right hand and flicking it back into
place when he saw the chambers were full. On his belt at the small
of his back was a leather ring which held a spare speed loader
primed with six more .38s. The gorilla had missed it when searching
him, as he’d missed the PR.

He veered out of the alley and ran in the direction of the
promenade. About a quarter of a mile ahead of him the Tower loomed,
bristling with lights.

He soon hit the Golden Mile. And people. Hundreds of people.
He couldn’t see the killer.

‘
Get out of the fuckin’ way,’ he screamed, repeating it as he
ran.

The crowd opened for him like the Red Sea as people scattered.
Not surprising as it must have frightened the life out of everyone
to see Henry careering towards them in his present
condition.

Blood was still pouring from the reopened cut on the side of
his face, as well as from his nose and mouth. His face was battered
black and blue by the assault and his hair was in total disarray,
matted with an unpleasant mixture of blood and cold, rotting food.
There was a large area of blood and gore right aross his chest
where the target had emptied the contents of the back of his head.
With Henry’s left arm wedged where it was, it must’ve looked like
he’d sustained a massive injury of some sort.

His clothing was torn and filthy. And he was waving a gun
about.

And he was screaming like a madman.

He was only vaguely aware of the shouts, the music blaring out
of the amusement arcades, the cars nose to tail, moving with
desperate slowness one-way up the promenade.

Suddenly the man was there. Dead ahead. Unaware that Henry was
behind him.

‘
Fuckin’ stop now,’ Henry yelled.

The man either didn’t hear or took no notice.

Henry bellowed again. Still no response.

Quickly he pointed his gun out across the promenade to the
Irish Sea and fired a high shot, using the recoil to re-aim at the
man. ‘Stop now,’ Henry said.

The man stopped. But in a blur he turned. There was a gun in
his hand. A child ran across the gap, pursued by his mother - in
the instant that the man fired. She took the bullet intended for
Henry and pirouetted into the road on top of her child.

Henry weaved to retain his view. The man ran into the line of
traffic and sprinted between the cars crawling up the
promenade.

‘
Shit-fuck!’ uttered Henry, aware now, if he wasn’t before, he
was in pursuit of a one-man killing machine.

Hinksman had been pleased to the point of smugness by the way
things had gone. The information had proved correct, the hit had
gone well, he had earned the last part of his money. Now all he had
to do was get lost in the crowd, make his way to Manchester, then
leave this godforsaken country. He was already thinking about the
Great Barrier Reef.

He hadn’t bothered to find out who the goons were beating up.
He’d simply eliminated everyone who appeared to be a potential
threat - good, sound practice - then taken out Brown, finished the
job. Four into the back of the head - a classic professional
hit.

Now, as he twisted away into the traffic, he bitterly
regretted not shooting the man on the ground. He hadn’t seemed a
potential threat, just some half-dead loser. How was he to know the
bastard was a cop?

Hinksman rolled spectacularly across the bonnet of a car like
a stuntman, much to the surprise of its occupants, and started to
put some distance between himself and the cop.

He glanced round. Yes, he was coming.

Hinksman upped his pace, running north along the promenade,
between the cars and coaches, zig-zagging, keeping low, constantly
checking over his shoulder.

Stubbornly the cop remained there.

To Hinksman’s left were tram-tracks which were laid adjacent
and parallel to the road, used by the quaint trams which ran from
Blackpool to Fleetwood in the north; on the other side of them was
the wide pavement area for pedestrians only, then the railings of
the sea wall, then the sea itself. Two hundred metres ahead was the
North Pier, jutting out into the night. To his right was the
Tower.

Hinksman’s mind raced. He quickly calculated how many bullets
he had left in the magazine. He’d fired seven in the alley and one
at the cop - the one which had hit the woman. That left him with
four. The cop had fired one of his own; Hinksman had registered the
fact that the cop’s gun was a six-shot revolver of some sort, so he
was one up. If the cop was any good, one bullet could be a major
advantage if it came to a confrontation. And Hinksman didn’t like
anyone having any advantage over him.

He released the magazine and stuffed it into his waistband,
replacing it with one from his back jeans pocket.

Twelve to five. Good odds.

He swivelled from the hip and fired two in the general
direction of the cop, knowing he’d miss but be close enough to
scare him.

Then he was running again.

At the junction of Talbot Square, the Illuminations traffic
had ground to a complete halt at the traffic lights. Hinksman
looked behind. The cop was still there, but some distance away,
more wary in his pursuit since the warning shots.

Hinksman had reached the point where he had to decide whether
or not to carry on northwards or turn inland into town. The latter
was a manoeuvre he wasn’t completely happy about as it would give
the cop a better target.

Then he had the answer.

In the stationary, nose-to-tail traffic sat a blonde woman in
a red, open-top BMW, hood down, gazing at the Illuminations,
unaware of Hinksman’s approach.

He came alongside her, stopped by the driver’s door, opened
it, and before she could even scream, he grabbed her by the hair
and threw her out onto the road where she landed on her backside in
a bewildered heap.

‘
Thanks darlin’,’ he said and slid into the driver’s seat,
slamming the door, taking possession of the car. He was pleased to
find it was an automatic gearbox. Selecting Reverse he put his foot
down and rammed into the car behind, a Metro driven by an elderly
man.

Hinksman laughed, gave him a wave with the hand holding the
gun, and pushed the stick into Drive.

Now, with room to pull out of the line, he virtually stood on
the accelerator pedal and yanked the steering wheel to the
left.

His plan was to drive across the tram-tracks, onto the
pedestrianised area and head up north where he would abandon the
car and go to ground.

A perfect plan. Except for one major flaw.

The car accelerated very quickly - it had a fuel-injected
2.5-litre engine. Unfortunately, within moments Hinksman was
travelling so fast that there was no earthly chance of avoiding a
collision with a south-bound tram which seemed to appear from
nowhere, bearing down on him at the stately speed of 10
mph.

He saw it, but could do nothing about it. It was just there.
Ten tons of trundling tram. Unmissable.

The front of the car hit the front of the tram head on, and
there could only be one winner. The bonnet crumpled with the impact
and the tram ploughed the car a further 50 metres down the tracks
before the whole mangled mess ground to a screeching, spark-flying
halt.

Although Hinksman braced himself against the steering wheel,
he couldn’t stop himself head-butting the windscreen. He sat there
in the wreckage, dazed for a moment, amazingly still clutching his
gun.

Then instinct took over.

He extricated himself from between the seat and the dashboard,
feeling severe pain in his left leg. He slid over the side of the
car and dropped to the ground on his hands and knees. He picked
himself up and ran - ran like a drunk, staggering from side to
side, feet hardly able to keep him upright. Not knowing where he
was going, just aware that he needed to get away, despite the
pain.

Henry Christie was right behind him, less than 10 metres away.
He could see that the man was injured. It was only a matter of time
and patience now. There was no speed in him any more. Henry slowed
down himself, keeping a safe distance, glad of the opportunity to
get his own breath back.

Hinksman weaved on across towards the sea wall. Just before
the railings he stumbled, tripped and slumped onto his knees. He
remained there for about thirty seconds, wavering. The gun slid out
of his grasp and clattered beside him. Eventually he turned himself
round and sat down, head in hands.

Henry circled him, gun at the ready, unsure of his next
move.

When Hinksman looked up, his mind was clear again, the pain in
his leg dreadful.

The cop was standing in front of him, gun pointed at his head.
Hinksman chuckled.

‘
You’re under arrest,’ Henry said. His gun quivered nervously.
It was the first time he’d ever pointed it at anyone. ‘Put your
hands on your head - now.’

Hinksman shook his head. ‘You turn around and walk away,’ he
told Henry. ‘And you get two million dollars. That’s a
promise.’

‘
Hands on your head,’ Henry said.

‘
Okay, three million. Just think. Three million dollars. What
could you do with that, cop?’

‘
I said you’re under arrest. Now do what I say, or I’ll shoot
you.’

‘
Fuck,’ winced Hinksman as a pain shot up through his leg like
a million volts. ‘This is your last chance - three and a half
million. And remember, I just saved your life too.’

‘
Perhaps you should’ve killed me when you had the
chance.’

‘
Maybe I’ll just have to kill you now.’

He looked for his gun, saw it within reach of his
hand.

‘
If you move, I’ll shoot you,’ Henry warned him again. His
breathing had become shallow, body tensed up.

‘
No, you won’t. You’re a fuckin’ terrified limey cop with no
guts. You don’t shoot people. I’m gonna pick this up and blow your
fuckin’ head off. Just watch.’

‘
Don’t make me do it,’ Henry said quickly, doubting whether he
could. ‘I can do it ... I
will
do it. Now
put your
hands on your head!’