Nick Oldham - Dead Heat

Quite simply he did not know what to do for the best.

A thought struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Charlotte came flying down the stairs and handed him her mobile phone. He pushed it back into her hand. ‘Call the police — 999.’ She looked shocked at being asked to do such a task, and dropped to her knees beside Tara. Henry squatted down beside them and said urgently, ‘I need to get to my car. . No, it’s OK,’ he said, halting Charlotte’s intended interruption. ‘I’ll be straight back, then we’re going to lock up the house, sit tight and wait for the cops, OK?’ He nodded enthusiastically. Charlotte nodded back, less enthusiastically. ‘OK, you get the police on the line while I go to the car. I’ll only be gone for seconds.’

He stood up, knees, as ever, cracking, and went to the door. His car was perhaps fifteen feet away. On the left was the Bentley, which would give him some cover from the hillside if necessary. It would take just seconds, he reiterated to comfort himself. In his mind he process-mapped his task, step by step, visualizing it. He crouched down and pulled the door open. Then he had another thought. What if it all went wrong when he got to the car? Over his shoulder he called, ‘Charlotte, come here, love.’

Reluctantly she crawled across to him, not wanting to leave Tara.

‘When I go out,’ he said in as plain English as he could manage so he would not be misunderstood, ‘you close the door behind me. But stay by the door — don’t go back to your mum, OK? Stay by the door and let me back in when I come running, OK?’

She nodded.

‘Make sure you let me in,’ he said, just to make sure she had got it.

‘Right.’

‘Good lass.’

He edged out of the door, then sprinted to the back of the Astra.

Verner found a foothold on a rock from which he could propel himself towards the parked cars. He repositioned slightly until he was in exactly the right position and would not slip. He braced himself, counted down, his muscles coiled. Then he exploded like a greyhound out of the traps.

The sniper was fractionally late picking him up. He fired three shots — crack, crack, crack — all three bullets marginally behind the running figure of Verner, who flung himself out of sight behind the Bentley. Frustrated, the sniper put another couple of shells into the body of the Bentley.

Henry had the hatchback of the Astra open. He was crouching down behind the car, delving into the recess where the spare wheel should have been. He heard a noise behind him, went very cold, spun round slowly, keeping his right hand behind his back.

Knelt down by the back nearside corner of the Bentley was Verner.

‘Boo!’

Verner was in a combat kneel — one knee on the ground, the other drawn up — and had his pistol pointed directly at Henry’s heart.

‘Changing the wheel?’ Verner said.

‘Something like that,’ said Henry, his lips hardly moving.

‘Got ya.’

Henry gave a gracious nod and sniffed something in the air: petrol.

‘Looks like you’re a target too, though.’

Verner mirrored Henry’s nod. ‘So it seems.’ He relaxed with the gun, letting it waver slightly. ‘I’ll be OK. . the guy’s not a very good shot.’

Henry’s right hand came from behind his back, clutching the handgun he had confiscated from Troy Costain. He had no idea if the thing would work, whether it was loaded with blanks, or what. He simply prayed as he leapt to one side and, as he rolled, loosed off two shots at Verner, whom, once again, he had surprised.

Verner took one in the right shoulder, flinging him back on to the gravel. The other one buried itself in the wall of the house.

Henry rolled twice, came back on all fours and scuttled behind Tara’s Mercedes.

Verner struggled back on to his knees, managing to keep hold of the pistol. Intense pain seared through his shoulder, upper chest and neck.

He looked down at the wound and touched it with his free hand, the tips of his fingers coming away covered in blood. Shock rippled through him. He caught his breath, feeling light-headed and disorientated.

He slumped against the Bentley in an effort to keep upright as he scoured around for Henry.

‘You bastard,’ he cried.

Henry was prone on the gravel, looking underneath the Mercedes, trying to work out Verner’s position, aiming his gun along the ground. He could not be sure where he was, was not even sure he had hit him.

Verner could not think straight. He had never been shot before, but had always thought it would be a piece of cake to be wounded. Yet it hurt so much. He touched the wound again, wondering hazily why it was so bad. It was only his shoulder, for God’s sake. His fingers moved over the joint and then, even to his slightly befuddled mind, it was clear why it was so awful: the exit wound. The bullet had blown out the whole of the back of his shoulder and shoulder blade. Now he had no feeling down his arm. It was as though it was no longer there. He tried to keep hold of the gun, but his fingers did not work. It dropped with a ‘clink’ on to the ground.

He hauled himself up to his feet by using the back wing of the Bentley, smearing blood across the shiny bodywork. His head was spinning and the smell of petrol invaded his nostrils as he staggered around the back of the car, clutching at the smooth body to try to stay on his feet, but finding no purchase for his fingertips. He stumbled, not knowing where he was now, his brain seeming to have lost all sense of place, yet he could still smell petrol. He fell to his knees again and with a surge of clarity realized he had fallen into a puddle of petrol which was gushing out of a hole in the side of the car, like beer out of a punctured barrel. He gagged on the fumes which rose around him.

Verner slumped down on to his hands, so he was on all fours. The brief moment of clarity disappeared from his mind as he fought the intense pain in his wounded shoulder. He remained in that position for a few seconds, then his right arm folded under his him, unable to support his weight. He sank face down in the petrol.

‘Need. . to. . move,’ he said to himself.

With a massive force of willpower he pushed himself up to his knees with his left hand and tried to get to his feet by pulling himself up on the side of the Bentley, heaving himself up by using the door handle.

The next bullet from the sniper was right on target, slamming into Verner’s back, just below his left shoulder blade. It hit him with such force, it pinned him against the car. The next bullet struck him in the lower back. The next one missed completely and hit the centre of the rear wheel, ricocheting off with a ping and producing a tiny spark which ignited the rising petrol vapour with a whoosh. The flames clawed up Verner’s petrol-doused trousers, rising and engulfing him.

Henry ran to the front door of the house, screaming for Charlotte to open up. Good kid, she responded and Henry threw himself through the gap into the hall. Charlotte slammed the door behind him and locked it. He returned to the door and put his face to the mottled glass pane, trying to see what was happening, even though he knew that he was asking for trouble by doing this.

His countenance morphed into horror as he saw, though the distorted glass, the burning figure of Verner stomping around next to the Bentley, silent, no screams coming from him, as the flames ate him.

Henry watched open mouthed, but riveted.

Then, in a flash, it was all over for Verner.

The sniper put another bullet into him. This time it went into the side of his head, destroying the brain cortex, and killing him instantly. Verner jumped sideways in a grotesque way, hit the side of the Bentley and dropped to the ground, where he lay unmoving, apart from the flames rising up from his torso.