Die Twice (42 page)

I felt the hairs prickle on the back of my neck like it was being stroked by a poltergeist. Something was wrong with this whole thing. Very wrong. I pushed back in my seat, feeling the comforting closeness of the Glock rubbing against the small of my back, confident that if I had to use it then at least I knew it would fire.

‘This is it, the one with the light on. That's where we're meeting.'

‘What time's it set for again?' I asked.

‘Ten thirty.'

I looked at my watch. Ten past. ‘Better early than late, I suppose.'

Eric slowed the car and turned into the forecourt, watching for any signs of activity.

But there were none. No movement, no voices, no nothing. The place was as deserted as a cemetery.

Eric brought the Range Rover to a halt outside the delivery doors.

‘Well, someone's been here tonight,' I said.

‘It doesn't look like they're here now,' said Eric, peering inside.

There was a growing tension in the car. You could almost smell it.

‘You definitely got the time right?' I said.

‘Course I did,' snapped Fowler, who looked the most nervous of any of us by a long chalk. ‘It's still early, remember?' He leant forward in his seat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. His left leg was shaking uncontrollably and, for some reason, I found myself enjoying his discomfort.

‘Maybe we should drive in there and take a look around,' said Tony, also leaning forward. ‘What do you think, Max? We could take up positions so we're ready when they get here.'

It seemed as good an idea as any. ‘Yeah, let's do that. It can't do any harm.' Which was a statement I was to remember for the rest of my days.

Eric touched the accelerator and we drove in through the gap in the doors.

The place was about twenty yards deep by ten yards wide, and empty aside from a row of ancient-looking oil drums which stood a few feet in front of a door in the far right-hand corner. Above the door was a long balcony that stretched the width of the room and overlooked the front of the car. A number of unmarked boxes were positioned along it, some of them stacked two or three high. I looked up at them for any sign of activity, but everything was still. As still as the grave, as my grandma used to say before she was lowered into her own.

The Range Rover stopped in the middle of the floor. Eric put it into neutral and pulled up the handbrake. He too looked up at the boxes. ‘Perfect place for an ambush,' he said quietly, almost to himself. ‘Saw something like this back in Ulster.'

‘Look, this is just a fucking meeting,' said Fowler impatiently. ‘Nothing more. All right?'

‘It was while we were based out of Londonderry. The RUC got a call from some woman, said she'd been raped out by this disused old factory. This was in the old days, way back at the beginning of the seventies, before they'd got wise to the way the provos worked. The Officials were still around then and they tended to play it more by the book. Anyway, they despatched a car with three RUC men in it to pick her up, and an ambulance as well. Just in case. She'd made the call from a phone box outside the factory gates, but when the car got there, they saw her wandering about inside the grounds, you know, all distraught and that.'

The car fell silent. All you could hear was Fowler's heavy breathing in the back.

‘So they drove in through the gates and went down to pick her up. She saw them, started crying hysterically, and ran off into the building, like she couldn't come to terms with getting near any men so soon after what'd happened. The RUC car stopped in front of it and the coppers, all blokes, went to get out. None of them drew their guns, they didn't want to unnerve her, and I don't think the poor bastards ever suspected a thing.

‘They never even got their feet on the ground. A couple of provo gunmen stuck their Armalites out of the windows on the second floor, right above the car, and started shooting on fully automatic. The driver was killed outright.'

‘What about the one in the front seat passenger side?' I asked.

‘If I remember rightly, he died later in hospital.'

‘Great. That's a real fucking help, that is.'

‘Fucking hell, Eric,' snorted Tony. ‘Make us all feel better, why don't you?'

‘I wouldn't worry too much, Tone. Or you,' Eric added, meaning Fowler. ‘The one in the back survived. Got hit in the neck but the bullet passed straight through. Didn't touch a single one of his main cables. Far as I know the bloke's still alive.'

‘Stop joking around, and keep your wits about you,' hissed Fowler. ‘That's what I'm paying you for.'

Eric's face clouded over. He didn't like taking shit from anyone, even paying customers. ‘You know, Max, I'm beginning to think this job's worth a lot more than what I'm getting for it.'

‘Life's an underpaid occupation, Eric,' I told him. ‘Everyone knows that.' I looked at my watch again. 10.14. ‘I'm going to take a look around.'

Fowler leant forward abruptly. ‘I don't think that's a good idea, Mr Iversson. It's best we stick together and wait for them to come.'

‘I won't go far. I just want to check things out.'

‘Look, I insist…'

I stepped out of the car, ignoring his pleas. I'm pretty good with the punters usually, to tell you the truth, but it wasn't as if I was going to get any repeat business from this prick, plus I already had the money, so basically there was no need to play along with him. Particularly when it was so obvious that there was a lot more to this meeting than he was letting on. Fucking people around was a game two could play.

I stretched my legs, then walked casually towards the door in the far corner, keeping one eye on the boxes overhead. Eric's story had given me the spooks a lot more than I'd ordinarily like to admit. It seemed to have done the same to him too because he stepped out of the car and leant back against the bonnet, lighting another cigarette and watching the boxes like a hawk.

I reached the door and tried it. Locked. So, who the hell had come here and switched the lights on? And where were they now? I turned back towards the car.

Eric looked across at me. ‘Nothing?'

I shook my head. ‘Locked.' I walked across to the open doors and stepped outside into the warm breeze. Over on the horizon the distant lights of the West End glowed pink. The road was quiet and I listened hard for any sound of a car coming through the estate, but there was nothing bar the distant rumble of traffic. Maybe they just liked to be fashionably late.

It was 10.16 and I was edgy. I decided to go back and question Fowler in a little more detail about exactly what was in that briefcase of his, the one he'd been so reluctant to bring into the warehouse.

I turned round.

*   *   *

In the car, Roy Fowler was still fretting as he waited to get everything over and done with. Ten more minutes, he kept telling himself. Just ten more minutes, and he'd be a rich man.

Tony gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Look, Mr Fowler, calm down. It's going to be OK.'

Fowler exhaled heavily and turned to Tony. His face was taut with tension. ‘I'm all right. I just wish they'd get here, that's all.'

‘I wouldn't worry about that,' said Tony encouragingly. ‘They're already here.' He motioned towards the front doors where Iversson stood with his back to them.

Fowler wriggled round in his seat and looked out of the rear window. ‘Where?'

‘Here,' said Tony, and pushed the silencer hard against Fowler's head, just in front of his ear.

Before Fowler even had a chance to react, Tony pulled the trigger. Fowler let out a sharp sigh and the passenger window behind him cracked as the bullet passed through it. He slumped in the seat, and rolled round so he was facing his killer, allowing Tony to press the weapon against his forehead and give him one more, just for good measure.

The front driver's door opened and Eric, having heard the noise of breaking glass, shoved his head in, completely unaware of what had just happened. He spotted Fowler immediately, dead in his seat, blood dripping down his face in thin rivulets and onto his sweat-stained shirt.

‘What the fuck's going on?' he demanded.

‘I shot him,' said Tony, pulling the gun up from his side and aiming it at his colleague's face. Eric's eyes widened and his body tensed as he tried to come to terms with the sight in front of him.

‘Tony, don't do—'

Tony fired twice, both bullets striking Eric in the face. The big man staggered backwards, and Tony leant forward to fire two more shots into his upper body. His legs buckled and went from under him, and he fell heavily to the ground, moaning and clutching wildly at his face and chest.

Tony, meanwhile, threw open the car door and came out looking for the man who until two minutes ago had been his boss.

*   *   *

I was still in the process of turning round as Roy Fowler died. It took a couple of seconds to take in the muffled noises and the movement in the back of the Range Rover, by which time Eric was turning round, still holding onto his cigarette, and hurriedly pulling open the door. I took a step forward as Eric said something to Tony, then a series of popping sounds came from inside the car and Eric's head snapped back and he lost his footing, stumbling like a drunk man.

I knew immediately that he'd been shot, but still not by whom. It didn't make sense. I stopped dead in my tracks, confused by the sudden turn of events, and fumbled in the back of my waistband for the gun.

At the same time, Tony stepped almost casually out of the car, gun in hand, and turned towards me. He raised the weapon, that eerie little half-smile flickering across his face, and prepared to fire. For some reason, the first thought that crossed my mind was how fucking annoying that look was. It made the bastard appear really cocky, which was something I'd never noticed before. The second thought I had was that I'd always liked Tony.

Then my military training took over and I hit the deck, rolling over and pulling out the Glock. The silencer spat twice as Tony came forward, closing in for the kill, and bullets hissed quietly through the air, ricocheting up from the concrete, feet from where I was rolling.

Tony came round the back of the Range Rover, taking aim again, but this time it was his turn for a shock. Without warning, I stopped rolling and leapt to my feet, locating and flicking off the safety in what was close to a reflex action. His face froze in disbelief like he couldn't believe I'd be so cheeky as to pull a gun on him, and then I was firing, the bullets exploding round the enclosed space of the warehouse in an angry cluster of noise. Tony pulled the trigger too, and I felt a bullet whistle past my left ear, but time was moving so fast that I didn't even think about it, just kept firing, two-handed, concentrating on keeping the weapon level, emptying the magazine.

Tony stumbled back as he was hit in the shoulder of his gun arm. A second round struck him in the throat, then a third in the face, knocking him sideways. The next thing I knew, he was falling to the floor, the gun flying out of his grip and clattering out of reach. Immediately, he tried to lift himself up, his face registering another look of disbelief as he realized he was dying. Blood so dark it was almost black poured from the wounds on his face and throat, turning his white polo shirt a deepening horror-film colour. He held the position with his head a foot above the floor for about three seconds, then fell backwards with a thud, choking heavily.

I walked over to him, still gripping the Glock hard. He rolled himself into a ball, coughing and retching as his mouth filled with blood. Well, one thing was for sure: I wasn't going to get any answers out of him now. Once in Africa, a long time back, I'd seen a man take a bullet in the throat. It had taken him close to ten minutes to die, choking and gasping on his own blood. There was nothing that could have been done. As soon as the bullet had struck him the outcome was inevitable. It was inevitable now, but I didn't think I could just let it happen. Like I said, I'd always liked Tony.

I ejected the magazine and checked the bullets. There were three left. Pushing it back in, I leant down, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger, blowing Tony's brains across the dirty floor. The body juddered a couple of times, then lay still.

I stopped for a moment, looking about the warehouse and listening for any suspicious sounds. Nothing, bar the faint sound of light breathing coming from Eric. I walked over to him, holstered the gun, and knelt down. He was lying on his back, his hands laid across his chest in full funeral style. His face was twisted and bloody with the entry wounds of Tony's bullets clearly visible. One was just below his right eye, the other on his lower left cheek, an inch above the jawline. A dark red pool was forming on the floor beneath his head and his eyes were shut. I felt his neck for a pulse. There was something there but it was very faint; and even as I held my finger on it, it faded away until it was gone altogether.

Eric. He'd been a good man. Reliable, professional, all the things you wanted in business. Not someone you could take liberties with, not someone who was afraid of using force when it was necessary, but nevertheless someone whose heart was in the right place. The poor sod had even bought me a bottle of whisky the previous Christmas, which might have been a small gesture but was the sort I appreciated. It made me feel guilty that I'd only intended to pay him three hundred quid for the night's work. It didn't seem a lot to die for.

I stood up, wondering what the fuck had gone wrong and how we could have been betrayed so completely. Eric had three kids, all grown up, and four grandkids too. But he was also long since divorced. This meant that it was unlikely anyone close to him would know where he was that night. I was in a difficult position. If I went to the law and told them what had happened, I'd be leaving myself open to all kinds of questions, particularly regarding the shooting of Tony, and the unlicensed firearm I'd been carrying. I could end up going down for years if my story wasn't believed, and to be honest, who would believe it? The alternatives, it has to be said, were almost as bad. Drive out of there in a damaged vehicle registered in my own name and leave behind three bodies in the hope that no-one would ever connect them to me. Or hide the bodies somewhere and deprive Eric of a proper burial. That was, of course, on the basis that they remained hidden.