‘Of course, we will do that back in the room.’
Stegs nodded, standing back up as he shut the briefcase and closed the boot. ‘I’ll go and get the money and catch you up,’ he said. ‘My car’s just over there.’
Fellano raised an eyebrow to indicate that he wasn’t sure about this change of plan.
‘We’ll look too conspicuous going over and staring in the boot of my car as well,’ Stegs told him, ‘and now I know you’ve got the stuff, plus my colleague, I’ve got no incentive not to bring it up to the room.’
Fellano still didn’t appear convinced and gave him a hard stare in an attempt to prise out any lies from behind his eyes, but Stegs kept his business expression firmly on his face, and eventually the Colombian relented. ‘All right, but I want to get this deal sorted out right now, so hurry up. I have a plane to catch.’
Stegs felt like telling him that if he hadn’t messed them around so much earlier he’d have had a lot more time, but instead he turned and walked away in the direction of the parked Merc fifty yards further along the row of cars. When he’d gone about twenty yards, he turned and saw Fellano and Moustache walking back to the hotel, Fellano’s ample wedge of black hair flying comically about in the high wind. He was talking on a mobile, and Stegs wondered who it was he was speaking to, and what exactly he was saying.
He reached the Merc, flicked up the boot and removed the holdall, putting it over one shoulder. Fellano and Moustache had slowed right up in the middle of the car park, waiting for him. Reluctantly, he started after them, wondering just how conspicuous they wanted to be, and why they didn’t want to wait five minutes in the warmth of the hotel room for him to arrive, rather than hanging about in the rain.
When he was within about twenty yards of them, something caught his eye. Three smartly dressed men — two black, one white — in raincoats and caps were getting out of a car a few yards behind the Colombians and to their right, and one of them was watching them intently from behind a pair of glasses that looked brand new and didn’t seem to fit his face.
The man didn’t look right, not at all. Neither did the other two. They might have been dressed smartly but they weren’t like any normal businessmen Stegs had ever met. Who on earth wears a baseball cap with a suit? Maybe the odd fashion casualty, not three together. There was something else too. They were hard bastards, you could see it immediately; it’s not a look a man can hide very easily. He also noticed that the black guy with the glasses was holding something under his coat.
Straight away he knew it was a gun, most likely a shotgun, and straight away he knew that it was there to be pointed at Fellano. Instinctively, he slowed down. At the same time, Fellano turned in Stegs’s direction, tapping his watch in a gesture of impatience, and then suddenly a look of shock crossed his face.
Stegs froze as he heard the sound of rapid footsteps behind him, and the next second something hard and metallic was being pressed into his back. ‘Don’t fucking move,’ hissed his assailant, ripping the holdall from his shoulders, ‘or you’re dead. I’ll blow your fucking spine out. Got that?’
‘It’s all yours,’ said Stegs calmly, making no move to resist, too busy looking straight ahead of him at the scene unravelling in what felt a lot like slow motion. Moustache was reaching into his pocket for a gun while Fellano himself simply stood there, mouth open, watching Stegs, still completely unaware that the three men were making straight for him and the briefcase, weapons now appearing from under their coats. Stegs was right about the shotgun; it was a nasty-looking sawn-off pump-action, and it was pointing straight at Fellano’s back.
At that moment, Fellano must have heard them, or seen something out of the corner of his eye, because he swung round in their direction. Moustache turned as well, an Uzi coming out from his jacket, and Stegs, still standing there as his assailant secured the holdall, knew then that this was going to get very very messy.
‘Give us the fucking case!’ screamed the man with the shotgun, now only five yards from Fellano.
At the same time, Moustache aimed the Uzi at the three robbers, pushing his boss out of the way and going for the safety at the same time. Beyond the group, Stegs could see those people in earshot turning round to see what on earth was going on, utterly transfixed by the shock of the surreal scene being played out in front of them. It was a first for Stegs as well, and difficult for him to get his head round, because even in his sort of game you didn’t expect everyone suddenly to go for the guns and start shooting. That sort of thing belonged firmly in Hollywood films.
‘Drop the fucking gun!’ yelled the pistol-wielding white robber as he caught sight of the Uzi for the first time, but it was already too late.
Shotgun screwed his face into a snarl and, still coming at his target, pulled the trigger.
And that was when all hell broke loose. Moustache flew backwards, the force of the blast lifting him off his feet, while his Uzi suddenly kicked into life, its thirty-two rounds discharging at the sky in a shrill clatter as his grip on the handle loosened. He hit the ground hard and the shotgun roared again, the noise making Stegs’s ears ring. This time, though, it missed its target and blew a gaping hole in the tyre of a people carrier opposite, immediately setting off the alarm.
Someone somewhere let out a scream. Someone somewhere else shouted: ‘Armed police, drop your weapons!’
The white robber had reached Fellano now and was trying to wrestle the briefcase out of his hand, with the help of one of his colleagues. Meanwhile Shotgun was waving his weapon in the direction of the dozen or so men in casual clothes — all wearing black caps — who were now appearing from among the cars, guns drawn, closing in on the scene.
‘Armed police! Drop your weapons!’
But you could see straight away that Shotgun was not going to go quietly. This was a man who had never gone quietly anywhere in his life. His face screaming defiance, he pointed the weapon at a youngish guy in jeans and a leather jacket who was just coming round the back of the people carrier, an MP5 outstretched in both hands.
The cop made the decision no-one with a conscience ever likes to make, and he made it quicker than his target. Two bullets cracked out of the MP5, hitting Shotgun in the upper body. Another cop also fired from behind a Nissan, the same two-shot double tap, this time the rounds striking their target in the face.
Shotgun whirled round, still holding the weapon, still trying to fire, and then a third two-shot volley struck him in the side of the head, the final bloody coup de grace. He died immediately, staring in Stegs’s direction, the shotgun slipping out of his hands and discharging for a third time as it hit the ground in a final gesture of defiant rage, the blast setting off another car alarm.
No-one else decided to go out the hard way. Fellano’s hands shot skywards, and the other two robbers made the same gesture, although far more slowly, the shock of their predicament taking a little longer to register. At the same time, two cops in caps came round from behind Stegs, and he was pushed roughly to the ground. He just managed to get a glance at the man who’d relieved him of his holdall getting the same treatment five yards away before his face was pushed into a puddle and the cuffs were unceremoniously forced on to his wrists.
The hotel room was on the fifth floor and the same side as the car park, so even with the soundproofing the shots and the general cacophony of the confrontation were clearly audible.
Vokes heard his two guards talking rapidly to each other in Spanish, and his fear grew even more intense. He was shaking violently, the dread at what might happen to him becoming almost unbearable. If I get out of this, then that’s it, he told himself. I’m retired. Not just undercover, but the whole thing. They had a codeword if things went wrong but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by using it, and anyway, help should have been here by now. They were only in the next room. What was keeping them? Hurry up! he silently cursed. Get your arses moving! Let me get back to my family. Please, Father. Please, Lord. Not for me, but for them.