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

by Karl Hill

  The going was slow. It was dark, the ground uneven. The path they walked was narrow, a margin of grass and bushes between the trees and the wall. Once, the boy let out a short whimper – he’d stood on a sharp stone. He began to limp. Black tucked the Eagle in the belt of his trousers, reached down, picked him up, cradling him against his chest. The boy huddled into a ball, keeping close.

  Time passed. Every step meant a step further from danger. Further from death. There! A silhouette thirty yards distant. The BMW. Black gently put the boy on his feet, motioned them to stay put. He crept closer – the car may have been found, and guards posted. All clear. Black scurried back, ushered the children forward. They got to the car. For one nerve-wracking second, Black thought he’d left the car key in the holdall, abandoned at the building. The second passed. It was in an inside zip jacket pocket. Black pressed a button, the doors unlocked. The two children climbed into the rear seats. Black looked back. The fire had taken hold. With fury. The roof was ablaze, fire flickering from every window. Black saw distant shapes of men running this way and that, like frantic ants. Westcoates Hall was no more.

  Amen to that, thought Black. May they all burn in hell.

  He got in the car. Slowly, he manoeuvred out through the gap in the wall, keeping his headlights off. He drove slowly. Soon, the image of the burning building disappeared from his rear-view mirror, swallowed up by hills and trees. He got to the main road, which would eventually take him to the motorway.

  “Where are you from?” asked Black. They didn’t reply. Who could blame them? He adjusted the mirror, so he could see their faces. Two pale orbs. They stared back at him in the mirror. “Are you from Scotland?”

  The girl spoke. “Please don’t hurt us.”

  Black had to grit his teeth. He hoped every last fucker in that place felt the lick of the flame.

  “No more hurting. That’s over now. You’re safe. Where are you from?”

  The boy spoke. “York. Are you taking us home?”

  “You’ll be home soon.”

  “I’m from Ireland,” said Alanna. “Dublin.” She paused. “We were put on a plane. To a hot place. In a room under the ground. With a monster.” She began to cry.

  “What’s your name?” asked Paul.

  Black looked at him in the mirror, and smiled. “Adam Black.”

  “Thank you, Mr Black.”

  He got to the motorway, and took a turn-off for Airdrie. The hospital there was Monklands General. A sprawling building designed by architects specialising in ugliness.

  He parked the car close to the main entrance of accident and emergency. He took them in, Paul on one side, Alanna, the other. Each holding his hand. A large waiting room, with only a handful of people. Black knocked on the window of the receptionist.

  “Get a doctor here now,” said Black. “Two children – traumatised.”

  “Your name,” she replied, barely looking up, her tone dismissive.

  Black rapped the glass hard. She jerked her head up, met Black’s cold gaze.

  “Two children. Abducted and abused. They need help. Right fucking now. So, no fucking about. And call the police while you’re at it.”

  Black knelt down, took the two children in his arms, hugged them close.

  “You’re safe now,” he said in a soft voice. “Tell the doctor everything. You’ll be going home soon.”

  He stood. A doctor emerged, together with a hospital orderly. A young man, in his twenties, no older.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “This is Paul and Alanna. They were abducted by paedophiles. I managed to free them. They need medical attention. Call the police.”

  “And who are you?”

  “A friend. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Black left the building. He turned briefly. They were being led away by the doctor. Alanna turned, and gave a tiny wave.

  Black got to his car. He checked the mobile phone he’d left in the compartment between the front seats. Lincoln’s phone. An email, just in.

  We’ll meet. Here. We’ll send you details.

  Game on.

  58

  The way to kill the savages? Become one.

  Advice given by Staff Sergeant to new recruits of the 22nd Regiment of the Special Air Service

  It would only be a matter of time before the events at Westcoates Hall hit the news. And what fucking news, thought Black. Doubtless, the truth would be moulded, twisted. A sanitised version for the public. Black had other things on his mind.

  The instructions were clear. All by email. Once he’d told Sands he was still in Scotland, he was given a schedule. Flight from Prestwick airport to Gatwick leaving 2.30am that morning, local time. Gatwick to Phoenix Sky Harbor International, departing 4.55am. The flight was ten hours. Arrival 7am – Arizona time. He would be met at the terminal building. They would be waiting, in a black Range Rover, distinct with darkened windows. Christ, thought Black, these fuckers were organised.

  Black drove back to the Hilton on Byres Road. It was 11.30pm. He was exhausted. He’d sleep on the plane. He showered, changed. His shirt was stained with the blood of his enemies. He changed into jeans, close-fitting long-sleeved vest, dark pullover, running shoes. He had left his holdall back at Westcoates Hall, with the Walther and second Desert Eagle. Plus, several boxes of cartridges. His remaining weapons were useless to him, unless airport customs had undergone a radical change of policy.

  He had a visit to make, en route. His flat. To get his passport. He reckoned it was safe territory. They would no longer be watching. Adam Black was dead. Dead men don’t make home visits. The weapons he did have, he would leave in his flat.

  Black still had choices. He’d killed off a paedophile ring here, in Scotland. A very exclusive one. But to his mind, it was merely a tentacle. Only one snake of the hydra. What had Lincoln said? Kids are auctioned out. Arizona supplies them. One big fucking industry. A conveyor belt for the depraved.

  Black considered. He really had no choice at all. Bartholomew had described him as a warrior. Black really didn’t know what he was. But he knew one thing. His mind was set. He couldn’t turn his back on this. He had come too far. People had to pay. Big time.

  He regarded himself in the bathroom mirror. What was he? An assassin? A murderer? A vigilante? All of the above, he thought ruefully. But maybe more. Maybe, just, he was one of the good guys.

  He would journey to Arizona, and take his chances. According to Lincoln, he’d never met his contact. The man called Norman Sands. Which would be logical. Lincoln would want his identity to be secret, as indeed Sands would. So maybe Black could pull it off. He would be unarmed. Not even a knife. Nothing to protect him from those who would do him harm.

  Black gazed at his reflection. The man who stared back had no choice at all. He would go, he would destroy. And if he died trying, then so be it. This was one advantage he had over all his enemies.

  He wasn’t scared to die. The opposite.

  He hungered for it.

  The visit to his flat went without incident, as he had anticipated, which reinforced his belief that they thought him dead. He dumped the guns, packed a holdall with basics. Underwear, socks, a couple of cheap T-shirts. He wasn’t too concerned about fashion accessories in sunny Arizona. The flight from Prestwick was smooth and on time. He boarded the plane at Gatwick, heading for Phoenix. Economy class. Black didn’t care. He’d be sleeping for most of the trip, so what the hell. He got a coffee, read a magazine, then fell asleep. The way he felt, he’d sleep anywhere. As ever, his dreams were plagued with faces, rearing up before him – Lincoln, sitting on a chair, face pale and stark; Tricia, eyes wide in fear; the two kids, Paul and Alanna, clutching his arms, terrified, shaking.

  And then, as ever, his wife and daughter. Lying beside him, faces still and accusing. And Black, his hands soaked in their blood.

  He woke with a start. The woman next to him was reading a newspaper. He checked his watch. They’d be landing in half an hour.

&
nbsp; Black looked out the window. Clear skies, the great swells and contours of an American landscape stretched out beneath him. The land of the free. The land where he could end up dead.

  Bring it on.

  59

  Falconer had made the decision to meet with the assassin, Mr Lincoln, and had instructed Sands to send the message. “We should check it out,” was what he’d said. “Get it sorted.”

  Sands had been surprised at the sudden change. Up until that point, Falconer had been reluctant.

  “I think it’s prudent,” Sands had replied. “What harm can it do?”

  The simple fact was, suddenly it had become a matter of high priority to meet with the man called Lincoln. More than ever. Also, he had the distraction of his Japanese guest. To add to the mix, there had been a further development – a third guest. A very special one. One which did not cause Falconer any discomfort or displeasure. Such was his importance, Falconer would charter him a personal jet, the cost an irrelevance.

  When he’d received the message, he responded immediately.

  The Grey Prince needed his help. The Grey Prince was coming home.

  60

  The airport was busy. Not as claustrophobic as Gatwick. Everything seemed more spacious, where a person didn’t mind if there were crowds, because the place was so big. Black had no luggage to collect. First, he headed for the toilets, where he discreetly destroyed his passport, before dumping it in a waste bin. If he were searched, and his passport was discovered, he would face a lot of hard questions. Black preferred to avoid the situation altogether. He then headed straight for the exit. Black was mildly shocked at the sudden heat, as he left the confines of the building. He could still turn back. They didn’t know him; he didn’t know them. Turn right back, lose himself somewhere, disappear.

  That would never happen.

  Close to the exit doors, exactly as arranged by Sands, was a black Range Rover. With darkened windows. A man was standing by it. He was smartly dressed – dark trousers, white shirt, open-necked, He was big. Maybe six-four. And built. A body builder, or wrestler, surmised Black. He was tanned, thick, corded neck, roving dark eyes, head shaved to the bone.

  Black stepped up.

  “Mr Lincoln?” The man’s face cracked into an easy smile.

  Black smiled. “I didn’t anticipate the heat.”

  “No one ever does.” He opened a back door. “Please.” He gestured Black inside. Another man was sitting in the seat next to his, as was a man in the front passenger seat. Suddenly, another black Range Rover swept up directly behind.

  “Quite a welcome,” said Black.

  The man nodded politely. “Please,” he said. “It’s a long journey.”

  Black took a deep breath. A step forward, and he was entering a world of potential death. He could probably still turn and run. Most normal people would. But Black’s smile widened.

  He got in. The man closed the door behind him. The man got in the driver’s seat. The central locking mechanism clicked. The car moved off; the engine virtually silent. The one behind followed.

  “Buckle up,” said the other man in the front seat.

  Black did so. For one fucking rollercoaster ride.

  61

  The Japanese were coming to the ranch that evening. Number 4 had to be ready, and Lampton knew she was. He wouldn’t let Falconer down. The prize was too great. He watched his prize now, on the monitor screen in front of him. She was sleeping. He liked to watch her sleep. Sometimes she would moan, and sometimes she would sob. She missed home. She missed the embrace of her father. But Lampton would sort all that. He had made a drink. Her favourite, he was sure. He decided he should wake her, so she could share his excitement.

  He opened her door, softly, carrying a tray with biscuits and a tall glass of creamy hot chocolate. He approached the bed, set the tray down on a side cabinet, and sat beside her. The light was low, from a lamp in a corner. A revolving globe created rabbits gliding across the ceiling. He used his finger to brush hair from her eyes. Such beautiful hair, he thought. He stroked her cheek, the act causing a thrill to ripple through his chest. She woke with a start, eyes wide. She shrank back. Lampton gave one of his best reassuring smiles.

  “Don’t be scared,” he whispered. “It’s only Stanley.”

  She stared at Lampton. She did not speak. She hadn’t uttered one syllable since her arrival. Lampton didn’t mind. He understood.

  “Hot chocolate,” he said. “And biscuits. Don’t tell the others.”

  She remained still. Lampton was sure she was holding her breath. Maybe she was as excited as him.

  “Tomorrow is a special day. For both of us.” He leaned in closer. Did she move away? His smile faded slightly.

  “Tomorrow, I can give you cuddles. Real cuddles. Close ones that will make you feel good. Make us both feel good. Tomorrow you can be Daddy’s girl. And Daddy loves to cuddle.”

  She didn’t respond. Lampton was a little disappointed. Surely such a pronouncement would deserve a smile, a glimmer of joy.

  “Aren’t you happy?”

  Suddenly she shook her head, and hid under the covers.

  Lampton straightened, back rigid. Not what he had expected. He had been tolerant thus far.

  “Your chocolate is there,” he said, his voice icy. “I made it specially. Drink it before it gets cold. Or else Stanley will be unhappy.” His voice lowered to a gravelly whisper – a nightmarish sound. “You don’t want to upset Stanley.”

  He got up and left, without looking back. Too late, he thought. He was already upset. Tomorrow, a little punishment first, then some loving. This also excited Lampton. Punishment was just as stimulating. Especially hard punishment.

  He closed the door behind him, hardly able to keep the tremble from his hands.

  62

  The conversation in the Range Rover was sparse. Black was in no mood for idle chat. Those accompanying him were equally disinclined to talk. The driver had switched the radio on. Country and western music. Black gazed at the passing scenery. So different from Scotland. Land stretching on endlessly under a hot sky; distant mountains; monuments of rock burnt pink and red in the sun; vast tracts of scrub and cactus. Every now and then, they’d pass a small town, sometimes consisting of a huddle of buildings, clinging on to the hard-baked ground. Frequent petrol stations. After over an hour, Black said he needed to stop. The driver nodded. “Sure thing. Ten minutes.”

  They stopped at a town called Ajo, a mile or so from the road they were on. The two cars pulled up beside a petrol station. The driver got out and opened Black’s door. The passenger also got out. Black stretched his legs. The heat was stifling. The four doors of the other Range Rover opened, and four men emerged, all of them watching Black.

  “I didn’t realise I was so popular,” said Black.

  “There’s a sign for toilets at the side, Mr Lincoln,” said the driver. He was wearing mirror sunglasses. Black saw his own distorted reflection. “My colleague Mr Pierrotti will see you over.”

  “See me over?”

  The driver merely returned the question with a smile. Black headed over to an extension clamped on to the side of the main building, more of a lean-to, built of planks of black wood, with a flat tin roof. He was followed by the individual referred to as Mr Pierrotti, plus another man. Both large, capable.

  Before he reached the toilet entrance, Black suddenly cut direction, heading straight to the main entrance of the petrol station, which also served as a general convenience store.

  “I need a cold drink,” said Black. He went in, before anyone could object, followed closely by his two chaperones. Black had swapped some British currency for dollars at Gatwick. He picked up a cold bottle of Coke from a cooler, placed it on the counter. An elderly man was serving, skin like brown parchment, wispy grey hair. The two men stood close behind him. Black noted another now stood at the entrance.

  “That’ll be a dollar, please.” The attendant spoke in a heavy drawl.

  Blac
k fished out some cash. “This is Ajo? Nice town.”

  “Used to be busier,” replied the man, conversationally. “But the mine dried up, and people left. But we still get tourists, like you gentlemen.”

  “Tourists?”

  “Sure. This is the edge of the Sonoran Desert. People want to see the Old West, like it used to be. Hundreds of miles of rugged country.” He chuckled. “Awesome country for young bucks like you and your friends.”

  “Thank you.”

  Black left the petrol station. The driver opened the door for him again. He rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “We don’t want you talking to anyone, Mr Lincoln. If you need some friendly chat, then we’re good company. No need to involve strangers.”

  “Of course not. Are we close?”

  “Not long.”

  Black got in, grateful for the car’s air con. The Sonoran Desert. A good place to have a hideout. Virtually undetectable. Almost impossible to find. At least Black had some idea where they were going.

  The cars moved off, leaving Ajo, and back on to the main road. The scenery changed – desert on either side, the colour of red brick; in the middle distance, rocky outcrops. In the far distance, a mountain range.

  An hour later, the car veered off the main route, and travelled along a single lane road not much better than a dry dirt track, kicking up plumes of dust.

  Another hour passed. The scenery didn’t change any. Black squinted, looking ahead through the front windscreen – there, shimmering under the sun, was a group of buildings, maybe a mile away. They reached open gates, slowed down, drove through, entering a wide square courtyard, three sides of the square enclosed by glass buildings, two levels high. In the centre was a large fountain, water sprouting eight ways from the open palm of a mermaid, carved from blue marble. The entrance comprised a series of glass doors set three steps up, onto front decking the same blue marble. Simple, elegant, expensive. A paradise in the desert.