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Between two dim street lights, the anonymous dark grey van sat in the obscurity of the shadows.
Inside, Nicks checked that the piggyback magazine and suppressor were secure on his MP5K and, safety on, slung it on its bungee beneath his jacket. It was the same as the standard weapon, just a lot smaller. He turned to Simon.
“Right, get ready! Here he comes!”
Si tensed every muscle in his body then dragged the van’s sliding door back. A young man in a white bubble jacket stepped in. Door closed. Simon relaxed a little.
Sat on the bench seat, the Albanian handed over a set of keys. “This is for padlock on back gate and this for back door. Drit and Arbi are in office when I leave, they watch kickboxing. Two looking after front gate, a delivery is coming tonight. No one else.”
Nicks moved closer to him. “You’re sure you’ve taken care of that dog guarding the back entrance?”
“Yes, yes. It is out counting, as you say.”
Suddenly, Nicks put his finger to his ear. “Hang on. They’re saying there’s only one at the gate. The other one’s gone back inside.” He turned to the Albanian. “What’s your name, son?”
“Urtash.”
“Well, listen carefully, Urtash. You have to go back and get the other fella to join his mate at the front gate. There’s no time for fucking about. You need to think of something.”
Urtash shifted awkwardly. “I know someone is going to shoot them. I don’t want to die. I have lovely girlfriend. Please ...”
Nicks cut him short. “We need you to do this. No one’s going to shoot you. Look, hold this to your ear.” He took Si’s radio and handed Urtash the earpiece.
“Elvis to Oscar Bravo, over.”
“Oscar Bravo.”
“I’m sending someone to the gate to get both targets visible again. Our man is wearing a white bubble jacket. No blue on blue. He’s a friendly, over”
“Oscar Bravo, roger. Out.”
Nicks looked out from his full-face balaclava at Simon, similarly attired, apart from the glasses he still wore which slightly spoiled the sinister effect.
“When I’m in position, I’ll give you a shout. Turf him out and wait for me to get back to you.”
He patted the Albanian on the shoulder. “Ok? Right, do what he says and it’ll all be fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Just think of a beautiful future.” He pulled the door open and disappeared into the nearby alley. The door slid closed again.
Forty seconds later, Simon patted Urtash on the arm and said, “Off you go, son.”
He walked back into the street and to the main gate. “Hey, Lekë, where’s Zef?”
“I thought you’d gone to the pictures. He’s watching the fighting.” Lekë replied with a scowl.
“Go get him for me, I have something I meant to tell him.”
“You can tell me.”
“It’s important and personal, for fuck’s sake.”
Lekë wandered over to the front door. “Zef, you’re wanted at the gate.”
Inside, Arbi idly looked back from the telly. “Who the fuck’s that?”
Zef grinned. “It’s probably that girl I told you about.”
At the front, his disappointment was uncontained. “Why didn’t you say it was this piece of horse shit,” he said, stepping down the stairs into the yard and walking towards the gate, Lekë alongside him.
“What the fuck do you want, you useless turd.” He was going to say more but the high-velocity round smashed into his head evacuating a large portion of his brain as it went on its merry way into Lekë’s throat, ripping through his windpipe and vocal cords before it impacted the far wall.
Zef had already hit the ground before Lekë collapsed to his knees clutching his throat. In the distance, a whispered curse of, “Fuck’s sake!” preceded another round finishing him off. Urtash wheeled round and ran back up the darkened street.
At the same time, Nicks slipped through the back door, racked and ready. He could hear the telly and both men, who were shouting encouragement to the unmindful pugilists. He stepped into the doorway, a floorboard loudly creaked, the room was smaller than he’d imagined. An off-centre art deco framed poster for the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch Railway clung lazily to the paint neglected wall. For a moment it distracted him. With the door to his left, an old cabinet to his right, he’d lost the time and inclination to step in, away from being a framed target.
Arbi, highbacked chair, desk, small TV and a loaded pistol. Drit lunging towards the little table next to an armchair. Nicks squeezed the trigger, Arbi slumped from the three-round burst.
Clicked to full auto, swiftly tracking the brother, he saw him raise the semi-automatic pistol. It didn’t matter who fired first. What mattered was hitting the target. The Albanian recoiled as the bullets pummelled him backwards into the wall where a fine mist of ancient plaster wrapped itself around him. Momentarily propped in the corner, he stared back at Nicks then slowly slid down, leaving a smeared trail of blood behind him. Pistol dragged from his hand and thrown across the room, Nicks went quickly to Arbi, who was stirring and moaning. Single selected, one to the head, problem solved. Back to Drit. No need to waste a round.
Passing through the office door, he inspected the neat bullet hole in the doorframe just above where his shoulder had been.
In the yard, he paused for a moment. Like a Saturday night drunk, the dog was up and moving. He pressed the switch in his hand and stole back into the alley: “Elvis has left the building.”
The side door slid back and closed almost immediately. “How did it go?” Simon enquired from the driver’s seat.
Nicks was already making the weapon safe. “Ok. The picture on the wall threw me a bit.”
Si slowly pulled away from the kerb. “Why was that?”
Bent over, securing the gun case behind its panel, Nicks replied, “I just didn’t expect to see a poster in there about where I used to live.”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Si called over his shoulder as he drove away.
“Never mind. I’ll tell you later,” Nicks said as he slithered into the front passenger seat.
At the RV, they handed the van to two people in balaclavas and shapeless black overalls. Nicks thought one of them was a woman, at least he hoped it was.