Return to The Deep (From The Deep Book 2)

by Michael Bray

  "And is he right?" Joanne whispered.

  "About what?"

  "You know what I mean."

  "I know, I want you to say it."

  Although she was older than he was by five years, the seventeen year old Jim was tall and stocky, and had huge arms and shoulders. There was no mistake that he could easily overpower her. "Did you kill Clayton and that other man?"

  He paused, and for a moment, it felt as if the whole world had stopped moving, then without warning, he released his grip on her neck and took a step back. "No. Of course not, but if, for the sake of argument I had, then you might want to tread carefully from here on."

  "Why?"

  "Because someone who had already gone to those lengths twice before, might be desperate enough to do it again if it meant saving their own skin."

  "Is that a threat?" she asked.

  "It's a statement. Take it however you want."

  He reached past her and grabbed the door handle, hesitating just long enough to make her flinch, then opened it and squeezed past her, leaving her alone in the bathroom.

  She hadn’t mentioned it to the others, and neither had Jim. Now as they sat on the boat less than five feet from each other, she was more afraid than ever.

  "Hey, man," Fernando said, "this boat is way too small. Where the hell will we all sleep?"

  "Don’t worry about it," Greg grunted.

  "Seriously though, there's no way we can all stay here. There's no space."

  "Who said we were staying on this boat?" Greg said, grinning at them.

  "What do you mean?" Tom said.

  "Take a look."

  They stood and looked out of the window. Ahead, bobbing on the ocean was a ninety foot white hulled boat, which even from a distance oozed luxury. From the blacked out windows to the name penned in tall script on the bow, the luxury yacht was a clear step up in class from their current rickety vessel.

  "Alright, that’s what I’m talking about," Fernando said.

  Greg slowed the boat and turned towards them. "Alright, here's the deal. When we get there, you all stay here until I speak to the owner. He was only expecting me and he gets a little jumpy."

  "Anyone we know?" Tom asked.

  "I doubt it," Greg replied. "Believe, me, it’s better you don’t know. Just wait here until I call you over."

  Greg moved the boat to the stern of the yacht, which had a wooden diving deck attached. He idled the boat and pulled parallel to the deck, then hurried outside, tossing lines with his good hand to the men waiting on the other boat, who secured the rickety fishing boat to the infinitely more impressive vessel.

  "Remember, wait here," Greg said, grabbing a bag from an overhead cupboard then climbed over the side onto the deck of the Lady of the Mist. Men dressed in black suits and dark sunglasses showed him onto the deck, where waiting for him was the man he had come to see, Victor Mallone.

  "Greg, it's been a while my friend," he slobbered in his thick Italian accent.

  "How are you, Victor? Well I hope?"

  The near four hundred pound Italian limped towards Greg, leaning heavily on his cane. He had slick black hair heavy with grease, and although they were hidden behind sunglasses right now, cruel eyes befitting of his status as a gangland boss. Victor's most striking features however, were the network of scars that covered his face and in particular his arm. Nobody knew for sure how he got them, but Greg had heard the stories. Some said it was during the attack on his New York office by rival gangs, which had resulted in the death of his wife and family. Other rumours said it was a car bomb designed to kill him, which he had only survived because he had been too drunk to drive and had ordered one of his men to do it for him. There were even rumours that it was due to an altercation with Chinatown crime lord, Wang Li, who was said to have cannibalistic tendencies and had chosen Victor as a potential meal. No matter the reason, Victor wasn’t a man you asked questions of, but one you answered. A dangerous man by any means, since his injuries, he had developed a ruthlessness and lack of compassion left by the death of those closest to him. The good thing about Victor for people like Greg was that if you had enough money and played by the rules, there was nothing that Victor couldn’t or wouldn’t get you. It had taken every penny Greg had, and whatever he could borrow from some of the Vegas loan sharks to get the money Victor had asked for. He only hoped now that the deal could be completed.

  "You bring me my money?” Victor said in his Italian drawl.

  "Of course," Greg replied, reaching into his jacket and handing over the bag he’d brought with him. "Fifteen grand as agreed."

  Victor took the bag and handed it straight to one of his men, who disappeared into the boat.

  "You're not even going to count it?"

  "I know you wouldn’t be stupid enough to short change me," Victor said, making Greg grateful the oversized Italians eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses.

  "Of course not, this is business."

  "Just so we're clear," Victor said, "you bring my boat back in one piece. Not a scratch, you hear me?"

  "Of course."

  "The equipment you asked for is in the cargo hold. This boat is special to me, it means a lot. I’d be upset if anything happened to it. You know what happens to people who upset me, don’t you?" Victor said, giving Greg a crocodile smile.

  Greg nodded. Everyone knew what happened if you crossed Victor.

  "Okay, then I guess we have a deal," Victor said, then turned to one of his men, whispering something in his ear before the man promptly disappeared inside the vessel. Victor looked past Greg to Tom and his friends on the deck of his boat.

  "Who are your friends?" the Italian asked.

  "Assistants. They’re helping me."

  "They’re just kids."

  "They were cheap."

  "You really think there's a monster out there?" Victor said, smiling at Greg.

  "I'm sure of it."

  "Well," he said with a shrug, "it's your money and time. Who am I to tell you that you're wasting it."

  Remembering how volatile a man he was dealing with, Greg said nothing, preoccupied by the appearance of the two brutes that were approaching Victor from inside the boat. It was obvious they were related, they shared the same sharp blue eyes and hooked noses. Both had blond hair, the taller, stockier of the two, wore his in a buzz cut and had a light stubble. His leaner but no less intimidating sibling was clean shaven and wore his hair in a side parting. Both were wearing black combat trousers and boots with a T-Shirt tight enough to show off their muscular physiques.

  "Ah, right on time," Victor said, grinning at Greg's discomfort. "These are the Russev brothers. The tall one here is Alexi. His English isn’t so good but he knows enough to get by. This is his brother Pavel. You speak to him mostly, he knows English well."

  "I don’t understand," Greg replied, both confused and a little afraid of the most recent events.

  "They are my insurance policy, chaperones if you will," Victor said, unleashing another sleazy grin.

  "For what?"

  "They will stay with you, assist you."

  "This wasn’t part of the deal, Victor. We had an agreement, I already have my assistants."

  "You sound ungrateful," Victor said, the shift in his voice reminding Greg to be cautious.

  "I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, I just don’t understand."

  Greg glanced at the Russev brothers, who stared back with icy indifference.

  "You don’t think I would just turn my boat over to you and leave you to your own devices?" Victor chuckled.

  "I, uh, I thought those were the terms of our agreement."

  "It seems you misunderstood," the sleazy Italian said. "The Russev’s will accompany you, to keep an eye on things, to make sure you don’t put my beautiful boat at risk whilst you search for your monster. Besides, they can assist you with the cargo you requested and make sure it's handled safely."

  "No disrespect, but I can handle it myself."

 
Victor stared at Greg’s singular hand and grinned. "I don't agree. Besides which, this is non-negotiable."

  Greg squirmed, which only seemed to increase Victor's enjoyment.

  "Okay, maybe they can be of some use," Greg said, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

  "Very good, I knew you would see things my way," Victor replied, clapping his hands together. "There is just one more thing."

  "Go on."

  "These men, the Russevs," Victor said as he patted the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, "they are good men. Some of the best. Very efficient, very much in demand. I'm afraid their services are going to cost an extra five thousand."

  "But I didn’t-" Greg stopped, sensing the dangerous shift in atmosphere. Both Victor and the Russev’s were staring at him, and he thought that if he pushed much harder, he might find himself tied to the anchor and dropped overboard.

  "Mr Mallone," Greg said, forcing himself to remain calm, "please try to understand, this offer, as generous as it was, is completely unexpected. I don’t have the money to pay for this. I'm cleaned out."

  Victor paused for a second, flicking his tongue against his top lip like some fat desert lizard. "Okay, I see the dilemma. Here's what I’m going to do. I'll give you the Russev’s now on the understanding that you pay me when you bring my boat back. Because I consider you a friend, I'll only charge you interest at a thousand a day. I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if you don’t pay up."

  "No, I understand," Greg said, his stomach tightening as he was pushed further into a deal he had no means of honouring. "I appreciate it, thank you."

  "What are friends for?" Victor beamed. "You go out now and you find your fish. Your boat will be at Washington dock. When you return my boat and bring me my money, you will get it back, understood?"

  Greg nodded.

  II

  Ten minutes later, Greg stood on the deck of the Lady of the Mist with Tom, Fernando, Jim Joanne and Marie watching his boat as it headed back to land, taking Victor and his men with it. He hoped he would feel better once the slobbering Italian was on his way, yet the noose around his neck, if anything, felt tighter. The Russev's had already headed below deck, and Greg was left with the problem of not only locating the creature, but also doing it as quickly as possible to avoid falling too far into debt with Victor.

  "Okay," he said with a sigh, "let's get moving, shall we?"

  "How will we know where to look?" Tom asked.

  Greg grinned. "It will be easier than you think."

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Scottish highlands were being barraged by blustery winds and icy rain, which stung the skin. The rolling green grasses off the dirt path danced under its power as Rainwater trudged towards his destination. Squinting against the elements, he could see the house down the hill sitting on the edge of the water that was white tipped and violent as it slammed against the dock. He had arrived unannounced, and only hoped he had come to the right place.

  The wind howled in his ears and rocked him on his heels, slapping his sodden jacket against him.

  The house stood alone, a singular wooden property. Outside, there was a rusty red truck without wheels, propped up on bricks with its innards missing. There were also buckets of fishing line and mounds of what Rainwater could only call junk, piles of things that seemed to have little in the way of practical use. A set of old car tyres, dozens of rusty steel containers piled haphazardly, and stacks of wood pallets stacked by the house, which for all intents and purposes looked uninhabited. Rainwater walked towards the door, every bit as cold, wet, and miserable, as the weather, and half wondering what he would do if the person he was looking for wasn’t home, didn’t live there any more, or was even still alive.

  He knocked on the door and waited, praying someone would answer. He hadn’t had a drink since he left America, and his addiction was screaming at him for attention. He knocked again, and cupped his hands to look through the grimy windows, only able to see shadowy husks of furniture within.

  "Can ae help ye?"

  Caught by surprise, Rainwater spun around to face the man who was walking towards him from the water’s edge. He was wearing a tattered green parka and red baseball cap. In one hand, he was carrying a fishing rod, in the other, two magnificent trout with their skin glistening in the rain.

  "I'm looking for someone," Rainwater said as the man stopped in front of him.

  "Who ye after?" the man said, his Scottish accent thick and difficult for Rainwater to understand.

  "Ross Mackay. I was told he lived here."

  The man nodded, his eyes shining behind the shadow of his hat. "You a yank?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "Yank. Are ye one?"

  "Uh yeah. I’m American," Rainwater said.

  "You from the Government?"

  "No."

  "Then whataya after?"

  "My name is Henry Rainwater, I was looking for-"

  "Rainwater ye say?" The man said, showing a little interest.

  "Yes."

  The man nodded. "Aye, well, it looks like you found who you were tryin' to find."

  "You're Ross Mackay?"

  "Aye, that I am."

  "You don’t know me but I was-"

  "You were pals with me brother."

  Rainwater nodded, running a hand through his rain sodden hair. "That’s right. He saved my life."

  "Still dead though."

  "Yes, I’m afraid so."

  "So whaddya want with me?"

  Rainwater looked around the isolated landscape. "I just wanted to get away from my old life and start fresh. Just before he died, your brother told me I should come here if I felt like I needed to leave my past behind."

  "Were ye with him, on the boat when it wen' down?"

  "Your brother didn’t die at sea," Rainwater said. "I know that’s what the government told you, but it’s not how it went down."

  Ross didn’t look in the least bit surprised, then strode past Rainwater handing him the fish as he approached the door. "Ye better come in then and fill me in. We'll see what happens after that dependin' on what ye have tae tell me."

  II

  Rainwater followed Ross into the cabin, glad to be out of the rain. His host shrugged off his jacket and hung it on one of the pegs by the door, did the same with his hat half turned to Rainwater. "Ye can put the fish in the kitchen, and then hang yer coat up. Ah don’t want ye drippin' water all over mah floors."

  Rainwater nodded and looked around the open plan space. It was filled with the clutter of a single man. The entire back wall of the room was an enormous bookcase filled with dusty leather bound books alongside the more modern, glossy literature. Through an open door, Rainwater could see the foot of an iron bedstead, through another the white edge of a bath. To his right the living area was small but inviting, and dominated by a stone fireplace and what looked like a regularly used log fire. To his left was the only other door, which Rainwater presumed must be the kitchen. Ross was on his knees in front of the fireplace loading logs into the hearth, for the time being, completely ignoring his houseguest. Rainwater pushed open the door, relieved to see that he was right, and the kitchen lay beyond. Like the rest of the house, it was simple in its decor. Tired wood table, old-fashioned cupboards around the outer edge, and on the far wall, a white cooker that looked like it was from the seventies, a white double fridge freezer and washing machine.

  Rainwater put the fish in the sink and took another look around the dingy room, his eyes locking onto the bottle of Famous Grouse whisky on the countertop. His guts ached to taste it, but Rainwater knew that it wouldn’t help his cause if he were to help himself to his hosts booze before they had even settled down to talk. Forcing his addiction aside for the time being, he returned to the sitting room.

  Ross had managed to light the fire, and it hissed and crackled as it devoured the wood. Rainwater slipped off his sodden jacket and hung it up as instructed.

  "Sit yersel' doown," Ross sai
d, motioning to the dog-eared chair by the fire as he took his own seat. Rainwater instead headed to the fireplace, warming his hands on the flames and trying to rid some of the chill from his bones. Ross waited for Rainwater to warm his hands and take his seat. In the glow of the fire, Rainwater couldn’t help but be awed, without the heavy coat pulled up over his neck and the baseball cap covering his face, by how much Ross resembled his brother. They were almost identical.

  "So," Ross said with a sigh as he grabbed a beaten tin of tobacco from the arm of the chair and began to roll a cigarette. "Tell me what happened with mae brother."

  "Well, I take it the government gave you the sinking boat story."

  "Aye, arse faced prick called up to the hoose tae tell me."

  "Well, that's not what happened. You know about the accident on the Red Gold? The sinking?"

  "Aye, I know it." Ross's expression changed. "You're him, you're that Harris kid."

  "You know about me?"

  "Oh aye, our Jimmy, told me all aboot you."

  "Jimmy," Rainwater said wistfully, "I never knew him as that. He was always just Mackay to me."

  "Sounds aboot right. He never did like his name. Didn’t think it fit."

  Rainwater nodded and stared into the fire, which was slowly starting to warm the room.

  "So," Ross said, putting the cigarette in his mouth and lighting it, "about mah brother. What happened?"

  Rainwater wasn’t sure which laws he was actually breaking by disclosing what had actually happened to Mackay, and he cared even less. He relayed it all as best he could remember. When he was done, the fire was roaring in the hearth and the room was warm. Like his brother before him, Ross wasn’t one to jump in or interrupt. Instead, he listened without comment. Rainwater finished, feeling infinitely better for getting this particular monkey off his back. He waited for a reaction from Ross, who was watching him, flames reflecting in his eyes from the fire.

  "Alright," he said, tossing the end of his cigarette into the flames.