The Survival Game (39 page)

I’ve been shot!
his instincts screamed.
I’ve been shot,
gamota
! Mayday! Mayday! May-fucking-day!

His mind was racing at a million miles an hour, his eyes pinging up, down, left, right, trying to take in as much information as possible.

In the next instant, Marek was quickly stepping out of the bathroom, his eyes big, wide, and wild. John had no doubt the
malaka
had the smell of blood in his nostrils and he sensed the kill. Marek advanced like a hunter, standing over his prey, and swiftly aiming his gun for the killer blow. John watched through blurred vision as Marek’s head began to flush beetroot again like back at the warehouse car park. John could feel the anger, the rage burning inside the prick, could virtually feel it bursting from his head.

He watched on, helpless, as Marek’s itchy trigger finger began to pulse.
Any second now, and your head’s coming off,
re
… better that than your nuts though…

He gasped long and hard, and held it, waiting for the bullet to come and do its thing. But from somewhere behind John, a series of loud stomps accompanied by a loud roar cut through the air, making Marek’s head snap upwards.

It was Dread I coming to save the day.

John watched Marek’s quick reaction open-mouthed. He watched him flip his arm up and begin spraying something on the air ahead of him, a big, psychotic grin carved into his beetroot-red mug. John craned his neck back as best he could and caught an upside down glimpse of Dread I storming right into the cloud of whatever Marek just sprayed.

The stuff splattered right in Dread I’s mug and he instantly yelled in agony. ‘
MI FOCKIN’ EYES!
’ he screamed.

Marek responded by pulling his trigger twice, taking the initiative. Soon after, there was a massive thump on the carpeted floor, and John knew that was the sound of Dread I’s mighty body falling.

John’s mind zoned in as if sobering up after a night of binge drinking—there was mad pain in his chest and Dread I had just been floored; Marek had shot ’em both, and was right then turning his attention back to John, his fat, bald head going even darker.

‘Now for you…’ he said as he adjusted the grip on his gun.

John knew he had to do something.
Now!

He half closed his eyes and watched purple-faced Marek through slits; he now stood over him again and was lining up the final killer bullet to end this mess. Yiannaki Evangelou was half-dead already and all it needed was the final blow. Marek took his aim, a low growl, bulldog-like, rupturing from the back of his throat. John waited. And waited. Just a split second. Enough time for Marek to believe all that playing possum
skata
, just enough for him to swallow it hook, line and sinker. Just until the moment he let his guard down…

‘
Kurva!
’ Marek said in a low contemptuous voice, before turning briefly to the side and spitting on the carpet.

And that was the moment John switched.

He sent out a telescopic-like arm and snatched his Glock up from the floor. In one swift, smooth motion, he raised his back off the carpet, brought the gun round, closed his left eye, and aimed directly at Marek’s right knee. Before Marek knew what the fuck was going on, John pulled the trigger. His gun popped. Marek’s right knee burst open. Before he had a chance to scream, he buckled under his own weight. As he went down, John lifted a foot and swung it round, connecting beautifully with the gun in Marek’s hand. He sent it flying from his grip and across the landing. John didn’t waste another second in scrambling to his feet as quickly as possible, just as Marek’s hands went for his shattered knee and he wailed in agony like a tortured banshee.

Above the noise, John could virtually hear Moleface’s voice ringing round and round his head—
He hurt his knee; his right. Cannot play now,
he’d said back at the old man’s house. Yeah, Marek’s right knee, his Achilles’ heel. And right then, he was grabbing what was left of it, his mug now flushed of all its colour, his body juddering in shock like he’d just stuck his fingers into the nearest plug socket.

John took a step back and grabbed his chest in the area Marek shot him.

That
skata
hurt,
gamota
…

Yeah, it hurt like a bitch, but he was still alive ’cos he’d legislated for it. He unzipped his leather jacket and revealed his extra life in this crazy game. He rapped his knuckles on the bulletproof vest strapped to his torso. A dull, clunky sound rang out. He thanked his lucky stars someone draped it over that mannequin back at the cache ’cos without it, he’d be brown bread right about then. He stared at the mashed up bullets wedged in the heart area and smiled wryly. The
strato
had taught him well.

He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.
So, it hadn’t been a waste of time after all…

He let out an uncontrollable chortle. No, it hadn’t, and right about then, he felt like he was back in the thick of it—all around him there were groans of injured soldiers; blood all over the ground. When he surveyed the scene, he saw that Dread I was sprawled on the floor to his left; he was still breathing, his pupils zoning in and out. The
malaka
had reportedly survived a thirty-six bullet drive by, so John reckoned a couple more probably wouldn’t do any long-term damage. The bloke was made of fucking iron.

Marek was lying on the floor to John’s right. He’d cooled somewhat, and was now staring at John with glazed eyes, sweat plastered all over his now blue tinted mug. He was holding his mashed knee for dear life, blood leaking out between his fingers and staining the beige carpet. John gave him daggers for a few seconds, injecting pure anger into his stare. He raised his gun and aimed it at Marek’s chest, roles now reversed. Marek just stared back, the resigned look planted on his mug telling John
he
knew he was royally fucked. John took in a deep breath and tightened his grip on the handle of his gun, gearing himself up for his next move. Marek had brought all this
skata
on himself and now the final curtain was about to fall. This
malaka
had declared war and John had given it to him head on. The battle had been hard and long. And right now it was finally over, and it was checkmate.

Checkmate.

The final bullet had to be fired.

‘K-k-kill him,
b-b-bredda
,’ Dread I stammered through his haze of pain, each syllable forced out rather than spoken. He was holding his chest where Marek had pumped two bullets into him. He was staring at John with glazed but eager eyes. ‘
Kill him!
’ he repeated.

John kept his gun aimed at Marek and closed his eyes, Dread I’s words echoing round and round his mind.

Kill him, kill him, bredda. Kill him and we’ll tek it all back, we’ll tek it aaaallllllll. You ’n I. Everyting, bredda. Everyting. So, kill him. Killhimkillhimkillhimbreddakillhim—

John opened his eyes again.
Yeah, someone’s going down all right,
re
Dread I,
he thought to himself.
But right about now, it ain’t Marek…

John instantly swung his gun arm over to his left. He closed his eye and aimed at the spot just below the snakes waving around wildly on Dread I’s horned head.

John watched Dread I’s eyes narrow in confusion, and for the first time since they met, he saw a glimpse of life in them. They were full of fear (or was it…
excitement?
).

‘
N-n-n—
’ Dread I stammered.

John pulled the trigger, cutting him off. Dread I’s head slammed back into the carpet under the force of bullets.

But John didn’t stop there, instead he kept his finger pulsed on the trigger, letting the bullets rain all over him. Dread I’s head and body juddered under the pressure of the hail of slugs pummelling him. John saw him bleed back at Neocrema, but both that prick Ishmael’s words
and
Shortbredd’s words were suddenly ringing in his mind—
They used to call him Satan, he can’t die, proper voodoo type stuff…
so he wasn’t gonna take any chances. He virtually unloaded his clip on Dread I before he even contemplated that he’d done enough. If all
that
didn’t kill the
malaka
, then he truly was a demon…

John finally stopped shooting, stood back, and eagerly watched on, a part of him convinced the
malaka
was gonna jump up any second now and switch on him. But he remained still, the only thing moving were his weaving snake dreads. They writhed around in agony, biting the air in desperation. Then suddenly, they turned on each other, going for one another. One dropped and became still once it had been bitten to death. Then another. Then another. Soon, there were just two remaining. They fought and grappled before one throttled the life out of the other one. The final survivor began biting the air like crazy as if gasping for air. After a few seconds, it tensed violently like a taught piece of string, before flailing down, and becoming still.

John closed his eyes, breathed a long sigh of relief, and crossed himself.

He’d made his choice—he didn’t want to take up Dread I’s offer, didn’t want to go back to his old ways, didn’t want to lose his family, didn’t want to help resurrect Dread I’s empire, didn’t want any more teenage gangbangers stalking the streets of London. He just wanted to put an end to all that
skata
. Nip it in the bud. So he played his hand.

And now that Dread I was out of the formula, he turned his attention back to Marek, who was just staring up at him with shocked, bemused eyes. He’d no doubt been expecting a bullet in the head, the final nail in his coffin. But instead, the enemy were turning on each other. John could read the confusion in his eyes. Could read what was going on in the
malaka
’s head. He was nonplussed. Wondering what the fuck was going on.

‘I used
him
to get to
you
,’ John told him straight. ‘To my delivery. So, where is it, Marek? Where’s my stuff?’

Silence answered him, blotted only by a distant police siren wailing somewhere outside, making his skin crawl.

‘Where’s the delivery, Marek?’ John asked him again in an even, calm tone.

Marek just stared and blinked while holding his knee. He still didn’t wanna give it up, even at this late point in the game, the
malaka still
wanted to hang onto it. John admired that. He finally knew for sure that this man would die for his family, and John respected that. But there was no time for arse licking, he needed to get the delivery back to Aziz ASAP.

‘Look,’ John said in a firmer voice. ‘I’ve got your sister…’

Marek’s eyes widened a fraction.

‘Locked up out there somewhere,’ John continued. ‘Now, if you don’t hand the stuff over to me in the next ten seconds, I’m walking out of here, and she’ll eventually starve to death ’cos you won’t know where the fuck she is.’

‘You lie,’ Marek replied, suddenly stirred into speaking. ‘You did same trick with my father…’

John nodded. ‘Okay, back then I
was
lying.
But, I ain’t now
. And you really ain’t in any position to be second-guessing me, Marek,
know what I mean?
If I walk out of here, you won’t see Valeria again, believe me…’ John stared at Marek as sincerely as he could. He needed Marek to believe him, needed him to believe Valeria’s life was in danger. ‘Now, we’ll do a swap. You give me delivery; I give you Valeria. Okay?’

Marek took in a long slow, juddering breath.

John could see an exasperated look now plastered all over him; it told him that the penny was finally dropping. Marek had badly fucked up messing with him in that alley. He thought it would be easy, but it hadn’t turned out like that.
No, no, no, it hadn’t turned out that way at all,
re
boy.
Marek would now have to glue together every small piece of the vase he’d managed to smash the second he mugged John that night. He was pinned down on the canvas and John was just about ready to get the three count.

Marek looked to the ceiling as if he were staring at the Heavens for strength. He then closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. ‘My bedroom,’ he finally said.

‘Where? Which one?’ John asked.

Marek stared back at him. ‘Door on left,’ he said. ‘Under mattress.’

‘Good.’ John kept his gun trained on Marek’s head said as he moved towards the bedroom, making sure to avoid Dread I’s body on the way, not wanting to go near it, just in case it came back to life….He bent down and picked up Marek’s gun, which had landed nearby, satisfied that Marek was in no condition to do a runner, but could’ve still reached for it once John’s back was turned.

When he made it to Marek’s room, he finally lowered his gun and dashed inside. He scanned the place over, his breath hot with apprehension. Sitting next to the wardrobe was a weights bench, a bar loaded with what looked like a tonne’s worth of plates on its rack. John ignored it and went straight for the double bed in the corner of the room. He bent down and hastily stuck his hand under the mattress. He felt around, frantic, his heart beating against his chest. When his hand brushed by something stashed there, he was hit with a jolt of excitement like he’d just touched an electric fence. He instantly grabbed whatever it was and pulled it out, his breath baited.

To his absolute glee, the jiffy bag he picked up from Omar’s what seemed like a century ago was clutched in his hands. He swiftly opened it like an eager kid unwrapping a Christmas present and checked its contents.

He nodded his head. Yeah, it was the delivery in full. Untouched. Pristine.
Mia hara.
He closed his eyes for a second and breathed a big sigh of relief. For a while there, he thought he was never gonna get it back, never gonna see it again, and that Aziz was gonna make mincemeat out of him.

God, it feels good to see these things,
gamota…

And it did. It felt
sooo
fucking good. He started grinning like a Cheshire cat—not a black one though… He opened his eyes again, a small laugh escaping him. But the first thing he locked eyes onto cut that laugh short and made his grin vanish faster than a hunk of meat dropped in a den of piranha fish.