‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Parker chipped in. He felt the comforting weight of the gun, and smiled. ‘I think we’ll all get the shots we want.’
CHAPTER 50
Valon Bato leaned back in his leather chair and checked his watch. 8:15PM – less than four hours before Reeve’s deadline expired. He had not lied on the phone. If the stolen iPad was not in his hands by midnight, the woman would die. He would kill her himself. He had not personally taken a life for almost two years. But a message had to be sent.
Nobody fucks with Valon Bato.
He had come to Britain over twenty years earlier. Officially, he had been a refugee, fleeing the ethnic cleansing in Kosovo. In reality, he had never set foot in the former Serbian state. Ethnic Albanians received fast-track immigration status in Western Europe; he had taken full advantage. London or Paris, he had decided. London simply became available first. That he was denying a genuine refugee an escape from violence did not trouble him.
He had always had criminal connections, his family working with the Italian ’Ndrangheta syndicate. Moving to the UK allowed him to expand on those links. Drugs and enforced prostitution via people trafficking were his stock in trade. The opportunities for profit were vastly higher than in his impoverished home country. And he had taken every opportunity that came.
Ten years after his arrival, he was a millionaire many times over. Respected by those who mattered, but, more importantly, feared by potential enemies. Increasing crackdowns on organised crime, however, forced him to diversify. To become . . . legitimate.
Property had been his route. London was an ever-swelling bubble that seemed impervious to puncture. He snapped up relatively cheap housing, former council properties bought by their tenants. Sweeteners helped him win bidding wars. Few sellers refused an extra five or ten thousand in cash, tax-free. The money was quickly earned back from rent. Properties built for one family could be divided into three or four units. All paying London’s inflated rates. After a few years, his legal empire was almost as lucrative as his other concerns.
The law was always a worry. He took care of that from the top and the bottom. As a now-respectable businessman, he could enter certain social circles previously barred to him. The lower echelons of the British establishment. Councillors, solicitors, barristers, judges, police officers – even an MP or two. He would never be one of them; his birthplace alone ensured that. But he was rich and powerful enough for them to crave his ‘friendship’. And once they had it, he had them. A mark against him would sully themselves. To be exposed as a friend of an Albanian gangster would be embarrassing. And embarrassment was something these people sought to avoid.
At the bottom end, simple, brutal violence did the job. If you crossed Valon Bato, you would pay. Severely. His reputation was enough to deter people from doing so. But it seemed this Alex Reeve hadn’t heard of him.
He was about to regret his ignorance.
Bato stood, going to the window. His expansive lounge was on the first floor of his Hampstead mansion. The Bishops Avenue was nicknamed ‘Billionaires’ Row’, containing some of the capital’s most expensive houses. His home had been a relative bargain. Its Saudi owner had fallen on hard times, needing cash urgently. He had also been a client of both arms of Bato’s less-legal business. A deal had been easy to strike.
Below were the front garden and driveway. High walls surrounded the property. Right now, his desire for privacy was greater than usual. Trusted men were stationed around the house. All were armed with silenced weapons. He was taking no chances. Reeve was clearly not just some thug. From what Jahmir and his friends had said, he was more likely ex-military. Tough, capable, violent – and ruthless.
But so was Bato.
Satisfied that his home was secure, he went to an adjoining room. The woman was inside, guarded by two more men. Her arms were folded tightly around herself, legs closed. A dark bruise marred her cheek. Also there was Jahmir himself. He sat glaring mockingly at the prisoner, broken leg supported on a stool.
‘Your friend is still not here,’ Bato told her. ‘He is running out of time to save you.’ Her only reply was a sullen, fearful glance.
‘He’s not coming,’ said Jammer dismissively. ‘He’d be insane! He must know you’re going to kill him. I wouldn’t come.’
‘That is because you are a coward,’ Bato growled. ‘Reeve is not. He will be here – but he will not walk meekly to the front gate. Why do you think I have so many men on guard? He is a soldier, I am sure. He will try to rescue his girlfriend.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ Connie said, quietly but with defiance.
‘But you do think he will come for you,’ Bato replied. He crouched before her, basilisk eyes fixed upon hers. ‘I can tell. You still have hope. And I can tell when a woman has lost all hope, trust me. It is when I know they belong to me.’ She looked away in disgust – and fear. ‘You know what he can do to a man.’ He indicated Jammer’s ankle. ‘And you hope he will do the same to me.’
‘You don’t have a clue what he can do to a man,’ was her reply. Her tone unsettled Bato.
But only for a moment. He stood again. ‘You should have hope. The only way your life will be saved . . . is if he loses his.’ He loomed over her. ‘Pray that he comes for you. Because if he does not, you will die.’
Reeve was already there.
The taxi had taken him to Winnington Road, paralleling The Bishops Avenue. The satellite view on Jammer’s phone showed him which houses backed on to Bato’s. He strolled past, observing them. One seemed to have nobody home, windows dark. Its front gate was open. He nonchalantly walked through as if visiting. Hat on to block security cameras, he went around the house’s side. The expansive rear garden opened out before him. Bato’s property – a full-on mansion – was beyond a high wall.
He climbed to its top. He didn’t drop down into the bushes below, though. Instead he surveyed what he suspected would soon become a combat zone.
Bato was ready for him.
He counted three men in the garden behind the mansion. All had weapons. Compact Skorpion submachine guns, with suppressors. They were patrolling, moving slowly through the incessant rain. He watched them, tracking their routes. One disappeared around the house, but a different guard soon emerged from the other side. Assuming the mansion’s front was equally well guarded, he guessed at least seven hostiles. And that was just in the grounds. There could be many more inside.
He looked for a route to the house. There was a separate, blocky building behind it. A garage? He picked out a CCTV camera with infrared illuminators on its wall. It covered most of the rear lawn. Another was on the back of the house itself. That limited his options for a stealthy approach.
But there still were options. There was a feature partway down the lawn. A circular fountain surrounded by a divided ring of low walls. The bushes along the northern boundary wall, to Reeve’s left, ran close to it.
He scoured the rest of the property for cameras or other security devices. None visible. As he’d learned at Scott’s villa, that didn’t mean there were none there. But he couldn’t waste any more time.
The overcast sky had darkened as evening drew in. He waited until the nearest man was facing away, then silently dropped down. The wet bushes gave him concealment. He crawled behind them to the north wall, then turned along it. Gaps in the foliage gave him occasional glimpses of the guards.
Bato’s men were amateurs, Reeve saw. Fingers rested on triggers, the guns themselves being waved around. Several guards were smoking, and there was a lot of chat. Had he still had Jammer’s gun, he could have killed everyone in sight within seconds. But without a weapon, he would have to be more subtle—
Floodlights on the house burst to life.
Reeve froze. Had he been seen? But the guards merely reacted with annoyance as they were dazzled. Someone had turned them on to counter the growing darkness
. He waited to see how the men would adjust their patrol routes. They didn’t. They stayed in the light, ignoring new swathes of shadow.
He moved on until he neared the fountain. The low walls now cast black voids over the lawn’s floodlit sheen. The nearest was three metres away. A guard ambled past, more focused on his cigarette than his task. Reeve looked down the house’s side. Another man was approaching from the front. But he was on his phone, unconsciously gesturing with his gun hand. Reeve slipped into a gap between the plants and waited, poised . . .
The man on the phone laughed, turning his head. Reeve sprang out from the bushes and rolled to flatten himself against the low wall. If the approaching guard had noticed the movement, the alarm would be raised now . . .
It didn’t come.
He stayed still. Would the man follow the same route? If so, he would pass on the other side of the fountain. If he changed his mind . . .
The man’s voice grew louder; he was still on the phone. Footsteps became audible over the soft hiss of rain. Unhurried, swaggering—
Fading. Another laugh, then he continued past the fountain.
Reeve cautiously raised his head. The man’s back was to him. He rose and darted to the house. The floodlights were above the windows; the walls directly beneath were in shadow. He crouched in a dark corner behind a circular metal table. Anyone looking his way from the lawn would be part-blinded by the glare. Unless someone came right up to the table, he would be hidden.
More confident, he took out Jammer’s phone. His plan had formed during the taxi ride. Two objectives, several miles apart. He had brought up the phone’s map to check routes, distances, times. The pulsing dot representing his position sparked an idea. He could pinpoint his exact location using the phone. But others could do the same . . .
He opened the internet browser, about to enter an IP address. Then he hesitated. The phone was linked to the 5G network, an icon confirming the connection. But Jammer was Bato’s nephew. Had he been here before?
Reeve had turned off the phone’s Wi-Fi to save power. He reactivated it. The symbol replaced the 5G icon. The phone had automatically logged on to Bato’s wireless network. Even better than planned.
He entered a memorised address: not a name, but a series of numbers. It was not a server that advertised its existence. But it was one he had used frequently over the past months.
A login screen appeared. Would his code still work? It might not matter. Just trying to use it could be enough. He entered it. A pause . . .
And he was in.
He shielded the screen as another guard rounded the house. In cover, in shadow, he wasn’t seen. He waited for the man to walk on, then continued his work.
His enemies were about to become his unwitting allies.
CHAPTER 51
Maxwell’s phone rang. He knew the ringtone. ‘Sir?’
‘Maxwell.’ Scott. Excitement in the older man’s voice. ‘Reeve’s logged in to SC9’s main server. We left his access open as a honeypot – and it worked.’
‘Can he reach anything beyond his authorisation?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Security was increased, so he shouldn’t be able to. But what matters is that we have his location.’
Maxwell collected his laptop. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’m sending the details to you. He’s not far from you. Eliminate him.’
‘We will, sir,’ Maxwell assured him. Scott disconnected. The laptop woke; Maxwell accessed SC9’s network. Scott’s message had already come through.
‘Have we found him?’ asked Flynn, recently returned from Poole.
‘The boss thinks so. Let’s see . . .’ He typed rapidly, transferring the incoming information to database searches. Results quickly appeared. ‘He’s in Hampstead. The IP address he’s logged into our servers from is a private residence. Owner is . . . one Valon Bato.’
Stone reacted with surprise. ‘Bato? I know the name. Albanian gangster, and a right piece of shit. Nobody’s ever managed to pin anything on him, though. Friends in high places.’
Maxwell accessed a security file on the man in question. ‘Suspected of involvement in drugs, prostitution, human trafficking. There’s a whole lot of “released without charge” here, though. And the police haven’t even sniffed at him for a few years.’
Locke peered at the screen. ‘If he can afford to live on Billionaires’ Row, that’s perhaps not surprising.’
‘So what’s Reeve doing there?’ asked Blake. ‘Why would he be accessing our systems from an Albanian gangster’s house?’
Maxwell’s eyes widened in realisation. ‘The Albanians have been known to do proxy work for the Russians . . .’
‘Maybe Bato’s his contact,’ said Flynn. ‘He might have given Reeve the software he used for the hack.’
‘And he’s hacking in again for him,’ Stone said in alarm. ‘We’ve got to stop him.’
‘Agreed.’ Maxwell memorised Bato’s address, then shut the laptop. ‘This isn’t a time for subtlety. We arm up and get over there, full speed. Simple objective. Find Alex Reeve – and kill him.’
Reeve spent several minutes lurking in the dark corner. He used the phone to flit through SC9’s server. If his access had been curtailed, there was no sign. But he was certain his presence was known.
He was counting on it.
But now he had to move. The other Operatives would be coming. How long before they arrived was a question he couldn’t answer. If they were based in west London, they could be minutes away. South-east London, they might take an hour to battle through traffic.
Either way, he had to make his move. He put the phone screen-down under the table, leaving it running. Then he waited for another guard to pass before slipping across the house’s rear. A door led inside, one of three access points he had seen. He peered through the glass. A kitchen, unlit. He tested the handle. It turned. He ducked inside.
Reeve listened, unmoving. Faint voices reached him. Nobody in sight, though. In a house this sprawling, they could be anywhere.
He moved through the kitchen. Spill from the floodlights illuminated it. Large, expensive, spotless, an ode to stainless steel. The hob was gas-fired. Reeve regarded it, then turned all the knobs to full before continuing. The more chaos he raised, the better his chances of escape.
He spent the next few minutes exploring the ground floor. At least two more men on this level. One near the front door, smoking. The other he heard rather than saw, having a phone conversation in a dining room. The mansion had two staircases. A large, sweeping one in the main hall, a smaller one near the rear. He added them to his mental map.
Bato was not on this floor, he realised. Nor was Connie. He returned to the back stairs. Paintings lined the hallway leading to it. Battle scenes, a moustachioed warrior on horseback facing various enemies. He glanced at one’s title. Gjergj Elez Alia. An Albanian folk hero? Whoever he was, Bato obviously admired him.
He silently ascended. More voices became audible. A mixture of English and Albanian. He moved towards the front of the house. He wasn’t sure how many men were talking, but knew one thing for certain.
Valon Bato was amongst them.
Reeve recognised his voice from the phone call. Precise English, but strongly accented. But was Connie there? He didn’t want to reveal his presence until he found her—
As if on cue, he heard her. Another voice he recognised: Jammer. He couldn’t tell what they were saying, but Connie sounded scared. He moved closer. A set of double doors were open ahead. He crept over to them and peered in.
The large room was a luxurious lounge. Marble floor, black leather furniture, lots of gold and gilt. A bearded man at the expansive windows watched the street outside. Bato? No. Too young.
Where was Connie? A side door led to another room. She had to be in there – along with Bato and Jammer. At least one more bodyguard too; he g
limpsed another big man through the doorway.
Reeve took a breath. How long should he wait? Several clocks were ticking. Not just here; he also had Parker to consider . . .
Connie spoke again. ‘If – if you kill me, the police will find you. I don’t care how much money you have. You can’t get away with murder.’
Bato’s reply was chilling enough to Reeve. It would terrify Connie. ‘I already have. Many times.’
Even if it was too early, he had to act now. He entered the lounge. ‘Mr Bato. I’m here.’
The bearded man reacted in shock, fumbling out a pistol. Two more men hurriedly emerged from the side room. It was easy to guess which was Bato. He was older, weathered, cruel. Eyes that had seen too much, and been responsible for much of it. ‘Mr Reeve!’ He was surprised, but quickly covered it.
‘Alex?’ said Connie, from the other room. She was equally shocked – but also afraid.
‘I’m here, Connie,’ Reeve replied. He advanced until he could see her. She was in a chair, another large man guarding her. ‘It’s going to be okay.’
‘No, it’s not! Alex, he’s going to kill you.’
Reeve didn’t reply. Both Bato’s companions now had their guns fixed upon him. Bato himself regarded his guest. ‘I expected you would come here,’ he said. ‘But I did not expect you to reach me without being seen. Impressive.’
‘I brought what you want,’ said Reeve. ‘Let Connie go, and you can have it.’
Bato gave him a tight smile. ‘I will have it anyway. The woman? We shall see.’
Reeve’s voice hardened. ‘Let her go.’
The smile vanished. ‘You do not tell me what to do. Especially in my own home!’ Bato held out a hand to one of his men, who gave him his gun. He aimed it through the doorway – at Connie. Her breath caught in her throat. ‘In my life I have killed twenty-seven people, Mr Reeve. I can make it twenty-eight with a squeeze of my finger. Shall I?’
The other bodyguard’s gun was still locked on Reeve. He couldn’t attack Bato without being shot. But even knowing he would eventually have to give in, he still did so reluctantly. ‘Okay. Okay. Don’t hurt her. I’ve got the iPad.’ He slowly reached into his jacket. The bodyguard’s finger tightened on the trigger. He brought the tablet out. ‘Here.’
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