Chapter 17
1151 Words
17
The first one to have a go is a young skinhead in a green bomber, armed with a carpet knife. I pick up a high stool from the bar and clock him hard in the face. He spins away.
I think the stool will make a good weapon, but it’s yanked from my hands by Freddie. He swings a knuckle-duster fist. But the guy moves like he’s made of cement.
I duck and drive a fist of my own up under his ribs. He wheezes and lurches forward. No time to enjoy the look on his face as he rests on the bar.
Two more guys wade in. One cracks me on the chin. Another boots me in the side. I grab the second guy's foot and wing him off to one side into a table and chairs. I send the other one packing with a jaw-breaking uppercut.
As Freddie recovers from the rib-cracker, I ram his face with both hands into the edge of the bar. That just about kills him. He crashes to the sticky black floor of the club like a giant redwood.
Rudenko has five more guys. And then there’s the boss himself, alongside Frogger, patting a baseball bat in the flat of his palm.
With a second to get my bearings, I notice the club emptying out. I also get a chance to reach inside my jacket and pull out my gun.
The next guy who comes at me is a real ugly bastard. Face like an old potato. I do his wife a favour and shoot him in the chest. Point blank. f**k you and goodnight. I try and remember how many shots I have left.
Doesn’t matter. A big, burly character wrestles me for control. The clip blasts out into the floor. I drop the empty gun as the guy gets me in a headlock. Squeezes the bloody air out of me.
“Hold him still,” Frogger says, pulling out a pistol of his own. No silencer. Lining up square between my eyes.
As he’s about to pull that trigger, I hear a heavy glass thunk.
Frogger goes starry-eyed and drops to the floor. His pistol spills away under a gap at the base of the bar. I look up and see the kid holding a big magnum of champagne.
Still in the grip of the big guy behind, I hold out my hands. The kid throws the bottle. I catch it by the neck and swing it over my shoulder. The heavy end smashes in my hands, over the big guy’s head. He drops off me, covered in blood, bubbles and broken glass.
Right, that’s it. I’m officially pissed off.
The remaining three goons surround me. One with a metal bar. I make light work of ‘em. A thundering right hook. A snap of an arm. A head butt in an eye and a hand on that metal bar. I pull the owner towards me and crack him with the point of an elbow. I pick him up and drop him on his back on the edge of a dancing platform.
I take a breather and look around me. The music still beating and spotlights spinning. But the whole club empty except for a floor full of bodies.
I turn and see Rudenko. He’s got his bat, but he hasn’t got the balls to use it. The cocky bastard should have brought a gun, not a lump of wood. He backs up as I walk towards him. I feel a presence behind me. A giant one.
I look over my shoulder. Freddie is on his feet again. Lumbering forward. I pick up a wooden chair and smash it against the nearest dancing platform.
The chair falls to pieces, but leaves me with a broken leg in hand. The end of it sharp and splintered. I turn as Freddie lunges. I ram the sharp end into his guts. He staggers back, the chair leg sticking out of him. Blood spilling all over the floor.
I turn and see Rudenko disappearing through the main entrance. The kid cowers half-down behind the bar. I call him over. For once he doesn’t argue. He hops over the bar top and picks his way through the bodies.
He runs behind me as we pass the pay window and up the stairs. The bouncers are halfway up the street with everyone else from the strip club. Girls included. Grabbing onto their naked knockers and shivering in the cold.
I see Rudenko running in the opposite direction. I give chase, but he makes it to one of the abandoned BMWs before I can catch up. He steps on the accelerator, all the doors of the Beemer still wide open. He swings his own door shut and pulls the car around me. Revving hard up the road and almost mowing down the people in the street.
I think about that scumbag, Frogger, lying limp in the strip club. I could return right now and finish him off. Finish ‘em all off. Or chase Rudenko and ram him off the road. Set fire to the car and watch him burn.
I feel the old Breaker wanting to bust out to the surface. I take a deep breath and push him back down.
I do this for money now. Not for fun.
Besides, there's no time for all that s**t. I’ve got a witness to hand over to Detective Price.
I tell the kid to get in one of the cars. I throw the rear doors shut and climb behind the wheel. The daft bastards left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. I slam my door closed and tell the kid to belt up.
Won’t be long until the cops are on the scene, so I reverse the car at speed and spin it around. I drive the wrong way down the one-way system and force an oncoming taxi to swerve to the side of the road.
I pull out across Portland Street and down a couple of side roads. We enter a concrete multi-storey. I stop and grab a ticket. A yellow barrier rises. I take the ramp up a couple of floors, tyres squealing at speed.
Sure enough, I see a shadowy figure at the far end, standing next to a car. The headlights dipped.
I roll the Beemer slow towards him. As we get closer, I see the car’s a grey Mondeo. The pool car kind detectives drive around in.
I bring the BMW to a stop a good twenty yards away. I leave the headlights on him. He blinks into the light.
I recognise him from the reception of the Renaissance Hotel. Scruffy beard and hair. His tie thin and loose around his neck. A blue Barbour jacket left open. No doubt he's got a piece holstered inside.
Still, he’s good to his word. He came alone.
“That him?” I ask the kid. “That your Detective Price?"
The kid nods. Hope in his eyes for the first time. “Yeah, it's him.”
“Thank Christ for that,” I say, dipping the headlights. “Let’s get this over with.”
- Writer
