Past Echoes Page 24

  I watch as he reaches into the back seat and pulls out what looks like a machine pistol.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that this man is The Mortician, despite being way ahead of his stated ETA.

  This, along with the way he dispatched Yerik, tells me a few things. First, he is not here answering Tagliente’s call. Instead, he’s got his own reasons for being here, and the way he killed Yerik suggests they’re not friendly in nature.

  Second, he straight away murdered an unknown, and then prepared his SUV for a swift exit which tells me he’s got his own agenda.

  Third, you don’t pack a machine pistol when you’re making a social call, even if it’s dressed up as a summons. Therefore he either knows we’re here, or his agenda has something to do with Tagliente.

  I whirl to face Baruch and Ike. We have seconds to make a plan that will see three amateurs face a trained assassin.

  We have two automatic pistols and a sawn-off shotgun, while he has a machine pistol, plus the silenced pistol he used to kill Yerik. That’s before we even mention his superior training and the fact that he does this for a living.

  All we have going for us is the element of surprise as he’ll be expecting no defence from Tagliente.

  As he’s coming through the front door, Baruch and Ike move an antique dresser so it will provide cover for us should we need it.

  I pull out my gun and check the safety is off – and that the spare clip is easily accessible from my jacket pocket. I’d gotten more ammunition courtesy of Baruch, and I wasn’t dumb enough to ask questions about where it had come from.

  With the barricade established, I make my way to the far end of the landing.

  The Mortician has been here before, therefore he’ll know the layout of the house and will probably head for the upstairs lounge and Tagliente’s master bedroom when he breaches the top of the stairs.

  I plan to creep up behind him and put a bullet in his back. It may not be gallant, but that’s tough; he killed my girlfriend. So far as I’m concerned, the normal rules of engagement don’t apply.

  There’s no sound of footsteps but I hear the racking of a gun’s slide an instant before a deafening clatter erupts.

  86

  I don’t see The Mortician, but he must be firing both ways as I’m forced to duck back into the bedroom of the doorway I’m hiding in. All I can hope is that neither Ike nor Baruch have been hit.

  To limit the possibility of detection, I lie prone on the floor with my gun in front of me.

  The Mortician’s voice rings out. ‘I know you’re there. I’ve seen you’ve tied up some folks downstairs. Where’s Jason Tagliente?’

  ‘I’m here. There’s two of—’

  A heavy slap silences Tagliente.

  It’s too little too late. The Mortician now knows there’s at least two opponents and that at least one of them is with Tagliente. Our only hope is that The Mortician thinks Tagliente was giving him a total head count, rather than the full locational information I’m sure he was about to give.

  I should have either gagged or killed him when I had the chance.

  It feels strange that I regret not doing the latter more.

  I crane my neck so my line of sight increases and I can see more of the upstairs corridor. Where the bedroom door blocks my vision I can see the outline of a man’s arm.

  I’m about to crane further when the arm whirls round and I see a gun pointing down the corridor towards where I am hidden.

  I hold my breath, afraid to move lest it attracts him.

  The arm turns round, so I crane an extra couple of inches until I can see The Mortician’s back.

  He whirls again after a second step.

  Like the trained professional he is, he’s keeping a good watch on his rear. My plan wasn’t much, but it’s useless in the face of his superior firepower and techniques. Unless we get lucky, or take near suicidal risks, he’ll pick us off one by one.

  I hear the double boom of Baruch’s shotgun and see large amounts of plaster blast from the corridor’s rear wall.

  The Mortician fires off a couple of bursts and I hear a pained yelp, followed by the considerable thud of Baruch falling to the ground. He’s moaning, which means he’s still alive, but it doesn’t mean he will be for long.

  Ike bursts from the lounge where he’s been hiding. His gun is blazing but he’s shooting in anger without any amount of thought for his aim.

  I’d join in with his fusillade were I not more fearful of us hitting each other than The Mortician. I’m maybe twenty feet away, and I know that’s further than I can aim with any level of accuracy.

  The Mortician’s first bullet hits the shoulder of Ike’s gun arm, the second and third blast into his kneecaps. He falls with a scream and does his best to press his hands on his wounds.

  I watch as The Mortician approaches the stricken Ike and kicks his fallen gun away. ‘Oh dear, has baby got a boo-boo?’

  The Mortician drags Ike into the master bedroom and props him next to his brother. ‘It’s time for you to tell me a bedtime story before you go to sleep. First, you can tell me who you are and why you’re here, then you can tell me who sent you.’

  Ignoring the fact that he’s killed one new friend and crippled two others, I’m pretty sure I’d hate The Mortician based on the way he speaks to his victims.

  I rise and take slow, tentative steps towards him as he pulls a combat knife from a sheath on his leg.

  ‘Who wants to tell me a story?’

  87

  I’m twenty feet away and closing when Baruch roars with pain as The Mortician buries three inches of steel into his leg. Beside him, Ike is fighting to stay conscious, his face slick with sweat and twisted in agony. The wound in my leg aches in sympathy with Baruch’s injury.

  The Mortician gives his knife a twist, but Baruch’s elephantine head just shakes. His jaw is set and he’s not letting another sound escape his lips. His hands are clasped against his stomach and blood is oozing out between his fingers.

  Eighteen feet. Every step is taken with caution as there’s nowhere for me to hide should The Mortician become aware of me sneaking up behind him.

  The knife is removed from Baruch’s right leg and plunged into his left. His face judders, but he maintains his silence.

  Fifteen feet.

  The knife is removed and wiped clean on Baruch’s pants.

  The Mortician uses a gloved hand to remove Ike and Baruch’s ski masks.

  ‘Your buddy looks awful like you. I’m guessing he’s your brother, or a cousin. If you’re not going to talk for your sake, perhaps you’ll talk for his.’

  The Mortician moves his knife until it’s within an inch of Ike’s left eye.

  Twelve feet. If I can get within ten feet, or less, I’m confident that I can put a bullet in The Mortician’s body without missing, or hitting Ike or Baruch.

  My knuckles are white as I grip the pistol. My entire concentration is on what I can see over the gun’s sights.

  Ike turns his head, so his eye is moved away from the knife, and his left eye is now looking my way. He sees me.

  Eleven feet.

  ‘Screw you.’

  As he speaks, Ike throws his head forward, driving his right eye onto the knife, and twists, so the knife is wrenched from The Mortician’s hand. He screams as he reaches up with his good hand and plucks the knife, complete with his eyeball, from where it has lodged.

  I see all of this from the corner of my eye as I pump two bullets into The Mortician’s back.

  Ike slams the knife into The Morticians leg then collapses to the floor and howls in agony.

  I keep my eyes on The Mortician as I dash forward. My gun is trained on his back and as much as I’d like to kill him outright, now that he’s down and wounded, I need to tell him why he’s going to die. I want to see the fear in his eyes fade to nothing.

  I’m two feet away when I realise what I’m seeing, but not seeing.

  There’s no blood on the Mortician’s ba
ck; I’ve shot him twice yet there’s no sign of any blood.

  I realise why there’s no blood at the same time The Mortician flips over and fires his silenced pistol my way.

  The only reason his shots miss is because my lizard brain must have arrived at this conclusion before the rest of me, and therefore instigated the necessary dive for safety.

  The two bullets I put in his back had enough force to knock him flat, but not so much that they were able to penetrate the bulletproof vest he must be wearing.

  88

  I roll to my feet and dive into the lounge where the hookers and Tagliente’s buddies are. My gun is in my hand as I look for cover and an escape route. There are French doors leading to a balcony, but to get the doors open I’ll have to turn my back to the entrance. The idea of doing that doesn’t seem appealing.

  There’s a sturdy occasional table in the middle of the room. It looks thick enough to stop a bullet, so I tip it over. If nothing else, it will protect me enough to give me a chance.

  I hear The Mortician’s voice – he’s singing a lullaby; there’s a cough, followed by a loud scream.

  The screaming must have come from Tagliente, as the pitch is way too high to be either Ike or Baruch.

  As much as I want to go to their rescue, I know The Mortician is trying to draw me out, rather than come hunting for me. He’s aware I have a gun and, while I know a little about him, he knows nothing about me.

  He’ll be wondering if he’s facing someone as good as he is, or a rank amateur. In his position, I’d assume I was facing a pro and take the necessary precautions. So far as I can tell, that’s pretty much what he is doing.

  I risk a peek over the upturned table. There’s nothing to see, other than an empty door showing me the corridor. I’m about to make a run for the French doors, when I notice the light in the doorway changing.

  The machine pistol comes around the door frame and starts barking as it spits out bullets.

  I duck behind the table and watch as The Mortician stitches bullets one way then the other.

  The table holds firm when a bullet hits it, but the glass of the French doors shatters, as do ornaments and various other fripperies that decorate the room.

  When the machine pistol clicks empty, I bob up and train my gun at the door in case The Mortician has entered the room.

  He hasn’t.

  Instead, I see him whirl across the doorway with his silenced pistol looking for a target. I fire a couple of shots his way, but I don’t hear the slap of a bullet hitting flesh.

  The fact he’s wearing a bulletproof vest makes things even more difficult for me. It means I have to aim for either his head or his legs. Both of these targets are far smaller than the torso, and both are liable to be in constant motion.

  That Ike has wounded one of The Mortician’s legs gives me something of an advantage; yet my own leg is stiff, and it aches whenever I move with anything approaching urgency.

  I put another shot through the doorway and turn to run through the starred glass of the French doors.

  My shoulder charge sends square marbles of safety glass cascading across the balcony.

  As soon as I reach the railing, I vault onto the sloping roof and slide towards the gutter.

  Not knowing what I may land on, I flip on my stomach and use my toes as brakes. They don’t work too well, and I bounce over the gutter when I reach it, but the action has at least slowed me enough for me to grab it with both hands.

  I hang on to the gutter until I have seen how far I have to drop, and what I’m going to land on.

  My feet slam down on the pathway and I throw myself into a roll to break the impact. It was only ten feet or so, but the paving blocks are hard and unforgiving.

  I swap the used magazine in my gun for the full one in my pocket. I now have ten shots again, plus a spare five should I need them.

  I hope to God I don’t.

  89

  Cameron eases his feet to the floor and levers himself upright. He’d seen no point in staying in hospital, but had gone along with it for one simple reason: when he’s in here, he’s not under Ivy’s watch.

  He retrieves his clothes from the cabinet beside his bed and tiptoes to the bathroom.

  It takes him longer than usual to dress himself, as he feels weak and unsteady, but he doesn’t worry too much about time. The nurse did her hourly check a few minutes ago and he’s content in the knowledge that he’ll be gone before she returns.

  Taking an extra two minutes to dress won’t matter either way; once he’s out of hospital, he’s answerable to nobody.

  He peeks through the door’s porthole and sees the nurse’s station is devoid of life.

  Ivy is sitting on a chair in the corridor, outside his door, but her head is on her chest and he can hear her gentle snores.

  He makes his way past her with his shoes in his hand.

  Cameron chooses the stairs over the lift – it’s only one floor and there’ll be no beeps or floor announcements to wake a sleeping dragon.

  The news broadcasts he’d watched on the hospital TV had brought him the best of news. Somehow, Jake had prevailed and had managed to take out Olly Kingston.

  This means the price on Cameron’s head will be lifted; that he won’t have to spend the rest of his life looking over both shoulders at once.

  He sits on the third from bottom step, pulls on his shoes and ties the laces.

  While today is the first day of the rest of his life, the last day of his old one had turned out well enough.

  He’d saved the life of one son, while another had eliminated his enemies. On the whole, Cameron figures it has worked out even.

  He doesn’t know which way he’ll go, or where he’ll end up, but that’s fine by him.

  Life is an adventure, and he plans to live it to the full.

  Cameron whistles as he walks out of the hospital and looks for a taxi.

  Behind him, unseen, a woman places her hand flat against a first-floor window and tries to suppress the tears pricking her eyes.

  90

  I get back into the house via a door that leads into the kitchen. The people we’d left tied up now have bullet holes in their heads.

  All my senses are on full alert as I try to not only locate The Mortician, but get the jump on him too. I’m positive he’ll be doing the same as me, and although I’m feeling a massive amount of guilt at leaving Ike and Baruch at his mercy, I’d be less use to them dead.

  I hear a rustle and whirl towards it with my gun extended, ready to fire, but it’s only the breeze blowing a drape. The last thing I want to do is pull my trigger and alert The Mortician to my location.

  I grab a vase with my left hand and launch it from my vantage point at the base of the hall. It arcs through the air, bounces off a wall, and lands on the thick stair carpet.

  The crash of breaking glass I’d been hoping for doesn’t happen, but there is a dull thud.

  I wait for a reaction.

  Gunshots at the vase would be ideal.

  The sound of running footsteps would do.

  I hear neither.

  What I see is something I don’t want to.

  There are wisps of smoke coming from the door to Tagliente’s study.

  As I’m becoming aware of the smoke, I see the door to the downstairs lounge teasing its way open.

  I sight my gun, but The Mortician sees me and whips up his machine pistol as I pull my trigger.

  There’s no way I could have hit him – I was ducking away as my finger tightened on the trigger. The bullet will have been wild and, so far as I’m concerned, it’s a waste of a precious round.

  I retreat to the kitchen and wait for him to come to me.

  The position I’ve taken up gives me cover behind a central workstation and I can see the doorway clearly. As soon as he steps through it, I’ll have him.

  I hear footsteps and there’s a sudden crash as he charges through the door. He’s less than a step inside when he pulls the triggers on B
aruch’s sawn-off shotgun. I get a shot off, but there’s no way of knowing if it’s hit him.

  The top of the workstation erupts in splinters by my head and I feel a thousand pinpricks in my scalp. While it hurts like hell, I don’t think there’s any real damage done.

  I hear his machine pistol chatter, and as soon as it clicks on empty I whirl to the opposite side and fire three shots of my own.

  We’re now on either side of the workstation.

  Both of us have to guess which way the other will go.

  To go the wrong way will bring us face to face. To go the right way, but too slowly, will expose our backs.

  I pull a pan from a cubbyhole and toss it to one side.

  He shoots at it and there is the clang of metal as his aim is accurate.

  I dive to the other side and aim two shots at the booted feet protruding from the safety of the workstation.

  One of my shots produces a puff of red from his ankle and a pained yelp.

  First blood to me.

  In a fight like this it doesn’t matter who draws first blood, only who is left standing.

  At least my bullet will have further affected his mobility.

  Above anything else, I now have the advantage as I’m able to move more freely.

  ‘Hey there, Mr Mortician. How does it feel to be shot?’

  My taunt is enough to make him fire a couple of shots my way, but he recovers his composure far quicker than I’d hoped.

  ‘It stings a little, but don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.’

  He fires three shots my way and there’s a clicking sound.

  I throw myself towards him with my gun firing, until it too clicks on empty.

  91

  The Mortician is unscathed by my bullets but he’s on his ass, while I’m on my feet, so I aim a kick at his head.

  He ducks under my boot and one of his hands snakes out and grabs my ankle. He yanks, and I fall.