Scar Tissue

by Ollie Ollerton

  In the next instant he was tearing out of the room, his running footsteps echoing from the tiled walls and stone floors of the villa. He was drawing his gun.

  * * *

  Mahlouthi had retired to his bedroom and that’s where Abbott found him. He knocked and announced himself calmly, but when Mahlouthi came to the door and answered, looking just as half-cut as Burton, Abbott barrelled in, pushing the bigger man back until he lost his footing and collapsed on the bed.

  And then, with the soft, linen splendour of the businessman’s bedroom billowing in the air-conditioning around him, Abbott put one hand to Mahlouthi’s throat, and with his other brought the Sig to bear and pressed the barrel against his forehead.

  Pressing down. Pressing hard. ‘I need you to tell me something,’ he growled.

  Mahlouthi, normally so punctilious, so calm and self-assured, took several moments to find the words in reply, trying to focus without his glasses and stuttering, ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘Jeremy Robinson. Who was he?’

  Abbott’s finger tensed on the trigger. He knew that if he was right, then all of this was on Mahlouthi. It was Mahlouthi who had brought all this shit down on him. And for that he could put a bullet in the bastard here and now. He heard the grating sound of his own teeth. Felt his jaw clench. Knew he could walk away with Mahlouthi’s blood splattered on his face and on his hands and not feel one iota of guilt.

  But then something happened. Although Abbott had expected Mahlouthi to break down, cry and whimper, to his surprise, he went the other way. His eyes steadied, meeting Abbott’s furious gaze, it was as though peace had come upon him, and for a moment Abbott wondered if Mahlouthi had wet himself with fear. That look was one he’d seen before on men whose bowels had spontaneously voided. They felt a brief moment of total peace and calm. A feeling of absolute relief. And that was how Mahlouthi looked now. ‘I knew that you’d ask me this sooner or later,’ he said. His voice was soft.

  Abbott heard Burton burst in behind him and felt the barrel of a gun at the back of his head. His own resolve didn’t waver. ‘Whatever you’re doing, don’t do it, Monk,’ said Burton, ‘I’m half drunk, I’m only wearing my pants and you’re a fucking good bloke who gave me the benefit of the doubt when you didn’t have to. But I will blow your brains out.’

  ‘I know,’ said Abbott. The barrel of the gun still at Mahlouthi’s forehead.

  ‘I’ll give you until the count of six until I pull the trigger,’ said Burton.

  The count of six. It was typical Burton. Had to be different.

  Even so.

  ‘You pull the trigger, I’ll pull the trigger,’ said Abbott, without removing his pistol from Mahlouthi’s forehead.

  ‘You think, do you?’ said Burton pleasantly. ‘You think that a bullet bursting your head apart is going to make you pull the trigger?’

  ‘Do you really want to take the chance?’

  ‘This isn’t the movies, Abbott. Muscles relax, even on instant death. Now just drop the gun before I tag you.’

  Mahlouthi, pressed to the bed, looked straight up at Abbott, and his next words broke the deadlock. ‘He was his son. Jeremy Robinson was Stone’s son.’

  ‘I knew it. I fucking knew it,’ said Abbott. He let his arms drop, the barrel of his Sig leaving an indent in Mahlouthi’s forehead.

  His son. His son.

  Of course, because Stone had been divorced and he had a son from that relationship. A son who would have been about the same age as Nathan. And that son was the boy that Abbott had watched die on the street.

  The tension in the room seemed to dissipate. Behind him Burton sighed and relaxed his gun arm. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘is one of you two fuckers going to tell me what the fuck is going on, or what?’

  CHAPTER 42

  Abbott awoke in the middle of the night.

  He checked his Omega. 3.30 a.m.

  But then, of course, he already knew that it would be 3.30 a.m. because that was the time they called Drinker’s Dawn. The drink that pretended to be your friend by sending you off to the land of nod without the need for bedtime stories or nanny’s cocoa turned out to be sleep’s enemy. Your rest was disrupted and shot through with fragments of noxious dreams, and at 3.30 a.m. on the dot you came awake, and those shards and fragments of dream in your brain took greater shape, becoming the thoughts that plagued you.

  He lay there, opening one eye blearily, just about focusing on the bottle of vodka that stood on his bedside table, almost empty now.

  He’d told Burton everything, more or less.

  ‘Stone’s not dead,’ Burton had said, incredulously. ‘Why? I mean why the fuck go to the effort of staging your own death?’

  ‘Two reasons, I reckon,’ said Abbott. ‘First, he’d somehow found out that he was under investigation. Second—’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Second, because of all this. He needed to give himself time.’

  ‘Yeah. And all of this being what?’

  ‘Revenge, mate. An eye for an eye.’

  How had Stone found out, though? How had he discovered that Mahlouthi was involved with Jeremy’s death? More to the point, how had Stone found out that Abbott had anything to do with it?

  He kept those questions to himself for the time being. Mean-while, at last Burton had accepted that events were connected. What he’d had more trouble accepting was the fact that Abbott had accepted Mahlouthi’s offer.

  ‘We were the four fucking musketeers,’ he said. ‘One for all and all for one. You should have come to us. That was part of the deal. We didn’t take side jobs – not without telling the others. Not in fucking secret so that we could keep all the money to ourselves.’

  There had been nothing for it but to say sorry and to be grateful for Burton’s grudging forgiveness.

  ‘So, he’s already killed Mowles, but you’re next, eh?’ Burton had said to Mahlouthi, moving on. ‘And then who?’ He pointed at Abbott. ‘You think he’s taken Nathan. A son for a son. What about after that? Is he coming for me?’

  ‘If it is Stone, and he’s on the warpath, does he have a reason to come after you?’

  Burton looked affronted. ‘No. Fuck that. It was him who left me high and fucking dry. I’m the injured party here. Stone can get to fuck if he thinks he’s got a grievance.’

  ‘Could be that he’s not thinking logically.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. There’s what’s right and there’s what’s right,’ Burton had said.

  If it was Stone. After all, there was always the risk that Abbott had been adding two and two together and making five. Either way, for now it was all he had to go on. The most likely explanation. And for now it was agreed that Mahlouthi would make his inquiries, while Abbott and Burton would stick around to – well, the official version? To provide security. The unofficial version? To wait.

  Now, though, he found himself awake with the shit-thoughts battering at him like angry villagers attacking Frankenstein’s castle. Until something else came to him. More of a sensation. A realisation that although there was nothing to hear, it was a pregnant sort of nothing. As though the corridors were slowly and silently filling with water.

  He went to his door, put his ear to it and listened.

  There. Was that it? A distant sound of movement that could be muffled feet on the marbled flooring. A sound like distant clicking.

  Moving fast, he pulled on a sweatshirt and trousers, grabbed the Sig and looped the Kurz sling across his back and went to the door. Slowly, he inched it open to peer outside. He tensed, seeing a movement in the shadows, a figure. He raised the Kurz, feeling the tension on the bungee, ready to open up.

  It was Burton. He was dressed, at least, and he held a finger to his lips, his AK-47 in the other hand, resting once more in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Somebody’s triggered an alarm,’ he whispered.

  ‘You’ve alarmed the place?’

  Burton pulled a sardonic face, still whispering. ‘We were short-staffed – and one of
the places we alarmed was the service tunnel.’

  ‘Which is how you knew about me.’

  ‘Yes, mate, that’s how I knew about you.’

  It dawned on them both at the same time that whoever was coming knew about the service hatch and tunnel. They knew the layout of the villa but not about the development of the alarm installation.

  Stone.

  Suddenly Burton held up a hand for quiet, twitching to hear. Abbott heard it, too. A noise. Then around the corner of the corridor they saw the barrel of an AK. Half a second later, a figure wearing a black combat vest and balaclava appeared.

  The guy saw Abbott and Burton. He gave a shout. He opened fire.

  Contact.

  The Kurz kicked as Abbott returned fire, a short burst that took plaster off the wall at the corner of the corridor.

  In response, the guy in the balaclava pulled back sharply and then fired around the corner, blind, creating a deadly shooting gallery in the corridor. Abbott and Burton crouched, chunks of plaster raining down to the marble flooring around them. Using the wall for cover, with Burton on the left-hand side and Abbott on the right, the two SF men laid down intermittent covering fire, retreating in turn until they reached the end of the hall, and then, as Abbott fired off a final three rounds, Burton opened the door and they scurried through.

  On the other side they took a breath, glancing at each other, both knowing that they had executed the move flawlessly, instinctively working as a team, that old psychic link coming back to them like a faithful black Labrador. There was no time for self-congratulation, though, and they were off once more, reloading on the run.

  They knew without saying where they were going: to Mahlouthi.

  ‘You never managed to persuade him to let you have a room nearer him, then?’ asked Abbott as they dashed along the hallway towards Mahlouthi’s quarters.

  ‘He wanted the ones nearest for his women,’ said Burton. He pulled up short. So did Abbott. At their feet was the body of Tommy, his throat cut, a huge puddle of dark blood spreading around him.

  ‘He was a good bloke,’ said Burton tightly as they moved on.

  They reached the pool area. Here the pool lights beneath the water were the only illumination, and they gave the whole area a rippling effect.

  As they arrived, they saw two intruders on the other side of the pool, also in balaclavas, also wielding AKs. For half a second the two sets of men were running parallel to one another, and then the balaclava crew opened fire on the run, spraying automatic fire randomly across the pool as Burton and Abbott scattered, both diving to the poolside. Glass smashed. Rounds ricocheted off ceramic tiles. A wooden towel-rail splintered and spun.

  On the floor, Abbott steadied himself, Kurz extended on its sling, eye along the sight as he took aim at the guy on the right. To his left, he knew that Burton would be dealing with the guy on the left. Again, Abbott marvelled. Both were under fire but the human instinct to flee or return fire haphazardly was over-ridden by training and both men weren’t just good at keeping a cool head while under attack; they thrived on it.

  The two intruders fell at almost the same time, the one on the left spinning and falling backwards into the pool, blood erupting from his chest, the guy on the right smashing backwards in a welter of scarlet, landing half on and half off a sun lounger, army issue boots in the air.

  Burton and Abbott shot each other a look – top job – both thinking how it never quite left you. How it always came back. Like learning to swim or riding a bike.

  Then, just as the pool room seemed to have finished resounding to the short gun battle, the double doors to Mahlouthi’s lodgings were thrown open, as though to make way for some grand procession. Only, instead of Mahlouthi in all his finery, flanked by minions, it was Mahlouthi in his pyjamas, used as a shield by two black-clad men bristling with AK-47s. Like their pals, they wore black combat vests and balaclavas.

  Mahlouthi, red-faced, was shouting at Abbott and Burton, ‘Do something. Do something.’

  But neither Abbott nor Burton, crouched with their weapons trained on the group, were prepared to make the shot; there was too little of the target to make out in the dark; they had the wrong weapons for the job.

  And now the intruders began edging Mahlouthi away from his quarters and to the far corner of the pool, where an exit door lay ajar. At the same time, Abbott saw Mahlouthi’s eyes widen, as the realisation hit him. He was being taken. And in Baghdad, terrifying, horrifying things happened to people who were taken.

  ‘Kill me,’ said Mahlouthi, all of a sudden, changing his tune. ‘Don’t let them take me.’

  Abbott shifted his aim. ‘Your call,’ he said to Burton. ‘You know, what with you being chief of security and all.’

  ‘Hold your fire,’ said Burton in reply, a command that took Abbott by surprise. He had no love for Mahlouthi but to sentence him to God knew what fate seemed wrong.

  One of the invaders had moved slightly, setting himself apart from Mahlouthi, putting a little distance between them. Abbott altered his aim a fraction, wondering if he could take the shot and bring the bloke down. From the corner of his eye he saw Biscuits waver, too, both wondering why the guy was making himself a target.

  And then it became clear as the guy reached up and dragged off his balaclava, tossing it away. Of course. It was Stone. Older, more careworn. Weather-beaten. But still very much the man Abbott and Burton had once called a comrade.

  For a moment, as Mahlouthi was dragged to the exit, Stone, Burton and Abbott faced each other across the pool, as though all were daring each other to open fire first. Abbott’s eyes locked with Stone and what passed between them was a terrible knowing, a moment that removed all doubt from Abbott’s mind. He knew it for sure now: for Stone this was all about the sins of the father.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ said Burton from the side of his mouth, ‘I can take him.’

  ‘No,’ hissed Abbott. To find Nathan he needed Stone alive. ‘Stone,’ he shouted across the pool, ‘give him back,’ and of course he meant Nathan not Mahlouthi, and Stone knew that, too, because his burning, accusatory gaze was replaced by something altogether more terrifying. A smile that slowly spread across his face.

  ‘All in good time,’ he said.

  And then he, too, was gone, and Abbott’s shoulders sank, his Kurz dropping.

  ‘Moof has a locator sewn into his pyjamas,’ said Burton, already recovering. ‘He needs to activate it. It’s just a switch built into the unit. Fucking tiny thing. As soon as he can do that, we can find him.’ They looked at one another, maybe thinking the same thing: find Mahlouthi, find Stone.

  ‘He’s probably forgotten he even has it,’ said Abbott, pulling himself to his feet. ‘You saw the state of him.’

  Burton had reached the same conclusion. ‘Yeah, maybe for the moment. But he’ll remember. Have faith, mate. Come on, I don’t think I’ve shown you our new ops room yet.’

  The two bodies in the pool were left floating, blood spreading in the water around them as Abbott and Burton hurried away from the pool area. ‘Ops room, eh?’ said Abbott, as they ran.

  ‘Too fucking right,’ said Burton. ‘An alarm in the maintenance tunnel isn’t the only change we’ve made in your absence, you know.’

  Next thing he was unlocking a white door. ‘Welcome to the ops room,’ he said grandly, flicking on light switches to reveal a small room containing two tatty office chairs, a Loaded calendar on the wall, and one side given over to a long desk on which sat a row of four monitors.

  ‘This is the ops room?’ said Abbott, who, despite everything, was unable to keep a note of amusement out of his voice.

  ‘Get to fuck, will you, mate,’ said Burton, reaching behind monitors and powering them up. ‘It might not be the most technologically advanced ops room in the world, but it’s ours, and we won’t stand for outsiders taking the piss. Now this one—’ he said, indicating the monitor on the far right, ‘this is for the locator.’

  The casing of the monitor
was yellowing. ‘Does it work?’ asked Abbott.

  Burton pulled a face. ‘We’ll soon see.’

  The screen resolved to form a grid which Abbott took to be geographical. ‘We’re looking for a little blip,’ said Burton, reaching to wipe dust off the screen.

  ‘You ever have to do this before?’ asked Abbott.

  ‘First time for everything.’ Burton peered hard at the screen. ‘Come on. Come on, Moof,’ he urged, ‘remember the protocol.’

  Mahlouthi would be terrified. He might simply forget to activate the locator in his terror. Or maybe his captors would search him and find it. Perhaps they’d cuff him in such a way that he couldn’t even reach to switch it on.

  All they could do now was wait.

  CHAPTER 43

  They found Mahlouthi’s phone. It was Burton who turned it up. ‘Why the great interest?’ asked Abbott. He preferred to keep an eye on the tracker. Finding Mahlouthi brought them closer to Nathan; his main objective remained the same.

  ‘You remember that message Mahlouthi showed you?’ said Burton thoughtfully. He was scrolling through the contents of the phone. ‘The one that said, “You’re next”?’

  ‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Abbott.

  ‘Well, it put the wind up him, for sure, but then something else happened that spooked him even more.’

  ‘Finding out that I was in Baghdad, maybe?’

  Burton made a noise like his mind had suddenly seized on something. ‘That’s right. He got the text message. Then he found out you were in Baghdad. But then something else happened and he started insisting on seeing you, and that’s when Omar was despatched.’

  ‘So what was the “something else,” then?’

  ‘Precisely, mate,’ said Burton still flicking through the phone. ‘Ah, bingo …’

  It was a video file. Burton placed the phone to the desktop so that both he and Abbott could watch, and as it flicked into life it stirred memories of Abbott’s first tour of Iraq – a kidnapping situation when they’d been sent footage of one of their own blokes being beheaded.