Robert Parker - Snow Storm

The choppers flew in low, coming out over the west coast and the North Channel, doubled back and crossed the Rhins, Luce Bay and rounded the Machars, South West Scotland’s hammer like bottom end peninsulas, into an icy dawn. Edwards sat up front wearing a pair of Oakleys that could really only be described as ridiculous but that Burke was fairly certain he’d selected specifically to go with Kevlar body armour and the cans on his ears. He was loving this.

It had been Burke’s granny that sealed the deal, sending out the local rag religiously, week in week out since he’d left home. He’d needed something to calm him down after the Campbell incident, some degree of grounding. Normally it was the court file that made interesting reading, trying to see if he recognised anyone from school that had been done for breach of the peace or bestiality after a night on the sauce. In an area where everyone knew everyone, the chances were you’d always know someone. Sometimes the headlines were laughable, like the time three sheep were nearly killed after escaping onto the A75 and it made the front page.

This time of course it had been the smirking face of Giles Heriot-Watt staring back at him, his gerbil like champagne quaffing mug a testament to the fact he’d just launched a speed boat, a speed boat that was about to be impounded.

Funny how granny always had a habit of pointing people in the right direction.

Wig Bay was to the right of them as they came in from the south avoiding the Galloway hills. Home, or what had been home lay three miles to the west, though no lights blinked there now and hadn’t done for some fifteen years. The memory faded but the twinge in the pit of the stomach remained just as strong. The achingly familiar landscape lay before them, spread out like an ink blue blanket with occasional sparkling lights indicating signs of life. Not long now.

Andy could hear the Russian speaking. In his head he pictured Borat, or a meaner version prancing around like the guy from Reservoir Dogs. Not that he spoke like Borat. Andy was probably just mildly racist or xenophobic he realised. Fair enough under the circumstances.

The prick behind him, it was the same stuffy little fucker who’d been there earlier. The one in the suit and the aura of self-importance. Not so grand now. He could hear the muffled grunts and the sound of the burner further away. If ever he was going to have a heart attack this was probably a good time. A quick painful death by his own hand or heart sounded good. He’d heard about Buddhist monks who when their time had come were able to just let go, push the red emergency button, pull the ejector cord, just fuck off and give the bastards the two fingered salute.

He tried holding his breath. Everything went silent. The burner was extinguished. He could hear the sounds of his heartbeat and the sobs of the suit behind him.

“It takes dedication to live this way. I wouldn’t expect you to understand a thing like that Giles.”

Giles, that was the snivelling posh twat’s name. The Russian or Estonian or whatever he was had a liking for the sound of his own voice, although the fact you could hear it from a distance was comforting. He hoped he could keep that distance.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand it all, but allow me to educate you in some way.” The sound he heard then was familiar in some way and yet beyond that. A sickening crunch and at the same time a squelching sound like a dog chewing on a chicken bone. Then the scream came, a sound that would curdle the blood and twist the guts of anyone with senses. Then the burning smell. It hit is nostrils and was again familiar, the unmistakable reek of burning flesh like barbecuing pork or worse, further back in his memory, the pyres that came with foot and mouth. But this was more intense. This you couldn’t rationalise. This had only one conclusion, that he was next.

Giles lay on the barn floor where he had fallen when they had cut the cable ties. Everything was numb. Andreyevich’s lecture about the ways of his people had gone over fairly convincingly. Safe to say it had left its mark on his mind.

The toothless henchman lay on the ground. Smoke poured from a gaping and yet cauterised wound where his windpipe had once been. A warning shot to him and the others on the payroll. Don’t screw up or it’ll be the end of you. He picked himself up from the cold concrete floor and staggered towards the light at the doorway but stopped short when he saw Victor standing there waiting, a glint in his eye.

“You should change your trousers.”

“Yes, immediately. Obviously,” he stammered trying to get control over the nervousness in his voice.

“But first you must take care of some business. Think of it as some kind of contract perhaps. An act of faith and mutual trust you might say.”

“Anything,” he replied, at the same time not quite meaning it.

Victor motioned towards the slumped figure of the boy cable tied to the pallet in the far corner. “You know what must be done. There can be no loose ends. All or nothing, and nothing is easily done,” he said motioning to the corpse on the floor.

One of the other hired hands stepped forward passing him an assault rifle.

“No!” Victor butted it away. “This is a mark of respect. We only execute those deserving with this.”

The guard lowered the AK47 nodding.

“Go and find something more appropriate. Something you might normally shoot a pig with.”

The man shuffled away and left Giles to think about this. It wasn’t something he’d done before. It wasn’t something he thought he’d ever have to do. But was it something he was prepared to do? Were there any other options? He could run, but no, they’d find him. This was the only way. The boy would never live anyway. The guard returned with a shot gun, conveniently sawn off half way down the barrel. He recognised this though, felt vaguely comfortable with it from pheasant shoots years before.

The guard clicked it open, finding two dusty looking cartridges. “You know how to use?” He asked, handing it over.

“Of course,” Giles replied. There was always some feeling of security to be had putting someone down. The shot gun was the weapon of choice for his kind of people, not like the AK used by despots and terrorists the world over.

He snapped the gun shut, lock, stock and what was left of the shortened barrels in unison, feeling lighter in his hands than he was used to, less heavy at the business end obviously but nevertheless, substantial.

He closed the giant door. He didn’t want an audience for what he was about to do. He walked purposefully towards the kid. He had to get this over with. That was all. Then on with the rest of his life, no more screw ups.

The boy seemed asleep. Maybe that was the saving grace in all of this. Maybe. He weighed up the gun again. This was a side by side, the barrel set on the horizontal. He’d used an over and under last time. It was unlikely he would miss at point blank range. No need to think about the adjustments to be made for that. He wasn’t a long range sniper trying to take the head off a diplomat at two miles. He was shooting a sleeping fish in a barrel.

There would be a recoil of course. Would it be more or less than a normal one? Would be get powder burns from the shortness of the barrel? It was going to be loud. That much he knew.

He took one last breath, looked over the gun again, lifted it decisively to his shoulder, then back to his waist when he wondered if that might be better.

And then the boy looked up and Giles’s heart skipped a beat.

Andy had heard the weasel coming. The footsteps of his short arsed gait were unmistakably close together. He had considered that he might not have the bottle, but looking into his eyes now he knew that wasn’t the case. This guy hadn’t got by on looks and charm. He must have some kind of nasty streak about him.