Kiss of Death

by Paul Finch

  ‘And who should turn up here?’ Marciano said. ‘Well, how about you … offering a cock-and-bull story that you want to join us and providing no intel at all about how you found your way to us.’

  Heck shrugged. ‘You want that intel, I told you what you need to do.’

  Again, Milena Misanyan regarded him for a long time. Her inscrutability was clearly her strength. With such a flawless poker face, he could easily understand how effective she was in the boardroom. In contrast, Marciano was turning twitchy. He muttered something to Rodent, who showed a grin full of broken, yellow teeth.

  ‘You said you didn’t come here to listen to a speech, Sergeant,’ Misanyan said. ‘Rude though you were, I have some sympathy with that viewpoint. The power of words has its limits. I am a firm believer that visuals are always more potent.’

  She pointed into the arena. As Heck watched and waited, Marciano slid up behind him.

  ‘You really came here looking for a fight, Heckenburg?’ he whispered. ‘Well … I think we can do a lot better than putting me and you in a room together. So, just keep watching … and be very careful you don’t get what you wish for.’

  Somewhere below, there was a metallic clunk.

  The arena was still empty, but Rodent was now at the camera, peering through its lens, making last-minute adjustments, before commencing to film.

  Another clunk followed, louder this time.

  Heck looked again as the door on the right side of the arena opened by use of some automated device. Nothing happened initially, but then a figure nervously emerged from it. It was a black guy, lean and well-muscled, but clearly young. He wore only a pair of badly stained undershorts, his gaze darting wildly around.

  ‘Hey, man … the fuck!’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘Where the fuck am I?’

  He directed the question upward, but he didn’t actually focus on the viewing gallery.

  ‘He can’t see us, in case you were wondering,’ Marciano said. ‘The lights are too bright.’

  ‘Of course,’ Heck replied. ‘Wouldn’t want him to recognise us and come looking to get even if he ever escapes, eh?’

  ‘No one ever escapes.’

  ‘Hey, man … hey, what the fuck, yeah! Come on, man … enough games. I’ve been in that room fucking ages.’

  The clunk of the other door abruptly silenced him.

  The kid, who simply had to be Spencer Taylor, turned sharply, standing ramrod-straight but visibly shivering as his two opponents idled into view. Just like the ones Heck had seen on the video footage, they were broad, muscular specimens, clad in tight black clothing, heavy-duty Kevlar and ballistics helmets. One wielded a machete in one hand, and a chain with a heavy padlock in the other. The second one carried a pickaxe handle with what looked like nine-inch nails hammered through it.

  ‘Don’t fucking do it, man!’ Taylor shouted, his voice rising a full octave.

  He pointed a shaking finger at them, but, rather irrationally, paced away from the weapons table even though he hadn’t yet armed himself.

  ‘A few of them do that,’ Marciano commented. ‘It’s like they think it’s a joke or a game … you know, as if there’s another door that might get them out of there if they could only find it. They soon realise the truth.’

  Taylor realised the truth when the opposing pair split up, the one with the chain and machete circling around the edge of the arena towards him, the other walking directly across.

  The kid backed away, still pointing.

  ‘Back off, yeah! Man, I’m warning you!’ His voice was now a falsetto shriek. ‘Get the fuck away from me!’

  Only when he had no choice – because so often, Heck realised, the human brain won’t grasp an awful truth until it absolutely must – he ran back to his own supply of weapons, selecting the heavy length of lead piping and throwing it to his shoulder.

  He lurched to his right, the twosome pivoting around, tracking him, drawing closer.

  ‘Get back … the fuck!’

  He made wild swings at nothing as he retreated, but soon reached the opposite side of the arena. Again, his opponents closed in.

  ‘So, how do we get them here?’ Heck asked, still hoping to sound like a man pitching for a job.

  ‘Surely you worked that out from the van?’ Marciano said.

  Another test, Heck realised.

  ‘What van?’

  ‘You can tell him,’ Misanyan put in. ‘He’s here now. He isn’t going anywhere else.’

  ‘Isoflurane,’ Marciano said. ‘Combined with nitrous oxide, it forms an anaesthetic gas. The scrotes think they’re being taken to safety. It’s even cosy in there. We’ve got a rug, an armchair.’

  ‘So, they settle down … and you gas them?’

  ‘Well, the van’s a sealed unit. It’s got to be, to make them feel safe. Once they’re in, there’s a ventilation system to provide airflow. Our driver hits a couple of buttons, and out they go for several hours. Makes it easy to load them into the boat when it arrives at the end of St Ronan’s quay. It’s usually late at night, so there’s no one looking anyway. Several of them have come armed, but letting them keep their guns is a good thing – lulls them into a false sense of security. And it’s hardly a problem if they’re out cold at the other end.’

  ‘Sounds incredibly simple,’ Heck said.

  ‘The best plans always are.’

  Down below, there was a whirlwind of contact, Taylor, to his opponents’ surprise, going on the offensive first, running at them, screaming, laying heavy blows on their pads before darting away again. At this early stage, his youthful agility aided him.

  ‘Whose idea was all this?’ Heck asked.

  Marciano chuckled. ‘Nothing happens anywhere in Milena’s empire unless it’s her will.’

  Heck glanced at the woman. ‘It’s an appropriate punishment,’ he said. ‘But I can’t see there’s much earning potential.’

  ‘Hobbies rarely offer that, Sergeant,’ she replied, though now she was barely listening.

  She watched the fight intently, a gleam in her eye. Her full lips seemed redder, moister.

  Heck wondered if it was possible that she’d licked them in anticipation.

  Down below, Taylor shrieked again as he lunged at his oppressors, scampering away immediately afterwards, but sliding on his sweaty bare feet, landing hard and rolling. They lurched after him, but he jumped up and managed to stagger out of reach. He was panting dramatically, his shoulders heaving, his body gleaming and wet.

  ‘This always the way it is?’ Heck asked Marciano.

  ‘You sound disgusted, Heck. Thought you wanted in.’

  ‘It’s a tough deal, when you see it in the flesh.’

  ‘At least we give them a fighting chance. Which, you know as well as I do, is more than they deserve.’

  There was another bout of contact, and again Taylor did better than many might have expected, mainly because he was nimble on his toes. It brought cackles of laughter and shouts of approval from somewhere overhead.

  Heck glanced up and saw several windows in high sections of the arched stone ceiling. They were filled with heads, as the rest of Misanyan’s Armenian thugs watched the action, slapping each other and bantering as the battle unfolded, wads of money changing hands between them.

  ‘Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves,’ he said.

  ‘Keeps the staff happy, as they say,’ Marciano replied. ‘The lads even have their own scorecards. Whoever disposes of his opponent the quickest and most efficiently gets most points … that sort of thing.’

  ‘And does this happen in other parts of the Misanyan empire?’

  ‘I have many homes, Sergeant,’ the woman answered, as she walked along the gantry to keep track of the fight below. ‘And I seek many home comforts.’

  He watched her, fascinated. She’d flushed in the cheek; her mouth was definitely wetter. She moved quickly, lithely, eagerly. It was verging on the sexual – now he understood why the recordings made of these gladiatorial events were n
ot for dissemination online. They were Milena Misanyan’s property. And hers alone.

  He turned to Marciano, and said quietly: ‘You realise she’s round the bend?’

  ‘Just watch the fight.’

  Down below, Taylor’s screams of rage and fear took on a new level of intensity. In his frantic dashing about, he’d landed awkwardly and twisted an ankle. He now had to limp in his efforts to escape. His opponents, meanwhile, stalked casually. Heck sensed that the entertainment was approaching its climax.

  ‘Isn’t much of a fight,’ he said.

  Misanyan turned and looked at him from beyond one of the spotlights. Half in shadow, her eyes gleamed eerily. ‘Maybe yours will be better.’

  ‘Yep.’ Heck nodded, deciding that now was as good a time as any. ‘Let’s find out, eh?’

  Marciano tensed, having read a change in their captive’s body language. But probably the last thing even he expected was for Heck to leap up onto the low barrier, grab hold of a cable, yank it loose from its bracket … and jump.

  Chapter 37

  With a clattering and banging, the cable tugged free along the parapet, three of the arc lights extinguishing amid showers of sparks. Heck had half hoped to abseil down to the arena, but in fact he fell the first sixteen feet, at which point his line pulled taut, and he slammed knees-first against the corrugated steel. The cable clearly wasn’t going to give any more, but there was sufficient of it for him to scramble down another six or seven feet, before dropping the final three and landing in a crouch.

  Despite the shouting overhead, the three combatants were still occupied with each other, Spencer Taylor giving as good as he was getting, swinging wildly with his length of pipe, the armoured killers circling him warily. They’d moved away towards the door on the left, allowing Heck to scamper to the metal table where the spare weapons were, and grab the first thing that came to hand: the claw hammer. Thus far, the figures on the viewing gallery had been slow to react. But now there was a gunshot, a single slug ricocheting from the floor close alongside him.

  This drew Taylor’s attention. He glanced around, registering Heck’s approach with bewilderment, his harrowed face beaded with sweat. His opponents, their ears muffled by their helmets, were slower on the uptake, but now they too realised that something was amiss. They retreated from him to look around, but the guy with the pickaxe handle wasn’t quick enough. Heck swung the claw hammer into his lower right side, catching him around the edge of his padding. The impact was massive, the brunt of it on the guy’s right kidney. He flopped down into a heap.

  Heck leapt over him to face the other one, shouting at Taylor: ‘I’m a cop! Use the door these bastards came through! Do it now!’

  But Taylor was too dumbfounded to respond, the remaining opponent, the one armed with a razor-edged machete and heavy, rust-caked padlock grasping the situation more quickly. He came at Heck, arms windmilling. Heck jumped backward, only just avoiding injury, but now Taylor re-engaged, aiming at the machete man with the lead pipe. He hit the side of the guy’s helmet with a full roundhouse swing, packing such force that the pipe broke, the helmet visibly warping out of shape, its visor catapulting off, exposing a face twisted by concussion. The guy’s machete dropped to the floor, his chain-and-lock swinging harmless. Heck threw a full-on punch, smacking him on the nose. The dazed gladiator landed on his back, arms outspread, blood exploding from his nostrils.

  ‘Quickly!’ Heck grabbed the kid and shoved him towards the door.

  He didn’t risk glancing up, though he didn’t doubt that the spectators would be taking aim again – and, on cue, gunfire cracked. With a deafening double PTCHUNG! two bullets caromed from the floor close by.

  ‘Go, go!’ Heck pushed the kid in front of him.

  Taylor slotted through the half-open door, Heck following. Another two shots rang out, but they were already in the connecting passage.

  This lower level of the keep was even more functional than those others Heck had seen, all steel and exposed rivets, lit by bare bulbs hooked along the ceiling with unlagged wiring. Both the arena and these adjacent passages had the air of temporary installations; no doubt, they’d all need to be removed again as the hotel approached completion.

  When another basic steel door came in sight, standing ajar, Taylor slid to a halt, his lean, black body running with sweat. He gazed at Heck, bug-eyed. Heck barged past him, throwing his shoulder at the heavy metal. It shifted slowly, grating across an uneven floor. On the other side, two rows of benches faced each other across a long, narrow chamber. Pegs ran along either wall, from which items of body armour hung: more helmets, Kevlar vests, knee and shoulder pads. In the middle of the room, there was a wire basket in which various weaponry was waiting: baseball bats and blag handles, hammers, chains, riding crops.

  There was also a man in there, seated on one of the benches.

  He wore black leather trousers with pads on the knees; he’d just put on a pair of steel-toed boots and was in the process of pulling the laces tight. His upper torso was naked, swarthy, thickly muscled and covered with military-type tattoos. But he wasn’t young. He had short, iron-grey hair and a lined, lived-in face.

  Clearly, he was a reserve gladiator, just in case the victim ever proved too much for the twosome sent out originally.

  But at present it was this third man who needed back-up.

  Though he lunged across the room to the basket, Heck intercepted, swinging the claw hammer down, smashing it side-on to the back of the guy’s head. He’d turned it sideways consciously, not wanting to punch a hole in the skull. But that was a mistake.

  The guy hit the floor face-down but retained consciousness sufficiently to roll away. Heck followed, grappling with him as he clambered back to his feet.

  ‘Taylor, get the fuck out!’ Heck shouted over his shoulder.

  They shifted violently across the room. Taylor dodged around them, but he wasn’t heading for the next door. Instead, he went for the basket, snatching out the first weapon that came to hand – a leather whip. It probably wasn’t the ideal choice, but he gave it everything he’d got, laying stroke after stroke across the Armenian’s exposed back, tiger-striping it with blood and rent tissue.

  Grunting in pain, the Armenian tried to break away from Heck. In so doing, he caught a thundering uppercut. His head hinged backward, and Heck was able to tear his hammer-hand loose, before driving it down into the guy’s jaw. Bone cracked, and the Armenian sagged to his knees, head lolling.

  Heck pushed him aside and blundered on.

  ‘Fu … fuck, man,’ Taylor jabbered, staggering after him. ‘What the fuck …?’

  Heck reached the door without responding.

  ‘I paid that blond bastard a hundred large … for this!’ Taylor chuntered, only semi-coherent, speaking as much to himself as his rescuer. ‘First time I met him, he spoke down a fucking pipe. Spooked the shit out of me. Thought he was a fucking ghost. But the next time, he showed himself. Gave me a postcode and everything … said there’d be a pick-up and that they’d take me to a port. He lied, man!’

  Heck couldn’t help thinking it funny that Taylor’s main gripe was the rip-off factor, not the starring role they’d given him in a real-life battle against impossible odds.

  ‘He fucking lied!’

  ‘You’re a bad lad, Spence,’ Heck said, ‘but I’m sorry to say that some are even worse than you.’

  Beyond the room, they ascended a steep flight of steps and entered another passage, this one made from stone again rather than metal; they were back in the older section of the keep. As they arrived here, they heard shouting and the rumble of running feet. It galvanised them into keeping moving, sending them scuttling through a high arch, at which point they felt a breeze on their faces and smelled the sea air.

  Trying to trace the origin of this, Heck headed left.

  They reached a junction – just as a figure came around it.

  It was Flat-Top.

  Heck’s claw hammer pummelled his teeth to sh
ards. There was no snickering laugh this time, as the hoodlum sank down, stupefied with pain, allowing Heck to grab him by his jug-handle ears and battering-ram his skull into the stonework on their left.

  They lumbered on, turning down a broad corridor clad in dust-sheeting. It terminated at a tall, narrow window with no glass in it and a bench underneath. Beyond that, Heck saw the night sky, but only through the upright poles of what had to be scaffolding. He climbed into the casement, a stiff, cool wind swirling round him.

  They appeared to be at the rear of the keep, which, by the looks of it, had been constructed on the island’s northern edge, because they were now looking out over the open sea, moonlight dancing on heaving, rolling waves. When Heck peered down through the scaffolding, it was a terrifying drop, a hundred feet or more to jagged rocks and exploding surf. He glanced upward. It was difficult to see how far the scaffolding ascended because, about fifteen feet above their heads, planking laid across horizontal bars provided a makeshift gantry for workmen – though that at least meant the gantry had to be accessible from other levels inside the building.

  ‘Can you climb?’ he asked Taylor.

  ‘Fuck, man! Which way?’

  ‘Take a guess, genius.’

  The kid still looked nonplussed.

  ‘We get up to that gantry, we can probably get back inside.’

  ‘And how the fuck’s that going to help us?’

  Heck clamped the back of Taylor’s neck and pulled him forward till they were chin-to-chin. ‘Help’s on its way, OK? Not that you bloody deserve it. But you’re my responsibility now. So, I’m going to try to keep you alive … and that isn’t going to happen if we end up in the sea. You seen those waves down there? Even if you can make it into the water without getting battered to shit on the rocks, you think you’ll still have enough in the tank to swim around the island and then make it back to shore?’