Free Substantial Threat by Nick Oldham Page B

police car turned into the side road and rolled slowly past them. All three tensed, but the PC at the wheel did not seem to notice them as he drove by.
    Crazy, his hands gripping the steering wheel rigidly, watched the police car get smaller and smaller in his rear-view mirror.
    â€˜Gone,’ he said.
    All three puffed out together.
    â€˜Times like this I wish I’d been a banker,’ Crazy said seriously.
    â€˜Mate,’ said Ray sympathetically, ‘you are a banker!’
    They all laughed in a release of tension.
    â€˜Right. Let’s go and do this. Remember, Marty, in and out. No fucking around. We walk in quick, up to them, guns to their heads, as little distance as possible. Bang, bang, bang, they’re dead. Leave Rufus to me. Don’t say a word. Shoot ’em and then we’re out and away. Okay?’
    Marty nodded.
    â€˜Crazy – you know what you’re doing?’
    He nodded.
    â€˜Right – let’s go.’
    Crazy pulled away from the kerb, drove to the junction with Lytham Road and into the line of sight with the King’s Cross. He edged on to the busy main road and into the traffic heading south. Nice and easy. Seconds later he stopped outside the pub on the single yellow line. He did not anticipate getting a ticket. Wouldn’t be there long enough.
    Ray and Marty climbed out together, crossed the wide pavement and stepped into the entrance vestibule. They pulled on their ski-masks and drew their weapons.
    Through the eyeholes in their masks, they appraised each other.
    â€˜Ready?’ Ray asked, his voice muffled by the mask.
    Marty nodded and raised his gun to show he was.
    Ray put his weight against the door which led to the snug. He opened it an inch so he could see through. It was quiet, dead, even, as their small informant had said it would be. He could see the barman, but only two figures sat hunched over the bar, deep in conversation. He was unable to tell if one of them was Rufus Callan or not.
    One way or another he had to do something, though.
    He could not wait where he was for fear of some innocent customer coming in and tripping over them in the vestibule. He pushed the door open and walked smartly – did not run – towards the men at the bar.
    â€˜Snug’ was an inappropriate term for the room because it was extremely spacious and it was perhaps thirty feet from the door to the bar. A long way to walk with a gun in your hand.
    As Ray came in, Marty behind him, time seemed to move very slowly. Ray felt like he was walking through treacle, as though his hearing had been tampered with and he was wearing mufflers. Nothing seemed real – except for the realization that Rufus Callan was not sitting at the bar.
    The barman was first to notice their approach. His head jerked up and he shouted something which, to Ray’s ears, was loud, strange and distorted. It was obviously a warning, but Ray could not distinguish the words.
    Instinctively Ray raised his chosen weapon, the Glock.
    The two men at the bar looked over their shoulders. Expressions of horror creased their faces as they reacted to the sight of two armed, masked men approaching.
    One of the men pushed himself up and away from the bar, his stool tipping over, and turned to run, but even in the slow-motion time in which Ray was operating, he did not have a cat in hell’s chance.
    Ray shot him in the back, two bullets double tapped from the Glock, driving between his shoulder blades. The man’s arms flew up, he pitched down on to his knees, then smack down on to his face where he squirmed on the beer-sticky carpet.
    The other man at the bar belonged to Marty. He did not move, just stared rigidly at their approach and raised his hands in surrender.
    Not a good enough gesture for today. Marty waltzed up to him, jammed his gun hard into the man’s temple, forced his head to the bar top and pulled the trigger.
    Ray stood over the man he had taken out and, shot him in