Life For a Life (34 page)

He had no time to feel the pain. He had to break free.

He gritted his teeth, tensed his muscles, and with every ounce of his strength tried to tear his limbs from the taping. He felt some movement as the binding stretched, and he held it until he could hold no more. He took another breath, tensed his muscles, giving it his all, held it again, felt the tape bite into his arms, his legs, felt fire sear across his shoulders. But a few seconds later he reached the grim conclusion that it would take a stronger man than he could ever be to tear himself free.

Exhausted, he slumped forward as far as the binding permitted. His head lolled, his chin to his chest. He was done. He was through with it all. Part of him wished Kumar would return and just get on with the job of lopping off his head, while another part wanted to beg for one phone call, to talk to Jack, to Maureen, for just one minute, to tell them he was proud of how they turned out, how he was sorry he would not be around for their own yetto-be-born children, and that he loved them. Yes, even if he had time enough only for that, to tell them he loved them, that would do.

But he now knew that would never happen.

He would never speak to them, never see them again.

He could do nothing to stop the tears from squeezing through his eyes, or choke back the heavy sobs that grunted from his very core.

Jessie stopped dead, her arm out to halt Mhairi. ‘Did you see that?’

‘What?’

‘The door. I thought it moved.’

‘Could have been the wind.’

As if to prove Mhairi’s point, an Arctic gust blasted in, stirring up snow, shifting it across the ground like spindrift in a winter storm.

Jessie tugged her collar, blew into her hands. Was it always this cold on the east coast, for Christ’s sake? ‘I don’t think it was the wind,’ she said.

‘Well, we know someone’s in there.’

‘And he now knows we’re out here.’

‘He?’ Mhairi quipped.

‘Here’s hoping it’s not a
they
.’

Jessie turned her attention to the car parked outside the steading, a white Vauxhall Astra, the name and address of the rental company in Dundee on an oval sticker on the rear window. But it was the footprints around the car that held her attention.

She stared at them, tried to make sense of the mess.

One clear set ran from the passenger door around the boot, and another not so clear from the driver’s door. Both sets seemed to converge by the rear door only to be lost in a confusion of disturbed snow. But what struck Jessie was the single line that ran in a scuffled trail from the rear door to the barn, as if . . . as if . . .

‘Fuck,’ she said, and faced Mhairi. ‘Andy’s in there,’ she whispered. ‘They’ve dragged him from the back seat. There’s two of them at least,’ she confirmed.

Mhairi hissed a curse of her own, then said, ‘We need help.’

Help was good. But it would take time for help to arrive. And Jessie knew she could not delay. Not this time. Not after losing Gordie. ‘You go on,’ she said to Mhairi, and pointed to the far corner of the steading. ‘Nip round the back. See if you can find another way in.’ Jessie tried to work through the logic but it was now everything or nothing. ‘And get on to your phone again and this time tell them it’s an emergency.’

‘What about you?’

Jessie grimaced. ‘I’ll distract them.’

Mhairi held Jessie’s gaze for a stunned moment, as if about to ask if she was crazy or what. Jessie was not sure if she could give an honest answer. Then Mhairi pushed past her, crept beyond the barn’s door, and on towards the far corner.

Jessie watched Mhairi disappear round the end of the steading.

All of a sudden, she realised how vulnerable she was. And how stupid. How really fucking stupid. She was so fucking stupid she was shaking in her shoes. Here she was, trying to tackle a known killer without a weapon, and without backup. The sensible thing to do would be to back away, watch from a safe distance until the others arrived. But she was beyond that, she had taken one step too far – maybe several – and in doing so had endangered not only her own life, but the lives of Mhairi and Robert.

With that thought, she glanced at Robert—

What . . . ?

He was standing by the side of the Fiat, looking at her.

Get back inside the car
, she signed.
It’s too cold.

There’s someone with a gun.

Jessie’s heart jumped to her mouth.
Where?

Behind the wall
.

Jessie looked the length of the steading, at snow that lay undisturbed all the way to the near corner. Then she turned back to Robert.
Where?

Robert flapped a hand at the gable end, then signed,
Behind the wall with a gun only six feet from the corner run Mum run he’ll shoot you.

And it struck Jessie that if Robert could see the man, the man could see Robert.

So she ran.

She ran towards the corner.

She ran towards the corner and the man with the gun, knowing that if she was killed, then Robert would be killed too. She risked a glance at Robert but could not see him, and a surge of relief powered through her that he had the sense at least to hide.

And as she ran, her feet crunched snow, kicked through frosted grass long enough to slow her down. Her breath gushed in front of her. By the near corner, the snow had drifted. With less than ten feet to go, her feet sank into thicker snow, telling her that she was not going to reach the corner in time, she was too slow, too late—

A man stepped out from the corner of the steading.

Jessie’s heart stopped but her legs kept pushing as her mind tried to work out why he was wearing white fatigues, and why the gun looked so long.

The gun swung her way, aimed at her face.

She half-stumbled, half-dived as her mind told her they were not military fatigues but forensic coveralls, that the gun was a Makarov fitted with a suppressor—

She heard the spit as the Makarov kicked in Kumar’s hand.

She felt something slap her shoulder but her momentum carried her forward. She landed on her knees and her head butted Kumar’s groin, and powered him on to his back on the snow-covered ground with a surprised grunt.

Jessie tried to kick herself to her feet but some part of her was not working the way it should. The Makarov was still gripped in Kumar’s hand, and he swung his arm at her to take another shot. But at such close quarters, the length of the barrel with its suppressor was more of a hindrance than an advantage.

Jessie heard the angry spit, felt the warm buzz as a bullet zipped through her hair.

Another bullet spat past, ricocheted off the barn’s stone wall.

Then she had Kumar’s gun arm gripped in both hands, except that it felt as if it was only one. But Kumar, instead of fighting to recover his gun, rolled on to his side, taking Jessie with him. Before she could work out what had happened, she was on her back with Kumar on top of her, trying to tug his gun arm free.

Jessie held on as long as she could, but it was no use.

The gun slipped from her grip and Kumar struggled to his feet.

He looked down at her, lowering the barrel as he pointed it at her face. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he said, and turned his head at an animal roar by his side.

Something flashed before Jessie.

The suppressor spat, the bullet burying itself in the snow by her head.

Kumar toppled over, overpowered by the surprise attack. Even above the animal’s roar, Jessie heard the angry spit of another three shots in quick succession.

She pulled herself over, made it to her knees, surprised to see the snow bleeding red.

And why was Robert here, roaring like a madman, swinging his fists?

Jessie struggled to push to her feet, almost made it before slumping back into the snow. ‘Robert,’ she shouted, but her voice came out as weak as a gasp. He could not hear her anyway, she knew that. But as he continued to punch she saw that his attack was lightweight, little more than boyish slaps rather than manly punches.

She saw, too, how strong Kumar was – the ring on his little finger told her he was Kumar – for he seemed to be taking no notice of Robert’s flailing punches, more intent on finding his feet, which he did with alarming ease.

And Robert, as if realising at last that he was no match for the man, rushed over to his mother’s side, grabbed her by her hands, tried to pull her to her feet to lead her to safety. But his grip slipped on her blood, and his face grimaced in horror as he looked at his bloodied fingers and roared his deaf-man’s roar again.

Behind Robert, Kumar rubbed his hand under a bloodied nose, then gave Jessie a red-toothed smile as he levelled the gun at Robert.

Jessie reached up, pulled Robert to her, and threw her arm round him.

‘He’s only a boy,’ she pleaded.

‘That doesn’t matter to me,’ Kumar replied, his finger tightening round—

The Makarov jerked, and spat a bullet at the snow.

Kumar grimaced in pain as his gun arm twisted behind his back, then grunted with surprise as his head butted the steading wall. Then his other arm jerked behind him to the metallic click of handcuffs, and Mhairi saying, ‘You’re under arrest, you fuck-head.’

Kumar seemed to recover from his second surprise attack of the day and put up a struggle to break free. His head rocked back in a reverse head butt that could have cracked concrete. But Mhairi pulled out of the way just in time, took hold of Kumar’s head with both hands and thudded it into the barn wall – once, twice, three times for luck – with an anger she must have been saving for Angus.

Kumar slumped to the snow, his face leaving a bloodied trail down the stone wall. Mhairi retrieved his gun and, with an expertise that surprised Jessie, removed the magazine clip and slipped it into her pocket.

Then she was kneeling by Jessie’s side. ‘You’ve been shot.’

‘Forget me. Take Robert to the car.’

‘It’s OK—’

‘There’s two of them.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Bloody hell, Mhairi . . .’

But Mhairi already had Jessie’s jacket unzipped and her arm freed from her sleeve, and was ripping her sweater open at the neck, tearing the buttons from her blouse.

‘What about Andy?’ Jessie asked. ‘Is he there?’

‘You were right.’

‘Is he . . . ?’

‘Andy’s inside,’ Mhairi said. ‘There’s a door at the back. He’s alive. That’s all I know. I’ve not had time to check him out.’ She dabbed Jessie’s wound. ‘You’re OK. Looks like the bullet went through.’ She slipped a key ring from her pocket and opened the blade of a Swiss Army knife, then sliced the sleeve from Jessie’s sweater to use as a makeshift sling.

‘Didn’t know you were a field medic,’ Jessie said, ‘and a karate queen.’

‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’

‘Want to talk about it over a drink?’

‘Or three?’

Jessie tried a smile. ‘You’re all right, Mhairi. Angus doesn’t deserve you.’

‘Fuck Angus.’

‘No thank you.’

Mhairi gave a short smile, and pulled Jessie’s jacket back over her shoulder. ‘That should do until the real medics arrive.’ Then she turned to Robert, touched her lips, and said, ‘Your mum is going to be OK.’

Robert looked at Jessie for reassurance.

Jessie tried a smile, but it felt all wrong. Then she reached up with her good arm and pulled him to her. She buried her lips in his hair, and realised that without her son, she had nothing. She shook him with mock anger. ‘You wee rascal,’ she said to him. ‘I told you to stay in the car.’

He pulled back and frowned at her, as if puzzled by her change in mood.

But she gave him a cleaner smile, and said, ‘I love you.’

His eyes filled, and he said, ‘Iloveyoutoo.’

Gilchrist pushed himself to his feet and stumbled into Mhairi.

‘Leg’s numb,’ he said to her, as she pulled his arm over and round her shoulder, and took most of his weight.

‘You don’t have to walk, sir,’ she said. ‘You can sit.’

If he moved his head, his world spun, and he realised it would take some time before the drugs cleared his system. He was also having difficulty remembering exactly what had happened, although the urge to be on his feet and away from the steading was so strong as to be almost overpowering. ‘I don’t want to sit on that chair,’ he said, pleased that he was able to pronounce his words, even though his tongue felt like a cotton ball.

He worked up some spittle, shuffled his left foot forward, then his right. The taping had cut off the circulation, and his legs could have been connected to someone else’s nervous system. But just moving around, and breathing without physical restriction, was already doing wonders for his spirit and his strength.

Still, walking and trying to stay upright required concentration.

‘Pretend you’re going for a pint, sir. That’s what my father used to say. The day I cannae walk to the pub is the day they’re gonnie put me in my coffin.’

Gilchrist chuckled. Having a pint or a half. The Scotsman’s answer to all ailments. He tried lengthening his stride – well, pushing one foot further forward than the other. ‘Did he pass away at the bar?’ he managed to ask her.

‘Run over by a bus.’

Gilchrist halted. ‘Sorry, I . . .’

‘Only joking, sir. He smoked like a lum, and died of lung cancer.’

Through the open steading door, the snow lay as white as a sheet under the blue blanket of a cloudless sky. The wind gave a sudden gust, buffeting Gilchrist as he stepped into the cold. If not for Mhairi’s grip, he would have been bowled over.

‘Bit chilly,’ he said, breathing in the freezing air, and marvelling at the clarity of the countryside, as if seeing it for the first time through eyes that could focus on the finest of details. Maybe you really had to stare death in the eye before you appreciated life.

‘We can go back inside,’ she said.

‘Outside’s fine.’

Gilchrist had come to – he could not remember the moments before passing out – as Mhairi was slicing through the duct tape, and it had taken her several seconds to convince him that Kumar was not going to break through the door and kill them both.