Severed

7

'Right, let's move it,' hisses Sellman, limping over to the case containing the money. 'Before someone calls the cops.'

'How much is in there?' asks Shaven Head, getting up from behind the sofa and replacing the pistol in his shoulder holster.

'A hundred and fifty K. Not bad for a couple of days' work.'

'Seventy-five apiece. That'll do. What are we going to do about Ivanov?'

'Not much we can do, my boy. He's a goner.' Sellman picks up the case. 'Check whether he's carrying any ID on him. If he is, take it. We don't want anyone linking him to us.'

Shaven Head nods and crouches down beside his fallen comrade, searching through the pockets of his cheap purple suit. 'Strange plan, lying down like that,' he says, concentrating on his task.

'It worked though, didn't it?' answers Sellman, leaning over and blowing Shaven Head's brains out of the front of his skull. 'Sucker,' he cackles, putting the sawn-off away. 'All fucking suckers. Even you, chief. Didn't your mother ever tell you, there's no such thing as vampires?'

He limps over to the corpse of the man he's addressing. Except he isn't quite a corpse yet. The captain's still breathing shallowly, and his eyes are open. Blood leaks slowly from the corner of his lip.

'Ah, I see you're not quite dead. Were you pretending so that I wouldn't see you? Oh, you're a naughty boy, chief. Very crafty indeed. But I'm afraid I'm an extremely thorough man, and the last person I want to leave alive is you.'

'Fuck you,' gasps his victim.

'Now, now, no need to be rude.' Sellman chuckles, enjoying the power he's wielding as he reloads the shotgun. 'Now, this might hurt a little,' he says. He slams the stock shut and takes aim.

'Not as much as this,' I announce, sitting up with the Glock in both hands.

He whirls round to face me, a hunted expression on his wizened features as he realizes the tables have been turned. In the darkness, his eyes flicker with an animal cunning, and I know that he'll react quickly, so I open fire, shooting him twice in the forehead.

For a long second, he stands absolutely still, staring right into my eyes, before crumpling onto the threadbare carpet and lying there in an ungainly heap.

Slowly, I get to my feet. The flak jacket I'm wearing might have taken the impact of the shot, but it hasn't been a painless process and my chest feels like someone has been hammering nails into it. I walk over to the captain, giving Sellman a kick en route, just to check he is actually dead, and crouch down beside him. He's been hit twice – once in the gut, once in the chest – and his shirt's already drenched in blood. His face is as white as a sheet and his breathing is becoming progressively more laboured. His eyes, though, remain alert.

He looks up at me. 'Oh God, Tyler, I fucked up.'

'It's OK. I'm going to get you an ambulance.'

'It's too late,' he gasps, his words echoing my thoughts.

He coughs, and more blood pours out of his mouth. Then his body jack-knifes and he rolls over onto his front, still coughing. I can see two melon-sized exit wounds, exposing organs and bone, in his back. It's clear he's beyond help.

But I'm not. 'The client,' I say, leaning closer. 'What's the name of the client?'

He tries to roll back but can't quite manage it, so I take his shoulders and gently help him onto his side. His eyes are no longer focusing, and his mouth is hanging open.

'Tell me the name of the client. And the code for the case. Can you do that?'

When he speaks, his words are slurred and final. 'God forgive me.'

Then his head goes limp.

I feel for a pulse. There isn't one. In desperation, I pump his chest. Nothing happens.

Finally, I accept the inevitable. He's gone. I exhale deeply and stand up. The room, already heavy with the heat, is now beginning to fill with the smell of death. I look round at the four corpses, all positioned unnaturally. Shaven Head is on his knees, leaning forward into Miami Vice as if he's kissing him. One hand is still in the other man's inside jacket pocket, where he was hunting for ID. I can hear the blood dripping heavily from what is left of his forehead as it splatters into his friend's lap. It is the only sound in the room.

Four people dead, all for a measly one hundred and fifty grand. You can't even buy a shed for that in London these days. I shake my head at the futility of it all as I look down at the briefcase containing the money. I could pick it up and take it, and I'd be leaving here one hell of a lot richer, but what's the point? It's blood money, and with Leah gone, I wouldn't even know what to spend it on. The other case, the one I'm here to collect, is far more important, because that'll lead me to the person behind this.

But as I turn round to go to pick it up, events take yet another turn for the worse. Before I've even taken a step, there's a huge crash downstairs and I realize that the front door to the house has just been smashed from its hinges. A second later come the urgent shouts I'm dreading.

'Armed police! Do not move!'

Their footfalls are heavy on the bare, carpetless floor, and I can hear them coming up the stairs. They are moving fast, which tells me that they know exactly where they're going.

And, worse still, who they're looking for.