Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

  Maxwell nodded. ‘I widened the search net for hospitals. No one matching his description has been treated in the whole country. He hasn’t been picked up by any police force either.’

  ‘So where is he?’ asked Flynn.

  ‘He could have found someone with medical expertise to help him off-book,’ Locke mused.

  ‘Or he could be dead,’ chirped Parker.

  ‘Can but hope,’ said Stone, ‘but the fucker won’t make our lives that easy. Although . . . ’ His expression suddenly changed as an idea came. ‘Hold on a minute.’

  He made another call. ‘Richy, it’s me again. I just thought of something. No, it didn’t hurt, you cheeky cunt. Listen: the guy I’m after, he’s a proper hard-case. Ask around and see if anyone’s been beaten up by a professional. He did over two of our boys and a truck driver in Wandsworth early Wednesday. He might have done the same to someone else. Yeah, check hospitals too. Thanks a lot, mate.’

  Maxwell gave him an approving nod. ‘Good call.’

  ‘If Reeve’s gone underground, he might have trouble with the shit you find down there. He’ll need stuff, and since he won’t have money, he’ll have to take it.’

  ‘Eloquently put, as always,’ said Locke.

  ‘But true,’ Maxwell added. ‘All right, we’ll see what comes of it. In the meantime, we keep up the search.’

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘A tour of District Line Tube stations,’ said Connie, as they entered the flat. ‘You know how to show a girl a good time.’

  Reeve smiled. ‘Thanks for helping me.’

  ‘You think it’ll be useful?’

  ‘All intel is useful.’

  ‘There’s the spy talk again. But you still won’t tell me anything about what you do?’

  ‘It’s safer that way.’

  She filled the kettle. ‘You know, there have been chancers who’ve pretended to be secret agents to con women . . .’

  ‘They don’t generally shoot themselves to look convincing,’ Reeve pointed out.

  ‘There is that. How is the arm, by the way?’

  ‘Better.’ The pain in his torn biceps had diminished. Making more than the easiest movement still hurt, but he could use his arm. He slowly extended it. ‘You’ve done a good job fixing it.’

  ‘Thanks. Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Still testing his arm, he examined a landscape in detail for the first time. He had assumed it was a painting, but it was actually a photograph. His mistake had been because it looked almost too beautiful to be real. ‘Is this Italy?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes,’ Connie said. ‘Tuscany. My mum was from there.’

  ‘You’re Italian?’

  ‘Half Italian. My dad’s from Bermondsey. Not quite as exotic.’

  ‘Do you speak Italian?’

  ‘Un po,’ she said with a giggle. ‘A bit. I should practise more.’

  He took in the other pictures. ‘Are these places you’ve been?’

  ‘Oh, I wish. I’d love to go and live in Italy. Technically I could. I’m entitled to an Italian passport because of my mum. I just never applied because of the expense – and the hassle. I’ve heard Italian bureaucracy can be . . . slow.’

  Reeve gave her a knowing smile. ‘You can get a passport overnight if you know who to ask. And have the money.’

  ‘Ah, money,’ she sighed. ‘Where would I be without it? Oh, right here.’ She waved a hand across her flat.

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘Well, yes. I could be sharing with sixteen other people. But over half my wage goes on rent. And for that, I get . . . this.’ Another dismissive gesture. ‘My three-room world.’

  ‘I see why you have all the pictures. Makes it seem bigger.’

  ‘Yeah. I would absolutely love to travel. Not just to Italy – everywhere.’ She gave the more exotic photographs a longing look. ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Why not? What’s stopping you?’

  She brought two cups of coffee to the sofa. Reeve sat beside her. ‘Well, money, for one. I’ve never had it, and in my job, I never will. But the main reason is my job. I love what I do. I’m helping people – helping them stay alive, a lot of the time.’

  ‘And I’m very grateful.’

  She smiled. ‘I know I’m making a difference. But . . .’ The smile faded. ‘The work’s getting harder. Nurses leave, and way too often they don’t get replaced. Everyone has to cover for each other. And things get privatised, bit by bit – but there never seems to be more money. Not for patients or the nursing staff, anyway.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I never used to drink this stuff. I always drank tea. But I need it to stay awake through a shift now.’

  ‘You’re still there, though,’ Reeve said. ‘You’re sticking it out.’

  ‘That suggests it’ll get better in the long run.’ Another sigh, and she gazed into the distance. ‘I don’t think it will. Not just in the NHS; everywhere. The whole country seems to be falling apart . . .’

  ‘If it is, it’s because people aren’t trying to fix it.’ The firmness in his voice brought her gaze back to him in surprise. ‘You can’t just sit back and hope someone else handles things. If you want to protect the country, you have to work at it.’

  ‘That was your job?’ she asked. ‘Protecting the country?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But now the people you were working for are trying to kill you?’

  It was a contradiction for which he didn’t have an answer. ‘If I can talk to Tony tomorrow, I can find out why,’ he eventually said. ‘Whatever’s gone wrong, we can fix it.’

  Connie cocked her head. ‘You know, if my boss tried to kill me? I’d take that as a sign I was in the wrong job.’

  Reeve drank his coffee to avoid saying more. The thought had indeed occurred to him. It had been unwelcome.

  Connie picked up on his discomfort. ‘So,’ she said, turning towards him. ‘You know about me. What about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, who are you, Alex Reeve? You literally fell into my life – over my car’s bonnet. All I know about you is that you’re from Manchester. You really don’t like drug dealers or bad fathers. You used to be some kind of undercover soldier. You were training to be something even more secret. Oh, and the obvious: someone shot you. Apart from that, I don’t know anything about you.’

  ‘Maybe there isn’t anything more,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, mocking. ‘Come on. You’re from Manchester – nice bit? Nasty bit?’

  ‘Nasty bit,’ he reluctantly admitted. ‘Clayton.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It’s not exactly on the tourist trail. Rough part of town. People who live there generally want to get out. Problem is, they don’t have the money.’ His expression darkened. ‘One way to get it is by dealing drugs.’

  ‘And that’s why you don’t like dealers, yes?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw a lot of people suffer from what they were selling. Some of them died. Some of them were my friends.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ An uncomfortable silence, then: ‘Mine in a way, though.’

  She was surprised. ‘How?’

  ‘I should have done something. But . . . I was a kid. What could I do? These people have knives, even guns. And they control the streets. You’re scared, all the time.’

  ‘Even at home?’

  He gave her a grim look. ‘My dad was one of them.’

  ‘He was a drug dealer?’

  ‘Not one of the big guys. Although he was a big guy, physically. He did it sometimes for extra money. He was . . .’ Reeve paused. His father was a subject he had always avoided discussing. ‘More like a debt collector for the big dealers. He made sure people paid what they owed. By beating them up.’

  ‘Jesus.�
��

  ‘That was the nearest thing he had to a full-time job. Debt collecting. He’d make me come with him sometimes, to watch the car. He’d come back with the money. And other things, if he saw something he wanted. He’d just take it. He’d get into the car, and . . . there’d be blood on his hands.’

  ‘How old were you?’ Connie asked, appalled.

  ‘Nine, ten. Something like that.’

  ‘No offence, but . . . your dad doesn’t sound like a very nice man.’

  He forced out a laugh. ‘That’s the polite way of putting it.’

  ‘Is that why you joined the army? To get away from him?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen. If I never see him again, that’ll suit me. But anyway, now you know about me. That’s all the past. I’m more bothered about the future right now. Got to plan for tomorrow.’

  She still clearly had questions, but shelved them. For now. ‘Is there anything you’ll need?’

  ‘More clothes, for a start. I’ll find a way to pay you back, I promise,’ he added.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Connie insisted.

  He knew that wasn’t true. His presence was stretching her limited finances. But he needed her help. ‘Hair dye or bleach might be useful as well. The more ways I can change my appearance, the bet—’

  The door burst open.

  Connie shrieked. Reeve jumped up as someone rushed in.

  Jammer.

  He was not alone. Two more men entered behind him.

  And he was holding a gun.

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘Don’t fucking move,’ Jammer snarled, thrusting the gun at Reeve and Connie. It was a Walther PPK automatic, worn and scuffed. James Bond’s gun. But Reeve knew Jammer had chosen it for a more pragmatic reason. There would be newer, more reliable, more deadly guns circling the underworld.

  But this one could take a silencer.

  A matt-black tube extended six inches from the Walther’s muzzle. It swung up at Reeve’s face. ‘Go and get the others,’ Jammer ordered. His companions went back out.

  Connie stared in terror at the gun. ‘Oh my God! What do you want?’

  ‘What do you fucking think?’ No sleazy flirtatiousness today. ‘I’m going to give this fucking cunt what he deserves.’ He glared at Reeve. ‘Not so fucking tough with a gun in your face, are you?’

  Reeve said nothing. He assessed the threat. High: Jammer’s finger was tight on the trigger. He was untrained, but that actually made things more dangerous. One accidental flinch, and he could blow his target’s head off . . .

  And untrained or not, he was smart enough not to move within Reeve’s reach. Six inches closer, and Reeve could disarm him in under a second. But he was just far enough away to make an attempt too risky.

  Cries of fear outside. Jaz and Brownlow were being rousted from their flats. The baby screamed as her mother was dragged away. ‘Hallie!’ Jaz wailed.

  ‘Into the hall,’ Jammer barked. At gunpoint, Reeve and Connie reluctantly left the flat. The two other men returned. One shoved Brownlow up from below. The other pulled Jaz downstairs by her wrist.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Connie cried. ‘You’ve left her baby alone!’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about her baby,’ Jammer sneered. ‘I want you all to see what happens if you fuck with me. I know the landlord. You think about going to the police, you’ll be out on the street. Locks changed, all your shit dumped on the railway.’ He jerked his head to indicate the cutting beyond the rear garden. ‘And then you’ll get the same.’

  ‘The same as what?’ said the terrified Jaz.

  ‘As what he’s going to get.’ Jammer stepped back, gesturing to his friends. Both were large, beefy, hair and clothes styled to look tough. They released their prisoners and advanced on Reeve, fists raised—

  Crossing in front of Jammer.

  The instant his line of fire was blocked, Reeve moved.

  His right hand lanced out in a lightning-fast strike at the nearest man’s face. His nose flattened with a ghastly crunch. Blood exploded from both nostrils. The man reeled back with a gurgling squeal.

  His companion froze in shock. Reeve swept at him before he could recover. He grabbed his right arm and drove it up behind his back. A gruesome wet pop from his shoulder as the joint was dislocated. The man screamed, other arm flailing. Reeve swung his victim towards Jammer. The gun was still raised. ‘No, no!’ the man shrieked. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Reeve shoved him forward. Jammer’s gun was relatively low-powered, and the suppressor would sap it further. If he fired, his human shield would take all the damage—

  The shot didn’t come. Jammer was afraid of hitting his friend. Reeve took full advantage of his hesitation. He kicked the squirming man at him. They crashed together. The thug was bigger and heavier, knocking Jammer backwards. He stumbled at the top of the stairs – and fell down them.

  Reeve grabbed the thug’s hair and smashed his face against the banister ball. He fell, senseless. A pained yell from below as Jammer hit the floor. Reeve ran after him.

  Jammer’s gun had been jarred from his hand. It skidded into Brownlow’s flat. He scrambled to retrieve it as Reeve jumped down behind him.

  Jammer clawed frantically for the pistol. Reeve charged through the doorway. The gun came up—

  He dropped and darted sideways. A flat, metallic ptchak as Jammer fired. Wood and plaster splintered beside the door. The shot would have missed even if Reeve hadn’t dodged. The younger man was too panicked to aim.

  But Jammer had already realised his mistake, swinging the gun—

  Several hardbacks were piled on a small bookcase. Reeve snatched one up and threw it. The book hit Jammer’s head. Another shot, but this went even wider as he lurched back.

  Reeve rushed at him. He slammed his right wrist against Jammer’s, knocking the muzzle away from him. Before his opponent could react, his left hand wrenched the gun from his grip. He released Jammer, flipping the Walther around. Reeve thrust it into his face.

  Jammer’s expression became one of pure fear. Reeve kept the silenced weapon locked motionlessly upon him. ‘Leave,’ he said, voice as cold as a grave. ‘Now. And don’t come back. Ever.’

  Jammer stared at him, mouth open. He backed away. Reeve tracked him with the gun. Eyes fixed on it, Jammer reached the garden door. He fumbled with the handle and backed out.

  Reeve watched him go. Just leave, you idiot. Don’t let your pride make things worse . . .

  ‘You – you’re fucking dead!’ Jammer yelled. He was practically peering around the doorway, ready to break and run. ‘And your fucking friends’ll get it too! Those two bitches are gonna get fucked up, right in front of the baby! You don’t know who you’re—’

  Reeve cocked his head – then tossed the gun on the sofa and ran after him.

  Jammer’s bellowed threats suddenly became a yelp of fear. He rushed for the gate.

  Reeve barrelled out of the house. Jammer flung the gate open and charged on to the side street. He ran for a Mercedes SUV parked on yellow lines a short way downhill. Reeve followed, seeing him fumble in a pocket.

  Jammer reached his car, but hadn’t yet unlocked the doors. ‘Fuck, shit!’ he cried, clawing at his key fob. He couldn’t get into the Merc before Reeve caught up. Instead he ran on towards a bridge over the railway.

  Reeve caught up before he reached it. He launched himself into a diving tackle. Both men hit the wet pavement hard.

  Jammer flailed an arm. By sheer luck his elbow caught Reeve’s jaw. Reeve was knocked against the wall. Jammer scrambled up and launched a desperate kick. It hit Reeve’s left arm, hard. He yelled in pain.

  Jammer grinned like a wolf. His foot drew back again, swung—

  Reeve whipped up his right arm to intercept the kick.

  Leather thudded against muscle and bone. It h
urt, but he could take it. Before Jammer could withdraw, he hooked his arm around his ankle and rolled. The other man staggered. His leg popped free of Reeve’s hold as he thumped against the bridge’s parapet.

  Arm burning, Reeve jumped up. He was done with restraint. Jammer saw him coming, raising his fists—

  Reeve’s right foot struck like a piledriver. A horrific crack of bone – and Jammer’s ankle snapped. His foot bent gruesomely to one side. He screamed.

  Reeve punched him, knocking him to the ground. ‘I gave you a chance to walk away. Should’ve taken it.’

  He emptied the whimpering Jammer’s pockets. All the items he had seen before – and a wrap of what he guessed was heroin. He tossed it over the bridge. Then he collected Jammer’s phone. ‘Unlock it,’ he ordered.

  The younger man stared up at him through streaming eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘Unlock your phone.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Reeve regarded him impassively. Then he reached down and, before Jammer could react, snapped his left little finger. Jammer shrieked. ‘Unlock your phone,’ Reeve repeated. ‘Or I’ll break the rest.’ He took hold of his ring finger and applied pressure.

  ‘Jesus Christ, okay, okay!’ Jammer squealed. He pushed his thumb to the screen. The phone unlocked, the grid of apps appearing.

  Reeve opened the settings. ‘Now unlock it permanently.’ Disabling the screen lock required Jammer to confirm his identity. ‘Put in your PIN.’

  ‘What? No! I’m not fucking—’

  Growing impatient, Reeve rested one foot on his broken ankle. ‘Do it. Now.’

  Jammer surrendered and shakily tapped in the six-digit number. Reeve watched, memorising it. The phone asked if he was sure he wanted to disable the lock. Reeve took it back and tapped OK. He then pocketed the downed man’s belongings and looked around. The street was quiet. If anyone had heard the commotion, they were not coming to investigate.

  He brought up the phone’s keypad and dialled 999. A request for an ambulance, then he spoke to the operator. ‘I just found a man who’s been mugged. I think his leg’s broken.’ He gave the address, then disconnected. ‘Right,’ he told Jammer. ‘Remember that I know where you live. If you talk to the police, I will kill you. If I ever even see you again, I will kill you. If anything happens to the people in that house, I will kill you. And it will look like a suicide. You understand?’