Facing Justice

TWENTY-TWO

It was tough going. The snow was deep, and trudging through it in jeans and trainers was energy-sapping and unpleasant. Flynn followed the tyre tracks up the road until they veered off and disappeared underneath the gates at the end of the driveway leading up to Mallowdale House. The high, wooden electronically controlled gates were closed. Flynn surveyed them for a moment, then looked up at the CCTV camera with which he’d had a conversation about a million years before.

He knew assumptions were bad things to make, but he guessed that under the present circumstances it would be unlikely that the security system was on and the CCTV was being monitored. Tom and Jack Vincent, plus cronies, would be scurrying around like rats to get out of the place. They were hardly going to settle down and bust open a bottle in celebration. They had to get moving soon, although Flynn didn’t quite see what their plans for escape might be. But that wasn’t his problem. They’d made the play, killed people, shot cops, destroyed a house, sprung a man from lawful custody and the rest. They’d opened that particular door and had to accept whatever it was that came charging through.

In this case, Steve Flynn. A man driven by the fact that one of his best friends of the last twenty-odd years had been murdered and he did not wish to see the murderer get away. If Tom did escape somehow, then there would be no chance of Flynn ever coming face to face with him again, which would be a tragedy. Flynn wanted to get his hands on him now, not have to sit back whilst the cops carried out a manhunt that would probably be a shambles. People like Tom and Jack Vincent, Flynn suspected, knew how to evade the police and it was highly likely they would be out of the country within hours.

He stood in front of the gate, then unslung the Skorpion he’d snaffled and flung it over. He scrambled up and over and dropped untidily on to the other side, where he crouched in the shadows, getting some of his breath back and brushing the snow off the machine pistol.

He’d thought of using Alison’s four-wheel drive to get him up to Mallowdale House, but decided it would be more trouble than it was worth. Although it was a fair distance from the police house to the gates, he thought approaching on foot would give him the greater advantage.

First, if he had used the car it would have alerted Henry Christie instantly. As it was, with Donaldson firmly rooted to the toilet and Henry half-comatose from the shotgun wound, sneaking off on foot probably gave him the lead he wouldn’t otherwise have had. Also, if he turned up in a car, it might have alerted Tom straight away. As tiring as it was on foot in the snow, to Flynn this seemed the better option all round and he knew his fitness would see him through.

So far, so good. He was on Mallowdale House property and hadn’t yet been spotted, he hoped. But he did have a slightly queasy feeling about the big cat that had cropped up in conversation a few times, the one Jack Vincent was supposed to own. Did it really exist? If so, where the hell did he keep it? Did he allow it to roam free? Flynn doubted it was real, sounded like a local myth. And if it was a mountain lion, that didn’t bother him too much anyway. He knew they were cowardly cats where humans were concerned… but if it was some other species… He dismissed the thought.

He cut into the trees by the driveway and made his way slowly and carefully to the house, a distance of about two hundred metres, following the snaking drive like a river. Then the tree line stopped and the drive cut through a wide lawn, opening out into a semicircular gravel-covered parking area at the front of the house.

Flynn crouched, keeping cover. There were external lights on the house walls which would normally have illuminated the building, but they were all switched off and the house was a big black shadow. As Flynn’s eyes adjusted and took in the light available, he could make out the features of the building, and the fact that Jonny Cain’s Range Rover was parked directly between himself and the front door, which provided some cover for his approach to the house.

He remained perfectly still for a minute, watching, listening. There was no movement, nothing to hear, just his heart pounding against the wall of his chest, the throbbing pulse in his temple.

He thought he heard a swish of movement behind him. Gritting his teeth and not allowing any sound to pass from him, he turned slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. There it was again, up in the branches. A large, dark shape, and he relaxed and exhaled. An owl.

Stop it, he told himself.

He took another moment to control his breathing and get ready. The Skorpion was slung across his chest at an angle, the iffy Chinese pistol tucked down the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Keeping very low, he emerged from the cover of the tree line and ran towards the Range Rover, maybe fifty yards away from him. He ran quickly, scrunching the gravel underneath the snow, then dropped by the vehicle, twisted and leaned against it, once more catching his breath. He’d only come a short distance, but it had felt like a quarter of a mile, exposed, and fully expecting to be picked off by a sniper at one of the house windows, or brought down by a fucking lion.

Scratch the cat crap from your brain, he ordered himself. He could not resist checking the tree line, though, to see if there was movement other than a barn owl. Or a pair of feline eyes watching him.

Satisfied there was nothing, he looked at the house through the rear passenger windows of the Range Rover, except that the view was obliterated by something smudged and smeared across the nearside window.

For a moment, Flynn could not work it out, then it clicked. The inside of the window was covered in blood and for a horrible moment he thought it was Alison’s. He rose a little higher so he could see inside the car, making out the figure in the back seat, slumped over. Not Alison, but the bigger shape of a man — one of their own guys.

Flynn came up even higher, knees still bent, but getting a better view inside. Yes, definitely a man, he reassured himself, his head lolling between his legs. Flynn swallowed and suddenly realized how reckless he was in coming here alone. Thinking he could take on these men, when clearly they had no hesitation in killing members of their own gang. They would simply be conditioned to put him down. But on a lighter note, the odds had improved slightly. Now three to one.

He came up almost to his full height, still using the cover provided by the rear offside of the car, his head ducking in and out, checking the front door, the windows — and then something else caught his eye. The second body in the vehicle, Jonny Cain stuffed into the luggage space behind the back seats.

Flynn dropped down again and ran a hand across his face, then over his hair to flick off the snow.

Jonny Cain. According to Donaldson he had been kidnapped alive. Obviously they would have had some reason for that, some purpose — then they must have had a change of mind and killed him. Too much of an encumbrance under the circumstances, Flynn guessed. No time for anything fancy with him — like torture — so let’s kill him.

Which begged the question — what about Alison?

Flynn could not come up with one good response to that. They had taken a hostage to facilitate their escape, now what use could she be? If none, he knew he would find her dead.

He took firm hold of the Skorpion, a gun he’d been introduced to during weapons training all those years ago in the Marines. He knew about it, how to handle it, knew its capabilities, though he’d never fired it in anger, just down a range. That was over twenty-five years ago, when he’d been nothing but a lad. Bracing himself, he bent low and ran to the front door of the house, flattening himself next to it, one hand reaching out to the handle and turning it slowly. It had to be locked, he told himself. Surely they wouldn’t have… There was a click and Flynn’s insides tightened… it was open.

Now — fast or slow? High impact or sneakiness?

He opened it slowly, took the chance, sidled in and found himself in a huge deserted hallway. A staircase ran up to the first floor just to his right and at ground level there were five doors off it. Lounge, dining room, kitchen, another lounge perhaps, he guessed, not knowing the layout of the place.

He took a few paces, his senses working at full tilt. He could hear the sound of muffled voices from behind one of the doors. He swallowed dryly, held his breath, moved forward again, bringing the Skorpion down into a firing position, concentrating on the origin of the voices. Not from behind the first door, nor the second… the third. Was this the kitchen? It was certainly a room at the back of the house. Then he cursed himself for not being cautious enough, spun around and saw the huge figure of Ox Henderson hurtling towards him silently, but powerfully and terrifyingly.

Even then, Flynn knew that if Henderson could not be taken down instantly, soundlessly, the little adventure would be over and nothing would have been achieved. The only advantage Flynn had was that Henderson had not shouted a warning or war cry.

He bore down, a murderous look on his face, reminding Flynn of a James Bond baddie — but without the humorous side.

It had to be done perfectly. Flynn had only one chance, one blow. He stood his ground, a mock-horror look on his face, hoping it would lull the big man into subconsciously believing that this would be easy. Which it was — until the very last moment. Flynn stepped aside with the agility of a ballerina, a skill honed by years of balancing on a sportfishing boat. Henderson grabbed nothing but fresh air and Flynn crashed the butt of the Skorpion into the side of his unprotected head. It was a hard blow, perfectly aimed, another skill perfected on a fishing boat when using the gaff to hook a deadly shark in the gills, waiting for exactly the right moment. Henderson’s head was as hard as a rock, but the shockwave stunned him.

Flynn thought he had hit hard enough, but realized how wrong he was when Henderson staggered sideways, shook his head like a bull — flicking the blood from the newly acquired cut — and launched himself at Flynn again. Flynn did a neat sidestep and, using the Skorpion once more, smashed it across Henderson’s head, successfully putting him down. His legs went to jelly and he dropped. Not out cold, but well out of it.

At which point the kitchen door opened. Tom stepped out and saw Flynn standing over the big man.

There was a moment as both men computed their predicament.

Tom’s right hand came up, the pistol in it coughing twice, but Flynn was already moving away, readjusting his grip on the Skorpion as he leapt, firing in mid-air. The gun kicked hard, but he was expecting it. A burst of slugs sliced through the air, then the gun jammed. They were badly aimed, but one caught Tom and he fell backwards into the kitchen. There was a female scream from behind him.

Flynn threw the Skorpion away in disgust and pulled the pistol out of his waistband.

Tom’s feet were sticking out of the door, moving as though he was trying to propel himself backwards. Flynn flattened himself against the wall by the kitchen door, pistol in both hands, pointing downwards.

‘Vincent,’ he called. ‘Vincent.’ There was no reply. He called the name again and added, ‘It’s over, this stupid game is finished.’

Tom moaned, ‘Oh God, I’m shot.’ His legs continued to kick out.

In the hallway, Henderson moved.

Flynn shouted again. ‘Vincent, Jack Vincent.’

‘Flynnie,’ came Alison’s weak voice.

‘Alison?’

‘He’s gone, out the back door.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

Flynn licked his lips, exhaled. He ensured he was holding the pistol correctly — in the right hand, fingertip resting on the trigger, left hand cupped underneath, supporting — then he inhaled and pivoted into the doorway, coming into a combat stance. Legs shoulder-width apart, bouncing down slightly on his knees and the gun at the point of the isosceles triangle formed by his arms. The gun covered the room, top to bottom, side to side, and unless Vincent was behind the door — and Flynn did check through the gap — he had gone.

Alison, battered and bedraggled, with blood smeared over her face and around the neck of her jumper, was sitting on the floor by the cooker, knees drawn up, arms clasped tightly, shaking.

‘He’s gone?’ Flynn said. She nodded. Flynn cautiously lowered the weapon, reversed into the hallway and went to Henderson, who was just about to push himself up on to all fours, blood dripping on to the tiled floor. Flynn callously cracked him hard with the pistol on the back of his head and he went down like a squashed insect, his arms splayed, face down in his own blood. Flynn waist-banded the gun, pulled Henderson’s arms around his back and cuffed them with the cable ties he had snaffled from the desk in front of Henry.

Next he crossed to Tom and kicked away the pistol. He was laid out at an angle on the kitchen floor, the bullet from the Skorpion having torn apart his upper right biceps. He bent over him and they locked eyes. ‘She found you out, didn’t she?’

Injured though he was, his defiance remained. ‘Fuck you,’ he gasped nastily.

With a sneer of contempt and a complete disregard for the wounds, Flynn kicked Tom over, pulled back his hands and cable-tied them together, ignoring his screams of pain. This done, he stood up and pulled out the gun again.

‘How are you?’ he asked Alison. ‘Is this your blood?’ He wiped away some from her cheek with his thumb.

‘I’m OK,’ she nodded. ‘Not good really. Where’s Henry?’

‘Getting forty winks, I think. Look, I’m going after Vincent.’

‘Let him go,’ Alison pleaded.

Flynn pretended to think about this for a second, but said, ‘Nah.’ He went to the outside kitchen door, opened it and looked out. Parked there were two long-wheelbase Shoguns, both with their hatchbacks open. Foot trails in the snow led from the kitchen to the cars and back. Flynn stepped out and a security light came on, bathing the whole area with brightness.

Instinctively he bobbed down beside one of the cars, then glanced in the back of it and saw a stack of several half-brick sized blocks made of polythene and wound with gaffer tape. He assumed they were drugs, probably cocaine, and next to them was a cardboard box filled with bound wads of Bank of England notes. Although Henry Christie would probably never believe him, Flynn had never seen so much money. He thought there could be in excess of a million.

‘Now then, my old cocker.’

Flynn froze. The cold hard muzzle of a gun had been pressed into the back of his head. An arm reached around and wrenched the pistol out of his grip.

‘Didn’t think I’d actually do a runner, did you?’ Jack Vincent sneered, dropped back a stride and glanced at the gun he’d taken from Flynn. In his right hand he was pointing a similar handgun at Flynn, who had turned slowly to face him. He waggled the gun. ‘I imported fifty of these two years ago… very fucking iffy guns, always jamming. Like those fucking Skorpions, useless shit.’ He tossed the gun away into the snow. ‘I really don’t know who the fuck you are,’ Vincent said, ‘but you’re a real handy guy. Flynn, is it?’

Flynn kept his mouth tight shut, incensed at himself for dropping his guard. Who the hell would leave money and drugs like that behind? Certainly not Jack Vincent. Should have known he wouldn’t be far away.

‘By yourself, though, eh?’ Vincent said. ‘Silly chap.’

‘Not for long,’ Flynn said.

‘Long enough — walk that way, boyo.’ Vincent gestured with the gun and Flynn looked into the darkness beyond the pool of light.

‘Why don’t you just shoot me here?’

‘Cat food… now move away from the car and start walking. It’s not far.’

Flynn did as instructed. As Vincent walked past the car, he reached in and grabbed a big torch which he thumbed on. ‘Don’t try to be stupid, or I will just shoot you in the back… at least this way you’ll have a chance.’

Flynn stumbled on and Vincent shone the torch on to a path. ‘Down there.’

‘So you do have a big cat?’

‘Oh yes. Be sorry to leave him, but needs must. I’m sure you’ll give him a bit of sport. The last guy didn’t… mind you, he was dead… The one before that, he was alive but shit scared. You’ll be fun for him.’

‘I presume you have a licence? Get into trouble if you don’t.’

‘Hey, funny guy — keep going.’

They walked another twenty yards and suddenly there was a high, steel mesh fence in front of them with an integral gate.

‘The enclosure — runs right up the hillside,’ Vincent said. ‘Walk right up to it, Mr Flynn, put your nose up to it.’ To assist, Vincent pushed him violently and held Flynn’s face against the mesh with his left hand, digging the gun into his back with the other hand. Vincent kicked the fence, making it rattle, and shouted, ‘Kitty, Kitty.’

‘You’re out of your tree,’ Flynn said through his misshapen face.

Vincent leaned into Flynn, still holding his head hard, still digging the gun into his lower back. ‘No one fucks with me, Flynn.’ He kicked the fence again and shouted, ‘Kitty — come here.’

Suddenly there was movement on the other side of the fence. A shadowy figure in the darkness, lit by the broken beam of Vincent’s torch as it shone through the mesh. Inches away from Flynn, separated only by the thin fence. Flynn, with his head pinned, saw a beautiful, muscular beast, prowling back and forth along the fence, growling with each step it took, its eyes occasionally catching the light. The odour of it was overpowering and terrifying.

‘Jesus,’ he hissed in awe, ‘what is it?’

‘You like him?’ Vincent was still leaning on Flynn, trapping him against the fence. ‘Just a leopard, nothing fancy.’

‘You sick bastard.’

Vincent laughed, then pulled Flynn away from the fence and across to the gate, which was secured by two bolts, top and bottom.

‘I’d thought of feeding Jonny Cain to him, but changed my mind. You’ll do. Go on, open up and step inside — then fucking run!’

‘I don’t think so.’ Flynn was eyeing the angles, working out his chance of disarming Vincent, but he’d stepped right back beyond reach and the gun hovered threateningly.

‘I’ll kill you if you don’t, I don’t give a shit.’

The torch played on the fence, picking up the cat beyond, pacing, growling impatiently, wanting to eat, wanting to hunt. Vincent pushed Flynn against the gate, which rattled, surprising the cat. It reacted with a howl and the torch caught the ears pinned back, the long, pointed incisors revealed in their full glory.

‘See, he likes you — now open up, step inside. I need to get going.’

Flynn reached for the upper bolt and slid it back. Then he bent down for the lower one, images in his mind of having to outrun, outmanoeuvre an animal designed to bring down and kill others. A supremely designed killing machine.

Vincent was standing about ten feet behind Flynn, who therefore did not see it happen. He was holding the gun and the torch on Flynn, an evil, leering smile on his face which disintegrated spectacularly as the soft-nosed bullet struck his right temple, fragmented as it passed through the bone, made mincemeat of the brain tissue, then exited through the left temple, removing that whole side of his head.

Four days later

Henry Christie looked pale and unwell. He’d had to have a minor operation — under full anaesthetic — on his shoulder to dig out several shotgun pellets from the flesh. He was on the mend, but it still hurt like hell. He could easily have been on sick leave, but insisted on being at work. Not through any great altruistic or professional motive. He just did not want to miss anything.

He was in his office at police headquarters at Hutton, near Preston. There was a cup of coffee in one hand, a handful of tablets in the other, which he slapped into his mouth and swallowed down with a swig of coffee.

The office, although reasonably sized, was easily filled, as it was that moment. Henry was at his desk and in an arc opposite him, from left to right, were Steve Flynn, Karl Donaldson and the Chief Constable, FB.

Henry had just put the phone down on Rik Dean.

‘He’s at crown court with Calcutt, who’s due to be sentenced today. He’s been to see him in the holding cell. Apparently he’s reverted to type and is saying nothing more. He gave us the heads-up about a hit man being recruited by the same person who recruited him to take out Felix Deakin, and we know — although we still can’t prove it — that it was Jonny Cain. Looks like he got someone to take out Jack Vincent over some disagreement they were having… fortunately for you,’ Henry said, looking at Flynn, who made a gesture of agreement. ‘It’s to be wondered if he got paid, bearing in mind what happened to Cain.’

‘At that level, it’s usually half upfront. He won’t starve,’ FB said.

‘Seems a shame that we even have to try and catch him,’ Henry said, ‘but we will. I’ll use the same team that caught Calcutt.’

There was a pause.

Flynn said, ‘Where do I stand?’ He had spent two days being interviewed and giving a long, detailed statement to detectives. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to be arrested or not.

‘I’ll put it all in to the CPS,’ Henry said.

‘With what recommendation?’

‘That everything you did was reasonable and justified. There’s a lot of negotiating to do with them and Tom’s making a lot of noises about excessive force.’

‘That’s a joke!’ Flynn blurted. ‘He shot you. And killed his wife.’

‘He’s not admitting that yet, though. However, Callard can’t stop talking,’ Henry said. ‘Lots of stories about feeding people into crushers and such like.’

FB leaned forward and looked along at Flynn. ‘You have nothing to worry about, Steve, we’ll see to it — won’t we, Henry?’

Henry bobbed his head, a bit shamefaced. ‘Yeah.’

‘You will be required for any trial, though, whenever this all gets sorted out,’ FB went on.

‘That’s fine… does that mean I can go home?’

‘Home being?’

‘You know, where I live and work. It’s no problem to get back here, especially on witness expenses.’ He pushed himself up. ‘So, can I go?’

Henry nodded. ‘Yeah, I need to get on. Things to do, not least of which is try and find a good home for an arthritic ex-police dog and a zoo insane enough to take in a man-eating leopard.’

Outside Flynn breathed the cold air. Flecks of snow drifted down from the leaden sky. As he walked across to the car park, his plan was to get to the nearest library, log on to the Internet and book the first available flight back to Gran Canaria, no matter the cost. That was where he belonged, where he wanted to be. There was nothing to keep him here. As he reached his hire car Flynn pulled out his mobile phone and made a call.

‘Alison, it’s Steve, yeah. You still OK? Look,’ he said, checking over his shoulder to ensure no one was in earshot. ‘They’re certain Vincent was killed by a hit man hired by Jonny Cain… so everything’s fine. Yeah, please don’t worry. What you did was the right thing and it would have made life unbearably complicated for you if we’d told them what really happened… yeah, do not worry. You saved my life. You know you did right and having to justify it before a court could lead to all sorts of complications. Just hang tight, stick to the story and it’ll be fine. I will, if you will. Yeah, OK, good. Speak soon.’ He ended the call, breathed out, and leaned on his car roof, jumping almost out of his skin at the voice behind, thinking no one was near.

It was Karl Donaldson, who had somehow come right up to Flynn without him noticing.

Donaldson held out a hand. ‘It was nice to meet you, pal.’ They shook hands. ‘You seem a handy guy… but just a word to the wise.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Don’t underestimate Henry Christie. He was the first detective on the scene and whilst he may have been shot and injured and exhausted, he was still sharp as a knife.’ Donaldson looked knowingly at Flynn. ‘He’s a man who knows.’ Donaldson tapped his nose, turned and limped away without a backward glance. ‘And if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a chicken.’

Flynn watched the American, mouth open, wondering just who the guy really was. His mobile phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. No number was displayed.

‘Steve? It’s me, Adam Castle.’

‘Boss, I was just thinking about you.’

‘Well, good — I need your arse back here as soon as,’ Castle said.

‘Why?’

‘We have a charter arriving in two days from Germany, that bunch of businessmen you took out last year. Two weeks, paid upfront — and they asked for you. Can you make it?’

‘Already on my way.’