For Those Who Know the Ending (9 page)

‘You needing help with anything tonight?’

‘Not really,’ Akram said. ‘Picking up a vanload, moving it.’

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Nothing I want to chat about with you, little brother.’

Akram smiled with his mouth and frowned with his eyes, surprised and not sure if he liked what he was hearing. Wasn’t like Usman to be so willing to help, not these days anyway. Used to be, back when Usman was a kid and Akram was getting into the business. Back then he was making money and his little brother wanted a piece, he couldn’t shake the bastard off. Now Usman made a point of not showing an interest, always insisting that he had his own jobs to work, his own money to make. Part of maturing had been proving himself to his big brother.

‘I’m bored,’ Usman said, sitting on the couch in Akram’s house.

‘Yeah, I got that. It’s contagious as well.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re boring the shite out of me. And you need to get out as well. I’m going to be away a good while.’

‘Big delivery, huh?’ Usman asked, getting up and edging towards the door.

Akram looked at him and didn’t say anything. Three years older, thirty years wiser, that was what he told himself. He loved his little brother, trusted him, respected him as well, let’s not make any mistakes on that. If he was working a job that required people he trusted absolutely, his brother would make the list, somewhere near the top. He was tough and capable and his instincts under pressure were excellent, better than people with far more experience and bigger brains. Never assume that a man hardened by experience will maintain ironclad instincts when the heat is turned right up. Some people melt, but not Usman.

Akram didn’t need that sort of support tonight. He was moving a van load of designer drugs to a warehouse operated by James Kealing, the buyer of said party drugs. There was little threat; he had done this umpteen times before. Plus he had other people he wanted to keep onside, guys he needed to keep happy by employing. Might not need them much now, but you wanted plenty of good people around you when times got tough, so he needed to show them loyalty in the good times. His brother he could rely on without using him often.

‘You know, you should be helping me out more . . .’ Usman started to say, as his brother shoved him out the front door and closed it behind him.

Usman looked back at the closed door and smiled. His brother would be running around, phone clamped to his ear like it always was, organizing and blethering away. Akram would remember his brother being there that night, pestering him for something to do, getting on his fucking nerves. He would be convinced that Usman had left the house and gone straight back to his flat.

It was the silence that gave them away. Gregor had stopped talking, was even breathing quietly now, determined to do nothing to upset Martin. Martin, with the bag at his side, was still for just a second as he dismissed the thought of tying up the bookie. That was when he heard them, the movement out in the corridor. The rustle of clothes and the step of a heavy man. Big men trying to be quiet.

Martin looked sharply around the room. No window that he could fit through, the only one in the office was too small and too high up. He would have to go out the door, knowing that they were on the other side. He would have to confront them. That was where Gregor was going to play a part. A hopeless gamble, a huge escalation, but they hadn’t left him a better choice.

He took a step to Gregor and grabbed him again by the collar of his shirt. He pushed him in front as a shield, held the gun to the back of his head, making sure Gregor could feel it. The bookie started to whimper, unsure why his life-expectancy had once again plummeted. Martin pushed him forward, towards the door. Gregor opened it. He stopped, whimpering even more loudly when he saw the two large men standing either side of the door.

Nate he recognized, the older man he didn’t. Both were armed, guns held firmly and clearly. They were just standing there, waiting for the robber to come out. And the robber had a gun to the back of Gregor’s head. The more guns in this building, the more chance of him being shot. He couldn’t stop himself whimpering again.

It was Nate who took the lead, broke the silence. He looked at the short man in the balaclava and spoke in his low, nerveless voice.

‘Two guns against your one. And you need to remember that we really don’t care about this guy. You can go right ahead and shoot him if you want. He’s no protection for you.’

Both ends of the corridor blocked and a paper shield. That left Martin with just about nowhere to go.

He was in the driver’s seat of the car at the bottom of the bookies’ street, waiting and watching. No gun for Usman, no balaclava either. A man sitting in a car with a balaclava on is going to stick in the memory of any gawper that wanders past. Take nothing that you don’t think you’ll need. He sat and watched the place, slumped down in the seat so that nobody would spot him. Nobody including the occupants of the car that came quickly along the street and stopped outside the front door of the bookies.

Two men got out, action-packed exits from an everyday saloon car. One man he didn’t recognize, the other was Nate Colgan. Didn’t matter who the other guy was, Colgan was a devil’s handful all on his own. Usman watched in the wing mirror, afraid to move. The two men looked up and down the street, trying to spot a getaway car. They didn’t see him; they were more interested in sweeping into the building that housed their money. They went across the pavement and Colgan kneeled down in front of the metal grate that covered the front entrance to the building. He had a key of his own. He unlocked it and the two of them slowly lifted up the grate. Taking an end each and pushing upwards at a crawl, desperate to be silent, to make their visit a surprise. Once it was up, Colgan unlocked the front door and the two disappeared inside.

Usman didn’t waste a second. Not one. He was out of the car as soon as Colgan and his cohort were out of view, running round to the back and opening the boot. Taking a small claw hammer from the toolbox he kept in there. A hammer that was always intended more as a weapon than a tool. He closed the boot of the car as slowly as he could, grimacing at the thud it made and looking across to the door of the bookies. Nobody came back to the door, stuck their head out to investigate the noise. With the hammer in hand, he started running.

Felt like it took forever, running round to the next street and along the back alley, praying that Colgan and his mate would be slow about this. Praying they would take the cautious approach, try and maintain their stealthy advance through the front end of the building. Praying they would try and be clever, while Usman pounded concrete. Still had to try and be quiet. His only chance came with silence.

Usman reached the back door and paused, just for a second. The window was broken but the door was still ajar, which meant Nate hadn’t thought to come check it. Usman pushed it slowly, listening for a creak, trying to check for anyone standing just inside. He had the awareness to look down for broken glass, making sure he didn’t crunch onto any. One stride over the glass, then another, and a third to take him up to the corner. He stopped and leaned back against the wall at the corner, listening to others talk.

Usman wasn’t sure which one of them it was. He’d seen Colgan before, he’d been pointed out from a safe distance, but he didn’t know what he sounded like. This was a deep voice, rumbling along with a threat so casually full of itself that you knew it was backed by years of experience. Telling the other half of the conversation that their captive wasn’t worth anything so they might as well give up now. That menacing growl painted a vivid picture in Usman’s mind. A picture he hadn’t seen yet, and wouldn’t until he turned the corner; but he now knew what to expect. If the two armed men were facing him then he was in trouble. If they weren’t, this might have a chance.

He spun off the wall and round the corner, taking a step forward and making his split-second decision. He could see all four of them in front of him in the dim light coming from the office. Martin and Gregor in the doorway, Martin with the gun to the back of the bookie’s head. A big guy that he didn’t recognize on the far side of the office door facing Usman, which meant the one closest to him with his back turned was Colgan. That thought ran through his head as he raised the hammer, gripping it tightly. He was about to crack Nate Colgan on the back of the head with a hammer. Nate bloody Colgan. Only the meanest bastard in the city of Glasgow, if you believed the well-informed rumours. A man everyone was rightly terrified of and here was Usman about to try and make a dent in the back of his cranium. That thought, the vision of a bloodied and furious Colgan looking for revenge, ran down from his mind’s eye and caught a hold of his arm. It was the one thing that made him hold back just a little as he swung the hammer down. He saw the guy he didn’t recognize open his mouth to shout a warning, but it was too late. The hammer cracked against the back of Colgan’s head and the big man went down hard.

It was split seconds, that was the thing. The attack happened so fast that if you weren’t moving already, you weren’t going to get the chance. That was what caught Gully out, a man not as quick on his feet as he used to be. He saw a shadow move behind Nate but by the time he opened his mouth, Nate was falling forward into him, eyes closing. Gully still had the gun Nate had provided for the night in his hand, but before he could raise it the short man in the balaclava had changed his target and was pointing his gun at him. There was nothing sensible Gully could do but give up gracefully. The taller young man who’d come in behind Nate was now down on his knees, picking up Nate’s gun. That changed the equation again, and once the maths was against you, experience said you just tried to find a safe exit. These kids were here for cash, not for kills. The one with the hammer had been quick to step back to the darkness of the corner as soon as he had Nate’s gun in his hand, trying to get out of the light and out of view. Gully paused, just for a couple of seconds, just for show. Let them see that you’re not rushing to give up, because an old pro never puts down his gun in a hurry. Then he dropped the gun on the floor in front of him. A short pause was good form; a long one could be suicidal.

The last man left in that corridor with a puzzle to solve was Martin. He still had Gregor standing and whimpering quietly between him and the exit. The bookie could become a problem, hapless as he had been so far. Let him go and that’s two against two, and while it’s still two guns versus zero, you don’t give your adversary any boost. Better to deal with him, adhere to the old principle of not leaving an enemy standing behind you. Martin pulled back his gun, twisted it in his hand and brought the butt smashing down into the back of Gregor’s head. A little harder than he had intended, his adrenalin getting the better of his judgement. It was harder than Usman hit Colgan with the hammer, nothing restricting Martin’s effort. Gregor fell heavily forward, landing face-first on top of Colgan’s legs.

Colgan wasn’t out cold. He was already groaning, trying to move like he wanted to get back up and take another swing at a fight he’d already lost. Gregor was out though, and by lying on Colgan he was holding him down. Gully was standing watching, making it clear that he didn’t think interfering was worth the wage he was getting.

Martin stepped out of the office and knelt down carefully in front of Gully, trying to keep half an eye on the big man. He picked up Gully’s gun with the same hand that was holding the bag of stolen cash, struggling to hold the gun and the thin plastic straps of the supermarket bag at the same time. He took careful backward steps, gun raised in his right hand, pointing at Gully. Once he was back at the corner, beside Usman, he passed the spare gun across to him. Usman now had a gun in each hand, two more than he’d started with and two more than he should have needed for a job so carefully planned.

Now they moved fast. Assume that those two big guys would have the will and the means to chase them down, assume that they would be able to move fast so you had to move faster. Clattering out through the back door and into the alleyway. Sprinting now, feet thudding and bag bouncing, no more stealth. They were down the alleyway and out onto the street, still running. Usman was the faster, taller, thinner and more desperate, running from the job with a gun in each hand, one coupled with a bloodied hammer, and his face visible to the world. The big guy, the one they hadn’t clobbered, must have gotten a look at him, even if it was dark in there. He wanted out, wanted away from here. Martin was struggling to keep up, the two packages in the plastic bag jabbing against his thigh as he ran.

Usman reached the car, dropped clumsily into the driver’s seat. He had the engine going, starting to edge slowly out of the parking space, reaching across and pulling the handle on the passenger door. He crept out onto the road, inching forward as slowly as he could bear to go, watching Martin sprint up to the passenger door. Martin flung the door open, dropped inside and, before he had closed the door behind him, Usman pulled away with a screech and the car raced down the street. Not subtle, no, but certainly fast – and fast mattered more.

7

It was a success. Okay, it hadn’t worked entirely according to the plan Usman had spent the best part of a year visualizing, but when do jobs like that ever? There might be a little bit of cleaning up as well, hiding stuff, dodging consequences, but that was okay. They could ditch the guns easily, that was nothing. No, Usman was convinced that it had been a success.

He parked the car outside the flat in Mosspark where they’d met to discuss the job, certain that nobody had followed them. They hadn’t said a word to each other on the drive back.

‘We sticking to the plan then?’ he asked Martin. ‘Count the money now, split it, go our separate ways for a while?’

Martin looked at the ceiling of the car, stretching his neck in the process. He didn’t know, was the answer. He couldn’t work out, on the spot, whether they should rethink the plan in relation to the danger they were now in. You could have called it a good plan if the job had gone well. There was plenty flesh on the bone: good preparation, well-equipped and armed with all necessary knowledge. The job had gone ahead, but thinking about it on the drive back to the flat hadn’t convinced him that it had gone well. So, in short, he didn’t know. When he didn’t know what to do next, he figured it was better to stick to the plan.