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At the tree line, he crouched down and placed the day sack on the ground. He made the weapon safe: removed the magazine, ejected the live round from the breach, visually checked the chamber then released the working parts. The ejected round placed back in the magazine, he reloaded, wrapped the Sig in the soft cloth, turned off the tracker, dropped them both in the plastic bag which he stuffed in the day sack. Zipped up, he put it back on. Neck gaiter off, hands in pockets, he walked along the small track that led to the car park entrance where Simon would meet him. He took out the smartphone radio, selected ‘Music’, brought his left hand up to the pressel switch as if adjusting his collar and said: “Elvis has left the building.” Mr Blue Sky filled his ears.
A couple walked towards him on the track. In their early seventies, they had a black and white springer spaniel, off the leash. The dog roamed back and forth in the field; the woman shouting in a high pitched voice: “Rebel! Come! Come, Rebel!” Rebel was living up to his name. They looked typical upper-middle-class country types. That wasn’t what concerned Nicks though. It was the dog.
He nodded politely to them as they passed, quickening his pace. He didn’t want to be in view if Rebel decided to go walkabout in the trees behind him. No expert, he knew this sort of sporting dog was good at finding things that had just been shot.
Skirting the car park, he looked to his left as the people carrier came into view through the trees. The driver was standing in front, pacing up and down using his mobile phone. On the home stretch, he saw Simon pull into the funnel-shaped entrance and swing the car around in readiness to leave. Nicks veered off the path and walked through the scrubby undergrowth, stepping over the low wooden barrier onto the dirt track.
Halfway across, he briefly stopped as Whisky 7 coasted past him and turned left onto the main road. Throwing the day sack in the passenger well, he sank into the seat and ripped the headphones from his ears, closing the door behind him.
Simon moved off from the fence line, checking for oncoming traffic before turning right.
“How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Nicks replied casually. “The body count got a bit high though.”
“What do you mean?” Simon had a serious frown. “I lost comms there for a while.”
Nicks bent down, opened the day sack and removed the magazine from the P226, laying it carefully next to the still suppressed weapon. It was now unloaded and completely safe but returning it to an operational state would take mere seconds.
“Well,” he said eventually, “they were going to saw a blokes head off with a fucking big knife so I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Fuck!” Simon exclaimed, “How many are we talking about?”
“Just the three,” Nicks replied. He turned to look at Simon and said: “What?” inviting a response.
Simon quickly looked back at him. “Nothing. If it had to be done, it had to be done. What happened to the victim?”
“I left him there, still blindfolded and cable tied,” Nicks replied. “Someone will find him soon, if they haven’t already.”
“Ok, so be it. Everything ready to go?” Simon looked at him again. Nicks nodded in reply.
“Right, stuff it all in the little black rucksack on the back seat,” he said.
Taking the plastic bag from his day sack he transferred it to the black bag which already contained the gun case and the box of ammunition. Removing his latex gloves he put them into the thinner plastic bag then stuffed it all into the map pocket of his jacket before bending down to recover the new water bottle from the footwell.
Winding down the window, he held his hands outside and poured water over them to remove any powder residue left by the gloves. The window wound back up, he took several gulps of water and dropped the bottle back by his feet.
They reached Beech Lane, a narrow road where two-way traffic was just about possible with adept use of several gated entrances. Simon pulled into one, as close to the gate as possible, and turned off the engine.
Within minutes, the small blue van pulled up at an angle in front of them. The writing on its side indicated that the blue overalled driver, an equally small man of middle eastern extraction, was a mobile mechanic. He got out of the van carrying a small black rucksack.
Simon tugged the bonnet release, pulled the rucksack from the back seat and got out. They put their bags down and Simon lifted the bonnet. The mechanic stuck his head under for a few seconds then walked around the vehicle before lying on his back and tussling with something near a wheel arch. Eventually declaring satisfaction, he got up, the bonnet went down, they picked up the rucksacks and parted ways.
“What was all that about?” Nicks asked as they continued their journey. “Why didn’t you just give him the bag?”
Simon glanced at him before replying. “We had to get the tracker taken off. The type you’ve got is no good for vehicles. It hasn’t got the range and the body of the car interferes with the signal.”
They drove back to Liverpool, stopping briefly in Runcorn where Nicks dumped the carrier bag containing the gloves in a bin.
He was glad to get back to the hotel. Putting the smartphone radio on charge, he stripped off, placed his clothes and National Trust day sack in a bin bag then stuffed them into his large rucksack. He’d take them to his parents tomorrow for a ‘special Mum clean’. After a shower and fresh clothes, he decided to eat later because right now he was going to the appropriately named ‘Slaughter House’ next door, for a pint. Probably more.