by Karl Hill
Black opened the car door, eased out. Lincoln followed suit.
He nodded towards an adjacent barn. He held the pistol straight at Black’s head.
“Glock 20,” said Black. “Powerful.”
“You know your weapons.”
“It helps.” Black still carried the Walther in his inside jacket pocket. The two hand cannons – the Desert Eagles – were still in his holdall on the back seat of his Mini. Useless to him.
“In the barn, Mr Black. The door isn’t locked.”
Black’s nerves tingled. He had no idea what to expect. He opened the door, entered. The place was in darkness. Lincoln followed, flicking a switch. A single strip light, fastened to a low beam, flickered. Details sprang into life. A work bench running down one side littered with old tools, tin boxes, rubbish. A rough concrete floor. The air was musty. The walls were corrugated metal, painted light blue. No windows. A low gambrel roof, narrow metal ceiling joists running across its length. Attached to one by a length of rope was Tricia. Naked, bleeding, hanging limp, head bowed.
Black’s heart rose to his mouth. Was she alive? He couldn’t be certain. He turned to Lincoln slowly, swallowing back his dread. “A life for a life, you said. Is she dead?”
“Take your jacket off, Mr Black. Put it on the bench. Make sure you don’t find your fingers curling round the pistol you’re carrying.”
With exaggerated care, Black removed his jacket, buying time, placing it neatly across some scattered screwdrivers, mind racing.
“You’ve been busy,” said Lincoln, referring to his bloodstained shirt. “Cut yourself shaving? Take it off as well, please.”
Black nodded. His lips were dry. Seconds were ticking fast. Counting down to a grisly end.
“Take it off, I said.”
Again, with the same deliberation, he took off his shirt, and placed it on top of his jacket. He turned to face Lincoln.
Lincoln cocked his head to one side. “You keep in shape.”
Which Black did. He ran every day, went to a cheap gym four times a week. Plus twenty-five years serving in the most elite combat unit in the world. Black was fundamentally fit and strong.
And lethal.
“It has its advantages,” replied Black, in a measured voice.
“Of course it does. It’s a prerequisite of the job for men like us. Now shoes, please. Place them on the bench.”
“I think you’re rather enjoying this.”
“I confess to being disappointed. I thought this would be much harder. But then, I counted on you being the chivalrous type. And I was right. Your downfall, Mr Black. Your Achilles heel.”
“I’ll need to work on that.” He crouched down, untied one shoe, then the other, removed them both, turned to the bench. This was his chance. His only chance.
“I take it she’s dead,” he said, his back to Lincoln.
“Very soon. There was never any other way.”
“There’s always another way.” Black placed his shoes beside his shirt and jacket. Next to a heavy spanner. He focused. He curled his hand round it. Pointless throwing it at Lincoln. He would just laugh at such an effort. And maybe kill him on the spot. But that wasn’t Black’s intention. “Try this, for example.”
He spun round. He threw the spanner hard and fast, upwards, to the strip light. It burst into fragments on impact; a popping sound as the glass exploded. Suddenly, darkness. Another sound. A muffled cough. Black recognised it all too well. No cough. Rather the sound of the Glock spitting a bullet through its silencer. Had Black remained stationary, he’d be coping with a hole through his chest. But he had moved, the instant he’d flung the spanner, diving to the ground, rolling, springing to his feet.
Total darkness. He heard Lincoln moving, back towards the barn door, presumably to open it, to allow in some natural daylight. When that happened, Black was as good as dead.
The building was not big, with nothing but space, save the old workbench. Still crouched low, Black kept moving. Another bullet, alarmingly close to his head. It thwumped into the gambrel roof, which, unlike the walls, was constructed of timber. Lincoln was guessing. Firing randomly. A random bullet could kill as effectively as one well-aimed.
Black kept going. Sudden daylight. Lincoln had reached the door, opened it. Black saw the outline of his head, his body. Lincoln turned directly towards him, Glock held at waist height. Black charged, propelled into him, shoulder first, using his full weight, one hand grasping Lincoln’s gun. They both tumbled out, on to a grassy stretch between the barn and Black’s car. Lincoln rolled free. He still had the gun. He aimed. Black was on his feet. He darted around the other side of the Mini.
“Bravo!” shouted Lincoln. “Adam Black’s given himself two more minutes of life.”
Black had to run. He darted from the car, past Tricia’s car, towards the main house. The windscreen of the Beetle suddenly shattered. Black got to a side door, turned the handle. It was unlocked. He opened it quickly, slipped through, closed it behind him. A second later, it flew open, the top shredded under the cannon power of the Glock.
Black was in a hallway. Shoes in a neat line on old newspaper on one side. A wooden coat hanger. He got to another door. Then a kitchen. Large, merging to a living room, wide patio doors at the back wall, opening to a carpeted conservatory with white table and chairs. Beyond that, a long sloping garden, cut from the wilderness and rock. A hundred yards beyond that, low cliffs crowned by stunted trees.
No sooner had Black closed the door, when it exploded open. Black had seconds. The kitchen was modern. A fleeting memory of a conversation, months back. She’d spent a fortune doing it up. A central island. On it, a modern electric hob. Drawers, cupboards. He pulled one open, another. There! Cutlery, knives. He grabbed up a large butcher’s knife. Pointed, its edge sharp enough to cut a throat. He moved to one side of the door, back to the wall. And waited. Silence. Except for the drum sound in his head – his heartbeat.
43
Lincoln could hardly believe he had allowed events to spiral off course like this. He had underestimated Black’s sheer audacity. Lesson learned. And Lincoln was a quick learner. His shock had lasted all of two seconds. Now down to the hard business of killing his target. Fulfil the contract. See it through. He had a gun. Black had nothing. Though he guessed he may have acquired a knife. Lincoln knew the layout of the house, having enjoyed Tricia’s company the previous evening. When this little drama was over, he might enjoy her company for a little longer, before she tasted a bullet in the mouth.
The hall led directly to the kitchen. Lincoln slowed right down. He crept along the hallway, but the wooden flooring creaked with every footstep.
“Where do you think you’re going, Mr Black? There’s no point in running.”
But of course, there was every point in running. What would he do, if the situation were reversed? A waste of effort thinking like that. Lincoln had a very different set of values from the average human being. What would Black do?
Escape through the back, through the conservatory? Into the Millport countryside, hiding in bushes? Wait until the coast was clear, then hand himself into a police station? Unlikely. That wasn’t Black’s way. Maybe circle round, and try to rescue the woman? Possibly. Probably. Black lived by a moral code. His Achilles heel. Like one of the fucking knights of the round table, he thought. He cursed himself, for his negligence. He should never have had to think about this.
“Not talking to me?”
He sidled forward, pistol held up in front, shoulder height. The door he faced was half blown away, hanging off its hinges. He looked back, thinking he heard a noise from the barn. Black was probably untying the woman, while Lincoln fucked about talking to nobody. For the first time in as long as he could remember, indecision gnawed into his mind. Which was not his way. Everything was planned, structured. This was chaos.
He would go to the kitchen, check it out quickly, then head back to the barn.
He thrust forward, kicked the door open, swivell
ed round.
And straight into Black.
44
Black thrust his hand up hard, catching Lincoln’s wrist. The Glock fired, punching a hole in the ceiling. Black held on, trying to twist the weapon out of Lincoln’s hand. Lincoln simultaneously brought his knee up into Black’s groin. Black grunted, tried to stab Lincoln in his side. Lincoln hacked down, into Black’s forearm, deflecting the move, then struck the side of Black’s neck. Black anticipated the move, raised his shoulder to absorb the blow. It felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer. Lincoln struck again, same place. The top of Black’s shoulder and arm went numb.
Black jerked his head back, thrust forward, butted him in the face. Lincoln gasped, involuntarily relaxing his grip on the pistol. Black yanked Lincoln’s wrist. The weapon fell to the floor. Black pushed Lincoln off him, took one step back, kicked the pistol away, then took another step back. His shoulder throbbed. Lincoln pulled a knife from a sheath attached to his belt. He advanced slowly, knife held low, blood streaming from both nostrils. Black retreated, one step, two steps, the kitchen knife in his left hand, his right shoulder and arm aching.
Lincoln thrust forward; Black dodged sideways, struck with the heel of his hand at the side of Lincoln’s thick neck. Lincoln jerked away, sweeping his arm at Black’s ribs. The blade sliced open six inches of skin. Black gasped, tottered back. Lincoln, seizing the moment, drove the knife up, hoping to stab Black in the throat. Black knocked Lincoln’s arm to one side, stabbed with his own knife into Lincoln’s stomach. Lincoln, likewise, knocked the blow to one side, Black’s knife whirling out of his hand. Lincoln punched at Black’s eye, then tried to stab Black in the side. Black manoeuvred a half turn, bringing his arm up, catching Lincoln’s elbow, applied a lock, tripped Lincoln, and using Lincoln’s momentum, broke the joint.
Lincoln grunted; the knife fell from suddenly numb fingers. He used his other functioning hand, groped on the floor, found the knife, seized it, thrust up. Black tried to avoid. The blade cut through his trousers, tearing a gash across his thigh.
Lincoln got to his feet, one arm dangling, clutching the knife in his other hand. Black stood back. He bled from two wounds, his right shoulder and arm were numb, his left eye swollen. Soon, he would become fatigued and weak. He would die from loss of blood. Or at the hands of Lincoln.
Not yet.
He picked up a crystal bowl full of white pebbles from a low set living room table, hurled it at Lincoln. Lincoln swept it aside with his good arm. The pebbles scattered, the glass smashed on the floor. Black used the moment, retrieved his knife, strode forward, hacked at Lincoln’s neck in an apparently random blow. Lincoln stepped back, stabbing. Black swivelled to one side, caught his arm, attempted a lock, but was too weak. Lincoln punched him on the jaw. Black reeled back, crashing into shelving. Ornaments, books toppled to the floor. Lincoln rushed forward. Black staggered to his feet. Lincoln held the knife high, poised for a downward thrust. Black caught the upraised arm. Again, Lincoln jerked his knee up. This time Black caught it, heaved. Lincoln tottered back.
They each stood, panting, Lincoln taking deep ragged breaths, his left arm held close to his chest, disabled. Black felt light-headed. He could not risk another attack. Lincoln, face pale, eyes wide, came staggering forward. Black had one last chance. He threw the knife. His aim was off. It plunged into Lincoln’s shoulder, almost to the hilt. Lincoln croaked in dismay. Summoning his last reserves of energy, Black charged forward, kicking Lincoln hard in the groin, then following it with a short, brutal uppercut. He heard Lincoln’s teeth crack together. Lincoln flipped back, landing on his back, lay still. Black sank to his knees.
Lincoln was down. But not dead.
45
Boyd Falconer sometimes jogged around the perimeter of his ranch, instead of using the treadmill. For a change of scenery. He had installed a running track. It was a two-mile circumference, skirting the boundary wall, and he jogged round twice. Early morning, when the heat wasn’t so oppressive. Though he would concede running across desert was as boring as running on a treadmill. Once a rattlesnake startled him, which livened his morning. But beyond that, the journey was the same. He did it because it was habit, and he liked to keep fit and his lungs strong.
Strapped to his waist was an elastic belt. Attached was a plastic bottle of water. He didn’t carry his mobile when he ran. One of those rare times. If he was needed, Sands would get him. Which is exactly what happened, as he was halfway round the second lap. He saw Sands gesturing at the main entrance.
Fuck, he thought. It never ends. Why should it? The industry he was in gave him an income of over a million dollars a day. If the hassle stopped, then something wasn’t working.
Hassle meant money.
He changed direction, cut towards Sands. “What is it?”
“Our Japanese friend wants to bring his trip forward.”
Sands handed him a towel. Falconer, wearing a long-sleeved running shirt and shorts, was drenched in sweat, which wasn’t unusual.
“He does?” He took a long exhalation. “He’s one difficult bastard.”
“And our wealthiest investor.”
“I fucking know that!” snapped Falconer. He dabbed his face. For an educated man, his accountant liked to state the obvious. But, he reflected, Sands was a necessary evil. Clever with money, a good administrator, a strategist. But one fucking major pain in the arse. While he was useful, his insolent comment and sarcastic retort would be tolerated. One day, his use would run out, and then another desert grave.
“When’s he coming?”
“Tuesday.”
“Fuck. Have you spoken to the doctor?”
“He says it should be okay.”
“It should be okay?” barked Falconer. “What the hell does that mean?”
Sands licked his lips, cleared his throat.
“It wasn’t the measles. A heat rash. Apparently.”
Falconer shook his head, swore under his breath.
“What the fuck am I paying that quack for?”
“Because he’s the only one who’ll do this. And he was just being cautious.”
“Cautious? He could have cost me fifteen million bucks.” He rubbed away sweat from his eyes. “She’s got to look fucking amazing. Get Lampton to sort it. Three days. Three fucking days. I’ll have to rearrange the Japanese chef. Another $6,000. Never mind. Worth every dime.”
Sands shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I do fucking say so. What about the auction. Are we ready?”
“Lampton doesn’t see a problem.”
“There’d better not be.”
“Of course.”
“Now fuck off, and start working for your money.” He flung the damp towel back at Sands, and resumed his run.
Sands was right. The Japanese tycoon was his wealthiest customer.
There could be no fuck-ups. Otherwise heads would roll. Literally.
46
Black – bleeding, exhausted – found tape from a kitchen drawer, and bundled the unconscious Lincoln onto one of the chairs in the conservatory. He positioned his arms behind the back of the chair, bound his wrists and ankles tight. Lincoln’s broken arm flopped like a tube of rubber. Also, for good measure, Black wrapped tape around Lincoln’s mouth. It was temporary, but it would do.
Black felt light-headed. His wounds needed treating. First things first. He made his way back out the house and into the barn. He kept the door open so he could see what he was doing. Tricia was as before, but she moaned softly. He untied her, let her drop into his arms. He held her gently, and carried her back to the house.
She regained full consciousness. He lay her on a bed, covered her in a blanket. Within an hour, she was up, dressed. She didn’t speak. She cleaned and treated Black’s wounds. She’d worked as a staff nurse at Victoria Hospital, on the south side of Glasgow. Accident and emergency. A life before a legal secretary. She tended his wounds with a quiet, grim competence. Black said nothing. She’d given him painkillers an
d a change of clothes. T-shirt, pullover, jeans, her son’s. He worked as an accountant in England. He had a full wardrobe of clothes for when he came up for holiday weekends. They were a shade tight on Black but better than garments soaked in other people’s blood.
They dragged the chair into the centre of the living room. They had hardly spoken. Black had no idea how she’d react. She’d spent a night with a killer. He dreaded to think what he’d done to her. Her composure was remarkable. Shock, thought Black. She was in shock.
They both were sitting in the living room, on separate chairs, each facing the unconscious figure of Lincoln, who was slumped forward. His hands and feet were bound by rope – the same rope he’d used on Tricia. The tape had been removed from his mouth. Black had made an effort to bring the room into a little order. He’d replaced the ornaments which hadn’t smashed, replaced the books. Cleared away the broken glass.
She’d made them both coffee. Now, she stared at Lincoln, pale, hollow-eyed.
She suddenly spoke. “What the hell is going on, Adam?”
Black sipped his coffee. On a table beside him was Lincoln’s mobile phone. Resting beside it, the Glock, complete with silencer. A world away from legal issues and private clients and all things normal. She’d been thrust into Black’s world. Where innocents died and people’s lives were ruined. Where violence and carnage were the norm.
“The man before you is an assassin. He calls himself Lincoln. He was paid to kill me.”
She remained motionless, wide-eyed, focused, hanging on every syllable. Black continued.
“Remember my friend who’d died? Gilbert Bartholomew? Turns out I didn’t know him, but he knew me. He reached out from the grave. He bequeathed me his estate. Which turned out to be nothing. Except a video. A group of men, hidden in masks, abusing a child. Very powerful men. Bartholomew thought these same men may have orchestrated the kidnapping of his daughter. Bartholomew wanted me to take it further than he was able. He was killed for his efforts. He wanted me to finish what he’d started. Destroy the paedophile ring and try to find his daughter.”