Battle Cry. Don Pendleton
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named Boyle’s number two as Erik Heriot, presumably well versed on all of Boyle’s big deals. If one nut wouldn’t crack…
Bolan had picked his time deliberately. Countless studies had revealed that human beings generally hit a slump at 4:00 a.m., no matter how much sleep they’d had. Reflexes lagged, distractions were routine. In hospitals, statistics showed a spike in births and deaths.
It was the Hour of the Wolf.
Or, in this case, the Hour of the Executioner.
The closest place he’d found to park was four blocks northeast of Boyle’s place, but the neighborhood had alleys where the well-to-do could leave their garbage cans for pickup without ruining the trim look of their streets. Taking the back way cut his hike by half and gave Bolan a chance to come at Boyle’s house from behind, instead of strolling under streetlights to the tall front door.
The backyard was surrounded by a seven-foot brick wall, but Boyle hadn’t bothered to spike it or set up motion detectors. Bolan scaled the wall and lay on top of it to whistle softly, calling any dogs that might be lurking in the shadows down below, but none responded to the call. No gunmen, either, indicating that the Boss of Glasgow didn’t know that he was under siege.
There had been nothing on the radio about police discovering Watt’s body in the pawn shop, nothing about weapons found or anything related to them. Bolan knew police could keep things under wraps if they collaborated with the media, but unsolved homicides normally rated coverage, even if details were suppressed to weed out false confessions.
So, he had no reason to suspect that Boyle was on alert. All systems go.
Bolan rolled off the wall and dropped into darkness, landed in a crouch and struck off toward the house.
ERIK HERIOT LIT his fortieth cigarette of the day, spent close to a half-minute coughing, then expelled the smoke from his lungs with a sigh or relief. Ought to quit that, he thought, then smiled at the old game he played with himself every day.
He wasn’t ready for a life change at the moment, whether it was swearing off the coffin nails, taking a pledge on booze, or looking for a so-called honest job to fill his time from nine to five.
He had one life, and this was it. He’d come a long way from the borstal time he’d served as a delinquent kid, serving these days as second in command to Frankie Boyle. Hard men all over Strathclyde knew his name, and Heriot could name a few in London who regretted crossing him.
The ones who were alive.
His life was damn near brilliant, when he thought about it, but if there was one thing he could change, it would’ve been the idle waiting that he had to do while Boyle had himself a frolic with a fancy bit. It was a waste of time for Heriot, in his opinion, when he could just as well be shaking down a debtor, say, or getting into some young lovely’s panties himself.
Still, Heriot knew better than to bitch about it, which would certainly rebound against him. It was better if he just—
Now, what in hell was that? he thought in response to the sound he’d just heard.
It was a scuffling noise of some kind from the kitchen, he realized. The last thing that he needed was a couple of his boys banging the pots and pans around like Gordon Feckin’ Ramsey on the telly. If they had to scuffle, he thought, they could do it in the yard. Or, better still, hold off until their shift was over and go down to Rory’s gym. Decide the matter in the ring, where anyone could get a bet down and enjoy the show, Heriot reasoned.
Fuming and trailing smoke, he made his way to the kitchen, ready to unload on anyone who was dumb enough to start a row inside the boss’s house. He cleared the doorway and stopped dead, surprised at seeing Billy Cutler laid out on the floor.
His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, and what seemed to be a bucketload of blood was pooled around his head. He saw the gun lying next to Billy’s limp right hand, and knew there should’ve been the louder racket if he’d shot himself.
So, wha—?
Warm steel made contact with his skull behind his left ear. Heriot froze where he stood, wondering how much it would hurt to have his brains blown out. Instead of pain and sudden darkness, though, a voice half-whispered to him.
“Let’s go see your boss,” it said.
THE BACK DOOR had been unlocked for some reason. Maybe one of Boyle’s attendants had planned to take out the trash, or perhaps it was simple negligence. Whatever the scenario, it happened, and the ones most likely to relax their guard were people who had been in charge so long that they’d begun to treat the opposition with contempt.
It was a critical mistake.
Bolan had entered with the 93-R in his hand, leaving his Spectre on its sling for the moment. The pistol left his spare hand free for doorknobs, light switches, whatever came along requiring manual dexterity.
He was inside, closing the door behind him, when he realized that there was someone in the pantry, off the kitchen proper to his left. Bolan was gentle with the door, but it still clicked as it was closing, and the soldier in the pantry had good ears.
“Whozat?” the man asked, and had his pistol drawn before he showed himself. Not bad, Bolan thought, risking embarrassment to hold the fort. But whoever had left the door unlocked also had signed his death warrant.
One shot from twenty feet was all it took, sinking a hole between the shooter’s raised eyebrows, just a hair off center. Dying on his feet, the guy still managed two more lurching steps and fell against the stove, left arm outflung to catch the handle of a skillet, flip it once end-over-end and send it clattering across the floor as he went down.
The house was quiet, otherwise, though lights still showed in several of the windows. Bolan had to think the noise would draw somebody to investigate, and he was right. No more than thirty seconds later, when he’d nearly reached the exit to a formal dining room, he heard footsteps approaching at an urgent pace.
Bolan stepped back into a corner where the door would cover him as it was opened. Any SWAT team officer or soldier trained in urban combat would have entered in a crouch, slamming the door back to the wall and stunning anyone who might be crouched behind it, but a little racket in the kitchen didn’t rate that kind of do-or-die response.
So he was ready when the new arrival entered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, gaping at the body sprawled before him. And before the second man could twitch, much less sound an alarm, Bolan had kissed his neck with the Beretta’s warm suppressor.
“Let’s go see your boss,” he said.
The Scotsman almost nodded, then thought better of it. When he turned, it was a slow dance move, away from Bolan, waiting for the gun and whoever was holding it to go along with him. He caught the door before it closed, with his right hand, and stepped across the threshold with the same care he might exercise if he was walking on light bulbs.
“How far?” Bolan asked, not quite whispering.
“Upstairs. First floor, end of the hall.”
“First floor,” in the UK and most of Europe, meant what would’ve been the second story in the States. On this side of the water, the American first floor was called the “ground” floor, logically enough.
“You lead. Stay cool.”
“As ice,” his prisoner replied. Then added, “I suppose ye know yer in the shitebag now.”
“You’d better hope not,” Bolan told him. “If it hits the fan, you’re first to go.”
“Oh, aye. Ah figgered that.”
They’d reached the stairs, and Bolan’s captive started up them, taking each step with leaden strides.
“Faster,” Bolan instructed.
“Och, I wouldn’t wanna get me arse shot off fer runnin’, now.”