Useless twat!
Gunnymede loaded another. Aimed. Adjusted. Fired! The shell took a couple of seconds to arc back down and landed amongst the pipes beside the nearest vans where it exploded. He couldn’t see the oil spilling out of the torn pipes but knew that had to be happening and quickly loaded another shell. Oil didn’t burn. It was the vapour that came off it that burned and so it needed to be heated up. A couple of shells would do the trick.
He concentrated on replicating the same angle and fired. The shell landed further on but amongst the pipes again. This time the explosion ignited the oil. The interesting thing about oil fires is they can begin very small. As the temperature increases the more gas evaporates, the larger the fire becomes, the greater the temperature increases and so on, a vicious escalation where the heat becomes so intense the metal pipes themselves will melt.
The blaze quickly spread. Gunnymede fired another shell that hit its target sending globs of burning oil in all directions. Several men were hit by the stuff. Those on fire had little choice but to jump into the water. Some weren’t so lucky and were consumed before they could escape. One vehicle after another, including Jedson’s, caught fire as burning oil spread across the narrow road.
Gunnymede held his second to last shell. He loaded it, lowered the elevation to extend the range and fired. It exploded on the landing stage amongst those carrying heroin boxes, killing and injuring several of them. To add to the confusion he aimed the rifle in the general direction of the flames and shot through them with long bursts of automatic fire. Several of Krilov’s men and a couple of crewman were caught in the hail and went down. Heroin boxes were dropped as men scurried for cover.
Krilov was crouched in a cluster of valves when he heard his name being called from above. He looked up at the ship’s bridge. The captain was on the bridge wing shouting at him. He wanted Krilov to release the lines so that the ship could get away.
Krilov ignored him. He couldn’t care less about the ship. His heroin crates were scattered all over the landing. Most of the consignment was still on the ship’s deck. His men were either dead, wounded or had taken their chances to escape by jumping into the estuary. It was over. He needed to save himself. The only thing keeping him there was an intense hatred for whoever was responsible for this attack.
Krilov’s lieutenant scurried over with a rifle to report something but he seemed ambivalent. Krilov could read it in his eyes. ‘You want to go?’ Krilov shouted. ‘Go! I give you permission.’
‘It’s only one man,’ the lieutenant said.
‘What?’ Krilov asked, unsure if he’d heard correctly.
‘I’ve been watching. It’s only one man, boss. I’m sure of it.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘It’s too late. We cannot get the cargo off the jetty. I see you, boss.’
And with that the man left his rifle, ran along the jetty and jumped off the end.
Krilov was left staring at the flames wondering if his lieutenant could possibly be correct. The question was, who was crazy, or angry enough to attempt such a thing?
The thug Boris had tortured was lying on a hospital bed, a nurse seeing to his wounds. A police officer was on guard outside the room.
The nurse left the room leaving the thug alone. He checked to see the policeman wasn’t looking, retrieved a phone from a pocket, brought up a number with bloody, shaking fingers and put it to his ear.
Jedson made his way over to Krilov with Bethan in tow. ‘We have to go,’ he said to the Russian. ‘Let’s get on the escape boat. This has all gone tits up.’
‘Who attacks us?’ Krilov asked.
‘I told you! Not the police!’
‘You are sure?’
‘We don’t have bombs for a start.’
‘Then who is it?’
‘It has to be a rival gang. We’re dead if they catch us.’
‘That’s no gang-man,’ Krilov said. ‘It’s Special Forces.’
‘I’d know if the bloody SAS were here!’
Krilov’s phone chirped. He wanted to ignore it but reluctantly answered. It was the thug in the hospital.
Krilov listened, his mouth hardening with anger as the thug told him what had happened with Gunnymede. He put the phone down, got to his feet and stared beyond the flames, along the pipe jetty. ‘It’s the intelligence officer,’ he said.
‘What intelligence officer?’ Jedson asked.
‘The one from the farm. Last night.’
‘Gunnymede?’
‘Yes. Gunnymede?’
‘Gunnymede?’ Bethan echoed in a mixture of disbelief and hope.
‘Bollocks,’ Jedson said. ‘On his own? Impossible.’
‘Not impossible,’ Krilov said, a hint of admiration in his tone. ‘I could do it.’
‘Whoever it is, we’re out of here,’ Jedson said, making ready to go with Bethan.
She remained where she was, looking defiant.
‘Don’t even think about making it hard for me. You either come with me,’ Jedson said, picking up a shackle. ‘Or I crack your skull open right here.’
He grabbed her tied hands and yanked her up. ‘You coming, Krilov?’
Krilov didn’t hear him, his gaze fixed towards the pipe jetty.
‘Suit yourself.’ Jedson grabbed his suitcase and dragged Bethan to the side of the ship. ‘Get on board,’ he shouted angrily. She climbed over the side. Jedson threw his suitcase after her and followed it.
Krilov stepped onto the valve to look through his binoculars. His angle allowed him to see the road beyond the flames. He saw a figure moving towards the burning vehicles. Krilov wanted to kill him so badly he could taste it.
Jedson could see the roof of a cabin cruiser and dragged Bethan across the ship’s deck to the other side to find it's narrow bows touching
