James Craig - Shoot to Kill

Was that good news? He had no idea.

Finally, he had an epiphany of sorts: the only way he was going to get off this fucking island – other than in a coffin – was if Dom sailed him home; either things were going okay, in which case there was no harm in taking a looksee, or they weren’t, in which case he was totally fucked whether he walked through the front door or not.

‘Glad we sorted that out,’ the inspector murmured to himself as he stepped out from behind the SUV and strode forwards.

Finding the door ajar, he gently kicked it open with the toe of his boot. Creeping inside, his nostrils were assailed by a strong smell of damp and neglect. If anything, the temperature seemed 5 degrees colder than it had been outside. Standing in a long, empty corridor, a mixture of cold and fear began eating into his bones. His hands were shaking so badly he was unable to keep the gun pointed at the door at the far end. As he edged forward, the sole of his shoe stuck to the concrete floor. Looking down, Carlyle saw that he was walking through a trail of blood. With a sinking heart, he moved onwards.

At the end of the corridor, he took a deep breath. Yanking the door open, he jumped into a filthy room, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Its weak light flickered off the uneven brick walls, adding to the sense that he had walked into a torture chamber from a snuff movie. The stink made him want to gag.

‘About fucking time!’ Dom was sitting on the floor, next to Gideon. The two comrades presented a sorry picture; their hands were taped behind their backs and they had been chained to a metal ring driven into the centre of the floor. Standing over them, grinning like a lunatic, was Tuco Martinez. In his left hand was a machete, its curved blade shining dully in the poor light. If that didn’t do the trick, a semi-automatic was stuffed into the belt of his trousers.

‘Shoot the fucker!’ Dom demanded.

Taking the Beretta in both hands, Carlyle planted his feet apart like they did in the movies, pointing the gun at a spot he hoped was somewhere near the middle of the Samurai’s chest.

Tuco seemed completely unpeturbed by the new arrival. He looked at his blade and then he looked at Carlyle, shaking his head sadly. Finally, he turned to Dom: ‘So you brought your bastard flic, too, huh?’

‘Put down your weapons, and lie face down on the floor.’ Momentarily forgetting where he was, Carlyle spoke slowly and firmly. To his own ear, it almost sounded as if he was a bona fide officer of the law going about the legal execution of his duties.

Almost.

‘Put them down.’ His breathing was becoming more regular and he was no longer aware of his heart trying to jackhammer out of his chest. Slowly it dawned on him that he could actually take control of this situation.

‘You’re not in London now, you metrosexual ponce,’ Dom hissed angrily, ‘Fucking do him!’

‘Okay, okay, just stay calm.’

Tuco’s smile grew wider as he lifted his hands in the air and took a careful sideways step away from his prisoners.

‘Throw your weapons towards me,’ Carlyle demanded.

‘Sure. Anything you say, mister policeman.’ Arching his back, Tuco heaved the machete towards Carlyle’s head. But his throw was wild and he missed by a good two feet. Standing his ground, the inspector kept his weapon trained on the Frenchman.

‘I had to try.’ Tuco’s shrug was almost apologetic. He glanced round the room, as if finally realizing that it would all end here.

‘John, for fuck’s sake get on with it!’

Carlyle shot his mate a frayed grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he rasped, ‘I’ve got it all under control.’

As the words stumbled across his lips, Tuco reached for his gun. A jolt of adrenaline surged through Carlyle’s chest. Gripping the gun as tightly as he could, he jerked the trigger of the Beretta as hard as he could.

Nothing happened.

Fuck! What now?

‘The safety!’ Dom screamed. ‘The fucking safety!’

‘Shit!’ As he fiddled with the switch above the grip, a grinning Tuco aimed for his head. Flinching, Carlyle closed his eyes and yanked the trigger once, twice, three times.

‘Enough, enough – ENOUGH!’

He finally heard Dom over the buzzing in his head. How long had it taken him to realize that Tuco was down?

‘Behind you!’

Carlyle swivelled round as the black woman from his apartment stormed through the doorway. Grabbing the machete, she screamed something unintelligible as she lunged towards him. Stumbling backwards, the inspector squeezed off another two rounds, sending her sprawling.

Finally, there was silence.

Released from his chains, Dom struggled to his feet. The colour was slowly returning to his face. Trying to fake a smile, he gave Carlyle a hearty pat on the back. ‘You don’t look too good.’

Carlyle grunted as he watched Gideon reach down and pull the semi-automatic from Tuco’s hand.

‘There’s still one more out there.’ Stepping over the corpse, Gideon disappeared through the door.

Feeling the cold sweat pooling at the base of his spine, Carlyle shivered, watching in silence as Dom dragged the woman’s body into the middle of the room, letting her drop next to her former lover.

‘United in death,’ Dom observed breathlessly. ‘That’s something, I suppose.’

I don’t know about that , Carlyle thought. Suddenly, his mind was a jumble of thoughts: regrets, recriminations and relief. What the hell had he done?

He had just admitted double-murder?

Or was it self-defence?

He had no idea. It had all happened so quickly that he felt completely at the mercy of events.

What was he even doing here, with these criminals? The word made him giggle.

‘What’s so funny?’ Dom demanded, distinctly unamused as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

‘Nothing.’ A wave of euphoria washed over him: he had survived. ‘I think I’m going into shock.’

‘Save that for later, if you don’t mind.’

Somewhere in the house came a shot, then another. A few moments later, they heard footsteps coming down the hall.

‘Give me the Beretta.’

Carlyle handed Dom the gun.

‘Gideon?’

‘Yeah.’ Spanner appeared in the doorway, a battered red jerry can in each hand. He gestured back down the hallway. ‘The other guy is in the kitchen. Go and get him. Bring him here.’

Carlyle assumed that the guy in the kitchen was Tuco’s footsoldier, the man who had pointed a gun at his head back in Covent Garden. It was hard to tell, however, given that most of his face was missing. He was quick to grab the guy’s ankles and let Dom take the shoulders as they carried him back to where his erstwhile employer was waiting. With the three bodies lined up in a row, Gideon doused them in the petrol from one of the cans; the fuel from the other was spread liberally around the room. Then he pulled what looked like a miniature bomb – a bunch of wires protruding from an outsized cigarette packet, attached to an old school kitchen-timer – from the breast pocket of his jumpsuit, placing it next to a pool of gasoline, alongside Tuco’s right foot.

‘Right,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘Let’s go.’ He looked at Dom. ‘This place will go up with a bang in three hours.’

‘That’s fine,’ Dom nodded. ‘No one’s going to find them before then and it gives us plenty of time to get the hell out of here.’

They jogged back to the beach in silence. Carlyle struggled to keep up as Gideon set a punishing pace. Twice he stumbled and had to be helped back up.

Back on the yacht, Dom sniffed the air as Carlyle felt the first few drops of rain on his face.