Jack Higgins - The Death Trade

‘You want to play games, do you? Well, let’s see what you’ve got,’ and he pulled out of what traffic there was and roared after Dillon, leaving Abu far behind.

Belted in tightly, Sara braced herself with both hands as they swung off the High Street into a network of mean lanes and run-down houses, with lights still on in some of them, Dillon working the wheel and the brake pedal expertly, sliding on cobbles slippery in the rain.

Farouk, on his tail, was enjoying himself, because this bastard was as good as anyone he had ever raced against and that was meat and drink to him. He drove as he hadn’t driven for years, and Abu, far behind because he’d been totally caught out, was shouting loud in Farouk’s ear, demanding answers.

‘He’s broken away,’ Farouk told him. ‘We’re heading down to the Thames. It looks like he’s trying to shake me off in the warren above Butler’s Wharf. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s a hell of a driver.’

‘But what would he be trying to do down there?’ Abu called.

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Farouk replied.

‘Well, take care. This guy is special, I told you.’

Dillon turned into Butler Walk and slowed, the narrow alley dropping steeply, just the odd streetlight still working, the warehouse below. What was left of the wharf jutted out into the river, lights sparkling on the other side, a couple of tugs moving towards the estuary, lights on.

Farouk roared in behind him, Dillon glanced sideways at Sara, who braced herself, a fierce look on her face, and nodded. He stamped hard, gunning the engine, and they plunged down, gathering momentum. At the head of the wharf was a single light, and it seemed to rush towards them.

Farouk followed, giving it everything he had, teeth bared as he shouted, ‘I’ve got you, you bastard.’

The lamp and the light were suddenly larger, but it illuminated the entrance to the warehouse on the left, the two wooden gates standing half open, and Dillon stamped on the brake pedal, jerked the handbrake, spinning the Mini around to slide in through the entrance, bouncing the gates and sliding to a halt.

Farouk, desperately trying to brake too late, hurtled along the wharf and over the edge and plunged down into the Thames. Dillon slid from behind the wheel, ran out of the yard onto the wharf, but there was only darkness down there, and he turned and went back to see how Sara was doing.

From the top of the alley, Abu had witnessed what had happened and was filled with rage. He had tried to impress on Farouk how dangerous Dillon was, but his friend wouldn’t listen. Now he was dead. There was only vengeance left, and with Allah’s blessing, Abu intended to have it. He switched off the motor, eased the handbrake, and sitting astride, freewheeled down the alley.

Dillon, returning to the yard, discovered Sara struggling with her seat belt, which had jammed because of the impact the Mini had suffered when bouncing the half-open gates aside. She’d lowered the window, and he leaned down.

‘Are you okay?’

‘I will be when I’ve cut myself out.’ She was struggling in the confined space, trying to find the flick knife in her right boot, when suddenly the Montesa swerved silently into the yard at a surprising speed.

‘Behind you, Sean,’ she cried.

The Montesa slid sideways, and as Dillon turned, Abu swung his arm in a powerful blow that had him on his knees. Abu let the bike fall, kicked Dillon in the body, turned and wrenched the Mini door open.

‘Get out, bitch,’ he said, drawing his Glock. ‘I want you to watch. My name is Abu, and mark it well.’

Dillon had raised himself to one knee, his right hand under his jacket feeling for the Walther against his back.

Abu said, ‘There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.’

Sara found the flick knife, sprang the blade, slicing the seat belt in a second, reached out of the open door and stabbed Abu in the back of the leg, withdrew the razor-sharp blade, and stabbed at the base of his right buttock before tumbling out against him.

He howled in agony, kicking at her, discharging the Glock twice into the ground. Dillon’s hand swung up and he shot him in the centre of his forehead, hurling him back against the Mini. He slid to the ground and sat there, eyes open.

Sara said, ‘I wonder what he’s staring at?’

‘Who knows?’ Dillon said. ‘Eternity, if there is anything out there.’ He closed Abu’s eyes. ‘You’re a remarkable woman, and you saved my life.’

She lifted her hands. ‘Look at them, Sean, not even the hint of a shake. Would you say that was normal?’

‘What it indicates is that you’re a warrior of the Old Testament Sword of the Lord and Gideon variety, and thank heaven for it.’

The rain became heavy and driving, and Dillon took her hand and they ran to the shelter of a deep doorway, where Sara said, ‘It’s as if something’s trying to wash it all away, the blood, everything. What happens now? Nobody seems to be interested.’

‘They wouldn’t be,’ Dillon said. ‘Not in what’s happening in a wasteland like this, a mile away from the main road and civilization.’

He produced his silver cigarette case, put one in his mouth. Sara said, ‘Give me one.’

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Now and then.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘Come on!’

She took the one he offered, his Zippo flared, and she inhaled without coughing. ‘When did all this start?’ he demanded.

‘Afghanistan,’ she said. ‘A godsend on occasions.’

‘I can see where it would be,’ he told her. ‘So enjoy, while I speak to Roper.’

Which he did, hurrying across to another doorway and calling in, giving Roper a swift and accurate account of events.

Sara was sitting on a ledge in the corner of the doorway when he went back. ‘Teague and the disposal team will be here in half an hour. You’ll just have to hang on. Would you like another cigarette?’

‘Why not.’ He gave her one, and she said, ‘Our own private undertaker.’

‘Abu will be six pounds of grey ash about two hours from now.’

‘And how long has Ferguson been getting away with this?’

‘Since Ireland and the Troubles. He was annoyed by really bad guys evading punishment because of human rights lawyers and the like. So, in a sense, we stopped taking prisoners. It saves a hell of a lot of court time. You don’t approve, do you?’

‘Don’t be too sure about that. Afghanistan was a cruel taskmaster. Perhaps it dulled the senses. Exposure to the butchery of children, innocent civilians, made one indifferent to the lives of those who had murdered them. If anything, a quick bullet seemed too easy for them.’

‘Had anything happened to make you feel that?’

‘Six months before the fuss at Abusan when they gave me an MC, I was on a similar gig with three brigade reconnaissance guys. We touched on a village called Mira and came under fire from the Taliban. We poured it in, they gave up. We found fourteen dead, mainly children. It looked like two families, with four young women who appeared to have been raped.’

‘And the Taliban?’

‘They stood there, hands on heads, impassive and unconcerned as I passed along the line, Glock in hand. I reached the last one, and he smiled and pursed his lips as if to kiss me, so I shot him between the eyes and worked my way backwards, taking out all four.’

It was quiet there in the rain, and Dillon said softly, ‘And what did your three companions do?’

‘There wasn’t much they could do, it had happened so quickly. They swore to keep their mouths shut, not that it mattered. BRF duties are some of the most dangerous in the army. They were dead, one by one, over the next four months.’

‘Which leaves you alone with your guilty secret?’