by Adam Carter
Taking a deep breath, Rachael sauntered down the road lined with expensive houses. An elderly man was trimming a hedge in a front garden larger than her flat, and she waved jubilantly. He stared at her in shock, his shears held impotently as his eyes tracked her purposefully swaying hips. Rachael blew a bubble at him, not quite sure why the general image of prostitutes often included bubble gum, but Baronaire had suggested it. She was more than aware that she was dressed like a cheap whore from a penny dreadful, but she knew Baronaire liked the old pulps and as she worked her way slowly down the road she began to consider wearing this get-up later. Minus the cosmetics of course: Baronaire hated cosmetics.
The next two houses didn’t have anyone in the front gardens, although the third had a middle-aged man washing his car. He didn’t see her so she whistled at him and he turned around with a frown. His eyes followed her, clear disgust in his face.
“If you don’t like it, pal,” she called back gaily, “take your eyes off it.”
She arrived at her destination then, and took the long walk to the front door. There were three cars in the driveway, the garden was well-tended, and there was even a strange statue of what looked like a monkey but which was probably something out of mythology. Rachael didn’t know much about things like that, and rapped ‘shave and a haircut’ upon the door before taking a step back.
She could see curtains twitching inside, and a shadow came to the door. She masticated fiercely upon the bubble gum as the door opened and a large, heavy-set man appeared. He was wearing casual clothes and a horrified expression.
“What?” he said simply.
“What? What what? I’m here for my money.”
The man blinked, entirely stunned. “What?”
“Yeah, you said that.” She chewed thoughtfully, trying to peer around at whoever was behind him. “Sorry, bad time?”
“What?”
A woman appeared behind him then, haughty and sneering. She laid a hand upon her husband’s arm and her voice was chalk on a blackboard. “Dear, what’s this?”
“I think he keeps asking that himself,” Rachael said. “Look, I don’t want to be here this early in the morning any more than you want me here. But a girl’s gotta eat, right, so just pay me my money, Eric, and I’m gone.”
It was the mention of his name that the wife didn’t like, for her eyes both widened in shock and narrowed in hate at the same time. Rachael had never seen that expression before and the entire thing was almost worth it just for that.
Baronaire had called the bunker and got some techie guy back there onto running a search. Within an hour Baronaire had been provided with more information than he knew what to do with. Finding Eric’s full name (Eric Robson) and his address had been easy, and the fact he lived in a nice area and was married with two kids was all the group needed to bring him down. Eric was a hard, sure man, and they needed to throw him into a situation in which he was not in control. That was where Rachael had suggested her plan, and had expected Baronaire to hate it. Instead she had seen a mischievous smile creep into his eyes and all he had said was, “You sure you’re all right doing this?”
And of course she was sure. There was nothing she liked better than taking a major jerk down a peg or two.
“I’ll deal with this,” Eric said, all but shoving his wife back into the house.
“Eric, I ...”
“I’ll deal with it!” Having got rid of his wife, Eric stepped outside and closed the door carefully behind him. “All right,” he whispered, “who are you and what’s your game?”
“Funny, you never asked for my name before, Eric.”
“Stop saying my name,” he said in a fluster, then looked about in case the neighbours were watching. The gardens were so large, the hedges so huge, that it was unlikely, but Rachael was pleased to see the car washer next door was peering through the bushes at them. Or maybe just at her, she couldn’t say; point was he was there and that Eric had seen him also.
“I’m the dealer for Harley Street. I didn’t get my cut this month, got some bull instead about there being some heat on the boss. Well I sold on my junk and I want my cut.”
Relief flooded through Eric then as she turned all his preconceptions upside down. By saying she was a dealer she was making him feel he was gaining more control over the situation. Greel had found out who the dealer for Harley Street was and they had tracked her down easily. She had never met Eric so he wouldn’t know what she looked like, but everyone knew Eric was the go-to guy when you were being diddled out of your money.
He was back in control, at least in his own mind anyway.
He grabbed her roughly by the arm and marched her to the side of the house, out of view of the nosy neighbour. Rachael made a show of annoyance, although in reality she was scared. She knew Baronaire had her back, but it was morning and Baronaire’s strengths lay in the night. If Eric was armed there was a good chance Baronaire would just be too slow.
“You don’t ever come to the house,” Eric told her in a fierce whisper.
“The missus didn’t seem too happy to see me.”
“Screw Annette, my kids are home. Last thing I want them to see is some tramp turn up at the door looking for money or a quick fix.”
“Yeah, because drug dealers have such integrity.”
He blinked, uncertain she had just said that. She regretted it as soon as she had spoken the words, but thankfully he was more flustered than anything and ploughed on. “Get back home, you’ll get your money.”
“Yeah, when? And what’s all this trouble anyway?”
“Boss has some heat from the law, that’s all. It’ll blow over. Why am I telling you any of this? Just get out of here.”
“Excuse me,” a deep male voice said from behind Eric, “but that’s my girlfriend you’re pawing.”
Eric turned in confusion and Rachael had never been more relieved in her entire life. She had known Baronaire wouldn’t let her down, but was surprised he was here already. It seemed however he was a master at breaking and entering.
“What is this?” Eric demanded. Then a light of recognition dawned. “You’re that cop at the docks.”
“I wouldn’t make any hasty moves,” Baronaire warned when Eric’s hand went for a gun he wasn’t holding. That had been their intent: to draw Eric away from the family home and face him unarmed. Not that Baronaire wouldn’t have been able to take him no matter what he was packing, but at least this way they could deal with this without any unnecessary noise.
Eric seemed to realise the ploy and set his jaw firm, looking from one to the other. “All right, I have to admit that’s a good play. What do you want from me?”
“We don’t want you at all,” Baronaire said. “Truth be told I don’t care about you. Give us Malcolm.”
Eric laughed. “Yeah. Right.”
“Where he’s hiding out,” Baronaire continued as though Eric had just agreed to help them in any way he was able. “How many bodies he has guarding him, how we can get in without him noticing. The works.”
Eric folded his arms in defiance. “Malcolm’s going to kill you, pal.”
“I’m not your pal.” Baronaire slowly reached into an inside pocket and Eric did not even tense. So superior was he in the knowledge of Malcolm’s protection he could not imagine that anyone would attack him directly. Baronaire removed something and tossed it at Eric, who caught it in a fumble. Rachael saw it was a long-haired rag doll.
“That’s so sweet,” Rachael said. “Didn’t she mind you borrowing it, Charles?”
“Nope,” Baronaire replied with stony eyes. “Not when I explained to the little girl I needed Mr Rags to help me put away a very bad man.”
Eric’s face was a mixture of fuming anger and stark terror. That Baronaire had been inside his house was one thing, that he had managed it so effortlessly and was out here again in just the few moments while Eric was distracted was quite another. He knew then that whatever protection Malcolm was offering him, it would be far too lat
e to save his family should Baronaire be inclined to do them harm.
“Wouldn’t hurt a child,” Baronaire replied to the silent question in the man’s eyes. “But Greel hates your guts, hates what Malcolm’s done to her. I wouldn’t put it past her, Eric.”
Eric looked away and Rachael knew they had him. She felt slightly bad using a man’s family against him, but this man was a drug dealer and Baronaire was a cop. Their strategy was far better than allowing Malcolm to continue his trade. And being on the job with Baronaire, Rachael was having more fun than she had ever had in her life.
“Here’s the deal,” Baronaire said after giving Eric a few moments to compose his thoughts. “You give us Malcolm, he disappears. There’s no comeback from him, or from us. I don’t care about you ... pal. So long as you stay away from the wrong side of the law, I’m willing to let you go. And you’re lucky you’re catching me on a good day. You’ll lose the house, the cars, probably the wife, but you’ll have integrity. And you’ll have your life.”
“Believe me,” Rachael said sincerely, “having no money’s no barrel of laughs, but so long as you have your integrity and your life you can’t go far wrong.”
Baronaire offered her a brief smile and she returned it. She didn’t like the work she did, nor did Baronaire, but it was a job and so long as she promised herself it was temporary she still had her moral core intact.
“Your kids or your drugs,” Baronaire told him simply when he wasn’t replying. “It’s your call, Eric.”
Rachael knew which he would choose. There was nothing more important than family.
CHAPTER NINE
He had not wanted to bring Rachael along for the end, but she had been instrumental in them getting this far (as she continually pointed out whenever Baronaire told her to go back home) and she was sticking it through to the end. And Baronaire had to admit a certain thrill to having her by his side through all of this. Malcolm was apparently living the fine life in a hotel in central London. It wasn’t the Ritz, but was of that calibre, and Baronaire hated the thought of so much dirty money being spent on lavish luxuries. The lives of the people Malcolm had ruined were worth more than caviar leftovers and half-empty bottles of wine. The true dredges of society were not Rachael Webster and Frank Fiennes, but all the Derek Malcolms of the world.
Rachael was clearly loving every moment of this, and as they waited for the two detectives to arrive Baronaire watched her ecstatic profile. He could hear her heart pounding, taste the blood racing through her veins, and as he closed his eyes he could picture a long and happy future together with this woman.
“What?” Rachael laughed and Baronaire opened his eyes with a smile.
“Nothing. Here they come.”
Lin and Greel joined them then. They had been into the hotel to enquire about Malcolm. Asking at the desk would have been foolish, for Malcolm would have paid off the staff. Instead they had enquired with a bellboy, flashing their badges and receiving what was most likely the truth. Malcolm was on the third floor, they even had the exact room number.
“We sure this is him?” Baronaire asked when the detectives had finished their report.
“He’s not using the name Malcolm,” Lin said, “obviously, but the bellboy said he always remembers the rude, obnoxious ones.”
“Who don’t tip,” Greel added.
“Sounds like the right guy to me,” Rachael said. She had changed of course, was wearing something sensible, and had removed all the gaudy make-up. After all, this was a high-class place they were intending to attack.
“Then you’re up, ladies,” Baronaire said. “Lin and I’ll be there when you need us. Good luck.”
Greel nodded and headed back towards the hotel. Rachael hung back a moment and Baronaire felt another pang of regret at having brought her out here at all. It would be all right, he told himself. Rachael knew what she was doing, she was a competent girl. And he would be right outside in case things turned sour. He offered her a smile. “Be careful, Rach.”
“Not exactly what you’re famed for, Charles,” she said, kissed him once and was gone.
Baronaire felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as she disappeared from sight. Lin placed a hand upon his shoulder. “They’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Trust her a little.”
“Believe me I do. It’s Greel I don’t trust.”
*
She was nervous, although Greel knew this was coming to a head one way or another. For years she had beaten herself up about this, although thanks to these total strangers she was at last getting a shot at ending it all. Baronaire and Lin could easily have turned her over to the authorities, but instead they had given her the opportunity to save herself, to prove she was better than she had always thought. She didn’t know precisely what they did in their line of work, but she was under the impression it wasn’t exactly kosher itself. Still, it wasn’t illegal and they weren’t criminals.
She noticed Rachael staring at her, and the girl offered her a reassuring smile. She had no idea how old Rachael was, but guessed she was about nineteen, twenty at the most. At that age Greel had been filled with promise, with vision, and this was where she had ended up.
“Let’s get this over with,” she said and approached the lift. They made it to the third floor without any trouble, and the doors opened onto a pristine corridor, exquisitely carpeted, with original paintings punctuating the walls. There were two men in the corridor chatting about something, and Greel knew they were Malcolm’s bodyguards. They were dressed in suits, although she could see a holster poking through at the chest and knew they were armed. This was as they had expected however, and they had prepared for it.
Instead of heading for Malcolm’s room they went in the other direction, and the two men didn’t pay them any further mind. The two women disappeared around a corner and counted to ten, then began to make their slow way back. They were searching for something, that much they were making obvious, although if they were after Malcolm they would have been the most inept assassins. They were counting on this not putting the guards on edge. Also they were young and Rachael at least was attractive, and what man didn’t like to step in to help a lost little woman?
They stopped close to the two men, discussing where they had taken a wrong turn in the huge building, and finally one of the men approached. “What room number are you looking for?” he asked genially. He was a handsome fellow, with a kind and friendly face. Greel almost hated deceiving him, but then it had been a while since she’d been with a guy so she was pretty much eyeing him up anyway. He seemed to notice and she stopped, even though it was helping their cause a great deal.
“Two-oh-one,” Rachael was saying. “Uh, we tried down there, but it dead-ended.”
“Second floor,” the other man called over to them. “All the two numbers are on the second floor. It’s not hard.”
“Oh,” Rachael said, as if realising her stupidity. “God, that’s so obvious when you ... Are they all the same though? In the same places I mean? Where’s three-oh-one?”
“Should be around that corner,” the kinder man said. “The one you just came from.”
“Really?” Rachael asked and Greel was amazed by how much coyness she was placing into her role. But she supposed Rachael was used to acting. “We didn’t see it, did you see it, Laura?”
“No,” Greel replied. “But we were looking for a two, so maybe we missed it.”
“It’s the last door,” the kinder man said. “Should be right by the stairs.”
“There were stairs there?” Rachael asked with a dumb-blonde look.
The man laughed. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Oh gosh, thanks so much.”
He led them around the corner and twenty metres later they reached the door in question. He turned triumphantly to them, but his grin was short-lived as Greel launched herself at him, slipping wire over his head and pulling hard against his throat. He gasped as he went down, but Greel was determined, and no amount of st
ruggling was getting rid of her. She pulled harder and felt the man’s muscles slacken, and he passed out. Dropping the body, her heart hammering, Greel wondered whether she’d actually killed him, but it didn’t matter, because they still had another guard to get through.
“I got this one,” Rachael said and headed back around the corner. Greel hid the body in the stairwell and followed. She had no idea what Rachael had done – whether she had used charms, had barrelled straight in with her fists, or performed a distracting strip-tease – but whatever the method, the second guard lay upon the floor also, unmoving.
“Give me a hand with him,” Rachael said, leaning down to take the man’s arms.
Greel complied, and frowned as she noticed two strange marks upon Rachael’s neck. They looked like burn marks, or maybe mosquito punctures. Rachael saw her looking and pulled the collar of her T-shirt over them. “Sorry,” Greel said.
“It’s nothing.”
“What are they?”
“You have your scars, Sara, I have mine. Leave it at that.”
Greel could see she didn’t want to talk about it, so they removed the body in silence. Eric had said there were only two guards in the corridor, with more inside the actual room. Now the corridor was cleared, however, they could bring in the big guns. Rachael pulled out her phone and called Baronaire, telling him to proceed. Greel and Rachael took up positions in the corridor.
Two minutes later a terrible crash resounded within the room. Baronaire had made his attack, creating as much noise and mayhem as possible. Greel tensed where she crouched behind a cleaning trolley and watched as the door flew open. When attacked from the window, the guards would remain while Malcolm made a run for it. He emerged along with two other people, both in suits, although one of them went back in the room, closing and locking the door behind him. It was Greel’s first look at Derek Malcolm. He was shorter than she had expected, with a balding head and terrible dress-sense. He was actually wearing a purple suit and it did nothing for him.