Kane sank further down in his seat, one hand sliding inside his jacket to brush the butt of the Smith and Wesson 9mm, model 9 auto.
The headlights continued towards him.
Then passed by.
Just a small white van. He watched as its tail lights disappeared into the
gloom then sucked in a deep, stale breath.
The tapping on the side window almost made him shout aloud in surprise. He tugged the 9mm free and pressed his face to the glass.
The figure standing outside the car was soaked. Clothes sodden by the pouring rain.
Kane hesitated a moment then reached back and opened the rear door. The figure clambered in and sat in silence for a moment.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Kane snarled. ‘Why the hell didn’t you park where you normally park?’
The figure in the back seat said nothing.
Kane could smell the dull stench of wet earth and something more pungent.
‘Have you been walking through cow shit?’ he demanded.
Still the figure said nothing.
‘Come on then, get it over with,’ Kane insisted. ‘You were the one who wanted this fucking meeting.
You told me that it was definitely Declan Leary who killed Ivor Best and Jeff Kelly. Where’s the bastard now? If he’s coming after me I want to know.’
He turned to face the figure. As the dark shape began to speak, a flash of lightning tore across the sky. The rain continued to hammer down.
In the back of the Fiat, the figure continued his speech.
CHESHAM, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE, ENGLAND:
There’s a van coming up the drive.’ Doyle touched the earpiece he was wearing as if unsure of the words he’d just heard.
When Mel repeated herself he peered through the privet hedge surrounding the orchard and saw the red vehicle making its way towards the Duncans’ house.
Post van.
‘I can see it, Mel,’ he murmured into the pin-microphone attached to his lapel. ‘Are they expecting any deliveries?’
‘No.’
Doyle slid one hand inside his jacket, his fingers touching the butt of the Beretta.
Just in case.
‘I’l follow it in,’ he said. ‘You watch yourself.’
He made his way quickly back along the narrow path that wound between the trees and opened on to a large expanse of lawn. He was two hundred yards from the house. If he moved now the occupants of the van would see him.
How many were there?
It was difficult to tell from his vantage point. He squinted and caught sight of one man.
There could be others in the back.
Doyle eased the automatic from its holster, gripping it in his fist.
The van came to a halt and the driver’s side door swung open. The man who got out was dressed in the usual dark uniform of a postman. He stood looking up at the house for a moment then strode towards the front door.
Doyle slipped the safety catch off.
The newcomer rang the doorbell and waited.
‘He’s on his own as far as I can see,’ Doyle said into his microphone. ‘I’m on him. Just watch it when you open the door.’
‘Got it.’ Mel’s voice filled his earpiece.
He saw her open the front door.
Doyle could hear snatches of their conversation through his earpiece but it was only the odd word here and there. He lowered the 9mm and began walking across the lawn towards the house.
He was halfway there when he saw the man return to the van and retrieve something. It appeared to be a box about 12 inches square.
Doyle moved more quickly now, watching as the man handed the package to Mel.
The former counter terrorist was less than a hundred yards from the van now.
His eyes never left the uniformed man.
Seventy yards. Doyle was practically sprinting.
Fifty yards.The postman turned away from the door and headed back towards the
van. He saw Doyle
as he was preparing to climb back in.
‘Hold it there,’ Doyle said, raising the Beretta. He was advancing slowly now.
The man turned pale and his lower jaw dropped.
‘What’s in the box?’ Doyle wanted to know.
The man tried to answer but ail he succeeded in doing was shaking his head.
‘It feels quite light,’ Mel called.
‘Any smell?’ Doyle wanted to know.
Mel looked puzzled.
‘Does it smell sweet?’ Doyle snapped. ‘Like marzipan?’
Like fucking Semtex.
Mel shook her head.
‘What’s in the fucking box?’ Doyle said, his gaze still fixed on the terrified delivery man.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered breathlessly. ‘I’m only supposed to deliver what—’
‘Did you bring that from the main sorting office?’
The postman nodded.
Doyle moved closer, the barrel of the Beretta still aimed at the man’s head.
‘What do you want to do?’ Mel said, kneeling beside the package.
‘Is there a sender’s address on it?’ Doyle wanted to know.
‘No.’
Doyle took a step nearer then glanced at the postman.
‘Go on, piss off, Postman Pat,’ he snapped.
The relieved man clambered behind the wheel of the van and drove off, the vehicle disappearing down
the drive considerably faster than it had approached.
Doyle holstered the automatic and looked first at the box then at Mel.
Her gaze was fixed on the package.
‘What do you want to do?’ she said again.
Doyle knelt beside the box too, scanning every inch of it for any tell-tale signs of something amiss.
Come on, you’re the fucking expert You’ve seen bombs close up before. Very close. Close enough to put you in hospital.
‘If it is a bomb and it’s on a timer then there’s no way of knowing when it might go off,’ he said. ‘If whoever sent it can detonate it by remote then they could be watching us now. They could set it off whenever they like.’ He looked at Mel who merely nodded.
‘We don’t know that it is a bomb,’ she said, as if trying to find reassurance in her own words.
‘No, you’re right. And there’s only one way to find out if it is or not. Open it’
Wait, let’s think about this logically.’ Mel stood up, her eyes never leaving the package.
‘When it comes to bombs, there isn’t much logic involved,’ Doyle told her standing up too. ‘They go off and people die. It’s pretty simple.’
‘And if we open that box and there are explosives inside then we die.’
‘I’ll do it, Mel. Just make sure that Mrs Duncan stays inside and you stay with her.’
‘Doyle, you can’t do that.’
He had already picked up the box and was walking across the drive towards the carefully manicured lawn.
‘Get inside the house,’ he shouted.
‘Just leave it.’
‘And what if it is a bomb and it is on a timer?’ He shook his head. ‘Get inside.’
She hesitated a moment longer then stepped back into the house and closed the front door.
Doyle continued across the lawn. A hundred yards from the house. He kept walking. Two hundred.
‘Can you hear me, Mel?’ he said, setting the box down.
Two hundred and fifty yards. That should do it Even if the fucking box is full of explosive then the house won’t suffer any damage.
They’ll only need a matchbox to bury you in too if it goes off.
‘Mel?’ he repeated.
‘I can hear you, Doyle,’ she said through his earpiece.
He looked back in the direction of the house.Then the former counter terrorist regarded the object intently.
Fairly light Nothing rattling about Whatever was inside was either packed in something or secured to one side of the box. A couple of ounces of Semtex would be enough to destroy a car.
The box was sealed with masking tape.
‘How are you going to open it?’ Mel’s voice sounded loud in his ear.