end-on to where Crane was positioned and he could see down the aisles which were wide enough for forklift trucks to operate down. Around the inner warehouse wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, was a metallic walkway reached by steps next to the office door, about eight feet to the right from where Crane was hunched. Fifteen feet to his left was the Sherpa parked in the loading bay. That vehicle, maybe, offered some protection, but at that moment, Crane could not even think of reaching it.
Incredibly there was a sudden movement in the office. Crane’s head snapped round and he saw something amazing.
It was Don Smith. Jaw-less, riddled with bullets, he was dragging himself through the door, slipping and slurping in his own pool of deep red, nearly black, blood. Most of his face had been ripped off by Drozdov’s shooting. Crane could not believe what he was seeing.
‘ Don!’ he gasped.
Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull ‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head exploded with their impact.
And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the BMW and took advantage of the distraction.
He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and Drozdov.
Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like hailstone.
Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire, but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents — when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.
The stench of cordite hung heavily in the atmosphere. Smith’s body lay grotesquely positioned in the puddle of his blood, coagulating like tar, his head destroyed. Beyond him, Crane could just see Gunk underneath the filing cabinet, his head a gory mess too and though he too was dead, his mouth popped open and closed repeatedly, like a fish.
Nothing had happened for at least a minute. Maybe longer, maybe not. Time had lost its substance.
Crane was convinced Drozdov had not moved, was still behind the BMW He was reluctant to make the first move because he didn’t want it to go to rat-shit and be his last. Yet to have to react to Drozdov could be fatal. From what Crane knew of the Russian Mafia, shoot-outs like this were ten a penny in Moscow and people like Drozdov were experienced in dealing with such situations. Conversely, Crane’s shoot-outs had always tended to be one-sided. His opponents were not usually armed, which was a big advantage. This was a new scenario for Crane, but he wasn’t fazed by it. It was like a game of chess — but with consequences.
He was squatting down by the front offside wheel of the Sherpa, close to the driver’s door, taking his main cover from the engine. He knew car panels were useless against bullets and had known people die behind them, thinking they were safe. The front of the vehicle faced the roller door and the operating panel was on the wall, about five feet above ground. The control button was ten feet away from Crane himself.
A grimace creased his face as he weighed up the possibility of doing a runner. The keys were still in the ignition. All he needed to do was open the door, get in and drive away with the money.
Yeah, sure. Dream on.
The roller door would take an eon to open and Sherpa vans were notoriously bad at quick starts.
Stalemate.
‘ You did what I would have done. I respect that,’ Drozdov called out from behind the BMW ‘We can talk. I know there is far more money than you led us to believe. We can split it. We are businessmen, after all.’
‘ You killed my friend, Jacky Lee.’
‘ You butchered my colleagues.’
‘ Big difference,’ Crane shouted. ‘Fucking big difference.’
‘ And you would have killed me.’
‘ Likewise, wanker.’
‘ Such is life. It is not easy, but we can negotiate. I am a man of my word.’
‘ Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could spit. I smelled you for trouble as soon as I saw you.’
‘ I’m honoured. So what is it to be? Sit here until we grow old and die of natural causes — or do we compromise? Remember, you are outgunned and out-positioned. I can be a very poor shot with this Uzi and yet still mow you down; you have to be a marksman with a pistol. Compromise, Billy Crane — a good word — a very good offer.’
Crane looked at the Ruger. The Russian was right. It is very difficult to be accurate with a pistol other than at very close range, whereas it’s dead easy with a machine pistol set on automatic. Aiming did not come into it. Point, pull, shoot, sweep, kill.
In that case, Crane decided, I’ll have to get in close to the bastard.
He reached up with his right hand for the driver’s door handle which he gripped firmly and pressed quietly with his thumb.
There was a click which seemed loud and echoey, but drew no response from Drozdov. The door opened a quarter of an inch. Crane released the handle and eased his fingertips under the bottom edge of the door and pulled it slowly open. All the while he was expecting a hail of fire from Drozdov, but nothing came; he assumed the Russian was either squatting down behind the BMW and not looking, or was manoeuvring his way round for a better shot. Whatever, Crane knew his time was limited. When the door was open wide enough, he reached up towards the key in the ignition in the steering column, just behind the wheel. His idea was to try to see if the engine would start and use the noise as a distraction to cover the sound of any movement. He just had to hope the thing would get going without use of the gas pedal because he could not safely contort himself to turn the key with one hand and dab the accelerator with the other. Climbing up and sitting in the driver’s seat was obviously out of the question.
Crane turned the key. The engine coughed, died.
‘ Shit!’
He was about to try again when Drozdov stood up and sprayed a line of bullets in to the Sherpa, sending Crane diving back behind the engine block.
Not a good idea, he thought, as the sound of gunfire died away. If nothing else it would be folly to put the Sherpa at risk from damage by bullets. If one hit something vital, he would be struggling to transport the money — if he came out of this alive.
He controlled his breathing again. The only way to win this, he decided, was to take direct action. He had to take the fight to the Russian.
Crane checked the Ruger again, making damn sure there was one ready in the chamber and that the magazine was full. Yes, on both counts.
He leaned back against the front wheel and inhaled deep, slow breaths, calming himself, thinking of tactics.
The only way he could imagine taking the Russian was by a sudden, unexpected, frontal assault, using the element of surprise and, if necessary, going out in a blaze of glory.
His wet right hand gripped the handle of the gun. The sweaty tip of his forefinger curled around the trigger. He cupped his left hand underneath his right and lifted the gun. 32 oz seemed very heavy.
Before he moved, he visualised every step of the way in his mind’s eye. First, the relative positions of the vehicles. He imagined he was a bird, looking down, seeing the layout from above. The Sherpa in the loading bay, the Audi in the warehouse, almost parallel to it and in front of that, skewed at an angle, the big BMW behind which Drozdov was taking cover. What was on the floor that might trip him? Crane thought hard. Nothing, he could recall nothing. Then he began to envision his course of action, frame by frame. Up on to his feet — then into a roll which would take him the ten feet or so to the rear of the Audi, and on the way loosing off two shots to keep Drozdov’s head down. Once behind the Audi, no pause. Dive fast and low towards the BMW, somewhere in the region of the
