The Wharf Butcher by Michael K Foster Page A

suddenly gave way and they were facing a more difficult challenge. Rising some eight hundred feet above their position, a steep vertical gully – lined on either side by exposed rocks – ran centrally towards the summit. It was a formidable climb, the sergeant thought, and one that involved tired dogs. Anxious, he turned to the others and gave out a new set of instructions. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the advancing helicopter suddenly swung left as it cut a northerly path between two distant rolling hills.
    ‘It looks like they’ve spotted something.’
    ‘And moving towards the summit by the look of things,’ said Constable Smart.
    ‘This bastard certainly knows how to pick his ground,’ another cursed.
    Raising a hand in acknowledgement, the sergeant cast a critical eye over the surrounding slopes. Progress was slow, painfully slow. The heat was unbearable, made worse by the low-lying clouds forming an impregnable barrier between land and sky. No one spoke, each preferring to suffer his own torment in silence.
    Then gunfire broke out.
    ‘Man down!’
    ‘Take cover,’ someone shouted.
    As another bullet ricocheted perilously close to his position, the sergeant crawled towards a steep overhang. Outwitted, and hopelessly pinned down in the gunman’s deadly crossfire, he could only watch in horror as Constable Smart struggled to keep his dog in check. Fit as he was, the slightest movement and they’d both end up as tomorrow’s headlines. Drawing comfort from a large projecting boulder, Sergeant Manton readjusted his binoculars and reconsidered his options. To his left lay a steep central gully. Guarded on two sides by a sheer vertical rock face, its steepness surprised him. Like a lot of other demanding climbs he’d encountered, the higher up you went the more challenging it became. He realised that, but there were no other options left open to them. It was their only route of escape.
    Exhausted and cut to pieces by falling rocks and debris, they clawed their way to the summit. As far as Sergeant Manton could see, the crest was a long flat plateau – running north to south for about one-hundred yards, and ending in a sheer vertical drop on two sides. Then, as his eyes rolled sideways he spotted some other movement. Barely forty metres separating them stood the gunman. He was a small man, lean and feeble looking, not as he’d imagined him to be. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, the gunman shifted his position, and with lightning reflexes dropped to one knee.
    Death came quickly and mercifully to Beaver – a well-aimed bullet to the dog’s upper torso. Scattering in every direction, police officers now dived for cover. With little or no time to think, the sergeant unleashed his dog and hit the ground heavily in front of him. In that split-second judgement, it felt as if the whole world had suddenly turned against him. What to do next? Rounds were falling perilously close to his position, much too close for comfort.
    ‘Take cover,’ he shouted.
    Everyone heard the screams; the blood curdling pleas that rang out across the mountain top. No one dared to move. Even the wind held its breath. As the surge of adrenaline died away, the sergeant popped his head above the long grass and peered towards the gunman’s last known position. Nothing could have prepared him for this. Hit on his blindside, Razor had lunged into the gunman’s upper torso, sinking his huge teeth into his upper forearm. From what he could see, the gunman was bleeding heavily with the dog now standing guard over him.
    It was over.
    The helicopter’s rotors still turning, Jack Mason hit the ground running.
    ‘Check him for weapons,’ the DCI yelled.
    Jack Mason wasn’t the sort of person you wanted to get on the wrong side of, especially in tight situations. Within seconds, the sergeant was joined by a dozen armed police officers, all eager to assist. Unconscious and still bleeding heavily, the gunman was unceremoniously rolled over