On the Money

by Kerry J Donovan

  Staring at Kaine’s mobile, and with his outstretched arm shaking, the big Goon pointed the Glock towards an empty part of the Hub, and started to release his grip.

  “No,” Kaine said, again softly. “Drop it and I might drop the mobile. Believe me, no one wants that.”

  “Shoot him, Williams. Shoot the bastard!”

  Williams flicked a disbelieving look at the monitor and shook his head. “But he’s got a bomb!”

  Kaine nodded and held his arm higher.

  “That’s right, Williams. All of you.” He spun slowly to stare down everyone in the room in turn before facing Williams and the wall monitor again. “There’s a quarter kilo of Semtex upstairs. I let go of this button and we all die!”

  The Goons shuffled further away.

  He couldn’t believe they were falling for it.

  “That’s right, back off, all of you. My friend and I are leaving and no one’s going to stop us. Williams, the gun!”

  Williams bent slowly at the waist and knees, lowered the Glock to the floor, and straightened again. He made to kick the gun away.

  “No. Just step away from it. You know nothing about guns, cretin.”

  Williams did as he was told.

  Kaine looked at Freeman. “You ready, buddy?”

  Still cowering on his chair, Freeman shook his head, as though too terrified to move, but something in his eyes suggested otherwise. What was it, annoyance?

  “He’s right, you are all cretins,” TM crowed, his electronically modulated voice rising to a scream. “Look at his mobile. Look at his fucking mobile!”

  Kaine dropped the dead phone and dived forwards, grabbed the muzzle of the Glock, and fumbled with it, trying to reach the handle. Williams reacted faster than anyone could have expected. He snatched the Glock from Kaine’s hands and swung a boot into his belly.

  Kaine grunted, doubled up, coughed, and kept coughing.

  Williams stood tall, aimed a kick at Kaine’s head, missed. Aimed another. This time, he landed a blow to the temple. A blow that might have proved fatal had Kaine not pulled his head away at the last moment, but the glancing heel-strike still made him see stars and split the skin open. Blood dripped from the wound and flowed into his eye.

  “No, don’t hurt him,” Freeman wailed from his chair. “Please don’t hurt him.”

  The blond man, the self-acclaimed world’s best jewel thief, still hadn’t moved. Hadn’t lifted a finger to help. From his position on the floor, Kaine twisted and skewered Freeman with a look of pure venom.

  “You Goddamned coward,” he mumbled, blinking hard, trying to clear the blood from his eyes.

  Coulthard shuffled towards Kaine’s mobile phone. He tilted his head to study it carefully.

  “Merde,” he said, stamping his foot and destroying Kaine’s burner phone, “it is not even powered up. A bluff, nothing more.”

  Delinquent and Essex Boy Robbie looked at each other before bursting into relieved laughter. The other Goons joined in for a second and the four men started forwards, heading for Kaine.

  “What did you call me?” Freeman demanded, finding his anger at last, but aiming it at the wrong target.

  Kaine, still bent at the waist, propped himself up on one elbow. “I called you a Goddamned coward.”

  The blond man jumped out of his chair. “Don’t you dare call me that.”

  “Look at you. Sitting there, crying your eyes out like a little girl who’s lost her dolly. Pitiful. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Freeman shot forwards and kicked Kaine in the stomach, the side of his soft-soled shoe landing in the same general area as Williams’ heavy boot.

  “Arsehole,” Kaine coughed and spat out the blood that had dripped from his head wound into his mouth. “Typical. Only a coward kicks a man when he’s down.”

  “Fuck off, you prick!” Freeman screamed, spittle flying. “We can’t all be former military heroes. Remember, I know all about you … you traitor. And I know all about the reward …”

  His eyes narrowed, swivelled in his head, and turned to the screen. He slapped a hand across his mouth.

  “What was that?” TM shouted.

  Freeman shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  Williams turned away from Kaine and pointed the Glock at Freeman’s face. “What did you say about a reward?”

  The professional thief raised his hands in surrender, turning his face away. “No, no. Don’t shoot. Please, don’t shoot.”

  “You called Griffin a traitor,” TM said, the image on the screen becoming animated, “and said something about a reward. What did you mean?”

  Freeman covered his face with his hands. “No, I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me. He’s a killer. A murderer.”

  The image on TM’s screen stilled.

  “Let’s make this faster,” he said, his voice calmer. “Mr Williams, if you would be so kind, start the countdown from five. This time, don’t shout ‘Bang’. Just blow off this coward’s kneecap.”

  “No!” Freeman squealed. “I’ll talk. Don’t shoot. Please. I’ll talk.”

  “You little ratbag,” Kaine shouted, scrambling to his knees and ending up in a sprinter’s starting position. “Don’t you dare. I’ll kill you, understand? I’ll kill you slowly. It’ll take so long you’ll beg to die!”

  “Shut up, Griffin!” TM’s outline moved. A hand waved at the side of the head. “Alphonse, Delinquent, Robbie, you others, watch him closely. If he moves, do some damage but make sure it’s not terminal. He might actually be more valuable alive.”

  The Goons closed further, surrounding Kaine, who stayed down on one knee, glaring at Freeman.

  “Now, Mr Williams. Start counting, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  A grinning Williams lowered the Glock, aiming it at Freeman’s knee. At such a close range, even he couldn’t miss.

  “Five … four …”

  “Okay, okay. I-I’ll tell you. I will, I’ll tell you. Ask me anything you want.”

  “Who is Griffin?”

  Freeman swallowed, looked from the Glock to Kaine, and then to the screen. “That’s just it. His name isn’t Griffin, it’s—”

  Kaine screamed and leapt to his feet. “You bastard! I’m gonna kill you!”

  The Goons reacted fast. Arms and fists flying, legs swinging, they backed Kaine against a wall and pinned him in place, a bloody-nosed Delinquent to his right, Essex Boy Robbie grasping Kaine’s left wrist tight and using both hands.

  “Who is that man?”

  Freeman turned to face the screen, his back to Kaine. “Look closely. Don’t you recognise him?” He half-turned and pointed a trembling finger at Kaine. “Last year, that animal killed dozens of people. That man is Ryan Kaine!”

  Chapter 38

  Monday 20th February – Sean Freeman

  Walthamstow, NE London

  02:58.

  Sean Freeman made the big reveal to a hushed audience and waited for a response. It wasn’t long coming.

  “What?” TM said, and the question was repeated in relay by at least three others in the room.

  “You know,” Sean continued. “Captain Ryan Kaine. The terrorist arsehole who shot down that plane and killed eighty-three people.”

  “Him?” Williams asked, incredulity in his question and written all over his face. “That wimpy short-ass is Ryan Kaine? Fucking rubbish. Kaine’s a multiple killer. A monster!”

  “He took you and Mr Cox apart earlier tonight, Mr Williams. And look what he did to the others. Bring him closer to the camera. Let me get a better view.”

  The baby-faced thug and the other man dragged a struggling Ryan closer to the screen. TM’s image dissolved, replaced by the infamous mugshot that had overwhelmed the TV screens and newspapers for weeks after the disaster. It revealed a wiry, clean-shaven man with a military haircut, piercing, light-brown eyes and a small scar on his chin, a scar now covered by the bushy beard. Alongside the portrait, a rolling script scrolled through a list
of physical characteristics, distinguishing features, and a short biography.

  “Looks a little like him,” Williams said. “The beard’s new, and the eyes are the wrong colour, but … It says he’s five-ten and about thirteen stones. Griffin looks about that. It could be him. And … fuck, would you look at that?” The villain with the gun used it to point to a line at the bottom of the bio which had stopped scrolling before reaching the most important part.

  Clever, TM. Nice one.

  Sean kept up his cowering and allowed his tears to flow.

  And now, to reel him in.

  Williams continued. “It says there’s a reward on his head. Half a million notes.”

  One of the Goons whistled.

  Ryan’s shoulders slumped and his head fell.

  Sean snorted. “Chicken feed.”

  TM’s outline reappeared above the mugshot and lines of bio.

  “Five hundred thousand pounds is chicken feed?”

  Despite the bruises and the cuts on his face, Sean managed to produce what felt like a crooked smile. “Y-Yes, TM, and you know why, don’t you?”

  The figure on the screen moved in what looked like a nod. “I think I might. I really do.”

  “Y-Yes, and you … you know the implications. I’d really”—he glanced over his shoulder at Ryan and the Goons—“like to keep the next part private. C-can we take the rest of this discussion outside and talk face to face? Please?”

  “Not really. I value my anonymity.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Sean said, nodding in sympathy. “The Captain feels the same way. Look at what happens when people find out who he is.”

  “We seem to be at something of an impasse. Why don’t I simply get Mr Williams to beat the information out of you?”

  Sean winced.

  “Please don’t. I-I … Listen, you could hurt me and I’ll probably talk, but … it might take a while and get a little messy. And you’d never be certain I’ve told you the entire truth.”

  Ryan struggled against the men holding him. “You bloody bastard! I’ll kill you for this.”

  Such bluster suited the world’s image of the daring SBS man. It set the scene well enough, and the thugs seemed to be lapping it up. Sean smiled internally, letting nothing show on his face.

  “Yes, Captain. As you already said. But, given the circumstances, I don’t see how that’s possible, do you?”

  “Bastard!”

  “Yes, I am, but I’ve never blamed my mother. She was young and impetuous and so very much in love.” He turned to face the big screen once more. “TM, I’ve known where Ryan Kaine’s been hiding for months. A little internet friend told me. Why do you think I haven’t turned him in for the reward yet?”

  “You know where the … merchandise is?”

  “Every part of it. It took a while, but … We’ve just been waiting for the right time to collect it. You see, the good Captain is a very dangerous man. I didn’t relish the idea of relieving him of the … goods only to have him hunt me down like a dog. And he would. He’s extremely resourceful.”

  All around Ryan, the Goons traded confused glances. They had no idea he and TM were talking about the millions of euros Ryan stole from Sir Malcolm Sampson.

  “Sean,” Ryan shouted. “No!”

  Sean raised a hand and flicked him a dismissive wave. “Do you mind, Captain? TM and I are negotiating, here. What do you say, TM? There’s plenty to go around. I’ll share it with you and the Tribe. Fifty-fifty. All you need to do is guarantee my ongoing safety.”

  “How can I be certain you have access to said merchandise?”

  “I have a friend inside Kaine’s organisation.”

  “Kaine has an organisation?”

  “Of course he does,” Sean said, adding a heavy sigh. “How else could he have stayed hidden for so long with the combined ranks of the UK Police and Europol on his tail? He has a bunch of sycophants working for him. They all think he’s a good guy who was conned into shooting down that plane, but he did it for money. He’s nothing but a mercenary. A gun for hire.”

  “Your inside man, who is he?”

  “Ah, dear old Corky. He’s a whiz when it comes to the internet and technology. An absolute genius. The little fellow’s been wheedling his way into Kaine’s good graces for months. He actually pointed Kaine towards Walthamstow when Glenmore Davits died. The nosey neighbour’s intervention was pure gravy, and Corky manipulated the data to suggest the poor old fellow’s death might not have been an accident. As fortune would have it, the death occurred when most of Kaine’s people were otherwise engaged. Couldn’t have planned it better if we’d tried. Corky and I have been waiting for the right opportunity for months, and this timing is perfect.”

  As Ryan struggled impotently against the men pinning his arms, he aimed his expression—a powerful mix of fury and disgust—directly at Sean.

  He almost felt sorry for the “fallen hero”, but it couldn’t be helped. Not for the first time in his life, Sean was fighting for survival, living on his wits.

  “So, what do you say?” Sean asked the shadow on the monitor, “Have I convinced you of my bona fides yet?”

  Again the image on the screen moved in approximation of a nod.

  “Mr Williams, bring this man to the parlour. We need to discuss this somewhere quiet.”

  “Freeman!” Ryan bellowed. “You’re a dead man. Hear me? A dead man walking!”

  “Freeman? Sean Freeman, the jewel thief?”

  Sean hesitated a moment before nodding.

  “Yes, I … am. Why?”

  “God, man. Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’m a great admirer of your work. Been following your exploits in the media.”

  Sean straightened, pulled back his shoulders, and allowed a smile to stretch his bruised lips. “You have?”

  “I have indeed. Is there any reason to keep Kaine alive? Will we need him for anything?”

  Sean turned to face the centre of the room. He gave the man in the sling, Alphonse Coulthard, a sly smile and shook his head quickly.

  “I … I don’t think so. … No. None whatsoever. Your men can do whatever they like.”

  “Well, Alphonse? What are you waiting for?” TM said through his laughter. “Have your fun and make as much mess as you like. After the night we’ve had, everyone deserves to let their hair down.”

  Sean slid an apologetic smile to at his former partner, who glared back, a menacing glint in his dark green eyes.

  “I’m sorry Ryan, but it’s every man for himself, you understand?”

  “You’re going to rot in hell, Freeman!”

  “I expect so,” Sean admitted, “but not as soon as you, old friend.”

  The screen faded to black.

  Williams took a firm grip of Sean’s upper arm, pinching the sensitive skin inside his bicep.

  “Ow!” he squealed, wincing at the pain and trying, ineffectually, to tear his arm away.

  As the thugs started hollering and whooping and the blood started flying, the big man with the big gun pushed Sean through one of the two closed doors in the rear wall.

  Despite the desperate cries of at least one man in real pain, Sean didn’t look back. Neither did Demarcus Williams.

  Chapter 39

  Monday 20th February – Sean Freeman

  Walthamstow, NE London

  03:03.

  Williams pushed Sean through a small corridor and into a large and windowless room that might once have been a kitchen. Cracked and filthy tiles clung to the walls and floor. The place reeked of mould and damp, as though it hadn’t been aired since the school had closed decades earlier.

  At the far end of the room, a narrow gap between the stainless steel units forced Williams to release Sean’s arm and let him take point. The opening led to another door, this one solid and shiny. An external lock, steel with a lever handle, held the door firmly closed. The upper part of the handle included a ten-digit keypad.

  This looked highly promising.

  Se
an stopped and waited.

  With one of the tools he’d built in his teens and left alone, he could have opened the lock inside two minutes, but that would have defeated the object. He needed TM to come to him and there was no telling what lay behind the security door. Maybe another five doors.

  Williams jabbed his weapon into Sean’s spine and leaned past to reach for the keypad.

  “Ow. That hurts. Go easy with the gun. I thought we were partners now.”

  “We ain’t partners, asswipe. The way you turned on your buddy back there, ain’t no way on one’s trustin’ you no more. No way, no how.”

  Sean sighed. The big man had a point. In Williams’ position he wouldn’t trust Sean, either. As for Ryan Kaine … that was another matter entirely.

  Williams pressed the buttons 1-7-3-8 and worked the handle. The steel door released a loud vacuum pop as it opened inwards.

  “Blimey,” Sean said, “didn’t expect that.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get too comfy, fucker.”

  “You should try expanding your vocabulary. Wasn’t it Spencer Kimball who said, ‘Swearing is the attempt of a dull mind to express itself forcibly.’? I paraphrase, of course.”

  “Fuck off,” Williams grunted, adding emphasis by digging the gun harder into the small of Sean’s back.

  “Sorry.” Sean smiled. “I talk a lot when I’m nervous. Say inappropriate things.”

  “You will be sorry, fucker.”

  My case rests.

  Williams thumped Sean on the shoulder, driving him deeper into a room TM had called the parlour, although it looked more like the drawing room of a minor stately home.

  The “drawing room” stretched away from them, with deep-piled and highly patterned carpet, and walls lined with bookshelves and hung with landscape paintings from minor masters which almost looked original. At least fifteen metres wide and about half that long, the place smelled of wax polish, leather, and cigar smoke.

  Sean scrubbed the drawing room idea and changed it to “smoking room”.

  A faux-antique mahogany desk occupied the centre of the room, facing a huge fake stone fireplace, which contained a large TV. On its screen, a wood fire burned fiercely. Sean could almost feel its warmth radiating through the place, but the heat came up through the floor, not out from the walls. Underfloor heating. Expensive, but nice.