“How about neither of us, you goddamned son of a bitch,” Hobbs says before Cullen has a chance to speak.
For himself, Cullen’s not so sure. Yeah, he’s known both these guys for years, but he’s known Astley damn near as long. So when he steps through the door he keeps his gun trained on all of them. Astley, Florry and Lansing, Hobbs, Friar and Danza. All of them, ‘cept Jim.
Jim, he trusts.
The others have drawn an’all, and they’re standing there, guns pointing at each other, like some fucking scene out of Reservoir Dogs ‘cos there ain’t enough trust here to fill a shot glass.
“Let him down,” Cullen says, gesturing at Jim with his gun.
Florry glances at Astley, who nods sharply.
When the cuffs are released James just crumples, whether it’s from exhaustion
or depression he’s not sure. All he knows is, he can’t look at any
of them any longer. He hates them all for this, dragging him into their shit
and yanking on his strings ‘til he does as he’s told like a first
class moron.
They say jump, he asks how high. But who says jump? It’s been Hobbs and Friar pushing him through all the hoops. Hobbs saying the notebook came from Florry. Florry’s here saying something different. Shit, if he tries to think anymore his head’ll explode.
And if Astley’s being upfront and he’s been trying to get rid of Ryan for five years then why the hell wasn’t Cullen in on it? He’s supposed to be his second in command.
Fuck. Can’t someone just shoot him now?
Getting Jim down hasn’t achieved a goddamn thing. They’re still
all standing there, guns drawn, ready to take each other down first move any
of ‘em makes. Hobbs’s jittery, Cullen can see him out the corner
of his eye, and Friar’s no better. Is it one of them who’s the traitor?
‘Cept that don’t make no sense. Why set this all up if it was one of them? Better to kept their head down than call attention.
Astley? Cullen glances over at his old mentor. He’s so damn relaxed he could be having a sherry with his missus in the parlour. And it still don’t feel right thinking of Astley as the bad guy.
Then there’s Florry and Lansing. Florry was a friend of Ryan’s but, according to Hobbs, Florry brought the book to him first, and that leaves Cullen asking why? If he was working with Ryan, why not just keep it to himself?
Lansing’s not as obvious. For starters, Cullen don’t know him as well as the others, but he’s not exactly high up the tree. It needs to be someone with access to names and dates. Like himself.
Then finally there’s Danza. The guy who’d lead the team that got Cullen out of Chechnya. In Cullen’s opinion, you’ll not find a better soldier, but he doesn’t know much about the man. That’s Hobbs’ department. Hobbs’s known Danza for years, trusts him and treats him like a brother.
Which makes the answer to who tried killing Jim, no one. But someone did. Someone who knew about the book, or knew enough about Jim to want him gone.
Frustrated by his inability to work this out by logic, Cullen shakes his head and slowly lowers his gun. “Reckon this ain’t getting us nowhere,” he says. “If it is one of us then they ain’t gonna say and that just means standing ‘round here ‘til someone gets trigger happy.”
“You suggesting we go discuss this over a beer?” Hobbs says. His voice is higher than normal and he’s shifting from foot to foot, his gaze darting from one man to the next. Nerves, thinks Cullen. Hobbs’s strung out like a cat on acid. Why?
“Got summat you wanna say?” Cullen asks. It can’t be Hobbsy. Not after knowing the guy for upwards of twenty years.
“No,” Hobbs snaps. “You?” He’s still shifting and Cullen suddenly realises he’s trying to get a decent shot in at Astley ‘round the pillar.
“You don’t wanna be doing that,” he says, holding up a hand and taking a step to put himself in line of fire.
“Get out the way, Mal,” Hobbs says. “If you won’t protect yourself then I’m damn well gonna do it for you.”
“Then you’re gonna have to shoot me first,” answers Cullen. Why the fuck is Hobbs acting like this? It don’t make any sense. Though maybe it will if he asks, so he does.
Hobbs’ eyes swerve from their target for all of a second before resuming their stone hard glare at Astley. “Cos this shit tried to have you and James killed, that’s why. Near as damn it succeeded too. If I hadn’t have stuck James in body armour he’d be dead under that fucking table in Groznyy.
“Jesus, Mal, I told you all this crap months ago. You never believed me then, you gonna believe me now?”
Silence. Cullen stares at Hobbs, assessing his nervousness. Any sudden move from anyone could set him off and turn this into a fucking blood bath. But that doesn’t mean he believes him about an assassination attempt.
“I don’t suppose it would make a blind bit of difference were I to refute that accusation?” comes Astley’s voice from behind him. “If I wished you dead, Malcolm, believe you would be gone by now.”
Astley’s got a fair point, in Cullen’s mind anyhow. Not, apparently, in Hobbs’.
“Shut the fuck up, old man,” Hobbs yells, his gun shaking in hands pale from clutching it so tightly. “I fucking heard it from the guy who you told to do it. The one you stuck in Danza’s team. The one you had killed off next mission.”
“Jonno,” Florry says. “Alec Johnson. Good bloke, not a killer.”
“What?”
Cullen holds out a hand to steady Hobbs down but it ain’t making a whole lot of difference. The guy’s backing away, frowning and shaking his head like he’s got a bee buzzing in his dreads.
“Seems like you mighta been wrong,” Cullen says. “Now who told you Johnson was the mole?”
The bullet hits before Cullen hears the gun fire. Blood spatters and he sees Hobbs crumple, his face a sudden grotesque film of fear and pain.
Then there’s more gunshots and Cullen hits the ground, covering Hobbs with his body, pulling him behind the pillar and peering out to assess who and what’s where. His first thought’s for Jim, who Florry’s got off in the corner, and he’d better be keeping him safe or Cullen’ll rip his fucking lungs out.
Danza’s the one who’s opened fire, and he’s still going, walking steadily across the room and letting off round after round as the others scatter. He takes cover behind another pillar and it seems like he’s gunning for Friar and Astley rather than Cullen anyhow.
The door’s open and Cullen watches as Friar appears, shoots, and vanishes again then Astley does the same. Good rhythm. They could keep Danza pinned for hours. ‘Cepting Lansing’s firing as well, hidden behind another pillar. Looks like he’s Danza’s back-up. Some of it, anyhow. Cullen’s now got no doubts there’ll be more men outside.
What the fuck is Danza playing at?
“Mal?” Hobbs whispers wetly. There’s blood spreading over his chest and Cullen knows damn fine that Hobbs is a dead man if they don’t get outta here in the next five minutes.
Stripping off his shirt, Cullen presses it against the wound in Hobbs’ chest – just about where Ryan was shot, but he’s not thinking about that. Not gonna think about that.
“Hold on,” he mutters. “Gonna get you help, just…” Hobbs’ eyes flutter closed. Fuck. That’s not good.
“Need a hand, mate?” Florry says easing Cullen’s hand away and replacing it with his own. Behind him is Jim, looking pale and lost. He won’t meet Cullen’s eyes, but Cullen can’t worry about that. Right now he’s gotta clear a way out so they can get Hobbs the help he needs.
Drawing his own gun, Cullen nods at Florry, then rolls clear of the pillar, firing at Lansing as he goes.
“Hang in there, Hobbsy,” mutters the Australian grabbing his mobile out of his pocket and throwing it at James. “Ambulance now.”
James stares vacantly at the phone in his hand.
“Come on, you fucker,” yells Florry above noise of the gunfire, “He’s gonna die. You want his blood on your hands?”
James blinks. Does he want blood on his hands? Any more than he’s already got. “You can’t bring paramedics into this,” he says slowly.
Stuffing the phone into his pocket James looks around him in the semi-darkness, ignoring the gunfire and the wounded people and the final action scene that’s happening all around him. Ignoring the big fucking ball of hate that’s taking him over. There it is, a way out. He’d seen it earlier when he made his pathetic attempt at a great escape. There's a padlocked door in the wall of the hangar not more than twenty feet away from them.
“That way,” he says indicating the direction with his head, “I hope we can get through it.”
“We will,” says Florry, “No probs, mate.”
Now he’s a mate. One of the team. No Jimbo, cos there’s no fucking U in team.
Between them, they drag Hobbs over and James is a hundred percent convinced that, if they make it outside, they’ll be carrying a corpse, but he pushes that and every other thought out of his head because that’s the only way he can do this.
Once they get to the door Florry shoots off the lock and the ricocheting bullet narrowly misses hitting the Aussie in the head. “Fuck,” he says when they’re outside. “I hope they left the fucking keys in the car or we’re dead.”
He wasn’t lying. As soon as they make it round to the front of the hangar, the two goons who’d snatched James from the apartment are on them and James is left trying to load Hobbs into the back of the Audi while Florry’s picking off the gunmen.
“Get the fuck in,” yells James as he climbs into the front, thanking Christ that the keys are in the ignition – would have been good to check that first.
Florry jumps into the back and pulls the unconscious form of Hobbs half on top of him so he’s able to try and stem the blood and still fire out of the window. “I need two fucking pairs of hands and eyes here,” he snarls.
“Where the hell am I going?” yells James following the overgrown track in what he hopes is the way off the base.
“Fuck. Bedford I think,” says Florry as they’re finally out of range of the gunfire and he can concentrate on Hobbs.
“I’ve never fucking heard of it.”
“Follow the fucking road signs, you wanker.”
“Left or right?” asks James as they reach the exit to the military base.
“Right,” says Florry, “And hurry the fuck up, mate.”
James is on auto pilot now, driving through the back roads as fast as he can, praying that he doesn’t lose it or get stopped by the police. Traffic is light seeing as it’s well past midnight and it only takes him fifteen minutes to get to the outskirts of Bedford. From the silence in the back he’s sure that there’s only two of them left alive in the car. Still he keeps going, cos it’s all he can do.
As soon as they get into the town he miraculously finds signs to the hospital. South wing for the emergency room and he’s fucking there, brakes screeching like he’s on a cop show as he pulls to a halt in the ambulance bay.
Florry’s out of the car instantly, yelling and screaming his head off and then it’s one big scurry of activity as Hobbs’ is stretchered off inside the emergency unit surrounded by a team of medical staff.
After shutting the passenger door, James starts up the engine again and follows the signs for the visitors’ car park. He pulls into a bay in the quietest darkest part of the lot, leans his head against the steering wheel and tries his fucking best to stop thinking, start thinking, who the fuck knows.
He’s not had a cigarette or taken a piss for hours and it’s like he doesn’t need to. Like his body’s shut down on him as much as his head has. He’s only partially aware of the drive back to London. Shouldn’t he be terrified? He fumbles around in his jeans pocket and yeah he’s still got his cell phone and his fucking keys. That’s almost funny. The phone's switched on and he stares at the screen, losing concentration so much he almost flies off the road. Cullen would be fucking furious if he totalled the car. That’s if he’s not lying in a heap with his guts spread all over a dirty concrete floor.
When James gets back to the apartment, all he can think about is ripping the phone wires out and getting clean. The bathroom’s his sanctuary - lock the door to keep the fuckers out coz soon they’ll be here laughing and replaying their screwed up lives or mourning over Hobbs and whoever else has been lost. Today it was Lansing and Danza’s turn to be the bad guys. Tomorrow it’s Florry. Week Thursday it’ll be Cullen.
Bath’s running and James stares at himself in the mirror, hands and clothing covered in dark brown stains - Hobbs’ blood all over him. Eye for an eye, you fucker. Kill or be killed.
His mobile rings and he takes it out of his pocket and deliberately submerges it in the tub watching as it dies.
Every day gets worse and worse and worse and worse.
Cullen’s loading his second clip when he hears gunfire from outside. Glancing
over, he sees the open door and realises that James has gone. Florry too. And
Hobbs. Thank christ. They’ll get Hobbsy to a hospital, Cullen knows they
will, and he permits himself a second to relax.
But that momentary distraction nearly proves his downfall. The concrete next to his head explodes and he rolls away back behind the pillar, wiping blood from his temple. Too damn close. He needs to keep his wits about him.
Across the warehouse Lansing’s body lies where it fell, brought down by Cullen’s shot. Clean and neat and efficient. Lansing was a fool. Danza isn’t.
The big guy’s wedged tight between wall and pillar, only loosing off enough shots to keep his three assailants pinned. He’s waiting for something, probably back-up. Hopefully Florry disposed of the guys outside, which should buy them some minutes at least.
A new flurry of gunfire erupts near the doorway, suggesting Florry hasn’t been lucky and, as Cullen watches, Friar launches himself into the warehouse proper, scrambling to take cover behind one of its myriad fat concrete pillars. That puts them two against one in here, but leaves Astley alone outside. An executive decision? Probably, Cullen thinks. Astley must be certain he can hold his own out there.
Taking command of this new situation, Cullen flags to Friar telling him to move in closer to Danza’s position, indicating that he’ll provide covering fire. He does and it works. Works again when Friar lays down cover for Cullen.
They’re close enough now that Cullen can see Danza’s face and the blood staining his pants’ leg. He’s winged. Not so bad as to keep him out of action, but bad enough to make him sweat. That puts time back in the balance. They still can’t afford to wait ‘til Danza passes out, but he’s not gonna be running anywhere fast.
It’s on the next foray that things go tits up. Friar trips, sprawling face first onto the concrete and Danza’s got a clear shot at him. Cullen unloads bullet after bullet, trying to keep Danza pinned while Friar staggers to his feet, shaking his head and cradling his right arm.
Fuck! Does Friar shoot with his left? Cullen has no idea.
Then his gun clicks instead of firing. That dreadful empty sound of a clip extinguished. The one that too often comes before the Russian roulette of an enemy’s returning fire.
Fumbling in his pocket for more ammo, Cullen hears the rapid scuffle of footsteps heading towards him and risks a glance around the pillar. It’s Danza. Friar’s managed to get close to the door and even now he’s trying to aim his gun with his injured arm, his face pale against the shadows behind him. Not a lefty then, Cullen thinks.
His fingers automatically eject the spent clip and the new one slots home, lending added weight to his gun. The footsteps are close and, hoping to fuck he’s got it right, Cullen kicks out, hearing a grunt and feeling his boot connect with something soft.
Man down, says a small voice inside him, still unable to conceive of Danza as anything other than one of his own men. They’ve been in situations like this before, but never on opposing sides. And maybe it’s that minute hesitation that brings him low, ‘cos when he swings out ready to shoot down Hobbs’ buddy, Cullen gets a fist in the face for his pains.
“Fuck!” he cusses, shaking his head to try and clear that sledgehammer blow. Doesn’t work and when the butt of Danza’s gun catches him in the temple, Cullen goes down like a felled elephant.
Now he’s in trouble. Cullen don’t even have to open his eyes to know Danza’s standing over him, gun trained. So why’s he waiting?
When Cullen looks, he knows why. There in Danza’s eyes is the same hesitation Cullen had felt seconds earlier. To put a bullet in the brain of a man you respect and care for is something different to taking out nameless faceless enemies. It takes a different mindset, one none of them have trained for. Not recently.
“Do it,” he says through clenched teeth. His gun’s way over to his left but if he can somehow survive Danza’s shot he might be able to get to it. Stands a better chance then than now, anyhow. One breath out of place right now and Cullen’s a dead man.
There’s pain lines around Danza’s eyes and Cullen’d like to think it’s from more than his leg. He’s not gonna rely on it though. Not that dumb.
“Just fucking do it.”
You can tell, when a guy’s gonna pull the trigger. Mostly anyhow. Cullen’d seen it in the Chechen who killed Ryan and he sees it again now. It’s a flattening of the eyes, a bit like when someone dies. Makes him wonder if killing’s a bit like dying, though he’s not thought that before. Ever.
But the shot don’t come, least not from Danza’s gun. Comes from Friar who’s finally got his aim right enough that he sticks a bullet right through Danza’s shoulder.
Danza turns, staggers, straightens. Cullen lunges for his gun, knowing even as his fingers close around it than Friar’s a gonner. But he’s ended up owing that prissy little queen his life and he’ll fucking take it out of Danza’s hide.
“Malcolm! Ruben! Enough!” It’s Astley’s voice, calling his men to stand down but it’s too goddamn late for that. There’s blood everywhere and this is only gonna end one way. Astley’s heading for them, determination writ large like a father who’s come home early to find his sons playing with guns.
Cullen grabs his gun, rolls and aims at Danza’s back. Such a fucking broad target that he can’t miss, even when seeing two of them. Finger squeezing on the trigger, explosion of sound, explosion of blood, then another, an echo of his own shot and past Danza’s falling body, Cullen sees Astley twist and fly back, his face no more than a mask of destroyed tissue.