Liberation Day (42 page)

Slowly, I pushed down on the door handle and it gave way with the smallest of squeaks. I didn’t want to burst in. I wanted us to get in as far as we could, using the Portakabins as cover, before it went noisy.

There was a little resistance from the hinges, but I managed to pull it toward me an inch as Goatee’s shouts and the screams from the pit increased. My view was mostly obscured by the Portakabins, but between them to my half-right I could see the concrete ramps. And no one was there anymore.

52

I
couldn’t understand the Arabic, but I could tell the difference between begging and demanding. Lotfi’s hard-set jaw told me that for him every word mattered.

I just had to assume that they all were at the pit; there was nowhere else for them to have gone, unless they were hanging around in the mobile construction trailers or giving the Lexus a polish.

Change of plan now that I couldn’t see anyone. I visualized how I would go straight through the gap in the two trailers to the ramps, so I could use them as cover while I dominated the area. None of them would be able to outrun Mr. Nine Millimeter.

That would give Lotfi a chance to move in and lift Hubba-Hubba, and once that was done, there would be three of us to get Goatee into the car and get the fuck out. And that was about as far as I got. We’d just have to get in there with the maximum amount of speed, surprise, and aggression, weapons up, making sure they didn’t have time to draw down. Only Lotfi’s God could tell where things went from there.

I moved my head back so I could whisper to Lotfi. “Change of plan, I’ll head straight for the ramps and—”

A piercing scream forced its way through the gap in the door.

Lotfi jumped up, pushing me over. Pulling at the door, he drew down his weapon before hurling himself into the warehouse, screaming Arabic, running straight through the gap between the trailers, then turning right, to the pits, and disappearing from view.

I followed, safety off, screaming at the top of my voice, joining in with everyone else now as the noise echoed about the building. “Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!”

I’d taken only three steps into the warehouse when there was a loud
whoosh
from the other side of the trailers to my right, then agonized screams that drowned every other sound.

I emerged past the trailers to see the group to the right of the blazing pit staring open-mouthed at us. We both screamed louder, trying to overcome the noise from below us as the flames shot higher than our heads.

Baldilocks was in position to draw down, but couldn’t decide whether to do so or not. He looked at Goatee. He was looking at me. I stayed static, weapon up, out in the open.

Lotfi had reached the pit, his screams now just as loud as those of the burning men.

I kept my Browning up, pushing down with my thumb on the safety. “Hands up! Hands up! Hands up!”

The black-leather brothers were trying to work out whether to take a chance and draw down; I could see it in their eyes. I felt the heat on my face as I moved in closer, to get better shots, never crossing my feet over as I moved, wanting to keep them apart so I had a constant, stable platform to get some rounds off on target. I didn’t have that many to fuck about with.

Lotfi, on his knees by the pit, roared with all the air in his lungs as he battled with the hot, heavy iron gate, trying to drag it just a few feet.

Hands flailed from the flames below. Disembodied, high-pitched screams filled the building.

Above ground, the group’s eyes were still darting everywhere, at the pit, at me, at each other. I moved toward them more and with each step the stench of burning flesh became stronger than the fuel’s. It was tempting to do all four of them, but Goatee was in the middle of the group. I needed him alive.

Lotfi yelled for his brother, fighting the flames, fighting the gate.

Where was Van Man?

There was movement to my right and I was too late.

The piece of scaffolding swung in hard. I felt a crushing pain in the right side of my chest and the Browning flew from my hand. I lost all the air from my lungs before hitting the concrete.

Between the flashes in my head I could see Lotfi lying on the floor, gripping a charred hand that strained up through the bars of the gate. The flames were beginning to die. Even if his brother hadn’t burned to death, he would have been asphyxiated long before now.

Lotfi bellowed like a wounded animal, a long, drawn-out, pitiful howl of despair. His sleeves were smoking and burnt away, and his hands and arms were blistering. Bodies moved in and he was kicked away from the gate, but it wasn’t physical pain that was causing his anguish.

My glimpse of him lasted a second more, before feet rained in on me too. I could do nothing more than curl up, close my eyes, grit my teeth, and hope it would stop very soon.

Angry Arabic echoed around the walls. The kicking stopped. Hands grabbed my feet, dragging me on my stomach and chest toward the pit. Lotfi’s screams got closer. I pushed down on the heels of my hands to try to keep my face from being grated along the concrete floor and felt the skin of my palms coming away.

I opened my eyes in time to see the charred but still recognizable bodies in the pit, and the smoldering paint on the gates. My legs were released, my fanny pack got pulled off me, and I was pushed against the right-hand mobile construction trailer. Lotfi was marched over to join me and forced onto his knees. All four of them stood around us, letting off a good kick now and again. The hem of Baldilocks’ pants was just inches from my face. I could smell cologne and cigarettes, and heard heavy, labored breathing as one of them spit on my neck.

Lotfi seemed oblivious to the state of his arms and hands. His skin was hanging off him like potato peel, some flakes red, some black. His watch and Medic Alert looked as if they had sunk into his grotesquely swollen wrists. The raw skin on my hands, ingrained with grit, was incredibly painful, but nothing like he was going through.

A pain in the right of my chest was as much as I could bear. I had to take rapid, shallow breaths, and each one felt like I was being stabbed.

Lotfi caught my eye and started rocking slowly backward and forward with his arms out so he didn’t touch them, just taking the pain. “I should have—”

He got a kick that rolled him off to his side. They closed in on us again just as Goatee pushed his way through the crowd. They gave him some space as he looked down just a few feet away from us, having nearly recovered his breath. In his left hand he held our passports. The four behind him were already counting out our cash. In his right hand he held an untipped cigarette, unlit, and a disposable lighter. Eyeing us both with mock concern, he placed the cigarette between his lips and clicked the lighter twice before he got a light. His watch, a very slim gold thing, glinted in the sunlight.

He hadn’t bought his clothes at a street market either. The black shirt looked quality, and his jeans had an Armani label on the back. He smelled of expensive cologne and as he smoked I could see well-manicured nails. The fingernail on the little finger of his right hand was much longer than the rest, to the point where it nearly started to curl. Maybe he played the guitar, or perhaps he just didn’t like using a spoon to scoop up his cocaine.

He traded stares with Lotfi while I cleared the snot and blood from my nose onto the concrete and my jeans. Hubba-Hubba lay less than fifteen feet away from his brother, yet Lotfi gazed at his killer as if he were studying a painting. I was impressed. I’d known a few people over the years who could keep their head in a gang fuck, but this was something else.

Goatee looked down at us and breathed deeply, before kicking Lotfi in the leg. “Do you speak English too?”

Lotfi nodded, his gaze never wavering.

Goatee took another drag of his cigarette. When he exhaled, the halo of smoke danced in the sunlight above him. “I suppose you are the people on the other end of the radio?” His tone was icy. He was waiting for an answer, but Lotfi wasn’t giving, and he was right, but only up to a point. This wasn’t the time to answer questions, it was the time to start begging for our lives.

I wiped another fistful of snot and blood off my nose, then went for it. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on here.” I nodded in the direction of the pit. “We were just told to follow those two. We thought they were moving heroin to the Channel Islands. Someone there was worried it was going to affect his business. Whatever’s going on here, we don’t need to know. What the fuck, we can just walk out of here now and forget the whole thing….”

I knew I had lost him on the first few words. He didn’t even look at me, but remained staring at Lotfi, and took another drag before jabbering off at him in Arabic. Lotfi replied with three or four sentences, which meant nothing to me. I just knew Goatee was getting fucked off by him big-time.

Goatee forced a lungful of smoke out through his nostrils as he turned to face me. “What does it matter? I do not care who you are. If you came to steal from me, or you didn’t, it matters not.” He flicked the ash over toward the pit. “They are dead. You are dead. I still have the money, and I’ll simply wait for another collection. I can’t afford to take chances. I don’t care what’s happened. God understands, God will forgive me.” He turned to Lotfi. “No?”

There was no reply.

Goatee took another drag and turned back to have a word with the black-leather brothers. Lotfi’s lips started to move; he put his head down and rocked backward and forward slightly. I didn’t understand all of it but certainly got the
“Muhammad rasul-ullah”
bit.

The Shahada; he was preparing for death.

He might be ready to meet his maker, but I wasn’t.

Goatee heard Lotfi too, and turned his head around to watch, before shrugging his shoulders and throwing both passports toward the pit. They landed on the gate, one falling down onto Hubba-Hubba’s black-and-red charred body. Goatee walked away and yelled stuff at the other four.

Lotfi’s eyes followed the black-leather brothers, one of whom carried the empty gas container, as they walked toward the Lexus. If God was on our side, he needed to get off his butt and do something pretty quick.

One of the brothers fired up the Lexus while the other pulled on the chain to open up the grease-and grime-covered shutters. The vehicle reversed, then turned to face the exit as the
hawallada
’s cell phone gave another ring. He opened it up and headed toward the other side of the building. The Lexus went through the door and disappeared. Van Man started closing the shutter as Baldilocks kept watch on us, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-covered head.

It was a very short phone call: I got the impression that Goatee was telling her he might be back in time for tea after all, but not to keep calling him at the office. Whatever we were going to do, we had to do it before the Lexus got back. I looked over at Lotfi and his eyes were still locked on Goatee. Blood dripped from his nostrils, bubbling as he prayed.

Goatee put the phone into his pocket and walked back over to us. He’d almost reached us when two shots rang out outside. Van Man let go of the chain. The shutter stopped rattling, about two feet from the ground, as they all drew down and Van Man dived to one side of the entrance.

There were more shots, followed by shouts and the revving of engines, then the screech of brakes and the sound of a collision. Baldilocks froze, looking to Van Man for some kind of clue about what the fuck he should do next.

There were more single shots. Van Man took a quick look outside. “Police! Police!”

Goatee barked instructions at them both. Lotfi had stopped in mid-prayer. The light was back in his eyes. He glanced across at me with a look that said, “You see, Nick? I was right. God’s come to the rescue.”

I gave him one back that said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here, and let’s do it now….”

He launched himself at Goatee, as the pain in my chest disappeared and I wrapped myself around Baldilocks before he had the chance to switch himself back on. I hung on to him like a drowning man, trying to keep his arms down and the weapon out of the way. I kept pushing him back, moving my legs as quickly as I could to keep him off balance. The pistol clattered to the concrete and we crashed into the ramp, then fell to the floor, me on top, still wrapped around him. The pain returned, big-time. My ribs felt like they’d been given the good news by a jackhammer. I fought for breath. I heard myself scream as he squirmed under me, his pistol just over three feet away.

It was a Beretta, and the safety catch was still on. My brain shrank. That weapon became my whole world.

I fell sideways, arm outstretched, but Baldilocks managed to slow me down, grunting with the effort, dragging at my leg, pulling at my sweatshirt, trying to beat me to it.

The muzzle was facing us; my hand was no more than six inches from it. I could feel his fingers scrabbling at me, trying to climb over me. But I was there, no pain in my hands now, gripping it to my chest.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t suck in any air. Trying to turn the thing around, I got it in my right hand. He was now on top of me, forcing the weapon down between me and the concrete. My ribcage started to collapse. I pushed up with my ass, trying to make space under me, trying to spin the weapon around, stripping the skin off my knuckles.

He grabbed my throat. His teeth bit into my shoulder. I felt his labored breathing on my neck.

If I didn’t get some air into my lungs soon, I was going down. Starbursts of light flickered across my eyes. I needed oxygen, my head was about to explode.

More gunshots outside.

I got the weapon in my hand, but his weight was still pressing down on me too much to move it.

I twisted left and right, jerking up and down, trying to create a gap so I could free my hand. He bit harder, his hands shifting from my throat to my arms.

I rolled onto my right side, got the Beretta into his biceps, and fired. He shrieked and sprang off me, clutching the wound, wriggling like an eel. I could see bone and blood as I lay there trying to breathe.