by Ray Green
No, in these most desperate of circumstances, he judged that his own, well-honed combat skills – albeit skills which had not been used recently, and which he had hoped he’d never have cause to call upon again – would stand him in better stead than letting the police confront an adversary whom they would almost certainly have underestimated.
He checked, for the third time, that the Glock was fully loaded, before tucking it into his waistband, behind his back.
Instead of approaching the building head on, he made for the adjacent warehouse, pressing himself against the wall, waiting stock-still for some seconds, looking for any sign that he had been detected; there was none. He took several long, slow breaths as he tried to prepare himself for the action which was to follow. His racing heart began to settle, and a strange, familiar calm infused him. Now he was ready.
He edged along the frontage of the building, stopping again at the gap between it and the one in which Juanita was supposedly being held. There was still no sign that he had been detected. He ducked into the darkened alley between the two buildings, pausing for a few moments to let his eyes adjust to the gloom before making his way, cautiously, along the side of the building looking for any means of entry other than the large goods door on the front of the building – his enemy would surely be watching that entrance. He found nothing.
Working his way around the back of the building revealed a metal fire escape, which was so badly corroded that the section between ground level and the second floor had fallen away completely and lay in a crumbling heap of rusty, twisted metal on the ground. As he approached the ground floor fire exit, he was dismayed to find that the sturdy door had been secured with a heavy chain and padlock. Fat lot of good that would be in the event of a fire, he thought: an absurdly mundane observation considering the desperate situation he was facing.
With no means at his disposal of forcing the lock and chain, the only way he would be able to overcome it would be to shoot out the lock. He swiftly dismissed the idea; there was very little ambient noise in this deserted area and, even with the silencer fitted to the Glock, he was sure the sound of the shot, and the shattering metal, would be detected by anyone inside. He abandoned any thought of entering by this route.
He made his way around to the other side of the building, entering another darkened alley alongside the adjacent building. He worked his way along the alley, searching for any other possible means of entry; he found none. There was nothing else for it: he would just have to go in through the front door and try to work out some way to avoid detection.
As he emerged from the alley and surveyed, once again, the front of the building, he noticed something else: a goods hoist. A short, metal boom projected from the building, just above an opening at the second-floor level. It was connected, via a rusty chain, to a wooden pallet, which was resting on the ground. As he gazed up at the metal structure, he tried to assess just how structurally sound it might be. It was certainly very rusty, but as far as he could see, it looked solid enough. Could he perhaps scale the chain and enter on the second floor? He wasn’t the best of climbers, and he had always had a fear of heights, but it was only a short distance – maybe twenty feet – and it would avoid the potentially suicidal act of entering through the main door.
He made his decision.
He crept over to the goods hoist, pausing to check, once again, that the Glock was firmly tucked into his waistband, before taking a firm grasp of the filthy chain. He was a big man – six feet three and two hundred and thirty pounds – but strong and muscular. He managed to haul himself up a foot or so, before wrapping his feet around the chain and clenching them together to take his weight. Pushing down with his leg muscles while pulling with his arms saw him advance another foot or so. He repeated the sequence several more times until he was about halfway up the chain. But now the lactic acid began to burn in the muscles in his arms. He hung there, resting as best he could until he felt he could continue.
After resting for around fifteen seconds, he continued his ascent, edging upwards in ever-smaller increments until the burn in his arms forced him to rest once again. He made the mistake of looking down; his head began to spin as what looked like about fifteen feet when viewed from the ground now looked at least three times that distance when looking downward. He tore his eyes away and clung desperately to the chain. After a few more moments, the burn began to subside a little. He glanced upwards; only another four or five feet. I can do this, he told himself.
Forcing himself onwards, he scaled the last few feet until he was level with the opening. But there was one more hurdle to overcome: the chain was set away from the sill of the opening by perhaps three or four feet. How could he bridge that gap? Any mistake would see him plunge to the ground; at best, injuring himself badly; at worst, killing himself. Even if he survived the fall, he would probably have alerted his adversary inside the building. There was only one possibility.
Gathering his last reserves of strength, he relinquished the grip of his ankles on the chain, taking his entire weight through his hands and arms. He began to swing back and forth like a human pendulum, increasing the amplitude with each superhuman thrust. The muscles in his arms screamed at him to stop, the burn now in danger of breaching his breaking point. The pain which racked his fingers as he desperately clung to the chain ramped up to a level which he could no longer tolerate; in spite of his iron determination to prevent it, the muscles in his hands relaxed a little. His hands slipped a few inches, the rough chain sawing viciously into his skin. The self-preservation instinct kicked in, and somehow, he managed to clench his fingers tight once more and arrest the slide. The pain was excruciating.
One more swing: not enough. Two more, and … He let go, propelling himself forward until his feet made contact with the sill. For a heart-stopping moment, he teetered on the brink, his balance poised between tipping forward into the opening and toppling backward into space. He struggled desperately to get his weight forward and past the danger point.
It was barely a fraction of a second later, though, that he sensed it: he had lost the battle between willpower and gravity. He knew he had tipped back beyond the point of no return. In this moment, when he knew all was lost, time seemed to slow to a near-standstill. His thoughts, though, were not directed toward the imminent crushing impact with the concrete below, or what injuries he might sustain. No, all he could think about was how he had failed; he had let Juanita down. The Scorpion had won, and now they would both die.
Chapter 42
A strong hand clasped his, arresting his fall backwards. Instinctively, he grabbed his saviour’s wrist with his other hand and clung on tight as he was hauled forward and upward until his centre of gravity was in front of the tipping point. He fell forward, sprawling on the filthy floor, gasping for breath. Several long seconds passed before his heaving chest had settled sufficiently for him to drag himself, painfully, to his knees.
He looked up to see who had saved him, but the light level was very low, and his eyes had not adjusted from the bright sunshine outside. When, finally, a face began to come into focus, he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes. His head swirled as he tried to process what he was seeing.
‘Kyle … is that you? But how …? I mean you’re supposed to be—’
‘Dead? Ah well, there’s quite a story there but, before we go into that, there’s someone you should meet.’
‘Juanita … is she OK?’
Kyle ignored the question. His expression broke into a slow smile, but it was a humourless, menacing smile, the like of which James had never seen on Kyle’s face before. The next thing James knew, he was staring up at the muzzle of a gun.
‘Get up,’ he snarled. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them.’
James struggled to his feet, spears of pain lancing through his ravaged hands as he pushed himself up from the rough, wooden floor. He was still utterly bemused as to what was going on here, but the more pressing matter was that he had to figure out wh
at to do.
He still had his gun; he could feel its hard shape pressed against his back. Could he reach for it, bring it to bear, and snatch a shot before Kyle reacted? Unlikely. Would a lunge forward to grab his gun hand and force it aside succeed? Possibly, if he could create some momentary distraction. But what about Juanita? Where was she? Would any attempt to tackle Kyle put her in even greater danger? As his mind raced through the possibilities he decided to play for time.
‘Why, Kyle? What’s going on?’
‘Shut up and turn around … hands in the air.’
Damn, maybe I should have made my play straightaway. It was too late now though.
He turned, slowly, until his back faced towards Kyle.
‘Don’t move,’ came the voice from behind him. A moment later he felt the gun being roughly wrenched from his waistband.
‘OK, now turn around and head towards those stairs.’ As James turned around, Kyle indicated the staircase with a sideways jerk of his gun.
James moved slowly towards the stairs, all the time desperately trying to come up with some plan to turn the tables. Perhaps he could try to trip his captor as they made their way down the stairs; if he slammed himself backward into the other man’s legs, maybe he could upend him and seize the advantage. But just how far behind was he? How could he judge just where to aim his lunge? As they started down the stairs, he tried to steal a glance over his shoulder.
‘Eyes front!’ snapped Kyle. James complied.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Juanita. She sat in a chair at the far side of the warehouse, bound and gagged, a single spotlight illuminating her plight. As he moved forward, ever conscious of the gun behind him, she seemed not to be able to see him, perhaps because of the light in her eyes. It was not until he was perhaps just twenty feet away that her frightened eyes met his. She shook her head, violently.
‘Well, hello James Connolly,’ came a disembodied voice from somewhere behind her chair. James felt a cold icicle of fear pierce his body. It was the same voice, the same London accent as he had heard on the phone.
The owner of the voice stepped forward, out of the gloom and into the pool of light. He was a big man; about six feet four; muscular build; shaven head giving way to a thick, bull neck. So, this was what the infamous Scorpion looked like.
He was smoking a cigarette and holding a handgun. He bent forward and released the gag from Juanita’s mouth. A trickle of blood came from the corner of her mouth as she found her voice.
‘James … I … I’m sorry. I never realised that—’
The man tapped the silencer of his gun against the side of her head. ‘Oh, do stop babblin’, darlin’.’
‘Leave her alone, you bastard,’ hissed James.
‘Ooh, a little touchy I see,’ said the big man.
Kyle moved away from behind James, came around the side of him and a little in front, where he could now be clearly seen. He held up James’s gun in his left hand, while keeping his own in his right, trained on James. ‘Seems he didn’t heed your warning to come unarmed,’ he said, addressing himself to the other man.
The big man tutted. ‘Well that was very foolish … disobeying my instructions has consequences.’
He took a deep draw on his cigarette, coaxing the tip to a bright glow, before pressing it against Juanita’s already badly burned left arm. Her scream cut through James like a rapier. He lunged forward, only to be checked by Kyle, stepping in front of him and thrusting his gun forward. Juanita’s scream subsided to a series of tortured, ragged sobs.
The Scorpion pulled from the shadows another chair and placed it alongside Juanita’s. ‘Come here and sit down,’ he ordered.
Kyle reinforced the instruction by stepping up to James and jabbing him in the side of his ribcage with the silencer on his gun. Reluctantly, James did as he had been ordered. His hands, still burning with the pain from the slip on the chain, were roughly bundled together behind his back and secured with what felt like a plastic tie-wrap, which cut painfully into his wrists. With the two of them now trussed up helplessly, the big man known as The Scorpion moved around in front of them to face them directly while Kyle stayed alongside them.
‘I expect you would like some answers, huh?’ said the big man, his tone taunting, gloating.
James was still desperately trying to figure out some means of turning around their dire predicament but, so far, he had come up blank. The longer he could keep the arrogant bastard talking, the better, though.
‘You going to give me some, then?’ he said.
The big man laughed: a gruff, low-pitched, menacing sound. ‘Ask away.’
‘What was that young journalist investigating? What had she uncovered that was so important that she had to die? Who paid you to kill her?’
‘Whoa there …’ – the big man made a sort of downward patting gesture with his free hand – ‘that’s three questions at once.’ He stroked his chin in an exaggeratedly theatrical display of mock thoughtfulness. ‘Let me see … I’ll take them in order. Now, what was the first one again?’
James wasn’t going to let the bastard get under his skin; he needed to stay calm if he was to come up with any sort of plan – though the chances seemed close to zero. ‘I think you heard me the first time,’ he said, quietly.
‘Ah yes … you wanted to know what the girl was investigating. Well, in all honesty, it really isn’t important.’
Of all the possible answers that he might have expected, this certainly wasn’t one of them. ‘But … she must surely have uncovered something big. I know you only get hired for the most important hits.’
‘Ah, I see my reputation has gone before me,’ he said. ‘Nice to know my expertise is appreciated by a fellow professional.’
This remark did rile him, in spite of his best efforts to remain calm and unruffled. ‘That’s not me anymore,’ he hissed.
His response elicited a humourless smile from the big man. ‘Oh, did I touch a raw nerve there?’
James did not respond, asking instead, ‘Was she investigating a possible attack on the G7 summit? Were you being paid by some terrorist organisation?’
‘Goodness … what an imagination you have.’
By now James was utterly bemused; he had been so sure – they all had – that Julia must have been working on something to do with the G7. Was this bastard lying just to taunt him? ‘So who was paying you then?’
‘Oh, that would be the same people that you used to work for … and I still do.’
‘But who’s their client?’
‘There isn’t one.’
His infuriatingly cryptic answers were irritating James to the point of almost outranking his concern for the desperate situation in which he and Juanita found themselves. ‘But someone must have paid them.’
His tormenter took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping it on the floor and grinding it underfoot. ‘The thing is, James Connolly – as you now call yourself – you caused my employers considerable trouble and expense with your foolish heroics back in Miami. You foiled a potentially very lucrative assassination plot, which had taken over a year to plan. What’s more, your actions resulted in the deaths of several of their operatives: assassins who had taken considerable time and money to train. They were very upset with you. They have been trying for over a year now to track you down.’
James was not too surprised that he had been on their wanted list, but he still couldn’t figure out how Julia Turner’s murder was connected to all this. ‘OK, so now you’ve found me … but what does all this have to do with the murder of the young journalist? Why was she so special?’
‘Oh, she wasn’t special at all … she was just bait.’
Chapter 43
‘Bait?’ repeated James, confused and disoriented.
‘Yeah … I just picked an investigative journalist at random. My employers figured that if they got me to eliminate the subject, and made it obvious who had done it, you might pick up the news. Then, knowin
g that I only do really important hits’ – he bristled with his own arrogant self-importance – ‘you might decide to try to find out what was behind the assassination.’ He let out a raucous laugh, which echoed around the empty building. ‘And it worked a treat didn’t it? See how being such a goody-two-shoes and poking your nose into things that shouldn’t concern you has become your downfall?’
At last, the penny dropped. ‘You killed that young woman just to get to me?’ he said, incredulous.
The big man held up a forefinger in the air and wagged it from side to side. ‘Not just you …’ – he glanced at Juanita, who visibly tensed under his gaze – ‘your pretty girlfriend here caused as much mayhem as you. They want you both,’ he concluded, with a chilling finality.
James’s head was reeling at the way this animal had casually extinguished a promising young life, just as a means to an end. But he still couldn’t put all the pieces together.
He turned towards Kyle, who was still pointing a gun at him. ‘And how does this bastard fit in?’
‘Oh, careful with your language, James,’ said Kyle, thrusting his gun more forcefully in James’s direction, ‘I have a rather itchy trigger finger.’
‘Not yet,’ snapped The Scorpion. ‘You know our instructions are to make this slow and painful.’
Juanita emitted a subdued whimper; Kyle gave a subservient nod, lowering his gun.
With the moment of tension passed, The Scorpion continued, ‘OK, why don’t you explain to this poor, confused fool what your part in all this was?’
‘I’ll be glad to,’ said Kyle, smiling. ‘Well, the thing is, I am not Kyle Richards; Kyle Richards is dead.’
‘Dead? So the news report was …’
‘… true,’ confirmed the man they knew as Kyle.
Juanita, who had said practically nothing during the whole exchange, blurted, ‘I’m so sorry, James. I really thought it was him … I didn’t—’