The Darkest Hour (21 page)

Chapter 31

R
OSSETT AND CHIVERS
climbed the stairs at the end of the corridor. The Webley led the way, with Rossett following close behind. Chivers mumbled something about going back for the lamp, but Rossett raised a hand to silence him and stopped moving up. He tilted his head like a dog in the night and listened to far-off voices and the clattering of boots on hard flagstones.

“Shit,” said Chivers under his breath as he moved up a step closer to Rossett and peeked around his hip.

Rossett ignored him and continued up the stairs toward the wooden door a few feet farther on, moving slightly quicker than he had before.

Into the fight, never away from it.

They arrived at the door and Rossett rested his ear against it, hand on the doorknob. Beyond it he could hear nothing, and he wondered if his captors had moved on with their search.

Chivers whispered his suspicion. “Maybe they think you made it out?”

Rossett felt someone turning the knob from the other side, and both men took a step back and stared as it slowly rotated. Rossett raised the Webley and simultaneously reached under his coat for the knife, just in case the .455 wasn’t enough for what lay beyond.

The door opened a fraction, and Rossett cocked the pistol and prepared to kill one more time. His brow furrowed and he kicked the door open to surprise whoever was on the other side.

Jacob stared up at the gun and then gave a soft cry, raising his fists in front of his chest as his body tensed. His chin dropped and he shut his eyes.

In the hundredth of a second that his trigger finger tensed, Rossett’s eyes screamed at his brain to not shoot, and his brain held fire. He looked down at Jacob, who in turn slowly raised his head, as if finishing a silent prayer.

“You came for me?” Jacob said softly, and tears welled as he became the littlest boy Rossett had ever seen. For a moment, Jacob seemed frozen in time, unsure of what to do next, but as the first tear slid down his face, the little boy ran to Rossett and held him tightly around the waist.

“You came for me,” Jacob said again, this time with more certainty, as Rossett reached down and stroked the boy’s hair.

“Come with me, boy,” Rossett replied, prising free one of the child’s hands and dragging him behind him as he crossed the room.

“ ’Oo’s this?” said Chivers, now suddenly aware that he was a little bit farther away from the protecting Webley. Rossett didn’t reply.

He stopped at the door that still hung open, where the guards had evidently gone, before he looked around the room.

Now there wasn’t any other way for the three of them to go: they had to follow the guards. Rossett just hoped the guards didn’t decide to come back as they went forward.

He felt Jacob’s hand squeeze his own, and he looked down at the boy.

“Thank you,” Jacob said, cheeks glistening with tears. “My grandfather said you would look after me.”

Rossett looked at Jacob and then reached down and stroked the boy’s cheek with the palm of his bloodied hand. The words hurt more than his broken rib, so much so that he briefly considered telling the boy he hadn’t been coming for him, that he’d merely been looking to save his own skin.

He decided the boy had been hurt enough in one day. Unable to look at the young, innocent eyes, he turned away and peered back through the doorway to where the men had run, resigned to play the hero for a few more minutes, at least.

The space he was looking into was cavernous and full of packing cases, and, like every other room in the building he’d been in, it was poorly lit. From where they stood, he couldn’t see the exit, so, leading Jacob and Chivers slowly forward, he worked his way around the cases to look for one. The building seemed quiet, and Rossett supposed that the earlier panic of the guards had subsided.

The room was actually some sort of loading bay. Rossett saw his Austin parked near the far wall, next to a slightly newer and larger but just as battered Morris. Between him and the cars stood a Bedford truck and about thirty feet of open ground.

The way out of the building to his left was a large sliding wooden door that filled the outer wall. In it was cut a small wicket gate that was half open, tempting them outside.

Rossett turned to the others and held his finger to his lips, motioning for them to stay put. He tried to open his hand to allow Jacob to let go, but the boy held on tightly, shaking his head.

Rossett glanced back to the door and then carefully prised himself free of Jacob’s grip, passing Jacob’s hand to Chivers, who started at it blankly.

“What?”

“Take his hand.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.” Chivers shrugged and took hold of the hand. Jacob’s eyes pleaded with Rossett, but he turned away and crept toward the gate. He stopped next to the hinge side and flattened his back against the twenty-foot-high, thickly painted black wooden doors. His position allowed him to look through the outward-opening gate into the street beyond.

Rossett realized he was on the opposite side of the building from where he had fallen. This exit led out into the maze of warehouses and thin streets that laced the docks like veins, allowing goods to flow out from the heart of the quays and into the city, then onward to the rest of the country.

He glanced back to Chivers and Jacob, and was relieved to see they had slunk back into the shadows. He placed his hand on the gate, keeping his back to the door, and gently eased it open a few more inches so he could see farther into the street. As the door moved, he heard voices outside.

“He’ll still be in the building. You make sure nobody comes out. Captain Leigh has phoned for a few others to come down to help with the search. I’m going down to tell Taylor in the basement to keep his eyes open.”

Rossett didn’t hear a reply; he was too busy moving back into the darkness and drawing the knife out of his waistband.

A man stepped through the gate and walked quickly toward the room that led to the stairs. Rossett let him take four or five steps before coming up behind him and striking him across the back of the head with the Webley. The man didn’t drop immediately; he managed another two steps before finally staggering drunkenly to the side and dropping facedown onto the floor, his Thompson clattering onto the concrete and into the gloom.

The noise it made was as loud as if it had fired, and Rossett was already turning to the gate, Webley outstretched, as the sound echoed back off the far wall. Rossett crouched next to the unconscious man. Pistol trained on the open door, he reached and felt around for the Thompson.

His fingertips found the barrel and he dragged it toward him, then picked it up and held it with one hand, pointing both weapons at the exit. He risked a look over his shoulder and flicked his head toward the cars before turning back to the gate.

Behind him Jacob and Chivers ran as quickly and as quietly as they could manage to the Morris. Jacob, recognizing Rossett’s old Austin, pulled Chivers on, silently pointing the way. He climbed into the back while Chivers looked for some keys.

“Pssst!” Chivers stage-whispered from the open door of the car. “Where’s the bleedin’ keys?”

Rossett looked across and then back to the door; he was beginning to regret releasing the old man. He moved slowly toward the gate at a crouch, the Webley now in his pocket and the Thompson cocked and ready.

He stopped short of the light the streetlamp was casting inside and listened as best he could over the sounds of Chivers cursing as he tried to find some keys or a way of starting the car.

Somewhere over his shoulder, he heard the Austin’s hood creak and then tensed as he saw a Webley snake around the doorframe from outside. Whoever was holding it moved with less care than he should have.

Rossett moved silently to his right and reached his free hand toward the emerging pistol. Had he wanted to, he could have fired the Thompson at the wooden door, probably killing whoever was holding the gun before he even had a chance to look inside, but he didn’t want to bring the entire search party down on his position, and he wasn’t even sure how many rounds the machine gun held, if any.

As soon as he saw the wrist holding the gun he grabbed it. Covering the hammer with the web between his thumb and index finger to prevent its firing, he dragged the arm toward him. The body on the other end of the arm soon followed, suddenly stopping when it saw the barrel of the Thompson staring back.

“Let go of the pistol,” Rossett said to the silhouetted man, who complied, half in and half out of the doorway. Behind him, Rossett heard the Austin fire up and Chivers give a little cheer. He gestured for the man in the doorway to step inside and face the wall; the silhouette shook its head.

“What? And let you shoot me?”

“If you don’t do as I say, you die; if you do, you don’t,” replied Rossett, taking a step back and gesturing with his head again.

The man stepped in and half turned, trying to keep his eyes on Rossett and to present as small a target as possible. Rossett recognized him in the half-light as the one he’d head-butted in the cellar earlier. He saw how the thick black scab on his lip had hardened as the night had worn on, and wondered if he looked as battered himself.

“In the corner,” Rossett gestured, this time with the Thompson. As the guard turned to look, Rossett hit him hard on the back of the skull with the butt of the Thompson and watched as he fell onto the dark floor facefirst and out cold.

Rossett bent down and gave the man a quick search. In a coat pocket he found his own warrant card and lighter. Whoever this bloke was, he’d obviously been the first to search Rossett after he’d been knocked out and had kept some of his property on him. Rossett was glad to return the favor. He found a few shells for the pistol, which he pocketed, and another long knife, which he threw into the street outside as far as he could.

Behind him, the Austin revved, impatient to go, so Rossett crossed to the gate and listened before popping his head out into the night. The street was deserted, so he turned back to the car and gave a thumbs-up before closing the gate and pulling on the large wooden sliding door of the bay.

The door groaned and jerked its way open. Rossett had to push and pull one-handed because he was holding the Thompson, and his ribs cried out with the effort.

He cleared enough room for the Austin, which pulled forward onto the street, and Rossett crossed the bay and slashed the tires of the other car and truck.

He turned back to the Austin, whose brake lights shone dimly, lighting the warehouse and the packing cases. A mix of red and black shadows, the warehouse looked like hell’s storeroom, and Rossett was glad to be leaving it behind.

He crossed at a run, and just as he reached the Austin, which by now was puffing exhaust out of its little pipe, he heard the engine gun and watched as it pulled out into the street and away.

Away from him.

Rossett ran a few steps behind the car and was tempted to level the machine gun when he heard the rattle of gunfire behind him.

He kept running, not after the car this time, but to the far side of the street and the shadows that lay there. Head down, he was vaguely aware of the Austin weaving away as fast as its little engine would allow. He dared a quick glance and saw a ghostly face staring at him from the rear window: Jacob, losing him again.

He ducked into an alley just as the brickwork around him exploded in a thousand tiny flecks of dust and debris. Whoever was firing the Thompson behind him had set it to auto and fired high in a long, drifting burst.

Rossett splashed along the alley as fast as he could. He saw a few positions that would have afforded him cover but ignored them. He didn’t want to get into a gunfight, he wanted to get away.

Ahead, the alley ended in a T junction, offering him a choice of left or right. He chose right, toward the direction the Austin had traveled.

Before he reached the junction, he heard shouts behind him followed by shots. The shots were more carefully aimed this time, and Rossett felt a blast of air as one passed too close for comfort. He ducked into the right alleyway and skidded to a halt. The alley stretched with no breaks for more than a hundred feet. Even at a sprint he wouldn’t make it before someone came round behind him and took careful aim.

He turned back to the junction before crouching down and easing the gun around the corner. There was no light at his end of the alley, so he knew his assailants wouldn’t be able to see him. He flicked his head out and saw two men moving toward him, silhouetted by the lights of the street behind them, both hugging the walls and gates, crouching down to make themselves smaller targets.

These fellas aren’t idiots, thought Rossett. They could have done me a favor by just keeping on running. He guessed they knew these alleyways well. They would have known he wouldn’t have sprinted on for fear of being shot. He looked back over his shoulder along the alley and wondered if he should start running, but finally decided to engage the enemy.

Keep attacking, keep going forward.

His thumb flicked the fire rate switch to auto. Then he stood up, took a deep breath, stepped out into the alley, and swept it with bullets.

One of the men cried out, and Rossett ducked to the left-hand side of the alley as he fired. He rested his back against the wall, pulled out the magazine of the still-smoking Thompson, and inspected it.

Empty.

Rossett stuck his head around the corner again. This time he saw four silhouettes, moving slowly, each hugging the wall or each other for cover. One appeared to be holding his arm; at least the magazine hadn’t been wasted.

He leaned back against the wall and drew the Webley, letting the Thompson drop to the ground. He glanced around the corner again and saw that the clatter of the Thompson falling had caused his four assailants to duck down behind some rubbish bins; it bought him some time, so he opened the Webley and loaded two more shells into the empty chambers.

“Rossett?” A voice came round the corner. It sounded like Leigh, but hoarse, stressed.

Rossett realized the one he’d shot had been his tormentor in chief, and he smiled in satisfaction.