Free A Man Alone by David Siddall Page B

Not once did he look back. A cold wind rippled the water, teasing the cut on Doyle’s lip. He shifted his gaze to look at Duggan.
    Stonehead hadn’t moved. He had waited days for this moment. He made sure Doyle saw him finger his eye patch, then pulled the chain tight between his fists. A grim smile stretched across his face. Doyle tried to swallow but there was nothing there. He licked his dry lips, tasted the crust of blood that had formed and glanced at his watch. 6:13.
    Stonehead watched him in silence. From his waistband, he drew a large revolver, pointed it at Doyle. It was a Brocock, a converted-gas operated air pistol. Some bright lad had discovered that by the judicious use of a drill and bit they could fire live ammunition. The underworld was awash with them. They were made from alloy, dangerous and inaccurate, but at this range Doyle wasn’t taking any chances.
    Stonehead tossed him the free end of the chain and gestured with the gun. “Put it round your ankle.” Reaching in his pocket, he produced a large brass padlock. “Fasten it with that.” He threw it to Doyle.
    Doyle caught the lock. “And if I don’t?”
    Stonehead shrugged and extended his arm holding the gun. “Makes no difference to me”. I can finish it here and now or you can have two more minutes.”
    Doyle checked his watch. 6:14. Every second dragged. He picked up the chain.
    Stonehead laughed. “Amazing what people will do for an extra minute, an extra few seconds of existence.” He sniffed the air as if it were some kind of elixir. “Makes you think how precious life is.” He sat on the barrel, keeping the gun trained on Doyle, pushed the ground with his heels. The barrel moved. He snorted a laugh. “It won’t be good you know.” He tipped his chin in the water’s direction. “Down there I mean. Fighting for breath and knowing you ain’t ever going to make it.” He made a mock shivering motion with his shoulders. “Me,” he nodded more to himself than Doyle, “I’d take a bullet any day. Quick, simple, all done in an instant.” He looked at Doyle. “I’ll do you a favor if you like?” He rose from his seat, stepped forward and put the gun barrel to Doyle’s forehead.
    Doyle didn’t move. He stared into Stonehead’s good eye and waited as the cold ring of steel ate into his skull. A heartbeat passed—then Stonehead removed the gun and stepped back. He sniggered. “Nah,” he said. “Too easy. I want to see you go over the side, I want... ” He stopped talking and his brow creased. “Will you stop looking at your fucking watch.”
    6:15. Much to Doyle’s surprise, the cheap, plastic £1 alarm clock kept perfect time. The blast came fifty meters from where Stonehead stood over Doyle. Not knowing exactly where the swap was to take place, Doyle had taken an early morning trip and secreted three of the bombs in various parts of the building. One had a timer in case his phone was confiscated. He figured it may be distraction enough to give him some advantage. He was right.
    The explosion punched a hole in the top story of the building. Bricks, mortar, clouds of dust flew into the air. Stonehead ducked and turned to see what the hell was happening. In that instant Doyle moved. Using the end of the chain like a whip, he swung it at Stonehead.
    Stonehead heard the whistle of wind too late and it caught the side of his face.
    He grunted, twisted away. It was enough for Doyle. Up and running, he kicked at the hand holding the gun. There was a crack as the bone in his wrist snapped like a dry stick. The gun flew into the air. Stonehead cried out. Grasping his wrist, he tried to ease the pain, then look for Doyle. Stonehead was big and mean, but that didn’t make him stupid. He knew his life depended on what he did next. He dropped his shoulder and charged, hoping to push Doyle over the edge and into the water.
    Stepping to the side, Doyle cracked his fist into his face. Stonehead fell back, stumbled, and went down on one