Terror's Reach (17 page)

You could always answer it and find out, she thought, an uncharitable
response that later she would regret.
She dried her hands on a tea towel and hurried to the front door.
Through the frosted-glass panel she could see the outline of a man’s
head and upper body.
As she opened the door she heard movement in the next room:
that would be Donald making himself decent. He was a martyr to
trapped wind, and after a meal had an irritating tendency to sit with
his trousers undone, massaging his lower abdomen.
Angela opened the door and gave a start. What she saw defied logic.
For a moment it seemed as though the man had remained a silhouette
rather than becoming three-dimensional. Then she identified a
pair of narrow, rheumy eyes and understood he was wearing a full
face mask.
There was a cry from the living room: Donald must have gone to
the window. He was shouting at her to shut the door, but even while
she struggled to process the message another masked figure darted
into view, pushing past her and into the house.
Angela turned, making an ineffectual bid to stop him. She heard
a scrabbling on the tiled kitchen floor as Brel raced towards them. He
reached the hall, snarling with a ferocity that made him unrecognisable.
Before he could attack, the man lifted his arm, revealing an ugly
black pistol with a silencer. He fired twice, and Angela’s beloved
Labrador collapsed with an audible and very human-sounding groan.
For a full second no one moved. No one spoke.
Then Donald was in the doorway, his face bloodless and contorted
with shock. The gunman shifted, training the weapon on him. Donald
glanced at it, tried to say something, but all that emerged was a cry
of incoherent rage. Angela saw a madness light up his eyes, a madness
fuelled by two years of bitter, unrelenting grief at the death of their
son.
The gunman growled a warning, but Donald didn’t hear it. Didn’t
hear it or didn’t care. He threw himself forward and swung a fist at
the man. Angela screamed, but the other intruder grabbed her by the
throat, pinning her to the spot.
'Stupid fucker . . .’ The gunman batted away Donald’s first blow,
but he kept coming, baring his teeth, swinging his fists like a drunken
barroom brawler. He wasn’t going to back down, no matter what sort
of threats they made. He was way beyond reason, way beyond self
preservation.
The gunman fired at point-blank range. One bullet, straight into
Donald’s heart. The furious light in his eyes still blazed as his legs
gave way and he collapsed, his brain not yet comprehending that it
was over. All the pain and loss and sorrow, finally ended.

Priya worked out with an almost religious fervour. Boxing was a major
part of her fitness regime. She was proud of the power she could
impart, and the extent to which it took her opponents by surprise.
Oliver Felton didn’t stand a chance. A stranger to exercise, he was
tall and lanky, with a mop of curly brown hair and pale blotchy skin.
He probably weighed a little more than Priya, but had a fraction of
her muscle tone.
She watched the lust on his face fade and die like an overpriced
firework. When the punch landed he staggered back and fell, crying
out as the impact jarred his coccyx. He was wearing expensive but
unfashionable jeans and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, buttoned tightly
at the wrists and throat. She realised why when she felt the air conditioning
working at full blast, cold enough to make her flinch.
Priya glanced round. Eldon was through the gate and sprinting
across the drive. He had his ski mask on, and he was holding a Glock
pistol at his side. That made her nervous. Eldon was about as much
a shooter as Oliver was a fighter.
He reached the front door and slowed, panting noisily through the
mask. Earlier he’d queried why she wasn’t using hers.

'No point,’ she’d said. 'We have history.’
Now he took in Oliver Felton, sitting dumbstruck and almost tearful
on the floor, and regarded her with admiration.
'Wow. I thought we’d have to get past all sorts of alarms and stuff.’
'No. Just him.’ She looked to Oliver for confirmation. Anyone else
here?’
Oliver frowned a moment, as though he had to translate what she
was saying. He shook his head.
'Good.’ Priya kicked the front door shut. Pulled a pair of latex gloves
from her pocket and put them on. Horrified, Oliver scrambled away
from her, his feet slipping and squeaking on the marble floor. His
prominent Adam’s apple worked frantically, bobbing up and down
above his collar.
At last he got the words out. 'What are you . . . what is this?’
'What do you think it is?’
'I don’t know. A robbery?’ Even as he said it, he seemed to relax a
little. You’ve come to steal from my father?’
Priya nodded. 'Not just him. The whole island.’
Oliver stared at her for what seemed a long time, as if translating
again. Then he shook his head, disbelieving. Finally he grinned. When
he spoke, his voice bore the same note of admiration as Eldon’s.
'What a fantastic idea.’

The gunman dragged Donald into the living room. His accomplice
took Angela at knifepoint, forcing her to lie down on the floor next
to her husband’s body. When she tried to look at him the man slapped
her face.
'Please,’ she cried. 'Please don’t do this.’
She heard a snigger from the gunman, as though he took an active
pleasure from her distress. The other man bound her hands behind
her back, using some sort of plastic cuffs. His flesh gave off the hot,
meaty stench of ingrained body odour. Her skin crawled every time
he touched her.
'See if he’s alive,’ she implored them. 'Don’t let him bleed to death.’
'Shut up.’
'Please,’ Angela said again. 'We have hardly anything worth stealing,
but take it all. Just let me see my husband. Let me help him, if I can.’
The gunman shook her head. 'Will you get the message? He’s dead
as a dodo.’
'Why did you shoot him?’ she asked.
'The stupid fucker came at me,’ the gunman said. 'I had no choice.’
No choice. The fallback of every Nazi, every Stalinist, every craven
bureaucrat. Angela could scarcely contain her disgust. She fell silent.
Rested her cheek on the carpet and felt a tear squeeze from her eye.
By tying her up and keeping their faces hidden, she understood
that they didn’t necessarily intend to kill her. But it gave her little
comfort. At that moment she would have welcomed death. She had
nothing left to live for.
Nothing, except perhaps for the first tiny spark of a desire for
revenge.

Liam stood outside Dreamscape, the ski mask in his pocket. He tipped
his head back and shut his eyes, savouring the warmth of the setting
sun. The brilliant orange glow through his eyelids seemed like the
colour of success, the colour of victory.
A gentle breeze had sprung up, stirring the thick air, flavouring it
with the faint tang of salt water. The distant cry of gulls took him
back to the summers of his childhood. Grim holiday camps on the
north-west coast: soggy chips, dreary skies and an aching, pulverising
boredom.
After tonight he would never know boredom again. He would anticipate
its onset and spend his way out of it.

Priya and Eldon had gone next door a couple of minutes ago. Liam
wondered how Priya intended to play it with Oliver Felton. He regretted
not being able to watch her in action.
At the sound of an engine he opened his eyes. Allotti was in the
Ford Explorer. Liam directed him to park outside the footballer’s
residence, tight up to the boundary wall. The wall was of brick construction,
about seven feet high, topped with some kind of decorative tile.
No deterrent to a serious intruder. The real security had been provided
by live-in bodyguards, but they’d accompanied the footballer and his
family to Rome. Only the father-in-law living there now.
There was an intercom, but Liam decided not to use that. With
no plausible reason to bluff his way in, he felt a different approach
was called for.
He put on the mask and drew his gun. A 9 mm Glock 17, with a
silencer. He racked the slide to make sure there was a round in the
chamber, then tucked it back into his belt.
He clambered onto the bonnet of the Explorer and up onto the
wall. Allotti climbed up alongside him. They paused for a second and
examined the house. A couple of first-floor windows were open, but
there was no one in sight.
They dropped down onto a small area of lawn that ran alongside
the driveway. Followed a concrete path to the front door, where Liam
stopped and listened. He could hear music playing inside. Some kind
of opera.
He led Allotti to the corner of the house, made sure it was clear,
then crept along the path towards the rear. Allotti’s breathing, muffled
by the mask, sounded like a poor impersonation of Darth Vader.
Liam peered round the corner. A stone terrace ran the full width
of the property. In the centre there was a round aluminium table with
two chairs. Terry Fox was sitting in one and had his feet propped up
on the other. He was angled away from them, reading a magazine
and sipping a glass of red wine.
He was wearing blue swimming shorts and leather sandals. For a
man in his early sixties he looked in good shape. The muscles in his
arms and legs were still well-defined, and he had only a slight paunch.
His skin was the colour of mahogany, with a nest of white hairs on
his chest.
The music was louder here. The singer was possibly one of those
fat fellas from the World Cup concert, all those years ago. Opera had
never been Liam’s thing, but now it came in useful, covering the
sound of their approach.
Liam walked towards the table, with Allotti just behind him. It took
a few seconds before Fox registered their presence. First he looked up
from the magazine and stared straight ahead, across the bay. Then,
slowly, he turned his head in their direction. He had close-cropped
silver hair and the strong, rugged features of an ageing movie star.
His eyes went from the guns to the masks, then back to the guns.
His hand jerked, slopping the wine in the glass. A couple of drips landed on his chest and he glanced down, studying the wine as though
it might be the cause of this hallucination.
Then he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained it in one quick
gulp. Smacked his lips together and declared: 'Well, bugger me.’
'No, thanks,’ said Liam. Your daughter, maybe.’ He moved closer,
saw the magazine was one of those glossy, celebrity-fixated rags. 'Is
that how you find out what she’s up to?’
Fox snorted. 'Funny.’ Then: 'She is in this one, as it happens. She’s
got a new puppy. And a new tattoo.’
He put the glass down, tossed the magazine aside and sat back.
Laced his fingers together and rested them on his stomach, a picture
of mature composure.
'So what now?’ he asked. 'Stand and deliver?’
Liam nodded. 'Something like that.’

Twenty-Eight

The swim was a battle, but at no time did Joe ever consider that it
was one he might lose. Partly it was experience, partly his training,
and partly just the way he was wired. If giving up had been in his
nature he’d have done it years ago, the day his wife and daughters
were placed out of his reach.
Eventually the pull of the current weakened and he began to make
better progress, slicing through the water with clean, fast strokes. The
island’s eastern coast was rocky and inhospitable, but Joe managed to
weave his way through without getting cut to pieces, and finally he came ashore on one of the intermittent stretches of shingle beach.
He crawled out of the water and collapsed. After resting for a couple
of minutes, he checked himself over. His jeans were torn and he’d
picked up a few scratches, but they weren’t serious. He took a look
at his phone. He had nothing to dry it with, and decided not to risk
putting the battery back in yet.
Ahead of him, the beach rose steeply for about fifty feet, then gave
way to clumps of brambles and blackthorn, growing along the side of
the high chain-link fence that enclosed the old training camp. To
reach the far side of the island, Joe would have to circle round the
coast and head inland somewhere close to the road.
He put his trainers on and laced them up. They squelched with
every step but still allowed him to move a lot faster across the beach.
He set off at a run, not yet dwelling too much on what might lie
ahead. Better to have an open mind and face each challenge as it
arose. After what had already happened today, he didn’t think there
was much more that could surprise him.
He was wrong.

Terry Fox seemed more resigned than afraid. There was a polo shirt
draped over the chair. Before submitting meekly to the handcuffs, he
asked if he could put it on. Liam felt irritated that the old guy wasn’t
begging for mercy, but he wouldn’t let it spoil the moment. Better
that everyone should surrender so easily.
Leaving Allotti to deal with Fox, Liam made his way through the
house, barely glancing at what was on offer. As he’d suspected, the
footballer and his wife had never really left their roots behind. There
was very little art on display, and what they had was mostly tat. Every
single picture on the wall was a portrait of themselves.
Liam found the control panel which opened the main gates and
let himself out through the front door. He tore off the mask and wiped
sweat from his face. He’d be glad when this stage was complete and
he didn’t have to wear the bloody thing any more.
Eldon was waiting for him by the Ford Explorer. He sounded hyper
as he described how Priya had waltzed past Oliver Felton.
'It was like he was expecting her,’ he said. 'I dunno who he thought
she was. I swear he had a hard-on.’
Liam nodded vaguely, as though this didn’t interest him much. Then
Manderson lumbered into view, and just from the grim satisfaction on
his face Liam had an instant premonition: the Weavers were dead.
'Had to snuff one of 'em,’ Manderson said.
'Who? Why?’
'The geezer. Silly fucker went apeshit on us. Threw himself at
Turner. He had to put him down.’ Manderson mimed a gun with two
gloved fingers and made an explosive sound, as though words alone
couldn’t convey the message.
Liam sighed. 'The next target is a lot more important. No casualties
unless it’s absolutely unavoidable. You clear on that?’
Both men nodded, though Manderson’s savage grin didn’t inspire
confidence. One of the many stories about Manderson was that he’d
once beheaded a man with an axe. Looking at him now, Liam could
believe it.
Once again they masked up, drew their weapons and set off on
foot. They rounded the bend in the road and Nasenko’s house came
into view.
They were less than ten feet from the edge of the property when
a man in a plain grey suit wandered out through the gates, cupping
his hand around a cigarette as he lit up. He glanced in their direction,
saw three masked men carrying guns, and reacted faster than
they did.
He didn’t freeze or do a double take, and he didn’t run back into
the house. He took off along the road, heading towards the bridge.
Maybe thought his chances were better out in the open. He’d probably
forgotten how isolated it was here.
Manderson dropped into a shooting stance, but Liam grabbed his
arm. He didn’t want gunfire out in the street; not when they hadn’t
yet taken Nasenko.
'Go after him,’ he told Manderson. At the same time he undipped
his radio and called Pendry.
'The American’s driver is coming your way on foot, with Manderson
on his tail. Make sure he doesn’t get away.’