Shaun Hutson - Captives

McCann stepped forward too, the Uzi held in both hands the stubby barrel pointed at the deck of The Sandhopper.

'All of you get out where I can see you,' shouted Hitch.

'What the fuck is this?' the first crewman said. 'Are you the law?'

'No,' said one of his companions, looking at the Uzi. 'They ain't the law.' He lifted his hands into the air in a gesture of surrender.

'All of you,' Hitch shouted, watching as the third man joined his companions on the foredeck. He was the youngest of the trio, in his early twenties, with short black hair. His companions were both in their forties, one of them greying at the temples, a squat, powerfully built man; the other was a tall gangling individual with deep set eyes which remained fixed on Hitch the whole time.

'Who the fuck are you?' the second man asked as Hitch stepped aboard The Sandhopper.

Hitch ignored the question.

'Get the hold open,' he said sharply, pushing the barrel of the pistol towards the tall man's face. 'Do it,' he rasped when the man hesitated.

The younger of the trio looked at McCann and Morton and decided he would be better advised not to try and reach the.38 he had jammed into his belt.

The tall man opened the hold and Hitch peered down into it, glancing at dozens of crates all of roughly the same size.

'Bring one out,' he said, watching as the tall man struggled with it, finally dropping it on to the deck. 'Open it,' Hitch told him.

'You're making a mistake,' said the second man.

'You're the one making a fucking mistake,' Morton snapped, raising the Ithaca and pointing it at his head, if you open your mouth once more I'll blow your fucking head off. Got it?'

There was a creak of splintering wood as the tall man prized off the lid of the crate. Hitch told him to back off, then moved across. Beneath a layer of foam rubber there was a dark brown carpet of coffee beans. He dug his hand through the aromatic blanket and his fingers closed round an unmistakeable shape. He pulled the video-cassette free and gripped it in his free hand, the pistol still trained on the tall man.

Hitch slammed the cassette hard against the crate. Once. Twice. It cracked, then split open.

Yards of video tape spilled onto the deck, along with pieces of broken plastic.

And a small plastic bag full of white powder.

He tore it open, moistened the end of one gloved finger then dipped it in the substance and touched it to his tongue. It felt cold as the powder reached his tastebuds. He smiled thinly and motioned the tall man back. Morton looked across expectantly.

'We've got it,' said Hitch, smiling. 'Now let's get it loaded and get out of here.'

SIXTY-NINE

He was beginning to get cramp in his right leg.

Jim Scott massaged his calf for a moment, then pushed open the driver's side door of the Lancia and clambered out. The chill night air hit him like a fist. He recoiled, but the iciness in the breeze freshened his skin and helped to dispel the lethargy he had been feeling sitting in the car. He walked around the vehicle a couple of times, stretching his legs, stopping by the bonnet to squat down on his knees. As he straightened up he heard the joints pop and winced.

The river was silent. From where he stood, Scott could see nothing but the curling black tongue of water cutting through the centre of the city. He crossed the road, pausing on the kerb and looking back towards the Lancia. The two-way radio Hitch had been using was still on the passenger seat. Perhaps Scott should take it with him in case someone tried to make contact.

Fuck it. They knew where he was if they wanted him.

He strode across the road and headed towards the quayside, leaning against the black metal fencing that ran along the embankment. He gazed down river but could see nothing.

Behind him a car passed and he turned to look at the occupants. It was a young couple, who both looked at him for a second before driving on.

The girl was blonde.

A little like Carol?

He rested one foot on the fence and leant forward, hawking loudly, sending a projectile of sputum into the river below.

Where the fuck was she?

Why hadn't she called him? All he wanted to know was if she was all right. Just a phone call would satisfy him.

Would it hell.

He needed to see her, speak to her, touch her. He felt anger and concern in equal measures. It was the uncertainty that was so infuriating, not knowing where she was. His whole life had become a series of unanswered questions in the past few days. First Carol and now this.

This? This fucking job?

He asked himself again why they needed him here. He still could not begin to imagine why, as Hitch had told him, Ray Plummer had specifically asked for him to be included. He kicked irritably at the metal fence and then turned and headed back towards the car, hands dug deep into the pockets of his jacket.

Behind him, the river flowed by.

***

It took just over forty-five minutes to unload the crates (sixteen in all) from The Sandhopper to The Abbott.

Hitch, Morton and McCann stood over the other three men while they transferred the precious cargo, guns trained on them at all times.

'And there's twenty million quid's worth in there?' Morton said quietly, watching as the tall man lowered the last crate into the hold.

'Twenty million quid's worth of coke,' Hitch said.

'That's all of it,' said the tall man, wiping perspiration from his forehead. Beside him, the youngest of the three was trying to pull a splinter from his palm.

Hitch motioned them back onto The Sandhopper.

'Thanks for your help, fellas,' he said, smiling. Then, looking across at Morton, 'Start the engine, Terry, we've finished.'

'You're making a fucking big mistake,' said the second man, his teeth clenched in anger. 'When Connelly finds out about this…'

The sentence was interrupted abruptly as Hitch fired.

The first bullet hit the man in the chest, staving in the sternum, cracking two ribs and ripping through a lung. Gobbets of pinkish-grey matter exploded from the exit wound below the right shoulder blade. The man pitched backwards, blood spouting from the wound.

'What the fuck…' shouted McCann as he saw Hitch turn on the other two men.

The younger of the two ran for the side of the boat, perhaps in an attempt to dive over the side. A last desperate attempt to escape into the murky waters.

The first bullet hit him in the back, severing his spine. He crumpled to the deck, his sphincter muscle giving out. The soft sound of voiding filled the air as he rolled over in agony like a fish out of water.

The tall man fared no better.

Hitch shot him in the face, watching as he toppled backwards, most of his bottom jaw blown off by the close-range blast.

Hitch moved swiftly from one body to the other, firing another shot into the head of each man. Into the nape of the neck of the youngest, who was lying on his stomach with part of his spine exposed, the flesh and muscle ripped away by the 9mm bullet.

Hitch jumped back aboard The Abbott and slapped Morton on the shoulder.

'Get us away from here,' he said sharply, and the other man guided the smaller boat away, allowing it to pick up speed.

'What the hell did you kill them for?' shouted McCann.

'They saw our faces,' Hitch said flatly. 'They knew we were with Plummer.'

'That's bullshit,' snapped McCann.

if word of this had got back to Connelly there'd be gang war,' Hitch told him. 'We couldn't have left them alive.'

'Bollocks,' McCann roared. 'You didn't have to kill them.'

Hitch grabbed him by the lapels, pulling him close.

'And what the fuck would you have done with them, hot shot? Invited them out for a drink?' Hitch snarled. He pushed his companion away. 'We leave the boat to float there now. By the time somebody finds them there'll be nothing to link us to the killings.'