Manhunter

by Chris Ryan

  The lift announced their arrival on the eighteenth floor with a strident ring. Bowman and Webb stepped out into a private landing. Bowman had studied the floor plan during the flight to Nice and the layout was instantly familiar to him. Two doors on the right led through to the emergency stairwell and a maintenance room. There was a service lift on the left side of the landing, next to a storage compartment.

  At the far end was the front door to David Lang’s apartment.

  Bowman gripped the document wallet tightly as he walked up to the door with Webb. He felt the Ruger grip beneath his thick jacket, pressing against his torso as they halted in front of the door. Webb rapped the brass knocker twice and took half a step back. He slid his right hand down to his side. Ready to draw his weapon. Bowman did the same.

  The door snicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, hard-edged and thin-lipped, with a massive gold chain draped like a garland around his neck and eyes so cold they could freeze a lake.

  David Lang stared impatiently at the two men in the corridor. He was dressed in a fine shirt the colour of champagne and a pair of slim-fit jeans. The spider-faced watch on his wrist gleamed under the soft glow of the ceiling lights. He had no scars on his face, but in every other way he was identical to his twin brother Freddie.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’ Lang said, looking from Bowman to Webb with narrowed eyes.

  Webb reverted to his Brummie accent.

  ‘Papers for you to sign, sir. We were told it’s urgent.’

  He indicated the plastic wallet Bowman was holding. Lang’s eyebrows came together in suspicion. ‘First I’ve heard about it. Who are they from?’

  ‘That’s none of our business, sir. We were just asked to make the delivery.’

  Lang sighed. ‘Well, don’t just fucking stand there. What have I got to sign?’

  ‘The documents are just here, sir,’ Bowman said.

  He fumbled with the tamperproof zip, distracting Lang. As Bowman reached inside for the documents, Webb tore his Ruger free from his holster and brought it up to shoulder height, shoving the barrel close to the mobster’s face.

  ‘What the f—’

  ‘Step away from the door,’ Webb said coolly. ‘Now.’

  Lang glowered at the soldiers but didn’t argue. Sound logic. He couldn’t hold a debate with a nine-milli pistol two inches from his face. He held up his hands and retreated two slow steps from the doorway, his nostrils flared with rage. Bowman deholstered his pistol and crept into the hallway behind Webb, the semi-automatic unsteady in his clammy grip. He closed the door, dumped the wallet on the side table, next to a leather bifold wallet and a Range Rover key fob, and took up a position at Webb’s right shoulder.

  ‘You’re making a big fucking mistake,’ Lang said. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. ‘Make a move and I’ll blow your brains out.’

  In the same breath Bowman glimpsed a sudden movement to the right of the hallway. He whirled round to his three o’clock, his index finger tense around the safety built into the Ruger’s trigger mechanism. A pot-bellied man in a tweed suit stood five metres away in the middle of the living room, his mouth hanging open in dumb surprise. A trilby hat and a gold-crowned rattan cane rested on the coffee table in front of him, along with a half-full bottle of Lagavulin single malt and a couple of tumblers.

  The real Ken Seguma.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Bowman said. ‘Sit and don’t move.’

  Seguma stood his ground. His wide eyes darted between the soldiers and Lang. ‘Who are you? What the hell is going on, David?’

  ‘Sit down,’ Bowman ordered. ‘Last chance.’

  ‘Do as he says, Ken,’ Lang said.

  Seguma lowered himself onto the leather sofa. He looked numb with shock and confusion. Bowman kept his weapon trained on the tyrant while Webb dug out a pair of plasticuffs from his back pocket. He brought Lang’s hands behind his back, cinched the plastic ties around his wrists. Then Webb grabbed him by the upper arm and manhandled him into the living room, shoving him towards the sofa.

  ‘Sit the fuck down,’ Webb barked.

  Lang set himself down beside Seguma. He stared up at Webb with a sadistic look in his eyes, his lips set in a hard line.

  ‘You’ll regret this,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. He nodded at Bowman. ‘Clear the other rooms.’

  Bowman backed out of the living room and set off across the hallway. He was sweating freely now, his body ached, as if a million needles were pricking his skin. He charged into the kitchen and visually swept the area for threats. He hooked round an island the size of a sarcophagus, peeked into the laundry room, then backed out again and hurried past the study and the dining room and the staff quarters. He knew from studying the floor plan that the sleeping quarters were located at the far end of the apartment.

  If Lang did keep any drugs in his place, he’d want to keep them hidden away. Lang was a naturally cautious guy. He wouldn’t leave illegal substances lying around the place for an unsuspecting cleaner to find. Which ruled out the living room and kitchen, the other communal spaces. Lang would keep them somewhere safe, Bowman figured. The master bedroom, perhaps, or the bathroom.

  There, if anywhere, he might find something useful.

  He pushed through another door and found himself in a bright, airy corridor shaped like a T junction, with bedroom doors to the left and right. Bowman swerved to the right and crashed through the door to the master bedroom. The withdrawal pains were severe now, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The room was tastelessly furnished. There was a diamond pendant chandelier, nude bronze statues of winged cherubs on the desk and bedside table. Bowman staggered over to the king-sized bed. He yanked the table drawer open and rooted through the contents. He saw no pill bottles, no plastic baggies. Nothing containing opioids. Just cigarette packets and condom wrappers, a load of other junk.

  He must have something here. Surely.

  So where the fuck is it?

  He stood up and stumbled through the door to the master bathroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the waterfront, cars and people as small as ants. He set his Ruger down on the marble countertop and rifled through Lang’s black leather washbag. Nothing. He flipped open the mirror cabinet, scanned the rows of luxury grooming products. On the top shelf, he found half a dozen medicine bottles. Bowman reached in for them, scattering designer shaving products and anti-ageing creams across the vanity unit. He glanced at the printed label on one of the plastic bottles, unscrewed the cap. Aspirin.

  This is just a bunch of regular meds. He hasn’t got anything.

  Bowman kept searching. He checked three more pill containers. He hit the jackpot with the fourth bottle. It was unmarked, but he recognised the yellow tablets inside. The letters and numbers stamped on the face of each pill identified them as a moderate-strength opioid. The kind of thing prescribed for severe pain relief. Not as powerful as the stuff he bought from his dealer. But better than nothing.

  Bowman thought: Lang must be in a lot of pain to take this stuff. Or maybe he’s like me. Maybe he has a secret habit no one else knows about.

  Then the sickness came back, cramping in his stomach. Bowman hastily ground down one of the tablets and inhaled it off his fist. A faster delivery system than swallowing the pills. He ran the chrome tap, wiped his face with an Egyptian cotton towel. Turned off the tap.

  Looked up.

  Saw the figure in the doorway.

  Fourteen

  Bowman stood still for a beat. The fog behind his eyes instantly cleared as two billion years of survival instincts kicked in. The guy in front of him was huge, broad in the arms and shoulders. His legs were as wide as temple columns. His fingers were the approximate size of beer cans. About the only small thing about the guy was his head. It was small and round, like a medicine ball, the pale fleshy face crowned with a trim Mohawk. He had the bloated, acned look of a steroid
addict. Not one of Seguma’s bodyguards, Bowman decided. He didn’t have the facial scars. Which meant he must be one of Lang’s heavies.

  Minders. Dumb muscle he can trust.

  Bowman reached for the Ruger.

  In the next fraction of a second, the heavy lunged forward.

  Roidhead wasn’t fast. Bowman had seen oil tankers move with more speed. But he had time on his side. Lots of it. The Ruger was on the countertop beside the sink. It would take Bowman two or three seconds to snatch up the pistol, aim at Roidhead’s centre mass and squeeze the trigger. No way he could reach it in time. Not with two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle bearing down on him.

  Roidhead jacked his right arm back, winding up for a clean strike to Bowman’s jaw. He was going for broke. Aiming to land a killer blow before his opponent could react. Not a sophisticated plan. But then again, it didn’t need to be. Sometimes the crudest strategies were the best. Like the equivalent of a long ball in a game of football, pumping it forward to the striker. Route-one stuff. One punch and he could win the cup.

  Bowman parried the punch, palming it away. He shaped to throw one of his own, but the shakes had badly slowed him down. His arms and legs felt as if they had lead weights tied around them. Roidhead saw the balled fist driving at him and jerked his head to the side, sidestepping the blow. Then he pushed forward, slamming his forehead into Bowman’s skull. Bowman saw white briefly. Something jarred inside his skull. He tasted blood and stumbled backwards. His vision cleared just in time to see Roidhead swinging at him again. He gasped as the heavy’s hard knuckles collided with his stomach, driving the air out of his lungs.

  He glanced up, saw Roidhead stomping forward, his right shoulder dropped as he shaped to throw another punch. Bowman deflected the blow with a ragged swipe of his forearm, then stamped down on Roidhead’s toes with his right heel, as if he was crushing a cockroach underfoot. He followed up with another quick attack, then snatched a glass tumbler from the countertop and smashed it against the side of his opponent’s temple. Roidhead groaned and staggered backwards, claret dripping down his face.

  ‘Bastard!’ he rasped.

  Bowman whirled away from him and lunged for the Ruger. Roidhead recovered with astonishing speed and launched himself at Bowman with a maddened roar. He smashed into the SAS man shoulder first, as if he was barging through a locked door. The blow winded Bowman and sent him flying backwards. Pain shot up his spine as he fell back and crashed against the tiled floor. Bowman blinked, looked up and saw Roidhead grabbing the semi-automatic from the countertop. The heavy whirled round to face his floored opponent, his thick finger curled around the trigger. Blood streamed down his waxen face.

  Roidhead began squeezing the trigger.

  A sudden blur appeared behind the man.

  There was a dense metallic thunk, and then Roidhead spasmed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. The Ruger tumbled from his grip as he pitched forward and dropped to the floor. Like a puppet with the strings cut. Bowman looked up from the slumped figure. He saw Webb standing in the bathroom doorway, gripping a nude statue of a cherub. Fresh blood glistened on the cherub’s bronze face.

  Webb nodded at him.

  ‘You all right?’

  Bowman shook his groggy head clear. ‘Thanks, mate.’

  ‘I heard shouts. Figured you were in trouble.’

  ‘Bloke had the jump on me. Came out of nowhere. Must have been hiding in one of the guest rooms up the corridor.’

  ‘Why didn’t you check them rooms first?’

  Bowman didn’t answer. Webb looked from the pill bottle to the floored heavy and back at Bowman. A question formed on his lips.

  ‘Get back to Lang,’ Bowman said as he picked himself off the floor. ‘I’ll plasticuff this fucker.’

  ‘What’s with the pills?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know? Lang must have left them out.’

  Webb gave him a curious look. Then he turned and left the bedroom, tossing the statue aside on his way out. Bowman dropped to a knee beside Roidhead. The guy was barely conscious. Blood oozed out of a shallow wound on the back of his head, matting his hair. Bowman pinned the heavy’s arms behind his back, slipped the plastic restraints around his wrists and pulled them tight. He patted the guy down, found a creased leather wallet in his back pocket. There was a thin sheath of twenty-pound notes, credit cards, receipts. A driver’s licence gave his name as Tony Hutton.

  Bowman picked up the Ruger and pushed the tip against the guy’s cheek.

  ‘Christ, don’t shoot!’ Hutton begged. ‘I’m just the driver!’

  ‘Any more of your mates in the apartment?’ Bowman growled.

  ‘No. It’s just me, the boss and his guest.’

  Bowman’s finger tensed around the trigger. He shoved the barrel harder against the heavy’s cheek. ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘It’s the truth, I swear! There ain’t no one else.’

  Bowman stood up and stuffed the bottle of pills into his pocket. He left Roidhead on the floor moaning in pain, skulked out of the master bedroom and quickly cleared the three guest bedrooms down the other side of the corridor. Once he was sure no one else was lurking inside the apartment, he moved back into the master bathroom and heaved Roidhead to his feet. He pressed the cold tip of the Ruger barrel against the nape of the heavy’s neck.

  ‘Get moving,’ Bowman snarled, ‘or I’ll paint your boss’s bathroom red.’

  Roidhead staggered out of the master bathroom, cursing and moaning as Bowman forced him down the hallway and into the living room. Webb stood guard over Seguma and Lang, the Ruger at his side. Lang stared at the two soldiers, a look of sheer hatred etched across his face. Bowman frogmarched Roidhead across the room, and dumped him in one of the empty armchairs.

  ‘Rooms are clear,’ he said.

  ‘You bastards,’ Lang hissed as he caught sight of Roidhead’s bruised and bloodied face. ‘What have you done to Tony?’

  ‘We had an argument,’ Bowman said. ‘Your man lost.’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Roidhead, aka Tony Hutton, mumbled. ‘One of ’em clobbered me from behind. Couldn’t do nothing.’

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, son. Not a fucking word.’

  Bowman nodded at the tyrant. ‘Where are your bodyguards?’

  ‘At the hotel,’ Seguma said, his voice shaking. ‘I left them there.’ He glanced at Lang. ‘David advised me not to bring them.’

  ‘They’re not downstairs? Outside? In the car park?’

  ‘I came here alone.’

  ‘Who drove you?’

  ‘The chauffeur. From the hotel.’

  ‘No one else knows you’re here?’

  ‘No one.’ Seguma stared anxiously at Bowman. ‘What’s going on here? Who are you people working for?’

  Bowman didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Webb and said, ‘I’ll get the wagon. You keep an eye on this lot.’

  ‘I’d watch your mate, if I were you, son,’ Lang said to Webb. ‘He doesn’t look too good from where I’m sitting.’

  Webb’s gaze skimmed across the room, looking from the mobster to his colleague. ‘What’s he talking about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Bowman said. ‘Just a touch of the flu, like I said.’

  An ugly laugh escaped from Lang’s throat. ‘Yeah, that must be it.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bowman said.

  He bolted out of the living room, detoured into Lang’s master bedroom and paced over to the walk-in wardrobe. Bowman ditched his courier-branded jacket, polo shirt and cap, grabbed a designer shirt and striped blazer from the rack. He found a pair of Gucci shades in a mirrored cabinet, completed the look with a baseball cap emblazoned with the crest of the yacht club. Then checked himself out in the mirror. The disguise wouldn’t fool anyone up close. But from a distance, through a tinted car windscreen, he could pass for David Lang.

  The pills were starting to kick in as Bowman returned to the hallway, the sweet warm buzz of the opiates spreading through his body. He extracte
d the magnetic key card from Lang’s wallet, took the Range Rover fob from the side table, checked that his Ruger was concealed under his jacket. Then he left through the front door. He checked his phone signal on the landing, got two bars, and tapped open the encrypted messaging app on his phone. Dialled Mallet’s number.

  Mallet answered immediately.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re in,’ Bowman said tersely.

  ‘Any problems?’

  Bowman told him about the heavy.

  ‘Is he under control?’ asked Mallet.

  ‘He’s tied up, with the others. Patrick’s keeping an eye on them.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Heading down to the car park. I’ll be out in two minutes.’

  ‘We’re in the same spot,’ said Mallet. ‘We’ll be waiting.’

  The private lift plunged straight down to the underground car park. Bowman stepped out into what looked like the world’s most expensive car showroom. Rows of Lamborghinis and Ferraris were parked side-by-side with Maybachs and Bentaygas. He located Lang’s Range Rover and hit the unlock button. He got inside, dropped the fob into the cup holder. Then stamped on the brakes and pressed the start button. The instrument panels woke up. He released the parking brake, rotated the gear selector to Drive, followed the signs to the exit.

  His hands had stopped shaking by the time he steered the Range Rover out of the garage. He hung a right on to Avenue Princesse Grace and drove south for half a mile, following the same route they had taken to the apartment block from the stadium, but in reverse. The relief he had felt at finding the pills quickly gave way to a gnawing unease. He had taken a big risk in searching for Lang’s stash. And it had very nearly cost him his life.

  He pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he hit the roundabout. He circled the roundabout counter-clockwise, slingshot north again on Princesse Grace. Past the dull apartments and the cafés and the Grace Kelly monument. He motored on until he spotted the Mercedes-Benz E-Class parked at the side of the road, next to the ice-cream parlour. Then Bowman eased off the gas and drew to a halt parallel with the E-Class estate, blocking the line of cars behind him.