The two men sprinted down the wide hall, moving silently as they went, and took the stairs just as quietly and began a well structured, swift search of the bedrooms on the first floor.
Donaldson clambered over the brick wall and slithered down into a patch of damp soil. He moved quickly behind a rhododendron bush and inspected the rear aspect of Cleveley House. There was one door, which he guessed was a kitchen door, three ground floor windows and a patio door. On the first floor there were four windows, one with the lights on.
Keeping low, he stepped out from cover and, crouching, ran across the width of lawn, then over a paved area, to the back of the house, flattening himself up to the wall. He edged to the door that he now noticed was slightly ajar.
The man in the hallway, the leader, remained stock still, listening for any movement. He also had an earpiece screwed into his left ear, wirelessly attached to the radio on a harness at his waist. The police transmissions had stopped for some reason, but he wasn’t too worried. He estimated his team had about four minutes before the cops came in their size tens, by which time he and his men would be gone and the boy would be dead. He was certain of his skills and abilities.
He remained in a crouching position, weapon drawn and ready, constantly looking, evaluating, listening, reassessing. Upstairs he heard a door being kicked open. He backed up slightly, his eyes rechecking the two downstairs lounges that had been declared empty.
The one on the left, then the TV lounge on his right.
And then he saw it, and computed it, and instantly realized that the room wasn’t empty because he saw the L-shaped settee move ever so slightly — and knew exactly where the boy was hiding.
Bending low, Donaldson ran his left hand across the kitchen door and very gently put some pressure on it, pushing it further open by one inch. He waited for the creak that did not come. But it was a brand new UPVC door, so why would it creak? He opened it an inch further, then wide enough for him to step into a tiny vestibule, with an inner door six feet ahead that opened into the kitchen itself. Donaldson took a silent stride to this door, held his breath, opened it.
He was definitely in the kitchen. There was a sink, cooker, refrigerator, shelves, cupboards, work surfaces, a small dining table and a dead body with a horrendously sliced open throat, lying in a sea of thick, deep-red blood.
There was no time for sneaking about. The man crossed the TV lounge and dragged the settee away from the wall, revealing the stretched out, terrified form of the boy lying prone behind it.
Mark stared up at him as he tore off his balaclava and pointed his gun at Mark’s head.
‘Remember me, sonny?’
Mark did. He knew this was the face of the man who had killed the old guy on the street in Blackpool and who had probably killed Rory and Billy Costain. And also, his mother, Mandy Carter.
Mark was determined to show no fear.
‘I know you, you murdering bastard.’
‘Good, because I’m the last face you’re ever going to see.’
He placed the muzzle of the gun against the crown of Mark’s head. The boy shut his eyes tightly and at that moment, fear did overwhelm him.
Donaldson stepped over the blood to the kitchen door, braced himself for an instant before looking into the hallway and catching a glimpse of the back of a black-clad figure entering the next room on the right.
From upstairs he heard the clatter of doors being kicked open.
‘Henry, you should be here by now,’ Donaldson murmured under his breath.
The man curled his fingers around Mark’s collar and heaved him one handed out from behind the settee, keeping the gun jammed against his skull. He dragged him out as though he was a dog about to be put down.
Karl Donaldson stepped into the TV lounge doorway, his wide frame filling the gap. He’d wanted to say some profound words at that point and if he’d been in a movie, that’s probably what he would have done. He would have explained why he could not allow the killing to happen and the gunman would have had the opportunity to say his piece, too. But there was no time for such niceties. Explanations were rare in real life. If Donaldson had said something, even given a warning, the gunman would simply have turned and shot him, then the boy, because Donaldson knew what the man was capable of.
Instead, Donaldson had to act immediately.
Taking full advantage of the fact that, for the briefest moment in time, the gunman had his back to him, he charged across the room, powering low and hard into him, bowling him over, breaking his grip on Mark’s clothing. The collision sent both of them crashing into the back wall and into a radiator underneath the window.
They fell into an untidy heap, but the man was very fast and strong, and highly trained. Donaldson held him in a massive bear hug, his arms wrapped tightly around him as they hit the wall. But the man managed to unpin his left hand and punch Donaldson hard on the side of the head. It was a blow that, despite travelling only a short distance, connected accurately and powerfully and with great effect. The strike of a man familiar with hand to hand combat. The knuckles smashed like brick into Donaldson’s temple, just above his jaw hinge. A shock wave surged through his brain, sending him sideways, and although he tried hard to keep hold of this extremely dangerous man, his whole body just went loose as the message relay system from brain to function crashed for an instant.
The gunman broke free and rolled away.
Donaldson sagged on to his hands and knees, his eyes watering from the blow, vision blurring.
In a flowing motion, the man contorted back to Donaldson, his gun arcing around.
Just as quickly as they’d deserted him, Donaldson’s senses returned like power being flicked on at a fuse box.
Using his arms as pivots, he spun his legs through ninety degrees and kicked upwards at the man like a break-dancer. His right foot caught the barrel of the gun with such force he could not keep hold of it and it was banged from his grasp.
Donaldson bounded up on to his feet and the two men faced each other, crouching low like wrestlers, both breathing heavily.
The gunman smiled — but Donaldson had no time for that. He knew he was in a fight to the death and had to take the man down without hesitation or conscience. They went for each other, coming together like two stags in a contest that was evenly matched and brutal.
Henry and Bill Robbins reached the front door of the house. Robbins had his MP5 strapped diagonally across his chest from left shoulder to right hip, ready for use. The Glock was in a holster at his hip. He also wore his chequered police firearms baseball cap. Henry, not wanting to feel naked, had grabbed the Taser as a security blanket.
The door was open, led into a wide, tiled, vestibule, then through an inner door into the hallway, facing the central staircase.
As they stepped side by side, Henry on the left of Robbins, through this second door, the two men who had been searching the first floor appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs. Their guns came up.
Robbins forced Henry away with a sweep of his left hand, and brought the H amp;K round into a firing position and screamed, ‘Police, drop your weapons.’
The man on the right fired his pistol. Henry jumped to one side, whilst Robbins returned controlled fire with the machine pistol. Two bullets slammed into the man’s chest and he wind-milled backwards, as Robbins’ aim shifted across and he took down the second man with a burst of fire.
It was a ferocious fight. The two men, both large, powerful, hard and determined, came at each other with a fighting style that combined brutal street battling — fists, headbutts, knees to groins, gouging and biting — with more refined, but equally violent, martial arts — chops to the neck with the side of the hand, throws, powerful short blows, thumbs to pressure points. Each man vied for supremacy. They both tired quickly and it would be the one who could just get the slight edge that would be the victor.