‘ But you are associated, buddy,’ replied Hinksman. ‘You gave me the explosive and the detonator. You’re in it just as deep as I am — if I choose to make it that way.’
Gaskell looked hard at Hinksman, who returned the stare with the glimmer of a smile.
‘ But all those people!’ Gaskell said, pained.
‘ Unfortunate, but it happens. Casualties of war.’ Hinksman shrugged. He did not care.
Gaskell shook his head bitterly. ‘I knew you were an evil bastard when I first saw you.’
‘ I do a job, that’s all.’
‘ What do you want this time?’ Gaskell asked after a pause, resigned to his fate. He knew he was trapped.
‘ Handgun. And ammunition.’
Gaskell sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’
He led Hinksman through the house to a study on the ground floor at the rear. The walls were lined with leather-bound books. A plush desk with an inlaid leather top was situated in the bay window; on it was a PC — keyboard, monitor and printer, very state of the art. It hummed quietly. On one of the book-shelves was a TV which gave a split screen recording from cameras which protected the house. There were views of the front and rear. A VCR whirred dully underneath the TV.
Hinksman hadn’t been here before. Their last transaction had taken place outside.
‘ Very nice,’ he admitted.
Gaskell made no reply. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a set of keys. He indicated for Hinksman to follow him.
Gaskell opened a door in the kitchen and went down a flight of steps. There was another door in the basement, this of steel construction with high quality locks. In one corner of the door was a stamp from one of the country’s leading safe manufacturers.
Gaskell unlocked it and pushed it silently open. He reached inside and flicked a light switch.
Twenty metres away two soldiers with rifles appeared out of the gloom, charging noiselessly towards them.
Hinksman was impressed. ‘Your very own firing range.’
‘ Yes,’ said Gaskell. ‘Inspected and certified by the Army and police. I test a lot of small-arms down here. I have a bigger range at the warehouse.’
He smacked a button on the wall. The targets at the end of the range clattered out of sight. The soldiers were charging no more.
Hinksman wandered down the range as Gaskell opened a steel cabinet in the safe area, behind the firing line.
He took another key out of this cabinet and bent down to pull back the carpet in the corner of the range, revealing a floor-safe. This he opened and heaved the lid off like removing a manhole cover. He drew out a heavy holdall which he placed with a thud on a table. He unzipped it. Inside was a collection of handguns — revolvers and pistols.
By this time Hinksman had returned from his stroll down the firing range.
‘ Everything in here is untraceable,’ Gaskell told him. ‘And nothing has been used in a crime before.’
‘ How can you be sure?’
‘ I’m sure.’
Gaskell pulled out four guns, two revolvers, two pistols, and laid them side by side on the table for Hinksman to inspect. ‘All cleaned and oiled. Here’ — he offered Hinksman a pair of plastic disposable gloves from a box.
Hinksman shook his head, declining.
‘ I like to feel a gun,’ he said.
He picked up a model 469 9mm Smith amp; Wesson autoloading pistol with a 12-shot magazine which he slid out. Empty.
Gaskell delved into the bag and came out with a loaded one.
‘ If you want to try it, feel free,’ he offered. ‘Ear protectors are hung on the wall there.’
Hinksman reached for a pair and covered his ears. ‘Can you time the targets?’
The dealer nodded.
‘ OK, six two-second exposures and vary the times when the targets aren’t visible… anything up to ten seconds.’
‘ D’you want both targets?’
‘ Yep.’
Gaskell programmed in Hinksman’s requirement as the American wandered to the 15 metre mark on the range. He shrugged his shoulders to loosen up, held the pistol with both hands, took a breath and signalled he was ready.
The delay seemed interminable, although it was only six seconds. Then both targets swung into view. Suddenly, and for two seconds, Hinksman, was faced with two heavily armed soldiers.
He reacted smoothly and quickly. His knees bent. He snapped into the weaver stance and, ‘Ba-bam!’ A double tap. The noise was incredible and so was Hinksman’s speed and accuracy. In that split second of firing he put a bullet into each target. In the chest. On the heart. Then they were gone out of sight. Two seconds later — even before Hinksman had time to breathe out or consider how good his shooting was — the targets came back round again.
Again he caught them. Again both heart-shots.
Four gone. Eight remaining.
So far it was superb shooting. Gaskell was impressed and frightened. He quickly crossed the width of the range and picked up one of the guns from the table — a Makarov self-loading pistol. The targets swung back five seconds later: Hinksman amended his aim for these, drilling a hole in the forehead of each one with chilling precision. Six gone.
Gaskell checked the Makarov. The magazine was full. He eased one up the chamber and put the safety on. He didn’t trust Hinksman. Didn’t like the way he’d reacted to his feelings about the bomb. He thought it better to be in a stronger position when he came off the range with an empty gun, just in case. He wouldn’t feel completely satisfied until the American had left.
The targets came round twice more in quick succession. Hinksman’s aim stayed as remarkable as when he’d first started shooting. Two more shots to the head adjacent to the holes already there, followed by two more to the heart, forming a cluster any marksman would have been proud of.
Gaskell slipped the Makarov into the waistband of his trousers. He pulled his cardigan down to cover it.
There was a ten-second delay until the appearance of the targets for the last time.
An agonising wait.
Gaskell saw Hinksman’s shoulders rise and fall and rise again with his controlled breathing.
The targets spun round.
And so did Hinksman. Fast. Only a millisecond behind the targets. Still with a double-handed grip. Perfectly balanced. Wonderful pirouette. He was now facing Gaskell.
The Englishman fumbled for his gun. But stuck there in his trousers, covered by the cardigan, he had no chance. He’d hardly moved his hand before the first of Hinksman’s bullets slammed into his chest. A heart-shot: dead centre. Perfect. The second bullet entered his head a fraction later, centre forehead, just above the bridge of his nose.
The-arms dealer was almost lifted off his feet with the impact. He was thrown back against the wall where he stayed briefly pinned like a butterfly, arms high and wide, and then, already dead, he slithered into an untidy, bloody heap on the floor.
His chin lolled forwards onto his chest, exposing the gaping wound at the back of his skull where the slug had made its spinning exit.
Hinksman exhaled.
He looked at the gun and smiled. ‘You’ll do nicely,’ he said. ‘I wonder what else is on offer.’
