Текст книги "Stay Alive"

Автор книги: Simon Kernick

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Forty-nine

BUT JESS DIDN’T die.

She heard the sound of glass breaking behind her, followed by a grunt of surprise, and, as her eyes opened, she saw the big, baby-faced guy falling backwards onto the floor, dropping his gun in the process.

Everything happened very fast then. A second shot rang out and it was clear from the renewed sound of breaking glass that it was coming from outside, giving Jess a sudden surge of hope. But the scar-faced man – the one called Keogh – was already diving out of the way, knocking the old lady over in the process. At the same time Amanda leapt to her feet, keeping low to avoid any more shots from outside, and made a break for the door. Immediately, Keogh’s arm whipped out, snake-like, grabbing her by the leg and yanking it backwards, sending her sprawling. He was on top of her in a second, shoving the gun into the side of her face before dragging her to her feet, and forcing her round so she was facing the window and acting as his shield. Keeping well hidden behind her, he then retreated towards the front door, switching off the main light in the process, leaving the room only dimly lit by a single lamp in one corner.

For a second no one was taking any notice of Jess. The big man was groaning on the floor in front of her, and she could see that his face was covered in blood. But he was a long way from being dead. One big, gloved hand reached out, patting the carpet as he tried to locate the gun. Before Jess had time to react, he’d found it, his fingers gripping the handle as he started to sit up, his eyes open and alert, even though there was a bloody hole in his cheek where the bullet had struck him.

Jess had a sudden nightmarish thought that this guy was invincible, like Jason out of the old Friday the 13th films – that, whatever happened to him, he would survive and keep hunting her down until she was dead. But then her instincts took over and she leapt forward off the sofa, punching him as hard as she could in the face with one hand, and using the other to try to wrestle the gun from his grip.

The gunman clearly hadn’t been expecting an attack because he fell back, his head hitting the floor with an angry thud. The gun clattered out of his hand and Jess reached over and grabbed it by the barrel, a surge of hope rushing through her.

But then suddenly her head was yanked back by her hair with such force that she felt her neck crack, and the next second her face was being slammed into the carpet and the old lady’s voice hissed very close to her ear.

‘Bitch. Now you die.’

As soon as Scope fired the two shots he moved out of sight of the window. He knew he’d taken out the first one with a head shot, because he’d seen the way he’d gone down, but he didn’t think he’d hit the second guy – the one with the scarred face – because, just after the second shot, the main light had gone off inside the room.

He would have preferred not to have opened fire when he did, because he only had a decent view of the big guy. The scar-faced one was partially obscured by a half-pulled curtain. Scope had approached the house carefully – really just a routine reconnaissance, not expecting to see anything untoward – but then, having identified the two gunmen inside, he’d still been in the process of formulating a plan for taking them out when the big guy had raised his weapon and aimed it at one of the two women on the sofa. Even though he couldn’t see either of their faces, he recognized Jess by her short black hair, and he’d fired on instinct.

But now he had a real problem. One bullet left, and at least one gunman still alive.

He moved back round towards the front of the house, keeping to the shadows, before sheltering behind a parked car with a view of the front door.

Almost as soon as he’d positioned himself behind the car, the door flew open and the scar-faced gunman appeared, holding an attractive woman in her thirties in front of him. Scope assumed this must be Amanda, the woman Casey had told him they were after. The gunman held a pistol to the side of her head, and he spotted Scope straight away.

Scope aimed the gun at him, two-handed, but the guy was keeping well hidden behind Amanda, who looked understandably terrified. As Scope watched, the scar-faced man walked sideways, crab-like, away from the door, still using her as a shield. When he was level with Scope, about fifteen feet away, he stopped and took a quick look over his shoulder to check there was no one behind him. Then, satisfied that Scope was alone, he poked his head out a little from behind Amanda.

‘Drop the gun,’ he demanded.

Scope knew there was almost no chance he’d be able to take the gunman down with a clean shot. It was dark, his target was well hidden, the pistol wasn’t accurate over distance and, in the end, he was too out of practice to rely on his shooting skills. But he wasn’t going to disarm himself voluntarily either, knowing this would be as good as sentencing himself to death. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Drop it or I’ll shoot her. Right here. Right now. Do you want to be responsible for that?’

‘I won’t be responsible. You will be.’ Scope’s voice was deadly calm, giving no hint of the tension he was feeling inside. One mistake and he was dead. And if there was another gunman in the house, he was dead anyway.

‘I’m going to count to three,’ said the scar-faced gunman, sounding equally calm. ‘Then I’m going to kill her.’ As he finished speaking, he slipped from view behind Amanda.

She was looking at Scope, the expression of fear frozen on her face. Her mouth was open, as if she desperately wanted to say something but just couldn’t quite get it out.

Who is she? thought Scope. What’s she done, that these people want her so badly? She looked like anyone else – an ordinary woman, with painted nails and a pretty face – caught up in a situation far outside of her experience and control. He mouthed the words ‘it’s going to be okay’ to her, but her expression didn’t change.

‘One.’

‘You’re not going to kill her. You need her alive. Otherwise you’d have killed her already. So, why don’t you just let her go, turn round, and you have my word I won’t try and stop you.’ He paused, hoping he was right in what he was saying. ‘It’s over. I called the police half an hour ago. They’ll be here any minute. Leave while you still can.’

There was a pause, as if the gunman was contemplating Scope’s words, but it was impossible to tell because Scope couldn’t see him properly. Amanda was still staring at him, and Scope knew without a doubt her life was in his hands. And yet he was trapped. He could try and shoot the gunman in his gun hand, but the chance of success was twenty per cent at best, and the price of failure would be death. If he dropped the gun, he died. If he stayed as he was now, the gunman might very well kill Amanda, and he’d probably die anyway in the ensuing firefight.

Standing there under the cold and clear night sky, Scope suddenly felt terribly alone. The tension was loud in his head, like a steadily increasing drumbeat, and out of the periphery of his vision, he saw the pistol shake ever so slightly in his hands.

‘Two,’ said the gunman.

Jess’s nose was bleeding. She could feel the wetness on her face. The pain was sharp and intense, going right back into her head but, rather than slowing her down, it acted as a focus. She knew she was fighting for her life, but she also knew that the woman she was fighting – though amazingly strong for her age – was beatable. She had to be.

They rolled across the carpet, struggling in a brutal embrace. Jess had lost the gun when the old lady had smashed her head into the floor, but she’d managed to knock it out of range as she’d torn herself out of her grip and smacked her hard round the face.

But now the old lady had the advantage. She’d somehow managed to get on top of Jess, her knees pinning down Jess’s arms, her meaty hands round her neck, squeezing. The old lady’s eyes blazed with a cold fury that came right up from her dark heart, and it seemed to give her the strength of someone half her age.

Jess couldn’t breathe, and bright dots were appearing in her vision. She was so exhausted she didn’t know how much strength she had left to fight, but she wasn’t prepared to give up yet. A vision of Casey – beautiful, sweet Casey – burned itself on her mind, and she knew that she couldn’t die, because she owed it to her sister to look after her. So, calling on her last reserves of energy, she forced one arm out from under the old lady’s knee, grabbed her nearest boob above the dress, and gave it a savage twist, pulling at the same time.

The old lady let out a shriek, her grip on Jess’s neck easing temporarily, and Jess managed to free her other arm. Sitting up in one sudden movement, she punched the old lady in the side of the head, then scratched her down the face, drawing blood, lost in a sudden elation of violence.

The old lady fell off her and Jess pounced, smashing her knee into her ample chest, still punching and scratching, not really thinking about what she was doing. Knowing this was all about survival. That, and revenge.

‘Please stop,’ cried the old lady, the rage gone from her eyes. She looked vulnerable and scared now, her face a bloody mess, the skin already swelling and darkening where Jess had struck her.

But it was too late for mercy. Jess struck her again and again. It was as if all the anger she’d ever felt for every terrible thing that had been done to her: the murder of her birth mother; the untimely deaths of the couple who’d taken her in; the savagery of these people she’d had the terrible misfortune to have run into today – it was as if all that anger was pouring out of her gut like a volcanic eruption.

The attack probably only lasted a few seconds before Jess’s conscience got the better of her, and she stopped, but the old lady was no longer moving beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and for a shocked moment Jess wondered if she’d killed her. But then she let out a moan and, feeling a flood of relief, Jess jumped up. She had to get out of here.

As she looked round, she saw the big gunman – the one with the baby face who’d been about to shoot her – lying on his side facing her, the gun in his gloved hand. He looked in a bad way. His gun hand was shaking and his eyes were unfocused. Blood dripped steadily from the hole in his face onto the carpet. But it was clear he wasn’t finished yet. With what looked like a huge effort, he lifted the gun so it was pointed at Jess’s belly.

She leapt out of the way just as he fired, the shot hitting the wall somewhere behind her.

He followed her with the gun, ready to fire again, but luckily his movements were slow and, without thinking about it, Jess sprinted for the half-open front door as a second shot rang out, missing her. She pulled open the door so hard that it slammed against the living-room wall, and then she was through it, seeing Amanda and Scarface out on the driveway in front of her, barely registering the sight before she heard the third shot and felt something hard and painful bang into her leg.

As the scar-faced gunman counted three, both Scope and Amanda visibly stiffened, and Amanda let out a small cry that tore at Scope’s heart, her eyes wide with fear.

But nothing happened. No shot rang out.

‘I said: fucking drop it. Last chance. Or she dies.’

Scope swallowed; even in the cold, he felt a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He suddenly felt very tired. ‘You’re not going to kill her,’ he said firmly. ‘Just walk away. This is over. I’m not dropping my gun.’

For a long moment, the three of them stood there, rigid as statues, as if they’d been caught in a freeze-frame. It was a classic Mexican standoff, but one that both Scope and the gunman knew couldn’t last. As if to confirm the fact, way off in the distance, its sound carried by the wind, came the wail of a police siren. There was no question that, out here in such a lonely, isolated place, the siren was meant for them.

Something was going to happen, thought Scope. It had to. His finger tightened on the trigger.

And then a shot – muffled, thanks to the suppressor – rang out from inside the house. It was followed almost immediately by a second, then a third.

Scope couldn’t help it. He glanced towards the house as Jess came sprinting out the door.

Which was when the scar-faced gunman appeared from behind Amanda and fired at Scope, the shot coming so close to his face that he felt its heat as it passed. Resisting the instinctive urge to fire back and use his last bullet, Scope dived down behind the car, as the gunman let off a second round that passed right through it, exiting the driver’s side window in a noisy shower of glass.

Keeping down by the driver’s side door, Scope moved a couple of steps to the left and peered up through the back window. The gunman was trying to pull Amanda backwards, at the same time waving his gun in his direction, while trying to keep half an eye on Jess who was staggering towards him, clutching her leg. Then, in a sudden movement, Amanda broke free from the gunman’s grip and grabbed for his gun.

Reacting fast, the gunman shoved her out of the way, so there was a few feet between them, and swung round again so he was facing the car Scope was sheltering behind.

But Scope was fast too. Leaping up from behind the boot, he had a split-second advantage over the gunman, who’d clearly expected him to appear from a different spot, and he used it to take rapid aim and pull the trigger.

The shot took the gunman somewhere in the upper body. He managed to loose off a round himself, which only just missed Scope, but then he staggered backwards, clutching a spot just below the shoulder of his gun arm, a surprised look on his face.

There was a moment’s pause as Amanda, who was standing a few feet from the gunman, waited for Scope to fire a second shot, but he shook his head, mouthing that he was out of bullets. Amanda didn’t hesitate. Before the gunman could recover, she leapt forward and punched him in the side of the head, the force of her blow knocking him to the ground, although he still continued to keep a grip on his gun.

Over to his right, Scope saw movement in the doorway of the house. A figure was emerging, moving very awkwardly, and Scope immediately recognized him as the big gunman he’d shot. The lower half of his face was almost entirely obscured by a curtain of blood, and he had to lean against the doorframe to support himself. But he too still had hold of a gun and he was trying hard to lift it so he could shoot at the two women.

‘Run!’ yelled Scope. ‘My car’s up the track. Take it!’

Amanda let fly with a ferocious kick to the head of the scar-faced gunman that actually shunted him a foot or so along the concrete, then turned and took hold of Jess, who was still clutching her leg. They set off up the driveway clinging together like a couple in a three-legged race, but moving at a surprising speed thanks to the adrenalin that must have been pumping through them both.

Hearing Scope’s shout, the big man at the door turned his gun towards him and pulled the trigger. But the shot was way off and he was clearly so weak that, when the gun kicked in his hand, it almost made him lose his footing and fall over.

Meanwhile the gunman lying on the ground was leaning round facing the direction of Amanda and Jess, aiming his gun at their fleeing figures.

It was a bad mistake. Knowing he had to take his chance, Scope charged across the courtyard, keeping low to avoid giving the big guy a target. The scar-faced gunman heard him coming and turned round, raising his weapon, but he was way too slow and, without breaking stride, Scope kicked the gun out of his hand, before hitting the deck himself as a shot rang out from the doorway. He rolled over on the concrete, grabbed the gun in both hands, and took aim at the big guy, who was balancing precariously, shifting from foot to foot, looking as if he might fall at any second, the gun hanging from one gloved hand as if it was a huge weight.

Scope took his time, then fired a single shot, hitting the big guy in the chest. The gun dropped from the man’s hand, clattering on the steps, and he fell to his knees. Scope waited, not wanting to fire again so he could conserve what bullets were left, and a second later the big guy toppled onto his side, his head hanging from the bottom step, and stayed still.

Scope lay where he was for a few seconds, gun pointed towards the door, wondering if there was anyone else in there he needed to deal with. But all was silent and eventually he got to his feet. Looking behind him, he could just make out Amanda and Jess in the darkness, rounding a corner on the track and disappearing from view. The sight pleased him. They were safe now. So was Casey. He’d done what he had to do. Now he was going to have to face the consequences of his actions.

The scar-faced gunman moaned on the ground. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

Scope walked round so he was standing above him and pointed the gun down at his head. ‘I’m a man who doesn’t like to walk on by. You killed a friend of mine. You tried to kill innocent people, including kids. I was never going to stand by and let that happen.’

‘I bet you think you’ve done a really good deed, don’t you?’ There was a mocking tone to the gunman’s voice as he spoke, and a thin smile formed on his face, causing the scar tissue to ripple.

‘I saved lives.’ He looked towards the front door. ‘Who else is in there?’

‘No one. There was only me and MacLean. He’s a copper too. Can you believe that?’ He started to laugh but it turned into a choke. ‘I’ve never been shot before,’ he continued after he’d recovered. ‘It’s funny. It doesn’t actually hurt that much.’ He moved his gloved hand away from the wound and inspected it.

The entry wound was small, and Scope knew it wasn’t going to be fatal. It crossed his mind to shoot him there and then, but the anger that had been driving him on all night was beginning to fade now. In the distance, he could hear the Land Rover he’d come in starting up.

‘That woman,’ hissed the gunman. ‘The one you’ve just saved. Amanda Rowan. Guess what?’

Scope didn’t say anything.

‘She’s a killer. She killed her husband and my boss’s daughter. Her and someone else. That’s what we wanted her for. To find out who her accomplice was. And now you’ve let her go scot-free, and no one’s ever going to be able to prove a thing against her. Thanks to you, she’s going to get away with murder.’

‘How can you be so sure she did it?’

‘The murders were meant to be the work of The Disciple. You know, that serial killer who’s been slaughtering couples down south.’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘Except we know for a fact that The Disciple never killed Amanda Rowan’s old man or my boss’s daughter, because we spent two days torturing him, and he admitted everything except those two murders.’ He coughed and spat on the flagstones before carrying on. ‘It was all a set-up. I almost admire the bitch.’

Scope rolled his shoulders back, trying to ease the tension in them. ‘I was just trying to save the kids,’ he said.

The gunman groaned. ‘Christ, it was all such a mess. We were just meant to snatch her and that was that. No one else was meant to get hurt. I didn’t want to kill any kids. I’m not an animal.’

‘Tell it to the cops,’ said Scope. ‘I’m not interested.’

‘No way. I’m not going back inside. I spent too long there.’ With a huge effort, he sat up, using one hand for support.

Scope had already killed twice in cold blood tonight. He didn’t want to have to do it a third time. Instead, he kicked the gunman in the face, knocking him onto his back, his head hitting the flagstones as he cried out in pain, closing his eyes.

Scope patted him down to confirm he didn’t have any more weapons, then left him there, confident that he was no longer any threat, and walked over to the farmhouse door. It was time to call the police and give them the latest on what had happened. The thought worried him. If the scar-faced gunman was right, and Amanda Rowan was a killer, then Jess was still in danger, which meant that he needed to get the police to intercept them. He could hear faint sirens in the distance, above the sound of the wind. Christ, what a night it had been. And yet, if he’d had his time again, he wouldn’t have done anything differently, even if it did mean he’d soon be under arrest and on his way to a police station.

Whether he came out of it again a free man was anyone’s guess.

He stopped by the body of the big guy and looked down at him. He had a round, pudgy baby face and he looked young, definitely under thirty. What a waste of a life, he thought, even if he had brought it on himself.

He bent down to pick up his discarded gun and stopped, frowning.

Because it wasn’t there.