Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  ‘I guess so. I mean, I thought there was something iffy about it, but now I’m saying it out loud.’

  ‘Saying it out loud doesn’t make it real.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it not real. Guy could be a casualty. PTSD case.’

  ‘Look,’ sighed Tork, ‘give him a chance, would you? He wouldn’t be doing the job if he wasn’t capable of it, would he? He’s special forces. Jesus. What do you want from the guy?’

  Chantrell sniffed, conceding the point. After all, they knew the kind of training involved in becoming SF, how the majority never made it past basic (both had, unbeknownst to the other, tried their hand and dropped out), and they each knew that SF were the best. The toughest. The guys who lived in the dark.

  The box between them burst into life.

  ‘Devices one and two are in place and active,’ confirmed Chantrell, looking down.

  Tork reached forward and flipped on the Bluetooth speaker. At the same time, Chantrell picked up, flicked open his phone and began tapping out a text message.

  As he did so, two further lights on the receiver between them blinked on.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Chantrell. ‘All four devices are in place.’

  CHAPTER 8

  Suspended by a length of blue nylon rope tied around her neck, the girl’s head lolled at an angle familiar to the hangman. Her eyes were open wide and her mouth formed an O shape, limbs hanging loose, shoulders rounded. Naked.

  Abbott hung in the water, looking at her, finally having a reason to be thankful for the two bottles of wine he’d sunk, because at least the booze numbed the shock.

  It was her, of course. The hooker from before. The one being chased around the deck. Her hair danced and drifted in the current, and although there was no life in those eyes, it was as though she were watching him. Judging him.

  He wondered what it was that lay behind her murder: bad sex, viciousness, sadism, probably some mix of all three.

  And he wondered when it had happened, and whether he would have known if he hadn’t nodded off, lured into sleep by the siren call of booze. In other words, if he could have done anything to prevent it.

  Of course you could. You saw the way it was. The state of them. He thought of Bryars making her eat the money, felt gripped by a fury but did his best to dismiss it, tearing his gaze away from those dead but blame-filled eyes to look down at the activation device in his hand. Signal strength 78 per cent.

  Which meant that the job was as good as done. He placed the final listening device and checked the signal again. He had done everything asked of him. He had earned his money. Maybe one day in the future his path would cross that of Mr Travis Bryars and he would get his chance to see justice done, the girl avenged. But not today. Today he just needed to do the job and get paid.

  As he turned to swim back, he found that, once again, he had to tear his gaze away from her.

  Another corpse, he thought. Another silent rebuke for his failings as a soldier. As a man. He let himself sink to a lower depth, ready to take a reverse bearing back to his small cabin cruiser, already looking forward to the drink he knew would further calm his soul. All that was left was to pat himself on the back for a job completed successfully, collect the money, and try to forget. Try to forget the girl and the look of fear in her eyes. The cackling of the men who tore off her bikini top. The cruelty in Bryars’s eyes as he stuffed money into her mouth.

  And then he stopped.

  Knowing that he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t just slip away and leave it. Because leaving now meant that these bastards got away scot-free, and he couldn’t do that. No way.

  What was he going to do?

  Didn’t know. Making it up as he went along.

  He just knew that he had to do something, because the opposite of doing something was doing nothing, and right now that wasn’t an acceptable option.

  He turned and swam back to the ship, removed his rebreather and attached it to the underside of the hull with an anchor suction cup. He used the stern deck to board the yacht and crouched there for a moment or so. Listening.

  All was silent. Just the sound of the water kissing the hull. The distant thump of dance music from the other boat, the fuzzy sound of nightlife from the city and his own ragged breathing reminding him that he was out of shape and drunk and not thinking straight, the fuck-it switch well and truly thrown.

  But training and instinct kicked in, and he stayed dead quiet, senses on high alert. At the same time, he pulled his Glock, letting the water drain from the barrel. The last thing he needed now was a breach explosion if the shit hit the fan and it got noisy.

  He crept forward, gratified by his own noiseless progress, finding a kind of peace within his own efficiency. Then he stopped as something ahead of him resolved itself in his vision. On the deck was a strange, irregular shape that, if Abbott guessed correctly, was …

  Yes. A guy asleep on a sun lounger, empty bottle of champagne on its side on the deck beside him.

  Abbott approached, steeling himself for the bloke to stir. In the light of the moon he got a better look and saw who it was. The man himself: Mr Money Stuffer, Travis Bryars. He was spark out, arms by his sides, twelve hours of partying having taken their toll. Lightweight.

  Abbott holstered his Glock and drew his dive knife, coming closer to the lounger. Bryars stirred and he froze, watching the billionaire’s lips vibrate as he let out a gentle snore.

  Abbott took up position at the side of the lounger, testing the dive suit for flexibility, knife held ready in his right hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a second before he made his move.

  And then, in one fluid movement, he swung his left leg over Bryars, dropped down and pinned him to the lounger at the same time as he clamped his left hand over his mouth and brought the tip of the dive knife to the right side of his temple, just below his eye.

  Bryars’s eyes opened wide with fear and surprise. For a second he bucked and tried to shout beneath Abbott’s hand, but Abbott held firm, shaking his head at the same time, silently shushing his prisoner. With a flick of his wrist he opened a nick in the skin just below Bryars’s right eye, enough to hurt him, so the warm blood would run down his face and give him the shits about it being so near his eye.

  Sure enough, Bryars shut up and stopped bucking. Abbott heard urine spatter to the deck from the underside of the sun lounger and couldn’t help but take a certain grim pleasure from the sound.

  ‘Travis Bryars,’ said Abbott, his voice a low growl.

  Bryars remained still and silent.

  ‘I know it’s you,’ said Abbott. ‘And I know that if you make a sound when I remove my hand, then I’m going to cut your throat – I’ll cut your throat for what you lot did to that girl, and then, when your pissed-up buddies come running, I’ll kill them, too. Nod your head if you follow.’

  Travis nodded, at which Abbott lifted his hand. With a fast movement he swapped his knife from one hand to the other, holding it now to the other side of Bryars’s head as he reached for his Glock. ‘Not a sound,’ he warned. ‘You do or say anything, I’ll put a round in your bollocks.’ He stood and motioned Bryars to do the same. ‘Now undress,’ he said.

  As Bryars began to strip off, his demeanour subtly changed. Where before there was fear, as well as shame at having soiled himself, now there was the beginnings of an anger, maybe even defiance. Perhaps he realised that if Abbott wanted to kill him, then he would have done so already, and that if he was left alive, then he would have his day of reckoning.

  It was the little spark telling Abbott that he should put a bullet in Bryars. That by leaving him alive he was storing up trouble for himself. Kill him, though, and the job was a bust. And that, in the short term, was something he literally couldn’t afford to do.

  What had made him swim back? Was it the booze or the conscience? Whatever. Shouldn’t have done it.

  ‘You can leave your pants on,’ said Abbott, who had no desire to see Bryars’s hairy arse, no matter how much it w
ould humiliate him.

  ‘I’m not wearing any,’ replied Bryars. His chin had tilted and he spoke a little louder than Abbott, almost as though daring Abbott to do something.

  So Abbott took him up on it. He used the butt of his Glock to break Bryars’s nose.

  Felt good.

  Blood rushed from Bryars’s smashed nose at the same time as he opened his mouth to scream and his legs gave away. Before he could sink to the deck, Abbott had stepped smartly forward, clamped his hand over Bryars’s mouth once more and was dragging him to the edge of the deck where the line of blue nylon rope ran over the side. Warm blood ran over the back of his hand, icky and unpleasant between his fingers. Bryars mewled in agony.

  ‘Get in,’ ordered Abbott. ‘You’ve got a body to bring up.’

  Bryars’s eyes widened as he turned to Abbott, but whatever he planned to do or say next was lost to the Fates because right then was the moment the shit chose to hit the fan.

  CHAPTER 9

  From the other end of the deck came a shout. Abbott swung, saw silhouettes emerge and in the same movement, shoved Bryars off the boat and raised his pistol.

  Bryars hit the water with a scream and the new arrivals opened fire. Gunshots split the night. Abbott dropped to one knee, held the Glock. The air above him zinged and time seemed to slow down as he found himself in that place he thought of as his combat bubble, a zone that years of training and experience had taught him to locate at will – a place where, despite the noise of battle and threat of imminent death, he found both peace and calm. A place where he felt at his best.

  He sighted moving figures and squeezed off two rounds. In reply the shots were haphazard, disorganised, the kind of response you’d expect from men who were being fired upon, who had also spent the day getting pissed.

  Not that Abbott could talk, and despite the surge of adrenalin, he almost lost his footing as he took off across the deck in search of cover. Rounds thunked into the woodwork around him and splinters flew as the security guys recovered their composure, found their target and began to trade fire.

  Once more, he crouched and squeezed off three more rounds in short succession, keeping the rounds spread. There was nothing to see now, though. The enemy had found cover, and it was he who was out in the open.

  He raised the barrel and took out windows, knowing the sound of the smashing glass would help panic the enemy.

  He took off again, shots cracking overhead, one of the security blokes calling out his position. Three of them, remember: three drunks against one drunk. Plus, he had the moonlight behind him, backlighting him, picking him out like someone trying to sneak out for a piss at the cinema as he made another dash to the opposite side of the yacht, aware of the sound of gunfire making its way across the harbour and knowing it wouldn’t be too long before they dispatched a police cruiser.

  Something snagged him and he cried out in pain and took a tumble, having crashed into a champagne stand. This time he paid for it, feeling the sharp pain of a round as it grazed his arm, a tear in the wetsuit already leaking blood.

  And that was enough to convince him that there was a time for trading blows and a time for throwing yourself headlong into the inky water, and this was one of those latter times.

  Oh Christ, he was thinking as he took a dive off the side of the yacht. Jesus Christ, mate, you have fucked it this time.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Christ. What the fuck is going on out there?’

  Chantrell’s jaw dropped. The blood draining from his face. With the listening devices activated, he and Tork had fired up the Bluetooth speaker, expecting to hear … well, they weren’t quite sure what they were expecting to hear. Some kind of live feed that they could patch back to Hexagon in London, who would in turn provide it to the client.

  What they absolutely hadn’t expected to hear was the sound of screaming, shouting and . . .

  Gunfire.

  Chantrell opened the Range Rover door. Sure enough, that same sound could be heard rolling in from the harbour.

  ‘Oh, that’s bad,’ said Tork, his understatement drawing a glare from Chantrell as they looked from the speaker to each other, trying to work out what was going on. Chantrell leaned over, popped the glove compartment and snatched out a pair of binoculars. The next instant, he was out of the Range Rover, scrambling onto the bonnet and then climbing to the roof, where he stood, training the binoculars across the harbour. ‘Muzzle flashes,’ he called down to Tork. ‘Wait, two sets. Jesus Christ.’

  ‘He’s out of the water?’

  ‘Yeah. By the looks of things he’s on the bloody deck.’

  ‘What? What’s he doing out of the water? He was meant to—’

  ‘Yes, for fuck’s sake. I know what he was meant to do. Oh, fuck.’

  ‘What now?’

  Tork was standing on the door sill of the Range Rover, craning his neck as though that might help him witness what Chantrell could only see with the aid of high-powered binoculars.

  ‘Police cruiser’s on its way,’ said Chantrell in the desolate tones of a man announcing a death in the family.

  ‘Oh, bloody hell. We’ve got to call this in. Operation’s FUBAR.’

  Tork was already reaching to make the call, knowing that the fall-out would be bad. After all, it was they who had employed Foxhole, who in turn had recruited the SF guy, who in turn appeared to be operating in flagrant disregard of every instruction issued to him. This would all come back on them.

  Above, Chantrell continued watching. The gun battle was over. Lights on deck had flared on and he saw two armed security guys dart from one end of the yacht to the other.

  At the same time, others, including a guy in a towelling bathrobe, were going to the aid of a naked guy who was pulling himself back on deck. The naked guy was Bryars, and Chantrell didn’t know why he was naked, or what he had been doing in the water, or why his nose was bleeding and looked suspiciously like it had been busted. Only that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

  As for Abbott. No sign. From the way the gunmen were behaving, he’d gone overboard. Dead? Injured? Lucky escape? Either way, there was nothing else to see, and Chantrell climbed down from the roof of the vehicle just as Tork finished the call. ‘You called it in?’

  Tork nodded.

  ‘What are our orders?’

  Tork looked at him. He made a brisk cut-throat gesture.

  Chantrell shook his head in disgust. ‘So much for giving him a chance.’

  ‘He blew his chance,’ said Tork, wiping the sweat from his face with the hem of his AC/DC T-shirt. ‘Soon as he got out that water, he blew his chance.’

  CHAPTER 11

  Foxhole’s office occupied a room at the top of a house that from the outside looked like just another scruffy residence on a narrow street. This one, however, had been divided into other, similar offices. Below Foxhole’s security services unit was a money-lender’s, below that, a guy who, as far as he knew, and in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, was Singapore’s dodgiest landlord. None were businesses who bothered putting their name on the door.

  Foxhole sat at his desk now. His blond hair hung damp. Dark stains under his armpits reached almost to the horse insignia of his navy polo shirt, and sweaty, slightly pudgy fingers tapped nervously on his Nokia. He was anxiously awaiting news of the operation. Praying that the news would be good. After all, this job had come through Hexagon Security out of London, and there were two things he knew about Hexagon Security out of London. First, they offered by far the best rates of remuneration this side of the Middle East. Second, for the kind of money they paid they expected exemplary work, and they were not known to take kindly to failure. Which probably amounted to three things, that final one being the most pertinent. OK, four things, if you believed the rumour that Hexagon were not at all averse to using enforcers to tie up loose ends.

  Just the thought caused fresh sweat to pop at Foxhole’s armpits. The two Hexagon guys, Chantrell and Tork, had insisted on a specialis
t and it wasn’t like Foxhole had books brimming with underwater specialists. Just the one, in fact.

  So you gave them Abbott?

  I didn’t have any fucking choice, he told himself. And besides, Abbott had given him his word. No fuck-ups this time.

  The phone rang. Speak of the devil.

  ‘Abbott?’ he said, snatching at the word. ‘Tell me you’re ringing with good news.’

  ‘Yes, mate,’ came the reply, ‘the listening devices and the tracker are in place. So if you’d be kind enough to transfer the money, I’m sure the manager at Barclays in Burton-on-Trent will be most appreciative.’

  But Abbott’s breezy tone was forced, and he sounded breathless, as though he were talking on the move.

  ‘What is it?’ pressed Foxhole, swallowing, some instinct telling him that something was wrong. Maybe terribly wrong.

  ‘Just transfer the money. We’ll talk about it over a beer later.’

  He sounded … was he hurt?

  ‘Just tell me what the sweet fuck is going on, Abbott. You know, don’t you? You know that I’m going to find out sooner or later, right? So let it be now.’

  ‘OK, all right. I may have been spotted. Shots were fired.’

  Foxhole didn’t even realise it, but he had stood up. Now he sank back down, his head going into his hands. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus. Oh my—’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, mate.’

  ‘You do realise—’

  ‘Yeah, they might come for you. But, look, they’ll know that the devices are in place. To all intents and purposes the job is done. It’s not a complete balls-up. You can tell them that.’

  But Foxhole didn’t think Hexagon were going to see it that way. He didn’t think that ‘to all intents and purposes’ was going to be good enough for them. He ended the call, and at the same time rose from the desk, grabbed his windcheater from the back of his chair and swept up his phone, keys and cigarettes, dashing to the door of his office and yanking it open.

  In the doorway stood Chantrell.

  Just behind him, Tork.