Authors: Andy McNab
Remote Control (36 page)
Nothing was happening and nothing was said. Then what must have been that Caprice drove into the alley behind me, its headlights illuminating the backs of the houses. Each had facing garages and three or four cars parked along the sides of the alley. I could see my kneeling shadow cast against the wet tarmac.
The engine was still running and I heard the doors being opened. There was radio traffic from a different voice; this one had an accent that should have been selling hot dogs in New York. He was giving a location. ‘Affirmative, we’re in the service road for Dent and Avon. We are on the south side. You’ll see our lights. Affirmative, we have both of them.’
I stayed on my knees with my hands on my head in the rain while we waited for the others to arrive. I heard footsteps coming towards me from the car. I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes, expecting to be given the good news. They walked slightly past me to my right and stopped.
I didn’t hear the second one come up behind me. I just felt a heavy hand grip my own firmly on my head as the other felt for my weapon. The hand pulled out the Sig and I watched him check the safety catch in front of my face. Then he released his grip on my hands and, in the same movement, produced a clear plastic bag. I could smell coffee on his slightly laboured breath.
Nothing happened for a moment or two, apart from the rustling of the bag behind me. Into view on my right came a man who looked a bit of a fashion seeker, dressed in a black suit with a mandarin jacket. Fuck me, it was Mr Armani. He was maybe late twenties, very clean-cut, and dark and smooth. He probably glided over the ground so his shoes never got wet. He was covering me.
I heard Kelly crying in the background. She must be in the car. Fuck knows how she got there, but at least I knew where she was. The man behind me carried on the search and placed my stuff in the bag.
The hot-dog seller was being quite good with her, he didn’t sound too aggressive or rough. Maybe he had kids of his own. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
I couldn’t hear her reply, but I heard him say, ‘No, little lady, I don’t think your name’s Josie, I think your name is Kelly.’
Good one, mate, at least you tried!
Car lights stopped on the main drag about 150 metres further down, at the end of the alleyway. Then reversing lights were coming towards me.
By now all my stuff was in the plastic bag and being held by whoever was behind me. I was still on my knees, hands on head, with Mr Armani hovering to my right.
There were noises of more people behind me. I was hoping that it was passers-by who would report it. But to whom? My hopes collapsed as I heard the driver get out of the car and start to speak.
‘That’s OK, folks, all under control. There’s nothing to see here.’
I was confused. How could they just move people on – unless they were law enforcement. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope; maybe I’d be able to talk my way out of this one. I still had the back-up disk hidden. Maybe I could bargain with it.
The reversing car stopped about 5 metres away and three people got out – the driver from the left-hand side and two out of the back. At first they were in shadow and I couldn’t see their faces, but then one walked into the glare of the other car’s headlights. And then I knew I was really in the shit.
Luther was looking a little the worse for wear and he wasn’t blowing me kisses. Caught in the headlights he looked like a pissed-off devil with a large boil dressing. He still had a suit on, but he wouldn’t be wearing a tie for a while. I could tell by the smile on his face that he had a few tricks saved up for me. Fair one.
He walked towards me and I thought he was going to make a point. I closed my eyes and got ready to take the hit, but he walked straight past. That scared me even more.
Luther started to talk as he got to the car. ‘Hi, Kelly, remember me? My name’s Luther.’
There were some mumblings in reply. I was straining to hear the conversation, but only the adult voice was audible.
‘Don’t you remember me? I came to pick up your daddy for work a couple of times. You have to come with me now because I’ve been sent to look after you.’
I could hear protests from the car.
‘No, he’s not dead. He wants me to collect you. Now, come on, move it, you little bitch!’
Kelly screamed, ‘Nick, Nick! I don’t want to go!’ She sounded terrified.
Luther walked back to his car with her. He had his arm around her tight to stop her from bucking and kicking with fright. It was all over in a few seconds. Once Kelly was secure in the back of the car all three drove off. I felt as if I’d been taken down by the fire extinguisher again.
‘Get up.’ My hands were still on my head and I felt someone’s hand grip onto my right tricep and lift me up. I heard the car behind me move.
I looked to my right. The short guy had hold of me with his left hand; in his right he had the plastic bag with Kev’s mobile, my weapon, wallet, passport, ATM card and loose change. He turned me round to face the car, which had just finished moving side-on in the road, pointing towards the right, and pushed me towards it. Mr Armani had me covered.
I’d stayed calm so far. But I had to get out of this shit now. I was going to be killed, it was as easy as that. The engine was running and I had about 10 metres in which to do something. Whatever I did, there would have to be a lot of speed, aggression and surprise. And it must work first time; if not, I was dead.
The guy who was holding me was right-handed, or he wouldn’t be dragging me along with his left, and therefore, if I started fucking about, he would have to drop the bag and draw his pistol. If I was wrong about that, I would soon be dying. But I was dead anyway, so fuck it – why not go for it?
There were about 3 metres left between me and the car. By now Mr Armani had glided to the rear door to open it and, as his eyes glanced down for the door handle, I knew it was time.
YAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
Screaming at the top of my voice, I brought my right hand down hard, half turned my hips and hit his left shoulder as hard as I could.
I’d got surprise. All three now had to take in what was going on and make an assessment. It would take them little more than a second to turn that assessment into reaction.
As I hit him, I started to push in an attempt to spin him to his left so that his right-hand side would come towards me. We were both screaming now. He’d already made his assessment. He dropped the bag and was going for his weapon.
I knew that, for him, too, it was happening in slow time. I could see the saliva spray out of his mouth as he shouted a warning to the others. There was nothing to worry about with the other two at the moment; if they were quicker than me, knowing about it wouldn’t make it any better.
Looking down at his belt I could see the pistol moving slowly towards me as he spun round. Nothing else mattered. I kept my eyes on it. I heard the other two screaming. We were all at it.
The Colt .45 is a single-action weapon, which means that all the trigger does is release the hammer. To cock the hammer in the first place and chamber the first round, you must rack back the topslide by pinching in with the fingers and thumb of the left hand against its serrations, pulling it back firmly to the rear and releasing. The pistol can be carried ‘cocked and locked’ – hammer back and safety on – with a round in the breech. The Colt also has both a manual safety and a grip safety. Even if the manual safety is off, your hand must be firm enough on the grip to keep the grip safety depressed, or the weapon won’t fire.
I grabbed the pistol with my left hand, I didn’t care where. At the same time I brought my right hand down, with four fingers together and my thumb stretched out to present a big recess for the weapon. I pushed onto it with the web of my hand, taking the manual safety catch off with my thumb and using the web of my hand to release the grip safety by holding the weapon correctly. I couldn’t see if the hammer was back or not. And I had no way of knowing if the weapon had a round in the chamber. With my left hand, I racked the topslide back to cock it. It had already been cocked. A brass round spun out of the ejection port, glinting as it tumbled in the street lights. It didn’t matter losing one round; at least I wouldn’t get a dead man’s click.
I knew the first threat was Mr Armani. He had a weapon in his hand.
I carried on turning in the direction the shoulder hit had taken me and, as I did, I came up into the aim, firing low because these fuckers wore armour. Armani went down. I didn’t know if he was dead or not.
I carried on spinning and dropped the short guy, moved forward and looked at the driver. He was still in his seat, but in a crouched position, screaming and writhing.
I ran to his side of the car, pointing the pistol. ‘Move over! Move over! Move over!’
I pulled the door open and, keeping the pistol at the aim, kicked him with my right leg. I wasn’t going to start dragging him out, it would take too long. I just wanted to get in the car and go. I shoved the muzzle into his cheek and pulled out his weapon, kept it and threw mine out – I didn’t know how many rounds were left.
The injury was to his upper right arm. There was a small entry hole in the material, but not much blood around the site. He must have taken one of the rounds aimed at Armani as I spun round. His hand, however, was red and dripping from where blood was coursing down his arm. The .45 round is big and heavy and doesn’t fuck around. The massive exit wound would have blown away most of the underside of his arm. I would be having no problems from this boy.
As I drove off I screamed at him, ‘Where are they going? Where are they going?’
His answer was half a cry, half a shout. ‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’ His dark-grey suit was turning brown with blood.
I jabbed his leg hard with the pistol. ‘Where are they going?’
We were in a narrow residential road. I took off both wing mirrors in the process of turning to question him. He told me to fuck off again, so I fired. I could feel the air pressure change as the gases left the barrel, and then the smell of cordite filled the air. There was an explosion of material and flesh as the round ploughed a 12-inch furrow along and down into his leg. He howled like a stuck pig.
I didn’t know where I was heading. The driver’s screams quickly subsided, but he kept thrashing about. His convulsions left him on his knees in the footwell, with his head on the seat. He was starting to go into shock. He was probably wishing he did sell hot dogs in New York.
‘Where are they going?’ I demanded again. I didn’t want him to pass out before I got the information.
‘They’re heading south,’ he moaned. ‘I-95 south.’
We were speeding on the elevated section of highway that took us to the interstate.
I looked across. ‘Who are you?’
His face screwed up in pain as he fought for breath. He didn’t reply. I hit him on the temple with the pistol. He gave a low moan and moved his fingers sluggishly from his leg to his head. We passed the Pentagon, then I saw the sign for the Calypso hotel. It seemed like a bad dream.
‘Who are you? Tell me why you’re after me!’
I could barely hear his reply. His mouth was dribbling blood and he was finding it hard to breathe.
‘Let me go, man. Just leave me here and I’ll tell you.’
No way was I falling for that one.
‘You’re going to die soon. Tell me and I’ll help you. Why are you trying to kill us? Who are you?’
His head lolled. He didn’t reply because he couldn’t.
I found them just short of the Beltway, in the middle of the three lanes. It was easy to pick them out in my headlights and I could see it was still three up; one in the front, two in the back. No sign of Kelly, but there was enough space between the two boys in the back to have another body between them. She was only a little fucker; her head wouldn’t be showing.
I couldn’t do anything on the freeway, so now was the time to calm down and get my head round the next plan. What was I going to do? Whatever it was, it had to be soon, because I didn’t know their destination, and I-95 goes all the way to Florida. Much nearer, however, about thirty minutes away, was Quantico, the FBI and DEA academy. It was starting to make sense. Luther and the black guy coming to the house, both knowing Kev; they were all the same group. But why would they kill Kev? And if they were the killers, what connection then did ‘bad DEA’ have with my ‘friends over the water’? Was there something happening here between these two groups that Kev had discovered and got fucked over for?
I thought again of Florida and it gave me an idea. I tucked it away for later.
I looked down at the driver. He was in shit state, still losing blood. He was sitting in a pool of it because the rubber mat in the footwell stopped the carpet from soaking it up. I could see his face as the lights from the opposite side of the freeway hit us now and again; all the agitation had drained from it and he looked ashen, like an old fish; life was slowly going out of his eyes, which were staring into space. He was going to die soon. Tough shit.
I reached over, flipped open his jacket and took the two magazines that were in a holder on his shoulder holster. He was oblivious to what I was doing; he was in his own place now, perhaps reflecting on his life before he died.
Other books
Alas negras by Laura Gallego García
Being a Green Mother by Piers Anthony
Birthdays Can Be Deadly by Cindy Bell
Beyond The Music (The Rock Gods Book 7) by Ann Lister
The Last Man on Earth by Tracy Anne Warren
Better Late Than Never by Stephanie Morris
Spring Tide by K. Dicke
A Sister's Test by Wanda E. Brunstetter
The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark
Playing Hard: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Eve Maddox