"Severed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kernick Simon)

6

'Well,' I say at last, 'I'm no vampire.'

He leans over and grabs an ashtray from the sideboard, stubbing his cigarette out in it. 'I know you're not him. At least, I'm pretty sure you're not. But sooner or later he's going to come knocking. That's why I've got an insurance policy.'

'What's that?'

He picks up the burgundy briefcase and lays it on the table so that the handle's facing me. 'If anyone tries to get into this thing without the right code, it'll blow into a million pieces. Same if anyone tries to force it open. There's a nice big lump of PETN plastic explosive wired up to the case's locking mechanism on the inside. See this?' He points to a tiny flashing red light attached to a thumbnail-sized black stand next to the lock. 'This tells you that the bomb's armed. Now, I'm not going to phone the guy I'm dealing with and give him the access code until half past two, so I figure I've got' – he looks at his watch – 'about two hours to get the hell out of here. After that I'm the walking dead.'

'Whatever it contains must be very valuable.'

'It is to him. Something else, too. Something that I'm only telling you because we go back.'

'Forgive me if I don't kiss your feet in gratitude.'

His eyes narrow, and it's obvious I've annoyed him. 'Fuck you, Tyler. I don't have to help you. Now, listen carefully. At two thirty this afternoon, make sure you're not standing in the vicinity of this briefcase, and that goes for anyone you care about too. Because this thing can be detonated by mobile phone, so as soon as my client has the number, he can blow the case remotely.'

I lean forward angrily, grabbing his arm. It's wet to the touch. 'What's the client's name, Captain? I need to know his name.'

'I told you, I can't tell you. It's more than my life's worth. Now, let go of me or I'll call in the three stooges.'

I assess my options, but the reality is I don't really have any, so I do as he says.

He reaches into his shirt pocket for another cigarette. 'Have you got the money, Tyler?'

I nod slowly, put my own case on the table and click open the locks, then swivel it round so the handle faces him. A smile creases his features and the tension in them eases a little as he opens the case and regards the money sitting there in front of him. He picks up a bundle of notes and stares at it close up with something approaching awe. Consequently, he doesn't hear the kitchen door open.

I do, though, and I turn to see Sellman's misshapen head emerge through the gap like a toad breaking water. His eyes go straight to the money, and a lustful expression not that far removed from the one the captain's wearing crosses his face before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. There is a great deal of greed in this room, and as far as I'm concerned, that usually spells trouble.

'Everything all right, chief?' asks Sellman, trying to make it sound like a routine question.

The captain glares at him, closing the case. 'Don't interrupt, Sellman. If I need you, I'll call.'

Sellman nods once, and the head slips back through the gap.

'Who the hell are those guys?' I ask.

'Security.'

'And they're the best you could get?'

'I don't want to involve anyone I used to know. So, yeah, they're the best I could get.'

'Watch them. I think they want your money.'

'Don't worry,' he says, getting to his feet, 'I'm watching everybody.' He picks up the briefcase with the money and motions to the one on the table. 'That's yours now, Tyler. Whatever you do, be careful with it, and don't let your curiosity get the better of you and try to open the damn thing. That bomb's perfectly constructed. And remember: by two thirty, be at least a hundred feet away from it.'

'I won't forget,' I say, standing up as well.

'Well… good luck.'

His words are awkward. He wants to feel sorry for me but in the end he's a lot more interested in saving his own skin. In the army, we were taught to be team players, but it's a lesson the captain seems to have long forgotten. Right now, we are both men operating entirely on our own.

'Can I have my gun back?' I ask him.

He looks uncertain for a moment, then he reaches into the waistband of his jeans and hands it over.

This could have been a mistake. I could have turned it on him, shoved the barrel against his temple and explained in cold, quiet tones that if he didn't tell me the name of his client in the next five seconds his brains would be all over the grimy kitchen work surface. But I know he won't talk, and he knows I know it too. More importantly, he knows I can't pull the trigger. We served together. We may not have known each other that well, but we were still brothers in arms, and we were trained never to kill in cold blood.

The problem is, I'm convinced his client is the person who murdered Leah and set me up for it. And I need to know who he is. At the moment, nothing else matters.

'Do me one favour,' I say to him as he starts towards the kitchen door.

'What?' he asks, without turning round.

'Phone me after two thirty and give me your client's name. That way it won't affect you. You'll be gone. But it'll help me one hell of a lot.'

Still, he doesn't turn round. 'What's your number?'

I give him the name and location of the showroom. He makes no move to write it down. Instead, he simply answers, 'OK.'

'Thanks,' I say, knowing I have no choice but to trust him to do it.

He doesn't speak as he leads the way out of the kitchen, at least not until he opens the door. Then he curses, and stops dead.

The lamp has been switched off, as have all the fans, and the room is once again in hot, stifling semi-darkness. Near the apartment's front entrance, Sellman lies on his side in the fetal position, not moving. To the right, Miami Vice sits against the wall, arms by his side, his head slumped forward, while to the left, Shaven Head lies face down on one of the sofas, only his legs visible as they jut over the edge.

The silence is ringing in my ears. My grip on the Glock tightens. The apartment's front door is a few inches ajar.

'Oh, Christ,' the captain repeats, his voice cracking. 'He's come for me. He's here, Tyler.' He reaches into his jacket, scrabbling round for his gun.

I can hear my heart thumping away in my chest and I have to will myself to remain calm. One of the most important things I learned in the army was how to channel my fear and turn it into pure concentration. The world of the combat soldier is a wildly unpredictable place where you have to react coolly to whatever is thrown at you. Although I'm now thinking it's a lesson that was lost on the captain, who's looking close to panic.

I raise the Glock, my eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom as they slowly circle the room. Searching for an unseen enemy.

And then I notice it.

There's no blood.

'It's a trap!' I yell.

But Sellman's too fast. He swivels round on the floor, revealing the sawn-off shotgun tucked in close to his belly, and without a moment's hesitation pulls the trigger.

The noise in the room is deafening as the captain takes the full force of the blast. It lifts him off his feet and sends him crashing into the sofa. The case of money flies from his hand and lands on the floor. I don't think he even managed to get hold of his gun, because I don't hear or see it fall. Sellman pulls the trigger a second time and the captain's head snaps back as he clatters to the floor.

Miami Vice is fast too, but not fast enough. I am already swinging the gun in his direction, guessing that he will be the one to target me, and as he lifts his head and his gun, his eyes wide with the adrenalin of battle, I shoot him twice in the face.

I turn and aim at Sellman. At the same time I see Shaven Head out of the corner of my eye as he rises up on the sofa, the pistol from his shoulder holster clutched firmly in both hands. Sellman is smiling triumphantly, knowing he has the half-second advantage. He doesn't look under pressure at all. Even in the semi-darkness I can see the calmness in his leathery features, the absolute knowledge that this is a confrontation he's going to win. He's right too. In the tiny gap of time before he pulls the trigger, I know I'm too late.

The noise reverberates off the walls as he fires, and I feel a tremendous pain somewhere in my solar plexus as the force of the shot drives me backwards into the kitchen. The case I'm holding flies off and hits one of the cupboards and my legs go from under me. I go down with all the agility of a lead weight and slam into the cracked linoleum, shoulder blades first, before rolling onto my side, the Glock falling uselessly from my hand. I gasp for breath but can't seem to get any, and my vision blurs and swims. I'm thinking of Leah, alive and laughing, as my eyes close and my body slumps in defeat.