Fighting for the Dead (17 page)

There was a scream of anguish from the man with the gun. Henry glanced back to see him scuttling sideways down the slope, obviously realizing that his intended targets had survived the terrible crash and the hail of bullets.

Henry kept behind Flynn, hoping to put some distance and darkness between themselves and the man.

But Flynn had disappeared.

It was only a slicing cut that Flynn had received to his head as the car tumble-dried itself down the slope. He wasn't even sure what had cut it, but it wasn't caused by a direct blow, for which he was grateful. It meant he kept a clear head.

He'd been kept brilliantly in place by the seat belt and when the car crashed to a stop, like it had just been dropped from a great height flat down into the stream, he knew he'd cut his head, but also that nothing else had been damaged.

He saw the man on the road at the same time as Henry.

Appearing with the headlights behind him, gun in hand, like some kind of murderous demon.

The car door had been twisted, but it opened and Flynn rolled sideways out into the stream, then came up on his hands and knees in the shallow water. Ignoring its bone-freezing temperature, he scuttled away, knowing Henry was right behind him.

Then, for a few moments, it didn't feel like Henry was there.

Flynn did not look back.

He knew the gunman had run down the slope and if he and Henry had simply just run away, all the guy would have to do was stand in the middle of the stream and strafe the darkness into which they had escaped.

Every chance that at least one of them would be cut to ribbons like Bonny and Clyde.

Flynn, therefore, knew he had to move.

He scrambled to his right onto the bank, into the cover provided by a clump of thin bushes which whipped his face, snagged his new clothing. Thorns cut the palms of his hands as he forced his way through them and up the banking, keeping as low and silent as possible, hoping the sounds of his movement were covered by the burbling of the running water and the noise from the still-on engine of the Range Rover.

There were more shots.

Flynn powered on upwards, moving like a fast Komodo dragon, belly just above the grass, driven by instinct, fear, rage and commando training from many years before.

Twenty metres up, he moved right, still keeping to the ground, and emerged at a point ten metres below the Range Rover and fifteen metres to its right, just on the periphery of the sweep of its headlights.

More importantly he was above and behind the gunman, who was still in the centre of the stream in front of the Mercedes. He was crouched low, the machine-pistol in the firing position, not moving, peering into the darkness.

Flynn's mouth curved into a vicious snarl.

He was about ten metres from the man and the guy clearly hadn't heard or seen him, or even suspected that one of the men he'd tried to kill had circled back with murder on his mind.

But ten metres was a big distance in the circumstances.

If Flynn started to move for him, he would surely sense the approach, pivot and fire.

By which time Flynn might have gone two metres.

Flynn did not move.

He took a moment to control his breathing, try to reduce his heart rate.

Then the man stood upright and like some demented terminator, leaned slightly backwards, screamed something incomprehensible that Flynn could not make out – but could tell from the voice it was yelled in wrath – and fired the machine-pistol, spraying bullets in a wide arc, maybe forty degrees, down the stream and into the darkness where Henry and Flynn had disappeared.

Then the magazine was empty.

It was obvious the man knew the gun would empty, because as it did he flicked the magazine-release catch and let it slide out into the water, then smoothly began to replace it with a magazine from his back jeans pocket.

But it was a senseless move, one brought about by rage, Flynn guessed, who knew that emotion should never play a part in a dangerous game like this. It clouded judgement and let the enemy in. He should have taken cover when he reloaded.

Flynn ran down the slope, estimating he had about three seconds before the gun was loaded and cocked again.

He held back his own urge to scream, moved silently, the only sound the thump of his feet in the grass.

Just before Flynn launched himself, the man must have sensed something. He twisted, still with the empty gun in one hand, the full magazine in the other, almost slotted in place. He tried to use the gun as a club, but Flynn was in the air at a forty-five-degree angle and the gunman could not manage to swing the pistol around with enough force or accuracy to clobber Flynn's head.

Flynn connected and as his hands encircled the man, he realized the guy was all muscle. Hopefully, steroid muscle.

The gun went flying and both men staggered backwards.

With a contemptuous curse, the man broke free from Flynn's grip like Samson bursting from his shackles, and hit Flynn on the side of his face with a huge, hard fist. Fortunately it was a poor, badly aimed, rushed blow, but nevertheless it sent Flynn spinning backwards, far enough away for the man to recover. Flynn saw the glint of a knife blade in the man's right hand.

It wasn't a big knife. A serrated four-inch kitchen knife, possibly.

It didn't have to be long to kill. Big knives were mostly used to intimidate. Smaller, more discreet ones were used to kill efficiently.

The man grinned, the lights from the Range Rover casting an eerie distorted glow across his face. His teeth twinkled.

‘We meet again, but this time I kill you proper, fucker.'

Flynn thought there was probably a good chance of that happening, especially when the man moved towards him with incredible speed. In the darkness, mixed with the light from the Range Rover, with long and short shadows intermingling, it was hideously difficult to judge exactly where the man was, at what point the arc of the knife was. Flynn had to fight almost blind, trusting to instinct and his abilities.

He sidestepped, swerving his whole body from the knees upwards like a matador, then went in low and – he hoped – under the trajectory of the knife, so that he came back uptight, face-to-face, body-to-body with the guy and the knife was waving uselessly in mid-air behind him.

Flynn knew that would only be momentary, a fraction of a second before the knife came back around into his back, somewhere under the shoulder blades.

He had that amount of time in which to act.

To win.

Also, he was under no illusions about this man's strength. Even if the muscles were steroid-grown, if Flynn found himself in a bear hug, chances were he would have his ribs crushed slowly, followed by his internal organs, and his spine would be snapped.

It had to be instantaneous. Done with precision.

No hesitation – because what Flynn planned would kill.

His right hand came up between himself and the man, driving upwards in the tight gap between the two bodies. He rammed the heel of the hand under the man's nose, so the septum would be exactly on that hard part between the soft cushions of his thumb and finger pads.

It was like driving a piston into the man's nose.

Under normal circumstances – and this was an old, tried and tested move – this would have worked. The septum would have been hammered up into the frontal lobe of the brain, piercing it like a jagged nail and killing the opponent instantly, or at the very least putting him down, making him into a jellied eel and brain-dead for life.

A good plan.

Unless the opponent had virtually nothing left of that piece of gristle that separated his nostrils. Unless years of snorting cocaine had rotted it away and perforated the cartilage making it nothing more than a paper-thin divider. And all Flynn succeeded in doing was grinding the man's nose to a misshapen pulp.

But there was enough force in the blow to send him teetering backwards with a groan of pain, clutching his mashed face with his left hand, and his right, which was still holding the knife.

Flynn followed up this advantage, lurching after him and bunching his right fist and hitting him as hard as he could in his exposed windpipe, twisting the knuckles on impact, knocking him even further backwards.

The man went backwards, then recovered and dropped into a fighting stance with the knife, despite the blood pouring from the middle of his face and a horrible gagging noise coming from his throat.

And a smile on his face.

He spat out a gob-full of blood and went for Flynn, who jerked side-on, let the knife hand zip past him, then elbowed him right on the nose again, feeling the tip of his elbow sink horribly into a depression in the man's face.

He did it twice in quick succession. Hard, accurate, but then the man's left hand crawled over Flynn's face. His fat fingers dug deep into Flynn's eye sockets and he began to ease Flynn's head backwards whilst at the same time Flynn was wrestling with the knife hand.

And the fight was to the death.

Henry dropped as the bullets zinged around him, full length into the stream, face down for a moment in the shallow water, then rolling out of it onto the muddy bank, no idea where Flynn had gone. He slithered and slurped in the mud and came up into a position that resembled a hunted animal on starting blocks.

He glanced backwards and saw two shapes locked together – and realized Flynn had doubled back to take on the gunman. Their terrible fight was illuminated by the car headlights. Henry got to his feet and ran back towards them, just as the man pulled Flynn down onto his arse.

Henry splashed through the water and dived at the man, knocking the knife out of his hand and bundling the mass of muscle off Flynn. The man staggered, but with the strength of a bison he shrugged Henry away. Henry found himself sitting back in the stream, landing heavily on a rock, jarring the base of his spine, sending a shot of pain up to his skull.

Flynn seriously thought he had lost. The man was stronger, heavier and clearly used to fighting and taking punishment. The pain was not having any stopping effect. Flynn had lost his edge. He was fit and lean, but there was too much time separating him from the violent life he had once revelled in and his blade was dull.

It was a good job Henry arrived, barging the man off Flynn. It gave him a chance to reassert himself and go for the kill because he knew that this was ultimately the only way to defeat this person.

As the man tossed Henry aside, he was open. Just for a second. Open. Unprotected.

This time Flynn's hard-edge blow to the throat was delivered with accuracy and stunning power, driven all the way from the spin of his hips, up through his torso and along his right arm to the blade that was his hand.

He did it twice.

Flynn felt the cartilage crush and crumble.

The man gurgled and sank to his knees, his hands at his throat, gagging, choking.

Still not enough.

Flynn stepped behind him, a ferocious power now inside him, driving him as he put into effect something he had learned many years before and practised for real on two Argentinian soldiers on the Falklands Islands in 1982 whilst a Royal Marines Commando: how to take a man's head and break his neck with one perfect wrench.

E
ight hours later and exhausted beyond thinking, Henry Christie walked like a zombie through the corridors of Lancaster police station, pushed through the door leading to the rear of the public enquiry counter, lifted the hatch and stepped into the foyer.

Steve Flynn was behind him.

The woman sitting in the foyer with a terrified expression on her face stood up slowly and then rushed to embrace Henry.

‘Oh God, Henry,' Alison snuffled into his shoulder. ‘You can't believe how worried I was – am.'

Henry held her tightly for a moment, then she stepped back and looked at him. Suddenly he was a much older man after the night's events, drawn, haggard, eyes sunken and red raw. It didn't help that he was now wearing one of those god-awful forensic suits and slippers and looked more like a prisoner than a cop. He realized in that moment how much the age difference between him and Alison mattered. He was almost thirteen years her senior, which seemed a huge gap as he stood there with her.

She glanced at Flynn, reached past Henry and touched his arm tenderly. He too had aged and the scar that stretched from his forehead to temple, still oozing blood through the butterfly stitches, didn't help matters. Nor did the bloodstained zoot suit, the second he'd worn that day. He was going through sets of clothing like nobody's business.

‘Steve,' she whispered. She handed him a pile of clothing that she'd brought for him. ‘These should fit you,' she said.

He managed a weak smile and a thanks.

Henry fingertipped his face carefully, amazed his broken cheekbone was no worse than before. ‘We need to get some sleep, love.'

Alison nodded.

‘Apparently my car's a write-off.'

‘I passed it on the way. It's a wreck,' she confirmed. ‘But you're OK, that's all that matters. Cars can be replaced.'

Henry just shook his head, wanting to cry. ‘Take me home, babe,' he said, ‘and him too.' He turned to grin at Flynn, who said, ‘I am never going to help anyone again. That,' he continued, ‘was one hell of a night, Henry. Thanks for sharing it with me.'

Flynn lowered the dead man gently backwards into the stream, the legs still twitching as the last few signals shot down from his brain. Then he stood up, hands on hips, gasping, looking at Henry who, being older and less fit, was bent forward with his hands on his knees and gasping much more desperately than Flynn, sucking in air like it was going out of fashion.

‘Is he dead?'

Flynn nodded.

‘Good,' Henry said.

‘Hell, Henry, you must have cut him up real bad to get a road-rage reaction like that,' Flynn said, wiping the blood from his face.

‘Some people have no sense of humour.' Henry turned to look at his car and grimaced. ‘And I've just lost mine.' He glanced back at Flynn and the body at his feet and swore.