Nightingale ducked behind the taxi as bullets thudded against the side of the vehicle. He was breathing hard and fast, trying to work out how many rounds they still had in their weapons. Nightingale knew that the MAC-10 came with two types of box magazine: a regular version holding twenty rounds and an extended version that held thirty-two. The fact that the guns were hidden under the shooters’ jackets suggested that they’d used the smaller magazine, which meant that they could be emptied in two seconds. And the fact that they’d both fired three short bursts meant that they’d be running low. So either it would all be over soon or they’d stop to slot in fresh magazines.
He risked a look over the wing of the taxi. The two men were walking towards him, their guns held out at arm’s length. They were both firing one-handed, which accounted for the terrible marksmanship. They must have fired more than twenty rounds between them and so far they’d not managed to hit him. But the closer they got the more likely they were to hit home so he had to move and he had to move fast. One of the men fired a quick burst but it went high and shattered the windows of the shop behind him. Nightingale bent low and scuttled behind the white van. The driver’s door burst open and the driver, a West Indian in his twenties, fell out onto the pavement. He scrambled to his feet but Nightingale pushed him back down. ‘Stay low,’ he hissed. A siren started to blare at the far end of Queensway. It was a paramedic’s vehicle, trying to clear the traffic ahead of it.
More bullets thudded into the side of the taxi. Nightingale looked around for something to use as a weapon but there was nothing at hand. All he had in his holdall was camera equipment, and he doubted that his attackers would be deterred by his telephoto lens.
One of the gunmen stepped from behind the rear of the taxi and onto the pavement. He raised the gun and pointed it at Nightingale’s chest. Nightingale crouched down, making himself as small a target as he could, and he held the holdall up in front of his face, bracing himself against the hail of bullets that he was certain was about to be heading in his direction. He heard a metallic click followed by a curse. He moved the bag and saw the shooter staring at the side of his gun. The shooter cursed again and Nightingale realised that he was out of ammunition. Nightingale roared and got to his feet. He started towards the shooter, but as he did so the other gunman appeared and fired. The shots went low and smacked into the wing of the white van. Nightingale spun around and began running down the pavement, towards the Tube station.
The two trail bikes had started to move down Queensway, the riders clearly panicked by the siren. The bikes braked hard and squealed to a halt close to the white van. The two shooters jumped on the pillions and the bikes roared off.
Onlookers were still screaming and crying and running for cover. Nightingale looked across the road. The black teenager that had been shot was sitting in the doorway of the gift shop, holding his hand to his shoulder. His friend had run off but the Indian shopkeeper was kneeling down next to the injured boy and talking into a mobile phone.
Nightingale slowed as he reached the entrance to the station. The people walking away from the escalators towards the exit had no idea of the mayhem that had just taken place outside and they had the blank bored faces of seasoned commuters. Nightingale forced himself to relax and tried to blend in, but his hand was shaking as he pressed his Oyster card against the reader to open the barrier.
11
Nightingale walked into the office and grinned when he saw Jenny at the coffee machine. ‘Perfect timing,’ he said. He took the camera from his holdall and put it on her desk. ‘Loads of pictures of Mrs Stevens with her gentleman friend entering and leaving the hotel, including a couple where they’re very lovey-dovey.’
‘Well done you,’ she said, picking up his mug and filling it full of coffee. ‘Any problems?’
‘Two guys tried to kill me with automatic weapons in Queensway. Does that count?’ He took the mug from her.
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘Please tell me you’re joking,’ she said.
‘I wish I was. They had machine pistols and tried to mow me down on the way to the Tube station.’
‘Are you okay?’
Nightingale shrugged. ‘Ran like the wind,’ he said. ‘Might need a change of underwear.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘About the underwear? No. Not really.’
‘Jack, I’m never sure whether you’re joking or not these days. Did someone try to shoot you or not?’
‘I’m just trying to lighten the moment, kid,’ he said. ‘Yes, two black guys, gangbangers, with what looked like MAC-10s. They got out of a Range Rover and escaped on bikes. The only reason they didn’t stay and finish the job was because a paramedic hit his siren and they panicked.’
‘And this happened in Queensway?’
‘Just near the Tube station. Innocent bystander got shot. A teenager.’ He sipped his coffee and then went through to his office.
Jenny followed him. ‘Come on, Jack. Details.’
‘It’s no biggie,’ he said, sitting down at his desk.
‘Like hell it’s no biggie. You said someone got hurt.’
‘That tends to happen when bullets are flying around.’
‘Damn you, Jack, how can you be so blase about what happened?’
‘I guess I’m just getting used to people trying to kill me. Anyway, it all happened so fast, it was over in seconds.’
‘And you just went on to the surveillance job?’
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘There wasn’t much I could do.’
‘You could have talked to the police, for a start.’
‘And get hauled in by Chalmers again?’
‘Did you get a look at them?’
‘They were wearing ski masks but I saw them go by in their car before they started shooting.’ He sipped his coffee.
‘Then you have to go to the police. You can’t just walk away from something like that.’
Nightingale laughed. ‘Walked? Do me a favour! I ran. My feet hardly touched the ground.’
‘And nobody stopped you?’
‘Everyone was pretty much down on the ground or hiding,’ said Nightingale. ‘There was one hell of a lot of lead flying around.’
‘And they still missed you?’
Nightingale looked at her in astonishment. ‘You sound disappointed.’
‘Idiot. I’m just saying that you were lucky, there’s not a mark on you.’
‘MAC-10s are difficult to control,’ said Nightingale. ‘Gangbangers love them because they look the business, but they’re a bugger to aim and the recoil is fierce. In a street fight it comes down to spray and pray.’
‘You prayed? Is that what you mean?’
Nightingale grinned and shook his head. ‘They pray is what I meant. Spray and pray. They point the gun in the general direction of the target, pull the trigger and hope for the best.’
‘In Queensway? They didn’t care about passers-by?’
‘The days of worrying about innocent bystanders are long gone, kid. It’s like the Wild West in parts of London. They hit a young lad but he seemed okay.’
‘But Bayswater? It’s hardly Brixton, is it?’
‘Yeah, well, I think it was a case of Mohammed coming to the mountain. They were outside my flat first; they were waiting for me.’
‘But who, Jack? Who would want to shoot you in broad daylight?’ Her eyes widened. ‘You don’t think it was Proserpine, do you? Were they working for her?’
‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?’
Jenny frowned. ‘I’ve never understood that. What does it mean? Sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?’
‘It was an American game show in the fifties. Like
