Paul Finch - Stalkers

She nodded and felt at the side of her neck. When she brought her palm away, it was bloody. She tried to smile, but it was weak, pained. ‘Just a flesh wound.’

‘Let me look.’

He stepped over Klim’s body, only for another noise to distract them. They spun around. It was just beyond the front door — a click followed by a metallic snap . Unmistakably the cocking of a firearm.

The Uzi.

The fusillade that followed was furious, and blew the door clean from its hinges. Heck, who was directly in the firing-line, was hit twice — once in the shoulder, once in the left forearm — and was flung down on top of Klim. Lauren wasn’t hit, but stumbled backward, suddenly lacking the energy or guile to run. Her strength draining out of her with her blood, she slumped down onto her backside.

The tall shape of Kilmor shouldered its way in through the smoke and splinters, Uzi levelled. Trickles of blood gleamed on both his cheeks. But his pearl-white teeth shone in a demented grin.

‘Time’s up, folks,’ he said simply.

Heck rolled slightly, but couldn’t move. Pain was spreading through his body like corrosive acid; he was entirely paralysed down one side. With deliberate slowness, the remaining Nice Guy raised the Uzi in both hands and took careful aim at him.

Only for a boom -like detonation to cut him virtually in half.

Kilmor’s body jack-knifed forward from the doorway, his offal spattering the whole room. Before he could hit the ground, a second thunderous report tore into him, slamming him against the closet door, which he slid slowly down, leaving a thick, crimson smear on its rotted woodwork.

The silence that followed hung heavy on air tainted with the mingled stenches of acrid smoke and burst-out bowels, and lasted for several torturous seconds.

When another figure finally stepped in through the doorway, he was the last person Lauren had expected. It was dark of course, and at first he only appeared as a silhouette, but then he moved into the moonlight, and there was no mistaking the smart, pinstriped suit and clipped white moustache of Bobby Ballamara. The sawn-off shotgun in his leather-gloved hands smoked from both barrels.

‘Better late than never,’ Heck said weakly.

‘You’re alive, aren’t you?’ Ballamara replied.

Another figure ambled in. It was Lennie Asquith. He too was armed, in his case with a sawn-off pump. He chuckled. ‘Had a rough night, detective?’

‘What the hell is going on here?’ Lauren demanded.

‘Sorry … didn’t get a chance to t-tell you,’ Heck stammered.

Seeing how badly hurt he was, she crawled over to him. ‘You okay?’

‘No worse than you.’

Ballamara kicked at one of the corpses. ‘So this is them?’

‘How did you get here?’ Lauren asked him.

‘With some luck,’ he replied. ‘We almost lost Heck at the service station. Had to drive past, and come back on the southbound carriageway to make it look like we weren’t following him. Took a while to trace him down here. If we hadn’t been on the car park when the shooting started …’

‘But how did you …?’

‘I called them,’ Heck said. ‘From the motorway.’

‘But they checked your phone records, I saw them.’

‘I used another phone.’ Heck winced as his pain intensified. ‘Took it off the little bastard I potted down in Hampstead …’

‘We’ve got to get him to hospital,’ Lauren said urgently.

‘And you, by the looks of it,’ Asquith sniggered.

‘Get someone,’ Ballamara told him.

Asquith nodded and moved away, slipping his own phone from his pocket.

‘There were only two of them?’ Ballamara said.

‘There’s one back on the canal boat, too,’ Heck grunted. ‘He’s dead as well.’

‘Hey!’ Lauren suddenly shouted, stumbling to her feet. ‘What about Silver?’

Ballamara looked mystified. ‘Silver?’

‘Their gaffer!’

‘Lauren, wait!’ Heck said.

But Lauren had already grabbed up the Uzi, pushed past Asquith and staggered out through the front door.

‘Lauren, you’re in no fit state …’

‘He’s not getting away!’ came Lauren’s fading voice.

‘Help me,’ Heck gasped.

Reluctantly, gingerly — as there was barely a part of Heck that wasn’t sopping with blood — Ballamara offered him a hand, and pulled him to his feet.

‘You’re telling me there’s another one left?’ the gangster said.

Heck didn’t answer. Nauseated with pain and shock, he had to grit his teeth and was only able to get out through the farmhouse door and along the side of the building by leaning on the wall. When he reached its northwest corner, he peered down the moonlit slope, and saw Lauren hobbling after a stocky shape waddling along by the aid of a stick towards a silver-grey vehicle parked behind a low stone wall.

‘Lauren,’ he breathed, watching intently.

There was a rattle of gunfire and a strobe-like flash as she fired into the air. ‘Stop where you are!’ she called. ‘Stop or you’re dead!’

Heck held his breath as he watched the figure in front of her come to a stumbling halt a few yards short of the wall. Lauren fired into the air again. The figure slowly turned. Even from this distance, Heck fancied he could see that its arms were raised.

Theoretically, there’d be no problem. Lauren was also an ex-combat soldier. She had a gun in her hand, and even if she hadn’t, even with that flesh-wound, she ought to be more than a match for this crippled opponent. But there was something about Mad Mike Silver … they barely knew him, yet Heck felt instinctively that he was evil to his bones, and clever with it.

‘Lauren!’ Heck tried to stagger after her, but even cautious progress sent him dizzy.

The two distant figures were now very close to each other. Heck heard Lauren shouting further instructions — instructions with which Silver apparently wasn’t complying. Lauren shouted again; a different tone. Heck’s hair prickled as he saw the two shapes suddenly slam together in a fearsome tussle. There was a smack of fist on bone, only to be followed by what sounded like a ripping of flesh and a piping, half-choked squeal. Desperation gave Heck extra strength. He was halfway down the slope, picking up speed. But one of the two shapes had now slumped to the ground.

‘Lauren!’ he sobbed.

The other figure climbed over the wall, rounded the vehicle to its driver’s door and slid inside. The engine rumbled to life. The headlights came on, spearing along the darkened road. As Heck approached, it rumbled away, dust swirling behind it.

Lauren was seated on the grass, her back against the wall. He dropped to one knee beside her. She smiled at him feebly. One bloodstained hand was clasped to her chest.

‘Missed … missed the fucker,’ she mumbled.

‘Don’t talk,’ he said, moving her hand aside.

Beneath it, a gleaming, fist-sized bauble was visible against the fabric of her bloodied vest, apparently fixed in place. With a thrill of horror, Heck recognised it as the skull head of Mike Silver’s walking stick. By the looks of it, it was actually a sword-stick, about a foot in length. The bastard had drawn it and run her clean through with it.

‘I thought you said we weren’t the ones who are going to die,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t talk, just try and relax.’ Heck turned and screamed: ‘ Ballamara!’

‘Relax? … that’s a good one. I can’t move anyway.’

‘Lauren …’

‘We got most of them, at least? Those bastards who hurt Genene …’

Heck nodded, helpless. The light in her eyes was fading even as he watched.

‘You’re going to get that last one, Heck?’