Assassin (15 page)

The next sound he heard was the metallic rattle of a slide.

Someone else in the woods was carrying an automatic.

Carter turned and saw a man moving towards them, the bulky shape of a Browning Hi-Power gripped in his fist. It was aimed at the trio.

'Are you Vaughn?' Drake asked as the man drew nearer and, as he did, Carter was able to see that he was limping slightly.

The man nodded.

'Drake?' he asked.

He nodded and quickly introduced his companions.

'Excuse the gun,' said Vaughn. 'But you can't be too careful. Have you got the money?'

Drake nodded.

'You got the guns?' he asked.

Quartermaster Andrew Vaughn crossed to the back of the van and opened it up. He pulled a torch from his belt and shone it inside the vehicle, pulling back the blankets which covered three boxes. The other men moved-closer to get a better look.

'The best there is,' said' Vaughn, motioning towards the boxes as if he were a travelling salesman.

The first box was full to the brim with pistols..38's, .45's, .357's, semi-automatic and automatic weapons. Carter even noticed a couple of Lugers and a short-barrelled Mauser. Revolvers and automatics of all descriptions. Lying alongside them were several sub-machine guns. He spotted a dozen Ingram's, some Uzi's, a Skorpion machine pistol. Some had the stocks attached.

In another box lay a selection of rifles. Many equipped with telescopic sights. Carter saw some 7.62 GPMG's, 4.85mm rifles and at least half a dozen Ar-18 Sterlings.

'There's enough ammo in here,' said Vaughn patting the third box, 'to fight World War Three.'

'I think that's what Harrison wants to do,' said McIntire, eyeing the weapons.

'I tried to get grenades too but there are limits to what even I can manage,' the quartermaster said, smiling.

'And you reckon that no one's going to miss this stuff?' Carter asked, motioning towards the weapons.

'I've been in charge of the armoury for the last seven years’ Vaughn told him. 'I know exactly what goes in and out. Only me.' He rubbed the top of his leg and winced. 'Bloody leg,' he muttered. 'Gives me trouble every now and then.'

'Did you get hurt in Northern Ireland?' McIntire asked.

Vaughn nodded.

'It comes and goes; he said heroically, careful not to mention that the injury had been sustained when his jeep had run into a lamppost and not as the result of the attentions of an IRA sniper.

Carter and the others began loading the weapons and ammunition into the back of the Audi, spreading the load as evenly as they could to prevent the back of the vehicle tilting downwards too much. The last thing they wanted while driving back to London was an inquisitive policeman checking their boot.

Vaughn stood watching the men complete the job.

Drake finally crossed to the car and returned carrying a small suitcase which he handed to the soldier. Vaughn laid it on the bonnet of his van and unzipped it.

'You can count it if you like; Drake told him. 'But it's all there; Two hundred and fifty thousand, like we agreed.'

Vaughn pulled one of the fifty pound notes from its wad and sniffed it. He kissed the note then returned it to its place amongst the other cash.

'Who else do you deal with?' Carter asked.

'Anyone who pays me; the quartermaster told him.
'This
is my religion, my belief.' He motioned to the money. 'I'd sell guns to the IRA if they made me the right offer.'

'You sold to anyone else from London recently?' the driver wanted to know.

Vaughn shook his head.

Carter locked stares with him for a moment and then climbed back into the Audi. He twisted the key in the ignition, allowing the engine to turn over a few times before stepping on the accelerator and driving off.

Vaughn watched the car disappear down the road.

'Good hunting,' he murmured as he clambered back into his own vehicle and drove off in the opposite direction, the case full of money on the passenger seat beside him.

The woods were quiet once more.

The knife came free with difficulty.

Wedged as it was, deep in the thick wood of the table and also through John Kenning's hand, the knife was finally torn out only by a tremendous surge of strength from Phillip Walton. As the blade was removed, Kenning fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding hand and moaning in pain.

Walton was on him in seconds, the steel pressed against his face, the point digging into his cheek.

'Get up you fucking parasite,' he hissed.

Kenning tried to get to his feet but he put his weight on his injured hand and collapsed again.

Walton brought the heel of his shoe down hard on to the bleeding appendage, grinding into the savage gash.

'Get up,' he roared, gripping Kenning by the collar and tugging him bodily to his feet. He shoved the other man hard against the wall and stood against him, the knife pressed at his throat.

'Please,' blurted Kenning. 'I've got money. Don't hurt me. Take as much as you want. My wife ...'

Walton hawked loudly and spat into Kenning's face. The mucoid lump hit him below the eye and rolled down his cheek like a thick tear.

'You want to see your wife?' hissed Walton.

'Please don't hurt her. Please.' Tears were forming in his eyes, tears of pain and fear. The burning sensation from his ruined hand seemed to be devouring his whole arm. His fingers were already numb. Kenning's breath came in short gasps and, when he tried to swallow, he found that his throat was dry.

'Get upstairs,' Walton snapped, pushing the other man before him, kicking him hard in the back when he stumbled.

As he dragged himself up to the first floor, Kenning saw, through pain-blurred eyes, that more damage had been wrought.

There was excrement smeared on the walls, the stench making him feel sick. But that nausea was tempered by the terror which engulfed him like a dark glove. He reached the top of the stairs and found himself pushed towards one of the bedrooms.

Inside the room, Sharon Kenning sat tied to a chair with strips of sheet torn from the bed which itself had been subjected to the same orgiastic slashing that the suite downstairs had suffered. Springs protruded through the slashed mattress like the broken bones of a compound fracture.

Next to his wife, Kenning saw his mother, Mary, similarly bound.

Beside her stood Jennifer Thomas, a knife pressed to the old woman's throat.

Both women had been gagged.

'Let them go,' pleaded Kenning, his eyes filling with tears once more.

Walton struck him hard across the back of the neck and he fell to the ground between the two women who both stared down at him, their eyes bulging in fear. Sharon Kenning saw the blood from her husband's injured hand and shook her head. She suddenly thought of their son.

'Please, we have money,' Kenning said, wiping his eyes, trying to regain his composure. 'I'll give you whatever you want, just don't kill us.'

As the others watched, Walton unzipped his fly, hauled out his penis and began urinating on Kenning. The stream of yellow fluid spattered into the businessman who tried to shield his face but, as he opened his mouth to scream, some of the vile fluid filled his mouth. He gagged and then vomited violently. Walton continued urinating.

'Piss on your fucking money,' he said, grinning.

Jennifer Thomas laughed.

So did Paul Gardner.

And Mark Paxton.

Kenning spat the last few bitter-tasting dregs from his mouth and tried to stand up.

As he did, Michael Grant entered the room, followed b Maria Chalfont. '

Grant was carrying the machete.

'He says he's got money,' chuckled Walton.

'As much as you want,' Kenning gasped. 'Let me get it.' Grant nodded.

'What the hell are you playing at?' snarled Walton, glaring at his companion who was watching as Kenning fumbled with a wall safe behind him. He had difficulty turning the combination lock because of the pain from his hand but, finally, he tugged the door open and hauled out bundles of notes and some jewellery. He held them out to Grant as if they were offerings, objects which might pacify him.

'We don't want your money,' Grant said flatly, hefting the machete in front of him.

'Take it, please,' wailed Kenning, Dropping to his knees. 'Please don't hurt us. Please God ...'

The sentence was cut short as Grant struck him with the machete.

The blade powered into his left shoulder, smashing the clavicle. Blood ran from the savage wound, staining Kenning's urine-drenched shirt.

'No,' he screamed in agony. 'For Christ's sake.' He was sobbing now. 'Oh Jesus Christ .. no ...'

The machete descended again, cutting deep into his raised forearm.

The money fell to the floor.

'For God's sake .. please ... no.'

The machete caught him across the top of the head, splitting his scalp, cracking bone. The rent seemed to grow bigger until a throbbing portion of brain forced its way free like a bloated tumour. Blood ran down his face.

He fell forward, still sobbing, his words now more garbled.

'Jesus ... God Almighty ... oh God ...'

His wife tried to scream, her eyes bulging wide, the bile forcing its way up from her stomach as she watched her husband die.

His mother fainted.

Jennifer Thomas slapped the old woman's face, reviving her, ensuring that she didn't miss any of the spectacle.

The machete struck Kenning on the back. On the side.

On the face.

The lower back.

Blood jetted in all directions.

Grant continued hacking at the businessman who was curled up in a foetal position moaning. Low, gurgling noises in a throat filled with blood.

Maria Chalfont felt the wetness between her legs as she watched.

Phillip Walton looked on disinterestedly.

Mark Paxton burst a spot on his neck and sniffed at the pus, tasting it briefly before wiping it on the bedclothes.

'God ... God ...'

Kenning's cries were like the agonised lowings of a bullock.

Grant took one last maniacal swipe at him then stepped back, his breath coming in gasps, his clothes drenched in blood.

The killers in the room looked down at the butchered carcass, almost savouring the last spasmodic twitchings, the soft rasp as the sphincter muscle gave out.

Then, they turned on the women.

The flat was small but tidy. The damp which was inexorably creeping up the walls had been washed off and covered with emulsion paint, the threadbare carpets had been vacuumed. There was a pleasant smell about the dwelling.

Which was more than could be said for the man who stood in the doorway of Nikki Jones' flat.

She turned to the customer who stood motionless in the hall.

'Well, come in, shut the door, you're letting all the heat out,' she told him, trying to disguise the impatience in her voice. She didn't really like the look of this bloke whom she'd picked up just twenty minutes earlier. She liked the smell of him even less. When he'd first approached her she had thought about refusing, such had been the vile odour he gave off. She'd encountered a few dirty sods during her three years as a prostitute and usually insisted they take a bath or shower before they got down to business but, as she'd opened her mouth to turn this latest customer down, he'd flashed a wad of twenty pound notes almost an inch thick and Nikki had had a change of heart. She could always hold her breath. Perhaps she noticed dirtiness so acutely because of her own attention to cleanliness. She kept herself, her flat and her baby spotlessly clean.

The child was sleeping in the other room and Nikki made her way to the door to check on him, slipping off her coat as she did so, revealing the tight, white T-shirt and leather mini-skirt beneath.

'Sit down,' she told her guest. 'I'll get you a drink in a minute.' And a deodorant, she mused, as she passed into he son's room.

In the sitting room, the man in the dark coat sat down, gloved hands folded across his lap, the scarf still wrapped tightly around his face.

Nikki pulled the door of her child's room closed behind her, not wanting to disturb him with the light which was flooding through from the sitting room. He was sleeping, the sheets pulled up to his neck. She leant over and pulled them down, tucking a loose comer around him then she bent lower and kissed his head.

'I love you,' she whispered and stood for long seconds gazing down at the boy. He was almost two years old and Nikki still had no idea who the father was. It could have been one of her customers, or it may have been any one of the half a dozen pimps she'd worked with during the past three years. She didn't know. Didn't
want
to know. He was hers, that was all that mattered. She hated having to bring customers back to the flat but it was her place of work after all. During the day she could afford to send him to a child-minder while she entertained her clients with a `soothing massage' (that, at least was the wording in the magazines she advertised in). But in the evenings she had him with her in the flat. One of her customers had once asked if the child could be included in the session for a hundred pounds extra. Nikki had told him to leave immediately. Sick bastard. Some people had no morals at all.

She kissed her son once more and then retreated back into the sitting room where her guest was still sitting at one end of the sofa looking distractedly around the room.

'Take your coat off,' she told him, increasingly irritated by his distant attitude. She knew that many of the men she brought back to the flat were nervous but this bloke showed no sign of anxiety, merely an unnerving detachment from the proceedings. Perhaps he was in a hurry, she told herself. Well, if that was the case, fine. The quicker she got the smelly bastard out the better. She crossed to a drinks' trolley and poured herself a small whisky.

'Would you like a drink?' she asked.

He shook his head.