Nightmare City (39 page)

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the rear doors of the van
opening. Instinctively he knew he was in trouble.

The sight of two armed cops, one in uniform, one in plain
clothes, confirmed his intuition.

Anderson did not hesitate, caught as he was between his car
and the protection of the building.

His three-quarter-length sheepskin coat was unbuttoned, as
always. He flung it open, skewed round to face the two officers,
and the mini-Uzi which was hanging on a strap around his neck fell
naturally into his hands with the ease of much practice. He clicked
off the safety with his thumb and immediately whacked a short burst
at the officers, bending low as he fired.

The uniformed male officer took the brunt of the burst across
his shoulders and chest. The bullets ripped into his unprotected
right shoulder and the rest thudded into his body armour - which
saved his life. The impact spun him round like a top and he
staggered face-first back into the surveillance van, screaming as
blood spurted out from the wounds.

The female officer hit the deck, diving out of sight behind a
car.

Two more officers appeared from an alley, one in plain
clothes, one in uniform. Anderson gritted his teeth and loosed off
another short burst in their direction. They leapt back down the
alley, into cover.

Anderson turned and sprinted along St George’s Quay,
disappearing out of sight underneath the railway bridge which
spanned the end of the road.

Gun in hand, Henry ran up the alley towards the Quay. He could
see Siobhan and the firearms officer jumping out of the back of the
van and hear Siobhan’s near-hysterical voice over the radio, urging
the rest of the troops to get going. ‘Move, come on, go!’ or words
to that effect. There was the dull ‘du-du-du-du’ - a sound Henry
recognised immediately as that of an automatic weapon being fired.
The firearms officer pirouetted, clutching at his shoulder which
had exploded in bright red, and toppled back into the van,
screaming. Siobhan dived for cover. One officer down.

By this time, Henry and Philpot had reached the end of the
alley. They ran rather stupidly out onto the road and showed
themselves.

Henry saw Anderson about seventy metres away. The smoking
muzzle of the deadly black Uzi zeroed in on the detective. Henry
jarred to a halt, threw himself at Philpot and they bundled back
into the alley only a fraction of a second before Anderson pulled
the trigger again and released a deadly burst of
bullets.

Stone chips flew. One lodged in Henry’s cheek. It was like
being stung by a wasp.

They flattened themselves against the wall. Henry was
breathing heavily already. Blood trickled warmly down his face. He
wiped it away with the back of his hand.

He pivoted low out of the alley, gun in his right hand,
supported by the left, bouncing on his knees. His elbows locked in
an isosceles triangle ready to return fire, though painfully aware
that the distance between himself and Anderson made the prospect of
hitting him pretty remote ... but all he saw was a glimpse of
Anderson’s back in the fleeting second before he went out of
sight.

‘
Leader to Car One,’ Henry bellowed down his radio. ‘He’s on
foot, coming towards you, wearing a light tan coat, sheepskin
collar, carrying an automatic weapon which he has used.’

Car One was the unmarked car which was supposed to have been
keeping observations at the entrance to the Quay to clock Anderson
if he came in that way. If the occupants of that car had been doing
their job right, they should have seen Anderson and warned the
surveillance van. That was an issue Henry would be taking up with
those officers later.

‘
You stay here,’ he yelled across to Siobhan. ‘Look after him
- call an ambulance. C’mon, bud, let’s move,’ he said to
Philpot.

He went after Anderson, mindful that things had gone horribly
wrong in less than a minute. Doesn’t take long for a job to get
fucked up.

He and Philpot, who was much fitter and soon moved into the
lead, ran to the end of the Quay where it becomes Damside Street,
then onto the junction with Bridge Lane. Car One screamed down
Bridge Lane from the direction of the city centre and squealed onto
Damside Street, pulling up alongside Henry and Philpot.

The two officers aboard looked shamefaced. They had been away
from their designated point and hadn’t bothered telling anyone.
There were two Kentucky Fried Chicken wrappers in the back
seat.

Henry was fuming. He could not recall a time in his life when
he had been quite so fucking enraged.

‘
You fucking wankers - where have you been?’ he screamed
through the driver’s window. He couldn’t be bothered to await a
reply. ‘You’ – he pointed at the passenger - ‘get out.’ He turned
to Philpot. ‘You and this dipstick get going after him on foot.
I’ll get a lift to the southern end of town and work my way back
down on foot. Right, get going, go on, fuck off!’

Henry leapt into the passenger seat and said, ‘Drop me off at
the Kentucky - you obviously know where that is.’

Dumbly the officer nodded.

Henry reholstered his gun.

He took a few seconds to marshal his thoughts before getting
back on the radio. Then he directed two of the four officers who’d
been at the back of the warehouse to make their way into the city
centre and start searching. The other two were told to remain at
the scene in case Anderson doubled back and also to assist Siobhan
with the injured officer. He told the firearms team in the van to
drive up to the police station, park their vehicles and begin
searching from there. The two officers in the plain car tasked to
watch the other route to Anderson’s flat were given a free
hand.

Flood the place, that’s what he wanted to do. Flood the place
and flush him out - if he was still there.

His mind was racing as he tried to consider all the
angles.

The bus station, taxi rank and railway station all needed
cover, as did every other way out of the city by foot and
car.

He glared at the officer who was driving, but couldn’t find
the words to adequately express his emotions. He shook his head,
exhaled an exaggerated sigh and kept his mouth shut. The officer
concentrated on driving, totally aware he was being appraised by
someone who probably wanted to throttle him.

Within two minutes they were at the southern tip of the city,
at the top of Penny Street, one of the main shopping thoroughfares.
Henry opened his door and as he got out said, ‘You cruise the area
and don’t go to the Kentucky or I’ll be sending your P45 to your
home address.’

‘
Yes, Sarge,’ said the chastened PC.

Henry stood upright. Blood dribbled down his face into the
corner of his mouth. He wiped his sleeve across it. Then, with his
hand on the butt of his revolver in the upside-down holster, he
walked towards the centre of Lancaster. He moved slowly, pausing
occasionally, looking, his eyes never resting.

The town was busy. It was difficult to spot anyone in
particular amongst the throng of shoppers. He constantly relayed
his position to the other members of the team and they to
him.

Time was running out. Five minutes had passed since the
incident and each passing second meant that Anderson was less
likely to be caught. It was like looking for a needle ... Henry
tensed up, thinking he had spotted Anderson but no, it was a
lookalike. Similar, but not him. Shit. There were so many places he
could disappear to.

Henry had reached the junction with Common Garden Street. From
this point northwards, Penny Street became a pedestrianised area.
On the opposite corner was a branch of Marks & Spencer, Kate’s
favourite shop. Henry crossed the road, stood next to the shop
window and stared down Penny Street into the impenetrable mass of
people.

Damn, he cursed. He knew they had lost Anderson, just knew it.
Henry’s chance to make a good impression on the NWOCS - and he’d
completely ballsed it up. Everything Morton had said he didn’t want
to happen, had happened. May not have been his fault personally,
but he was the man in charge, the one who would have to answer all
the awkward questions. The buck stopped firmly with him.

He glanced into Marks & Spencer.

And there he was, lurking behind a rack of sports
gear.

They locked eyes.

Henry yanked his gun out of the holster.

Anderson stepped to one side, out of the cover provided by the
sports wear. The Uzi was in his hands. He fired at Henry, spraying
bullets through the huge sheet of plate glass which separated the
two men and made up the store frontage. Henry hurled himself to one
side, dropping his weapon as he did so, and the whole window
disintegrated spectacularly, like an avalanche, showering him with
millions of shards of glass.

He was absolutely covered in the stuff - in his hair, down his
shirt, in his pockets.

But he was unhurt.

The shopping had stopped in Penny Street. With screams and
shrieks, everyone was running away or taking cover.

Anderson walked confidently towards Henry, Uzi in hand, a look
of determination on his face and the intention of wiping out a
detective. He lifted the small but deadly weapon and aimed at
Henry’s chest.

Henry saw Anderson’s right forefinger curl around the trigger
and pull it back. He saw the muzzle flash. Heard the crack and felt
the impact on his sternum like a steam hammer. The force of the
impact bowled him over and sent him sprawling in the broken
glass.

But the bullet didn’t penetrate, just seemed to knock the wind
out of him as though he’d been rugby-tackled by six prop
forwards.

For a moment he lay there dazed and slightly confused. Then
what had happened sank in. He looked up and focused on
Anderson.

It had been the last round in Anderson’s magazine, and Henry
was still alive because he’d worn the protective vest given to him
by Siobhan the day before. In his dreams he gave her a big sloppy
kiss.

Anderson had discarded the empty magazine, produced a full one
from his coat pocket and was fumbling to slot it in, when he looked
up and saw the six foot two, fourteen-stone frame of Henry Christie
charging towards him through the space where there had once been a
window.

Henry came in low. Anderson swung the empty gun at his head.
Henry dodged it skilfully and his left shoulder powered into
Anderson’s solar plexus. He drove the wanted man hard backwards
into a display of men’s underwear which crashed around
them.

The Uzi flew out of Anderson’s grip and clattered away to one
side.

The two men rolled and fought in a bed of boxer shorts and
Y-fronts.

Anderson’s fist connected with Henry’s lower jaw, stunning
him, sending shockwaves around his skull. Henry slumped off,
shaking his head, allowing Anderson to get to his feet. He lashed
out with his boot at Henry who immediately lunged at his legs to
smother the kicks.

He overbalanced Anderson and this time the pair brought down a
display of trousers and a mannequin.

They rolled through these, face to face, sometimes eyeball to
eyeball, neither one able to get the upper hand. Anderson tried to
head-butt Henry, who twisted his face out of the way only to expose
his left ear to Anderson’s mouth - who, never one to fight clean -
bit into it hard and nasty, worrying it like a terrier, trying to
rip it off the side of Henry’s face.

The pain was phenomenal. Henry screamed. With a superhuman
effort he wrenched his shredded ear out of Anderson’s mouth and dug
him hard in the ribs with a punch from his right fist. Anderson
groaned.

The two men separated from each other, both scrambling madly
in an effort to be the first one to get to his feet, to gain the
advantage.

They made it simultaneously.

Six feet apart.

They stared at each other.

Anderson spat out a gobful of blood and ear onto the prostrate
mannequin, which lay there dismembered. He wiped his
mouth.

Henry could hardly draw breath. He was acutely aware at that
precise moment how out of shape he was and that, maybe, he was
getting too old for shit like this. His ear was giving him the most
horrendous pain. He had never even contemplated how painful it
could be to have someone bite your ear off. He put a hand up to it.
Christ! It felt like it was hanging off. The hand came away covered
in crimson.

Anderson smiled. He had blood on his teeth. He looked like
something from a cheap horror movie, but the worst of it was that
this was real life and the blood on the teeth was
Henry’s.

Anderson’s right hand went to his left sleeve. Henry had a
quick and awful premonition ... he was right.

A huge knife slid out of the sleeve.

Henry’s heart sank. The cunt was really well prepared for the
worst. It was one of those quasi-military style knives where the
handle was actually a knuckle duster and the blade was pretty
damned near a scythe.

‘
Give up. . . Give up now,’ Henry croaked hoarsely between
rasping breaths. ‘There’ll be a dozen cops here soon and when they
see that thing in your hand they’ll blow you away. You’ll be dead,
I promise you, Terry.’