Crunch Time (24 page)

With his hands still interlocked into one powerful fist, he charged at the man, holding his arms outstretched and locked into place, and like a lance held by a medieval knight, he slammed into Mitch's chest. On impact, Henry twisted slightly and managed to get his right foot behind Mitch's right ankle and tipped him over.

Still stunned by the chin blow, Mitch's legs gave way and he crumbled backwards on to the concrete floor. The gun was still in his hand and this was Henry's next target. He jumped on Mitch's right forearm, then stamped down hard on it, again and again. But the fingers wouldn't open and Henry knew he was running out of time and advantage, even though the assault had lasted only a matter of seconds so far.

And all Ingram had to do was raise his head from his own assault, then Henry's little episode would be over.

That thought made Henry jump on to Mitch's head with both feet, then step back and continue to stamp on it with one foot repeatedly.

The first blow to the underside of the chin had obviously been even better than Henry could have hoped for, because after the fifth stamp of Henry's foot on his head, he became still, his countenance a bloody mass. Not bloody enough in Henry's opinion, but he had more to do yet. He dropped to his knees and wrestled the gun from Mitch's grip, which for some unaccountable reason, he still held on tight to. Henry prized the fat, sausage-like fingers open, expecting Mitch to jump to life and crush him to death in a bear hug, but he didn't.

He just gagged for breath and Henry wished he'd stamped on the fat ugly head one more time for luck.

Now, with the gun clasped between his bound hands, Henry stood up, crouched and turned towards the pit.

The Jeep skittered into the cul-de-sac. Donaldson righted it, corrected the swerve and accelerated toward the house which was directly ahead – with not one cop car in sight.

For a moment he was confused by what he saw: orange and yellow lights dancing behind the front door.

‘Fuck!'

Flames.

The house was on fire, confirmed spectacularly as the window in the panel next to the door blew out with a booming explosion, sending glass shattering in a million directions, and then the fire licked upwards.

He brought the jeep to a halt at an angle to the road and leapt out.

That's when he saw Kate's face at the bedroom window above the garage door.

She opened a window, leaned out and screamed, ‘Karl! Karl!'

The garage was to the left of the front door and for a moment the fire raged directly up to the first-floor window above it, which Karl knew belonged to the en-suite adjoining the main bedroom in which Kate now was, seemingly trapped.

Donaldson ran up to the house and stood underneath the window Kate leaned from, his strong arms wide as though he expected her to jump down into them. The flames were immensely hot, even though he was standing two metres away from the front door. Already the fire had taken hold of the downstairs hallway. The flames crackled nastily, like bones being snapped.

The adrenalin surge through the American acted like a painkiller on his bullet wound.

‘You have to climb out, Kate.'

Unbelievably there was a whoosh to his right. The flames roared with more intensity and suddenly there was a ‘boom' and the UPVC front door was blasted by a back draft from its hinges, and a ball of fire, like a meteor, soared out of the house, then immediately licked upwards. The flames fanned wider, causing Kate to duck out of their way, screaming in terror as she did.

Donaldson had to hurl himself sideways to avoid being roasted by the burst.

He picked himself up from the ground.

The cul-de-sac was coming to life now, lights going on, people appearing at doors and windows. A couple of pyjama-clad men pulling on dressing gowns and slippers rushed towards the house.

‘Kate! Kate!' Donaldson cupped his hands around his mouth into a loudspeaker.

In the distance came the sound of sirens.

The flames from the door died back, but through the space where the door had once been, the new inrush of oxygen had fuelled them even more and Donaldson could see the fire spreading up the stairs, quickly, relentlessly, like an army intent on massacre.

‘Kate!' he screamed once more. She did not reappear. ‘Shit.'

His mind raced.

The fire raged.

He ran back to his Jeep and leapt into the driving seat. The engine was still running. He slammed it into reverse, yanked down the steering wheel and slammed down the accelerator. The vehicle lurched backwards in a sweeping ‘U'. He braked, forced the gearstick into Drive and mounted the pavement, crossing the charred front lawn, twisted the wheel down again and stopped with a lurching judder parallel to the house, in front of the garage, underneath the bedroom window. He leapt out, clambered via the bonnet of the Jeep on to its roof and threw himself across on to the roof of the front porch, which jutted out below the open window.

Slipping and sliding, always in danger of falling, he climbed across the tiles and dragged himself up through the open window, then dropped into an untidy heap on the floor next to Henry's bed.

The bedroom door was closed, but even so, he could feel the terrific heat from the fire which was fiercely taking over the house. Smoke was creeping frighteningly underneath the door.

He knew there was little time.

But Kate wasn't in the bedroom.

He shouted her name as he strode to the door. Surely she hadn't gone on to the landing?

‘Kate!' he bellowed again.

Then the door of the walk-in dressing room opened slightly. She had retreated in there for safety.

‘Karl,' she uttered, throwing open the door when she saw him. She raced toward him.

‘C'mon,' he said, his big arms encircling her slim waist and urging her in the direction of the window.

‘How did you get in?' she began.

‘You'll see.'

They reached the window. Behind them was the sound like a dragon breathing. Flames now licked under the bedroom door.

‘There's no one else in the house?' he asked.

She shook her head.

A police car tore down the cul-de-sac.

A lumbering fire engine came behind it.

Donaldson checked over his shoulder again. There was no time to wait for ladders. Somehow he had to get Kate out and on to the roof of the Jeep, then he had to follow, quickly.

‘How?' she said, looking down at the Jeep, which seemed a long way away, but was perhaps only three feet from the wall of the house and directly under the window.

‘I'll hold you … we've no choice.'

The dragon was now at the door, roaring angrily, trying to burst through.

Both turned and looked at the same time, horror on their faces.

‘No time, either,' Donaldson added.

Kate peered out of the window. It seemed so far.

‘I don't know if I can,' she pleaded.

Outside, two cops were on the front lawn. The fire engine had stopped, its occupants disgorging, equipment being deployed.

‘Sit on the window frame, twist, hold on to my arms and I'll ease you down. You have to do it.'

‘I'm scared.'

‘I'm in that club, too.'

Below, one of the cops climbed on to the roof of the Jeep, steadied himself and opened his arms. Kate clambered on to the window and sat, legs dangling. She twisted her body around, then began to lower herself towards the Jeep. Donaldson clamped his big, powerful fingers around her forearms, held tight, eased her down.

‘I can't do it,' she screamed.

Donaldson, his face muscles straining like steel rope with the effort, steadied himself, then swung her out towards the waiting policeman. She dropped out of Donaldson's hands with a scream and fell backwards the last few feet, arms flailing.

The cop grabbed her, then lost his footing, but somehow righted himself, held on to Kate, then both lost their balance and fell backwards off the roof of the Jeep – but into the massed, waiting clutches of the other policeman and three fire fighters, who caught them raggedly, but safely.

Donaldson watched it all helplessly.

Behind him, with a roar of contempt, the dragon that was the fire blew out the bedroom door with a heave of power and burst into the bedroom.

There was a moment of silence. Only a moment, though it felt like a lifetime.

Henry took a breath, steadying himself.

Suddenly Ingram's head popped up from the pit as though he was taking a quick peek over a wall.

He saw Henry with the gun, ducked quickly back down.

Henry ran across the six feet or so to the edge of the pit, but did not reach it quickly enough. By the time he got there, Ingram had grabbed Gina, twisted her round and held her against him like a shield. His left forearm was slotted across her neck, making her gurgle and struggle, and his right hand held his gun to her face, pushing into her cheek.

The gun in Henry's hand was raised, aimed at both of them.

Ingram laughed.

‘You're at one big fuckin' disadvantage,' Ingram cackled maniacally. ‘Drop the gun or I blow her fuckin' head right off.'

Henry's eyes took in the girl. Her face was a ghastly mess, but her eyes were still open, appealing for help and defiant.

Ingram tightened his grip across her throat. His forearm must have been like an iron bar. She gagged, fighting for breath, her fingers pulling at the limb. She kicked out pathetically, but Ingram held her securely, not giving one inch.

Henry kept the gun aimed at least for the moment but he wasn't sure of his ability with a firearm these days, so having a go was out of the question.

Ingram's feral eyes looked beyond Henry at the prostrate figure of his partner in crime.

‘You took Mitch down.'

‘He was easy – glass jaw.'

‘You won't get me, cop.'

‘I'm not a cop,' Henry insisted. ‘You're wrong …'

‘Then we can talk.'

‘Sure we can, but only when the girl goes … I don't mind a bit of porn, but not like you like it. She goes,' he insisted.

‘Nah,' Ingram sneered. ‘Not a chance.' He moved his left arm down across her chest. ‘Fuckin' ripe for the picking.'

Henry went sick with disgust. ‘Let her go, you perverted bastard.' His gun wavered.

Ingram jammed the muzzle of his gun further into Gina's cheek, forcing a squeal of pain to be emitted. ‘Drop the gun, Frank, or whatever you're called. I will kill her,' he finished simply.

‘And how many more have you killed?'

‘Plenty.'

On the floor behind Henry, Mitch groaned.

Shit, Henry thought. He knew he would have to put his weapon down, knew that his chance had passed unsuccessfully. Although Ingram was standing in the pit, he had the power. What would Frank Jagger do? he thought.

But maybe that wasn't the burning question.

Maybe the question was, What is Ingram going to do?

Henry knew the answer – carry on as before. He would kill Frank Jagger because he didn't trust him, kill the girl, and run.

Even if Henry gave up his weapon, he would still be a dead man.

A win–lose situation, in Ingram's favour. ‘You'll kill me, whatever,' he said.

‘Didn't take you long to figure that one out.' Ingram took the gun out of Gina's face and levelled it at Henry.

Gina went completely still, almost relaxed.

She looked imploringly at Henry.
Save me. Please.

Henry tensed.

Suddenly, as if poleaxed, Gina's knees gave way and she collapsed purposely. Ingram's arm wasn't at her throat, it was still across her chest, and her movement caught him by surprise and she slid out of his grasp as though she had been greased, exposing Ingram's upper body above the edge of the pit. His gun wavered unsteadily as he tried to grab her, but he'd lost his hold.

Henry could not hesitate.

Now, less than six feet away from him was an easy target.

He double-tapped him, the slugs driving into Ingram's chest and chucking him back against the pit wall with their force. His arms flew upwards and his right hand released the gun, which went skittering across the garage floor. He slithered down on to his arse, his eyes never once leaving Henry's.

Gina was on her feet instantly, scrambling out of the pit. She raced to Henry and clamped her arms around him, clinging tightly, his wrists still taped together and the gun in his hands, pointing down at the floor.

Henry's breathing was harsh, rasping. ‘It's OK, it's OK … let's get my wrists undone.'

‘I don't think there's anything more we can do for him,' Henry said. He stood up and looked at his bloodstained hands, then at the body of Ryan Ingram, who, despite two holes in the upper right quadrant of his chest, was still alive – barely. He was on the floor of the inspection pit with kitchen towels stacked on to the wounds, which were clogged with blood.

Henry raised his eyes and looked floor level across to Mitch who, with a big, swollen head, drifted in and out of consciousness. Even so, just to be on the safe side, Henry had taped up his hands and ankles. The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with that raging monster again.

Gina sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the pit. She was very battered and sore, her head a real mess from the pistol-whipping Ingram had vested on her. Henry admired her spirit. She was unputdownable, a real fighter.

‘How you doing?' he asked her.

‘Not good, been better.'

He gave a short laugh. ‘You are bloody fantastic,' he told her, coming up the steps out of the pit and parking his backside next to hers. He put an arm around her shoulders.

‘When will they be here?'

‘Not long, now.'

Outside it was daylight.

‘Why have you looked after him?' she asked, confused.

‘Good question … I don't like people dying, I suppose.'

She turned her smashed-up face to him. ‘You are a policeman, aren't you?'