Red Wolves

by Adam Hamdy

  Take off the patch.

  He ignored the voice in his head and focused on Elroy, who was still talking.

  ‘The Cresci Family seem to have been tipped off to the nature of our product. Our friend here,’ Elroy indicated Awut, ‘was told by his contact within the organization that he has a price on his head. So we are working to find another distributor.’

  Ziad smiled bleakly. Elroy made it sound as though they were selling Pepsi.

  ‘In the meantime, we need to start getting the product into the world,’ Elroy said. ‘Tomorrow night there’s an event at the Lightstar Arena. An all-night music festival with over eight thousand people attending. We’ve arranged access to the venue and would like each of you to offer free product to anyone who’s interested in trying it. We should be able to introduce at least five or six hundred people to their new lives.’

  Even though he knew the horror Elroy would be inflicting on these people, Ziad didn’t demur. He was a foul, rotten creature and deserved nothing more than a foul, rotten existence living in the shadows with these evil men. He’d killed the one good thing he’d ever had, and some dark part of him didn’t want anyone else to be happy if he couldn’t be.

  Take it off, Essi’s voice said.

  Not yet, he told her inwardly.

  Had he lost his mind? Was he talking to a ghost? Or to himself? Neither was something a sane man would do. How would he know if he’d lost his grip on reality?

  Not yet.

  He replayed the words in his mind.

  Not yet.

  Did that mean he’d reached a decision?

  Yes, Essi’s voice said. You have. Come be with me.

  Ziad nodded. In time, he would remove the patch. And everything would be better.

  Chapter 120

  The room smelled of rot. The furniture was from the seventies and looked as though it had seen hard nights. The veneer sideboard was chipped, the chairs buckled and the bed sagged. The drapes were thin and worn and every crevice in the bathroom was filled with black mould. Detective Evan Hill winced and pulled the stained bedspread off his legs to look at his ankle. He was convinced something had just bitten him, but when he examined the yellowing sheet, there was nothing there. He rubbed his leg, got to his feet and crossed the rough carpet to turn on the ancient television. The tube took a moment to come to life, but when it did, Hill was shocked to see his own face staring back at him.

  ‘Social media sources have identified Detective Evan Hill as a possible suspect in the Midas killings,’ the anchor said over Hill’s photo. ‘The information seems to have come from a number of reliable accounts who have a track record of breaking controversial stories. Authorities are eager to locate Detective Hill, who is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.’

  Hill cursed inwardly. Someone was setting him up. Maybe Lang? The attack on the biker bar was a clear sign the guy was tying up loose ends. Or maybe it was Salamov, out for revenge. Or the woman he’d arrested, Leila Nahum. Whoever was behind the fake news story was smart. A missing cop didn’t stick in people’s minds, but the Midas Killer was sensational. Hill thought about all the people he’d interacted with since arriving at the High Mountain Motel just north of Mitchell Hill. The manager had got a good look at him, as had the two guests he’d bumped into as he’d left reception. Then there was the convenience store clerk who’d sold him a week’s worth of supplies, and the chambermaid who’d taken offence when he’d told her he didn’t want his room cleaned because nothing she could do would make the slightest difference to the ground-in filth. Each and every one of them would probably instantly forget a missing cop, but a notorious killer . . .

  He pulled on his jeans and threw his T-shirt over his head, before sitting on the end of the bed to tie his shoes. He’d just started on the second lace when he heard a noise outside. It was faint, like a rodent scratching at his door. He stood and backed away from it hesitantly.

  He jumped when the door burst open and a squad of Seattle police officers in full tactical gear stormed the room. They threw him to the floor, knocking the wind from his lungs, and each cop restrained a limb, rendering him completely immobile. It was standard procedure for dealing with violent suspects and terrorists.

  They think I’m one of the bad guys, Hill realized as one of the cops started reading him his rights. Urgent radio chatter drew Hill’s attention to the car park outside his room, which was full of uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. They’d sent an army to bring him in.

  Defeated and despondent, a single thought went through his mind before they took him away.

  Maybe I am the bad guy.

  Chapter 121

  Pearce waited in the booking hall. Leila had been monitoring police communications and had been able to ascertain that Hill was being taken to Seattle Police Headquarters. She and Wollerton had managed to forge credentials from the public defender’s office that identified Pearce as Seth Allen, a court-appointed lawyer. The plan was simple; once Hill had been booked, Pearce would request five minutes with his client and would quiz the corrupt officer on possible locations Elroy Lang might use to store a large quantity of product.

  After he’d been tested for coronavirus by the duty sergeant, Pearce had taken a seat and watched the comings and goings of central booking, grateful for the two hours’ sleep he’d managed to snatch once they’d put the plan in motion. Leila had discovered that many of the accounts they’d used to break the Black Thirteen story had been shut down, so she’d been forced to hack into a new batch of MI5 social media puppets to spread the allegations about Hill. The story had soon gone viral, before being picked up by a few fringe and alternative news sites, which had become sources for local Seattle media. The volume of coverage gave the claims credence and before long, news outlets were forced to choose whether to run the story or be one of the few networks that remained silent.

  Once the allegations had got traction, Pearce had instructed the team to get some rest. Everyone had managed to find a spot in their base of operations to grab some shut-eye. Everyone apart from Leila, who was pushing herself beyond the limit. Pearce didn’t know how she did it, but he was learning not to try to stop her. She didn’t react well to being told what to do, especially if the instruction implied she might be weak in any way. And they still weren’t talking much. Their easy rapport had been strained by the revelation she’d concealed her role in Artem Vasylyk’s death.

  Pearce saw a commotion outside the booking hall. A couple of police cars had pulled up in the loading bay directly opposite the entrance. They were soon followed by a police van that stopped and discharged its occupants. Four officers in tactical gear, and their suspect, Evan Hill.

  It took a moment for Pearce to realize why the uniformed cop heading out of the building seemed out of place. It was the man’s face. He wasn’t a police officer; he was a criminal. It was Rasul Salamov, and his eyes were fixed on Evan Hill. Pearce could only guess that someone on the Salamovs’ payroll had let Rasul know where they were bringing Hill and had helped the mobster infiltrate the building.

  ‘No!’ Pearce yelled, getting to his feet.

  But he was too late. As the tactical squad entered the building, Rasul Salamov drew his sidearm and shot Evan Hill in the stomach three times.

  An alarm sounded and two of the tactical officers tended to Hill, who fell to the floor, shuddering violently as he bled out. The other two officers wrestled Rasul to the floor, but he didn’t put up any resistance and surrendered his weapon with the willingness of someone who had no other ambitions in life. Pearce felt sick. Hill was their last hope of reaching the mysterious Elroy Lang.

  Pearce watched the two officers with Hill perform frantic CPR, but he was unresponsive and soon fell still.

  The booking hall filled with cops who took statements from anyone who might have seen anything. Giving his name as Seth Allen, Pearce told the detective who questioned him that he hadn’t seen the shooting because he’d been checking his emails. While Pearce was
being interviewed, Rasul was taken to the booking desk and charged with murder. He caught Pearce’s eye, but there was no recognition, just a dead stare as though he’d lost all reason. Once Rasul was processed, he was taken through a security door, and Pearce felt certain they would never see each other again.

  Forty-five minutes after the shooting, Pearce was released from the building, and he stepped into a battleship-grey day. Standing in the relentless drizzle, with his best chance dead, Pearce wondered where he went from here.

  Chapter 122

  Pearce left the building feeling something close to desperation. Hill was dead, Rasul Salamov was under heavy guard, Deni Salamov had vanished, and somewhere in the city was a shipment of one of the deadliest substances he had ever encountered. He walked a block to Columbia Street, where Clifton’s surveillance van was parked. He knocked on the side door and a moment later it slid open to reveal Leila in the back, surrounded by computers and surveillance equipment.

  Pearce hopped inside and sat in one of a pair of captain’s chairs. Leila lowered herself into the other.

  ‘Robert has shared photos of Ziad, Elroy and Narong with his old intelligence contacts,’ Leila revealed. ‘There’s a statewide APB on all three of them.’

  ‘They’ll have gone to ground,’ Pearce said. ‘They might even have skipped town already. There’s no reason to assume they’re involved in distributing the product. All they need is another Cresci . . .’ Pearce cut himself off.

  ‘What?’ Leila asked.

  ‘The East Hill Mob are gone. The Red Wolves too. The Salamov organization has been destroyed and Cresci knows not to touch the stuff,’ Pearce remarked, suddenly animated by inspiration. ‘They’re going to need another distributor to shift that much product.’

  He jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Leila asked.

  ‘To see Cresci,’ Pearce replied.

  It was shortly after 11 a.m. when they reached the three-storey gym on 65th. Pearce parked the van a short distance up the street and he and Leila walked towards the building. He noticed she was moving stiffly and wondered whether she needed her wheelchair, but it wasn’t a subject he could ever raise. She hated any suggestion she might be weak or need special treatment.

  There were no bodyguards outside the gym and the place looked shut. He pressed the button on the intercom and a buzzer sounded. He looked at Leila and she smiled half-heartedly. They still hadn’t spoken about Artem Vasylyk and Pearce could feel the distance growing between them.

  Pearce pressed the button again, and this time he got a response.

  ‘Yeah?’ a voice said.

  ‘I need to speak to Ben Cresci,’ Pearce said.

  ‘Get lost,’ the voice responded before hanging up.

  Pearce held his finger on the button.

  ‘I said get lost,’ the voice told him.

  ‘OK. But then you’ll have to explain why you put Mr Cresci’s entire business and life in danger,’ Pearce said.

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Come in,’ the voice replied, and the latch clicked open.

  Chapter 123

  Pearce was brooding. He sat on a bench next to Leila, his face a mask of impatience and frustration. They’d climbed the steps to the gym and discovered the unfriendly voice belonged to Hank Rivers, a stocky guy in his fifties who looked as though he’d been in a lifetime of fights.

  ‘Wait,’ he’d said simply, pointing to the bench in the empty boxing gym. ‘I’ll tell Mr Cresci you’re here.’

  That had been more than eight hours ago. They’d sat through the gym opening at four, the arrival of the first athletes. Leila had finally succumbed to hunger and gone for sandwiches and painkillers.

  When she’d returned to the gym, Pearce and Hank had been in the middle of a heated row, which had ended when Hank said, ‘If you don’t wanna wait, you know where the door is. Feel free to get lost.’

  That had been almost two hours ago. They hadn’t said much and Leila had spent the time watching the young, fit boxers training and sparring. She envied them their easy movement and lightness on their feet. She couldn’t really remember what it was like to move without pain or restriction, but sometimes in her dreams she would imagine herself running freely.

  Leila had always had a good relationship with Pearce, but the Vasylyk thing had soured it. She didn’t report to him in any formal sense, so she was under no obligation to explain herself to him. She guarded her independence fiercely, but she could also see why Pearce was angry. They were meant to be friends, and she hadn’t trusted him. More than that, she’d deprived him of information that might have been material to the investigation.

  ‘Scott,’ Leila said at last. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He looked at her and his expression softened. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ Leila assured him.

  ‘I don’t know why you felt you couldn’t trust me,’ Pearce said. ‘I’ve always got your back, Lyly.’

  Before she could respond, Pearce was distracted by the arrival of a man in a sky-blue suit who was surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards.

  ‘Cresci,’ Pearce said, getting to his feet.

  Leila followed and they were intercepted by two of the bodyguards, who searched them.

  ‘With me,’ Cresci said, pointing towards the men’s locker room.

  Pearce followed and Leila did likewise.

  ‘Not you,’ Cresci said to Leila. ‘Just him.’

  Leila’s path was blocked by a couple of bodyguards and she could only watch in frustration as Cresci took Pearce inside and shut the door behind them.

  Chapter 124

  ‘Someone robbed me of satisfaction,’ Cresci said accusingly. ‘Eddie Fletcher is dead and the Red Wolves are gone.’

  ‘The man’s name is Elroy Lang,’ Pearce replied. ‘One of my people was watching the bar. He saw Narong Angsakul, the Thai national who was with Ziad Malek when they came to see you. Narong detonated the device that killed most of them. Elroy shot Kirsty Fletcher and they ran down her husband.’

  Cresci fixed Pearce with a critical stare.

  ‘It was nothing to do with me. I’m trying to find them,’ Pearce assured him.

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘They’re going to try to find another way to distribute their product. I have to stop them.’

  Cresci paced thoughtfully.

  ‘Who else could help them get their product onto the street?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘You were watching the bar?’ Cresci asked.

  Pearce nodded.

  ‘But you’re not a cop? And your accent means you’re probably not FBI either.’

  Pearce shook his head. He knew what Cresci was thinking. He had him pegged as a spy.

  ‘Do you have resources? If I gave you a phone number, could you trace it?’ Cresci asked.

  Pearce’s heart leaped. ‘Yes,’ he replied simply.

  ‘Malek gave us a contact number,’ Cresci explained. ‘If he still has the phone with him . . .’ the implication was left hanging. ‘I was going to ask one of our law enforcement contacts to try to trace it,’ Cresci went on. ‘But your need is greater. And if there’s anything left of these men . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell you where to find them,’ Pearce assured him.

  ‘Good,’ Cresci replied. ‘Good.’

  Pearce hurried from the gym with Leila trailing.

  ‘Why didn’t he give it to you before?’ she asked when he’d filled her in.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t think I could trace it,’ Pearce replied. ‘Or maybe he didn’t trust me?’

  Cresci’s motivation wasn’t important. What mattered was finding out whether Ziad still had the phone.

  ‘Can you track it?’ Pearce asked.

  Leila nodded. ‘I have what I need in the van. It shouldn’t take long, provided it hasn’t been disabled or destroyed.’

  Pearce produced his Ghostlink and called Brigitte.
>
  ‘What happened?’ she asked.

  ‘He gave us a number,’ Pearce replied. ‘If it’s valid, I want you ready to deploy to the location.’

  ‘Copy that,’ Brigitte said. ‘We’re standing by.’

  Chapter 125

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Brigitte said. She didn’t have the strength to face Wollerton, so she kept her eyes on the road. They were heading for an address Leila had given them. Brigitte was sitting beside Clifton, who navigated the evening traffic. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that decision alone.’

  ‘No you shouldn’t,’ Wollerton replied from the back seat, his voice softening as he spoke. ‘But I think you’ve already paid a high price. It’s written on your face.’

  Brigitte turned towards her window so Clifton couldn’t see her fighting to control her emotions.

  ‘What did they do to you?’ Wollerton asked.

  She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Even though they’d recovered a crate of patches from the Elite Voyager, Brigitte’s future was still uncertain. She had no idea how long the patches remained effective. Did they have an expiry date? What were the long-term consequences of her disability? Even if the patches lasted indefinitely, what had her condition done to her life expectancy? Then there were the less pressing issues, such as whether she’d always experience a prolonged fentanyl high whenever she applied a fresh patch. What would the synthetic opiate do to her operational effectiveness? She didn’t feel impaired, but would she even realize if she was?

  She couldn’t share these questions with either of her companions because of the risk they’d consider her weak or somehow incapable. Clifton might insist she return to base, and Huxley Blaine Carter might fire her. And the worst of it was they’d have been right to do so. She was vulnerable. An adversary simply had to remove her patch and she’d be dead within seconds. It was another reason she couldn’t talk to these men. The fewer people who knew about her condition, the safer she’d be.