‘Give me two minutes,’ he said, and walked along the street, ducking into the entrance to the lane. Five minutes later, he was back. ‘The lane goes all the way down to another road running parallel with this one. The garden’s bordered by a wooden fence like this one. I couldn’t see a gate or a doorway, but the ground all around the house is wide open. There’s a brick building behind the house. Could be a garage. No cars outside, though.’
‘I think they’re still in there,’ said Riley, silently hoping that she was wrong.
‘What makes you so sure?’
Riley managed a smile. ‘Because of the curtains. See how one window is clear? It’s too dark to see inside from here, but anyone standing at the back of the room would be able to see out without being spotted.’
Palmer gave a quiet snort of derision at this revelation. ‘You’re kidding me.’ He ducked his head to look, then grunted. ‘Damn. You’re right.’
‘So it’s a frontal assault, then?’ Riley asked, ignoring her earlier fears about facing Radnor and Michael. She wanted to get this over with, no matter what risks they might face inside.
‘Yup.’ Palmer walked along the fence to the gate and peered round the gatepost. ‘Up to the front door, see if anyone answers. You ready?’
They stepped through the gateway and walked up to the house, staying on the grass to avoid making unnecessary noise. The place had a deserted feel about it, but that might be an illusion. Even now they could be under scrutiny, their progress being tracked by the men inside.
The front door held a tarnished brass fish as a door knocker, and Palmer flipped it up and down a couple of times. The resulting booming noise seemed to echo inside the building.
‘Empty?’ said Riley.
‘Empty front hall, maybe.’ Palmer gave the knocker another flip, then stepped back to survey the house. The windows stared back, blank and unhelpful. No hurried faces peering out, and no sounds of furtive movement. ‘Now I know what it’s like to be a Jehovah’s Witness,’ he muttered, and turned to walk round the side of the house.
As he did so, an engine started close by and a car door slammed.
Palmer glanced to their left, towards the lane bordering the property. ‘Bugger. There was a beat-up old Merc parked out there. I figured it belonged to someone else.’ He ran across the lawn towards the fence, with Riley hard on his heels.
The fence was six feet high, and Palmer looked as if he was going to run straight through it. But at the last second, he swerved sideways and, placing his hands on the top, swung himself up and over, rolling his body to prepare for the landing on the other side. Riley followed, lighter and more supple, but hampered by her lack of height. She landed in time to see Palmer sprinting towards the far end of the lane. Eighty yards or so beyond him, a dark-blue Mercedes saloon was standing close by the fence, a haze of exhaust smoke puffing from the rear, its brake lights burning. The car was dirty and battered, and wore a layer of street grime as if it had been dumped there months ago. A thick bloom of dust covering the rear window obscured the inside.
Then a shadow moved at the side of the road and a man stepped out towards the car. As he reached for a door handle, he turned at the sound of Palmer’s footsteps.
It was Michael.
Chapter 38
Palmer slowed, realising Michael must have exited via a concealed door in one of the fencing panels. A Judas gate. That left Radnor at the wheel of the car. It looked like he and Riley had arrived just in time to interrupt their departure. Or maybe not.
Michael was dressed in a suit, white shirt and dark tie, as if he was ready for a day in the office. He was holding a black leather bag in one hand. Carry-on luggage for a sudden trip overseas? Palmer wondered.
Michael’s face registered shock seeing Palmer so close, and he muttered something urgently. The driver’s door opened and Radnor looked out, craning his head to see. When he saw Palmer, he grimaced, shouted at Michael, then reached out and snatched the black bag from the younger man’s hand.
The car engine revved hard and the vehicle shot away with a squeal of tyres, leaving Michael standing alone at the side of the lane. He began to run after the car, screaming furiously, his words unintelligible, before realising he wasn’t going to catch Radnor. He stopped and turned to face Palmer, standing squarely in the centre of the lane.
Palmer’s defensive instincts went into overdrive. He had faced situations to this before, where confrontation couldn’t be avoided. Yet the sweat and smoke of those army-town pubs and their drunken squaddies suddenly seemed a luxury, faced with this open space and an opponent who had already shown a propensity to kill without a second thought.
He was close enough now to see the tension in the other man’s face. The Russian’s intentions were evident in his body stance as he began to turn slightly to deflect the attack, and Palmer knew this wasn’t going to be easy.
At the last second, as Michael began to raise his hands, one palm open to ward off a blow, the other closed in a tight fist, Palmer swerved.
Riley, thirty yards behind, saw Michael turning to meet the threat. Beyond the two men, the Mercedes was braking hard to turn the corner, the only other movement in the lane. Riley wanted to shout to Palmer to stop, back off and leave Michael to the police. But it was too late. He was already committed.
When Michael moved, he seemed to pirouette on the ball of one foot like a ballet dancer, his body taut and controlled. It was as if he were attached by a string to some controlling force high above his head. As he turned, he leaned forward as if to reach down and pick something off the ground, but his hands remained close into his chest. Then his other foot shot out with unbelievable speed. In spite of his swerve, Palmer was unable to stop himself. There was a muffled sound of impact, and Palmer seemed to lift slightly, turning sideways with a grunt and riding on his opponent’s foot. He landed on his shoulder a few feet away and rolled with the momentum. He lay there, shaking his head and trying to get up again, but seemed to lack the strength, as if the kick had knocked all the energy from his body.
‘Palmer!’ Riley shouted frantically as she saw Michael take a long, deliberate step forward. But instead of reaching down for the man on the ground, the Russian seemed to hold the pose for a fraction of a second as if taking aim, then his other leg flashed up and round, the heel momentarily poised above his shoulder but the trajectory clearly aimed at the exposed top of Palmer’s head.
The leg began its downward strike. Then Palmer rolled, but instead of moving away from danger, he rolled inwards, catching his attacker by surprise. Spinning on his back and sweeping his leg round like a scythe, his instep caught Michael behind his grounded ankle. The impact took the Russian’s leg out from under him, and with a surprised gasp, Michael fell backwards, arms flailing for balance. Unable to regain his equilibrium, he crashed to the tarmac with a loud whoof of expelled air and tried to roll away.
But Palmer was waiting. Reaching over, he grasped one of Michael’s hands and seemed to twist and bend all in one motion. There was a shrill cry of pain and a sharp crack, and Michael groaned and grabbed his broken wrist. Palmer calmly finished him off by slamming the younger man’s head into the tarmac.
In the background, the Mercedes engine accelerated and faded into the distance.
‘Are you all right?’ Riley said, coming to stop alongside Palmer. He was dusting himself off and trying to stand upright, but didn’t appear to be enjoying the experience.
He nodded and took a couple of deep breaths before replying. ‘Of course. Did you doubt me?’ In spite of his levity, she saw a spasm cross his face and wondered how badly he was hurt. He looked towards the corner where Radnor had disappeared. ‘Must be great to have such close friends,’ he muttered.