‘ It might mean a big conspiracy,’ Danny finished. ‘My head hurts.’
Crane jogged ahead of Smith, a black Ruger P85 in his hands, the one he’d used for the robbery, now reloaded, one in the chamber, fifteen in the magazine, another mag tucked into his waistband just in case. Smith was armed with a heavier Skarab Skorpion.
Crane stopped momentarily at the office door and took a deep breath. He counted with his left hand, slicing the air, one, two, three. Then he twisted into the office and said, ‘Sorry boys, but this is the way it is,’ and began firing, aware that Drozdov was not in the room, just Gary and Gunk. Where the hell was the Russian?
It did not make Crane hesitate. He shot them where they sat.
Gary was hit first. One in the face, one in the neck, two in the chest. The massive impact of the bullets lifted him from the chair and toppled him backwards, legs rising upwards and over.
Gunk threw himself to one side with a scream. Crane was surprised by his speed for an instant. Then he was back on track, aiming and firing at the bulk of Gunk’s moving body, hitting him in the shoulder, ribs and hip. Gunk contorted and writhed on the floor of the office, dragging a metallic filing cabinet down on top of himself
Crane rushed forwards and finished him off with one to the side of the head.
He checked Gary, who twitched like he was being tickled, but was very definitely dead.
Crane ejected the magazine from the handle and dropped it into his pocket, replacing it quickly with the full one from his waistband. His eyes made contact with Smith who stood in the doorway, astounded by his partner’s deadly efficiency.
‘ Where’s the other fucker?’ Crane hissed. He was hardly out of breath, but in control, enjoying this.
The response to the question was immediate and fatal.
Suddenly Smith began a wild, macabre dance as bullets riddled into him, discharged from the Uzi held by Drozdov. Black holes burst open across his chest, hurling him backwards. His gun flew out of his grasp and he was slammed violently against the office wall. There was a short pause — long enough for Smith to look down and inspect the wounds across his chest and then look up at Crane, disbelief on his face — by which time Drozdov had readjusted his aim and opened fire again. He put a line of bullets across Smith’s face which removed his lower jaw.
Crane dropped to the floor like a stone, cursing. He then crawled behind the filing cabinet which had fallen over Gunk’s body.
Drozdov strafed the office. As the wall was only thin plasterboard, little protection was offered to Crane who was pinned down, nowhere to run.
The firing stopped abruptly when the magazine clicked empty.
Crane knew he had to move now. His current position was indefensible and he was dead if he stayed there.
He scrambled to his feet, using Gunk’s neck as purchase to achieve momentum, and launched himself head first out of the office. He threw himself into a forward roll which took him to the back wheel of the Audi where he crouched down, protected by the car, dry-mouthed, now breathing heavily, his senses at their most acute, listening hard, unsure of Drozdov’s exact position, which was not a good thing. He could hear re-loading taking place and knew he was out-gunned. Pistol versus machine pistol. Bad odds at this sort of range.
Where the hell was the Russian?
Behind the BMW? Near to the Sherpa?
Christ, he was good, Crane thought magnanimously. How had he managed to get out of the office without being seen? Crane gave a short, bitter laugh. He realised that he and the Russian were two of a kind. He’d seen it in the eyes. Watched it in the way he’d disposed of the security guards. Cold. Clinical. No fuss, just business. And the problem was, when people like this clashed, there could only be one victor. A draw was unacceptable.
Crane peered cautiously over the boot of the Audi. He guessed the Russian was probably over by the BMW, protected by the bulk of its engine, probably no more than twenty feet away. Beyond was the gloom of the warehouse. Floor-to-roof shelving, stacked with goods, mainly cigarettes, booze and perfume. The shelves were end-on to where Crane was positioned and he could see down the aisles which were wide enough for forklift trucks to operate down. Around the inner warehouse wall, about fifteen feet from the ground, was a metallic walkway reached by steps next to the office door, about eight feet to the right from where Crane was hunched. Fifteen feet to his left was the Sherpa parked in the loading bay. That vehicle, maybe, offered some protection, but at that moment, Crane could not even think of reaching it.
Incredibly there was a sudden movement in the office. Crane’s head snapped round and he saw something amazing.
It was Don Smith. Jaw-less, riddled with bullets, he was dragging himself through the door, slipping and slurping in his own pool of deep red, nearly black, blood. Most of his face had been ripped off by Drozdov’s shooting. Crane could not believe what he was seeing.
‘ Don!’ he gasped.
Smith’s eyes pleaded with his partner. Then there was a dull ‘thu-thu-thu’ of bullets being sprayed from the Uzi. Smith’s head exploded with their impact.
And Crane was able to pinpoint Drozdov’s position behind the BMW and took advantage of the distraction.
He ran low and fast towards the Sherpa and dropped into the loading bay, putting the Sherpa between himself and Drozdov.
Drozdov loosed off a lazy burst towards the Sherpa, the shells smacking into the side panel of the vehicle, making a sound like hailstone.
Crane rolled towards the front of the Sherpa, getting more protection from the engine block. He was tempted to return fire, but it would have been useless, just a gesture, nothing more. He had little ammunition and needed to save it for critical incidents — when he had a good chance of taking Drozdov’s life.
The stench of cordite hung heavily in the atmosphere. Smith’s body lay grotesquely positioned in the puddle of his blood, coagulating like tar, his head destroyed. Beyond him, Crane could just see Gunk underneath the filing cabinet, his head a gory mess too and though he too was dead, his mouth popped open and closed repeatedly, like a fish.
Nothing had happened for at least a minute. Maybe longer, maybe not. Time had lost its substance.
Crane was convinced Drozdov had not moved, was still behind the BMW He was reluctant to make the first move because he didn’t want it to go to rat-shit and be his last. Yet to have to react to Drozdov could be fatal. From what Crane knew of the Russian Mafia, shoot-outs like this were ten a penny in Moscow and people like Drozdov were experienced in dealing with such situations. Conversely, Crane’s shoot-outs had always tended to be one-sided. His opponents were not usually armed, which was a big advantage. This was a new scenario for Crane, but he wasn’t fazed by it. It was like a game of chess — but with consequences.
He was squatting down by the front offside wheel of the Sherpa, close to the driver’s door, taking his main cover from the engine. He knew car panels were useless against bullets and had known people die behind them, thinking they were safe. The front of the vehicle faced the roller door and the operating panel was on the wall, about five feet above ground. The control button was ten feet away from Crane himself.