45
Vincent turned in time to see that the bodyguard, who had escorted the remaining three captains upstairs, had returned and it was he who had fired a shot in their direction, the smoke still escaping from the barrel of his weapon. Vincent felt a tug on his shoulder as Mark grabbed him and flung the two of them to the floor. In the scramble, one of the small tables at the edge of the dance-floor tumbled, providing them with an element of cover. More bullets were overheard as Smart turned her weapon on the bodyguard, simultaneously diving for cover herself.
Vincent watched in horror as he saw Mark withdraw his own weapon and pepper some shots in the direction of the bodyguard. Remembering his weapon, he reached inside the overalls and pulled it out. It had been years since he had fired a gun, although, remembering back to his days at Hendon, he had always been a decent shot. Rolling from his back to his front, he prepared himself to look around when he heard two shots hit the wooden table they were hiding behind, splintering the wood three inches above his head. Do or die, he thought to himself and stuck his arm out from behind the table firing three shots wildly into the room.
Mark continued to fire, but Vincent had no idea if he had managed to hit anybody yet. The sound of gunfire on the other side of the table remained relentless, and he had to assume that Stratovsky and his associate had both drawn weapons too. He slowly shuffled sideways, just enough to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the rest of the room. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and a hazy fog was slowly rising. Evidently the three captains had also returned and were looking around for whom to shoot at.
Mark reloaded his weapon and peaked out from behind the table. He saw Stratovsky making a dash for the club’s main exit and so he opened fire spraying bullets all around his target, but none actually made contact. One of the bullets caught the edge of a small gas pipe that ran around the exit and fire shot out, causing Stratovsky to stray off course and to seek an alternative escape route. The fire from the pipe grew stronger as it came into contact with the room’s oxygen and a set of curtains nearby caught alight, blocking the exit totally.
Smart was crouched down behind the seat of a second booth and would periodically look out and fire her gun. She had not anticipated the bodyguard returning to the scene and only now did she realise just how unprepared she was when she decided to break cover. She had naively thought Vincent and Mark would back up her story, but in reality, they were as useful as school children in this situation. The gun fire ceased temporarily and she lifted her head to peer out. She could see Stratovsky ducking down on the dance-floor, either heading for the kitchen and ultimately an exit or potentially to his secret trapdoor, wherever that was. Robert was crouched down with him, but there were so many tables and chairs in the way that a shot at them was impossible. She decided she needed to get a better angle and, keeping her head low, she started to move out of the booth. A crack of fire broke the silence and this was swiftly followed by a hot searing pain just below her left shoulder. She fell to the floor, but the adrenalin pumping through her system enabled her to continue crawling. She made eye contact with Vincent whose eyes widened when he saw the patch of blood growing on her white blouse.
A smell of burning material was growing stronger as the fire at the curtains quickly spread to the first of the side booths and within seconds the padded seats were engulfed in flames. If the fire authorities arrived soon enough there was a chance they might save the building, but the timeframe was rapidly shrinking. The pain in her shoulder was worsening and she was beginning to feel light-headed. There were all manner of arteries that the bullet might have hit, so medical attention was a necessity. She tried to signal to Vincent to see if he could phone the emergency services but he couldn’t understand what she was trying to tell him. She tried to stand, conscious that there was no real protection where she was currently lying, but, as she clambered to her knees, she felt another searing pain strike her back, this one just above her right hip. She fell to the floor once more and panic started to set in.
The shot had been fired by the bodyguard, who inadvertently walked into Mark’s line of sight. Remembering what his father had told him the day before, he placed both hands around the barrel of his gun, closed one eye and aimed at the man’s head. He squeezed the trigger gently and as the bullet left the barrel, it flew straight into the bodyguard’s neck, a spurt of blood in the opposite direction confirming the hit. The bodyguard dropped to his knees and then fell flat on his chest, his head facing Mark but his eyes no longer seeing.
One of the captains saw Mark and fired shots back at him. Vincent saw the movement and fired three quick shots in the man’s direction. Ducking to avoid the bullets, the captain accidentally stumbled back into the blazing booth and his cheap polyester suit ignited like a firework. The body dropped to the floor and after some pained screaming and thrashing, came to a rest.
The remaining two captains had made their way around the room and Mark and Vincent watched as they rushed out into the kitchen and to safety.
Vincent shuffled over to where Smart was lying on her side.
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ he coughed, his voice cutting through the silence.
She tried to acknowledge her agreement but when she tried to speak, all she was able to muster was a cough herself. The blood ran from her mouth and some splashed onto Vincent’s coat.
‘Baines!’ he shouted, ‘She’s in a bad way; we need to get her out of here. Help me!’
The shouting caught Stratovsky’s attention. He was in the middle of the dance-floor, scrambling at the trap door locking mechanism. He stood and fired his gun in the direction of the noise. Smart saw his movement, and extending her arm she was able to crack off two shots, both striking Stratovsky in the head. He was dead before he hit the ground. She watched as Robert managed to hoist the trap door lid up and scramble into the hole. Their eyes made contact briefly as he did and for a moment there was an agreed empathy between them. Then he was gone.
Smart coughed again, the taste of blood in her mouth confirming to her that she wasn’t going to make it out. She desperately wanted to tell Vincent why she had been here. If he was to survive this encounter, he would be the only one who would be able to verify that she had been trying to arrest the Russian, rather than collaborating with him. She didn’t want her family to know that she had let them down. But as she tried to speak, the words would not come. She could feel her body growing numb. The pain in her abdomen had now gone and the pain in her shoulder was rapidly dwindling. She could make out Vincent shouting something at her but she had no idea what he was saying or why. She smiled at him and then everything faded to black.
‘She’s dead, Jack. Come on, we need to get out of here!’ Mark was urging.
All of the booths were now engulfed in flames and thick black smoke was hovering just below head height.
‘Come on!’ Mark urged again, pulling Vincent to his feet and dragging him towards the kitchen.
They rushed out into the fresh air, the two of them coughing and spluttering. In the distance, they could hear the sound of sirens rapidly approaching.
EPILOGUE
‘Are you sitting comfortably sir?’ the stewardess asked, smiling warmly. ‘Can I get you something to drink for the flight?’
‘I’ll have a scotch with ice,’ Jack Vincent smiled back.
The stewardess nodded her understanding and made her way to the front of the cabin. He had never flown first class before and suddenly he could understand why so many paid the extra amount to enjoy the privilege. The stewardess returned and placed a small glass of ice on the tray in front of him with a miniature of Bells alongside it.
‘If you require anything else, please just buzz for me and I’ll see what I can do for you?’
‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling again.
Like a child with a new toy he had already played with the various buttons on the side of the seat. He had reclined it to a forty-five degree angle, and having removed his loafers,
his legs were fully stretched out, but still weren’t making any contact with the seat in front of him. He unscrewed the cap on the miniature and tipped the contents into the glass. He knew he would suffer the consequences of this indulgence later on, but he had vowed to himself that he would have no regrets; that every day he woke up was a blessing to be cherished.
It was three weeks since the Ponzi Club fire that had resulted in the deaths of Nikolai Stratovsky, two of his crew and an unidentified woman. The official story in the press had been that the freshly-released Stratovsky had been attempting to burn down the club in order to claim insurance money, such were his financial difficulties, but he had tripped and fallen during the process and had become trapped inside, dying in the blaze. There was no mention of the gun fight, nor was there mention that any of the four victims, discovered at the scene, had been shot.
Lauren Smart’s family, who had not known she was working for M.I.5, had been advised that she had been killed on active service in Afghanistan. They were told she had died a hero, trying to save the members of her platoon who had also been in the car when they had been ambushed by rogue Taliban fighters. Photographs of Lauren in uniform were leaked to the press, and a commendation for bravery had been presented to her ageing but incredibly proud mother on her behalf.
When he and Mark had stumbled out of the club, they had spent two minutes arguing over whether to get away and hide, or whether they should stick around to explain their story to the authorities. Mark had been keen to flee, wanting those that knew of his existence to be limited but Vincent had been insistent on explaining things. In the end they had agreed to go their separate ways with Mark flagging a taxi to an unknown destination. When he was alone and the adrenalin started to leave his system, Vincent had grown paranoid. How could he explain his presence at the club? He certainly hadn’t been there on official police business; nobody in his team knew where he was, let alone that he was trying to bring down a known Russian gangster. He couldn’t tell the truth without implicating himself for attempted murder. Unable to think clearly, and feeling nauseous he too fled the scene, just moments before the fire engines and rapid response vehicles arrived on scene. He had checked into a small hotel off Charing Cross Road with money that Mark had given him for this very event. He showered and changed into the t-shirt and jeans he had picked up on his way to the hotel.
He had no idea what the next step would be. Originally he and Mark planned to have left in the same van they had arrived in and to return to Southampton. The plan had technically worked as Stratovsky had been killed, but because it had not gone like clockwork, he had had no idea whether Mark would ever be in contact again. He had spent the rest of the day in the hotel watching the news and had ordered up a salad from room service. He had been very ill during the night again and had begun to regret his decision not to remain under medical supervision. Ultimately it wasn’t too late to return to Southampton and check himself into the hospital. He had made his mind up to do so when he had heard a knock at his room’s door. Assuming it must have been Mark, he had idly opened the door, only to be met by the faces of three men in suits and rain coats. They had identified themselves as British Security Service agents and asked him to come with them.
Despite his reluctance, they had insisted and took him by car to their headquarters. No answer was provided when he demanded to know where they were taking him or why, but when they arrived at the building, he was escorted through security to a small office at the rear of the building. It was reminiscent of an interview room and he could only speculate as to why they wished to speak to him, and assumed it was linked to Lauren Smart’s death.
A man in his sixties had eventually entered the room and explained that he required Vincent’s help to answer some questions about what had happened the day before at the Ponzi Club. At first Vincent had pleaded ignorance, but when the man had presented photographs of Vincent and Mark in the van outside of the club and photographs taken from a street camera of them leaving the club surrounded by plumes of smoke, he knew the game was up. The man told him that he had been Lauren Smart’s boss but had no idea why she had been at the club.
Vincent had explained everything, including Mark Baines. The man had listened intently, making notes as Vincent spoke, and asking questions to clarify points. It felt like an interview but not an interrogation. When Vincent had finished the explanation the man nodded and smiled. He thanked Vincent for his time and explained that it would be out of the question to report that Lauren Smart had gone rogue and that indirectly M.I.5 had been aiding organised crime in Britain. He then went on to explain the version of events that would become the truth.
Vincent didn’t care how they chose to spin events, so long as he wasn’t implicated. He was allowed to leave and even given a lift back to Southampton. Having nowhere else to go, he had visited Kyle Davies’ home in Totton and asked if he could stay for a couple of nights while he sorted things out. Davies had looked relieved to see his boss and mentor still alive and had told him that he had feared Vincent had taken his own life when he had disappeared from the hospital. Davies confirmed that he had not mentioned the illness to anyone at work and this had been music to Vincent’s ears.
‘I don’t want you telling anyone, Kyle. Do you understand me?’
Davies had promised he would keep it quiet, and asked Vincent what his plans were. At the time Vincent didn’t know. A week later, he had received a phone call from Mark Baines who had recommended a lovely fishing village in the Cayman Islands where sun sets were like picture postcards. Although Vincent had never been one for exotic locations he could not think of a better place to enjoy his final weeks alive.
He had phoned D.C.I. Mercure and told her he wished to take extended leave to get over the stress of the last few weeks. She was only happy to oblige and agreed to him taking a month off work to recover. His next job was to write a will, not that he had much he could bequeath, but he had requested that any worldly goods be passed to Davies and his unborn child. He withdrew half of his savings and booked a First Class ticket to Grand Cayman.
In the days since the Ponzi Club fire, Robert Dragonovic had assumed control of the Stratovsky family business, acting on behalf of his friend and heir to the empire, Victor Stratovsky, who was still in prison following his arrest for his involvement in the death of Ali Jacobs the year before. Vincent doubted Victor would serve his full sentence, not now he was running things, albeit with the help of Dragonovic.
On his last day in the U.K. Davies had told him that Nina’s name had somehow been passed to a rich Dubai-based sheikh who had hired her to serve on his private airline. Her salary had trebled and yet she only worked a couple of days per week, with her spare time split between the States, U.K. and U.A.E. Vincent had a secret feeling he knew who had arranged that; the same person who had hacked into a life assurance company and approved the death claims of one Mike McGee and Daniel Simpson. A large cash pay-out to the widows of both men would do little to comfort them for their loss, but it would certainly ease the financial pressure.
Vincent took a sip of the whisky and savoured the burn as it coated his throat. He looked over to his right, where, seated in the chair closest to him, was Mark Baines. The two men’s eyes met.
‘Are you okay, Jack?’ Mark asked.
Vincent nodded. ‘Are you going to stay in George Town?’ he asked.
Mark shook his head, ‘Too many people know that’s where I was so I think it’s time I found a new home. My father has already left and he will send me word where he is once he is settled. He contacted my mother and she has flown out to join him. She was more than a little upset to learn we were still alive and hadn’t told her, but I’m sure they will work through that. You are welcome to use my apartment for as long as you like. The rent is paid for the next four months, so when you are done with it…well, you know what I mean…you can stay as long as you want.’
‘Thanks,’ Vincent said and closed his eyes as the plane lined itself up on the runwa
y and started to move forward, gathering speed and then lifted off.
The End
ALSO BY STEPHEN EDGER
Integration
THE OFFER
Mark Baines is a Team Leader in a call centre. He dislikes his job and dreams of the day he can afford to give up his job and buy the house of his dreams. Following a terrifying burglary at his home, he is contacted by a group prepared to pay him one million pounds in return for a favour.
THE CATCH
The offer seems too good to be true, and he begins to worry about what they might expect in return. The group calls again and tells him to integrate their laundered monies through the bank he works for, but he refuses. When Mark’s girlfriend Gabrielle goes missing and his brother is attacked, Mark begins to realise just how far the group will go to get what they want.
EVERYONE HAS THEIR PRICE
As the game begins and the pressure mounts, Mark finds himself risking everything he has to find Gabrielle and save his own life before the group and the police catch up with him.
INTEGRATION
Blackmail, murder, suspense, conspiracy and money laundering: Integration is a British crime thriller set in the murky depths of the finance industry.
ALSO BY STEPHEN EDGER
Remorse
'I didn't mean to kill her. That is the first thing you need to understand about me...'
FAIRY-TALE LIFE
John Duggan had it all: married with a beautiful four month-old daughter; Manager with a career on the up; nice house in a good area of Southampton.
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
His wife is cheating on him; his daughter’s relentless screaming deprives them of sleep; he drinks too much.
Shadow Line Page 28