Neither spoke.
‘Knew you’d like it.’ He winked. ‘I’ll stay here with the delicious Debbie while you do it and if you don’t come back, I’ll rape her then kill her. Sound okay?’
‘Nothing to say, either of them.’ Jane Roscoe, looking red and flushed even two hours after making love with Henry Christie, was talking to him in a more professional capacity in the A amp;E department at Blackpool Victoria Hospital. ‘One’s been shot in the chest, the other’s been blasted by a shotgun in the groin. Both are stable, but the one with the chest wound can’t speak yet. It’s the one who nearly had his cock shot off who told me to piss off. But they aren’t going anywhere. From witnesses at the scene, these two went for two other guys sitting down eating a meal.
‘And they came off worse.’
‘Very much so. The other two legged it unharmed. Drove off in a Mercedes sports, an old one, but no registration number taken.’
‘Any connection with the shooting at the King’s Cross?’
‘Dunno. It’s a bit of a coincidence if it isn’t.’
‘Let’s just keep an eye on how it progresses — have you got someone capable of dealing with it properly?’
‘I thought Rik Dean could sort it.’
‘Yeah, he’s pretty thorough,’ said Henry.
By 2 a.m. Debbie had fallen into a difficult sleep, fully clothed on the wide double bed in the motel room. Dix lay beside her, completely awake, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Marty sat in one of the uncomfortable easy chairs, feet up on the other, watching a soft-porn film on the video channel, sound turned down. His gun was laid across his crotch. His head kept nodding and lolling as he endeavoured to keep awake. Dix monitored him through the corner of his eye, hoping he would nod off properly and give him the chance to grab the gun and blow his head off.
At least that’s what he’d like to do. Whether he would have the courage to attempt something so foolhardy and dangerous was another matter. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, regretting ever contacting Debbie and dragging her into this situation. Not that he could blame her for his current predicament. She was just a bit naive — and maybe he was too, and now they were both paying the price.
He opened his eyes and looked lovingly at Debbie, curled up next to him. She had been very good for him, had made him think twice about his life and had promised him something more fulfilling. Perversely, that was one of the reasons he had stolen the money. A new start, away from all the shit. It had backfired badly.
Marty struggled to sit upright, yawned and stretched his arms upwards and outwards. The gun slid off his lap on to the floor with a thud. Marty ignored it and rolled his shoulders and rubbed his aching neck, his mouth opening and closing with a clicking noise.
‘Need a brew. . make one, Dix.’
‘Yeah, right.’
The gun was still on the floor at Marty’s feet.
Dix sat up. He saw it. He could go for it now. It was about 60–40 in Marty’s favour, but he could still go for it. He tensed.
‘Go on, have a go. Try it,’ Marty urged.
‘Try what?’ Dix’s shoulders sagged.
‘Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it.’
The gun remained on the carpet.
‘Thinking about what?’ Dix swung his legs off the bed and rubbed his eyes, feigning innocence.
‘You know.’ Marty placed a foot on the gun.
Debbie stirred and rolled over. She started to snore quietly.
‘Is she a good fuck?’
‘I’ll make that brew.’ Dix stood up.
The door blew open with a huge crash and four men, hooded, all dressed in black, all wielding Uzi machine pistols, poured into the room in a well-planned well-thought-out manoeuvre. They came in in single file, past the bathroom, then spread across the room where it widened. They came in screaming — loud, noisy and disorientating.
Dix turned to face them, kettle in hand.
Marty was caught mid-way to retrieving his gun from the floor.
Debbie woke groggily to the noise, confused and woozy.
‘You do not move,’ the first one through the door shouted. The two behind him rushed past and pointed their weapons at Marty. The last man of the four covered Dix and Debbie, his gun constantly waving from one to the other.
‘On your feet,’ the first one ordered Marty.
‘Me?’ he said in disbelief.
The masked man shoved his gun right up into Marty’s face. ‘You.’
Marty rose unsteadily. His foot was still on top of his gun on the floor.
‘Let’s deal,’ Marty said quickly. ‘I’ve got money. I can give it to you.’
‘My job is to deliver you,’ the man said. ‘So shut up.’
‘Shit,’ blabbed Marty, ‘shit, shit.’
‘Come with us,’ the man beckoned Marty.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To a rendezvous.’
One of the men covering Marty grabbed his shirtfront and pulled him across the room, propelling him towards the door.
One by one they withdrew, leaving Dix and Debbie standing motionless and shocked. Dix was first to move.
‘Fucking hell,’ he cried. He stepped across to the window and looked out through the curtains to the car park below. A van of some sort was drawn up on the tarmac near the front of the motel, its registration number obscured. He watched the four men bundle Marty into the back. Three leapt in with him, the fourth got in the front passenger seat next to a driver and the van sped away, up the road. The night porter ran out behind the van and stood there arms wide, flabbergasted by events.
‘We’d better move,’ said Dix. ‘I have a bad feeling about those men, can’t think why. We need to lie very low.’
Debbie, totally out of her league, dropped back on to the bed and did the only thing she was capable of doing at that moment. She cried.
The three men pinned Marty face down on the floor of the van. One of them knelt on him, his knee pressed between Marty’s shoulder blades and his gun pressed into his neck. As soon as the back doors slammed shut, the van moved off. Marty closed his eyes and did not struggle because he knew it would be useless. He said nothing and tried to stay calm.
They travelled only a very short distance. The van slowed, turned, slowed more and stopped. Marty opened his eyes as the doors were pulled open. The gun was jammed harder into his neck and the man holding it leaned into Marty’s face, huffing garlic-scented breath over him.
‘You get out here. If you struggle you’ll die. Nod if you understand.’
Marty nodded.
‘Come.’ The man eased his knee off Marty’s spine, took hold of his collar and, keeping the muzzle pressed into Marty’s neck, pulled him out of the van. They were in a dark car park which Marty did not recognize. Away to his left, high up, was a motorway he could not place. Either the M6 or M65, but he was too disorientated to work out which.
He was pushed round to the side of the van and down a short pathway. Ahead of him he could see a group of figures in the darkness. He was prodded hard and staggered. He did not complain. He was not in a position to do so.
As the figures got closer, they became more defined in the night.
Four men were standing in a circle, looking at something. The circle parted as Marty reached them and revealed what they were inspecting. It was a man. He was on his knees. His wrists were bound around his back with duct tape, there was a blindfold of the same tape covering his eyes and a strip of it gagged his mouth.
One of the men switched on a torch. He shone the beam into Marty’s eyes, making him flinch.
‘Glad you could come,’ the man said. He turned the beam on to himself and held the torch under his chin, casting the light upwards, casting long eerie shadows up his face. Marty recognized him immediately.
‘Mendoza,’ said Marty.