Hard Landing (3 page)

Eddie pushed the warehouseman out of the office. ‘The security guard’s still out cold,’ he said.

‘Three’s enough,’ said Verity.

‘Enough for what?’ asked Macdonald.

‘To get us out of here.’ Verity went over to the warehouseman. ‘Give me the duct tape.’ He held out his hand to Owen, who tossed him the roll. The warehouseman tried to speak but Verity pushed the barrel of the shotgun under his nose and told him to shut up. ‘George, come over here.’ The Glaswegian walked over to him. ‘Put your shotgun against the back of his neck.’ The Glaswegian did as he was told, and Verity wound duct tape round the weapon and the warehouseman’s neck.

‘You use him like that and it’s kidnapping,’ said Macdonald. ‘Shoot him and it’s cold-blooded murder.’

‘If the cops let us go, no one’ll get hurt,’ said Verity. He nodded at Fred. ‘Do the same with him.’ He gestured at one of the fork-lift drivers. The West Indian hauled the man to his feet and did as he was told.

‘They won’t let us walk out of here,’ said Macdonald. ‘Even with hostages.’

‘Armed robbery will get us twelve years, maybe fifteen,’ said Verity. ‘If a gun goes off and one of these sad fucks gets it, it’ll be manslaughter. Ten to twelve. We’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Ted Verity, I know you can hear me,’ said a voice. Verity spun round, then realised that the voice had come through the scanner earpiece. It was being broadcast on the police frequency. ‘This is the police. It’s over, Ted, come out now before this gets out of hand.’

Verity roared and ran over to the fork-lift driver Fred was tying up. He slammed his shotgun against the man’s chin, then kicked him between the legs, hard. He fell back, and Verity hit him again as he went down.

Macdonald grabbed Verity’s arm. ‘What the hell’s got into you?’

Verity shook him off. The earpiece buzzed again. ‘There’s armed police out here, Ted. There’s nowhere for you to go. Leave your weapons where they are and come out with your hands in the air. If we have to come in and get you, people are going to get hurt.’

A telephone began to ring in the office.

‘Answer the phone, Ted,’ said the voice in Verity’s ear.

‘It’s the cops,’ said the Glaswegian. ‘They’ll be wanting to talk to us.’

Eddie hurried over to Verity.

‘They’ve already talked to us,’ said Verity. He slapped the scanner on his belt. ‘On the radio.’

‘How did they know we had a scanner?’ asked Eddie, his face just inches away from Verity’s.

Verity could smell garlic on his breath. ‘They knew everything,’ he said. ‘We’ve been set up.’ He swore, then pushed Eddie in the chest. ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ he said.

‘It’s over,’ said Macdonald. He turned to the Glaswegian, looking for his support. The Glaswegian shrugged, but said nothing. ‘If we go out with hostages, they’ll throw away the key,’ said Macdonald. The Glaswegian’s finger was on the trigger of the shotgun. Most of the barrel was covered with duct tape, binding it to the warehouseman’s neck. The man was trembling and the tape across his mouth pulsed in and out as he breathed.

‘They’ll throw away the key for me, anyway,’ said the Glaswegian. ‘One look at my record.’ He jabbed the shotgun against the warehouseman’s neck. ‘Let’s just do what we’ve got to do.’

Macdonald groaned. ‘Jeff,’ he said to Owen, ‘help me out. This mad bastard’s gonna get us all killed.’

‘No names!’ screamed Verity, brandishing his shotgun. ‘No fucking names!’

‘Ted,’ said Macdonald calmly, ‘them knowing who we are is the least of our problems.’

‘He’s right,’ said Doug. ‘If the cops are outside it’s thank you and good night.’ He gestured at the door with his handgun. ‘This pea-shooter’s gonna do me no good against pigs with heavy artillery.’

‘We’re not gonna shoot at them,’ shouted Verity. ‘All we’re gonna do is tell them if they try to stop us the hostages get it. Look, the minibus is out there. PJ’s there. If we move now, we can still get out of here. If we keep yapping they’ll be firing tear gas and God knows what else in here.’

The phone stopped ringing. Fred went to stand by Doug. The Glaswegian pulled the warehouseman back so that he was closer to Verity. Battle lines were being drawn. Owen cursed and moved over to Verity, his sawn-off shotgun at the ready. He gestured with his chin for Macdonald to join him but Macdonald shook his head.

‘Eddie,’ said Verity, ‘get the hell over here.’

Eddie looked across at the two West Indians, then at Verity. ‘I didn’t sign up for a shoot-out,’ he said. ‘In and out, you said.’

‘Eddie, get over here or I’ll shoot you myself.’ Eddie gritted his teeth. Verity levelled his shotgun at Eddie’s groin. ‘I swear to God,’ said Verity. ‘Get your fucking arse over here.’

Tears welled in Eddie’s eyes but he did as he was told.

‘Answer the phone, Ted,’ said the voice in Verity’s ear. ‘What we’ve got to say is better said over a secure line, right? Don’t you agree?’

Verity ripped off the earpiece and pointed at the fork-lift truck driver on the floor. ‘Get a shotgun taped to his neck, now,’ he shouted to Owen, keeping his own weapon aimed at the West Indians.

Owen grabbed the duct tape and pulled the injured man to his feet. ‘Give me a hand,’ he said to Eddie.

‘If you’re going to go through with this, I’m out of here,’ said Doug.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ said Verity.

‘This ain’t no Three Musketeers thing,’ said Doug. ‘You do what you’ve got to do, but I’m walking out now.’

‘I’m with him,’ said Fred, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The telephone rang again.

‘We’re going out together,’ said Verity.

Eddie was winding tape round the fork-lift truck driver’s neck.

‘They’re not going to let you drive away,’ said Macdonald.

‘They won’t have a choice,’ said Verity. ‘What are they going to do? Shoot at us while we’ve got these guys by the short and curlies?’

‘And what are you going to do when they say there’s no deal?’ said Macdonald. ‘Blow the heads off civilians?’

‘They’ll deal,’ said Verity.

‘If that’s what you think you don’t know the cops.’

‘Do you?’ yelled Verity. ‘Is that how they knew we were here? Did you grass us up?’

‘Screw you, Verity,’ said Macdonald. ‘I don’t need this shit.’

Verity pointed his shotgun at Macdonald’s midriff, his finger on the trigger. Macdonald swung his own shotgun up so that it was levelled at Verity.

‘Guys, for fuck’s sake!’ shouted Owen. ‘We’re on the same side here!’

‘We’re in this together,’ said Verity. ‘If we split up now, it’s over.’

‘It’s over anyway!’ roared Macdonald. ‘You just don’t see it.’

‘Bob, we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t,’ said Owen.

Macdonald snarled at Owen, though he kept his weapon on Verity. ‘You told me this was a straight robbery,’ he said. ‘In and out before anyone was the wiser, you said. Now we’re taking hostages.’

‘The cops are going to say we took hostages anyway,’ said Owen calmly. ‘Soon as we tied them up we were holding them against their will. Look, I brought you in on this because you were a cool head. Don’t let me down now.’

The phone stopped ringing. Outside the warehouse they heard rapid footsteps. Then silence.

Macdonald lowered his weapon. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Verity stared at him, then nodded curtly, acknowledging Macdonald’s change of heart. ‘Check the door,’ Verity said. ‘Don’t open it, just listen.’

Macdonald walked towards it. As he passed Verity, he turned suddenly and slammed the cut-down stock of his shotgun into the man’s stomach. The breath exploded from Verity’s lungs and he doubled over. Macdonald brought the stock crashing down on the back of Verity’s head and Verity dropped like a dead weight.

Owen stared at Macdonald in amazement. Doug and Fred cheered. The Glaswegian tried to rip his shotgun away from the warehouseman’s neck but the duct tape held firm and he cursed. Macdonald swung his gun towards him. ‘Don’t even think about it, Jock,’ he said.

‘You’re dead,’ said Owen. ‘When he gets hold of you, you’ll be wearing your balls around your neck.’

‘If we go out there tooled up, we’re dead anyway,’ said Macdonald. He backed away from Owen. The Glaswegian ripped his shotgun free with a roar. He aimed it at Macdonald as the warehouseman slumped to his knees.

Macdonald kept backing away. ‘I’ve no problem with you, Jock,’ he said, ‘or you, Jeff. I just want out of here.’

There was a loud bang at the entrance and they all jumped. As the Glaswegian turned to look at the metal door, Macdonaldsprinted down the warehouse. He ducked between two towering stacks of pallets, then zigzagged right, left and right again. He dropped the shotgun and kicked it under a pallet, then sprinted towards the rear of the warehouse. Behind him he heard the metal door crash open, then the staccato shouts of men who were used to their orders being obeyed. ‘Armed police! Down on the floor, now! Down, down, down!’

Macdonald zigzagged again, and reached the warehouse wall. The emergency exit was at the mid-point and he ran towards it. From the front of the warehouse he heard a single shotgun blast, a burst of automatic fire, then more shouts. He wondered who had fired. Owen was too much of a pro to shoot at armed police. It was probably the Glaswegian. Macdonald hoped he hadn’t hit anybody and that the police had been firing warning shots. A pump-action shotgun against half a dozen Hecklers was no contest.

Macdonald kicked the metal bar in the middle of the door, which sprang open. An alarm sounded in the distance. The door bounced back and he shouldered his way through.

‘Armed police!’ shouted a Cockney accent. ‘Drop your weapon!’

Macdonald stopped dead and raised his hands in the air. ‘I’m not carrying a weapon, dipshit!’ he shouted, then stood where he was, breathing heavily.

‘Down on the ground, keep your hands where we can see them!’ shouted the officer. He was in his mid-twenties, dressed all in black with a Kevlar vest and a black baseball cap with
POLICE
written across it in white capital letters. His Heckler was aimed at Macdonald’s chest. Two more armed officers stood behind him, their guns aimed at Macdonald.

‘Can we all just relax here?’ said Macdonald. He took off his ski mask and stared sullenly at the three policemen. ‘Okay now?’ he said. They looked at him grimly.

‘Down on the floor!’ said the oldest of the three, gesturing with his Heckler.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Macdonald. ‘Look, I don’t have time for this.’ He moved to walk by them. The Cockney swore at him, raised his weapon and slammed the butt against the side of the Macdonald’s head. Macdonald went down without a sound.

Macdonald came to lying on his back, staring up at a man in a white mask wearing a dark green anorak, shining a small flashlight into his left eye. Macdonald groaned. He heard the wail of a siren and realised he was in an ambulance. He tried to sit up but the paramedic put a hand in the middle of his chest and pushed him down. ‘Lie still, you’ve had a nasty bang on the head.’

‘He hit me,’ said Macdonald. ‘Why the hell did he hit me?’

‘Because you were resisting arrest, you twat,’ said a Cockney voice.

Macdonald tried to sit up again.

‘Really, sir, I wouldn’t,’ said the paramedic. ‘There’s a good chance of concussion. We’re going to have to give you a scan.’

Macdonald tried to push away the paramedic but his arm wouldn’t move more than a few inches. He looked down. His wrist was handcuffed to the metal bar of the stretcher he was lying on. He tried to raise the other. That was cuffed, too. The cop who’d hit him was sitting next to him, the Heckler cradled in his lap. He had a long face with deep-set eyes and he’d turned the baseball cap round so that the peak was at the back. ‘I should have hit you harder,’ he said.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Macdonald, groggily.

‘Your mate shot one of ours,’ said the cop. ‘You’re all going down for attempted murder on top of armed robbery.’

‘He’s okay?’

‘Your mate? Took one in the arm. He’ll live.’

‘Screw him, he almost got us killed. The cop who was shot, is he okay?’

‘Now you’re worried, aren’t you?’ The cop slapped his Kevlar vest. ‘Vest took most of the shot, bit of damage to his lower jaw. But the intent was there and you’re all in it together.’

Macdonald lay back and stared up at the roof of the ambulance. They were moving at speed, the siren still wailing, but he could tell he wasn’t badly hurt. He’d been hit before, by experts, and the butt of the Heckler hadn’t done any serious damage. What worried Macdonald was why the job had gone so wrong.

Macdonald was wheeled into a cubicle where an Indian doctor examined the head wound, shone another light in his eyes, tested his hearing and tapped the soles of his feet before pronouncing him in no need of a brain scan. ‘Frankly,’ he said to Macdonald, ‘the queue for the MRI is so long that if there was a problem you’d be dead long before we got you checked out.’

Macdonald wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. The doctor put antiseptic on the wound and told Macdonald he didn’t think it required stitching. ‘Any chance of me being kept in for a day or two?’ Macdonald asked. The longer he stayed out of a police station the better.

‘Even if you were at death’s door we’d have trouble finding you a bed,’ said the doctor, scribbling on a clipboard. He glanced at the paramedic. ‘You did the right thing bringing him in, but he’s fine.’

‘Told you I should have hit you harder,’ said the armed policeman, who was standing at the end of the trolley cradling his Heckler.

The paramedic looked across at the cop. ‘What do we do with him?’

‘I’ve been told to keep him here until the forensic boys give him the once-over.’

The doctor pointed at a curtained-off area on the opposite side of the emergency room. ‘You can put him in there unless we get busy,’ he said, and walked over to where an old man with shoulder-length grey hair and a stained raincoat was haranguing a young nurse.