Nick Oldham - Facing Justice

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.