Honour Bound by Keith Walker Read Free Book Online Page B

experience
that if someone was following, and if that someone was professional, then in
these crowds they would be very difficult, if not impossible to spot.
    Willie
turned left off the main road and disappeared into a small side street. A disused
railway bridge hung over the junction, it was so wide it gave the street the
appearance of a tunnel, the shadow it cast gave the impression of looking from
the main road into an inky black chasm. Norton knew from previous visits that
the side street was closed to vehicles, their
vibrations caused lumps of crumbling masonry to fall from the dilapidated
bridge and on to the road. A bollard set in concrete in the centre of the road
held a sign alerting motorists new to the area of the danger, and to alternative
routes. Rivers would be using the street as an escape route.
    A
silver Fiat peeled away from the main flow of traffic and turned into the
shadowy blackness. Driving with two wheels on the pavement, it skirted the
bollard and disappeared from view.
    “Shit!”
Norton swore, attracting critical glances from his fellow pedestrians, and ran
towards the bridge. He had to force his way across the road, the drivers
unwilling to give way to a pedestrian lest someone squeeze into the queue in
front of them. His actions caused a car and a large van to brake hard to avoid
hitting him. The sound of angry horns followed him to the bridge.
    Once
into the gloom he drew the Sig and stayed in the shadows close to the wall. As
his eyes adjusted to the reduced light, he easily made out the Fiat, parked in
the middle of the road about thirty yards from the junction, its shape a
definite outline in the lighter rectangle that indicated the far end of the
bridge. Norton moved slowly towards the stationary vehicle, senses alert,
searching for any sound or movement. He kept moving closer, making no sound. A
deeper shadow formed between the car and the wall as his eyes compensated fully
for the darkness. He knelt, carefully, so as not to let his jacket rub against
the wall and give away his presence. He heard a sound, dead ahead a slight
rustle of cloth on cloth. He rose slowly, quietly, forward again, four more
paces, stopping again as the shadow broke into three, one part remaining on the
ground, the other two moving away towards the Fiat. Norton waited until the two
figures were silhouetted against the light at the bridge end.
    “Stand
still,” he shouted, the Sig centred between the two outlines. He heard sharp
intake of breath followed by the rustle of clothing. The click of a safety
catch was clear above the muted sound of the traffic. Norton squeezed the
trigger four times, two controlled pairs. The first pair of heavy calibre
bullets knocked the right hand figure from view. The left hand figure
disappeared moments later as the second pair struck home. The four explosions
rolled into one deafening roar before dissipating like a wave after smashing on
to a beach.
    He
walked cautiously towards the prone figures, his arms outstretched, elbows locked,
the Sig forming the apex of a triangle. Keeping the Sig aimed at the first
inert form, he gave the body a kick in the groin. No reaction. After checking
the second body in the same manner, he replaced the Sig in its holster and
knelt by the third body. As he expected, Rivers was dead. A neat round hole in
the centre of his forehead and the spreading pool of viscous liquid told its
own story. He went through Willie’s pockets and extracted a packet of
cigarettes. After a brief examination in the available light, he put them in
his jacket pocket.
    The
distant wail of a siren was getting steadily louder as the speeding vehicle
approached.  Two minutes later, as the first police car stopped at the
junction, he had finished a cursory check of the two bodies. Neither one had
any means of identification, no phones, no wallets, no credit cards or clothing
labels. Both had been carrying Browning automatics, one of them fitted with a
very new