I jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key with one hand while still firing at the toilets with the other, the engine roared.
‘Run, pig!’ Branko shouted behind me. ‘Run!’
Into first, I mashed the accelerator as the pistol clicked empty, I threw it on the passenger seat and changed into second, then put a hand under my hoody. I gritted my teeth, my hand came away hot and very wet.
Chapter Fifty-six
Yacht Zuben
I looked around the superyacht’s expensively decked-out cabin, all polished wood and cream leather. The guest berth wasn’t to my taste, and the décor was not enhanced by the two corpses on the huge bed in the centre of the room. Four more were piled next to a wardrobe, naked. Owners or crew, either way now regretting spending Christmas moored up in La Rochelle marina.
‘Come in, then.’ Branko leaned back in a shiny steel and leather chair, propped his feet on the desk and held up a glass. ‘Živeli.’
‘A la tienne.’
He took a sip and gestured at the naked bodies on the floor. ‘This upsets you?’
I looked at the poor bastards. ‘The rich float around in their palaces while we slave away in the engine rooms. No, it doesn’t upset me.’
‘A socialist?’ He smiled, baring his teeth.
‘I’ll be anything you want for a price, which reminds me.’ I gulped the burning liquid down and supressed the urge to cough. ‘We didn’t discuss my fee.’
‘If we overtake that ship, and when you lead my team in killing everyone on board, then we can discuss your fee.’
I raised the empty glass. ‘With pleasure. I have no loyalty to them.’
‘As you’ve already shown.’ He took his feet off the desk and reached for the vodka bottle. ‘Tell me about this John Tyler.’
I shrugged, holding out my glass. ‘I don’t know anything about him. He chartered the boat, him plus passengers to England.’
Branko filled the glass to the brim and set the Stoli bottle back down on the floor. ‘Where did he contact you? And when?’
‘A week or so ago, in Santander.’
There was a knock at the door, one of the guards from upstairs entered with a carrier bag, shuffling to the wardrobe, eying me warily. Another man followed him in, a huge muscle-bound goon that I recognised as Boy George, one of the chalet security detail. The guy clearly thought he was Jack the Biscuit but from the way his eyes flitted and arms fidgeted he was out of his depth. He held the door open behind him.
I looked at Branko. He’d put his glass on the desk and had both huge hands on his knees, leaning forward. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ He nodded towards the bed.
I sat on the edge next to the bodies, watching the two goons in my peripheral vision, sizing up each and noting the positions of those holsters.
‘I am a fan of watches.’ Branko pulled up his right sleeve. ‘This is a Rolex Double Red Sea-Dweller from 1968. It is expensive watch, but it is functional. Good watches are better investment than gold, but only if you choose carefully. I have a few Breitling Superoceans and an Omega Seamaster. I would lose money on some, gain on others. I even have a 1967 orange-faced Doxa Sub 300T, pre-sychron.’ He shrugged. ‘I was a diver, you see. I trained Russian commandos. You wear your watch on your right, I wonder if you are a diver also?’
I smiled. ‘Only in warm water.’ I took a sip, wondering if he had a point.
‘We will fix that soon enough.’ His smile had been as fake as a shark’s to begin with, but now it dropped completely. ‘That is a Bremont Supermarine on a NATO strap, is it not?’ He pointed at my wrist, where my jumper had ridden up as I’d taken a drink. He got to his feet with a sigh. ‘Not, I think, the watch of a French mechanic.’
I threw the glass at the guy on the right’s face and sprang forward. He put his hands up to ward off the glass as I drove my right fist deep into his gut, a muted scream as he doubled over. In the doorway Boy George finally made a move. I grabbed the first guy’s head, brought it down against my knee, grabbing his pistol from the holster as I spun him into his mate. They both stumbled and fell to the floor, I finished with a stamp to his head as I backed through the open doorway, bringing the gun up at Branko, squeezing the trigger.
My head exploded with light, everything stopped for a moment, no sound, no vision. I felt myself falling, my body wouldn’t respond. Hands were all over me, sound came back with Branko barking orders. When I opened my eyes I had one guy on each arm, dragging me backwards. A woman stepped into the room – their driver – smirking, still holding up the M4 carbine she’d clubbed me with.
‘This is him?’ asked Branko.
The woman nodded. ‘He was driving the Audi in La Rochelle.’
‘I’ve never seen her before in my life!’ I shouted.
Branko walked closer.
‘I stole this watch from Tyler’s body,’ I said, straining at the hands pinning me.
Branko lashed out, lightning fast, pain shot through every nerve, every muscle seized. The goons either side let go as I dropped to the floor, gasping. Branko loomed above me, swinging his boot into my ribs several times in quick succession. Lights exploded behind my eyes, again I couldn’t see or hear, couldn’t move, wasn’t sure if I was even breathing. Eventually the pain receded enough for me to cough and blink the tears from my eyes.
Branko stood over me, panting, rubbing a hand over his stubbled head. His knuckles were coated with blood. He grinned, reached down, pulled up my jumper. Doc’s dressing had flapped open, the wound was welling up with dark blood, smearing on the shiny floor.
‘That is a gunshot wound,’ Branko said, eyes shining. The goons grabbed my arms, dragging me backwards, into the chair. ‘And it looks infected.’
I was still stunned, his fist hit my face before I knew what’d happened. My eyes shut again, something popped, heat spilled down my front. I tried to breathe, blood filled my mouth. I spat, gasping for air through a crushed nose and mouthfuls of blood.
Strong hands pulled my arms behind the back of the chair, I strained but no good, I felt something bite into my wrists then the goons grabbed my legs. I threw my weight side to side but it was no use, the chair was big and heavy and my energy had left me, pouring out from various wounds. By the time I’d opened my eyes and blinked away more tears, they’d cable-tied my ankles to the chair legs.
Branko sat on the bed next to the bodies. The woman stepped forward, swinging the rifle around and driving it into my stomach. I gasped in pain but no sound came, I strained against the ties, gritting my teeth. She made to swing again but Branko put an arm out, holding her off.
He pointed to the bandage on the shaved patch of her head then gestured to the carrier bag on the floor. ‘Don’t worry, you can take payment from him soon. Go, see if we are in phone reception yet. You need to call our friends and have them meet us.’
She glared at me, slung the rifle and nodded, taking the goons with her, leaving us alone.
Branko picked up the carrier bag and placed it on the desk. ‘So, John Tyler. This was not such a clever idea, was it? You thought you could come over here and kill us?’
‘It crossed my mind.’
‘You have a death wish?’
I could see my reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe. When I smiled my teeth looked yellow through blood still streaming from my nose. ‘It’s been noted several times.’
‘You took something that does not belong to you.’ He opened the carrier bag and reached inside, eyes on mine. He took out an extension lead and walked round the bed to plug it in behind the chair, placed the socket on the floor between my trainers. ‘Where is the man you kidnapped in the Alps?’
‘Somewhere you’ll never find him.’
He reached back into the bag and lifted out a heavy belt sander, placing it on the desk, smiling as he saw the look in my eyes. ‘We are closing in on your ship. We will board it, and yes, we will find him.’ He took time to fold the carrier bag up and pushed it into a drawer in the desk.
; My right arm trembled, my hand shook against the chair arm, Branko grinned, obviously mistaking it for fear. He carried the sander over, narrowed his eyes, bending to plug it in. He stood, pulled the trigger, the noise made me jump. The sandpaper belt became a blur, a whirr of colour. He brought the spinning tip close to my face, I leaned away as much as I could. He touched the sandpaper to my ear, it burned, I gritted my teeth.
He let go of the trigger, the noise died down as the belt slowed. He dropped it in my lap. It jolted as the fly caught on the rough sandpaper.
‘The first time you give me wrong answer,’ he grabbed my ear in a huge paw, ‘you will not be able to wear glasses again. The second wrong answer…’ he looked down, ‘you will not be able to do lots of things.’ He looked back into my eyes. ‘My man is still alive, yes?’
I looked down at the sander then up into Branko’s smug face. ‘Very much alive. By now he’ll be spilling his guts to save himself.’ Branko’s smugness turned to confusion, I smiled with satisfaction. ‘Your man never got on the ship.’
‘Impossible. We followed you from Geneva. We watched you all the way. We saw your car loaded onto the ship.’
‘You fucking idiot.’ I chuckled, spat blood. The flow was stopping. ‘He never left Geneva.’
‘No… no…’ The penny was dropping, slowly, beads of sweat broke out across his head as he pieced it together in real time. ‘You couldn’t have predicted…’
‘Who do you think tipped off your organisation to the Tiburon? Who told your informants that something was about to go down and you’d be wise to keep the ship under surveillance?’
Now he was confused. ‘But that was a week ago.’
‘I’m the rat, you bellend. Kudos for getting someone aboard as part of the crew: I’ll be honest, I hadn’t counted on that. All for nothing though.’
‘No!’ Branko’s face was practically burning. ‘Where is he?’ he shouted, resting a hand on the sander.
‘Long gone!’ I needed him to lose his temper and hit me. ‘Don’t you get it yet, you stupid bastard? I’m just a bloody rabbit.’
He picked up the sander, the other hand was flexing at his side, making a fist.
‘I tipped you off myself, I gave you all the information. I’m a rabbit running round the racing track just in front of you, this whole operation was a lure.’
‘But you kidnapped him from Château des Aigles, we followed you to Geneva.’
‘Yeah, and I left him in Geneva, you thick fucking bag of steroids.’ Come on you bastard, punch me! ‘I left him for another team to pick up while I drove off with that dickhead in the boot,’ I nodded at Ringo’s body on the bed. ‘You’ve been following us on that stinking ship, while your guy was being whisked back to England on a helicopter.’
‘If what you’re saying is true, you could have got on the helicopter with him and been back in England now.’ He put the sander on the dressing table, his other hand stopped flexing, face turning into a smug grin as if he thought he’d uncovered a plot hole. ‘Why did you need a diversion?’
‘Tell you the truth, I’m scared of flying.’ I smiled. ‘But the real reason was to draw you out. To draw all of you out here into the middle of the sea where no one can save you.’
Chapter Fifty-seven
Yacht Zuben
Branko’s expression flipped several times in seconds as we went from disbelief, through anger, to realisation. He strode to the door and flung it open, grabbing steroids Boy George, the goon on guard. ‘Get upstairs. Tell them to stop – no – tell them to turn around. Is there anything on the radar?’ Boy George turned to leave, Branko dragged him back into the room. ‘Watch him, I’ll go.’
His huge boots pounded away, the goon closed the door and leaned against it, eying me coldly.
‘You know why he’s running, don’t you?’
He continued to stare but said nothing.
‘He’s shitting it. You’re all about to die.’
His face was impassive.
‘You stupid fascist pricks. You’ve just followed me all the way from your nice safe enclave in the Alps, where you were untouchable, to the largest naval base in Western Europe.’
His face changed then. ‘Shut up, you little wanker,’ he spat in Danny Dyer. ‘You think the snowflake Navy gives a shit?’
The deck shifted beneath our feet as the engines changed pitch.
‘Your boss thinks so. I’ll tell you what’s happening right now upstairs. They’ve just picked up a low-flying helicopter out of Plymouth on the marine radar.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘And right now that helicopter is on its way to blow us out of the water.’
The deck shifted again as the yacht slewed broadside to a wave then picked up speed. Boy George grabbed the desk to stop himself going arse over tit, eyes darting to the window.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘That chopper’s gonna have a wasted journey.’
‘Shut up,’ he hissed through his teeth, eyes flitting between the door and the window.
‘Because before it gets here, I’m gonna kill everyone on this posh little boat. Every single scrote, but you should feel proud, cos I’m gonna start with you.’
The deck steadied, he regained some bravado and took a step forward, face glowing. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
‘Well I already sent two of your mates off a cliff.’
The punch landed square on my cheekbone, the chair rocked but didn’t tip. Not hard enough, matey.
I spat blood onto the cream rug. ‘You’re much uglier close up. You do Boy George a disservice.’
‘The fuck you on about?’
‘I’ve had my cross hairs on you loads of times. Should have pulled the trigger, put you out of your misery.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘You’re their little skivvy arse-licker, I watched you putting logs on the fire and getting the big boys drinks.’ I grinned. ‘You were doing their washing the other night.’
The second punch landed in the same place again, rocking me backwards, he grabbed a fistful of T-shirt and pulled me back to him, face right up in mine. ‘One more word and you’ll be shitting teeth tomorrow.’
I seriously doubted it given his efforts so far.
‘Playing tough guys in your nice warm cabin, you overestimate yourselves. It’s been your downfall.’
His third punch was better: it still didn’t measure up to Branko’s sledgehammer fists but at least it knocked me sideways onto the floor. I winced as my arm hit, crushed under the weight of the chair and me tied to it.
I spat more blood. ‘Yeah, for sure I’ll kill you first.’
His boot hit my ribs, I turned away and held the pain down while I concentrated on what I had to do. I worked my tongue around my teeth, a fresh cut inside my cheek, yet more blood filling my mouth. I pushed my tongue out and spat again, rolling around in pain as Boy George looked down at me with a big stupid grin on his shiny red face.
I jumped the chair up off the floor and crashed back down, he leapt back then laughed at me flailing around. My fingers crept across the floor until I found what I’d been searching for in the puddle of blood, one of the razor blades I’d pushed up next to my gums, the only thing small enough to bring aboard when I knew I’d be well searched, but more than enough to turn the tables in most situations. I felt the edge, jammed my thumb against the back, and steadied it between my fingers.
Boy George grabbed me, lifting the chair and standing it back up.
‘You think you’re hard, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Fuckin’ mercs.’
I worked the blade against the cable ties on my wrists. ‘Harder than a pretend soldier.’
‘Who’s pretending?’
I coughed again and wheezed, trying to draw breath. ‘Says the man who buys his gear from Millets.’ I looked at him, tried to speak again, descending into a coughing fit. He leaned in closer. The cable tie around my wrist snapped open.
‘Complacent,’ I whispered. I grabbed his ear in my
left fist, yanked his head down towards my face, brought my other hand round. I plunged the razor blade into the side of his neck, he pulled his arms up, trying to fend me off, but too late. I pushed him off me, the blade flicked through the flesh, he staggered back. A spurt of blood decorated the wardrobe, he pressed a hand to his neck as more bubbled up around his fingers, his eyes were wide. I flicked the blade across the cable ties on my ankles, jumped to my feet, grabbed his stupidly tight T-shirt, pulled him towards me, sticking my foot out, dropping him off balance. He stumbled, still silent, hands about his own neck as his life spilled away.
I ran to the door, locked it.
The man’s face had paled as the blood pooled beneath him. His arms sagged, a feeble pulse of blood spurted onto the mirrored wardrobe door, and he was gone.
I dragged Ringo’s body to the edge of the bed, ripped open his shirt, exposing pale skin beneath.
A wide patch of duct tape covered his belly, I ran the razor blade across it and dropped it on the bed. I reached into the void and pulled out a small, tightly bound plastic package, dropped it on the bed, pulled another out.
The first contained my satphone, which was waterproof anyway but at least wasn’t covered in Ringo’s insides. I pushed it into the leg pocket of my combats. I sliced open the second bin bag, took out my HK pistol and screwed the suppressor into place, cocking it, pushing the safety off.
I dashed to the window, pulled the blinds open. Outside was pitch black but the waves were clearly washing the glass from left to right, which gave me the orientation of the boat. I opened the drawers of the desk, nothing interesting. In the bedside table I found a pack of prescription painkillers, I necked a couple, washed them down with a generous mouthful of Stoli from the bottle rolling around on the floor. It wasn’t a lot but that plus the adrenaline I could feel surging in my guts, shaking my hands, would have to do for now.
Crossing to the door, pistol down low, I slid off the lock and opened it. The passageway was a far cry from those of the Tiburon, with its pipes crawling the ceiling, condensation-damp rusting walls, and grime-infused tread plates. Here the polished wooden floor shone in the glow from recessed LEDs along the skirting and ceiling, framed artwork took up the spaces between the doors stretching in both directions.
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