Nick Oldham - The Last Big Job

Crane and Smith were standing near to the back of the Sherpa.

Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov were in the office. Voices in low conversation could be heard coming from there.

Crane grabbed Smith’s elbow and pulled him across to the holdall in which the guns had been stashed.

The faxed photograph from the airport camera was good quality. It showed the Russian clearly, standing on a travellator at Manchester Airport, and was timed and dated. His face was circled with a black ring to highlight him. To be honest, Henry could not be certain if it was the same man who had so publicly taken out Jacky Lee at the transport cafe. But that fact did not concern him too much. He pushed the fax over to Danny. She peered at Ivankov, as he knew she would.

‘ Recognise him?’ Henry asked.

‘ No, can’t say I do.’

‘ I don’t mean Ivankov — I mean the guy standing next to him.’ Danny looked closely. She sat up sharply. ‘It’s Billy Crane… is it?’

‘ Sure looks like him.’

‘ But what’s he doing with Ivankov?’

‘ That’s a good question.’ Henry sighed. ‘But, whatever, this gives you something very good in terms of the job at Blackpool — a time and a date. That shows Crane was in the country on the morning after the murders. If you can pin him down by means of some good ID evidence to the Imperial Hotel the night before, at least you can prove he was in the vicinity at the right time. Proving he actually pulled the trigger might be a trifle more problematic. What you could do with is finding out exactly where Crane is living now. I know we think it’s Tenerife, but we could do with finding out for sure. You also could do with trying to check the passenger lists for all flights leaving Manchester around that time.’ Henry picked up the fax. ‘This could mean absolutely nothing, but on the other hand…’

‘ It might mean a big conspiracy,’ Danny finished. ‘My head hurts.’

Crane jogged ahead of Smith, a black Ruger P85 in his hands, the one he’d used for the robbery, now reloaded, one in the chamber, fifteen in the magazine, another mag tucked into his waistband just in case. Smith was armed with a heavier Skarab Skorpion.

Crane stopped momentarily at the office door and took a deep breath. He counted with his left hand, slicing the air, one, two, three. Then he twisted into the office and said, ‘Sorry boys, but this is the way it is,’ and began firing, aware that Drozdov was not in the room, just Gary and Gunk. Where the hell was the Russian?

It did not make Crane hesitate. He shot them where they sat.

Gary was hit first. One in the face, one in the neck, two in the chest. The massive impact of the bullets lifted him from the chair and toppled him backwards, legs rising upwards and over.

Gunk threw himself to one side with a scream. Crane was surprised by his speed for an instant. Then he was back on track, aiming and firing at the bulk of Gunk’s moving body, hitting him in the shoulder, ribs and hip. Gunk contorted and writhed on the floor of the office, dragging a metallic filing cabinet down on top of himself

Crane rushed forwards and finished him off with one to the side of the head.

He checked Gary, who twitched like he was being tickled, but was very definitely dead.

Crane ejected the magazine from the handle and dropped it into his pocket, replacing it quickly with the full one from his waistband. His eyes made contact with Smith who stood in the doorway, astounded by his partner’s deadly efficiency.

‘ Where’s the other fucker?’ Crane hissed. He was hardly out of breath, but in control, enjoying this.

The response to the question was immediate and fatal.

Suddenly Smith began a wild, macabre dance as bullets riddled into him, discharged from the Uzi held by Drozdov. Black holes burst open across his chest, hurling him backwards. His gun flew out of his grasp and he was slammed violently against the office wall. There was a short pause — long enough for Smith to look down and inspect the wounds across his chest and then look up at Crane, disbelief on his face — by which time Drozdov had readjusted his aim and opened fire again. He put a line of bullets across Smith’s face which removed his lower jaw.

Crane dropped to the floor like a stone, cursing. He then crawled behind the filing cabinet which had fallen over Gunk’s body.

Drozdov strafed the office. As the wall was only thin plasterboard, little protection was offered to Crane who was pinned down, nowhere to run.

The firing stopped abruptly when the magazine clicked empty.

Crane knew he had to move now. His current position was indefensible and he was dead if he stayed there.

He scrambled to his feet, using Gunk’s neck as purchase to achieve momentum, and launched himself head first out of the office. He threw himself into a forward roll which took him to the back wheel of the Audi where he crouched down, protected by the car, dry-mouthed, now breathing heavily, his senses at their most acute, listening hard, unsure of Drozdov’s exact position, which was not a good thing. He could hear re-loading taking place and knew he was out-gunned. Pistol versus machine pistol. Bad odds at this sort of range.

Where the hell was the Russian?

Behind the BMW? Near to the Sherpa?

Christ, he was good, Crane thought magnanimously. How had he managed to get out of the office without being seen? Crane gave a short, bitter laugh. He realised that he and the Russian were two of a kind. He’d seen it in the eyes. Watched it in the way he’d disposed of the security guards. Cold. Clinical. No fuss, just business. And the problem was, when people like this clashed, there could only be one victor. A draw was unacceptable.

Crane peered cautiously over the boot of the Audi. He guessed the Russian was probably over by the BMW, protected by the bulk of its engine, probably no more than twenty feet away. Beyond was the gloom of the warehouse. Floor-to-roof shelving, stacked with goods, mainly cigarettes, booze and perfume. The shelves were end-on to where Crane was positioned and he could see down the aisles which were wide enough for forklift trucks to operate down. Around the inner warehouse wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, was a metallic walkway reached by steps next to the office door, about eight feet to the right from where Crane was hunched. Fifteen feet to his left was the Sherpa parked in the loading bay. That vehicle, maybe, offered some protection, but at that moment, Crane could not even think of reaching it.

Incredibly there was a sudden movement in the office. Crane’s head snapped round and he saw something amazing.

It was Don Smith. Jaw-less, riddled with bullets, he was dragging himself through the door, slipping and slurping in his own pool of deep red, nearly black, blood. Most of his face had been ripped off by Drozdov’s shooting. Crane could not believe what he was seeing.

‘ Don!’ he gasped.

Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull ‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head exploded with their impact.

And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the BMW and took advantage of the distraction.

He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and Drozdov.

Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like hailstone.

Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire, but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents — when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.