Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series

by Kerry J Donovan

  His head dropped back onto the tiles and he sobbed quietly.

  She looked from Lovejoy to Kaine. Her flippant attitude, replaced by one of genuine concern and real tears.

  “Call an ambulance. Please. Look at him, he’s in terrible pain.”

  Kaine sighed. “I’ve seen injuries like that in the war. I’m afraid he’ll have to get used to pain, and to wheelchairs, and to peeing in a plastic bag.”

  Fen’s chin trembled. “Why are you being so horrid? Does he owe you money?”

  “No, he doesn’t owe me anything. I’m just being realistic. Come, let me help you find a taxi.”

  Kaine held out his hand and, despite a sideways glance at Lovejoy, she took tight hold. He helped her to her feet and walked her past the human detritus.

  Lovejoy—lying on his front, cheek to the tiles, his legs splayed, feet pigeon-toed—had lost control of both his bladder and his bowels. The stench of urine and faeces mixed with Tugboat’s drying blood was already beginning to ripen thanks to the wonders of underfloor heating. Kaine could almost see a dark miasma wafting up from the bodies.

  “But Mr Carruthers, aren’t you going to call him an ambulance?”

  “If you insist.” Kaine pointed at the man on the floor, said, “Alfie Mortensen, you are an ambulance,” and dragged her away. “Come on. We’re off.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious? We can’t leave him like that!”

  “No, just kidding,” Kaine said. “Always did like that joke, but St Catherine’s on the Green Hospital is only a few minutes away. It won’t take an ambulance long to get here this time of night. Your father wouldn’t be pleased to see you on the news being led away as a witness to murder. Worse still, a suspect. You need to leave here and forget you ever saw me—for your own good, of course, not mine. No, we’ll get you to safety first. As I said earlier, I’ll call 9-9-9 the moment you’re in a taxi. Do you have a coat?”

  “Of course.”

  Kaine waited, but she wasn’t getting the message. “Go find it then!”

  She blinked and shook some of the less sticky cobwebs from her head. “Yes, yes. Right. Of course.”

  While she headed to a door beside the lift which opened into a walk-in cupboard, Kaine returned to the desk. The download had completed. He stuffed the external hard drive into his jacket pocket and turned to find Fen carrying a heavy, full-length woollen overcoat.

  Kaine helped her into it and she held out her hand.

  “Can I have my little gun back, please?”

  Not a chance in the world.

  He almost laughed at her audacity.

  “I’ll post it to you next time I pass a post office.”

  “You don’t know where I live.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll find you.”

  She took Kaine’s hand and he half-led, half-dragged her to the lift. A button-press later and the doors closed on the carnage.

  Chapter 21

  Sunday 25th October—Midmorning

  The Kaine Safe House, London

  After a full six hours sack time, Kaine woke refreshed to a dull grey dawn. Two mugs of coffee and three slices of toast, butter, and Seville marmalade set him up for the morning. One of the reasons for Kaine’s early reveille was his upcoming video call with Lara. He’d tasked her and Rollo with finding all they could on Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy and his business dealings.

  Kaine was expecting her call at midday, UK time, and no matter how hard he tried to hide it from himself, he was looking forward to seeing Lara again—not that he’d let on.

  By 09:30 Danny still hadn’t surfaced and, judging from the deep, rumbling reverberating through the upstairs hallway, he had no intentions of doing so in the foreseeable future.

  It suited Kaine to let Danny rest. He wasn’t used to houseguests cluttering up the place and preferred the solitary life. At least he had done before spending time in the villa with Lara.

  On a more practical level, Danny had been protecting the female contingent of the Constantine family more or less non-stop since his arrival from Canada. The willing corporal needed rest and recovery or his performance would be compromised for the ongoing mission.

  As for Kaine, he’d spent most of the previous day cobbling together a unit he could rely on. Fortunately, his third call met with success. Two members of his old SBS unit, Laurence ‘Fat Larry’ Kovaks and Tony ‘Slim’ Simms, were available at a moment’s notice—as Danny had predicted.

  Slim reached London first. Kaine briefed him on the situation and sent him straight to Golders Green to relieve Danny. Finessing Orestes Constantine’s around-the-clock protection took slightly longer and required a thirty-minute internet search, followed by a little bribery and corruption.

  The first part turned out easy enough. A 2012 press release on St Catherine’s on the Green’s website proudly announced that the Hospital Trust had saved thousands of pounds of taxpayers money by outsourcing their security to Secure-Brand Ltd. With Orestes still in his intensive care bed, but scheduled to be moved into a recovery room, Kaine buttonholed Secure-Brand’s owner in a pub after locating him through the company’s emergency contact number. Kaine explained Orestes’ situation and the reason he needed around-the-clock protection. He kept as close to the truth as possible and, after a cursory study of their résumés, the owner was happy to accept Danny, Slim, and Fat Larry as temporary employees. He also accepted the CVs of two other, as yet unnamed, officers into his company. The owner, a former army colonel, was even happier to accept five thousand pounds in folding money to forego his company’s usual security screening, no questions asked. As the colonel’s actions showed, in the security industry, not only did firms find it difficult to source good staff, but also, money screamed loud. Not that Kaine was complaining too much.

  As a result of Kaine’s generosity, by 19:30 on Saturday evening, Fat Larry took the first watch on the hospital’s private recovery ward, protecting a very special patient—Orestes Constantine. Only Kaine’s team knew Fat Larry was armed. Kaine having decided there were some things the Colonel didn’t need to know.

  The four of them—Kaine, Danny, Slim, and Fat Larry—would take twelve hour rotating shifts to guard the Constantines until Kaine could boost the team’s numbers. Tiring, but unavoidable. He had a few trustworthy individuals in mind, but their whereabouts were proving somewhat difficult to identify—globetrotters to a man. By the time Kaine turned in, exhausted, he’d left enough feelers out to give him hope.

  After his solitary breakfast, Kaine called Slim and Fat Larry but, as he hoped, neither had anything significant to report. He then resumed his search for the elusive backup to augment his thinly-spread team. He struck gold early and completed the arrangements in time for his eleven o’clock coffee break.

  11:55 found him prowling the ground floor, wondering why the clocks were running so bloody slowly.

  When the call finally came, he raced to the dining room that stood in as an office, pulled on his serious, ‘call of duty’ face, and touched the ‘accept video’ button on the laptop’s touchscreen.

  France’s bright sunshine picked out the amber highlights in Lara’s windblown hair. She smiled a greeting, and Kaine struggled not to return it.

  “Morning, Ryan,” she opened, warmth and promise weaved through the innocuous greeting.

  “Hi, there. Are you out on the deck?”

  “Well spotted.”

  She turned her smartphone and panned the picture slowly, from right to left. After showing the empty dunes, beach, and sea, the image came to rest on the beefy Rollo, lolling in the recliner—Kaine’s recliner.

  “Morning, Captain.”

  “Hey, Rollo. Hard at work, I see.”

  The former sergeant yawned and pushed his arms out in front of his chest, stretching the thin cotton of his workout vest. “Watching, Captain. Always on guard. Everything okay in dear old Blighty? How are the men?”

  Kaine ran through the team’s disposition and ended with his morning’s
success. “I finally got hold of Peewee Ricardo and Pat O’Hara. They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon at the latest, which will give us enough men to run the minimum protection on the Constantines.”

  Lara turned the phone and the picture returned to her, a much better choice than the Salty Sea Dog lying in Kaine’s comfortable recliner.

  “Are you going to let Mrs Constantine know what’s happening? She’ll surely spot your men at the hospital and outside her sister’s house.”

  “Apart from at the hospital, where my guys will be in security uniform, standing outside the recovery room, she’ll see nothing we don’t want her to see. But,”—he dropped his shoulders and started breathing normally—“you’re right. To ease her worries, I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Justina needs to know she’s protected and why. By the way, has there been any activity on the Constantines’ bank account?”

  The sun picked out more of Lara’s warm highlights as another gust of wind ruffled her hair. She shook her head. “They haven’t deposited the banker’s draft, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It is. I wonder if Justina knows about the money? Might be a good way for me to break the ice. Okay, I’ll tell her about The 83 trust fund when I introduce her to Peewee tomorrow.”

  “Captain,” Rollo called from out of shot, “if you don’t mind a little advice. Be best to wait for O’Hara. He’s a little easier on the ear than Peewee. Women seem to enjoy his soft Irish brogue.”

  “Yep, fair point. Right, time’s passing. What do you have on Sir Brandon?”

  After brief sideways look in Rollo’s direction, Lara frowned. “All business with you, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what I’m here for, Doc,” he said, but softened the impact of his words by tilting his head and adding a smile. “So, what do you have?”

  A soaring gull stood out white and clear against the otherwise unbroken blue of the sky behind Lara’s shoulder as she paused, no doubt to gather her thoughts. “Okay, I’ve just sent you an email with the full dossier attached, but in brief, Sir Brandon’s is a riches-to-rags-to-riches tale.”

  She ran through the bullet points of their target’s public and private life.

  Sir Brandon, father of Fenella and widower to Lady Penelope Hardy, who overdosed on prescription sleeping pills in 2000 when little Fenella was seven. The Coroner’s Inquest produced a verdict of suicide. Sir Brandon was abroad at the time of Penelope’s death and no suspicion fell upon the apparently distraught husband and father.

  Knighted in 2005 for his services to British industry, Sir Brandon headed Banner-Hardy Construction Limited, a company with a string of building developments in its portfolio. Currently, BHCL owned high-rise apartments, whole city blocks similar to Hardwicke Row, multi-story car parks, and shopping malls in London and throughout southeast England.

  BB, as Sir Brandon’s close friends called him, had married into Penelope’s money, narrowly avoided bankruptcy during the recession of the early ’90s. In 1998, he bounced back into profit, with the spectacular refurbishment of a significant section of London Docklands—an area backing onto London City Airport. The identity of the consortium responsible for stumping up the seed money for the Docklands development had never been released but, at the time, negative rumours relating to Russian oligarchs abounded.

  Between 1998 and 2009, Sir Brandon and BHCL were cleared of financial misconduct in no less than three separate Police and Serious Fraud Office investigations. If this information alone wasn’t enough to send Kaine’s internal warning systems into overdrive, BHCL’s recent business expansion most definitely was.

  In 2010, the company diversified into the hospitality business when it bought the ailing, King’s Langdon Golf Course & Restaurant. The acquisitions continued, and within four years, BHCL owned a string of hotels and Michelin-starred restaurants in London and the Home Counties.

  “So,” Kaine said when Lara paused in her briefing, “Sir Brandon owns a number of high-profile restaurants and is pressuring the owners of a small Bistro in an up-and-coming area of London. Am I reading this right? Is this whole thing just about Sir Brandon securing prime real estate for his next venture in the restaurant business?”

  Lara smiled and, once again, shook her head.

  “Oh no,” she said, “it’s not as simple as that. Not by a long shot,” and continued adding more detail to complete the back story.

  “That’s really interesting,” Kaine admitted after allowing time for the information to sink in, “and it makes perfect sense. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything specific to help us take the bugger down?”

  “You know what, Ryan? I rather think I have.”

  “Go on.”

  Lara’s eyes shone, and her enthusiasm bubbled down the internet connection. “I found a rather important function on Sir Brandon’s social calendar. A formal, black tie affair he’s been organising for months. It’s one he can’t afford to cancel.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Kaine, his interest levels growing. “Do tell.”

  The moment she’d finished outlining the reason for the party and the nature of the invitees, Kaine agreed with her. The opening was too good to ignore.

  “That’s fantastic, Lara. You are wonderful,” Kaine said, rubbing his hands together.

  Lara beamed. “What? You have a cunning plan, Baldrick?”

  It was Kaine’s turn to smile. “I do indeed, Lady Blackadder, and I need you and Rollo to help make it work.”

  “Fire away.”

  She angled her mobile for Kaine to see both her and Rollo at the same time. Rollo had levered his huge frame out of the recliner and was sitting up, paying close attention to the conversation.

  “Tell me,” Kaine said, “how long will it take you to find the contact details of every former resident of Hardwicke Row?”

  “Let me see,” Lara said, tilting her head and raising a finger to her lips. “About ten seconds. I already have them on file.”

  “You do?”

  “We’ve not just been lying around soaking up the sun, you know. We’ve been working, too. What do you plan to do with the information?”

  “I’d like you guys to write a compelling letter, inviting all the residents to a meeting of the Hardwicke Row Residents Association.”

  Rollo spoke. “Is there such an association?”

  “Not yet,” Kaine answered, still smiling. “After sending the letters, you need to contract a firm of keen and willing solicitors. The more thrusting and ambitious, the better. And I need one that isn’t averse to working long hours and bending the rules of law a little.”

  Rollo laughed. “Doubt we’ll find a law firm that isn’t.”

  Lara shot Rollo an impatient look before turning back to the camera. “What on earth do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll also need a notary of a similar disposition.”

  “Ryan!”

  “You wanted a cunning plan. Pin back your ears.”

  By the time he’d finished explaining, Danny had risen from his dark pit and descended the stairs in nothing more than his boxers and a T-shirt. As he stood in the doorway office listening to the outline plan, an evil grin creased his unshaven face.

  “Nice one, sir. Love it.”

  Chapter 22

  Monday 26th October—Afternoon

  Recovery Ward—St Catherine’s on the Green

  Justina squatted in front of her babies and checked each in turn. They needed to look their best for their father.

  “Kora, Rena, please listen carefully,” she whispered to encourage them to follow her example. “Daddy is very much looking forward to seeing you, but you must be on your very best behaviour. He has a headache and we must be so, so quiet, yes?”

  Rena nodded unable to speak. Her head tilted up to look at the tall men. One wore a nicely pressed uniform, the other—the softly-spoken Irishman—stood up straight and looked splendid in his dark business suit. They stood either side of the door to Ore’s room, private bodyguards supplied by the wonderful Mr
Abernathy and funded by something called The 83 Memorial Trust.

  Kora’s eyes were filled with tears, and her lower lip trembled. She had not been in hospital since her birth and it clearly frightened her.

  “Don’t like this place, Mama. Smells funny.”

  “That is the disinfectant, moraki mou. It is to help Daddy get better.”

  Wiping her eyes with her fists, Kora pulled in her lower lip, and said, “In that case, I like it.”

  “Good girl. We can only stay for a short while. Children are not really allowed to into this ward, but the nice nurse with the red hair is giving us special permission. Remember”—she put her fingers to her lips and turned the imaginary key—“keep very quiet. Just give Daddy gentle kisses and tell him how much you love him. It will make him feel so much better.”

  Justina stood, took each girl by the hand, and looked at her sister through happy tears. “I’ll bring them back out in a moment, Arana. When Orestes learns of the letter, it will bring him such relief.”

  Arana returned her smile and kissed Justina on each cheek. “Go, tell Ore the good news. He has been worried sick for weeks. It will help.”

  #

  “Thanks, love. Seeing the girls was … brilliant,” Ore said, tears filling his dark brown eyes.

  He lay propped up in his bed by pillows and looking so much better since they moved him out of intensive care. His colour had improved and his eyes were less shot through with blood.

  “The doctors wouldn’t let them in before,” she said. “They have been desperate to see you. Rena wrote a poem … a prayer, really. And Kora has been colouring lots of pictures for you. I’ll bring them in tomorrow, to brighten the room.”

  “Thanks, love. That’ll be great.”

  “How are you?”

  He smiled bravely. “A slight headache, but … a lot better now.”

  A curl of his hair had worked its way out from beneath his bandage. Gently, she brushed it back from his forehead.