“Good night, LJ.”
At the lockup, Slater was on his third large vodka. The strong painkillers that Rousseau had given him earlier in the evening were already wearing off, and he was feeling a lot like a football that had been kicked around for a full ninety minutes. Black was in a similar state, and both men were now suffering from the rough treatment that Dr Rousseau had handed out when resetting their noses. Slater was pouring them another drink when the phone started to ring.
Hugo Malakoff said, “Slater, what have you got for me?”
“Nothing as yet, Mr Malakoff.” Slater’s mind had gone a total blank with the effects of the pills and the booze, and he couldn’t think of anything else to say, and then blurted out. “But I feel we’re making progress with the Cunningham girl, maybe tomorrow we’ll get lucky.”
“I’ve been speaking to Dr Rousseau, he tells me that you have been to see him this evening, and that you have both had your noses broken and that Black may even have a fractured skull. I assume from what the good doctor tells me that it was Jake Dillon who did this to you?”
“We were unlucky, that’s all, Mr Malakoff. The girl was just about to talk, when that mad bastard Dillon, jumps us from out of nowhere waving a gun like Billy the Kid.”
“Was he really, Slater?” Malakoff mocked, “And did he simply beat you both up, and walk off or did he stop and want to have a cosy chat about who you were both working for?”
Slater lied easily, “We didn’t tell him anything, Mr Malakoff, honestly.” He sensed that Malakoff didn’t believe him. “Okay I’m sorry, Mr Malakoff, but he would have blown us away, if we hadn’t told him who you were.”
Malakoff remained completely silent at the other end of the telephone line, allowing the tension to build up, and then suddenly said, “I seem to have not only misplaced my trust in you Slater, but also your friend, Mr Black. You have also taken a considerable cash advance from me which I want back. You are a bungler and a liar Slater, and this is most disappointing.” The phone clicked and the connection broken.
Slater put down the phone, and took a large swig of the vodka, emptying his glass with a single gulp. He knew exactly what that meant. Nudging Black who woke suddenly from a dozing sleep, he quickly told him what Malakoff had just said.
Frightened more than they’d ever been before, the two men quickly gathered and an old cash box with eighteen thousand pounds in. What was left of the money that Malakoff had advanced to them a week earlier. Shoving everything into two canvas holdalls they squeezed them both into the Ferrari’s tiny luggage space, Black jumped in behind the wheel, and started the engine, easing the red sports car out into the narrow side street.
Pulling away from the lockup he remotely closed and locked the double doors, and a minute later they had disappeared up the road. Stopping off briefly at their flat they threw whatever clothes they could lay their hands on into a black dustbin bag, made sure everything was locked up and secure, and then headed south out of London.
Slater had an old Aunt who had retired down to the New Forest in Hampshire. He’d always been her favourite nephew so she wouldn’t mind them turning up out of the blue and staying for a while. At least until the dust had settled, and it was safe for them to return to London again.
Hugo Malakoff was in his study sitting at his desk, the telephone receiver to his ear. After what seemed like an eternity of time having passed. A gruff Irish accented voice answered the phone at the other end. “O’Rourke. Malakoff here. I have a little disposal job for you and your boys, and I would like it to be taken care of this evening. Yes I know it’s short notice, O’Rourke, but it’s extremely important. Now stop complaining, and please take down these details.” Malakoff then gave him the names of, Slater and Black, who the Irishman already knew of from the East End, told him about the stolen Ferrari, and then gave him the name of the contact, who would be able to retrieve the GPS position of the sports car.
“Phone this man, O’Rourke, and he will get you the tracker information together with its last known position. Yes, O’Rourke, the payment will be made through the usual channels, and placed in your Cayman Island account as usual. The same amount as before on successful completion and there’s an additional fifty thousand for your trouble, if you take care of it tonight. Good, that’s settled then. Phone me when the job has been successfully completed. Goodnight, Mr O’Rourke.” Malakoff replaced the receiver back on its cradle, turned off the light to his study and went to bed.
So far so good, Slater thought to himself as they accelerated down the slip road onto the M25 motorway. Since driving away from their flat, he’d kept a constant eye out for anyone following them, but had seen nothing to make him suspicious. His face throbbed where the broken nose had been reset again and he imagined that Black would be hurting as well, and looking at his friend, he thought what a sorry state they were in.
By the time they were approaching the intersection and turn off for the M3, it was raining quite hard, and the traffic moving more slowly because of roadworks. Black indicated to move over into the inside lane, but a large red and white breakdown truck had moved up alongside and now barred their way.
Black overshot the turning, and cursed out loud at the big vehicle with a string of expletives, he shifted down to second gear, and accelerated hard across and out into the outside lane towards junction thirteen at Staines.
The driver of the powerful recovery truck also accelerated up to a steady eighty-five miles an hour along the middle lane on a virtually deserted stretch of motorway.
Glancing up into the rear view mirror, the tiny rain soaked rear window simply blurred the headlights of the cars behind. His preoccupation with not wanting to miss the next junction meant that he took no notice of the one car that came up fast, and drew up close behind him in the outside lane. It didn’t try to overtake, simply shadowed the Ferrari for a quarter of a mile along the motorway.
Slater looked across and said to Black, “Put your foot down, mate. I think it might be a good idea to put some tarmac between us and that Beemer.”
The powerful saloon car had squeezed alongside them. Slater knew exactly what was going down, and the next moment it happened.
The side window of the seven series BMW slid down, and Black responded by swerving towards it, in an attempt to make it swerve into the central barrier. But the other driver responded by braking hard, and falling in behind the red sports car. The Ferrari slewed precariously across the wet road as the tyres fought desperately to find grip on the tarmac. The BMW immediately accelerated back out into the outside lane again, and was once again alongside. Black changed down into third gear, and accelerated over onto the hard shoulder and then without hesitation back across to the outside lane in an attempt to shake off the BMW. The other driver played a game of cat and mouse, and with his sharp reactions was able to mimic every move that Black made.
This in turn enabled the shooter to fire the machine pistol to deadly effect into the side window of the Ferrari which instantaneously disintegrated into a million tiny pieces.
The tiny flashes of light coming from the interior of the other car, would have been the last thing that Slater and Black saw. The next second they were both dead, killed instantly under the hail of bullets.
Next the tyres were shot out, and the low sports car swerved violently across the motorway towards the hard shoulder; rolling over and over until it smashed through a safety barrier on its roof, and down the steep embankment on the other side.