Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [37]
‘No,’ said the brother, but the young Mayan was already dropping into a firing stance.
Creed’s body was in motion long before he consciously decided he was in danger. He reached under the cushion and grabbed his Python as he came off the couch, throwing himself towards the coffee table.
The hooker was sitting directly in front of him and he put his hands out and shoved her so hard she toppled off and landed on the carpet a metre away. Safely out of the line of fire.
Creed kept moving, using the momentum of the shove and rolling over the coffee table. He landed on the floor on the far side with the bulky block of high‐impact glass between himself and the Mayan.
The Mayan fired at him but the glass stopped the bullet dead with a sound like a pebble clinking on the surface of a frozen lake.
Larner had jumped out of his armchair. Behind him Miss Winterhill was standing in the kitchen doorway, frozen.
Larner wanted his pistol but it was in the centre of the coffee table, right at the nexus of the gunfire. The Mayan was circling around now, coming out from behind the couch, trying to find an angle where Creed couldn’t use the glass table to shield himself. It would only be a fraction of a second before he had a clean shot, so Creed preempted him.
He bounced up from behind the table, trying to take aim at the Mayan. But even as he stood he felt a cold shock of apprehension. He realized his back was exposed and that he was in trouble. The hooker was screaming something.
Creed twisted his body and threw himself back towards the couch. He caught his kneecap a shockingly painful blow on the edge of the table as he scrambled over it.
Behind him there was the sound of an automatic weapon on rapid fire. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the older Mayan blasting away. At the same time, on the other side of the room, his brother was firing the handgun. They were both firing at the spot where Creed had been standing a moment earlier.
But Creed wasn’t there now and the Mayans were making a mistake that even the most basic firearms training would have prevented. You don’t shoot at the enemy if there’s a chance of hitting each other.
The sub‐machine‐gun cut off abruptly. The Mayan was staring in horror. His kid brother was on the floor with his chest torn open, blood bubbling out, and he’d done it. Creed aimed his Python at the older Mayan. But before he could squeeze the trigger he saw a small dark spot appear magically in the centre of the man’s forehead. Simultaneously he heard the sound of the gunshot. The Mayan toppled and Creed turned to see Larner holding his smuggler’s pistol.
The room was suddenly very quiet. The hooker and Miss Winterhill were both staring at the two men who remained alive. Creed aimed his pistol at Larner. ‘I don’t have to read you your rights, do I?’
Larner stared at him in disgust. ‘So it was you after all,’ he said. ‘I thought they had it wrong. I never guessed you were a cop.’
He was still holding the plastic handgun. It wasn’t pointing at Creed but his hand was gradually rising. In a moment it would be aimed at him.
‘Relax,’ said Creed. ‘It’s over. Put it down.’ But Larner was still raising the gun.
‘I can’t do the time, man,’ he said. He sounded genuinely regretful. ‘I’ve got a family.’
So Creed shot him, squarely through the chest.
Larner dropped his gun and took two steps back. He looked surprised. He turned and casually reached out towards the window. Then he tripped and stumbled forward. Creed had a ridiculous impulse to try and help the man he’d just shot. Too late.
Larner fell against the plastic sheeting that covered the window and it split open, spilling him out of the skyscraper. He fell through without a sound. ‘Jesus,’ said Miss Winterhill. The hooker whimpered. Creed went to the window.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down, standing among the frantic whipping strands of the torn plastic. Larner’s body was a broken puppet on the pale cement below. Two uniformed police were closing in on it, running, as if eager to claim a