If I Should Die (Joseph Stark) (40 page)

‘Hey, big boy!’

Dawson glanced round just as Riley sent a jet of liquid at his face. Police-issue five per cent CS methyl isobutyl ketone solvent propelled by pressurized nitrogen, accurate range four metres. The gesture Stark had used was that of an index finger depressing a spray button. Riley was a fast learner. From behind, Stark seized Dawson’s wrist, twisted up and punched the handle of his cane into the man’s triceps as hard as he possibly could. Dawson’s fingers sprang open, sending the blackjack spinning.

There would’ve been some justice in seeing Dawson go down clutching his eyes, gasping for breath, as the court guard had, but the man had somehow got one hand in front of his face to ward off the worst, and in attacking one arm Stark had left himself exposed to the other. With a roar, Dawson twisted backwards and round, driving his elbow into Stark’s side. Stark rolled with it to preserve his ribs, but
it knocked all the wind from his body and sent him crashing across the ground.

It was worth it, though, to see the blackjack roll beneath the nearest car where it could do no more harm. Dawson stood over him menacingly, ready to finish what he’d started, perhaps, but seeing Riley raise the spray once more he grabbed the suitcase and ran towards the terminal building.

Fran was up and staggered after him. Riley came to help Stark. ‘I’m fine,’ gasped Stark, wincing in pain as he forced himself to his feet, fighting for breath. ‘Go!’ Ignoring him, Riley helped him lean against a car. Feeling his ribs, Stark decided they were intact. ‘Bag that blackjack. It’s a murder weapon. And call for back-up.’

‘I’ve got five men waiting inside,’ grinned Riley.

The gunshot turned their heads.

Riley frowned, confused, but Stark was already on the move, hobbling, hopping, cursing viciously. How could he have been so stupid? He should’ve taken Dawson out when he had the chance.

People were running from the entrance, some screaming, most quiet with flight, ducking as they ran. Instinctive, largely pointless: it made you a slightly smaller target, but a slower one. Still, you couldn’t outrun a bullet. One man nearly knocked Stark over as he passed through the doors, sending Stark twisting off balance. A sharp pain shot through his pelvis – not good. He ignored it and hobbled on but could take less weight on his bad leg.

Inside, a policeman lay sprawled on the ground, bloody, with another kneeling over him. But the blood was all from his nose – he wasn’t shot. Two others were pressed up against the wall where the entrance corridor opened into the atrium. Panicked people lay flat on the floor or crouched behind shop counters. Beside the wide coffee booth another policeman lay on his back, unmoving.

In the far corner of the concourse, Fran was kneeling with a gun to the back of her head.

Now Stark was angry. It struck from nowhere, like a crocodile lunging from murky waters. It seized him, but he seized it back: he would not be dragged under. These were his snapping jaws, this was his thrashing fury: his own, his to direct. He recalled the guv’nor’s words: ‘Whatever demons and furies pursue us cannot be vented. They must be seized upon and channelled to drive us forward as
we
choose.’ A chill calm descended on him. His jaw tightened. He wanted to march straight over and punch Dawson in the face but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t beat him that way. All was silent, bar the tapping of his cane on the hard, polished floor as he walked towards them.

Fran looked frightened. Angry too. With herself. She set the bar high. The sight of a pistol to her head made Stark’s stomach twist.

‘Open this door, Sparky,’ Dawson ordered, jerking his head towards the staff-only door behind him. If he got to the service side of the building where Stark and Fran had not long ago arrived he could jack a car and be gone. His eyes were red and streaming from the CS.

Stark didn’t advise him not to rub, to keep blinking, that it would wear off. Instead he shook his head. ‘You know I don’t work here.’

‘Get one of your pals to open it.’

‘Then what?’

‘She drives. When I’m safe I’ll let her go.’

Safe? ‘Put the gun down,’ said Stark, hobbling forward, cane clicking.

‘Stay back!’ Dawson jabbed the pistol into the back of Fran’s skull.

Fran winced in pain, then anger. Stark could see her contemplating a move. Dawson was being stupid, giving in to the inner bully. A gun is a range weapon: pressing it against the target might thrill the ego but you might just as well have a knife. A trained person could have that gun off him, standing so close. Fran was a trained person. Stark could see her thinking it through. He shook his head. It was too high-risk,
the option of last resort. Stark would already have done it, and not with restrained police methods. ‘It’s over, Liam.’

‘Door! Now!’ Dawson stared, defiant, almost triumphant. Was he so deluded he thought he’d won? Did he think this was a game? If Stark had had his rifle the fool would already be dead. As it was, Armed Response were doubtless on their way. Forget impulse control or lack thereof, this was something else altogether. Dawson believed himself untouchable; even now he hadn’t grasped that it was over, his zenith was passed. Just like the girl he’d pushed off a building, he was about to slam into the ground.

In pre-deployment training, Stark had been shown footage of an Iraqi suicide bomber at a checkpoint. Torso wrapped in explosives, he had stood with his hands raised as three American troops crabbed towards him, shouting, weapons pointed. His eyes darted back and forth between them but there was something in his expression, fear, yes, but also a kind of mad certainty. It was hard to describe but unmistakable. The Americans had seen it. They had stopped, shouted, screamed at him to get face down on the tarmac. When he didn’t comply, they shot him. There followed independent interviews with all three soldiers. None could say why but they’d each opened fire within a millisecond. It was just in his eyes, they said. The bomber was found to have a pull-cord trigger tied round one wrist. All he’d had to do was wait till they were close and straighten his arm. The video finished with a zoom of his face as the soldiers approached. If Stark had believed in the devil, that would have been his disguise: the malignant madness of the zealot, the selfish, ignorant shit who saw the world in one way only and the rest be damned. It hadn’t been long before Stark had seen that look for himself. Now, behind Dawson’s darting eyes and imperious glare, he saw it again – the same inhuman selfishness, the same psychopathy. Hazel would probably call it antisocial personality disorder or something equally colourless. Stark just knew he was looking into the eyes of the enemy once more. ‘How do you think this is going to end?’ He took another three steps. ‘Where do you think you can go? France? We have European arrest warrants now. Switzerland? You’ll never make it.’ He winced and limped forward again.

‘Stay back, Sparky!’

‘I’m hardly likely to try anything,’ said Stark, pausing, weight all down one leg, holding up the cane as evidence. ‘I can hardly stand.’ He gave a suitable grimace and wobble.

‘Tell them to open that door!’

Stark shook his head, as he tapped slowly across the floor to the fallen constable.

‘Sparky!’ warned Dawson.

Stark crouched and felt for a pulse. Alive. No blood. Marks to his face suggested Dawson had simply punched his lights out. Stark glanced up, looking for a telltale pinprick of sunlight. There it was. Dawson had fired into the air, not at anyone, for show not effect. Not an imitation gun, though. He could see now it was a Glock 17, one round used; that still left sixteen. A nine-millimetre bullet fired straight up takes about forty seconds to hit the ground. Chance dictated it would not have hit anyone, but it was a busy day outside, and who was Dawson to place that bet?

Gripping the shoulder of the unconscious man’s utility vest, Stark tugged past the initial friction.

‘
Sparky!
’

Ignoring Dawson, he towed the man behind the booth, wincing in pain with each step. Standing straight, stars danced for a second – not good. Dawson was staring at him, incredulous and angry. ‘You’re pushing your luck, Sparky.’

He’s right! Wait for response. That’s what they do.
The Judas thought, the fear.
No!
Stark squashed it aside with his searing anger, his cold clarity. If response intervened, this would end badly. It was in the eyes. Dawson was deluded, unstable and cocksure behind his little gun, his lethal fistful of power. He wouldn’t lie down on command, like a dog. He wasn’t the little bitch but the alpha male, used to cowing the other dogs with vicious brutality. To back down was to be torn down, ripped apart with feral savagery. It wouldn’t even occur to him. He had to be put down or broken, re-domesticated.

First he had to be muzzled.

Another three steps. Fran was staring at him as if he was insane. Perhaps he was. Hazel was certainly going to have observations on this if he survived to the next session. Stark was pushing this beyond
luck. He was five metres away now. Between his hip and Dawson’s gun it might as well have been fifty. He and Dawson locked eyes. Eye contact was good. Let the dog know you see it for what it is. Do not cajole: it is beyond reason. Do not plead: it is without compassion. Let it feel your contempt.

‘I won’t go with you, Liam, not willingly, and neither will she.’ Stark nodded at Fran. ‘We know how this kind of thing ends – you arrested, or you dead.’

‘Or me killing you both,’ sneered Dawson, mockingly.

He could do it. He was both willing and proficient. As Maggs had said, the key to violence was the readiness to act without hesitation or restraint. Dawson would not be restrained by fear or consequence. The only hope was that he might hesitate: he was used to operating in the shadows.

‘Did you know Nikki liked to film her attacks on the homeless – post them online for her own titillation?’ Stark gestured at the CCTV cameras. ‘You’ll go viral. Millions of hits of you losing or you dying. Armed police are on their way. They’re not harmless cripples like me. They’ll shoot you before you know they’re here. They might just wound you but if you hurt either of us, or they believe you might, they’ll shoot you in the head. They might be aiming at you right now.’

Dawson glanced around, scanning the upper windows.

Stark sneaked in an extra step. ‘They’re not here yet. Won’t be long, though. Have you ever been shot?’ he asked. ‘I have. To start with you’re not sure what’s happened. It hurts like hell but you can’t really feel it. Sounds weird, I know. Ow.’ He winced and wobbled. ‘Bollocks to this, I’m going to sit down while we wait. I’ve been up all night and this really hurts.’ Without waiting for permission, he turned to a nearby café chair and dragged it over slowly, hobbling backwards towards them, the metal chair screeching across the floor in the echoey space. From the corner of his eye he saw Dawson tense, wondering if he would try to hit him with the chair and unsure how to deal with his approach. He might just shoot him, of course. Switching the cane to his right hand, he turned to lower himself into the chair, at least two metres away.

Dawson stared blankly at his lunacy. Was some of the big man’s
certainty crumbling? Would that make him less dangerous, or more? ‘Car, Sparky!
Now!
’

‘The best you can hope for is to make it out the back and spend the next twenty-four hours on the run in sunny old Kent. Frankly I doubt you’ll last that long.’

‘
I’ll cap this bitch!
’

‘And then what? Who will you take as hostage? Me? I’m famous. I’m worth more.’ Fran glared. If she ended this in a body-bag he’d never forgive himself. If she caught a bullet and lived she’d never forgive him. ‘We know your face. We know about your fake ID. Liam Dawson or Steve Baker, you’re going nowhere.’

Something in that hit home. Dawson’s face fell, then darkened. Did he finally understand his empire had fallen?

Then Stark saw it, pale in the uniform brightness, one small red dot high on Dawson’s chest above Fran’s head. Damn. It was elliptical, angled. The shooter was in the shop behind, to the left. They’d done well to get into position without being seen, made use of his diversion. There was a Heckler & Koch MP5 semi-automatic carbine trained on this rabid dog now. One more snarl and it was finished. Stark would not allow it. Dawson had cheated him of Nikki but he would not cheat justice. Stark would see him live to pay his debt, to face the consequences of his actions. For the lives he had taken or blighted, Dawson would feel Groombridge’s finger on his collar.

But, first, Stark needed a trigger. ‘Time’s up, Liam. Let’s see if you’re ready to play with the big dogs.’

Dawson’s eyes went wide with comprehension. Glancing wildly around for armed police, his gun hand drifted away from Fran.

Stark’s cane whipped over into one all-or-nothing, full-stretch lunge from the chair. The option of last resort. Inelegant. Expedient. It smashed down on Dawson’s gun arm with a loud crack.

Hopelessly off balance, Stark crashed down on his bad shoulder with a grunt but saw the gun clatter and skid away. Dawson howled in pain, cradling his arm. Fran rose like an avenging angel and kicked him between the legs. As he fell to his knees she shoved him sprawling across the floor. Two firearms officers materialized, weapons trained, shouting, shock and awe, ‘
Stay down! Don’t move!
’ Another patted
Dawson down for further weapons. Fran held out her hand and Riley handed her his speed-cuffs.

For a moment Stark thought she might actually cuff Dawson’s injured wrist but instead she knelt on the back of the gasping man’s knees and cuffed his ankles. ‘Liam Dawson, I’m arresting you for assisting escape from lawful custody, unlawful possession of a firearm with intent …’

Stark stopped listening. It was over. His heart was pounding in his chest. His hands were shaking. He felt sick. He felt like laughing. This was life! This was survival, red in tooth and claw! Fran would be furious with him but he didn’t care. She would expect him to give a militaristic explanation when all he could offer was bloody-minded anger. It didn’t matter. This was victory.

Riley helped him to his feet, handing him his cane. It was whole. Stark was pleased. For all he hated the incapacity it represented he would have been sorry to see it broken. It was an exquisite example of its craft. Snakewood was among the hardest of timbers. Harder than bone, it seemed. Dawson’s face was white with pain. Stark felt no pity. He was glad.

‘Here.’ Riley pressed a café knife into his hand. An everyday stainless-steel implement, dull-edged and long bereft of shine. ‘The knife I used for my breakfast. The one you picked up on the way out of the police suite, the one you used to stab the tyres,’ he said. ‘Forward thinking that, you should be proud.’ A knife inside a cane was still a knife. It wasn’t a folding pocket-knife and its blade was definitely not less than three inches. The law was quite specific. ‘Keep it as a souvenir.’

‘Thanks. Your man outside?’

‘Jarred elbow. Needs an X-ray but I reckon he’s fine. How about you?’

‘Intact,’ grunted Stark, rolling his sore shoulder.

Riley held up an evidence bag containing Dawson’s blackjack. ‘We’ve got the BMW taped off, SOCO and pathologist en route. And we’ve got the woman who delivered the suitcase. Latvian, won’t say a word in English.’

‘Hold on to her. Organized Crime are going to want a word. And search around the BMW, under vehicles and in bins for a smoked joint.’

‘A joint? Here?’

‘Spiked with heroin,’ said Stark. Riley looked at Dawson in understanding. ‘And you’re going to need some guards for that,’ added Stark, indicating the large black suitcase.

‘What’s in it?’

‘Eight million and change, minus laundry and storage.’

Everyone around fell silent. Even Fran stared. Grabbing a pair of gloves from a uniform, she knelt and unzipped the case.

Riley whistled appreciatively.

‘That’s mine!’ shouted Dawson, from the floor. ‘That’s
mine
!’