Violation: a completely gripping fast-paced action thriller (Adam Black Book 2)

by Karl Hill

  Now Black was alone, with his grief, his guilt. Dead bodies all around. Anyone who got close ended up dead. Perhaps he should shut himself off from humanity. But then who would kill the bad guys?

  A group of students walked by him, laughing. No cares. Black felt a momentary twinge of envy. He’d forgotten the last time he’d laughed like that. A lifetime ago.

  Black roused himself from his reverie. These periods of melancholy were becoming more frequent. He couldn’t afford such self-indulgence. He had to think. He had to function. Rutherford had said the next meeting was Monday evening. Two days away. Black had a hunch. Rutherford had no idea where the group were to rendezvous. Now that Rutherford was dead, the individual referred to as the Grey Prince would have no need to communicate with him. A hunch was all Black had. If he was wrong, then he had nothing to go on. Plus, he was waiting for communication from a man called Sands, from Arizona.

  Black got up. In one pocket he had Lincoln’s mobile. In the other he carried Lincoln’s Glock. In his hotel room, he had placed the Walther in the safe. In his car, in the boot, was a holdall with two Desert Eagles. He wasn’t a man at all, he thought ruefully. He was a walking fucking arsenal. Better to have too many guns than too little. He walked back out of the university grounds, under a broad and intricate archway. He had things to do. He had preparations to make.

  If his hunch played out, it was fancy dress time.

  49

  Sands got the message, but was in a state of indecision. Which was unlike him. They’d had a great evening. Never better. Incredible profits. Boyd Falconer had spent the night fucking one of his hookers. This morning he would be mellow, relaxed. Sands did not relish the prospect of altering the equilibrium. Falconer had a vicious, unpredictable temper.

  Sands debated – should he tell him later, and allow the tranquillity to remain a little longer? Or tell him now, and ruin his morning. The answer was simple. Tell him immediately. If Falconer discovered he’d held on to this information, then not only would Falconer be irate, but he’d blame Sands for it.

  It was 7.15. Sands quickly showered, changed, made his way through to the main building. Falconer was probably up already. He was, in the gym. On the cycling machine, hunched over, tanned legs pumping up and down, towel round his neck, T-shirt soaked in sweat. Going at it hard. Not bad for a man over sixty-five, thought Sands.

  The woman was gone, of that Sands was sure. Bundled off early. Falconer would have no desire to make small talk with her in the early morning. Sands stood, laptop in hand. Sands rarely went anywhere without it.

  Falconer raised his head, allowing him a cursory glance, then dipped his head back down, concentrating on computer read outs in the screen in front of him – speed, distance, heartbeat.

  “We had a fucking good night,” said Falconer, between breaths.

  Sands nodded.

  Falconer flicked another look at him. “But… I can tell by your face there’s a but. There’s always a but when you’re about, Sands. Especially when you’ve got that machine at your side, like a fucking dick up your ass.”

  “Good news and bad news.”

  “Jesus H fucking Christ. Can’t you just tell me, and stop fucking about.”

  “The good news – Adam Black is dead. Lincoln has just sent me the confirmation.”

  “Hallelujah,” grunted Falconer, as he suddenly increased his speed. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. That’s what he gets for fucking with Boyd Falconer. Make sure Mr Lincoln gets the rest of his money.”

  Sands cleared his throat.

  “That’s half the story.”

  Falconer didn’t say anything, just kept pedalling.

  “Before Black died, he talked. He said he knew about us. Apparently other people might also. Lincoln’s worried. He wants to meet.”

  Falconer increased the speed for ten seconds, then slowed, then stopped. He was breathing heavily. Always, when he’d finished a session, his breath was tinged with a whisper of a wheeze. The curse of asthma.

  Falconer dismounted from the saddle, dabbing his face with the towel. He got an energy drink from a glass doored chiller. He turned to Sands.

  “What the fuck does this mean?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he wants to give details via email.”

  “You’re a fucking genius, Sands.”

  He left the gym. The one thing about Falconer was that he never showered straight after a training session. He liked the smell of his own sweat. Liked to wallow in it. It made Sands feel like puking. A downside of the job, but one he tolerated. Barely.

  Sands followed him into the spacious living room. Falconer sat on the leather suite, towel wrapped round his neck. The sun was bright, as it always was. The air con was on. Had to be. It was early morning, but it would be scorching outside in the desert heat.

  “Am I hosting some fucking criminal’s convention?” said Falconer. This, of course, was a rhetorical question. Sands took a deep breath, letting this play out.

  “We have the fucking Japanese coming on Tuesday,” he continued. “The biggest fucking paedophile in the eastern hemisphere. Now a fucking assassin wants to come and visit. Am I running a hotel for the freaks of this world?”

  Still rhetorical.

  Sands waited.

  “This is not right,” muttered Falconer. “I’ve been at this game for fifteen years. Now this.” He snapped his head towards Sands. “We survive because we’re secret. Otherwise we’re fucked.”

  Sands decided to venture a comment. “Therein lies the problem.” He didn’t want to say this, because the mere thought of it terrified him. Life imprisonment in a state penitentiary. “Maybe it’s no longer a secret. Maybe people know about your operation.”

  “You know, if I wanted to employ a fucking baboon to state the obvious, then I’d employ a fucking baboon.”

  Falconer suddenly got up, and paced up and down the room, sweat dripping on his expensive rugs. “The merchandise gets shipped out on Wednesday?”

  Sands nodded. By merchandise, Falconer was of course referring to the kids sold at last night’s auction. Each to their specific purchaser.

  “I have to think about this,” said Falconer. “How the fuck would Black know about us? It is not fucking possible.”

  “Someone talked?”

  “No one talked. No one knows anything to talk about. Black was bluffing. Probably to buy more time.” There was uncertainty in his voice.

  “Maybe. Can we take the chance?” Falconer stared at the glass wall, at the expanse of desert stretching forever. “No one knows about us.”

  “The Japanese knows which airport he’s going to get picked up at.”

  “So? That’s all he knows. We’re a 200-mile drive from there. And anyway, how the hell would Adam Black know about our Japanese billionaire?”

  “What about the Grey Prince,” said Sands. “He knows everything.”

  “It can’t be him,” replied Sands, his voice suddenly soft. “That’s not possible.”

  “We can’t take the risk. We should get Lincoln here, find out what Black told him. As a precaution.”

  “It can’t be him,” repeated Falconer. “Just can’t be.”

  50

  Black kept the Mini in the hotel car park. He couldn’t risk driving it. If it were recognised, then game over. Instead, he hired a car. The choice was important. Black had to gauge this. It had to look good, but not stand out. Expensive, but not ostentatious. Black wanted to be invisible. He chose a BMW 5 series. Dark blue, two-litre engine. Common enough not to attract attention. Suitably expensive enough to blend in with the cars driven by the people he might meet that evening.

  It was Monday morning, early. Black had breakfast in the hotel. He wasn’t hungry, particularly. His stomach fluttered with nerves. His hunch might not pay off. On the other hand, it might. And if he were caught, then his fate was unimaginable. He was dealing with powerful people. Men of considerable influence. They could make him disappear, as if he’d never exi
sted. Erase him from the planet. Black had been trained not to get caught. By the very best in the world. Though he doubted even his trainers in the Special Air Service could have anticipated the scenario he might confront. Black had faced death before. On the battlefield, on the streets. But this was altogether different. This was another world. Surreal, almost. And deadly.

  He took a swim in the hotel pool after breakfast. Then a spell in the small gymnasium, running 5k on the treadmill. He could still do it under twenty minutes. Then some weights. After that, a sauna, a shower, then back to his room, where he changed into clothes he’d bought the day before. White shirt, dark suit, fairly loose fitting. His other acquisition was a little more exotic – a nylon shoulder holster, purchased from an army surplus store at the Barras market in Gallowgate, in the opposite end of the city. Robust enough to carry the Glock, and even one of the Desert Eagles. Worn close to the body. At first glance, not too obtrusive. Black would equip himself later.

  He went down to the hotel lounge, and sat at the bar. It was not large, the drinks extortionate. Black asked for a soda water and lime, and sipped it slowly. The place was quiet. A couple sitting at a table, not talking, reading newspapers. A man at the bar on his mobile phone. Black considered him. Middle-aged, portly. Hardly the assassin type. Still, one could never tell. The man tucked the phone in his jacket pocket, nodded at Black, and left. Black’s paranoia was running overtime. Nothing new there. Black got a newspaper from a rack, tried to read it, but couldn’t concentrate. It was 1pm. Before Black had fired a bullet in his head, Rutherford said it was an evening meeting. Black had time to kill.

  He left the hotel, meandering through streets, wandered along the famous Ashton Lane, just off Byres Road. Cobbled narrow paving. Quaint, colourful buildings facing each other, housing expensive restaurants and bars. He stopped at an ultra-trendy coffee house, with a façade of black and crimson planks of wood, and sat outside under a soft blue awning. He ordered a coffee at triple the usual price. He watched people go by, paying them scant regard. Students, mostly. Some tourists. Time drifted. It was late afternoon. He took a deep breath. Time to go. The afternoon had dulled, the sun flickering behind drifts of cloud the colour of grey gauze. Rain was looming. The place was still busy. Black wondered if anyone ever worked in this part of the city. He headed back to the hotel, went up to his room, got himself organised. He’d parked the BMW a short walk away. He carried a gym bag. Not with gym equipment. Two Desert Eagles, a Walther PPK, boxes of cartridges. He packed the Glock in the holster, the silencer in his inside jacket pocket.

  He had already picked his spot. He’d reconnoitred the previous evening. A street just off the main road, adjacent to the target’s home. A good surveillance point, to watch the front entrance, but discreet.

  He arrived at his destination. He parked the car, sipped from a polystyrene cup of hot coffee, switched the radio on, and waited. It might take a while, but Black had nothing but time.

  It was a gamble. Black’s hunch could be entirely wrong. But if he were right, and his guess correct, then the person he waited on would lead him into the stuff of nightmares.

  Which meant one thing – Black would become a nightmare right back.

  51

  Lampton was expecting praise from Falconer, and got it. The auction had gone well. No tears, no obvious sulkiness. The kids were well behaved, if a little subdued. Lampton had no idea what type of money changed hands, though if Falconer was happy, then it was easy to surmise a good profit had been made. The biggest test was still to come.

  Falconer had arrived down to see him. They were in Lampton’s room. It was late morning. Falconer had come without the bean-counting freak, Sands. Lampton felt more at ease when it was one to one. Falconer, however, was not his irascible self. He seemed distracted. Preoccupied.

  “You did well, Lampton. You got them all sitting up and looking good. Like ducks in a row. Easy pickings. You have a skill.”

  “Thank you, Mr Falconer. I aim to please.”

  “And No. 4? Our Japanese benefactor will be here tomorrow evening. I understand there’s good news?”

  “All good. No sign of measles. The doctor says she’s fit and strong. It was just a heat rash, but he’ll call out again, to make double sure.”

  “I’ll bet he will,” muttered Falconer. “For double money. I’ve made that man a fucking millionaire.”

  “Clean bill of health,” continued Lampton.

  “That’s good.”

  “Without being presumptuous, I assume our Japanese gentleman will be taking No. 4 back with him, when he returns?”

  “You are being fucking presumptuous,” replied Falconer, without any real anger in his voice. “Yes, he’s taking the merchandise with him on Wednesday morning. Which means he’s staying over on Tuesday evening. Why the fuck do you care?”

  Lampton was always faintly amused at Falconer referring to them as “merchandise” or by their allotted number. The word “child” never seemed to enter into his vocabulary.

  “Well, if he intends to sample while he’s here on the Tuesday, then I have to make preparations. Timescales are important.”

  “That will not be happening,” snapped Falconer, genuinely angry. “He can see her. But there’s no touching. No sampling. He does his business elsewhere. He takes it away, and does what he does. But not here.”

  Lampton nodded. “Of course. Sorry to have suggested such a thing, Mr Falconer. If he’s leaving on Wednesday, I assume then I can have my little bonus?”

  Falconer looked at him, brow creased in puzzlement. Then his face relaxed. “The merchandise from the UK? That was the deal, Lampton. It’s all yours. But if there’s any fuck-ups, then change of plan.”

  “There won’t be.”

  “What you do with it is up to you. As long as I don’t get to hear about it. And if you do what you did last time, then you clear up the mess. Don’t lay it on my doorstep. Bury it in the desert. Just don’t tell me. You understand that?”

  “There won’t be any mess to clear, Mr Falconer. This one’s different.”

  “Different?” Falconer chuckled. “You in love?”

  The sarcasm in his voice did not go unnoticed. Lampton looked away, at the monitors on the wall. Such a question did not merit a response. People like Falconer would never understand. His gaze strayed, inevitably to monitor 7. She was sitting at a miniature desk, staring at golden dolphins cut from painted cardboard suspended from the ceiling by golden thread. He had made them himself.

  Falconer got up to leave.

  “You’re very kind to me, Mr Falconer. I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

  Falconer stared back at Lampton.

  “Probably the electric chair,” he said.

  Falconer got the elevator to the ground floor, the trip taking about three seconds. He went past the security guard, ignoring him, punched in the code, emerged into a hallway. To be met by Sands.

  “How long have you been waiting here?” Falconer asked.

  “Long enough. I’ve just received an email.”

  “And why the fuck are you telling me this?”

  “It’s from the Grey Prince.”

  Falconer waited.

  “He wants to know if Adam Black is dead.”

  “Tell him, yes. Tell him Black is dead.”

  Sands nodded. “And Lincoln? We need to respond. If he’s worried, then shouldn’t we be worried?”

  “You’re a coward,” spat Falconer. “Grow a pair of fucking balls, why don’t you.”

  Sands spoke, a tremor in his voice. “What harm can it do? Bring him in and talk. At the very least, it would be nice to actually meet the man who murders for us. We’ve paid him plenty over the years.”

  “Maybe I’ll ask him to murder you.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Nothing. We wait.” It was the only answer Falconer could give. The truth was, like Sands, he was worried.

  But one good thing had come out of it.

  Adam Bl
ack was dead.

  52

  Black waited in the BMW. The radio was on. He flicked from station to station, not listening to any of it. His plan was unstructured. His target might not turn up. Even if he did, his theory could be way off track, the whole thing a waste of effort.

  At 5.30pm a car appeared, stopping briefly at the electric front gates, waiting for them to open. It entered, the gates closing behind, then drove slowly up the forty-yard white chip driveway, tyres crunching on the miniature stones. It parked at the front of the house. The driver did not get out immediately. From his viewpoint, Black could make out the outline of his head. Looked like he was texting. Ten minutes in his car. Then he got out, a slim briefcase in his hand, and disappeared through the front entrance.

  Black drew a long breath. It was all or nothing. His entire hypothesis rested on a hunch. But it was a strong hunch. He waited, his senses cranked up to a heightened competence.

  Seconds dragged by, minutes, one hour, two. Where was the fucker?

  The front door opened. The man appeared, walked round to the driver’s door. He moved briskly. He had somewhere to go, thought Black grimly. He got in, manoeuvring the car round in a three-point turn, so it was facing back the way it had come. The electric gates opened. The car moved off, into the traffic. Black followed.

  Fun time.

  53

  Black followed, two cars between them. He was reasonably confident he wouldn’t be spotted. To these people, Adam Black was a dead man, courtesy of an email from Mr Lincoln, who by now was well and truly dead, whose body was probably rotting in the Millport countryside. You don’t expect to be followed by a dead man, thought Black. Unless these people believed in resurrection, which he doubted.