Shaun Hutson - Captives

It jammed.

'Shit,' muttered Hitch.

Scott seemed unconcerned by his companion's problem and looked to his right. The four giant chimneys of Battersea Power Station thrust upward into the night sky like the upended legs of a gigantic coffee table. Below them was a pier, accessible by a set of stone steps. The steps were green with mould where the rising tide lapped against them. At the end of the pier another small boat was moored. Scott couldn't see the name painted along one side of it but he'd already been told it was called The Abbott. Not that he really cared.

Hitch was still struggling with the Beretta.

'Bloody slide's stuck,' he grunted, pulling back hard on it.

'Why do you need a gun, anyway?' Scott wanted to know. 'You intending to use it?'

'Just call it insurance,' Hitch said, still tugging at the pistol. 'Fuck it,' he snapped finally. 'Give me yours.' He held out one gloved hand.

Scott hesitated.

'Give me yours,' Hitch repeated. 'Come on, you're going to be up here in the car. If things get too complicated, just drive off.' He sat there with his hand still open. 'Let me have your gun, Jim.'

Scott reached slowly inside his jacket then pulled the Beretta free and handed it to Hitch, who gripped the automatic in his fist and checked that the magazine was full, slipping it from the butt. Satisfied that it was, he slammed it back into place and holstered the weapon, sticking his own pistol in the belt of his trousers.

On the dashboard in front of him the radio crackled and he picked it up.

'John, can you hear me?' a voice enquired.

'Yeah, Rob, go ahead,' Hitch replied.

'The Sandhopper just passed under the Vauxhall Bridge. Should be with you any time now.'

'Cheers,' said Hitch and snapped off the radio. He pushed open the passenger side door and clambered out, turning to look back at Scott. 'This shouldn't take long,' he said, smiling, the wind ruffling his long blond hair. 'Just sit tight.'

Scott nodded, watching as Hitch scuttled across the road and disappeared out of sight as he began to descend the embankment steps towards the pier.

Scott switched on the radio, heard pop music, twiddled the frequency dial past classical and reggae and finally found a discussion programme. He listened for a moment then switched off again, content with the silence inside the Lancia. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and waited.

***

He couldn't sleep.

He knew he wouldn't be able to and now, as he swung himself out of bed, Ray Plummer wondered why he hadn't just sat in front of the television until the time came.

He pulled on his dressing gown and padded through into the sitting room.

'What's wrong, Ray?' Carol asked, rolling over.

He ignored her enquiry so she hauled herself out, slipped on a long T-shirt and followed him into the other room. She found him standing in front of the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the clock.

'Are you all right?' she wanted to know. 'You've hardly spoken since we got back.'

'I've got something on my mind,' he said sharply, sipping at the drink he cradled in his hand.

'Anything I can help with?'

'No, it's all right,' he said. 'Thanks for asking, though. It's just a little bit of business that's got to be done.'

She knew better than to ask what kind of business.

Plummer turned to face her, running appraising eyes over her long slender legs, her nipples taut against the thin material of the T-shirt.

'Get yourself a drink,' he said, nodding towards the cabinet. As she did he glanced at his watch once more.

Nearly time.

Carol crossed to him and slipped one hand inside his dressing gown, stroking his stomach. 'Are you sure I can't help?' she said, smiling a practised smile.

Plummer allowed her to rake her fingernails across his stomach, feeling her probing lower, encircling his penis with her hand. Then he took a step back, a slight smile on his face.

'No,' he said flatly. 'You can't help. Not yet.'

Again he looked at his watch.

SIXTY-EIGHT

The engine of The Abbott sounded deafening in the silence, the loud spluttering replaced rapidly by a rumble as the boat moved away from the pier.

John Hitch wandered towards the cabin, where Terry Morton was steering the boat, peering out over the river.

'How come you know how to drive these fucking things?' Hitch asked, looking for the first sign of their quarry.

'You don't drive a boat, you ignorant cunt,' chuckled Morton. 'You pilot it.'

'Whatever,' Hitch shrugged.

'My old man worked the river all his life, doing deliveries, pick-ups. They used to use it like a canal; anything that couldn't be moved easily by land, they'd stick it on a boat. My old man worked the length of it. He had a pleasure boat for about ten years before he died, used to run fucking tourists down to Hampton Court, that sort of stuff.' Morton moved the wheel slightly, bringing the boat around. 'He made a ton of money ripping them off. I used to go along with him a lot of the time.'

'John, check it out, mate,' called Adrian McCann from the small foredeck. 'Coming up on our right.'

Both Hitch and Morton looked and saw the warning lights of a small boat approaching. As yet it was a little over two hundred yards away. Hitch reached for the binoculars and peered through them. He read the name on the side of the boat.

'The Sandhopper,' he said, smiling. 'Bingo.'

Morton guided the boat towards the centre of the river, then towards the oncoming Sandhopper.

Still peering through the binoculars he could see movement on the other boat: two men looking ahead, one of them pointing towards The Abbott.

'They'll signal us to turn aside,' Morton observed.

'How do you know?' Hitch asked.

'Rules of the river,' Morton told him. 'What do you want me to do?'

'Bring us up alongside them,' said Hitch, and glanced across at his companion. 'You set?'

Morton nodded and inclined his head in the direction of an Ithaca Model 37 shotgun on the bench beside him.

Red warning lights were flashing the bridge of The Sandhopper as the two boats drew closer, Morton now angling The Abbott so that it was heading directly towards the other craft. Hitch reached inside his jacket and touched the butt of the Beretta he'd taken from Scott.

The two boats were less than one hundred yards away from each other now.

Morton slowed the speed a little, preparing to bring the boat to a halt when he needed to.

Eighty yards.

Adrian McCann stood by the prow of the boat, one thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans, his other hand gripping the butt of a Uzi sub-machine gun.

Sixty yards.

Hitch could hear shouting from the other boat, though most of the words were indistinct. He saw one man motioning animatedly with his arms, as if to deflect the other boat from its route.

Forty yards.

'Steady now,' Hitch said and Morton slowed up a little more.

Twenty yards.

They seemed to be the only two vessels moving on the dark water; The Abbott was almost invisible in the gloom. The red warning lights of The Sandhopper glowed like boiling blood in the blackness.

Ten yards.

Hitch could hear the men shouting now, see them gesticulating madly towards The Abbott in an effort to divert it from what appeared to be a collision course.

Morton cut the motor.

The boat floated the last few yards until it actually bumped the side of The Sandhopper. One of the crew immediately crossed to the side of the smaller boat and pointed a finger angrily at Hitch.

'What the fucking hell are you playing at?' he bellowed. 'You could have sunk us. You haven't even got your lights on…'

The sentence trailed off as Hitch pulled the Beretta free and aimed it at the crewman.

'Cut your engines,' shouted Morton, swinging the Ithaca up into view, working the pump action, chambering a round.