“That’s right. My guess is Mrs Constantine goes to the hospital and leaves the girls here with her sister. If that’s the case, you stay here and watch over the girls, and I’ll make sure Justina reaches the hospital in one piece. After that, I’ll go pay our biker friend a middle-of-the-night social call.”
“And if the sister takes the kiddies to her place should I follow them or stay here and watch the premises?”
Kaine gave Danny what his Dad would have called an ‘old-fashioned’ look. “Do I really need to answer that? The girls take priority. As far as I’m concerned, whoever’s putting the pressure on the Constantines, can do what they like to the restaurant. The building can fall into rubble so long at the family’s safe. We can always pay for a rebuild—or, better still, get the culprits to do it.”
“Okay, just making certain of the operational parameters, sir. I take it the rules of engagement are unchanged?”
“That’s correct,” Kaine said. “We’re here to discourage the bad guys and protect the good guys. Luckily, in this case, the good guys are easy to spot. Check out the area.”
He handed Danny the tablet—still open to Google maps—and they fell silent while Danny studied satellite images to generate a feel for an area that might one day become a field of operations. Kaine wanted Danny to know every alleyway, every takedown spot, every piece of high ground that might be used as a sniper’s nest. Urban warfare presented its own specific difficulties and required its own methods, and Danny Pinkerton happened to be one of the best exponents Kaine ever had the pleasure to work with—hence his work with the Mounties. Short-sighted defence cuts had made Danny superfluous to the nation’s military requirements. The same political bollocks had thrown Kaine on the scrapheap, too.
In the case of Danny Pinkerton, the nation’s loss was The 83’s gain.
“You happy with what you’ve seen?”
“Yes, sir,” Danny said. “Piece of cake.”
He powered down the tablet, zipped up its case, and placed it in the back beside Kaine’s Bergen. After settling back into his seat, Danny shot Kaine a sideways look and opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again and turning his head to face front. But he kept shuffling in his seat.
“Come on, Danny. Something’s bothering you. Out with it.”
Danny paused for a moment before speaking. “Sorry to bring filthy lucre into the proceedings, sir, but … your email said something about full expenses.”
“That’s right. Why?”
“Well …” He paused again. A pained expression crossed his face. “I’ve just flown in from Toronto, and Air Canada only had business class tickets left on the last flight of the day. Cost a small fortune. Six thousand Canadian dollars.”
“Ouch. That’s what, a little under four thousand pounds?”
Danny shrugged. “Sounds about right. Nice full-length reclining seats though, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly hard on the eye. The email did say you wanted me here tout-de-suite. I’m happy to donate to the cause, but I still need to make a living, you know? Besides, it’s not as though you’re short of a few quid. How much did you take from Sir Malcolm Sampson? Three hundred million, wasn’t it?”
“That money’s not for me, Danny. It’s for The 83. Untouchable. I’m funding this operation out of my own pocket and anything we might, shall we say, ‘liberate’ from the bad guys along the way.”
“Fund liberation?” Danny cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds rewarding.”
“And,” Kaine said, pausing to add impact. “Since this is a voluntary and co-operative venture, we’re going to split everything we earn equally. No sliding scale governed by former military rank. Is that agreeable?”
Danny double-hiked his eyebrows. “You won’t find me arguing against that division of equity, Captain.”
Kaine put an end to the discussion by staring through the rain-streaked windscreen. With two of them in the car, the condensation built and it was becoming more difficult to see across to the other side of the road.
Danny loosened the laces on his boots and pushed the seat back as far as it would go. “Couldn’t you find a bigger car, Captain?”
“This one is inconspicuous.”
“Really?”
Danny stared pointedly at the Aston Martin ahead of them and the Lexus beyond that.
“Okay, Danny. Point taken. I’ll pick up something more comfortable next time.”
Danny reclined the back of his seat and groaned as he stretched out. “Mind if I have some shuteye, Captain? Jet lag’s a killer.”
“Business class seats, you said.”
“Still a long flight though. Wake me when something happens.”
Minutes later, with Danny’s deep snores rattling the windows, the Bistro lights flickered on and the women reappeared. Justina carried a sleeping Kora and a large suitcase, and Arana held Rena’s hand and covered them all with an umbrella. They piled into the Fiat.
Kaine fired up the Astra. Danny woke with a snort and looked around him as though trying to work out which continent he’d landed on.
“Wipe the spittle from your mouth, Corporal. We’re off for a little drive.”
Danny raised the back of the seat and clipped his seatbelt into place. He pulled in a great big loud yawn and rubbed his eyes. “How long was I asleep?”
“Ages and ages. I’m amazed you’re still tired.”
Danny read the dashboard clock. “Seven minutes. Ruddy marvellous.”
“Seven more than me, Corporal.”
Kaine smirked as Danny lowered his head. The lad knew when to keep quiet.
They followed the Fiat at a discrete distance, keeping at least three cars between them. After a short drive, the little car turned into St Catherine’s on the Green car park, and pulled to a halt in a dropping-off bay.
Justina climbed out of the passenger side, ran to the covered entrance, and turned to wave at her family.
“Okay,” Kaine said. “Here’s where we part company. Take the Astra and follow the girls. Stay with them until I tell you otherwise. Okay?”
“You’re stopping here?”
Kaine nodded. “Until I’m certain Mrs Constantine is settled in for the night.”
“After that, the biker, right?”
Kaine grabbed the door handle. “That’s right, Danny. After that, the biker.”
“Say hello from me, sir.”
“Will do.”
“Just a thought, sir. I’ll have the car. How will you get there?”
Kaine ducked out into the rain and grabbed his Bergen from the back.
“Look around you, Danny,” he said, waving to the high-priced vehicles lining the consultants’ car park. “This is a veritable smorgasbord of cars to choose from if I can’t find a taxi. By the way, you’ll find a weapons safe in the boot. To unlock it, key in our old unit’s designation, but add twelve. You’ll find a nice friendly Sig in there with your name on it.”
Danny smiled, said, “Thanks, Captain. You know I feel naked without a Sig on my hip,” and scooted into the driver’s seat as the Fiat drove away.
Kaine hung the Bergen over one shoulder, pulled down the peak of his baseball cap, and headed towards the brightly-lit hospital entrance.
Chapter 14
Friday 23rd October—Alfie Lovejoy
Kensington and Chelsea, London
Alfie Lovejoy stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes. Coming up to winter and he was walking around on ceramic tiles barefoot. Jesus, you couldn’t beat underfloor heating. Since gaining access to the flat, he’d spent a load of his time walking around barefoot, luxuriating in the toasty glow.
Yep, he belonged in a place like this and one day, he’d own one just like it, only bigger and with an even better view. Although the one through the balcony window wasn’t too bad, he couldn’t really see the Houses of Parliament unless he stood on a chair outside on the balcony and leaned to the right. Not ideal.
He’d lived the first seventeen years of his life on the tw
enty-third floor of a tower block in Southwark. Once he’d left, young Alfie swore he’d never go back to high rise living. But that was before setting foot in the penthouse.
Those Southwark tower blocks were a different thing altogether, though. Built after the slum clearances of the fifties to house the post war baby boomers, they were still slums, only vertical, and had been roundly condemned as ‘unfit for human habitation’ within ten years of the first people moving in. Stupid planners.
Alfie stretched out again.
Yes, this was the life. This, he could get used to. Penthouse comfort with a view of London people spent a fortune to glimpse, and here he was, living the highlife, literally. He chuckled into his beer.
On his comfy chair in the corner by the lift, Tuggy raised an eyebrow in question. He could speak but rarely bothered, preferring an intimidating growl or a moody frown to more regular methods of human communication.
Hey, whatever works for you.
And it usually worked a treat. One reason to keep the big bastard around. There were others. Alfie had few real friends, but Tuggy was one of the best.
“Don’t worry, Tuggy,” he said after taking another sip of his Dutch beer. “Just reminiscing. Can’t get over this here underfloor heating. Why don’t you kick off your size sixteen trainers and feel the warmth?”
Tuggy grunted, shook his head, and opened his left hand three times. After that, he crossed his arms over his huge chest, and his pecs bunched under the form-fitting exercise vest. All natural too. No ‘Arnie’ implants for Tuggy.
“Okay, my mistake. Size fifteens. I’ve seen smaller bloody canoes. Still”—Alfie made a big show of sniffing—“given that I’ve been downwind of you in the gym changing rooms before now, best you keep the fucking things on.”
He laughed and Tuggy did that thing with his mouth that could have been either a smile or a sneer, Alfie never could tell. Didn’t matter, though. They’d been mates for so long, Tuggy never took offence at Alfie’s jokes, and Alfie didn’t mind Tuggy’s guttural response.
As the Yanks might say, “Everything was copacetic between him and Tuggy,” whatever the fuck it meant.
He drained his beer and jumped to his feet. “Ready for another?”
Tuggy checked the time on his gold Rolex. He liked shiny things and no one could find anything with much more bling than a Rolex Submariner with a gold wrist band. Pathetic really, but if it kept Tuggy happy it was okay by Alfie.
“Don’t worry, it’s late enough for a second, and we’ve got plenty of time. I’m having another even if you don’t want one.”
He sauntered to the kitchen, dropped the empty into the bottle bank—it made a satisfying clink against all the others—and pulled a fresh one from the cooler. He loved the old-school flip-top stopper.
The desk phone burbled. Bloody stupid noise. First time he’d heard it, Alfie thought Tuggy had backed up the toilet again.
“He’s fucking early.”
Alfie set the unopened bottle on the draining board, jogged to the desk in the office area, and snatched up the handset before the fourth ring. The boss got real pissed off if he ever had to wait longer than that.
Deep breath, Alfie. Play it cool. Keep the old fucker on side.
“Good evening, Sir Brandon.”
“Alfred, dear boy, what do you have for me?”
A shiv in the kidney if you keep talking down to me like that, you fucking tosser.
“It’s done, Sir Brandon. Went down before five o’clock just like I promised.”
“Casualties?”
Background laughter on the phone line told him the boss was entertaining again and, once more, Alfie hadn’t been invited. Not that it mattered. Alfie had a two-pronged plan in place to get his feet under the table permanently. One prong included recording every phone conversation and backing up every email between him and the boss and storing it on the laptop and in the cloud. Boring but a necessary defence and attack strategy. The second prong, the seduction of Sir Brandon’s airhead daughter, Lady F, was proving a much less onerous task. Women born to money liked to party. They also loved a bit of rough, and Alfie could be as rough as anyone, although he did know where to draw the line. Leave no marks that showed. Usually.
A mantra to live by.
“One casualty. The owner’s in hospital. Apparently, the poor man cracked his head open. Such a shame.”
The old man laughed. “Restaurants can be such hazardous places. What happened? Did he slip on a greasy kitchen floor?”
“No, according to my source, it was much more spectacular, but still anonymous. Apparently, some lout lobbed a brick though his window.”
On the other end of the phone, a deep-voiced woman started singing. Jazz. Atonal. Scat singing they called it. Fucking hard on the ears and on the pocket. The boss had to be shelling out big bucks. Probably schmoozing some more foreign investors. Towelheads and Russians seemed to be the flavour of the month.
“Oh dear,” Sir Brandon said in mock distress. “Is nowhere safe in London anymore?”
“Must have upset someone important.”
“Perhaps his misfortune will act as a warning to others who might think about dragging their feet.”
The jazz singer was well into her thing and fighting to make herself heard over the backing band. The geezer thumping the piano keys was winning against all comers.
“Anything specific you want me to do next, Sir Brandon? If you want my advice, it might be best to hold off for a couple of days. We need to make sure nothing blows back on you or the firm.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? We’re protected. The Boys in Blue won’t lift a finger to help the family concerned. Make sure they sign the papers before the end of the month. Hear me?”
Alfie shot a glance at Tuggy, who was listening on the extension. Sure, Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy might be paying off the filth, but that protection wouldn’t extend to him or Tuggy if the doggy doo-doo hit the spinning fan.
Not a chance.
Alfie had been protecting himself from the day he ran away from Cecil Rhodes Tower, and he wasn’t about to stop any time soon.
“I hear you, Sir Brandon. They’ll sign the contract after tonight’s little persuader. No doubt about it.”
“Don’t wait too long. I have everything in place for a fast turnaround. Architects, surveyors, contractors, the lot. I want that contract signed by Friday of next week at the latest. Any delay will cost me millions, and you know what that means, dear boy?”
“Yes, Sir Brandon. You’ll take it out of my cut.”
“I’ll take it out of your hide, more like,” the oily bugger said, his voice edged sharp as a razor. “And don’t think that musclebound freak Tugboat’s gonna save you. With one phone call, I can have five men twice his size at my back. Do you hear me?”
Alfie squeezed the phone so hard the case creaked. “I hear you, Sir Brandon. You can rely on me.”
“I know that, dear boy,” he said reverting to his condescending worst. “Anything else?”
“Just confirmation on the price.”
“What price?”
“The price we’re now offering the Constantines for the signature.”
Sir Brandon scoffed. “A big fat zero. The bastards rejected a very fair market offer. Now all they get is whatever remains of their health. Stupid Greek bastards think they can say no to me and get off with nothing more than a broken window?” The man paused for a moment before adding. “Fuck it. I’ve just changed my mind. Make an example of her for the rest of the block. Go in hard and fast, and do it tonight.”
Alfie mouthed an obscenity down the phone. The next part was going to be dicey. How could he spin this without stepping into danger or coming across like a weak-kneed wally? He could hardly tell Sir Brandon his date with his daughter took precedence over business. A little lie wrapped in the truth might do.
What BB didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him—or Alfie. Nothing would ever hurt Tuggy.
“Sorry, bos
s. I’m afraid that ain’t gonna be possible.”
“Why the fuck not?”
Sir Brandon’s speech rose to a high-pitched squeak. He really could be a little girl when he didn’t get his own way.
“Mr Constantine is in hospital. The quacks are operating right now and Mrs Constantine is with him. The kids are being minded by his sister. There’s no one in the Bistro or the upstairs flat.”
“Which hospital?”
Fuck.
The fat bastard wasn’t making it easy.
“St Catherine’s on the Green.”
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get to the hospital and lean on the fucking bitch?”
Arrogant fucker would have them all nicked.
“I can’t exactly turn up at St Catherine’s with a load of muscle. They’ll have CCTV all over the place.
Give the tosser an alternative, Alfie. Take his mind off of things.
“Of course, I could always torch the Bistro, but that’ll increase the price of the refurb. Make things a little messy, too. The insurance company will stick their oars in the water. Whatcha reckon?”
“No. No. I don’t need that kind of scrutiny. How do you know all this? Your hired thug only smashed the window a couple of hours ago.”
“I’ve got eyes on the ground over there. I called my watcher before reporting in.”
The Knight of the Realm coughed. “Okay. I hear you. Give it a day. Wait until the bitch and the kids are back home. It’ll be easier to put the pressure on when she sees what’ll happen to her kids if she keeps playing silly buggers.”
“You want me to hurt the girls?”
Of course he does, so long as his hands stay clean.
“I don’t care what the fuck you do to the little bitches so long as it gets me the signature on the bottom of that contract. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Sir Brandon. I understand you perfectly. I’ll pop around to the Bistro over the weekend and pay my respects to the wife. She’ll be all alone and in need of a strong man to offer some comfort.”
“Planning to go yourself, or send your pet gorilla?” he said, barking out a mirthless laugh.
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 13