Kaine took the Ruger, unloaded it, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Not the most accurate or reliable weapon ever made, but deadly enough at close quarters.
Sir Brandon raised his hands again, slowly. “H-How?”
“How did I get the better of Brutus and his men?”
He nodded.
“Doesn’t really matter, does it? What you really need to know is what I want and how are you going to get out of this alive. Am I right?”
He nodded again and another drop of sweat fell from his chin.
“That’s really simple,” Kaine said, checking his watch—two minutes before Chef Christie would phone the police and a few more before they arrived, “You and I are going on a little drive.”
Sir Brandon stiffened. His mouth opened. A strangled sound emerged, but no words.
“Don’t fret, old chap,” Kaine said. “You have a chance to survive the night.”
“W-Where are you taking me?”
“Not far.”
“Oh, God. You’re going to kill me?”
“Isn’t that what you ordered Brutus to do to me?”
“I have money. I-I can pay you. P-Please don’t …”
“It’s nothing less than you deserve, but money might help persuade me to let you live. We’ll see.”
Behind the fear and the tears, the light of hope shone in the man’s pale eyes.”
“Anything,” he whimpered. “I-I’ll pay anything.”
Yes, you will.
The image of two little girls screaming and their father lying face down in his own blood returned to stoke the fire of Kaine’s anger. He barely retained control. For two pennies, Kaine would have pistol-whipped the pitiful creature with his own little gun. But no, Kaine was better than that. His damned code wouldn’t allow him to beat a helpless old man into a pulp. Besides, his plan required Sir Brandon to remain unmarked and coherent, and in full possession of all his teeth and all his faculties.
“You can lower your arms now, but keep them in view, there’s a good chap.” He reinforced his command by twitching the Glock.
Sir Brandon dropped his hands to the table and rattled out an audible sigh.
“Don’t relax too much, old sport. Your writing hand’s going to be doing a load of work over the few hours.”
“What?”
“I’ll explain when we reach our destination. Now, up you get. Move smoothly and quietly to the exit where your carriage awaits.”
#
Bowling Road was as quiet as Kaine had seen it. A few private cars and taxis rolled along each carriageway, headlights dipped, and even the traffic lights cooperated by changing to green when needed.
Behind the wheel, Slim—built like a barn and the owner of a right cross powerful enough to fell a small oak—stopped the Range Rover alongside Bistro Mykonos’ boarded up window. It was an ironic gesture not lost on Kaine or the prisoner at his side.
“Oh, God,” Sir Brandon said the moment he recognised the place.
The window’s destruction marked the start of Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy’s fall from grace, and it was about to mark the end of BHCL as a going concern. That the story would conclude at the Bistro within the following day or so was also fitting.
“Do the words ‘chickens’ and ‘roost’ come to mind?”
Cleverly, Sir Brandon chose not to respond to Kaine’s rhetorical question.
Kaine’s old Astra was already parked on the street, courtesy of a fast-driving Danny, and the Bistro’s lights bathed the pavement in a cheery yellow glow.
Slim killed the engine and yanked on the hand brake. He turned to face Kaine, as did Fat Larry in the front passenger seat. Both grinned like hard-working men about to receive their year-end bonuses—which was exactly the case.
“Ready to meet your audience?” Kaine asked.
Sir Brandon, wrists bound together with a thick cable tie, turned to Kaine, chin trembling. “What do you want from me?”
Kaine smiled ever so politely. “Just your signature on some contracts. Nothing onerous, I can assure you. Now, let’s go and have ourselves an Inaugural Meeting.”
Sir Brandon edged away, shrinking back into his seat.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
Kaine pocketed his Glock, grabbed hold of a torn shoulder pad, and dragged the reluctant soon-to-be former-millionaire from the car. With Slim and Fat Larry acting as a defensive rear guard, he pushed their reluctant captive through Bistro Mykonos’ front door.
Chapter 27
Wednesday 28th October—Evening
Bistro Mykonos, London
The Bistro was packed. Angry-looking men and women occupied each chair and, at the back of the room, more people had been forced to stand. Kaine pushed a resisting Sir Brandon further into the dining room and held him still, a trophy on display. Every face turned to the front and the babble subsided.
Brendon Finchley, a heavy-set man at the table nearest the broken window stood, making his presence felt immediately. He had unruly white hair, an argumentative beard, a huge beer belly, and his nose held the colour of sundried tomatoes. Kaine had identified him as a natural leader of the former residents and leaseholders of Hardwicke Row and had spent most of the morning detailing his proposals in advance. After asking a number of searching questions, some of which Kaine was unwilling or unable to answer, Finchley announced himself as a fully-fledged supporter of the programme.
“Mr Finchley,” Kaine said to the publican and turning to the others, “ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming at such short notice.”
The publican began his performance with a sneer, and he pointed at Sir Brandon. “This him? Is this the man responsible?”
For the second time that night, Kaine found himself introducing Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy to an audience, only this one comprised innocent victims, not villainous and greedy pond scum.
A man at the back called into question Sir Brandon’s heritage. Others joined in. A woman at a table next to the kitchen offered to remove his privates with a pair of rusty scissors. Kaine allowed them to vent for a few minutes before raising a hand for silence, but it took a few moments for the crowd to quieten. Without careful handling, they could easily have degenerated into a mob.
Sir Brandon backed towards the door but, with a nod from Kaine, Fat Larry and Slim stepped forward in unison and stood on either flank.
Kaine moved to one side to give the crowd a clearer view of the figure of hate. He allowed himself a few moments to take in the gathering. The Smithson family—wife, son, and two teenage daughters—filled a table in the middle. They’d owned the grocery store until Alfie Lovejoy and Tugboat paid a visit one weekend and put Mr Smithson in hospital with a broken leg. At another table, the Howdens—an elderly couple in failing health—threw furious glares at Sir Brandon. They’d been forced out of their home on the top floor of the Row after an arson attack left them terrified. Kaine’s gaze wandered over faces that told a dozen stories, each of them minor in the great scheme of things, but life-changing to the individuals concerned.
The only family missing from the room was the one Kaine had come to help, the Constantines. But they were safe and under protective guard. Their lives and livelihood would be restored, even without their presence. He would see to that.
Kaine broke the simmering, festering near-silence. “I’m guessing you’d all like to see this individual”—he jerked a thumb at a cowering Sir Brandon—“strung up by his man parts and dangling from the nearest bridge?”
Some in the crowd cheered, others nodded. One shouted, “Too bloody easy on him!”
“I agree entirely, and while you would gain some momentary satisfaction, it wouldn’t return you to your homes, or earn you any much-needed compensation.”
“Your letter said we’d learn something to our advantage,” Finchley shouted above the growing noise of dissention. “That’s why we’re all here, but I’m happy to string that bastard up right now.”
The crowd cheered.
K
aine held up his hand again and shouted, “I fully understand, but if you give me a few more minutes of your time, I have a much better alternative.”
Finchley took a moment before taking over Kaine’s role of crowd control. “Okay, settle down you lot. Let’s hear what he came to tell us.”
He gave Kaine a surreptitious wink and handed him the floor once again.
Kaine signalled to Danny, who’d been in the kitchen, standing guard by the rear door. “Let them in now, please.”
Danny opened the door and stood aside to allow three men and two women to enter. Each wore a dark suit and carried a fat briefcase. They were business-like, serious-looking, and stopped before entering the dining area.
As a body, the audience turned to study the newcomers.
Kaine spoke up. “Let me introduce you to the four senior partners of Prescott, Blaire, Smith, and Brown, legal representatives to the recently formed Hardwicke Row Residents’ Association. The man at the back is Mr Owen Jenkins.” A bookish sixty-something man in a dark suit offered a shy smile to no one in particular.
Kaine took his notes from his pocket and read aloud. “Mr Jenkins is a Notary Public. Which means, he is a legally appointed officer of the Court whose role is to certify any legal documents signed tonight. Once he has testified to the validity of said documents, officials in any country will accept them in good faith.”
A muted rumble from the group suggested they were impressed, but still confused.
Kaine returned his notes to his pocket and continued. “In those briefcases are contracts made out to each resident of the Row. While I encourage you to read the paperwork, the gist is pretty simple. Each of you will get your homes and businesses back—if that’s what you want. You’ll also receive five times the highest offer made by BHCL to compensate you for the inconvenience they caused. Furthermore, the building renovations will continue until the work is completed to a high standard and will be supervised by a firm of architects of your choice. As for those people not here at the moment due to illness or injury—our hosts, the Constantines, for example—we have obtained their powers of attorney. I promise you, no one will lose out.”
He paused to let the information sink in before hitting them with the knockout blow.
“Finally,” he said, “by the end of next week, Banner-Hardy Construction Limited, will make a deposit of fifteen million pounds into the Association’s bank account—”
A gasp cut into Kaine’s announcement. Sir Brandon groaned and Fat Larry and Slim had to stop him from sinking to his knees.
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I’m completely serious,” Kaine said, unable to stop himself from smiling. “The Association will take over the running of the Row, but you’ll own it. There’s a whole lot more in the contracts about freehold and leasehold and annual maintenance fees and Council taxes, and so on, but the solicitors will take you through all that. They will remain here for as long as is necessary, and their time during this process will be paid for by BHCL.”
Kaine paused and allowed silence to bleed into the room. Eventually, the quiet was broken only by the London traffic and Sir Brandon’s laboured breathing.
“Oh, and before I forget,” he said, “even if it takes all night and all of tomorrow, Sir Brandon will be here to sign the documents. So, take your time and help yourselves to the refreshments we’ve laid on. I don’t want anyone to rush into anything. Now, before we continue, any questions?”
“Where do I sign?” a wag shouted, laughing, seemingly in disbelief.
Another man cheered and the room filled with applause, whistles, and table thumping.
Kaine took two paces towards the doorway and locked eyes with a snivelling Sir Brandon. “Do you have a problem with signing any of those contracts?” he asked, making sure even the people in the back could hear.
The beaten man swallowed.
“I-I …”
“Last chance, Sir Brandon,” Kaine said, leaning closer and dropping into a whisper. He patted the pocket containing the Glock. “You wouldn’t want me to choose my preferred option. It involves dragging you away from here and introducing you to the present Brutus gave me before I crushed his skull.”
“You crushed … No, no. I’ll … sign anything you want. Just don’t hurt me, please.”
“Louder, please.”
Sir Brandon coughed and shouted, “I’ll sign,” in a dry, creaky voice.
Kaine patted the man’s damp cheek. “And don’t think you’ll be able to renege on the deal later. I’ve had my team of solicitors working on those contracts for days. They are completely watertight. And, to keep you totally ‘honest’, the information on Lovejoy’s computer is enough to put you away for multiple counts of murder. Try to wriggle out of any one of those agreements and I’ll send the files to the National Crime Agency.”
Sir Brandon straightened. He blinked and stared into Kaine’s eyes. “You mean … you mean the police aren’t involved yet?”
“No, not yet,” Kaine answered. “The police and I don’t really get along. So, just to make sure you understand, I’ll keep hold of the files to make sure you keep to your part of the bargain.”
The man who’d aged ten years in a single evening raised a shaky hand to wipe his forehead. “Thank God. May I sit down, please?”
“In a minute. Before you relax, there’s one thing you can do for me personally,” Kaine said, gently.
Sir Brandon started shaking again. “What? Oh, God, what now?”
“Nothing serious. It’s just that my men and I incurred some expenses cleaning up your mess. I’ll need you to transfer some funds into our offshore account.”
The man frowned and shook his head as though he needed to clear out his ears. “Y-You’re blackmailing me? For money?”
Kaine scratched the top of his head. “Not at all. I prefer to call it my organisation’s consultancy fee. But don’t worry, I’m not greedy. Seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds ought to cover it if you transfer it before midnight. One second later and the fee doubles.” He checked his watch. “You have forty minutes.”
“You’re mad,” Sir Brandon spluttered. “I don’t have that amount of cash to hand.”
“Really?” Kaine said, dropping a heavy hand on the liar’s shoulder. “What about your instant access account in the Federal Bank of Liege? As of three o’clock this afternoon, your available funds were a smidge over one and a half million.”
“Y-You know about that account?”
Kaine drove his thumb into a pressure point on the man’s shoulder hard enough to make him squeal. “I know everything about you, Sir Brandon. I could demand it all but, unlike you, I’m not a greedy man. And you’ll need some money for legal costs, I imagine.”
Sir Brandon nodded. “Okay, okay. Please stop.”
Kaine relaxed his grip. “Excellent, I knew you’d see sense. See that man in the kitchen?” He pointed to Danny. “He has a tablet set up with the account details. All it needs are your authorisation codes and your thumbprint. To be honest, we don’t even need the codes and I could hack off your thumb—”
“No, please. I’ll do it. But, what’s to stop you coming back for more?”
“Nothing, old chap. But, here’s my promise. This is a one-time only deal.” He patted the older man’s cheek once more, and added, “You can trust me. I’m a man of my word.”
Kaine nodded to Fat Larry, said, “Take him to the kitchen. He’s seen the light,” and stood back. He’d had more than enough close contact with the slippery bastard for one night.
Fat Larry and Slim pushed Sir Brandon forward, but he struggled against them and turned to face Kaine.
“Who are you?”
Kaine smiled through his annoyance. “My name doesn’t matter.”
“But why are you doing this to me?” he asked, sounding every bit the plaintive and whiny child.
Kaine finally lost his cool. He grabbed the pig by the lapel and drove him face-first into the weatherboard panel. Sir Brandon howled and t
he room behind them fell to deathly silence.
“This is why, you mealy-mouthed piece of filth,” Kaine yelled. “Anyone prepared to do this to an innocent family deserves punishment and gets my undivided attention. Just be happy there’s no broken glass left in the pane or I’d mash your face into it. Now get him out of my sight.”
He threw the shaken man back to his guards, who hurried the quivering wretch towards Danny. The members of the recently inaugurated Hardwicke Row Residents’ Association burst into another round of spontaneous applause. Brendon Finchley clapped Kaine firmly on the back and raised Kaine’s arm, forcing him to acknowledge their plaudits.
Kaine lowered his head. If they knew who he really was, they’d be baying for his blood along with Sir Brandon’s.
Chapter 28
Thursday 29th October—Evening
The English Channel
According to the notice on the Brittany Ferries’ information desk, the overnight crossing from Portsmouth to St Malo was one of the roughest on record. Had the conditions been much worse, the sailing would have been cancelled. During the trip, even the experienced crew struggled to keep upright while performing the most routine of tasks.
Most of the passengers spent the journey with faces buried in sick bags, leaving the full-service restaurant empty apart from the two ravenous former SBS men. They took their time over a late dinner, neither saying much and both savouring the food and the relaxed atmosphere after a job well done.
Kaine pushed away his empty plate and swirled the Fitou, enjoying the way the red wine clung to the inside of the glass. His palate wasn’t sophisticated enough to make out the ‘ripe plum and peppery spice’ promised on the label, but the wine was a first rate accompaniment to the roast lamb, Duchess potatoes, and green beans.
Across the table, Danny vacuumed up his second helping of steak and frites, washed down with a third bottle of German lager.
“Grub’s good here, Captain,” he said. “The chef must be a proper sailor. Remember that weak-kneed clown in the galley on HMS Fabricant? Bugger couldn’t boil an egg unless the sea was flat calm.”
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 23