The loud crackle of gunfire startled us both. I clocked the first shots as coming from the M-16, which had to be Tugger’s, and then further shots from at least two other weapons. Holtz might have thought he had some cards up his sleeve but he obviously hadn’t expected anyone to start shooting. His eyes widened and he swung round to me with a look of suspicion mixed with panic. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
These were the last words Stefan Holtz ever spoke. Before I could even open my mouth to answer, his left eye seemed to burst out of his face, and he fell forward, still clutching the holdall. I dived to the ground and pulled out my gun. Suddenly, shooting seemed to be coming from everywhere. I could see a figure armed with a rifle, kneeling down on the other side of the clearing about thirty yards away, partially concealed by the foliage. I knew straight away that he was the one who’d gunned down the gang leader. The shooter fired again, and blood sprayed up from one of Holtz’s thighs as the round struck. I scrambled down behind his body, then, using it as cover, leant over and clattered off five rounds from the Glock in the shooter’s direction, knowing that my chances of hitting him were slim but wanting to put him under pressure. He fired two shots back, both whizzing close by, then slipped back into the trees.
But now shooting was coming from behind me, and coming close, too. Clumps of mud flew up from the ground only feet from where I was lying. I whirled round and fired three shots in the general direction of their source, unable to see my assailant; then, knowing that I was a sitting duck as long as I stayed where I was, I jumped up and pulled the holdall from Holtz’s dead fingers. I hauled it over my shoulders, surprised at the heavy weight, then started running for the nearest trees, keeping as low as possible. From behind me I heard the rifleman who’d taken out Holtz cracking off shots at my exposed back, and in front of me I could make out the second shooter behind some bushes. He had what looked like a shotgun balanced over a branch and he was steadying himself to fire. I didn’t give him a chance. As I charged towards him, I lifted the Glock and pulled the trigger, bang bang bang. It was a battle of nerves and he lost it, jumping out of the way and dropping the weapon.
I zigzagged wildly, teeth clenched in anticipation of a striking bullet, and at the last second half-dived, half- slid into the treeline and out of sight of the shooter behind me. The second gunman, only partly visible through the undergrowth, swung his shotgun round in my direction, pulling the trigger at the same time. The weapon kicked and he took a stumbling step back, the shot passing way over my head. I fired twice in return and at least one of the rounds hit him. I heard him yelp in shock and drop to one knee; then, without even pausing for breath, I jumped up with the holdall and ran in a crouch in the direction of the spot where I’d left Tugger, keeping within the trees. The branches and bushes battered and scratched me as I charged through them, every sense and nerve-ending homed in on my surroundings, knowing we’d been set up and that there were bound to be more of them about. As if to confirm it, an unseen round whistled by a few feet above my head, letting out an angry crack as it struck a thick branch and ricocheted off into the gloom. I couldn’t see the shooter and doubted that the shooter could see me.
Without warning, a figure appeared out of the trees in front of me, no more than ten feet away, running and stumbling in my direction. He had a gun in one hand and was holding an injured leg with the other. I didn’t recognize him, and that meant he was the enemy. He didn’t even see me until the last second, which was a fatal mistake. Without dropping my pace, I raised my weapon, stretched out my arm so the barrel was no more than three feet from its target, and shot him straight through his open mouth. He died with an expression of confused shock on his face and I was already five yards beyond him by the time the body hit the ground. A staccato burst of automatic weapon fire rattled through the trees somewhere off to my right, but it sounded like there was more hope in it than judgement, and I kept running, undeterred, hoping that Tugger was OK and had followed the instructions should things go wrong, which were to head straight back to the place where Kalinski was picking us up from. The last thing I needed now was for him to hold his ground and take a potshot at me as I came over the brow of the hill. Unlike the rest of these blokes, he’d always been a good shot.
But Tugger wasn’t there when I passed the spot, and there was no sign of blood or anything else to suggest that he’d taken an injury. So I kept going, charging through the trees down the other side of the hill, feeling that terrible exhilaration danger always brings, even though it was tempered by another, far more worrying thought. What the fuck had happened to Joe?
The back of the van was open and the engine running when I came out of the trees and onto the road. I threw the holdall inside and jumped in after it. Tugger was already inside, but there was no sign of Joe.
‘What the fuck happened, Max?’ he demanded, still clutching the M-16. ‘What the fuck went wrong?’
‘I don’t know,’ I panted between breaths, finding it difficult to think. ‘Somehow Holtz fucked us up, but Christ knows how. We had everything planned down to a tee.’
‘Do you think they got Joe?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There were a lot of them. They could easily have taken him out.’
I leant out the back door and looked up towards the trees. Nothing moved up there. I punched Joe’s number into the mobile. It rang. Five times, six, seven. No answer. I kept staring at the trees. No sign. No answer. Eight rings, nine. He would have picked up by now if he was all right. The longer we stayed there the more dangerous our predicament became.
‘We’ve got to move, Max. They could be on us any minute. And the Old Bill could have been called by now. That was some fucking gun battle in there.’
Ten rings, eleven, twelve. Still nothing. Tugger was right, I knew he was. But to leave, to desert my mate. It was a big call to make. We’d agreed to meet back at the farmhouse if it became impossible for any one of us to make the rendezvous, but still I was reluctant to make the decision to move.
Thirteen, fourteen.
‘Come on, Max, we’re soldiers. We can’t stop everything because one man’s missing, you know that. We’re endangering the whole operation by staying here. Come on! Think about it!’
‘What the fuck’s going on in the back there?’ came Kalinski’s muffled but frantic voice. ‘Let’s get out of here!’
Fifteen, sixteen. I cursed, then closed up the back doors, knowing I had no choice. I leant over and banged the panel twice. ‘All right, go!’
Kalinski hit the accelerator like he had lead boots on and we were on our way in a screech of tyres.
As we drove, I holstered my gun, wiped sweat from my brow and, with a deep breath, opened the holdall, wondering exactly what was going to be in there.
It was full. Crammed full with tightly packed bundles of used fifty-pound notes. So Holtz had been genuine. Which begged a major fucking question.
Why had they started shooting?
Gallan
I had a takeaway curry that night. Chicken tikka masala, pilau rice, two poppadoms and an accompaniment of sag aloo. I knew I wouldn’t finish it all, that’s a lot of food, but I thought I’d at least give it a try. What I couldn’t eat, I’d have cold tomorrow. I’d also purchased a four-pack of Fosters and rented a video. It might have been a Saturday night and I might have been on my own but I was determined to enjoy myself. The lounge was comfortable, the telly — a twenty-eight-inch Sony widescreen bought on hire purchase — was on, and all the worries of the world had been relegated to beyond my front door.
I was sitting on the sofa in my dressing gown, warming up for the video by watching a Denis Nordern pastiche of out-takes and bloopers on ITV, and was just about to tuck into the food when my mobile rang. It was ten to nine. I thought about leaving it. I was hungry and I was sure it could wait, but habit got the better of me. I’ve always been the curious type. I put down my food, went over to the kitchen top, and picked it up.
‘John? Asif Malik here.’ He sounded breathless, and the line wasn’t too good.
I walked out of the kitchen with the phone to my ear and back into the lounge. ‘Asif, how are you?’
‘Not good. I suppose you haven’t heard the news, then?’
‘What?’
