inflicting violence and had often pounded people to the ground, smashing them down, making them beg. He especially enjoyed abusing women.
But even Bispham knew he’d met his match with the Yank. Not only was he a very big guy, but he had a look about him and the eyes of a killer. Bispham realized he would get no revenge on him… but the girl, well, she was another matter.
His eyes glazed over lustfully and he stroked his ponytail and touched his throbbing face as he considered the ways in which he would assault her. That would be his revenge on the American — revenge by proxy.
Jonny Cain’s orders meant nothing to him sitting at that window, his rage smouldering. OK, Jack Vincent may well have sent some ludicrous drunk to have a pop, but the chances of anything else happening that night were slim to zero, especially with the weather being like it was, killing everything. Cain was the main man, Vincent and his pathetic cronies mere nothings. They wouldn’t dare try anything.
And that was how Bispham justified his decision. He flicked his cigarette out of the window, checked on Riddick who was spreadeagled on the bed, pants unzipped, already asleep. He was in a sequence of breathing that would lead to snoring.
Bispham stood up quietly, walked past the bed to the door, stepping out and stopping when he clocked Napier in the corridor, expelled from Cain’s room. He was also asleep. He trod quietly down towards the steps and came out on the ground floor in the bar area. To the left was the door leading to the living quarters.
He went outside to the Range Rover and got the tyre lever from the boot. Coming back into the pub he hadn’t even thought about locking the outside door. He then went to work on the inner door, prising it open around the keypad lock using the tyre lever as a jemmy. He’d broken through tougher doors in his past, and in a moment he was through into the corridor.
Already, in his excitement, the blood pulsed in his groin. He walked silently along the carpet, wondering how he would find the room he wanted. The sign on it, ‘Ginny Sleeps Here,’ was just a bit of a giveaway.
A growl came to the back of his throat. He opened the door and saw her all nicely cuddled up in bed, all warm, safe and ready for him.
Too many beers woke Sim Riddick. He sat up quickly, dreaming he had been urinating, but thankfully it was a dream. He swung out of the bed, groggy, then saw that Bispham had gone AWOL. Riddick guessed that his mate would be paying the waitress a midnight visit.
‘Tosser,’ Riddick murmured and went into the en suite to pee. Relieved, he came back into the bedroom, glanced out of the door and saw Napier asleep in the corridor. He padded over to the bedroom window where Bispham had been sitting, drew back the curtain and looked sleepily at the whitewashed view. At which point his heart nearly stopped.
The three masked figures, each carrying a weapon, running at speed up the road made him discharge an anguished cry of terror.
‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he gabbled, fastening his pants, stumbling around to find his shirt and shoes, then falling out of the room into the corridor. He booted Napier in the backside, then pounded desperately on Cain’s door, before barging through and yelling, ‘They’re here, for fuck’s sake, they’re here. And they’re tooled up.’
Cain sat up dazedly. Napier stood behind Riddick, a stupid expression on his face.
‘Get the guns,’ Cain said calmly after shaking his head.
‘What you reckon, boss?’ Henderson asked, his voice muffled by the ski mask that had slipped slightly askew and now covered part of his mouth.
‘That guy’s not one of ’em,’ Vincent said breathlessly, now hyper after shooting Bispham. He was referring to the man who had chucked the unfortunate Bispham at them, then retreated behind the thick door and locked it. ‘We’ve got one down, only three to go.’ His eyes shone wild and evil from underneath the ski mask slits.
‘The element of surprise has gone down the shitter,’ Henderson mumbled.
‘In that case, we move fast and hard, but remember, try not to kill Cain. He’s cat food.’ Vincent trotted to the door that opened to the narrow flight of stairs leading up to the first floor rooms. He pinned himself to the wall, opened it cautiously, then spun in and arced the shotgun through the tight angle in front of him. ‘Clear,’ he called and led the way, taking the stairs two at a time.
He emerged warily on to the landing, the corridor ahead, off which were the two guest bedrooms on the left side, about thirty feet from where he stood. Henderson and Shannon were lined up behind him, flattened to the wall.
But before they moved, the second bedroom door along opened and a man — Riddick — stepped out incautiously, saw the three of them and yelled something, caught completely by surprise.
Vincent fired the shotgun instinctively, catching Riddick in the right shoulder and spinning him away from the door across the corridor like a top. As Vincent racked the shotgun again, Henderson stepped out of line and fired a short burst at Riddick from the machine pistol he was brandishing. Even though they were badly aimed, a diagonal line of bullets sprayed across Riddick’s body.
Suddenly Napier contorted out of the bedroom and loosed a couple of rounds off with the heavy pistol in his hand, somehow catching Shannon at the back of the line, one bullet grazing along his forearm. Napier managed to duck back into the room before Vincent could fire the shotgun again, which he did, splintering off a chunk of door frame.
Shannon fell back with a scream, clutching his arm. ‘He fucking shot me!’
Vincent ignored him, ran on low, then pivoted as he passed the bedroom, catching Napier completely by surprise, not expecting such a fast and aggressive move. He had only stepped back a couple of feet into the bedroom, working up the courage to lean out again and have another couple of shots.
The shotgun was aimed low and the blast smacked into Napier’s lower belly and groin, hitting him like a steam hammer. The blast doubled him over and sent him back across the room where he sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, looking down at his wound with disbelief. This was replaced by agony and he fell back, screaming and writhing in agony, his hands covering his guts.
Vincent’s momentum carried him on past the door, almost tripping over Riddick’s convulsing body. He stopped, flattened himself against the wall next to the bedroom door. Henderson took up a position on the other side of the door, with Shannon still on his backside, desperately holding his wounded arm.
‘You want us to come in, Jonny?’ Vincent shouted.
‘Go fuck,’ Cain said from the bedroom.
‘You want to know what happened to H. Diller and Haltenorth? I stuck ’em in a crusher, now they’re in the foundations of a motorway bridge.’
‘That’s supposed to make me want to come out?’ Cain said. He was on one knee behind the bed. Napier was rolling and moaning back and forth across the bed, spreading vast amounts of blood across the sheets and calling for his mother.
‘If you come out, we can talk.’
‘About what? You owe me money, end of. I want it back.’
‘You’re not going to get it.’
‘Figured that. So what’s to talk about?’
‘Not much, I guess. Other than to tell you you’re out of business and we’re taking over.’
‘We?’
‘Yeah, me and Tom.’
‘Your tame cop?’
‘Whatever — anyway, the choice is yours. You can walk out of there alive if you want and then walk away, or we’ll just come in on the count of three and blast fuck out of you. You won’t even get the chance of a lucky shot.’ As he was talking, Vincent was expertly reloading the shotgun — back to a full load of five in the magazine and one in the breech.
‘I’ll walk out of this alive?’ Cain said. In front of him, Napier stopped rolling. His agony had passed now. He was dead.
‘It’ll make our takeover easier.’
‘Maybe I don’t want you to take over… and whatever happens here, pal, you’re dead men anyway.’
‘OK, fine,’ Vincent said, not really taking in the meaning of Cain’s words. ‘I’m going to start counting now, Jonny. I don’t do small talk. You get up now and throw your shooter down and come out and you’ll live. That’s it, chatter over… One… two…’ Vincent eyed Henderson, who was obviously ready.
