Brady inhaled deeply as he tried to forget the CCTV image of Nick stood leaning against the black Lithuanian-plated Mercedes, waiting to tail him when he left Rake Lane Hospital with Conrad. Not long afterwards, the decapitated head of a Lithuanian girl had been left in his car. Along with a note, signed ‘N’, which Brady desperately wanted to believe was representative of the Nietzschean Brotherhood – the Dabkunas brothers’ ring with the ‘N’ emblem was the most palatable explanation.
But what was haunting Brady was the glaring possibility that the ‘N’ could mean ‘Nick.’ After all, that was how he always signed any correspondence between them. Whether it was an email or a text, Nick always signed it with an ‘N’. Exactly as he had signed the handwritten note delivered to the desk sergeant, Turner.
He heard a car pull up and looked over at the Grand. Two black Mercedes were there with their engines idling, awaiting instruction. In between them was a black, ostentatious Russian limousine with diplomat’s plates. Brady had never seen its kind before, but he knew it would have a reserved power beneath its bonnet.
Brady watched as the front and rear doors of both the Mercedes opened with quiet precision and eight black-suited, ex-militia killers got out.
A second later, the driver of the limousine got out and looked around. With a single nod he dispersed the eight others into a well rehearsed, tried and tested octagon of protection. Another look around and the driver walked over and opened the rear door of the limousine to let out the Ambassador. Brady noted that he was speaking into a hidden microphone. The driver, sunglasses on, regardless of the dusk settling in, suddenly stopped talking. He gave the Ambassador a brief nod of assurance, and then stood back.
Brady could see the hint of a shoulder holster under the driver’s jacket as he stepped back from the limousine. Ex-military, assumed Brady. He had that look about him. The black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie didn’t disguise the fact that his main job was as a bodyguard; the chauffeuring was a front. Throw into the mix his muscular, taut, 6´4? build and the set jaw and determined, distrustful expression and there was proof enough. Without adding the bullet-hole scar on his cheek and the blonde, side-parted hair which revealed an earpiece. He was the central player and around him, strategically placed, were his team. No doubt his old comrades in war. It was clear he would have always been in charge; the highest ranking soldier. He wouldn’t trust anyone.
Brady watched as the Ambassador got out. Alert, lean, with short, well-groomed sandy hair. His dark blue, hand-tailored suit fitted his 5´10? frame perfectly. His moderately handsome face was tanned, accentuating his bright blue eyes. Overall he had the appearance of a man who had money – lots of it. Enough money not to have to worry about anything in life. Yet, Brady couldn’t help noticing that the Ambassador, for all his power and money, looked troubled. It was etched across his face. He merely nodded at his driver, distracted it seemed by what lay ahead. His bright blue eyes looked up at the elegant entrance of the Grand Hotel where Brady realised Mayor Macmillan was now standing, proud and arrogant, with other councillors, waiting to greet him. Brady noticed that Chief Superintendent O’Donnell was one of the official dignitaries, dressed in his braided uniform ready to welcome the Lithuanian Ambassador.
Brady waited. Expecting the Dabkunas brothers to get out of the limousine. Accompanied by Nick.
It didn’t happen.
The Ambassador, dignified and now composed, walked up the wide, sandstone steps towards his newfound business partner, Mayor Macmillan. Behind him, his driver shadowed his every move.
Brady watched them disappear into the hotel reception area.
Five minutes later he could see Mayor Macmillan standing at the window with the Lithuanian Ambassador by his side. Each had a tumbler in their hand as they seemingly discussed the view. But Brady knew better than that. It would be business they were discussing. Or at least the business front they would be using for their illegal imports.
* * *
Brady checked his phone. It was now 10:37pm.
He was expecting the Ambassador and his driver to be leaving soon. He could make out official-looking figures around in the bar. The dinner presumably over, the guests were now enjoying drinks. Claudia being one of them, mused Brady.
He lit the cigarette he had rolled, not wanting to count how many he had smoked while he had been sat waiting.
What for exactly, he was unclear of now. The Dabkunas brothers hadn’t showed. Neither had Nick. He presumed the Ambassador would be returning to his hotel, along with his heavily armed entourage.
Maybe Rubenfeld had got it wrong?
But he would have been surprised if he had: Rubenfeld’s contacts had never let him down. In as much as Rubenfeld had never let Brady down.
His phone suddenly rang.
Brady picked it up and answered it.
‘Yeah?’
He realised his heart was racing.
‘Jack?’ It was DS Tom Harvey’s voice.
Brady had assigned Harvey and his partner, DC Kodovesky, the job of stalking out the Hole. He needed Ronnie Macmillan’s every move monitored on the off-chance it would led them to Nicoletta.
‘What is it, Tom?’
‘Ronnie Macmillan’s on the move. Accompanied by his two suits. They returned about an hour ago to his club. Looked as if they went upstairs. Lights went on and what not. Then they left the club and got into a black Jag. Both suits in the front and Macmillan in the back.’
‘Anyone with him in the back?’ questioned Brady, thinking of Nicoletta.
He couldn’t rid himself of the image of what had happened to her friend, Edita. Her punishment for talking out of turn with a punter had been rape of the most sadistic kind, and then murder.
‘Nothing, boss,’ answered Harvey.
‘Shit!’ muttered Brady.
‘But a black Mercedes van pulled up when Macmillan and his men were inside. The driver made a call and then drove round the back of the club.’
‘Go on,’ instructed Brady when Harvey paused.
‘I got out and followed. But I was too late. I didn’t see what they were picking up. All I saw was two men throw some large black bundle into the back of the van. Then they jumped in and shut the doors. The van then sat with its engine idling. I walked back to the car and that’s when Macmillan came down with his men. He got in and as he did the Mercedes transit van came out from the back of the club and Macmillan’s Jaguar took off, tailing it.’
‘Did you see the driver of the van?’ asked Brady trying his best to keep his voice level.
‘Yeah, as he drove the van around front I saw him. Looked different from the two men who were in the back of the van. But still the type you wouldn’t want to mess with, if you get my drift.’
‘Describe the driver,’ ordered Brady as he clenched and unclenched his free hand.
‘Blondish, cropped hair. Ex-military-looking sort. Three-inch, deep scar down his left cheek. He was wearing sunglasses so I couldn’t see his eyes. The two other men had short, cropped hair as well but they were dark. Dark hair, eyes, skin. You know, as if they were Eastern European. You know that look I’m talking about?’
‘Yeah, I know,’ muttered Brady.
He knew all too well.
‘The driver?’ Brady began. ‘Did you get a good enough look to be able to do a photofit?’ He was hoping the answer would be a simple no.
‘Not sure … maybe,’ answered Harvey.
Brady winced. Harvey’s words feeling like a punch to his gut.
‘What about the other two Eastern European men?’
‘Yeah, got a good look at them. I’d say they’re the same men caught in footage at Newcastle Airport with Melissa Ryecroft.’
‘Fuck,’ muttered Brady, wondering why Harvey hadn’t stated that crucial piece of information first. ‘Did you get their licence plates?’ he asked, trying to control the frustration in his voice.
‘Kodovesky did,’ answered Harvey. ‘We’ve already radioed them in to see
what comes up.’
‘That’s something.’
He looked over at the Grand Hotel. It was aglow with soft lighting.
He couldn’t see the eight security guards anywhere. They were obviously doing their job, which was to disappear into the background and watch and wait.
Exactly the same game Brady was playing.
‘Are you following them?’ questioned Brady, frowning.
‘What do you think?’ answered Harvey flatly.
‘Where are you now?’ fired Brady.
‘Joining the coast road.’
‘Heading in which direction?’
‘Let’s see … yeah, not Newcastle. We’ve just joined the slip road towards the coast.’
‘Don’t lose them! Understand?’
‘Yes, boss,’ answered Harvey.
‘Keep me updated. And call Daniels and Kenny. I want them on standby in case you need their backup.’ Brady thought for a second. ‘And notify Conrad,’ he added.
He knew out of the lot of them, Conrad was the one he could trust.
Brady disconnected the call.
He looked over at the Grand Hotel. Suddenly there was activity.
Out of nowhere the eight ex-militia men reappeared.
Brady watched as Mayor Macmillan walked down the wide sandstone steps of the hotel with the Ambassador. Behind, the Ambassador’s driver followed. The eight ex-militia flanked the two men on both sides, scanning in all directions.
Brady wasn’t sure what was being discussed between the two men, but the Ambassador looked distracted. In a hurry to get away. As did his men.
Brady watched as the Ambassador shot a look at his driver who stood directly behind discreetly talking into a hidden microphone.
The driver paused talking and waited for what seemed to be instruction.
Brady noted that whatever was unfolding in front of him hadn’t gone unnoticed by Macmillan.
Brady was intrigued. Mayor Macmillan was calm, collected. Too collected, he thought.
The Ambassador distractedly shook Mayor Macmillan’s hand.
On a nod from the driver, Brady watched as the team of eight men walked down the steps of the Grand to flank the Ambassador’s car. The driver walked alongside the Ambassador as he headed towards the limo. He opened the rear door and waited for the Ambassador to climb in.
Brady was certain that the driver looked tense. On edge. Even though he looked as if he was patiently holding the door open, Brady could see that he was alert. Discreetly scanning the unfolding scene for signs of trouble.
Brady started the Granada into action. Ready to follow.
Before the Ambassador climbed into the limousine he did something that struck Brady as odd. He firmly placed his hand on the driver’s shoulder and spoke quietly.
Brady watched, as Macmillan watched.
The driver nodded, his face terse. His jaw locked, his eyes burning with a murderous coldness.
He respectfully, albeit with some restraint, closed the door. He then walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, looked briefly at his men. He barely moved his head but it was enough for them to return to their cars.
Brady watched as the limousine pulled out in the direction of Whitley Bay, leaving the two Mercedes behind.
He waited a couple of seconds for the two black Mercedes to follow. They didn’t. He had no choice but to kick the Granada into action, otherwise he would lose the Ambassador. He swerved out, performing a 180-degree turn and headed in the same direction as the limousine.
Suddenly one of the Mercedes swung out, blocking his path.
‘Fucking bastard!’ shouted Brady as he braked hard.
He looked in the rear mirror to see what the other Mercedes was up to. As expected, it had strategically positioned himself behind Brady.
‘Fuck you!’ muttered Brady as he ground the gears furiously, throwing the car into reverse.
Foot to the floor he sped backwards, steering the car around the Mercedes.
He swung the car into the back lane further down from the Grand Hotel and reversed hard, avoiding the parked cars dotted on either side. He gunned the engine on the last stretch, hoping that there was no oncoming traffic on the quiet suburban road that the back lane fed onto. There wasn’t. He turned hard right and slammed into first, and headed back down towards the coast, leaving behind the Grand to his right at some speed.
He looked to the right and saw one of the Mercedes lurch forward as the driver spotted him. In his rear view mirror he clocked the second Mercedes reversing out of the back lane behind him.
Turning left he put his foot down.
‘Bastards!’ cursed Brady as he threw the car across the roundabout the wrong way. Again, trusting to luck that there was no oncoming traffic.
Tyres screeching, he accelerated in an attempt to keep the limousine in sight.
Chapter Forty-Three
Brady sped over the zebra crossing and past Tynemouth boating lake, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He could see the limousine passing St George’s church as it snaked its way along the coast.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up, one hand on the wheel.
It was Conrad.
‘Conrad?’ distractedly answered Brady as he kept his eyes on the road.
He briefly looked down at his speed.
Sixty mph.
The limousine was disappearing from view.
‘Fuck!’ he muttered in frustration.
‘Sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I’ve got some news.’
‘Go on,’ ordered Brady.
‘Simone Henderson … she’s regained consciousness.’
Brady put his foot to the floor. His speed climbed dangerously as he tried to catch sight of the limousine.
In his rear view mirror he could see he was being tailed. Both Mercedes were driving hard to catch him.
‘She managed to give us something … wrote it down.’
‘Just fucking tell me!’ shouted Brady as he swung the car round the bend in the road.
‘Her handwriting’s shaky but there’s no mistaking who she’s saying did this to her.’
Brady felt his stomach knot. He clenched the wheel. He couldn’t get rid of the image of Nick carrying Simone Henderson’s brutally mutilated, unconscious body, wrapped in a black bin liner into the toilets.
‘Macmillan. Ronnie Macmillan.’
Brady aggressively pushed his foot to the floor, ignoring the speedometer.
‘Fucking bastard!’ hissed Brady.
‘Adamson knows, sir. He’s on this now,’ informed Conrad. ‘He’s put out an all-unit alert on Macmillan.’
‘Fuck him. Does he know that Harvey and Kodovesky are tailing Ronnie Macmillan?’ demanded Brady.
‘No … not yet. That’s why I’m ringing you, sir,’ answered Conrad. ‘I do know they’ve got a warrant out for his arrest and that Adamson’s on his way to Macmillan’s club to get him. But obviously, he’s not there.’
‘Get in your car and help me before that snivelling bastard takes over. I need you to intercept those bloody bastards who are trying to stop me following their boss.’
‘What’s going on, sir?’
‘I’ve got two fucking black Mercedes filled with eight ex-militia types determined to stop me following a Russian limousine that I reckon is going to take me somewhere interesting.’
‘Where are you heading?’
‘Along the coast, past Cullercoats heading towards Whitley Bay. After that, who knows!’
‘Right, sir. On my way now,’ quickly answered Conrad.
‘And not a word to Adamson or Gates. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Conrad said. He was already running for his car.
‘Fuck!’ cursed Brady as he swung the Granada around another bend, wheels screeching.
He looked in his rear mirror and breathed out. He had momentarily lost sight of the two Mercs.
He disconnected the call.
He then put his foot down, forcing the speedometer up to 80mph.
>
He flicked a glance at his rear view mirror again and cursed. The first Mercedes was speeding round the bend in pursuit of him.
‘Fuck!’ muttered Brady again as he stepped on the accelerator.
He sped down the road. Up ahead a group of drunken men staggered across the tarmac, oblivious to the oncoming car.
‘Get out the way!’ shouted Brady as he slammed on his brakes.
The Granada skidded erratically before coming to a halt.
Brady thumped his horn in frustration.
‘Get out the bloody way!’ he screamed.
One of the men gave Brady the finger while others jeered obscenities.
Brady could see the Mercedes coming up from behind.
He had no choice. He was going to lose the limousine if he didn’t do something.
He kicked the car into first and swung it to the left. Mounting the pavement, he drove past the group of men refusing to move.
He quickly looked in his rear mirror. The Mercedes that had caught up followed Brady’s move, swinging off the road onto the pavement.
‘Come on, Conrad! Where the fuck are you?’ panicked Brady as he threw the car back onto the road.
Ahead of him, he could barely make out the tail lights of the limousine as it continued along the coast.
Suddenly he heard cars slamming their brakes and then furious beeping and shouting.
Conrad, thought Brady. It had to be. The station was less than a minute away by car. All he had to do was drive down one of the roads leading off the Promenade to block them.
He looked in his rear view mirror and right enough, there was Conrad’s silver Saab obstructing the Promenade road. Relief flooded through him, relief that Conrad had stopped the two cars. But it was quickly replaced by cold dread as Brady saw six of the eight men get out the two cars and make a move towards Conrad.
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