Smoothly pulled the trigger.
The flash from Wallace’s muzzle half-blinded Spike. What the hell? When he looked through the night scope again Wallace was on his back, still holding the pistol. No question though, he’d fired it before getting brassed up. Were they both dead? Couldn’t tell.
Spike collected his shell case, slung the rifle in his bag, climbed down.
Time to finish the job.
* * *
Wallace didn’t know what happened.
One second he was in control of the situation; next he was hit by a freight train. Back slammed into concrete, chest started burning. Touched the top of his left pec, felt warm liquid. Held it in front of his eyes: dark. Had to be blood. His own. Jesus. He gasped, tried to make sense of it. Did the nine backfire? Could someone else have shot him right as he pulled the trigger?
Lifting his eyes, he saw Boateng a few metres away. Motionless. Like with the old guy in the garage, Wallace’s survival instinct had just kicked in, and he’d fired the nine at Boateng before even thinking about it. Now he could make out dull footsteps through the tinnitus, but didn’t know from which direction. Forget the backfiring theory. A third person was here. Probably whoever took him down. Shit.
Turned his head, saw the Glock just out of reach. Glanced at Boateng again. The fed didn’t move. Footsteps were louder now. Wallace twisted onto his side, howling at the chest pain. Scrabbled towards the gun, fingers outstretched.
A boot came into view, kicked away the pistol. Wallace looked up at the figure, head to toe in black, ski mask and everything. Like a goddamn ninja. Then the boot crashed into his face. Felt like his jaw exploded. Wallace spat blood and a tooth, agony screwing up his eyes.
‘Remember me, sunshine? You’re a slippery little bastard.’ His voice was muffled by the balaclava but Wallace recognised it: soldier guy from the greyhound track. No way. How’d he found him? ‘Still got that thing you stole, ain’t ya?’
Rhetorical question. Wallace said nothing. Try to think. Ringing in his ears was starting to fade. He hawked up more blood, pressing just below his collarbone with both hands now.
‘In those nice bags, is it?’ The man dragged them across and knelt, began searching through with gloved hands. ‘Stay where you are, Darian, unless you wanna end up in the river. Won’t float too well with that hole in you.’
Wallace registered the low hum of a boat engine in the distance. Getting nearer. Think. Seconds ticked past. Come on.
‘This the one?’ Soldier-boy brandished the emerald pendant, gave it a little shake like a Christmas present. Prised off the back, swiped around carefully. ‘Where’s the memory stick?’
‘Uh?’ So that’s why a pro had been after him.
‘The memory stick.’ Ninja cocked his head. ‘Don’t play silly buggers this time.’
‘What you talking about?’ It was still in his trouser pocket from the lock-up. Wallace pressed harder on the gunshot wound. Felt like something was trapped in his chest. Engine was close now.
Got it.
‘That boat’s coming for me,’ he gasped.
‘You taking the piss?’ The guy pulled some scope thing out of his shoulder bag, looked through it across the Thames. ‘The RIB?’
‘Yeah.’ He coughed, spat. ‘Let me get on and I’ll tell you where it is. Deal?’
Ninja-man sniffed. ‘OK.’
Wallace began hauling himself up, dimly aware the guy was fiddling with a shoulder bag. Eventually he stood, legs unsteady but working. Lungs felt tight. But he wasn’t dead. Couldn’t believe it. He could actually walk. Lucky escape, bullet must’ve—
The jab and crackle felt like his ribs were being clamped in a vice then shaken by a pneumatic drill. Wallace sucked in air as his legs were swiped from under him. Ninja was leaning over, holding a small black box. It sparked between two prongs. Stun gun.
‘Where is it?’
Silence.
Another stab and the rattle surged through him again like a wild animal. When it stopped, Wallace realised a damp patch was growing at his crotch.
The guy tutted. ‘You’ve pissed yourself. Want some more?’
Wallace shook his head, wheezed.
‘So where is it?’
‘Pocket.’ The reply was instant, involuntary.
‘Good lad.’ Hands patted his jeans with swift, controlled movements and alighted on the tiny stick, removed it. Scrutinised the item. ‘That’s the one, mate. Only two places it could’ve been since you’re gonna take that boat. In them bags, or on you.’ The ninja wrapped the memory stick and pendant together in cloth, put the package in his bag and walked off into the shadows alongside the warehouse. In a few seconds he’d vanished like a nightmare.
Wallace gripped his wound again, felt it still oozing blood. Could smell the reek of his own piss. Humiliated, outsmarted, injured. He’d need medical treatment soon. But he still had the stash. And a means of escape. Maybe he could pull this off. Strained his neck to see. The vessel drew in alongside the jetty, its engine loud and rasping before being cut as it moored.
Snatching a final glance back at Boateng’s lifeless body, Wallace rolled over and began dragging himself to his feet. Towards the holdalls discarded by ninja-man. Towards the boat that would take him to France.
Towards his new life.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Thursday, 29 June 2017
Etta had urged her to keep going, head for Trinity Buoy Wharf at the docks: the last known location of Boateng’s mobile. She was monitoring it from their home in Brockley while Jones drove Etta’s car – until the signal had gone and Glympse informed Etta the mobile could no longer be found. This worrying news had made Jones drive even faster, reassuring Boateng’s wife via the hands-free that she was almost there.
Turning into the docks, a car passed her on the corner. Too dark and quick to get a good look at it. Standard five-door saloon. Glanced in her rear-view: one occupant. Could be relevant but she had to continue. Rounding the bend, Jones recognised Boateng’s car among a handful of vehicles. Stationary, no one inside. She parked behind it, climbed out. Started running towards the river. As the road bent and looming warehouses gave way to a central square, she needed no further directions.
Boateng was lying on the ground. He wasn’t moving.
Her run became a sprint.
First thing she saw up close was the blood around his shoulder. There was some on the ground too. Jones knelt next to him, fought back rising panic, wiped clammy hands on her jeans. Tried to think clearly; DR-ABC, they were taught at Hendon.
Danger: a quick scan showed a figure moving towards the river with difficulty, dragging something. Could be Wallace. Had to let him go for now.
Response: she shouted Boateng’s name. Nothing.
Airway: she tilted his chin, no blockages.
Breathing: leaned over his face, waited.
Still nothing.
Then air on her cheek, barely perceptible. Adrenalin shot through her.
‘Zac! Come on.’ As the flow of air increased, she sat back to give him space. He opened his eyes, stared at her, momentarily confused. ‘Can you hear me?’ she called.
‘Kat,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s Wallace, he—’
‘You’re bleeding, Zac, and right now I’m helping you. She tore off her leather jacket, wrapped the sleeves tight round his shoulder. He gasped as she pulled hard, checked the blood flow. ‘OK, I’m calling it in.’ Punched 999 into her phone, hushed his protests. Gave her rank, name and badge number, said she needed an ambulance for one injured officer and local units for a possible suspect. Calmly stated the location. Then hung up.
Examining the wound, she could see what looked like a bullet’s entry point in his jacket on the left side of his chest. Felt behind it, touched several hard, jagged objects. Gently lifted the jacket flap. His mobile, shattered. Bullet must’ve ricocheted off it and out through his shoulder. Damn sight better than entering his lungs.
Boateng began to move, shifted his legs. Slowly pushed up onto his good elbow, breathing easier now.