Once the group were within a few metres of the one and a half metre high brick wall that fronted the Victorian property that was of interest, Keelan called a halt. “Milo, Withers. You go to the front door. Let them know you’re there as a distraction, but keep calm and try not to frighten them too much. Salt, Mickey and me will enter from the back. Got it?”
They nodded their understanding, and Milo and Withers headed for the front door. The other three men followed them through a second small gate, next to the drive. The larger gate that secured the drive was closed, wired up to prevent vehicle entry. The side gate, controlling access to the rear of the house, was accessible, and the remaining convicts, after cutting away the wire that secured it, passed through it. With weapons, picked up on the way, hidden behind their backs, they walked down the path that led to the back door. The wall of the house was on their left and the brick-built garage on their right.
The other two men had now arrived at the front door. Milo rapped the gargoyle-faced knocker on the dark blue painted door and listened for an answer. As expected, there was no response, and the boarded-up windows prevented the two men from peering inside. Withers cursed as broken glass crunched underfoot as he attempted to push the chipboard away from the window so he could look inside.
Keelan, Wicks and Salt passed the garage and continued to make their way in between the wall of the house and the now six-foot high privet hedge on their right, peeping round the corner before making their way to the half-pane back door. The glass was missing, replaced by a solid piece of chipboard. The lower part of the door appeared undamaged. The window to probably the kitchen, along with the window to the room next door, was similarly protected.
“They’re switched on, Stan. Should we try somewhere else?”
The big man adjusted the bobble hat and shook his shaven head. “No, if the people living here seem pretty switched on, it means they have something to protect other than themselves.”
“Food?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
They were interrupted by Milo as he suddenly appeared from the front of the house.
“Fuck, Milo, you made me jump,” admonished Salt.
“Sorry, just trying to be quiet, is all.”
“Quiet round the front?” asked Keelan.
“Yeah, Stan. What d’ya want us to do?”
“Go back to the front and wait with Withers. We’ll go in through here.”
“Right.” With that, the man left to join the other convict covering the front door.
“How do you want to play it?”
“Crowbar on the hinges first, Doug. Weaken it. Then I’ll shoulder charge it.”
“Stand back then.” Salt pushed the wedge of the crowbar he had picked up earlier from more scavenging into the slight crack of the door jamb, applying pressure before steadily levering it from side to side. Wood started to splinter, and he continued the motion until a large chunk split off from the door frame. He crouched down and did the same to the lower hinge until that too split.
“Behind me, Mickey. Once I’m through, you pile in and clout anyone you come across. Salt, you behind him.”
The big man moved back, lowering his shoulder, preparing his eighteen-stone mass to throw it at the door in front of him. For a large man, he moved forward so quickly that it startled both his fellow escapees. His shoulder connected with the chipboard and he grunted as his full weight pressed against the door, which held for a moment before giving way. The hinge at the top of the door parted as did the bolt top left and the mortice lock in the middle. But the bottom hinge held. The consequence for Keelan was twofold. First, the door swung round to the left, the lower hinge still gripping the door, then causing him to trip over the door and fall flat on his face on top of the door itself. Then an explosion deafened Keelan, and Mickey was flung back by the force of the buckshot from the two barrels of the breach-loaded shotgun, his face and chest a mass of blood and shredded flesh.
The occupant of the house fumbled with the break-action shotgun, and broke it to reload, fumbling with the extra cartridges in his pocket, cursing that he had mistakenly fired both barrels leaving him exposed. Salt responded in a flash, bypassing Mickey, leaping over the sprawled body of Keelan, stamping on the man’s shoulder in his haste to get through the doorway. He smashed into the shape he could pick out in the dark interior, forcing the person back into a worktop and kitchen cupboard. The man yelled in agony, his back bent over the work surface. Salt’s powerful hands gripped the man’s neck, squeezing his throat for all he was worth. The gun clattered to the floor as the occupant struggled to hold Salt at bay, but to no avail. Doug Salt was tall, lean and fit, and the forty-two year old banker quickly succumbed as Salt squeezed harder and harder, at the same time pummelling the man in the groin and stomach with one of his knees until the banker passed out, collapsing to the floor.
Keelan got to his feet, rubbing the shoulder that had connected with the door and subsequently stood on by Salt.
“Check his pockets for cartridges and get the gun loaded,” he urged Salt.
“What about Wicks?”
Keelan looked back at the blood-soaked body sprawled just outside the doorway. “He’s fucked. Get the gun loaded. Cover me while I check out the punter.”
Salt rifled the man’s pockets, found half a dozen shells, and reloaded the shotgun, taking a stance by the door that led out of the kitchen into the other rooms of the house. He covered Keelan as he searched the banker, who was still unconscious, for any other weapons. Then, rummaging through the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen, Keelan came across a ball of twine, which he used, cut into strips, to bind the man’s hands and feet.
“Let’s go. You lead, Doug. We’ll go through the house and make for the front door and let the other two know what’s happening.”
Salt moved through the open door, the barrels of the shotgun probing ahead of him. In the hall, there was a room adjacent to the kitchen, a study, but it was empty. Both moved cautiously towards the front door, the luxurious carpet softening their footsteps. The doors to the rooms either side of the corridor were shut. Keelan, on seeing the front was heavily barred, instructed the two outside to come in through the back door while he and Salt searched the rest of the house.
“What was the shooting all about?” queried Milo anxiously.
“Mickey’s had it, but its safe to come in now.”
Keelan and Salt continued their search of the house. The two front rooms were empty apart from a dining room suite in one and a luxurious lounge setting in the other. There was a fireplace with a Victorian mantelpiece, a leather three-piece suite, Victorian yew side tables, and a 50-inch LED TV mounted on the wall. Before they went upstairs, Keelan called to other two who were now behind them, their faces white after having passed Wicks’s dead body.