Sticking out from the shoe were about eight inches of shin-bone ending in a smoking, bloody stump.
‘Get up higher,’ I shouted. ‘Let’s see what’s happening.’
McBain pulled back on the controls and we lifted. The police chopper was rotating on its axis about a mile away, and speeding along the river was a convoy of public service vehicles. I identified three police cars, a fire tender and two ambulances. I pointed and yelled, ‘Cavalry.’
‘Too late as usual,’ grinned McBain around his cigar. ‘They’ll have to go miles upriver before they find a bridge. I’m going back to the house.’
I flipped a thumb up. ‘Go, go,’ I yelled, feeling the adrenalin running. We spun round and headed back to the farmhouse. McBain held the chopper steady over the roof patio.
‘McBain! What the fuck?’ I screamed. I was suddenly terrified again. I just knew that McBain was going to try and land on the roof. I was right. He lowered the ‘copter, then suddenly cut the engine and we dropped about three feet and smashed half on to the patio and half on the thatched roof. After sliding for what felt like yards, but was probably only a couple of feet, we came to a grinding halt with our tail hanging in space. In the sudden silence I could hear the sirens of the PSVs only a few miles away.
McBain jumped out onto the roof, pulled another stick of dynamite from under his coat, lit the fuse, walked nimbly up the thatch and dropped the explosive down the chimney. I heard a dull explosion and the house shook. I nearly wet my pants as the chopper slipped a foot or two further before it wedged itself against the patio wall again. McBain leaned casually against the chimney-stack and said, ‘I always say there’s nothing like an open fire.’
There was the sound of a single shot from the garden. McBain’s face registered shock and surprise as he slipped down the thatch and fell awkwardly on to the patio to lie under the body of the helicopter. I leapt out of my seat and knelt beside him.
‘Bastard,’ he said.
I peered over the wall of the patio and saw a lone figure running down the driveway. I grabbed the Magnum from McBain’s belt, steadied it on the wall, cocked the gun, took careful aim and fired, all left-handed. The figure jumped high in the air, landed on his feet, stumbled and fell to lie still on the crushed stone.
‘Are you OK, Mac?’ I asked. ‘Where are you hit?’
‘In the arse,’ he said with a grimace.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said, rolled him over, pulled his coat back and examined the hole in the seat of his tight pants. The blood was pumping weakly from the muscle. ‘Small calibre,’ I said. ‘You’ll survive.’ I hoped I was right.
I ripped my shirt off, wadded the material and covered the entry hole of the bullet. There was no exit wound. ‘If your balls are intact you should survive,’ I said. ‘Now hold that there, I’ll be back in a bit.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said McBain and fumbled for another cigar. The sirens were getting louder and the police chopper was getting closer.
‘Go get them for Algy,’ said McBain. ‘Use this.’ He took the gold-filigreed Colt auto from its holster. ‘It’s loaded, seven shots.’
‘I will,’ I said.
‘And Little Jo. I wish I’d met her.’
‘She’d have liked you,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come before. You were right, I was shit-scared.’
‘You’ve more than made up for it,’ I said.
‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’
‘There’s a door over there.’ He pointed under the chopper towards where the patio joined the wall of the house.
‘OK, Mac’
‘And take care.’
I crabbed my way across to where he’d indicated. The door was unlocked. On the other side was a narrow, steep staircase. I crawled down head-first, wincing as my injured hand scraped on the carpet. There was no sign of life on the first floor, but I was careful as I headed towards the main staircase, kicking open the bedroom doors as I went, flattening myself against the walls and checking the interiors for more of the Divas’ men, or the family themselves.
I walked down the wide staircase to the entrance hall, fanning the gun as I went. The whole of the interior of the house stank of explosives and burning petrol from the porch. To my left was the open door of the large living-room. The smell was stronger as I crept closer, and as I peered through the door I could see some of the damage McBain’s gelignite stick had done. The room was a shambles. Pictures had been tilted or thrown completely off the walls. The picture window had been blown outwards and the curtains fluttered in the breeze. The dynamite had exploded in the hearth and the Adam fireplace had been knocked out of true by the blast. Diva Jr was sitting, waiting for me, in an overstuffed armchair to one side of the fireplace. In his right hand he was clutching the small silver automatic pistol. But he would never fire it. The brass poker from the fire set, the very same one he’d used to inflict torture on my hand, was embedded in his throat. It had been propelled by the force of the explosion. He was slumped forward in his seat and I could see two or three inches of bloody metal sticking from the back of his neck. The poker must have flown like a bolt from a crossbow. I pulled his head back by his hair and stared into his sightless eyes.
His torturing days were over.
I went back into the hall. The door of the study was closed. I walked over the parquet floor, turned the handle and threw the door open. Diva Sr was standing by the window facing me. The sound of the sirens was louder here. The police were only a minute or so away.
I looked around the room. The TV and video rig were still in place. The TV was switched on, but on the silent screen there was nothing but drop-out from a blank tape. I felt tears prickling under my eyelids and my left hand which was holding the pistol was shaking.
‘You’ve been watching it again, haven’t you?’ The words hurt as I squeezed them through my teeth. I hardly expected a reply.
‘I’ve wiped the tape,’ Diva said triumphantly.
‘Not from my eyes you haven’t,’ I screamed with a high-pitched keening sound that I don’t like to think about too much. ‘Not from my eyes,’ I repeated, more softly.
I looked at the snowstorm on the screen and I knew that somewhere in those random images were tiny pictures of Little Jo being blown into hamburger.
I fired from the hip. I blew the screen out of the TV with McBain’s .45. It imploded in a shower of silver-coated glass.
‘Where’s Stevie?’ asked the old man. ‘Where’s my son?’
‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘Thank Christ, he’s dead and I’m so glad it’s me that’s giving you the news.’
‘You killed him,’ the old man said and his face crumpled.
‘Not me, Diva,’ I said. ‘McBain killed him.’
The sirens were close, right outside.
‘Too late,’ Diva said. ‘The police are here.’
‘It’s never too late,’ I replied, and he knew I meant it.
‘We can do a deal,’ he pleaded.
‘A deal,’ I said. ‘You love your deals don’t you? You fucking adore deals, you fucking whoreson. Well there’s a saying. Some days you get the deal and some days the deal gets you.’
And with that I turned the pistol towards him and fired again. The bullet smashed into his face just below his right eye. The heavy slug exited from the back of his head, spraying bone, splinters, blood and brains across the curtains behind him. His other eye registered sheer disbelief as he turned slowly, took a tentative step and fell forward onto the carpet. The sirens from outside died as the convoy skidded to a halt outside the window and peace descended on the farmhouse.
I didn’t look at the old man again. I just tucked the gun back into the waistband of my jeans and went back to see McBain.
This ebook edition published in the UK in 2013
by No Exit Press an imprint of
Oldcastle Books
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Harpenden, AL5 1XJ, UK
noexit.co.uk
First published in the UK in 1990 by Headline Book Publishing plc
All rights reserved
© Mark Timlin 1990
The right of Mark Timlin to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
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ISBN
978–1–84344–083-3 (Print)
978–1–84344–084-0 (ePub)
78–1–84344–085-7 (Kindle)
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