He cocked the revolver.
“Last chance,” he warned, trying not to let his hand shake, “or I’ll shoot you in the gut and watch you bleed out.” It was a bluff, of course. He had no intention of shooting anyone.
Thankfully, Morrison didn’t know that, and he resentfully did as he was told. Once he was on the bed, Angela rushed forward and handcuffed his arms behind his back, conscious that the revolver was being still pointed at the officer’s spine.
When that was done, she ran back to the two officers on the floor. Breathing hard from her exertions, she knelt down beside them and removed three syringes from her pocket. Each was filled with an ominous-looking brown liquid. She removed the cap from the first one, checked it for air bubbles, and then injected the semi-conscious officer. He groaned, took a deep breath, and then lapsed into a deep sleep. The female cop was still unconscious from where she had smashed her head into the floor, but they didn’t know how long she would be out for so Angela injected her as well. Finally, she stood up and walked towards Morrison.
“Wait,” Garston commanded. “Go outside and get the wheelchair first.”
“But Errol could do that,” She complained, and then realised that she had inadvertently said one of their names out loud in front of the policeman.
It was the last straw, and Garston was across the room in two steps. “You stupid fucking bitch,” he snarled, backhanding her across the face so hard that she spun into the wall. “Now go fetch that wheelchair in here, right now.”
Holding the side of her face, Angela staggered out of the room. When she returned, a few moments later, Garston was gratified to see a splodge of blood seeping through her facemask at the point where her mouth would be.
Walking over to the bed, Garston removed a pillowcase and unceremoniously tugged it down over the policeman’s head. Satisfied that the cop wouldn’t be able to see his face, he pulled the surgical mask down and smiled triumphantly at Winston.
“Not bad, eh?” he smirked, expecting to receive praise from his uncle.
“Not bad,” Winston allowed. “But not good enough.” With that, he shuffled forward and snatched the gun from Garston’s hand.
Looking down at the revolver, Winston sneered derisively. “Are you seriously telling me that the best gun that you could get your hands on was a pathetic little twenty-two?”
Garson bristled at the spiteful jibe. He had originally sourced a couple of 9mm Browning hi-power pistols for the job, but the deal had fallen through and he only just about managed to find alternative weapons in time.
The revolver was a Brocock ME38. It bore a strong resemblance to the .357 Colt Python Magnums that were used by the motorcycle cops in the second Dirty Harry film, Magnum Force, although it didn’t pack anywhere near the same level of stopping power.
Nonetheless, the Brocock had become extremely popular amongst London’s criminal fraternity of late, mainly because it could be converted from a harmless replica airgun into a real firearm that discharged a .22 cartridge in less than ten minutes simply by using a household drill to bore it out. Winston might have a point about it not being the most powerful firearm on the black market, but Garston knew it would do the job it had been purchased for, and the dealer had even thrown in a free box of factory-made .22 ammunition as a bonus, which meant that they had fifty rounds to share between the two guns.
The manner in which his uncle was now staring down at the prone form on the bed started to made Garston feel uncomfortable. After all, Winston had previous for shooting coppers.
His fears were confirmed when Winston thumbed the hammer back and watched the cylinder rotate with a satisfied smile. Picking up a pillow, he placed it on top of the officer’s head.
“What are you doing?” Garston asked, alarmed at the obvious implication.
Winston gave his nephew a look of distaste before burying the muzzle deep into the pillow and pushing down until it pressed against the back of the policeman’s head.
Garston felt physically sick as he listened to the terrified officer hyperventilating. He obviously knew – or at least suspected – what was coming next.
“No, Claude, please wait…” Garston said, his voice filled with dread.
“We can’t let him live,” Winston responded matter-of-factly. “He knows Errol’s name.”
Garston raised his hands to stay his uncle. “Claude, please, no…”
Winston sneered, and then he squeezed the trigger. Although the pillow acted as a noise suppressor, the sound of the shot was still alarmingly loud within the confines of the room. Blowing smoke from the end of the barrel, he turned to address an ashen-faced Garston. “When you do a job, you do it properly. Let that be a lesson well learned, nephew.”
Chapter 5
It was approaching midday as the battered green Omega pulled up outside the front of the hospital, blocking in a large, shiny black Ford that was parked in a chevroned off area clearly marked ‘Drop Off Only – No Waiting.’ The scrawny driver was tucked right down in his seat as if asleep, and it didn’t look like he’d be moving off any time soon.
Parking spaces were clearly at a premium and there were none currently free. “Doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to park in here, so do you want me to stay with the motor while you pop inside?” Steve asked, hoping that Dillon would say yes.
“Um, no, wait here for the moment,” Dillon said, opening his door. “I’ll have a word with that bloke sitting in his car, see how long he’s going to be.”
As he sauntered over to the car, a Scorpio, he noticed that the engine was still running. With a bit of luck that meant that the driver would be moving off soon and wouldn’t mind swapping positions
