Gone Cold

by Douglas Corleone

  There were cars on the roads, especially on Princes Street, but not nearly as many as there were earlier.

  I could live here, I thought.

  It was an odd phrase to materialize in my head. I’d been in cities all around the world, and not once could I recall thinking something similar. Not even in Warsaw where Ana Staszak had taken a job as a criminal prosecutor. Maybe it was the circumstances, the stress. Maybe I actually felt close to finding Hailey. Maybe I was just getting old and tired of running from city to city, country to country.

  I listened for Zoey and Quigg, could already smell the pungent aroma of crack smoke and thought Brenda would have a heart attack if she knew.

  I’d promised Zoey three minutes. Only two had passed. So I continued gazing out the window. I recognized most of the landmarks but couldn’t identify very many by sight.

  Edinburgh Castle, however, was unmistakable.

  And in the center of it all, North Bridge, which connected the New Town to the Old.

  Somewhere out there was Edinburgh University.

  Maybe Hailey would be interested in going there.

  With thirty seconds remaining, I mentally swatted away that ridiculous notion and lowered my eyes to the street just below our window.

  Headlights approaching.

  Several pairs.

  The vehicles large and dark in color.

  “Rob Roy Moffett,” I said under my breath, “you goddamn snitch.”

  The Maxwells had tracked us. And it had probably been cake. We’d left too simple a trail to follow. If Gerry Gilchrist had an in with the warden, no doubt Tavis Maxwell had ins too. When we entered the lot at HMP Shotts, the guard had noted the make and model of our Jeep Grand Cherokee, had taken down the license plate, had taken down our names.

  Someone had phoned Maxwell.

  Maxwell had asked who I’d visited.

  Rob Roy Moffett, they would have told him.

  Maxwell maybe paid Moffett a visit. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe he just got him on the phone. Moffett would have told Maxwell he’d given us his cousin’s name and pager number. No love lost between cousins in that family, we’d already established that.

  Once they had Angus Quigg’s name, they would have come to Edinburgh to follow him.

  Or to seek out the Jeep Grand Cherokee, which I couldn’t see from our window.

  Christ. Maybe Ashdown was already dead.

  I quickly scanned my BlackBerry. I’d received no calls, no texts.

  Hell, maybe Angus Quigg was in on it too.

  Didn’t matter. Either way, the Maxwell boys were coming.

  And Zoey’s three minutes were up.

  Chapter 25

  I squeezed the polymer grip of the Heckler & Koch until it felt like an extension of my hand. My damaged left continued to be useless. So I lifted my foot, aimed just below the knob, and kicked out the door.

  “Easy, Quigg,” I hollered.

  I trained the .45 on him, but all he had in his hands were a crack pipe and a cheap plastic lighter.

  “Sod it,” he shouted as he rolled off the bed. “What is this shite?”

  “We’re not the filth,” Zoey shouted to him. “We’re brother and sister. We just have a couple quick questions for you.”

  “Not now,” I said, lowering my weapon. “We’ve got some uninvited guests coming this way.”

  Downstairs the bell jingled, which meant someone had entered through the front door. I listened and heard Brenda’s voice, but I could make out neither what she was saying nor with whom she was speaking.

  I threw a look at the far window but I’d already ascertained it wasn’t a viable route of escape. A diversion at best.

  To Quigg, I said, “Do you know the Maxwells?”

  “Do I?” he shouted. “Do I fuck?”

  “I’ll take that as a resounding yes. And I’m assuming they’re not friends of yours?”

  “Competition, mate. But what the hell are they doing here in Edinburgh?”

  “Looking for me,” I said.

  I took a long look at Angus Quigg. He appeared just as he did in Welker’s photos. Was even wearing the same clothes.

  “You two stay here,” I said. “If they corner us in the room, we’re all toast.”

  “Simon, no!” Zoey shouted.

  But I’d already tucked the HK into my jacket and opened the door.

  The hallway was clear, but there were feet on the stairs. Which meant the hallway wouldn’t be clear for long.

  I reached back and closed the door behind me and drew the HK.

  Short hallway. Only two other rooms besides ours. Which meant I’d have to fire straightaway. No time to spare. No waiting for the whites of their eyes or things of that sort.

  The door from the stairwell started to open.

  I raised the HK, finger hovering around the trigger.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  Ashdown’s face suddenly appeared in the door frame. His cheeks were red. He was out of breath.

  “Maxwell’s boys are outside,” he cried.

  “You don’t say.” I lowered my weapon. “I thought you were one of them.”

  “No, they’re parked all along Orchard Brae, waiting on an opportunity.”

  “They’re not coming in?”

  “No,” he said. “We’re in a bloody bed-and-breakfast. They wouldn’t storm a mom-and-pop.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Too polite?”

  “British gangsters do things differently,” he said.

  * * *

  “What about the cops?” I asked once we were back in the room.

  “They’re bent, Simon.” Ashdown ran to Zoey and grabbed hold of her by her bare upper arms and said, “You okay, love?”

  She shoved him away.

  “Bent enough they’ll allow a shootout in Edinburgh’s city center?” I said.

  “You’re a wanted man anyway. You killed Maxwell’s son. The way the cops see it, Tavis Maxwell is owed blood. It’s gangster justice, pure and simple.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” I said, though I knew by then it was pointless.

  Zoey asked, “What do we do now?”

  I turned to Ashdown. “Why the hell didn’t you call me? Where’s the Grand Cherokee?”

  “I had no time. The minute I spotted them in my rearview, I had to make a run for it. I knew that if they’d found us, it meant they had our plates.”

  “So the Grand Cherokee?”

  “Is done for. I heard them go to work on it as soon as I started running.”

  “Can’t you call the NCA?”

  “I could,” he said. “But then the search for Hailey is over, and at least one of us is behind bars for the murder of Ewan Maxwell. Maybe the Turnbull kid as well.”

  At the mention of Hailey’s name, I swung my head in Quigg’s direction. Studied his face.

  Saw nothing that wasn’t there a moment ago.

  I pocketed the HK again.

  With dread crawling up my spine, I removed the BlackBerry from my jacket.

  It could be that my search for Hailey was to end right here, right now anyway. If that was the case, Ashdown could call the National Crime Agency. I could turn myself in, admit to the murders of Ewan Maxwell and the Turnbull kid. Clear Ashdown and Zoey of any wrongdoing and let them both return to London, safe.

  I’d likely never make it to trial anyway. Maxwell would get to me inside Shotts. Hell, it might well be Rob Roy Moffett who receives the nod. Regardless, I wouldn’t put up a fight. I’d take the chib in the gut or wherever Moffett chose to place it. I’d bleed out, and that would be the end, the end of all of this.

  On my phone, I pulled up the photos of Angus Quigg and the girl. Looked hard at the young woman who could be my daughter one last time.

  Then I held up the screen in front of Quigg.

  “Who in bloody hell took that?” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I told him quietly. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Shauna,” he said with
out hesitation. “Shauna Adair from Springburn.”

  “How long have you known her?” I asked.

  “Forever, like. I’ve ken her since we was born.”

  Chapter 26

  Quigg’s words were like a knife to the gut. For nearly a minute I stood, wilting, like a weed waiting to be plucked from the earth.

  The room spun around me, a white flame flared at the edge of my vision.

  I shut my eyes and the world went bloodred.

  When I opened them, tears I’d thought gone forever streamed down my face.

  I swallowed hard and managed a breath. Looked at Zoey. I had to keep Zoey safe. I no longer cared how any of this ended, so long as Zoey and Ashdown made it out alive. Made it back to London safe and sound.

  In my periphery I saw Quigg awaiting guidance. All the questions I’d had for him were falling away like feathers from my mind.

  Where is she now?

  When was the last time you heard from her?

  What was she doing in Dublin?

  To Ashdown I said, “It’s your ball game now. We do whatever’s best for you and Zoey. If that’s calling NCA and allowing me to surrender myself, then that’s the game plan.”

  “You’re certain, Simon?”

  “I’m certain.”

  Ashdown nodded. Walked over to the room phone and lifted the handset.

  In a flash of motion that nearly knocked Quigg from his feet, Zoey leapt over the bed and ripped the phone from Ashdown’s hand.

  “The fuck it is,” she screamed.

  She swung the handset at Ashdown’s head. He made a halfhearted attempt to bat it away, but it caught the left side of his forehead.

  “Simon’s my little brother,” she shouted, “you bloody coward. Either we all walk out of here, or none of us do.”

  Ashdown’s forehead was already turning red.

  Christ, I thought. I hadn’t anticipated this. Though she was a Fisk, after all, wasn’t she? Good or bad or neutral, it didn’t matter, Fisks were all stubborn as shit.

  I realized then that it was stupid of me to even try to place the ball in Ashdown’s glove. This was as much Ashdown’s ballgame as it was Quigg’s. From here on out, it would be Zoey who called the shots.

  Come to think of it, I’m not sure it was ever any other way.

  * * *

  “Hello,” I said into the phone, “front desk?”

  “Aye, this is Alan Tucker.”

  “Alan, this is Simon Fisk from room two-B. I’ve a bit of a problem.”

  “Naw with the plumbing, I hope. That toilet, you need to flush her with each wipe lest you want to be bathing in yer own shite. Didn’t Brenda tell you?”

  “Actually, my problem isn’t shit-related, Alan.” I paused. “Well, in a way it is, I guess. But as far as I know, the plumbing’s fine.”

  “Then what can I do fer you, laddie?”

  “I’d like to have a word with you in private, if that’s possible.”

  “Door’s always open fer a guest, Mr. Fisk.”

  With the HK tucked away in my jacket, I stepped into the hallway and took the stairwell down one flight. After nearly shooting Ashdown in the upstairs hallway, I wasn’t taking any chances with the gun. My heart had since sunk and my reflexes weren’t what they were a year ago to begin with. I didn’t want to risk mistaking Brenda for one of Maxwell’s bruisers and sending her to an early grave.

  Before I stepped out into the lobby, I stole a glance through the narrow glass window. Empty, but I couldn’t be sure one of Maxwell’s men wasn’t sitting in the office waiting for me, with a gun to Alan Tucker’s head.

  When I’d asked Ashdown whether he was sure Maxwell’s men wouldn’t enter, he’d said: “Look, Simon, the fuzz here are bent. But even they have their limits. Gangland justice is one thing. If the Maxwells were to shoot up a bed-and-breakfast in the middle of the Scottish capital, the NCA couldn’t just look the other way. Trust me. They’re not coming inside. They don’t need to. They’ll wait us out. Long as it takes. Because the other thing about British gangsters, they’re bloody patient. We’re not dealing with some neurotic thug like Tony Soprano here. Tavis Maxwell is a man who may well outlive all of us.”

  I walked through the short lobby and stopped at the front desk. Alan waved me around and ushered me into his office.

  The room was a tiny thing, large enough for two but not three. The walls were lined with well-kept filing cabinets and a small desk with an older model laptop computer and a printer that probably jammed if you so much as looked at it funny.

  “Where’s Brenda?” I asked.

  “Back in our room, taking a nip.”

  “A nap?”

  “Naw, a nip. You ken, a swally. She likes to get a wee bit squiffy in the evening, ever since our son Johnny got himself thrown in the lockup for armed robbery a few years back. Naw harm in that, is there?”

  “Of course not.”

  Hell, I could have used a nip myself just then.

  “Why do you ask, Mr. Fisk?”

  I was trying to get a read on him, hoping to determine the proper tack to take. When I first devised the plan, I was sure I’d need to show Alan Tucker the gun. But I didn’t want to. Alan and Brenda seemed like good people, and with Hailey no longer an issue, I could afford to attempt this with some tact.

  “On the way in,” I said, “I noticed you have an attached garage. You keep a vehicle in there?”

  “Aye. What of it?”

  “Let me be blunt, Alan. Outside there are at least four SUVs filled with men who are looking to kill me. Me and the woman I came in with.”

  I watched for a reaction but he hadn’t so much as flinched.

  “The men work for a gangster named Tavis Maxwell, who mistakenly believes I shot his son, Ewan, in an alley in Glasgow last night.”

  “Ah, so yer the one all the hoo-ha is about. I read about the twit’s death in the paper this morn. Too bad you didn’t take out the auld man as well. Those bastarts have had their way with Scotland fer far too long.”

  “I don’t care about myself,” I said. “But I want to get my sister and her ex-husband out of here safely. And to do that, I’m going to need a vehicle. Maxwell’s men disabled the Grand Cherokee we came with.”

  He thought about it. “How you figure on getting past all them muppets in a five-year-auld Ford Fiesta, Mr. Fisk?”

  “I don’t,” I said. “Not me, personally. My plan is to create a diversion. It’s me the bastards want, it’s me they’re going to get. Only my sister and her ex don’t need to know that just yet. They can puzzle it out once they’re safe.”

  Alan Tucker scrutinized my face. “They won’t kill you. You ken that, don’t you? Not Maxwell’s men. Not the Last King of Scotland’s subjects, so to speak. They’ll capture you. Take you alive back to their boss. Then they’ll torture you like naw man’s ever been tortured before.”

  I grinned. “Thanks for the uplifting message, Alan. But this is something I have to do.”

  “It ain’t though, Mr. Fisk. See, you chose to stay at the Tucker Bed-and-Breakfast, rated four stars by the Scottish Tourist Board fer our friendly, relaxed, soup-to-nuts service. There’s nothing Brenda and I won’t do fer our guests.”

  “Look, we can’t call the police.”

  “’Course not. The polis here, they’ll bring you straight to Maxwell’s doorstep.”

  “I’m not quite catching your meaning then, Alan.”

  “Let’s just say, it won’t be told that Alan and Brenda Tucker fed their guests to the wolves.” He stood, snatched a set of keys off the wall, and tossed them to me. “These are fer the Ford Fiesta in the garage. She’s auld, but she runs well.” He laughed out loud. “Just like the missus, I like to say.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said. “I don’t have any more cash on me, but—”

  “Nonsense, mate. You’ve already paid. But I will make you a trade.”

  “A trade?”

  “Yer jacket. That ol’ black leather thing yer w
earing.”

  “You want my jacket?”

  “Aye. I’m naw gonna be much use as a diversion without it. It’s dark outside and I can make it darker by canning the outdoor lights. But we ain’t exactly twins, you and me.”

  I shook my head vehemently. “I can’t ask you to do that. I can’t ask you to put yourself in that kind of danger.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered. And if you were to refuse my offer, I’d be mighty insulted. And you ken from our sign out there, you don’t come to Edinburgh and insult yer host.” He went to his closet and added, “Especially one who’s good with a shotgun.”

  “Why?” I said. “Why are you willing to put your life on the line for guests who brought violence to your door?”

  He looked me in the eye, said, “’Twas a Maxwell who corrupted our boy Johnny.”

  Chapter 27

  I sat in the passenger seat of Alan Tucker’s Ford Fiesta with the HK in my lap. Cold to the point of shivering because I had given Tucker my jacket. Ashdown was seated behind the wheel, Zoey and Angus Quigg in the rear. The garage door remained closed, so Ashdown kept the engine off.

  “You sure about this?” Ashdown said.

  I shook my head. “But Alan says he is.”

  And then Alan Tucker appeared in the doorway, a man twice my age or close to it, dressed in my black leather jacket and a matching fedora.

  “Gotta admit,” Zoey said from the rear, “he looks pretty badass.”

  It wasn’t my jacket, but the double-barrel shotgun resting in his palms.

  Alan held up five fingers. Ashdown acknowledged the signal. Then Alan returned inside.

  “He’s convinced they won’t shoot him because Maxwell wants me alive,” I said.

  “And when they realize that he’s not you?” Zoey asked.

  “He told me to trust him.”

  The garage door began its slow automatic rise and Ashdown turned the ignition.

  From the corner of my eye I could see Alan’s form as he stepped out the front door, moved swiftly up the walkway, lifted the shotgun to his shoulder and fired the first blast, which for us, also served as a starting gun.