A grimace creased his face as he weighed up the possibility of doing a runner. The keys were still in the ignition. All he needed to do was open the door, get in and drive away with the money.
Yeah, sure. Dream on.
The roller door would take an eon to open and Sherpa vans were notoriously bad at quick starts.
Stalemate.
‘ You did what I would have done. I respect that,’ Drozdov called out from behind the BMW ‘We can talk. I know there is far more money than you led us to believe. We can split it. We are businessmen, after all.’
‘ You killed my friend, Jacky Lee.’
‘ You butchered my colleagues.’
‘ Big difference,’ Crane shouted. ‘Fucking big difference.’
‘ And you would have killed me.’
‘ Likewise, wanker.’
‘ Such is life. It is not easy, but we can negotiate. I am a man of my word.’
‘ Ivan the fuckin’ Terrible. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could spit. I smelled you for trouble as soon as I saw you.’
‘ I’m honoured. So what is it to be? Sit here until we grow old and die of natural causes — or do we compromise? Remember, you are outgunned and out-positioned. I can be a very poor shot with this Uzi and yet still mow you down; you have to be a marksman with a pistol. Compromise, Billy Crane — a good word — a very good offer.’
Crane looked at the Ruger. The Russian was right. It is very difficult to be accurate with a pistol other than at very close range, whereas it’s dead easy with a machine pistol set on automatic. Aiming did not come into it. Point, pull, shoot, sweep, kill.
In that case, Crane decided, I’ll have to get in close to the bastard.
He reached up with his right hand for the driver’s door handle which he gripped firmly and pressed quietly with his thumb.
There was a click which seemed loud and echoey, but drew no response from Drozdov. The door opened a quarter of an inch. Crane released the handle and eased his fingertips under the bottom edge of the door and pulled it slowly open. All the while he was expecting a hail of fire from Drozdov, but nothing came; he assumed the Russian was either squatting down behind the BMW and not looking, or was manoeuvring his way round for a better shot. Whatever, Crane knew his time was limited. When the door was open wide enough, he reached up towards the key in the ignition in the steering column, just behind the wheel. His idea was to try to see if the engine would start and use the noise as a distraction to cover the sound of any movement. He just had to hope the thing would get going without use of the gas pedal because he could not safely contort himself to turn the key with one hand and dab the accelerator with the other. Climbing up and sitting in the driver’s seat was obviously out of the question.
Crane turned the key. The engine coughed, died.
‘ Shit!’
He was about to try again when Drozdov stood up and sprayed a line of bullets in to the Sherpa, sending Crane diving back behind the engine block.
Not a good idea, he thought, as the sound of gunfire died away. If nothing else it would be folly to put the Sherpa at risk from damage by bullets. If one hit something vital, he would be struggling to transport the money — if he came out of this alive.
He controlled his breathing again. The only way to win this, he decided, was to take direct action. He had to take the fight to the Russian.
Crane checked the Ruger again, making damn sure there was one ready in the chamber and that the magazine was full. Yes, on both counts.
He leaned back against the front wheel and inhaled deep, slow breaths, calming himself, thinking of tactics.
The only way he could imagine taking the Russian was by a sudden, unexpected, frontal assault, using the element of surprise and, if necessary, going out in a blaze of glory.
His wet right hand gripped the handle of the gun. The sweaty tip of his forefinger curled around the trigger. He cupped his left hand underneath his right and lifted the gun. 32 oz seemed very heavy.
Before he moved, he visualised every step of the way in his mind’s eye. First, the relative positions of the vehicles. He imagined he was a bird, looking down, seeing the layout from above. The Sherpa in the loading bay, the Audi in the warehouse, almost parallel to it and in front of that, skewed at an angle, the big BMW behind which Drozdov was taking cover. What was on the floor that might trip him? Crane thought hard. Nothing, he could recall nothing. Then he began to envision his course of action, frame by frame. Up on to his feet — then into a roll which would take him the ten feet or so to the rear of the Audi, and on the way loosing off two shots to keep Drozdov’s head down. Once behind the Audi, no pause. Dive fast and low towards the BMW, somewhere in the region of the rear nearside wheel. Down to the floor and fire underneath the car to take out Drozdov’s feet and legs and arse if he happened to be sitting on it, using every last bullet in the gun to do as much damage to the bastard as possible.
He counted down from five.
On ‘one’ he came to life and moved, twisting across the front of the Sherpa and suddenly seeing that the gap between that vehicle and the Audi was wider than he remembered. As he threw himself into the dive which would become his roll, this reality hit him and he knew he would be exposed twice as long as he intended.
‘ Bam! Bam!’ He fired his planned two shots and launched himself, hit the ground hard, jarring his left shoulder and morphed what should have been a single forward roll into a double.
Drozdov reacted immediately, rising and raking the blurred figure of Crane with fire from the Uzi, but all the while shooting just a fraction behind him — until Crane disappeared behind the Audi and half a dozen of Drozdov’s slugs slammed into the tough, Teutonic bodywork.
The gunfire was deafening. But Crane still managed to hear the metallic click of the hammer on the empty chamber and the muted curse from Drozdov’s lips as the Uzi dried up. A competent gunman would have the new magazine slotted in within seconds. Crane had no illusions that the Russian was anything less than competent, but at the same time knew that the moment had come and he had to grab it, or die.
He scrambled to his feet, his toes losing purchase on the concrete floor for a precious moment before they gripped. He ran across to the BMW veered around to it far side, handgun ready to fire. He found the Russian leaning against the car, fumbling to ram in the new magazine.
Drozdov, magazine in his right hand, useless Uzi in his left, stopped instantly and looked up at the menacing figure of Billy Crane. He held up the separate parts with a shrug and a smile of resignation and hurled them at Crane, crabbing away backwards.
Crane dodged the metal. He aimed deliberately at the retreating Russian and pulled the trigger six times, blasting 9mm holes into his chest and stomach until Drozdov lay there without moving, probably dead.
Crane stood over him like a Colossus and put another two into his head.
Chapter Eighteen
It was midnight. Danny emerged from her bathroom smelling of Johnson’s body wash. She had a robe wrapped tightly around her and was rubbing her short hair with a hand towel. She felt refreshed after the shower. It had been a long day. She went into the back bedroom and settled down to dry her hair at the dressing table.
A curiously pleasant feeling came over her as she went downstairs into the lounge and drew the curtains. She switched on a couple of table lamps, keeping the lighting subdued, and inserted a CD into the stereo and waited for the first track to start playing. The serene, deep and uplifting music of Ladysmith Black Mambazo filtered out of the speakers and sent a tingle down her spine. It was wonderful, atmospheric stuff and Danny hated herself for not discovering it many years before. She adjusted the volume so it was just right to fill the room, yet not intrusive or overpowering, then wandered into the kitchen.