No Peace For The Wicked

Chapter 46

Riley pulled a bottle from the skip. It felt half full of liquid and she sniffed at the top, instantly pulling back and gagging on the eye-watering smell of paint-thinner. She placed it carefully on the ground and looked for something else. Her fingers settled on a half-inch thick metal rod. That would be heavy enough.

She bent and peered carefully at the bottle. From a repeat-arson case she had researched the year before, she had learned some interesting facts. One was that some kids really did hate their schooldays and would get out of them almost any way they could. Another was that making a Molotov cocktail was surprisingly simple. It was also dangerous.

She reached into the skip and searched around until she felt some cloth. Pulling it free she tore off enough to stuff into the neck of the bottle, then shook the contents around until the cloth was saturated with the paint-thinner.

There was no one at the window. She picked up the metal rod and ran across to the unit and squatted against the wall. From inside she could hear the rumble of voices.

She stood upright until she could see through the nearest window, keeping her face back from the glass in case one of the men looked her way. The one known as Howie was standing by a workbench, a cup in his hand. Behind him a kettle steamed in the cold atmosphere.

Mitcheson was in the centre of the room facing the door, his expression blank and unemotional. She wondered what was going through his mind right now.

Moving further she caught a glimpse of Gary and, behind him, a partial sight of Palmer. Doug was moving to join them and Palmer seemed to be leaning away as if he was drunk.

In the distance she heard a faint wup-wup-wooo of a police siren. Coming here or somewhere else? Either way, it was going to be too bloody late. It was time to move.

Holding the rod between her knees, she pulled Palmer’s lighter from her pocket and held the bottle with the rag trailing down. It was now or never.

Palmer felt himself being dragged upright and shook his head. The nausea had gone but while he could hear and understand most of what was happening around him, he still lacked full control of his limbs, which seemed unbearably heavy.

He felt somebody pulling at his jacket. Over their shoulder he glimpsed John Mitcheson a few feet away, hands in his pockets. Doug was coming towards him with Howie close behind. Palmer shook his head and tried to piece together Gary’s request for help and the other man moving in to assist him. Assist him with what?

Then he caught a flash of light on shiny metal at the periphery of his vision and knew instinctively what it meant. He tensed himself for the blow he knew was coming, for the cold shock of steel cutting into his body.

“Wait!” It sounded like Mitcheson, speaking in the background. “I can hear a siren.”

“Won’t be for us, will it?” Gary muttered, his breath warm on Palmer’s cheek. “Nobody knows we’re here.”

Instead of the pain of the blade, Palmer felt something move, and a great weight seemed to slip from his shoulders. Was this what it was like to be stabbed?

Something was sliding down his legs. He looked down, vaguely expecting to see a part of his anatomy lying at his feet. Instead there on the floor was his soiled jacket, and on top was a pale yellow jerkin made of webbing. It reminded him of the hunting jackets worn by Olympic marksmen, with pockets and loops for all their equipment.

This jerkin, however, contained hard, tightly-packed bundles sewn into the webbing, giving it the appearance of a bulky flack-jacket. One of the packages had sprung a leak and a thin dusting of white powder had spilled on the concrete floor of the workshop.

No wonder I was so bloody hot, Palmer thought stupidly. I would have been the one to cop it if I’d been searched. All they had to say was I’d begged for a flight back rather than take a commercial one.

The thought helped drive out the fogginess, replacing it with a surge of anger.

Gary pushed him away until he bounced off the wall, and smiled with contempt. “Christ, to think I had to sit with you all that way,” he muttered coldly. He held out his knife hand and stepped forward in a fluid motion.

Instinctively, Palmer sagged to one side, feeling his back scrape against the rough brickwork, and sucked in his stomach. In the same instant he took his hand from his trouser pocket and slashed with the pruning knife across Gary’s wrist. The sharp blade cut deep, severing tendons, muscle and flesh all the way to the bone.

As Gary screamed, the roller door behind him seemed to pulse with light, before exploding in a ball of red and yellow flame. Heat poured through the cold air and tongues of flame came licking through the gaps, reaching out for the men inside. A fire alarm went off with deafening intensity.

Mitcheson propelled himself forward and intercepted Howie as the ex-Marine threw his cup aside and ran towards Palmer. He hit him with a shoulder charge, stopping him short, then chopped him across the throat, dropping him to the floor.

Doug reached down to grab the jerkin and lurched towards the door. As he did so, Gary reached behind his back with his good hand and brought out an automatic pistol. His eyes were crazed, flecks of spit gathered around his mouth as the shock of pain began to hit him. He backed towards the door, making beckoning motions at Doug.

“Doug. C’mon,” he muttered shakily, holding his bloodied hand under his other arm. “Throw it here.”

Outside, the police sirens were growing louder. Mitcheson edged towards the door, hoping Gary would be distracted by the noise. In his hand he held the screwdriver from the bench.

“What are you doing, Gary?” Doug yelled. “What about Howie, man?”

“Howie’s down,” Gary replied, his face in spasm. “It’s every man for himself. Throw me the jacket!” He swung the pistol round and pointed it at Doug’s face, his stance rock-solid in spite of his obvious pain. “You know me. I’ll use it.”

Mitcheson ran forward, knowing he could never make it in time. At the same moment, the door behind Gary opened inwards and a figure ducked inside. There was a swish of movement through the air, and a sickening sound of metal hitting flesh. Gary’s head flew back, eyes open wide with shock. Then he pitched forward.

As he did so, his finger tightened on the trigger.

Doug took the bullet in the chest and was kicked back under the impact, the jerkin falling at his feet.

Riley looked across at Mitcheson and threw the metal rod aside. “Thanks,” she said. “We’re quits.”

Mitcheson nodded and walked over to help Palmer to his feet. Frank indicated Howie lying on the floor and murmured: “Thanks for that. What kept you?”

For a moment they all stood looking at each other in the dying light. Then Palmer waved his hand, taking deep breaths to clear his head. “Wassamatter, Mitcheson?” he slurred drunkenly. “You want an invitation? Piss off, for Christ’s sake. Me’n Riley will finish off here… ”

When Riley nodded at Mitcheson, he smiled and stepped past her into the night.