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  He felt the air-whoosh of slugs above his head, but then the Galaxy was flipped over on to its nearside by the truck that had hit them on the roundabout. Flynn suddenly found himself trapped under the weight of Guthrie, whose terrified face cracked against Flynn’s shoulder, and Flynn saw Guthrie had been hit by at least one of the bullets. He had a horrendous neck wound – he’d taken a hit to the throat, ripping out his Adam’s apple, destroying the thick blood vessels and causing blood to fountain all over Flynn’s face.

  Momentarily, Flynn was disorientated and tried to clear his mind.

  Then more bullets were fired in short bursts into the roof of the Galaxy. Flynn felt the impact, both into Guthrie, who had rolled sideways across him and become a shield, and into the upholstery of the seats.

  The firing seemed to be unremitting.

  It stopped suddenly. Reloading?

  Then Flynn heard more shots being fired. Flynn recognized them as coming from a handgun – a Glock, the sound of its firing peculiar to itself, as all weapons were.

  His thoughts were that maybe Molly and Robbo were retaliating and firing back.

  Flynn glanced at the driver of the Galaxy who, despite his seat belt, had been tipped out of his seat and now lay crumpled and moaning in the front passenger footwell.

  Encumbered by his handcuffs, Flynn hauled Guthrie off him, looking into his glazed, dying eyes for a moment, not liking to have to use him as a ladder to get across to the rear door opposite.

  Which was locked.

  Fucking child locks.

  It’s what you did with prisoners on board.

  Flynn swore and, in the tight space, swung his hands sideways against the window – about the only one in the car that had not shattered – using the outer metal rim of the handcuffs to try to break the glass.

  Flynn heard engines revving, more shots being fired, shouts.

  And then a fresh volley through the roof of the Galaxy from the two guys on the road side who had reloaded their weapons.

  The window disintegrated on the second swing and fell into thousands of chunks over him like hailstone.

  Flynn, again using Guthrie’s body as leverage, scrambled up through the window and dropped into the road, crouching behind the Galaxy, disorientated slightly but trying to get his mind around what had happened in the last twenty seconds. There was no time to analyse anything and think about tactics, though he could see that, behind the Galaxy, the Mondeo had been crushed but was still upright, whereas the Galaxy was still on its side.

  Flynn crouched.

  He could not see Molly at the wheel of the Mondeo, though Robbo was still in his seat, but, crushed up to the dashboard and although he was injured, he was conscious and struggling to get free.

  Flynn felt the stitches split in his leg.

  Then he heard the sound that had reminded him of a charging elephant again as he rose slightly and spun. The tractor unit that had burst from the junction had reversed away and was now thundering towards him, the driver intent on crushing him to death between the front grille of the monster and the underside of the Galaxy.

  Flynn froze as the front of the truck grew quickly in size, then felt the impact of someone from behind diving into his lower spine like a bad rugby tackle as Molly piled into him and pushed him out of the path of the truck, which missed them both by inches and slammed into the underside of the Galaxy, sending it spinning and grating across the road. Flynn and Molly tumbled inelegantly to the ground, limbs everywhere.

  ‘Come on!’ Molly screamed at him. ‘Fucking move!’

  Flynn scrambled to his feet, Molly dragging him and keeping low as more bullets flew overhead and the drivers of the tractor units leapt down from their cabs with guns in their hands.

  Molly had her Glock in hers and her MP5 slung around her neck. She fired a couple of shots on the run at these men, who ducked and dived as the slugs embedded or ricocheted into and off their vehicles. With Flynn in tow, she raced across towards the small wooded area known as Stable Wood which nestled in the triangle of the junction formed by Ribby Road and Blackpool Road.

  She leapt into the undergrowth with Flynn following suit, then scrambled through the deep, damp leaf mould into the centre of the small wood, where she dropped to one knee behind an oak tree. Flynn thudded down beside her.

  ‘It’s you they want,’ she breathed.

  ‘They got Guthrie instead, though. I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Shit, shit,’ Molly cursed.

  Flynn held out his wrists. ‘Get these off,’ he said of the handcuffs. ‘If they come after us I’m no use with cuffs on.’

  She nodded and found her key ring on her utility belt, holstered her gun and fumbled with shaking fingers to slide the key in and release the cuffs.

  Flynn watched her as she worked.

  ‘You’ve done good,’ he said.

  She looked ferociously at him. ‘Fuck off, Flynn.’

  The second cuff came free and Flynn flung them aside.

  ‘Now give me the Glock,’ he said, opening his right palm.

  ‘No way.’ Her hand covered it defensively and gripped the stock.

  Flynn arched his eyebrows, and was about to insist, when an arc of bullets crashed into the trees and foliage around them. They ducked low.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he warned her. His jaw was set tight. He glanced at his leg, saw blood seeping through the paper suit from the reopened wound. He ground his teeth.

  Molly made a decision. She drew the Glock and flipped the gun around in her hand so she was holding the barrel and held it out for Flynn. ‘There might be five or six left, I lost count,’ she admitted as she brought the H&K MP5 around her front into a firing position. In the flurry of staying alive, Flynn was impressed that she’d had the wherewithal to grab this second weapon before getting out of the car. ‘Just say I dropped it and you snatched it up, OK?’ she said, referring to the Glock. She was already preparing herself for the inevitable questions that would be asked. If they both survived to tell the tale, that is.

  Flynn said, ‘I will.’

  More bullets crashed into the trees.

  There were shouts from the attackers as they entered the woods.

  ‘They’re gonna put us up like pheasants at a turkey shoot,’ Flynn grimaced, cleverly mixing his metaphors.

  Molly ignored him and spoke urgently into her PR, telling the control room succinctly but breathlessly what had happened and what was now taking place.

  More slugs ripped into the undergrowth.

  Flynn looked warily back through the leaves for their pursuers.

  He guessed they would give it one sweep and then be gone. They would have a getaway car waiting close by. To waste time with a manhunt would not be sensible because, as of right now, cops from two divisions, plus the helicopter, dog patrols and other ARVs would be converging like fuck on this area. The attackers were not in this to end up in a cell but would be gutted that their first assault hadn’t nailed Flynn.

  Flynn’s left hand shot out and covered Molly’s mouth, preventing her from talking into her mike.

  His lips formed a silent shh as he peeled his fingers away slowly.

  But then the radio itself squawked loudly. ‘Say again, Alpha-Romeo Seven,’ the voice of the operator called shrilly.

  This seemed to make Flynn move like lightning. He shot up from his crouching position, burst through a mass of thin, interwoven branches and leaves and leapt at the figure of a man he had seen sneaking towards Molly’s position.

  The man was armed – Flynn recognized him as one of the hooded men from the roadside shooting party – but he was angled just slightly away from Flynn and crouched in a combat stance, holding his Skorpion ready to fire again.

  Flynn crashed against him without finesse, at the same time checking on the position of the others. He could not see them, but this gave him no comfort. They were there somewhere, only metres away, so he had to deal with this first man ridiculously quickly, effectively and without mercy bef
ore the others could react.

  As he barged into him, he downed him with a crashing blow to the skull with the handle of the Glock. Had it been a Browning 9mm in his hand, the man would have dropped instantly, but the lightweight German pistol was not a great whipping tool; still, at least he staggered back on to his knees, but he also fought to keep his balance and swing the Skorpion around with the intention of ripping Flynn in half in a hail of bullets.

  Flynn moved in tight, encircled the man’s waist with his big left arm, drew him right up into him as if it were some kind of tango and they might have been about to kiss before some rough sex. Instead, hoping Molly’s calculation was good, Flynn put the Glock to the man’s left temple and double-tapped his brain to shreds.

  He died instantly, but even before he became a deadweight for Flynn he let him go, wincing slightly as the back splat of blood from the horrific wound flicked across his head and shoulders.

  Then there was a moment between himself and Molly.

  Molly had witnessed this killing, horrified. She was standing by the oak tree, a stunned expression on her face.

  Flynn glanced at her, knowing that even this was a moment of emotional indulgence too long as another pursuer broke cover over to Flynn’s left. It was one of the truck drivers and his handgun was pointed at Flynn.

  Molly came to life and reacted instantly with her H&K, firing a rising stream of bullets that arced from the man’s groin up to his throat, almost slicing him in half and emptying the whole magazine. He jerked backwards with the impact of each round, then fell dead.

  This time, Molly stood there immoveable, completely stunned by the enormity of what she had just seen and then done.

  Flynn heard more crashing through the trees, but the direction of sound was receding as the remaining attackers lost all their courage – because someone was shooting back – and they legged it. Flynn was on the point of giving chase, but then he heard car doors slam, the sound of an engine revving on the road nearby and realized his guess about a waiting getaway car had been correct.

  Flynn looked at the dead man at his feet. He knew this was going to be a tight fit.

  He threw down the Glock and began to strip off the forensic suit.

  Molly rushed at him. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.

  ‘Getting changed. His clothes should just fit. Then I’m going, Molly.’

  ‘No, no, no, you’re fucking not.’ She stepped away from him and brought up the MP5. ‘Back off, back off!’ she screamed. ‘You’re going nowhere, pal.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’ Flynn asked, pulling the suit down his body and stepping out of it. ‘Shoot me?’

  ‘If I have to.’ Her voice quavered.

  ‘With what?’ he challenged her, indicating the H&K. ‘An empty weapon?’

  ‘I’ll Taser you again, then.’

  ‘Don’t make me hit you, Molly.’ In just his paper underpants, Flynn squatted down and began to unbuckle the dead man’s baggy trousers, then pulled off the guy’s trainers and yanked the pants down the legs of the lifeless body.

  Molly’s hands dropped her sides. The H&K hung uselessly from the shoulder strap.

  ‘Flynn, I’ve just killed a man … You’ve just killed a man.’

  He was busy undressing a corpse, then dressing himself. ‘Both of whom were going to kill us. Quid pro quo, I’d say. Or is it Status Quo?’

  ‘You think it’s fucking funny?’

  Flynn peeled off the man’s coat, then unbuttoned his shirt, both bloodstained. ‘Not really.’ He stood up and pushed his arms into the shirtsleeves. ‘But they fired first and I can’t afford to stay locked up, Molly. If I do, they’ll get me when I’m inside, without a doubt, but if I’m a moving target things will be much different.’

  She watched him, feeling very nauseated.

  ‘Tell Rik I disarmed you or something – or just tell him the truth. He’ll get it.’ The dead man’s trainers were far too tight so he tied them loosely. They would have to suffice for the moment. As he rose to his full height, lastly pulling the jacket on, he said, ‘You need to go and help your colleagues, yeah? They’ll need first aid.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Go,’ he urged her. She moved, but then he grabbed her. ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Give me your mobile phone, please.’

  In a daze, she handed it over with dithering fingers.

  ‘Call me,’ Flynn said.

  ‘What?’ This was all getting too much, literally blowing her mind.

  ‘Call me. But before I go, tell me the name of Blackpool’s biggest drug dealer.’

  She told him. He considered scooping up the Glock but it was almost empty at best. He knew Molly would have a spare mag for it on her belt, but it all seemed too complicated and timewasting to ask her for it and he knew he wouldn’t need it in the immediate future.

  He looked briefly up through the trees into the sky, hearing the throb of the approaching helicopter, which wouldn’t have travelled far from its base in nearby Warton, and also the sound of sirens as cops descended on the scene of carnage at the roundabout.

  Without a further word, he plunged into the trees and was gone.

  SEVEN

  Steve Flynn had once been married, a union that had ended in disarray when his wife, Faye, had an affair with his cop partner Jack Hoyle, at the time of the shit-storm mess that was the end of his police career. He knew Faye still lived in Blackpool in the house Flynn had once co-owned with her, though she had now ‘taken-up’ (a phrase Flynn used with contempt) with a fairly wealthy businessman from the Fylde area. To the best of his knowledge, she was on a long cruise with the guy and therefore, Flynn hoped, the former marital home would be unoccupied.

  Flynn also had a son – Craig – from the ill-fated marriage, and he knew that the lad was taking a year out from university to travel the Far East and Australia. This meant there was little chance, Flynn hoped, of either of them being in danger from the Bashkims or of him finding anyone at the house in South Shore.

  That was where he was headed after deserting the shell-shocked Molly in the middle of Stable Wood with two dead bodies at her feet.

  He crashed out through the trees on to Ribby Road, jogged a hundred metres or so, crossed the road and walked into the holiday village called Ribby Hall, where years before he used to take Craig swimming when the lad was just a toddler and all was right with the world. He sauntered in through the gates, passing an unstaffed security post and walked into the car park, which was almost full. There were many attractions at Ribby Hall, not just for holidaymakers, and its facilities were always popular with locals and day-trippers. He meandered through the car park until he found what he was looking for – a car he could steal with ease.

  It had to be one of a certain age for him as anything too modern would be too complicated to fire up. He needed one with an old-fashioned key and ancient enough for him to rip the wires out from behind the steering column, do the business and get on the move.

  He watched the police helicopter fly in low from the south, not much above a hundred feet. He stood squinting at it as it disappeared from view, then rose back into sight and hovered over the roundabout less than a quarter of a mile from Ribby Hall.

  Flynn picked up a chunk of stone from a dry stone wall next to the car park and made his way back to the chosen vehicle, a 1999 Ford Fiesta. He smashed the driver’s-door window and was in quickly, yanking out the ignition wires and starting the engine in about a minute.

  Then he was on the move, leaving Ribby Hall, turning left and driving through the pretty village of Wrea Green and along the twisting back roads towards Lytham. En route, he was almost barged off the narrow roads by police cars racing to the scene at the roundabout in the opposite direction, blues and twos in operation.

  Flynn held his nerve and tootled into Lytham, then north through St Annes into Blackpool South and made his way to the small housing estate on which his old
house was situated. He did a drive past, noting that all the blinds on the windows were half-closed and the house appeared to be unoccupied.

  He abandoned the stolen car about a mile away and made his way on foot, then veered off on to a path by a small children’s play area which ran alongside the railway line behind the estate. He found the back fence of the house and heaved himself over the waney-lap fence, dropping into a gap between the fence and the now-slightly-decrepit shed he had built many years before.

  All the blinds and curtains were fully drawn at the back of the house.

  Another good sign.

  He scuttled, keeping low, across the unkempt lawn on to the back patio, then shimmied down the side of the house between the fence and the garage, pulling up just short of the driveway and frowning. There was a narrow window at head height on the side wall of the garage which he backed up to, shaded his eyes and peered in to see a car parked there.

  The garage was not particularly big and the car just about fitted, though it would have been a squeeze to climb out of.

  It was a very nice, small BMW saloon which looked pretty new.

  ‘Present from sugar daddy,’ Flynn mused, assuming the worst of his ex-wife but at the same time pleased to see he might have access to transport.

  He edged back to the corner of the garage and hoped that Faye remained a woman of regular habits.

  There was a pair of large terracotta plant pots on either side of the front door, each with a precisely trimmed, orb-like bush in it.

  Hopefully the key to the front door would be under the pot on the right.

  Molly Cartwright raised her head. It was sometime after 9 p.m. She wasn’t sure exactly.

  Detective Superintendent Rik Dean stood in front of her, a mug of tea in each hand.

  She thought he looked dreadful, his face gaunt and sickly, drained to the off-white hue of old parchment paper, his eyes set deep and dark and still displaying the assault he had suffered from Steve Flynn.

  Not a great look.

  That said, she was pretty sure her appearance rivalled his.

  She had just been to the ladies’ and spent not a little time in front of a mirror, considering her reflection.