clothing to Frankenstein.
‘This is fucked-up, man,’ said Moran.
‘Yeah, life’s a bitch,’ said Frankenstein.
‘Fire that motherfucker and the cops’ll be over you like a rash,’ snarled Moran.
‘Oh, right, Delroy. The cops rush over to Harlesden every time they hear a gun go off, do they? And just how are they gonna get through the two steel doors?’ He gestured with the Magnum. ‘I’ll keep it simple, you being educationally challenged and all. In. Now.’
Moran swore and stepped into the room.
Frankenstein kicked the door shut. ‘Knees. Down. Now,’ he said.
Moran dropped to his knees, his eyes never leaving the gunman’s face. ‘You are dead meat,’ he said.
‘Sticks and stones, Delroy.’
Frankenstein grabbed the duffel bag from Dexter and ripped open the top. He examined the contents. ‘Heroin,’ he said to Alien, then took Jackson’s duffel bag and checked it. ‘Ten kilos, I’d say.’
‘Heading for the big time, hey, Delroy?’ said Alien. ‘Now, everyone put their hands behind their heads, fingers interlinked, nice and slowly.’
The three Yardies did as they were told. Frankenstein took the Glock from Moran and tucked it into his belt. ‘Nice gun, the Glock,’ said Frankenstein. ‘Never jams. But me, I prefer the good old Colt. Can’t go wrong with a Colt, that’s what I always say.’
‘You’ve got the gear, man,’ said Moran. ‘Do I have to listen to a lecture on guns?’
Alien took a step towards Moran and pointed his gun at the man’s face. ‘You’re a very funny nigger, Delroy. But it’s the cash we want, not your drugs.’
‘There’s no money. And the racial slurs are wearing thin,’ said Moran.
Alien whipped his gun across Moran’s face. Blood spurted and Moran’s head spun to the left. He saw the two men he’d left to guard his flat, lying face down with strips of tape across their mouths, their hands bound behind them with plastic strips.
Frankenstein stepped in front of Moran. ‘When did you get the safe?’ he asked.
Moran’s eyes flicked to the left, to the door that led into the main bedroom. ‘Three days ago.’
‘Open it.’
‘It’s empty.’
‘So open it and show me.’
‘It’s empty. We used the cash to buy the gear.’
‘I’m not going to tell you again.’
‘Fuck you.’
Frankenstein lashed out and whipped the gun barrel across Moran’s cheek. More blood flowed. ‘Open the fucking safe.’
‘Open it yourself.’
Frankenstein grabbed Moran by the shirt collar and pulled him along the floor towards the bedroom.
A shot rang out, the noise deafening in the small room. Frankenstein let go of Moran’s shirt and whirled round, cursing. Jackson was still on his knees but he was holding a small gun in his right hand. Alien staggered against the door. Jackson fired again and a second bullet thwacked into the wall above Alien’s head.
Moran rolled over towards a red plastic sofa. Jackson fired again and hit Alien in the chest. Everyone was staring at the gun in Jackson’s hand. Alien straightened up, then grunted and levelled his gun at Jackson.
‘They’re wearing vests!’ screamed Moran. ‘Shoot him in the head, man! Shoot the fucker!’
Jackson pointed his gun at Alien’s head but before his finger could tighten on the trigger Frankenstein fired and a bullet slammed into Jackson’s chest. Jackson pitched forwards, his face screwed up with pain.
Moran rolled again and slammed up against the sofa. He groped underneath for the loaded submachine pistol he kept there. An Ingram MAC 10 with a bulbous silencer and thirty rounds in the clip. His fingers found the butt and he pulled it out.
Frankenstein whirled round as Moran rolled on to his back, ducked low and fired twice, hitting him in the head both times. The Ingram fell from Moran’s hand and clattered on to the floor.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ cursed Frankenstein.
Another shot rang out and a bullet thudded into the ceiling. Bang! Another. Frankenstein flinched but it was Alien who screamed. He dropped his automatic and clasped his hands to his groin. ‘I’m hit!’ he shrieked. Jackson was lying on his side, his .22 still pointing at Alien. He was grinning in triumph, blood seeping between his teeth. Frankenstein fired the Magnum again and Jackson lay still.
Blood seeped through Alien’s fingers. He looked at Frankenstein. ‘I’m hit,’ he said again, quieter this time. ‘I’m fucking hit.’ Then his legs buckled and he fell to the ground.
Frankenstein ran over to him and crouched to examine the wound. The bullet had gone in under the vest, missing the Kevlar by less than an inch.
The intercom buzzed. Frankenstein hurried across the room and answered it. ‘What the hell’s going on up there?’ said a voice.
‘Get up here,’ said Frankenstein, and pressed the button to open the door down below. Footsteps pounded up the stairs and a man in a werewolf mask came in, holding a gun. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he said.
‘Andy’s been hit.’
‘Shit.’ Werewolf pointed his gun at Dexter. ‘How do we play it?’
Dexter held his hands high in the air. ‘Don’t shoot, man!’
Frankenstein looked around the room. Two men, bound and gagged. Two dead. Another on his knees, pleading not to be killed.
‘How do we play it?’ repeated Werewolf. ‘It’s your call.’
Frankenstein’s mind raced. ‘Let me think,’ he said.
The driver pulled the van to the side of the road, switched off the engine and killed the lights. The werewolf mask was in the glove compartment, along with the short length of lead pipe bound with masking tape that he’d used to club Eaton unconscious. Eaton was bound and gagged, lying face down in the lock-up. The van had been stolen: it was fitted with false plates and had the name of an emergency plumbing firm on the sides. Werewolf had wanted to drive to the nearest Accident and Emergency Unit but Frankenstein had told him to drive out of London. Now they sat in the darkened lane, the nearest house half a mile away, the engine clicking as it cooled.
‘This has turned to shit,’ said Werewolf.
‘Yeah,’ said Frankenstein, in the passenger seat. He had taken off his mask and pulled back his anorak hood. His hair was cropped close to his skull and he was balding on top. He had a curving Mexican-style moustache. ‘What the hell are we going to do?’ He twisted in his seat to look at Alien, who was curled up on the floor in a foetal ball.
‘You know what we have to do,’ said Werewolf, drumming his palms on the steering-wheel. ‘We’ve got to get Andy to a hospital.’
‘And what do we tell them?’ said Frankenstein.
‘We leave him outside. We don’t have to say anything.’
‘Get real,’ said Frankenstein. ‘As soon as they identify him, they’ll come looking for us.’
Werewolf slammed his hands down hard on the wheel. ‘So we deny everything,’ he said. ‘What can they do?’
Frankenstein glared at Werewolf. ‘Don’t be so naive,’ he said. ‘They’ll dig out the bullet, and if they can match it to any in Moran’s flat that puts Andy at a murder scene – in a gunfight with a Yardie posse.’ He slapped the dashboard with his gloved hand. ‘God damn it, we should have slotted them all.’
‘Rosie, listen to yourself,’ said Werewolf.
Frankenstein stared through the windscreen. ‘They’re witnesses,’ he said. ‘They started the bloody fireworks, we should have ended it. They know how many of us there were. If they identify Andy, they go looking for two others. How long do you think it’ll be before they come knocking on our doors?’
‘We can alibi each other,’ said Werewolf. ‘What are they gonna do? Call us liars?’
‘I’m not doing a twenty stretch,’ said Frankenstein. ‘Before we went into this we knew what the downside was, and we agreed to take the risk.’
‘We said that if one of us got killed, the rest of us would cover it up,’ said Werewolf. ‘Andy isn’t dead.’
