Читать книгу City Of Shadows - M. J. Lee - Страница 24

Chapter 14

Lightbulbs were going off. Reporters were shouting.

Up ahead, the crowd jostled each other.

He checked his position. Perfect.

He stepped forward from behind the ambulance. The crowd of reporters were thinning out in front of him, pushed out of the way by the policemen.

The cold metal of the butt solid in his fingers. There were six bullets loaded in the Smith & Wesson. He would not use them all. No need.

The mob thinned out even more. He could see the targets up ahead. They were positioned exactly as agreed.

He stepped forward pulling the revolver out of its holster as he did so.

Nobody noticed him, focused as they were on the people leaving the police station.

He levelled the revolver. Pressed the trigger. There was a brief noise. A flash of flame. The recoil jerked his hand upwards. He would have to use less powder next time.

The target fell backwards onto the stairs, dragging the two policemen down.

The screams. The noise. The shouts of the reporters and the photographers and the watchers, all disappeared.

He was in a bright tunnel. Just him and the target.

He stepped forward and fired again. Into the head.

The kill shot.

The revolver flashed. He was using too much powder.

The target lay still, a small round hole in his forehead.

Perfect.

Now to take care of the policeman on the right. A sitting duck, literally. He squeezed the trigger again. A wounding shot, not necessary to kill.

Cowan was looking at him, eyes strident with fear. The man tried to scramble away but he had forgotten the handcuffs that bound him to the prisoner.

He levelled the revolver at Cowan’s head. Time to kill him. Time he was gone.

He pulled the trigger. Another forehead shot.

A click.

He looked at the gun. A misfire. Too much gunpowder, must change the ratio next time.

The reporters were beginning to move now. Time to leave. Cowan could wait.

He slid the revolver back into the holster, feeling the warmth of the barrel through his shirt.

He turned and walked towards Foochow Road.

Move quickly, don’t run. Running suggested fear and a desire to escape. He wasn’t afraid but he wanted to get away.

Behind him, he could hear the screams of chaos.

He turned the corner and crossed the street to a quiet lilong. Twenty yards left along a lane he took off his hat. He turned to check if anybody was following him.

Nobody.

Good.

He pulled the Mandarin coat up and over his head, revealing his uniform beneath. Reaching up to the washing line above his head he hung the coat over it. He would return later to get it back. He hated waste in any job. Waste was inefficiency.

The blue coat had served him well, blending in with the thousands of others just like it on the streets of Shanghai.

He threw the hat away into a rubbish heap at the side of the alley. One of the rubbish collectors would remove it and sell it cheaply. Somebody, somewhere would enjoy the soft feel of the brown felt.

He pulled a dark cap from his trouser pocket, adjusting it so that it sat well on his head.

He was in uniform now. Nobody ever noticed people in uniform. They blended in with everything else on the street, part of the furniture. Some nosey person might remember there was a man in uniform, but they would never be able to describe his face. That was the beauty of a uniform: it guaranteed anonymity.

He did a final check and then walked back towards the police station he had just left.

Invisible again.

Just another person going to see what had happened.

Another uniform in the crowd.