Free Ambush by Nick Oldham Page B

the ceilings. They were clearly not up to date, yet the man knew they could still be damning and were something to be wary of, work around.
    â€˜This is your father’s room.’
    The man said, ‘Can I ask the patient–staff ratio?’
    â€˜Well, we have thirty patients and a core of four staff on at all times and then a number of very reliable part time staff and volunteers who come in to bolster up numbers. Now, for example, there are four full time staff on duty – myself and three others – plus three part timers.’
    â€˜That sounds adequate,’ said the man, as though he was satisfied by the statistics. ‘How much care, time-wise, do you give Dad?’
    â€˜Depends. Mainly he’s self-sufficient between meals and toilet breaks … like now, he’ll be sat in here reading.’
    â€˜Reading?’ The man tried to sound interested and surprised.
    â€˜He reads a lot … but then …’
    â€˜Doesn’t know what he’s read?’ the man guessed.
    â€˜Correct.’
    They smiled sadly at each other, then the woman said, ‘You don’t look much like him.’
    He shrugged. ‘Like I said …’
    â€˜Black sheep.’
    If she had not made that comment she might have lived. Her additional, ‘You have a sort of eastern European look to you, if you don’t mind me saying,’ only added to the certainty.
    â€˜Not at all.’ The man grinned.
    She smiled and gestured. ‘Shall we?’
    â€˜After you,’ he said gallantly. Already his right hand was sliding inside his leather jacket.
    The woman opened the door and stepped through into Carver’s room, the man, just behind her, closing the door.
    Carver was sitting in an armchair by the side of his bed, fully clothed with a book on his lap. He was, however, staring vacantly into space. It took a few moments for him to catch his concentration and bring his eyes to focus on the two people who had just entered the room.
    â€˜Dave?’ the lady said. ‘Your son is here to see you.’ She stepped sideways to reveal the man.
    Carver blinked uncomprehendingly, no flicker of recognition. ‘Never seen either of you before,’ he blurted harshly. ‘Get out.’
    â€˜Mr Carver … Dave,’ the woman cooed, and stepped towards him. She had a genuine, caring smile on her face.
    That was the moment when the man drew the small automatic pistol from the holster under his right armpit. With a smooth action he simply placed the muzzle of the noise-suppressed barrel to the back of her head and squeezed the trigger twice.
    She reacted as though she had been hit by a baseball bat, staggering forward to her knees before splaying out on her front.
    The .22 bullets did not exit her skull but careened around in her brain, destroying the organ instantly. Blood fountained from the entry wounds like a double geyser and gouts of it cascaded from her mouth and nostrils.
    Carver watched the killing, then looked at the man.
    Something cleared in his eyes, in his brain.
    â€˜You’ve come for me, not her,’ he said. ‘He’s sent you.’
    The man nodded. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜I always thought he would. It was always at the back of my mind.’
    â€˜I thought you were senile.’
    â€˜I have moments of clarity, like now.’
    Carver hurled his book at the man, throwing it like a Frisbee. It was a hardback novel. It swirled through the air, catching the man unawares, and connected with his right arm.
    Carver also moved quickly. He followed the path of the book as all his latent and dying instincts surfaced in a powerful primal need to survive.
    But though the charge was unexpected a gap of two metres was too much for him to cover. The man’s reactions were far quicker and more honed. He pivoted like a matador and pushed Carver headlong into the radiator, where he crumpled helplessly to the floor and into the half-world he