Die Twice (75 page)

‘No problem,' said Joe. ‘If there's anyone else with him, I'll let you know. Otherwise I'll follow him up, then peel off when it's sorted, and meet you at the rendezvous.'

The call ended. Everyone knew what they were doing. Now it was simply a matter of waiting.

‘It's a long time since I've used one of these,' said Tugger, stroking the rifle like it was some sort of cuddly toy. It was one Joe had brought back from the Gulf War in '91. ‘I think Bosnia was probably the last time, and Christ, that was years back. A good weapon, though. I can see why the Yanks like it.'

‘I think I prefer the AK if I was to be given the choice. Less prone to jamming.'

‘You know, Max,' he said, loading and unloading the rifle's magazine, ‘I do like chefing, and I reckon I could make a lot of money out of it, especially if I can afford to open up my own place.'

‘You make a mean Thai fish curry, I'll give you that.'

‘Aye, I know, but…' He thought about it for a minute, at the same time putting the stock to his shoulder and aiming at an imaginary target among the trees. ‘But it can never give you quite the same sort of buzz as a job of violence does. You know what I mean? You don't get that sort of excitement out in the normal world.'

‘Yeah,' I said, remembering the mad adrenalin rush I'd had when I'd been standing in the stairwell of Heavenly Girls, ripping holes out of Fitz and Big Mick. ‘Maybe you don't.'

At 6.44 my mobile rang. It was Joe, and he was whispering. ‘He's here. Looks like he's alone.'

‘Thanks.' I rang off, then dialled Holtz's number. It was answered immediately. ‘Stand facing the “No Tipping” sign, five feet away from it.'

‘How do I know what's five feet?' he demanded angrily.

‘Just do it. Now turn ninety degrees to the left and start walking, keeping in a straight line. You'll see the outlines of a path in front of you. Follow it.'

‘Where's my son?'

‘I told you, he's safe and he's well. Are you on the path?'

‘Yeah, I'm on the path. When am I going to see my boy?'

‘If the money's all there, you'll see him first thing tomorrow morning. He'll be dropped off somewhere in London, reasonably close to a telephone box.'

‘He fucking better be.'

‘Keep walking and stop speaking.'

*   *   *

From his vantage point in the undergrowth, Joe watched as Stefan Holtz turned away and began walking up the wooded incline in the direction of Max and Tugger. Holtz had a mobile to his ear and a large holdall slung over his shoulder. Within a minute he'd disappeared from view, and the forest was silent once again, except for the steady crackle of rain hitting the trees, and the distant hum of traffic. No-one else had turned up to follow him and the car he'd been driving, the Merc, was empty.

He kept listening for a few moments, then, satisfied that Holtz had come alone, he slipped slowly and carefully out of his hiding place, crossed the track from which the Merc had appeared, and started up the path after Holtz, keeping as far back as possible.

Too late, he heard the noise behind him. The rustle of bushes, the sound of heavy footfalls on muddy ground, and then the terminal, gut-wrenching sensation of the hard metal gun barrel being pushed into the back of his head.

*   *   *

I saw Holtz emerge from the trees at the bottom of the slope, carrying the holdall. He was about a hundred and fifty yards away. ‘All right, keep walking,' I told him, and switched off the mobile.

I turned to Tugger. ‘Here he comes.' Tugger nodded, and we both pulled on balaclavas. I checked the Glock, gave Holtz another thirty seconds to get nearer, then pushed my way out of the bushes. Fifty yards now separated us.

Holtz saw me but didn't quicken his pace, and we closed in on each other as casually as a couple of early-evening strollers. When we were ten feet apart, we both stopped. Holtz looked pissed off. The rain, which was pouring down now, had flattened his iron-grey hair and it was running freely down his grizzled, lined face and onto his khaki raincoat. I'd never seen a picture of him before (Holtz senior, like all his close cohorts, was very camera shy), but thought that he looked a lot like Karl Malden, the veteran actor from seventies cop show
The Streets of San Francisco,
even down to the bulbous round nose.

‘You've made a big fucking mistake doing this to me,' he growled, making no effort to hand over the holdall.

‘And you made a big fucking mistake trying to kill me,' I said, unable to resist letting him know who'd done this to him, even though it effectively meant exiling myself for life. Sometimes you just had to show that you hadn't been intimidated.

‘I don't even know who the fuck you are behind that poxy mask, so what makes you think I've been trying to have you killed? I'll tell you something, though, you cunt. If I want someone dead, that's how they end up. Dead. No fucker ever escapes from me.'

I thought about lifting my balaclava, but that really would have been stupid. But then it struck me that maybe he didn't know who I was. Maybe I was that insignificant. ‘That holdall looks very heavy,' I told him. ‘Why don't I take it off your hands?'

Holtz managed the beginnings of a smile for the first time. It wasn't a pleasant sight. ‘No, mate, it ain't as easy as that. Before you get this cash, I want to see my son. So, get on the phone to whichever cunt's holding him and get him to drive him down here. Now. Then we'll see if it's worth a trade.'

‘I don't want to have to take that bag off you by force, Mr Holtz, but believe me, I will.'

‘No you won't, son,' said Holtz, shaking his head. ‘No, you fucking won't.'

*   *   *

Tugger had the rifle to his shoulder, the barrel pointing through a gap in a large evergreen bush towards Stefan Holtz. He could see him and Max talking, but Max was making no move to take the holdall. They used to say that Tugger Lewis had a nose for danger, could sense when something bad was going to happen. One time, years back in County Down, five of them had been patrolling in a Land Rover down remote country back roads when they'd seen a car parked in a layby up ahead. Afterwards, he'd said it was just something about the angle it was parked in, slightly skewed with the bonnet pointed towards the road, like someone had abandoned it too quickly, that had caught his attention. But it wasn't that. He'd just felt it, known that something was going to happen. He'd told the driver to stop and turn round even though he'd only been a private and the driver was a lance corporal, and the road had been so narrow that any turn was going to require some serious manoeuvring, but something in his tone – the desperation, the sure-fire knowledge that they were driving straight towards their doom – convinced the driver to do what he said. Ten seconds later, while they were still turning round, the IRA man with the remote control, seeing that his targets were escaping, detonated the bomb in the car's boot. Two of the men in the jeep had been slightly injured, but no-one was complaining. If they'd been driving past it, the impact of the blast would have killed them all.

He had the same feeling now. It had started slowly, about an hour before, but had accelerated markedly when Stefan Holtz had appeared out of the woods below. Something was wrong. There was no escaping the fact. Something was definitely wrong. Max and Holtz were still talking, and Tugger thought he saw Holtz smile, but he might have been imagining things. Was this a set-up? His jaw tightened and his finger stroked the trigger. He was listening now, listening for any sound that was remotely out of place.

The faint rustle of leaves being trampled underfoot, could he hear that? Off to his left, not far away, coming from somewhere in the trees. He listened harder, couldn't tell for sure, thinking, concentrating …

Then he swung round ninety degrees, still holding the rifle at shoulder height, and saw the figure creeping through the undergrowth, twenty-five feet away, gun in hand.

Reflexively, he pulled the trigger, firing off five shots in rapid succession, the angry bark of the weapon echoing through the undergrowth. Then he hit the deck as bullets came flying back in the opposite direction.

*   *   *

The loud crackle of gunfire startled us both. I clocked the first shots as coming from the M-16, which had to be Tugger's, and then further shots from at least two other weapons. Holtz might have thought he had some cards up his sleeve but he obviously hadn't expected anyone to start shooting. His eyes widened and he swung round to me with a look of suspicion mixed with panic. ‘What the fuck's going on?'

These were the last words Stefan Holtz ever spoke. Before I could even open my mouth to answer, his left eye seemed to burst out of his face, and he fell forward, still clutching the holdall. I dived to the ground and pulled out my gun. Suddenly, shooting seemed to be coming from everywhere. I could see a figure armed with a rifle, kneeling down on the other side of the clearing about thirty yards away, partially concealed by the foliage. I knew straight away that he was the one who'd gunned down the gang leader. The shooter fired again, and blood sprayed up from one of Holtz's thighs as the round struck. I scrambled down behind his body, then, using it as cover, leant over and clattered off five rounds from the Glock in the shooter's direction, knowing that my chances of hitting him were slim but wanting to put him under pressure. He fired two shots back, both whizzing close by, then slipped back into the trees.

But now shooting was coming from behind me, and coming close, too. Clumps of mud flew up from the ground only feet from where I was lying. I whirled round and fired three shots in the general direction of their source, unable to see my assailant; then, knowing that I was a sitting duck as long as I stayed where I was, I jumped up and pulled the holdall from Holtz's dead fingers. I hauled it over my shoulders, surprised at the heavy weight, then started running for the nearest trees, keeping as low as possible. From behind me I heard the rifleman who'd taken out Holtz cracking off shots at my exposed back, and in front of me I could make out the second shooter behind some bushes. He had what looked like a shotgun balanced over a branch and he was steadying himself to fire. I didn't give him a chance. As I charged towards him, I lifted the Glock and pulled the trigger, bang bang bang. It was a battle of nerves and he lost it, jumping out of the way and dropping the weapon.

I zigzagged wildly, teeth clenched in anticipation of a striking bullet, and at the last second half-dived, half-slid into the treeline and out of sight of the shooter behind me. The second gunman, only partly visible through the undergrowth, swung his shotgun round in my direction, pulling the trigger at the same time. The weapon kicked and he took a stumbling step back, the shot passing way over my head. I fired twice in return and at least one of the rounds hit him. I heard him yelp in shock and drop to one knee; then, without even pausing for breath, I jumped up with the holdall and ran in a crouch in the direction of the spot where I'd left Tugger, keeping within the trees. The branches and bushes battered and scratched me as I charged through them, every sense and nerve-ending homed in on my surroundings, knowing we'd been set up and that there were bound to be more of them about. As if to confirm it, an unseen round whistled by a few feet above my head, letting out an angry crack as it struck a thick branch and ricocheted off into the gloom. I couldn't see the shooter and doubted that the shooter could see me.

Without warning, a figure appeared out of the trees in front of me, no more than ten feet away, running and stumbling in my direction. He had a gun in one hand and was holding an injured leg with the other. I didn't recognize him, and that meant he was the enemy. He didn't even see me until the last second, which was a fatal mistake. Without dropping my pace, I raised my weapon, stretched out my arm so the barrel was no more than three feet from its target, and shot him straight through his open mouth. He died with an expression of confused shock on his face and I was already five yards beyond him by the time the body hit the ground. A staccato burst of automatic weapon fire rattled through the trees somewhere off to my right, but it sounded like there was more hope in it than judgement, and I kept running, undeterred, hoping that Tugger was OK and had followed the instructions should things go wrong, which were to head straight back to the place where Kalinski was picking us up from. The last thing I needed now was for him to hold his ground and take a potshot at me as I came over the brow of the hill. Unlike the rest of these blokes, he'd always been a good shot.

But Tugger wasn't there when I passed the spot, and there was no sign of blood or anything else to suggest that he'd taken an injury. So I kept going, charging through the trees down the other side of the hill, feeling that terrible exhilaration danger always brings, even though it was tempered by another, far more worrying thought. What the fuck had happened to Joe?

The back of the van was open and the engine running when I came out of the trees and onto the road. I threw the holdall inside and jumped in after it. Tugger was already inside, but there was no sign of Joe.

‘What the fuck happened, Max?' he demanded, still clutching the M-16. ‘What the fuck went wrong?'

‘I don't know,' I panted between breaths, finding it difficult to think. ‘Somehow Holtz fucked us up, but Christ knows how. We had everything planned down to a tee.'

‘Do you think they got Joe?'

‘I don't know.'

‘There were a lot of them. They could easily have taken him out.'

I leant out the back door and looked up towards the trees. Nothing moved up there. I punched Joe's number into the mobile. It rang. Five times, six, seven. No answer. I kept staring at the trees. No sign. No answer. Eight rings, nine. He would have picked up by now if he was all right. The longer we stayed there the more dangerous our predicament became.