Jonny Cain. According to Donaldson he had been kidnapped alive. Obviously they would have had some reason for that, some purpose — then they must have had a change of mind and killed him. Too much of an encumbrance under the circumstances, Flynn guessed. No time for anything fancy with him — like torture — so let’s kill him.
Which begged the question — what about Alison?
Flynn could not come up with one good response to that. They had taken a hostage to facilitate their escape, now what use could she be? If none, he knew he would find her dead.
He took firm hold of the Skorpion, a gun he’d been introduced to during weapons training all those years ago in the Marines. He knew about it, how to handle it, knew its capabilities, though he’d never fired it in anger, just down a range. That was over twenty-five years ago, when he’d been nothing but a lad. Bracing himself, he bent low and ran to the front door of the house, flattening himself next to it, one hand reaching out to the handle and turning it slowly. It had to be locked, he told himself. Surely they wouldn’t have… There was a click and Flynn’s insides tightened… it was open.
Now — fast or slow? High impact or sneakiness?
He opened it slowly, took the chance, sidled in and found himself in a huge deserted hallway. A staircase ran up to the first floor just to his right and at ground level there were five doors off it. Lounge, dining room, kitchen, another lounge perhaps, he guessed, not knowing the layout of the place.
He took a few paces, his senses working at full tilt. He could hear the sound of muffled voices from behind one of the doors. He swallowed dryly, held his breath, moved forward again, bringing the Skorpion down into a firing position, concentrating on the origin of the voices. Not from behind the first door, nor the second… the third. Was this the kitchen? It was certainly a room at the back of the house. Then he cursed himself for not being cautious enough, spun around and saw the huge figure of Ox Henderson hurtling towards him silently, but powerfully and terrifyingly.
Even then, Flynn knew that if Henderson could not be taken down instantly, soundlessly, the little adventure would be over and nothing would have been achieved. The only advantage Flynn had was that Henderson had not shouted a warning or war cry.
He bore down, a murderous look on his face, reminding Flynn of a James Bond baddie — but without the humorous side.
It had to be done perfectly. Flynn had only one chance, one blow. He stood his ground, a mock-horror look on his face, hoping it would lull the big man into subconsciously believing that this would be easy. Which it was — until the very last moment. Flynn stepped aside with the agility of a ballerina, a skill honed by years of balancing on a sportfishing boat. Henderson grabbed nothing but fresh air and Flynn crashed the butt of the Skorpion into the side of his unprotected head. It was a hard blow, perfectly aimed, another skill perfected on a fishing boat when using the gaff to hook a deadly shark in the gills, waiting for exactly the right moment. Henderson’s head was as hard as a rock, but the shockwave stunned him.
Flynn thought he had hit hard enough, but realized how wrong he was when Henderson staggered sideways, shook his head like a bull — flicking the blood from the newly acquired cut — and launched himself at Flynn again. Flynn did a neat sidestep and, using the Skorpion once more, smashed it across Henderson’s head, successfully putting him down. His legs went to jelly and he dropped. Not out cold, but well out of it.
At which point the kitchen door opened. Tom stepped out and saw Flynn standing over the big man.
There was a moment as both men computed their predicament.
Tom’s right hand came up, the pistol in it coughing twice, but Flynn was already moving away, readjusting his grip on the Skorpion as he leapt, firing in mid-air. The gun kicked hard, but he was expecting it. A burst of slugs sliced through the air, then the gun jammed. They were badly aimed, but one caught Tom and he fell backwards into the kitchen. There was a female scream from behind him.
Flynn threw the Skorpion away in disgust and pulled the pistol out of his waistband.
Tom’s feet were sticking out of the door, moving as though he was trying to propel himself backwards. Flynn flattened himself against the wall by the kitchen door, pistol in both hands, pointing downwards.
‘Vincent,’ he called. ‘Vincent.’ There was no reply. He called the name again and added, ‘It’s over, this stupid game is finished.’
Tom moaned, ‘Oh God, I’m shot.’ His legs continued to kick out.
In the hallway, Henderson moved.
Flynn shouted again. ‘Vincent, Jack Vincent.’
‘Flynnie,’ came Alison’s weak voice.
‘Alison?’
‘He’s gone, out the back door.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes.’
Flynn licked his lips, exhaled. He ensured he was holding the pistol correctly — in the right hand, fingertip resting on the trigger, left hand cupped underneath, supporting — then he inhaled and pivoted into the doorway, coming into a combat stance. Legs shoulder-width apart, bouncing down slightly on his knees and the gun at the point of the isosceles triangle formed by his arms. The gun covered the room, top to bottom, side to side, and unless Vincent was behind the door — and Flynn did check through the gap — he had gone.
Alison, battered and bedraggled, with blood smeared over her face and around the neck of her jumper, was sitting on the floor by the cooker, knees drawn up, arms clasped tightly, shaking.
‘He’s gone?’ Flynn said. She nodded. Flynn cautiously lowered the weapon, reversed into the hallway and went to Henderson, who was just about to push himself up on to all fours, blood dripping on to the tiled floor. Flynn callously cracked him hard with the pistol on the back of his head and he went down like a squashed insect, his arms splayed, face down in his own blood. Flynn waist-banded the gun, pulled Henderson’s arms around his back and cuffed them with the cable ties he had snaffled from the desk in front of Henry.
Next he crossed to Tom and kicked away the pistol. He was laid out at an angle on the kitchen floor, the bullet from the Skorpion having torn apart his upper right biceps. He bent over him and they locked eyes. ‘She found you out, didn’t she?’
Injured though he was, his defiance remained. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped nastily.
With a sneer of contempt and a complete disregard for the wounds, Flynn kicked Tom over, pulled back his hands and cable-tied them together, ignoring his screams of pain. This done, he stood up and pulled out the gun again.
‘How are you?’ he asked Alison. ‘Is this your blood?’ He wiped away some from her cheek with his thumb.
‘I’m OK,’ she nodded. ‘Not good really. Where’s Henry?’
‘Getting forty winks, I think. Look, I’m going after Vincent.’
‘Let him go,’ Alison pleaded.
Flynn pretended to think about this for a second, but said, ‘Nah.’ He went to the outside kitchen door, opened it and looked out. Parked there were two long-wheelbase Shoguns, both with their hatchbacks open. Foot trails in the snow led from the kitchen to the cars and back. Flynn stepped out and a security light came on, bathing the whole area with brightness.
Instinctively he bobbed down beside one of the cars, then glanced in the back of it and saw a stack of several half-brick sized blocks made of polythene and wound with gaffer tape. He assumed they were drugs, probably cocaine, and next to them was a cardboard box filled with bound wads of Bank of England notes. Although Henry Christie would probably never believe him, Flynn had never seen so much money. He thought there could be in excess of a million.
‘Now then, my old cocker.’
Flynn froze. The cold hard muzzle of a gun had been pressed into the back of his head. An arm reached around and wrenched the pistol out of his grip.
‘Didn’t think I’d actually do a runner, did you?’ Jack Vincent sneered, dropped back a stride and glanced at the gun he’d taken from Flynn. In his right hand he was pointing a similar handgun at Flynn, who had turned slowly to face him. He waggled the gun. ‘I imported fifty of these two years ago… very fucking iffy guns, always jamming. Like those fucking Skorpions, useless shit.’ He tossed the gun away into the snow. ‘I really don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Vincent said, ‘but you’re a real handy guy. Flynn, is it?’
