mikes and broke their rule when he quickly whispered, ‘He’s got a gun.’ Terry merely nodded. They reverted to role and picked up their drinks.
‘ Shit, that’s hot!’ Henry spluttered as the tea burned the top of his mouth.
His eyes drifted to the window and out to Lee’s BMW The two minders leaned against it, smoking, Thompson talking on a mobile phone. The smaller, stockier one, Gunk, was fingering his plastered ear. He looked to be in pain. Both men looked spooked and nervous.
‘ Them too, I think,’ Henry said without moving his lips. Again Terry nodded.
The one on the phone finished his chat and said something quickly to the other, then thumbed an urgent gesture towards a car which had driven on to the lorry park and was heading for the rear of the cafe.
The two minders tensed up and exchanged a few words. Thompson threw down his cigarette and crushed it out, yanked open the driver’s door of the BMW and dropped into the seat. Gunk just threw his fag to one side and scurried around the car, skidding in the gravel, and dived into the front passenger seat.
‘ You see what I see?’ Terry said laconically. He had been observing the antics of the bodyguards too.
‘ I think we’re being set up here,’ Henry said, standing up quickly, knocking his boiling tea over.
‘ I want you to make this a very public execution,’ the Russian’s masters had told him. Being a former soldier and then a member of the world’s most ruthless intelligence agency, the KGB, he always carried out orders as instructed, even if he felt they were flawed. He would really have preferred to do something more subtle and classy — but if public was how they wanted it, public it would be.
Since the meeting in the hotel in Fleetwood, he had spent the next couple of nights in a Travelodge on the outskirts of Manchester, in the guise of a travelling salesmen. He was continually in touch, via the mobile, with Thompson, keeping abreast of the target’s present whereabouts and future plans. When he was told that the target had arranged business at a transport cafe, he was interested. Without having visited the place, it seemed a good location for a hit — next to a fast main road, close to a motorway junction, with a choice of direction depending on the circumstances prevailing at the time.
The Russian then reconnoitred the location, grabbing a cup of tea and using the toilets. Although he remained there a short time only, his experienced eyes — which had weighed up dozens of prospective assassination sites before — recorded everything and came to a conclusion: This would be the place where Jacky Lee would die.
At a second quick meeting with Thompson, who came alone this time, the Russian outlined his requirements and questioned Thompson deeply about the nature of the business Lee would be conducting at the cafe. Who was he meeting? Was he likely to be armed? Could he possibly constitute a threat?
When everything was answered to his satisfaction, he nodded.
It was a goer.
The Russian was assured that Johnny Snowden was the best getaway driver in the North-West, a big claim for a twenty-year-old. He had, he was told, six armed robberies to his credit and a multitude of other less serious crimes. He had outrun the cops on the four occasions he’d been pursued and was very much in demand for jobs. The Russian accepted the accolades, but Snowden’s past history did not interest him. Nor did any small talk, so when the youngster started chatting, he said, ‘Shut up. This is real business. Do your job, do it well and your reputation will be sealed for ever.’
Snowden closed his mouth.
‘ Cock up, however, and you’ll be dead,’ the Russian added in a friendly way.
They waited for the call in a country lane a short distance away from the cafe.
When it came, the Russian simply said, ‘Go,’ and pulled on his favourite garment — his stocking mask. Nothing, he believed, worked as well when it came to intimidation.
Snowden drove the Ford Mondeo, stolen, on false plates, down on to the A580 and into the lorry park adjoining the transport cafe, swinging wide to park behind the cafe.
The Russian saw Thompson and Elphick scrambling into their car and could not prevent a lip curl at the thought of his masters operating with such rank amateurs.
Then they were at the rear of the cafe. The Russian picked up the American Arms Spectre from the footwell and got casually out of the car. He was faced with two doors. The one on the right led directly into the kitchen; the one on the left was a fire door opening on to a short corridor off which the toilets were located, but which led into the cafe itself.
If Thompson had done his job right, this latter door should be unlocked.
It was.
‘ Can’t say I’m a happy Teddy here,’ was Terry’s understated response to the situation. He stood up a fraction more slowly than Henry.
They moved away from the table and stopped in their tracks at the sight of Jacky Lee emerging unconcerned from the toilet corridor. He was zipping up with a little jump and adjusting himself shamelessly. He brushed the front of his trousers where there was a little damp patch. Then he looked up out of the cafe door — which was all windows and a wooden frame — to see his BMW careering away across the lorry park.
Henry’s mind adjusted to this new development quickly. He had not expected to see Jacky Lee again because he believed Lee was part of the set-up. He thought Jacky had done a runner out of the back. Now there was a very different complexion to this: perhaps it was Jacky who was being set up?
A puzzled expression crossed Lee’s face. His bushy eyebrows knitted together over the bridge of his nose. He put his hands on his hips as a sign of confusion and stepped nearer to the door to get a better view of the retreating car. ‘What the fuck…?’ he started to say, turning his head to look at Henry.
The timing was impeccable. The Russian slid into the corridor the moment after Jacky Lee came out of the toilets and made his way back to the main body of the cafe. He recognised Lee immediately and that old twist of excitement knotted his lower stomach. Good luck favours the brave, he thought.
At the end of the corridor, because of the way the light from the glass door was falling, Lee was framed in a perfect silhouette. Just like a figure in the firing range — and this little job was turning out to be as academic as a training session. The Russian transferred the Spectre to his left hand, deciding to use the Browning instead which he drew from his waistband. A much better, more effective, close-quarters weapon.
Henry opened his mouth to say something to Lee, but no words ever left his mouth.
The sound of gunfire was tremendous. Suddenly the front of Lee’s chest exploded as though aliens were bursting out. He was driven forwards by the impact of the bullets, writhing as each one impacted his back, then exited through his chest. He was thrown against the door of the cafe — a sheet of normal glass that had never been replaced in twenty years. He crashed through it, fell, and a jagged, deadly shard of glass shaped like a stalagmite tore into his neck, another into his stomach.
The other diners uttered yells of disbelief and fear, diving for cover behind anything they could find. A waitress screamed and huddled herself into a ball, covering her head with her hands and a menu.
Henry counted six shots.
He started to move towards Lee who lay squirming face down in the glass. His back was a terrible bloody mess. The glass had deeply gouged his neck. It seemed incredible he could still be alive. He jerked involuntarily, his head moving back, releasing a perfect arc of blood from his jugular which rose, then died away to a splutter.
The Russian stepped out of the corridor, the Spectre waving warningly in his left hand, the Browning in his right.
Henry stopped, as did Terry.
The Russian shouted something indecipherable, followed quickly by the words, ‘Keep back.’ He edged towards Lee, eyes locked on Henry and Terry all the while. He aimed quickly and put two more bullets into the back of Lee’s head. That stopped him squirming. He then spun round and ran back down the corridor to the rear exit.
Henry stepped over to Lee. Trying to ignore the blood, he lifted Lee’s leather jacket and pulled out the handgun, finding it to be a two-inch barrelled Smith amp; Wesson revolver, Detective Special, a model Henry was
