Blood Storm Read online

  'Get back the way you came,' he ordered. Beneath the peaked cap his face was coarse and ugly. He barked as Newman came up to him, Paula by his side, 'Back to the friggin' mainland. Restricted area here. You can always lay her in the grass and do it other side of the channel.'

  'Manners . . .' Newman began.

  The sentry was starting to slip his weapon off his shoulder, watching Newman. Paula had her gun in her hand, holding it by the muzzle. She slammed it down on the sentry's nose, aiming for the bridge. The sentry opened both eyes wide, then closed them as he slumped backwards on to the verge.

  Newman crouched over him, checked his pulse. He grinned at Paula as he looked up at her.

  'Nice work.'

  'He was watching you, not bothering about a woman.'

  'He'll be out for quite a while. Now we have to hide him and I know just the place. Found it when I came over here this morning.' With ease he lifted the body of the six-foot thug, called over his shoulder as he began walking quickly along the track, 'You bring his weapon.'

  At a turning Newman walked a few paces off the track. Paula caught him up, to find him staring down into an abandoned quarry. The slope was fairly gradual. Newman bent down, lowered the unconscious man to the edge, pushed. He slithered down a long way, lay still at the bottom. Without being asked Paula tossed the weapon down so it lay a few feet away from the inert body.

  'Now it gets dangerous,' Newman commented as they returned to the track. Paula caught him up.

  'What do you call what's just happened?'

  'Just an opening shot.'

  The enclosing trees ended and they were in open rolling country. A distance to the south she could see a green down with the blue horizon of the sea on either side. No sign of anyone.

  'What's that hill?' she asked.

  'Hog's Nose Down. Well named, considering the sort of people who have taken over the western end.'

  Newman was carrying his automatic weapon which he'd hauled out from the golf bag. Noting this, Paula kept hold of her Browning, close to her bag so that she could slip it inside if it seemed wiser. They arrived at a long low ridge. Newman stopped, dropped down behind it, poked his weapon over its crest. Paula dropped down beside him.

  'Why are we doing this?'

  'I'm a student of the Duke of Wellington's campaigns in Iberia. At Vimeiro he placed his troops behind a ridge to save them from the enemy's initial heavy artillery bombardment. When their infantry followed they couldn't see them and were shot down in their hundreds. Time to keep moving . . .'

  They crossed the ridge, went down the other side and walked over a grassy plain until they reached another ridge. The sky was a clear blue; a bitter wind blew, almost freezing, so Paula buttoned her windcheater at the neck.

  Newman climbed it, went over the crest, dropped flat on the far side, poking his automatic rifle over the top. Paula did not follow his example. Her tone had an edge to it when she spoke.

  'Can we stop playing soldiers and get moving? It's perishingly cold.'

  'Nearly there,' Newman said with a smile as he jumped up. 'You brought your camera? Good. Lots to photograph if it's quiet. The beginning of the prison state . . .'

  Only half-built, it was located in a vast hollow. Newman used his field glasses. Swivelling them everywhere, he grunted with satisfaction.

  'No one about. All gone to get lunch at the pub. We go in now. Prepare for a shock. This is a new idea for a prison. Take plenty of pics.'

  There were frameworks for more buildings everywhere, a series of tall steel posts with breeze block walls behind them. Newman led Paula into a large completed building. The entry door was solid steel but no lock had been attached yet.

  Paula shuddered inwardly as they went inside. The floor was solid concrete. She thanked Heaven she was wearing her boots. The straight corridor which ran into the distance was surprisingly narrow. She was expecting cells with bars separating them from the corridor. No bars. Newman opened the steel door of a cell. She peered inside.

  Hardly room for a big dog. A hole in the floor which Newman explained would be the only toilet facility. Along one side of the cell was a steel slab fixed to the wall. Newman pointed to it as she worked her camera.

  'That's the bed. Imagine trying to sleep on it. No sign of mattresses. Not quite like the British police accommodation.'

  'What are those shower-like objects in the roof?' Paula asked as she continued photographing.

  'If they don't like the prisoner they turn on the water and you're soaked. I checked the system. First cold water, then very hot, scalding probably.'

  'It's inhuman.'

  'Wait till you see the punishment chamber.'

  She counted fifty cells on one side as Newman led her towards the end. So fifty on the other side. This cramped hell accommodated one hundred prisoners. Near the end Newman opened a larger steel door. She peered into a much bigger cell. Newman beckoned to her to come inside.

  A steel floor sloped on all four sides towards a central drain. She gazed at hooks let into the walls about seven feet above the floor. Hanging from one wall were six cat-o'-nine tail whips, a sharp needle at the tip of each tail. She spoke as she used the camera.

  'What are those for?'

  'To whip aggressive prisoners into submission. Their bodies will be slashed and dripping blood. Hence the drain to take it away. Nice people, the hoped-for State Security mob.' Newman walked to the far end, bent down, took hold of a handle attached to a round lid about five feet in diameter. When he heaved it open Paula looked down into a deep circular area. High up in the walls were radio speakers and showerheads.

  'What are the speakers for?' Paula wondered.

  'I'd say when they have a prisoner down there they turn on the showers and the speakers play ghastly music at top pitch - enough to burst their eardrums.'

  Newman shone a powerful torch down inside the tube-like cell. Paula used the illumination to take a number of photos. When she had finished Newman replaced the lid in the position he had found it.

  'Time to get out,' he said, 'after I've checked that giant American-style fridge outside.'

  'I wonder why those hooks are there, high up in the walls?' Paula enquired, pointing up.

  Newman opened the metal drawer of a steel cabinet built into a side wall. They peered inside. It was full of metal handcuffs. Newman closed the drawer quietly, his expression grim.

  'They plan to handcuff prisoners, then lift them up so they can hang the chain between the cuffs from the hooks. Being so high up, no matter how tall the prisoner is he'll find himself with his legs dangling in space, the whole weight of his body hanging from his wrists. Now, that fridge.'

  As they re-entered the corridor, Newman closed the punishment-cell door quietly behind them. He opened the huge fridge that stood at the end of the corridor. The electric power was working, and it was crammed with ice.

  'Got it,' Newman explained. 'Before they drop a prisoner into that tube cell they empty a load of ice down inside. My guess is they half-freeze the poor devil first, then turn on the showers emitting scalding water. Let's get out of here while we can . . .'

  They traversed the entire length of the corridor. Newman cautiously opened the door a few inches, nodded, stepped out as Paula hurried after him. A damp cloying mist had drifted in off the sea while they were inside. They were walking swiftly alongside the prison wall when Newman grabbed Paula, pushed her against the wall and flattened himself.

  'Keep very still,' he whispered. 'Movement attracts attention.'

  Some distance away, blurred in the mist, four men in uniform were walking towards a distant half-erected building like the one they had explored. Two carried steel bars while the couple behind them pushed a trolley laden with breeze blocks.

  When they had arrived Paula and Newman had seen the whole area was surrounded with high coils of barbed wire. They had entered through a gap with a huge roll of barbed wire pushed to one side.

  'Let's hope they haven't closed our exit,' Paula w
hispered.

  'If they have I can shift it,' Newman assured her, taking out of his pocket a pair of thick gardening gloves.

  They reached the exit point to find it still open. Once they had climbed out of the vast hollow, they crossed the flat grassy plain. They had reached the first ridge when Paula grabbed Newman's arm.

  'We've been seen. Three men with automatic weapons are running up behind us.' Newman glanced back, saw three figures blurred in the mist coming after them. He took Paula's arm, hustled her over the first ridge, then moved at the double towards the second ridge. They had just reached the far side when Paula pointed ahead. Three more uniformed men with weapons were walking towards them.

  'Caught in a cross-fire,' she hissed.

  'Drop flat behind the ridge.'

  He did so, facing the way they had come, and she flattened herself behind him. He gave the order fiercely.

  'Whatever happens, you stay still. You do not fire.'

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw the three men as blurred figures, like ghosts, weapons at the ready. He looked in front over the crest, aimed his rifle. He timed it carefully. As the three in front stood on top of the other ridge Newman aimed, fired, deliberately hit one man in the kneecap. A shriek as he fired two more shots over their heads, dipped his own head.

  The mist made his tactic work. The three in front thought the three blurred figures coming from the other direction had opened fire on them. A fusillade opened up on the men behind Newman and Paula, immediately returned by a rattle of automatic weapons. The three men on the ridge nearest the prison dropped, slumped like dead men. Newman looked over his shoulder. The three behind him were collapsing on their ridge. No further movement anywhere.

  'Let's get out of this,' Newman ordered urgently.

  They ran to the ridge behind them. Newman paused to check the bodies on the ridge. All dead. Bless the Duke of Wellington, he said to himself.

  They ran all the way after Paula had checked her watch and said they were going to miss the return ferry. As they arrived on the dock, Abe, his motor running, waved at them. Newman glanced down into a powerful motorboat tied to the other side of the jetty. The earlier wind had blown overboard a canvas covering, now floating in the water. He saw the contents.

  'We've made it,' Paula panted as she hauled herself aboard the ferry.

  'Don't be too sure of that,' Newman warned.

  8

  Abe had the barge leaving the dock as soon as they were aboard. A strong breeze had blown up, curling the smooth water into waves. It had dispersed any fragments of mist. Above the sky was a clear cerulean blue.

  'Thank heavens,' Paula said to Newman as they sat near the stern. 'What we saw was quite terrible.'

  'Main thing is we have the evidence - your photos. Soon as we get back to Park Crescent, take the camera down into the basement. I want the film developed immediately and five sets of prints.'

  'Five?'

  'That's what I said,' he told her abruptly, then grinned.

  They were in mid-channel, halfway to the mainland landing point, when Paula turned in her seat, stared back towards Black Island. Newman was also looking in that direction. The speedboat had left Lydford dock and was roaring towards them. Paula took out her field glasses, steadied herself, then slipped them back inside her pocket.

  'We may never reach the mainland,' she said quietly.

  Newman was using his own field glasses. He sucked in his breath, then lowered them. He looked at Paula, who had taken out her Browning, holding it out of sight of Abe. She looked at Newman.

  'You've seen what's coming after us like a bat out of hell?'

  'The powerboat moored to the dock back there. I peered down inside it and neatly stacked next to each other inside the craft were grenades.'

  'Do you think, if we survive, they could sink this barge?'

  'I've no doubt they could.'

  When their lives were in mortal danger Newman never concealed the situation from Paula. She was tough enough and experienced enough to face the truth. She looked back at Abe attending the engine behind them, just far enough away not to overhear them.

  'There are three of those swine in black uniforms aboard it,' she mused. 'One is concentrating on steering and the other two are holding automatic weapons. I guess they could spray us with bullets.'

  'They'll use the grenades.'

  The breeze had dropped. The sea was now a calm sheet of blue. The roar of the oncoming powerboat was louder. Newman calculated it was a question of minutes before the killers arrived. He turned round to Abe.

  'Abe, whatever you do don't increase speed.'

  'I'm doing that. Don't like the look of that speed job coming straight for us.'

  'Do not increase speed if you want to live,' Newman ordered.

  Something in his tone, his expression, got through to Abe. Reluctantly he ceased powering up the motor, then looked back, his ancient face distorted with fear. Newman called out again.

  'It's going to be all right. Maintain present speed.'

  'Hope you knows what you's doin',' Abe shouted back.

  Paula had lifted her gun, perched the muzzle on the side of the barge. Newman's tone was quiet but intense.

  'Put that damned thing away. Stay very still.'

  'If you say so,' she replied, obeying him.

  Newman turned his head again, estimating the course the powerboat would take. Earlier it had been roaring towards the stern of the barge, now it veered to their port side; close enough when it was parallel to the barge to hurl grenades into the target, far enough away to elude the results of the expected detonation.

  The powerboat was catching them up at a rate of knots. One minute hence and they'd have their craft alongside the barge, but far enough away for their own safety. Newman delved inside a pocket in the golf bag, brought out his clenched hand grasping something. He showed it to Paula. She stared at a large grenade.

  'That's a biggie,' she commented.

  'One of Harry's specials. Gets them made up by a pal working in an ironworks. Then Harry fills it himself with high explosive, inserts the four-second fuse.'

  He held it up so Abe could see only a portion of it. Abe, whose gaze had been fixed on the nearby powerboat, stared, called out.

  'What's that?'

  'Firework,' Newman lied. 'Left over from Guy Fawkes' day.'

  'Lot of friggin' use that will—'

  He stopped speaking as Newman, seeing the powerboat had now drawn level with them, jumped swiftly to his feet after removing the grenade's pin. He was on his feet only seconds as he lobbed the grenade. Paula watched it curve in an arc, fall straight inside the powerboat. Newman dropped flat as the first bullets were fired, grabbing Paula, hauling her down with him.

  The grenade detonated with an ear-splitting crack. This was nothing compared to the tremendous explosion as it detonated the explosives inside the enemy craft. The menacing prow soared into the air, followed by large fragments of the stern. Abe was knocked flat with the Shockwave.

  Paula sat up, gazed at where the boat had been only moments before. The surface of the sea was boiling and bubbling. Small pieces of the enemy boat drifted on the surface, then sank. As the sea settled a large red lake spread. Blood. No sign of the recent occupants.

  Abe clambered to his feet, a stunned expression on his face. He opened his mouth, burbled something. Then he regained control of his voice.

  'What the 'ell was that?'

  Newman stood up, walked back to him, laid one hand on his shoulder, showed him his folder with the other. Abe frowned, blinked, looked at Newman.

  'Secret Service,' he gulped. 'Gawd!'

  'So you don't mention that we were here - not to a soul. And if anyone heard that bang in Tolhaven, you simply say they're using explosives in Black Island's quarry. Got it?'

  'Sure I 'ave, and I keeps me mouth closed tight. Now I'll get you both back to the mainland . . .'

  'We're leaving for Park Crescent right away,' Newman decided as they approac
hed the Monk's Head. 'Grab your stuff and I'll get mine, then we link up in the car park.'

  They left Tolhaven behind, Newman in his Range Rover with Paula behind him in the Ford. Again she had to fight to stop the car running away from her. They paused for a quick tea at an old farmhouse, sitting in the garden despite the cold so no one could hear them.

  'Where's Harber's Yard?' Paula wondered. 'We never found it.'

  'Remember the old bridge we crossed where you peered over at the river? It flows on and widens into a lake. Then it continues on through woodland to the sea. I explored down there before you arrived, then took the ferry and found the prison. It was important to show you.'