Dead Centre - Andy McNab [24]
Fuck it. Running away would only make me die short of breath. And then I’d never know what this was all about.
I started to retrace my steps. They’d be back along that street sooner or later. They’d hit all known locations: Gunslingers, maybe the flat. Then they’d cruise around for a while longer. But not indefinitely. Mitchell was going to need medical attention, unless Webb was going to let him bleed to death. So I needed them to find me before they made that drop.
I got back on the main, hood still up, but enough of my face sticking out to be able to spot the nearest mini-mart. These places were even more prolific than Starbucks. They sold everything the man who had nothing could possibly want: cigarettes, alcohol, sulphuric acid to keep your crumbling piping clear, paraffin to keep you warm and your windows frozen.
I dodged and wove my way through the traffic and went into Apricot Garden. There wasn’t a piece of fruit in sight; they all had names like that. Milky Way, Cowboy’s Stable, you name it.
The Russian version of X Factor blared from a TV mounted above the counter. An old woman who looked as though she’d been sitting by the checkout since before the Cold War puffed a cigarette and watched Simon Cowellski put the local hopefuls through their paces.
I scanned the aisles, then grabbed a hammer and some overpriced paraffin in the kind of plastic five-litre container we’d use for ready-mixed screen-wash.
I arrived at the counter as Simon gave his verdict and the singer burst into tears. A dozen or so brands of cigarette were on display, from Lucky Strike and Marlboro to Leningrad and CCCP in bold, no-nonsense Soviet-style packaging for those who still missed the old ways. I was interested in the lighters alongside them.
I grunted and pointed. She hoovered up my roubles without taking her eyes off the screen.
I headed back to the bins, put down my newly purchased gear and unclipped the wheel retainers on the last one in the line. I unscrewed the top of the paraffin container and pressed my thumb into the seal until it broke, then left it on the ground.
I retraced my steps to the corner and looked around uncertainly, as if I was waiting for a pickup. I checked once more behind me. They’d be able to get their wagon down the service road, no problem.
11
I DIDN’T HAVE long to wait. The Range Rover was moving a lot faster now. Webb was still at the wheel. He spotted me and his mouth moved in double-time behind the windscreen.
He hit the brakes just past the service road and the wheels spun in the slush. Mitchell was forced up and forward from where he was lying in the back seat and I saw him give a silent scream of pain as I turned and legged it down the service road, giving my best impression of a headless chicken. I shoved the lighter between my teeth.
The Range Rover reversed at speed. I heard the engine roar as it powered into the narrow space. I reached the wheelie-bins, slid behind the last one, back against the wall, and shoved against it with both arms and then my right foot. The bin toppled into the path of the oncoming wagon.
There was a flash of grime-covered white as Webb stood on the brakes, but he was too late. Metal screeched on metal and the bin clattered off down the road.
The air-bags kicked off in the Range Rover’s cabin.
I grabbed the hammer in my right hand and the paraffin container in my left.
Webb tried to exit but his door smashed against the wall. There wasn’t room for him to get out. I swung the hammer at the bottom left-hand corner of the rear passenger window before they had time to draw down. The safety glass starred, then shattered.
Shouts of anger and pain came from inside. I shoved the paraffin container against the frame and pushed down on it with my right forearm. There was a fine spray for a couple of seconds, then the rest of the seal gave way and fluid gushed into the interior. The fumes burnt my nostrils and can’t have been much fun for theirs.