The Killing Club. Paul Finch

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      Braithwaite was taken by the elbow and yanked to his feet. He went dizzy, pain arcing down his spine, and had to be forcibly held upright while they patted him down. His Glock, the only weapon he was carrying, was confiscated and he was walked – though it was all he could do to stumble – across the road, and dumped down into the ditch alongside the motorcycle cops, both sitting hunched forward, hands behind their heads. There were others there as well: the two prison staff and the two medics from the ambulance. Perhaps unsurprisingly, but no less horribly, there was no one from either complement of men who’d been riding in the gunships.

      Fleetingly it seemed as if the hostages were forgotten, some of their captors keeping half an eye on them, but the rest moving back and forth along the cavalcade, which was now a scene of unprecedented carnage, the police vehicles reduced virtually to wreckage. There was still fire and smoke, and a stench of burning flesh. The crew from the first gunship lay in shapeless bundles, rivers of blood crisscrossing the road on all sides of them. The ambushers stepped into and around this without any concern.

      Braithwaite, who thought he’d been about to faint as they’d steered him towards the ditch, had now recovered his composure a little. He eyed the ambushers as closely as he could. For the most part they were nondescript even in their urban terror gear, the masks rendering them indistinguishable from one another. They seemed fit and organised, and something else was now clear – they were multinational. They openly conversed, and though it was all in English, he heard various accents – one was Cockney, another sounded Russian, another Australian; in another case, he detected a twang of the USA.

      The thing was, they were so calm. The men they’d just mowed down were on-duty cops – at least some of them might have got radio messages out, and yet these guys were walking around as if they had all the time in the world. But then, maybe they did. The nearest place was still the prison, but that was ten miles away, and no help could be expected from there anyway. It was easily another twenty miles before the next area of conurbation, but what use was that? This prison transport had been kept well under wraps. The best they could hope for was a response by routine unarmed patrols – but how could they cope with a situation like this? With such overwhelming firepower?

      A sudden clanking of gears drew his attention elsewhere. A monstrous vehicle, previously hidden in the darkness beyond the smashed Peugeot, rumbled to life, a battery of brilliant headlights glaring out from it. Slowly and noisily, a bulldozer came shuddering into view, its huge steel digging-blade canted downward. It briefly halted, but when orders were shouted by the Scandinavian, it altered direction and continued apace, connecting with the Peugeot, and with a clangour of grinding metal, shoving it sideways across the road. Braithwaite’s injured scalp tightened as he watched the massive mud-caked tracks pass over the body of the fair-haired girl, crushing her flat, pulped organs splurging outward.

      When the wreck had been thrust across the ditch and into the marshy blackness on the other side, the dozer straightened up and halted on the verge, its engine chugging. A second vehicle emerged from the darkness behind it, this one reversing. It was an everyday high-sided van, but its sliding rear door was already open and inside Braithwaite glimpsed the sterile whiteness of an improvised medical chamber. It bypassed the prisoners and continued down the bullet-riddled ruins of the cavalcade, finally stopping next to the ambulance.

      With great care, several of the ambushers lifted the prone shape of Peter Rochester, now on a wheeled gurney, neck-deep in woollen blankets, from the back of the ambulance, and placed him into the van. One of them climbed in after him, carrying his drip. With a clang, the sliding door was closed, and the prisoner’s new transport jerked away, accelerating up the road and vanishing into the night. About fifty yards ahead, on either side of the tarmac, other vehicles now throbbed to life, their headlight beams cross-cutting the dark in a shimmering lattice.

      The ambushers sloped idly in that direction, guns at their shoulders, chatting. There was no triumphalism, no urgency – they’d got what they came for, and the job was done. The sandy-haired Scandinavian strode among them.

      ‘Are you … are you maniacs out of your minds?’ Braithwaite couldn’t resist shouting. ‘What the hell do you think you’ve done here? Do you really think you’ll get away with this?’

      Almost casually, the Scandinavian diverted towards the ditch side, a couple of his comrades accompanying him. ‘A timely intervention, Mr Braithwaite … I almost left without saying goodbye.’

      He and his compatriots cocked their guns and levelled them.

      Braithwaite could only stare, goggle-eyed.

      The rest of the captives begged, wept, whimpered.

      All came to nothing in the ensuing hail of fire.

       Chapter 7

      Heck was seated in his favourite breakfast bar at the bottom end of Fulham Palace Road, waiting for eggs Benedict, when his eyes strayed from his morning paper and happened to catch a breaking-news bulletin on the portable TV at the end of the counter.

      Thanks to the twisted metal coat-hanger serving as the TV’s aerial, the image continually flickered, but Heck, slumped at the nearest table, was too close to avoid the photographic mug-shot that suddenly appeared on the screen. It portrayed a man in his late thirties or early forties. He was handsome, with a square jaw, a straight, patrician nose and a mop of what looked like prematurely greying hair. Even though the shot had clearly been taken in custody, he wore a sly but subtle grin.

      Heck sat bolt upright.

      ‘Rochester,’ the newscaster intoned, ‘who was convicted of abducting and murdering thirty-eight women across the whole of England and Wales, was serving life at Brancaster Prison when he developed chest pains late yesterday afternoon. It was during his subsequent transfer to hospital when the incident occurred …’

      The scene switched to an isolated road, possibly on the coast somewhere, though a barricade of police vehicles with beacons swirling prevented further access to the camera crew. Beyond them, police, forensics and medical personnel were glimpsed moving around in Tyvek coveralls. In front of the barricade stood two firearms response officers, MP5 rifles across their chests.

      The gorgeous Jamaican lady behind the counter leaned over to switch the channel.

      ‘Whoa, no Tamara … please, I was watching that!’ Heck shouted.

      She relented, sticking her tongue out at him as she moved away.

      Heck remained transfixed on the screen.

      ‘There are reports of at least sixteen fatalities,’ the newscaster added, ‘though that number is yet to be confirmed, and of course it may increase. None of those listed, or so we’re told, is Peter Rochester … better known to the public of course as Mad Mike Silver. Rob Kent is on site with the latest …’

      Rob Kent appeared on screen, a plump reporter with a balding head and wire-framed glasses. He looked pale and harassed. ‘It’s … well, it’s a terrible scene here,’ he began. ‘As you can see, the place is flooded with security personnel. Not to mention ambulances, though I have to say … I’ve yet to see any ambulances leave, though I have seen several undertakers’ hearses moving away, carrying what looked like closed caskets. This obviously means they’re moving, or have started to move, some of the dead …’

      ‘Do СКАЧАТЬ