Riot Act (15 page)

All afternoon at the gym, I was jumpy, and nervous. Attila wasn’t in, and being on my own made things worse. I suppose I was expecting something to happen, but it wasn’t until ten o’clock, when the last punter had cleared out, that things started going seriously awry.

I was just contemplating the usual untidiness of the stacks of dumbbells and the careless scattering of the heavy leather lifting belts when, in the best horror film tradition, all the lights went out.

For a moment I was totally unsighted by the darkness. The memory of the network of fluorescent tubes strung across the ceiling was flashed in to my retinas. I panicked at my own blindness, instinctively recoiling. I reached for the counter behind me, and ducked down.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing them to adapt. They did so with frustrating slowness, like waiting for an old Polaroid picture to surface out of the emulsion.

After a few moments that felt like hours, I opened my eyes again and, blinking, I discovered I could make out the outlines of the nearest weights machines. I crabbed along until I found the opening to behind the counter, and edged through it, not stopping until my back hit the office wall.

All the time, I was waiting for the sounds of rapid entry. If this was just a blown circuit breaker, or a power cut, boy was I going to feel a right prat.

Then, muffled by the dividing walls, came the faint noise of glass shattering as someone smashed one of the windows in the changing rooms.

For a second I tensed, then the realisation hit. There were steel bars fitted on the inside of all the windows in the gym, clearly visible from the outside. No way was anybody going to get in that way.

But, a little voice in the back of my head piped up, the gap between the metal bars was plenty wide enough for them to toss an old vodka bottle full of Unleaded through, now wasn’t it?

I carefully got to my feet, groping for the fire extinguisher Attila kept on a wall bracket just behind the counter. It was dry powder, I remembered. You could use it on just about any type of fire.

I yanked the plastic safety tab out of the squeeze lever handle, and hefted the nine kilo cylinder onto my shoulder, staggering out cautiously from my place of comparative safety.

I got as far as the start of the corridor that leads to the changing rooms, when the main door behind me lurched open. There was no attempt at stealth, it just slammed back against the frame.

The shock of it made me wheel round, gasping. I caught the briefest glimpse of two figures in the doorway, silhouetted by the sodium light from the car park behind them, casting eerie elongated shadows onto the gym floor.

It was impossible to tell an identity, but as one of them started to bring his right hand up, I recognised the shape of the object he was gripping in his fist.

A gun.

Before he’d got chance to take a bead on me, I’d twisted on the balls of my feet and started to dive for cover. The people who’d trained me had drummed it in from the start that to move will save your life, when to freeze will get you killed. So, it was a reflex reaction, elevated by the surge of adrenaline that rushed through my system like a flash flood.

Even as I started to shift, I knew I wasn’t going to be quick enough. Instinctively, I shut my eyes and flinched my head, as though that was going to make a difference.

The sharp crack the gun made as it was fired was terrifyingly loud inside the confines of the building. At the same instant, the noise exploded into a reverberating clang like a giant struck bell. The fire extinguisher bucked in my hands. Something thumped me hard on the side of my neck, and I went down.

I lost my grip on the extinguisher as I fell. It landed with the valve downwards, bouncing hard enough on the handle to puncture the CO2cartridge inside and pressurise the contents. Suddenly, my view to the doorway disappeared in a hissing cloud of powder.

The extinguisher toppled over onto its side, but the discharge valve must have snapped off, because the powder kept billowing out of it even when there must have been no more force on the handle. I was enveloped in a choking layer of talcum-like dust.

My neck was stinging and my head felt dazed, but I knew the powder wasn’t going to keep my assailants occupied for long. It takes under thirty seconds to empty a cylinder that size, and the clock was ticking. I had to move – now. Anyone who comes calling armed with a gun has to be pretty damned serious about killing you.

The thought chilled me, but I pushed it to the back of my mind as I scuttled across the carpet on my hands and knees. I cannoned into a stack of weights as I brushed past, and sent them crashing to the floor. Immediately, another shot fractured the air, pinging off the frame of the machine directly above my head. Shit! Too close for comfort.

I heard the men stumbling and swearing as they moved further into the room. In the dark the gym equipment was even more of a hindrance to them than it was to me.

Unless they were very experienced and knew to shut their eyes, every time the gunman pulled the trigger, the flare of the muzzle flash from the un-silenced weapon was obliterating whatever night vision they’d managed to build up. I hoped.

I eased my head up over the bench behind which I’d been hiding. I could just make out the shape of them, about ten feet apart, with the gunman in front, making a sweep of the place. They were moving gingerly through the swirling clouds of powder from the still-discharging extinguisher. Was it really less than half a minute since the first shot had been fired?

I ducked down again. Who was trying to kill me? And, more importantly, why? Maybe the man at the building site had told Langford and Mr Ali about this mysterious bike courier. The thought seemed so outrageous, I dismissed it almost straight away.

Or, maybe, despite his apparent nonchalance Garton-Jones had taken his dismissal a lot more personally than had been thought. I could follow the reasoning that, with me out of the way, the residents of Lavender Gardens might suddenly decide his services were cheap at any price . . .

Surely there were easier ways of dealing with me than sending a pair of thugs to shoot me dead? Or was it Garton-Jones himself out there in the darkness?

I knew that I was going to have to come up with something fast if I wanted to get out of this alive. I reached out carefully to the stack of weights I’d knocked over and quietly picked up a couple of two-and-a-half kilo ones.

With a final furtive check on the position of the two men, I quickly lobbed one of the weights into the gap between them, ducking back down fast.

I saw them both react to the noise the weight made when it crash-landed into the gloom beyond them. Trigger-happy wasted another couple of rounds firing rapidly in that direction. Having their backs turned gave me the chance to half-rise up from cover, take a bit more time over my aim with the second weight.

I flung it at the gunman with as much power as I could put behind it. I nearly missed. Something must have alerted him at the last moment and he began to turn. The weight clouted the shoulder of his gun arm hard as he came round, and I heard him cry out.

In a flash I was on my feet. This was my only chance, and I couldn’t afford to bungle it. I jumped onto one of the benches, and used that as a springboard to launch myself at the second man.

I body-slammed him hard enough to smack the breath out of my lungs. I hit him at around mid-chest height, my momentum carrying him off his feet and hurling him skidding onto the floor. The air was punched out of his body in an explosive grunt as we landed, with me still on top. I jabbed a short blow to his head, then scrambled to my feet and sprinted for the open doorway.

As I reached the aperture, it became obvious that Trigger-happy had regained use of his gun arm. Another two rounds came whistling out after me. One of them clipped the door frame as I ran through it, splintering the wood and peppering the back of my shoulder-blades with shards as I ran through.

I dodged sideways out of sight, flattening against the outside wall of the building. I could see my breath in clouds against the bitter night air.

I bit down on my fear and anger as I waited for them to show themselves. I was past caring about how stupid it was to stand and fight. I wanted blood over this. Preferably not mine.

I didn’t have time for second thoughts. It was only moments before the thud of running footsteps grew louder from the doorway. As the first figure burst through it I pivoted sideways and swung my leg hard into his stomach like I was doing a high-kick aerobics routine.

The impact jarred right through me, but he dropped instantly, the gun clattering away from him as he fell. My body was already spinning to continue the attack when my mind registered the face of my enemy, now visible under the lights, and put the brakes on. I stumbled to a halt, my movements suddenly jerky and uncoordinated.

“
Nasir?
” my voice came out incredulous.

The boy on the floor gave me a look of such intense and vicious hatred that I staggered back from it. I entirely forgot to take the other assailant into account. He rammed into me and sent the pair of us sprawling. I managed to get an elbow to his face, but it was no more than a superficial blow.

Still, it was enough to send him reeling, and when I glanced at him, I knew why. Harlow and Drummond were professionals. They’d obviously been told to make an example of Roger, and when they’d worked him over they’d made sure they marked him where it would show.

His face was still a mass of tender bruises, and the left side seemed to be one big scab. The swelling was pulling his lip down, showing his teeth. Both eyes were open now, but the white of one was flecked with blood.

I took the opportunity to roll away from him fast, hearing him screaming to Nasir, “Get the gun! Shoot her, for fuck’s sake!”

If I’d known Roger was going to be so damned unfriendly, I would have left him to get what was coming to him in that alley.

Ah well, too late for regrets now.

I got to my feet to find that Nasir had indeed regained his grip on the gun, and had it pointing firmly at me. Closer, and in better light, I could see it was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. A Browning Hi-Power design, made by FN in Belgian. I’d fired enough of them on the army ranges for the weapon to be familiar.

This one hadn’t had the benefit of military upkeep, though. It was battered and abused, with traces of rust along the barrel. It didn’t look like the sort of thing the FN Herstal company would want to use pictures of in their latest brochure. A workmanlike killing tool, no trophy piece.

Slowly, and without any sudden moves, I brought my hands up to shoulder height, and kept them there.

It was a strange tableau. We were all of us covered in the pinkish powder from the fire extinguisher. I’d been closest and come off worst in the exchange. I looked like a slightly effeminate ghost.

Roger’s face had opened up again where I’d caught him, the blood leaving red trails through the powder and dripping down onto his T-shirt. He was holding himself stiffly, like an arthritic old man.

I just couldn’t believe that he’d risen from his sick bed with the express purpose of coming down here with his mate to slaughter me. It seemed ludicrous overkill. In more ways than one.

“So, Nasir,” I said conversationally, “are we going to stand around all night, or are you just going to shoot me?”

“Shut up!” he yelled, seeming close to tears. The gun was wavering alarmingly. “Just shut up!”

Roger glanced at him, worry creasing his face. “Come on, Nas, get it over with!” he urged nervously.

Ungrateful little bastard.

For a moment Nasir looked as though he was going to comply. I tensed, then he let out a tortured groan.

“I can’t!” he wailed, letting the muzzle of the gun drop.

Roger jumped to his side, grabbing his arm and almost seeming to forget about my presence. “You’ve got to,” he said sharply. “She’s got to die, tonight.”

I knew I should be asking questions, but for the life of me I couldn’t utter a word. It was like watching the actors on a film set. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be my own cold-blooded execution they were talking about . . .

Nasir gave out a sob. “I can’t,” he said again. He brought his hands up to cover his face. “Oh, God help her.”

“You bastard!” Roger screamed at him. “Don’t you know what’s going to happen? Don’t you care?”

Before Nasir could respond, there was the roar of an engine turning off the road into the gym entrance, and the blaze of headlights as they cut a swathe across the car park.

Nasir took a horrified look at the Dutch-plated Grand Cherokee that was leaping over the loose surface towards us, and panicked completely.

By this time his gun hand was shaking so much he could barely take aim, but he loosed off three quick, startled shots in the general direction of the jeep. I was standing so close to him when he fired that my eardrums seemed to explode.

More by luck than by skill, his first shot hit the windscreen. It bloomed instantly into an opaque mesh of fracture lines, radiating out from the point of impact like ripples.