Assassin (24 page)

'How do you want to play this?' he asked, his eyes never leaving the other car.

'When I tell you, drive past as fast as you can,' Mitchell told him, slamming a magazine into the HK33. He gripped it tightly in one hand, with the other he pressed the 'Play' button on the cassette. Music filled his head.

Carter waited for the signal.

Waited.

The driver was glancing up at the electronic figures on the petrol pump.

The bodyguard had just pushed another piece of chewing gum into his mouth.

Cleary and the girl hadn't moved from the back seat.

'Well?' said Carter impatiently.

Mitchell didn't answer, words and music were all he could hear now, thunderous in his ears.

'
Behind the smile, there's danger and the promise to be told...
'

He gripped the HK33 across his chest.

'
You'll never get old...
'

'Go,' he shouted and Carter stepped on the accelerator.

The Escort bore down on the petrol station, passing other cars as it increased its speed.

`
Life's fantasy, to be locked away and still to think you're free...
'

The driver of the Daimler tapped the nozzle against the mouth of the fuel tank, draining the last few drops.

The Escort came roaring towards the garage.

Mitchell rested the barrel of the HK33 on the window frame and hugged it tight to his shoulder.

'
So live for today...
'

The bodyguard shouted a warning to Cleary who spun round.

'
Tomorrow never comes...’

The girl screamed.

'
Die young...’

Mitchell gritted his teeth as he opened fire, the recoil slamming the HK33's telescoped stock back against his shoulder.

The barrel flamed as the magazine discharged its deadly load. A stream of bullets tore across the petrol station forecourt, riddling men and machines alike.

The heavy grain rounds punctured the bodywork of the Daimler and shattered its windows, blasting them inwards to shower Cleary and the girl who had thrown themselves down as the roar of automatic fire began.

The bodyguard was hit in the stomach, the impact doubling him up as the bullet ripped through his intestines, exploding from his back, destroying a kidney in its wake. Blood spurted up the side of the elegant car which, in seconds, was riddled with bullets.

As the Escort sped past, Mitchell fired another concentrated burst.

The second fusillade was even more lethal.

Two bullets hit the Daimler's petrol tank.

There was a deafening explosion and the car disappeared beneath a ball of orange and white flame. The rear end was sent spiralling several feet into the air, the blazing body of the girl still inside it.

Cleary, his body transformed into a human torch, was hurled from the wreckage. He rolled over half a dozen times on the wet ground, screaming as the flames ate at his flesh.

The driver was catapulted backwards by the blast, lifted by an invisible hand and hurled through the plate glass window which fronted the cashier's office.

But an instant later the blast which had destroyed the Daimler was eclipsed by an explosion of awesome proportions. Half a dozen of Mitchell's bullets hit the petrol pumps and they promptly went off like huge sticks of dynamite, igniting the thousands of gallons of fuel in the tank beneath them.

Plumes of fire fully sixty feet high leapt skyward, colouring the heavens with a hellish red glow. Blazing petrol spouted across the forecourt, spilling into the road beyond. Passing cars were sent skidding across the greasy tarmac by the massive blast. People within fifty yards felt the air sucked from their lungs by the massive conflagration. The very air itself seemed to be on fire.

And, in the midst of it, lay the bullet-tom, twisted remains of the Daimler.

The bodies of Mick Cleary and those who had died with him were scattered around the forecourt in a mixture of blood and burning petrol.

The Escort sped on.

'
Die young...’

`Drop me here,' said Mitchell, tapping Carter on the shoulder as they passed a tube station.

The driver hesitated a moment before pulling up and allowing the hit man to get out. Clutching the black attaché case, Mitchell headed for the entrance to the station.

Carter watched him disappear inside and then reversed into a side street and scuttled across the road himself, certain that Mitchell had not seen him follow.

Harrison had said to tail the hit man and that was precisely what he intended to do. As he ran, he felt the 9mm automatic bumping against his side.

Carter hurried down the steps to the ticket machines, grateful for the crowd which hid him from any possibility of detection by the man he was tracking. He saw the familiar black attaché case. Saw Mitchell feeding coins into one of the machines. He passed through the automatic barrier towards the escalators. Carter waited until the hit man had begun to descend then dashed to the ticket machine, rummaging through his own pockets for change.

He had none.

Only a five pound note.

He cursed under his breath and spun round, looking at the ticket office.

There were only a couple of people waiting so he joined the short queue, muttering impatiently as the woman in front of him tried to explain in broken English that she wanted to get to Buckingham Palace. By the time the ticket seller had finished explaining that no tube trains ran directly to the Palace, Carter was frantic. He pushed past the woman, shoved the five pound note through the pay slot and vaulted over the automatic barrier.

Ignoring the shouts of the ticket seller and the flabbergasted stares of his fellow travellers, Carter ran down the escalators, pushing past a couple of people who chose to ignore the instruction `Please Stand on the Right'.

At the bottom of the escalator he heard music.

A young man with a white face was energetically tap-dancing in time to a tune which floated from a ghetto blaster. He glanced at Carter as he hurried by, frowning when he tossed no money into the battered top hat which was propped up by the moving staircase.

Carter took the next flight of steps and made it on to the platform.

The air was dry and rank in the subterranean environment. Sounds echoed around the curved walls, litter was scattered beneath the rails like filthy confetti.

Carter glanced down the platform, past two Chinese men who were consulting a street map.

He could not see Mitchell.

Gritting his teeth, Carter moved further along the platform, past a drunk who lay on a wooden bench, snoring loudly. Two young girls were staring at him, giggling.

Carter heard the familiar crackle run along the tracks and the gust of wind which ruffled his hair told him that a train was coming. He could hear it rumbling closer.

Still no sign of Mitchell.

Could he have lost him in such a short time?

The train roared out of the tunnel like some swiftly moving, animated worm from the mouth of a dead animal. As it drew to a halt Carter scanned the faces on the platform once more.

He spotted Mitchell.

The hit man stepped into a carriage as the doors slid open.

Carter ran down the platform and jumped into the adjacent carriage. Through the window of the connecting door he could see that Mitchell had sat down and was gazing abstractedly at the advertisement panels.

The train pulled away and Carter kept glancing at the hit man.

Tottenham Court Road station.

Mitchell didn't move.

Leicester Square.

He rose from his seat.

Carter prepared to step off the train with him but at the last moment noticed that Mitchell had only risen to give his seat to an elderly woman. The train moved on again.

Piccadilly Circus.

This time Mitchell did leave the train.

Carter waited a moment, allowing the hit man time to get clear and jumped out just as the doors were sliding shut.

Mitchell pushed through the crowd, heading for the Bakerloo line.

Carter followed.

A black man was sitting in one of the passageways, his filthy trousers already stained darkly around the crutch. He was clutching a half empty bottle. Carter smelt the acrid scent of urine as he passed the man.

A train was pulling in.

He slowed his pace, careful not to emerge onto the platform too soon, in case it was sparsely populated. He couldn't risk Mitchell spotting him.

The doors of the train opened.

Carter waited, his breath coming in short gasps.

He turned the comer on to the platform, looked both ways and saw the familiar black attaché case in Mitchell's hand.

The hit man stepped onto the train.

Then off.

Carter ducked back into the walkway, certain now that Mitchell had spotted him.

The doors hissed and began to close.

Mitchell jumped on.

Carter scurried forward and succeeded in squeezing through the narrow gap, trapping the sleeve of his jacket. He tugged it free, careful not to expose the automatic pistol strapped beneath his left arm. He grabbed one of the overhead rails and hung on as the train moved off. Where the hell was Mitchell going?

They passed through Oxford Circus, through Regent's Park.

At Baker Street the hit man left the train once more. Carter followed, keeping about fifteen yards between them, glancing up every so often as Mitchell stood on the escalators and rose towards ground level. Carter could only guess at his next move.

The hit man passed through the ticket barrier and Carter followed, relieved that there was no one on duty. He couldn't spare the time to explain why he hadn't got a ticket. He scuttled up the steps which led to the street, noticing how few people there were on the darkened stairway. Mitchell must be only ten yards in front of him.

Carter rounded a comer.

He felt a crushing impact on the back of his neck.

Then he felt nothing at all.

Carter didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.

He felt hands on his face, voices drifting around him. Someone was checking his pulse, feeling his brow.

He snapped his eyes open and sat up, wishing that he hadn't. A stab of pain in the back of his neck made him wince. He groaned and sat back against the cold wall of the staircase. There were three or four people clustered around him, all looking anxiously at him as he struggled to regain his senses. As he screwed his eyes up once more they finally swam into focus.

A young woman was stroking his brow with the back of her hand. She stopped as Carter sat up.

The assembled group seemed to back off slightly as he looked at them, hoping that no one had spotted the 9mm automatic inside his jacket. If they had then they certainly weren't saying anything. Carter slid one hand inside his coat and touched the butt of the pistol to reassure himself that it was still there. Satisfied that no one had found the lethal weapon, he rubbed his neck again and looked at the interested spectators: two youths in leather jackets and a man who was sweating heavily despite the chill in the air.

'Are you all right, mate?' one of the youths asked. 'I saw the geezer hit you. Me and Pete were going to go after him...’

Carter cut him short.

'How long have I been out?' he wanted to know.

'Only about a minute,' the youth told him. 'The bloke whacked you and then legged it.'

Carter nodded slowly, painfully, rubbing the back of his neck once more. He tried to rise but his legs felt like jelly. As he swayed uncertainly the young woman moved forward to support him. Carter smelt the perfume she wore and the heady aroma did nothing to hasten his recovery. Maybe if she'd been wearing smelling salts, he mused as he tried to regain control of his legs. That bastard Mitchell, thought Carter as a fresh wave of pain throbbed through his skull.

'Did he take anything?' the sweating man wanted to know.

Carter shook his head.

'You going to call the Old Bill?' the second youth asked.

'No,' snapped Carter. 'No police. I'm OK.'

'We'll get an ambulance,' the young woman insisted.

Carter thanked her but dismissed the suggestion.

People passing by on the stairs glanced at the little tableau with curiosity, glad that they weren't involved. Carter saw the faces gazing at him. He sucked in a deep breath, his senses returning more fully now. He thanked the four people gathered round him and then headed up the steps, leaving them to watch him go.

The sweating man shook his head.

'You're not safe anywhere these days, are you?' he muttered. 'Criminals everywhere. I mean, that poor chap, having a quiet night out and that happens to him.' He shook his head. 'I don't know what the world's coming to.'

'What do you mean you lost him?'

Carter held the phone slightly away from his ear as Harrison rasped the question at him.

'I mean the bastard laid me out; snapped the driver irritably.

'What about Cleary?'

Carter explained.

There was a moment of silence at the other end before Carter heard a grunt of satisfaction.

'I'm not trekking round London all night trying to find Mitchell,' Carter told his boss. 'I'm going home.'

'Well next time be more careful,' Harrison told him. 'I told you I wanted that bastard found.'

'Look, I'm a driver not a fucking bloodhound. You want him, then put one of your coppers on the job.' He slammed the phone down and stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, massaging the back of his neck with one hand. Then he fumbled in his pocket for more change and fed it into the phone. He jabbed the numbers and waited.

It rang.

And rang.

Carter drummed on the metal shelf, muttering under his breath.

'Hello.'

He recognised the voice immediately.

'Tina, it's me.'

She asked how he was. He explained again, mentioning Cleary only briefly.