Operation:UNITY (John Steel series Book 2)

by p s syron-jones

  The room lights came on, causing her attacker to scream and rip the goggles from his face. Dazed and confused, the would-be rapist stumbled around blind from the shock of the sudden blaze of light.

  Tia shot up from the bed and landed a direct kick into the man’s crotch, yelling,“Bastard!” and screaming as the man dropped to his knees holding his crushed testicles.

  She then grabbed the small stool from the dresser and was about to smash it across the man’s head when John Steel grabbed it from her hands and pulled her away from him.

  “Tia,” he instructed. “Go to the restroom now and cool off. We want him alive so we can figure out what’s going on.” He gestured for her to go.

  The investigator turned just as the man rose from the floor, the heavy bladed knife clutched in his hand, grinning demonically.

  Tia’s attacker was an average-sized man with a shaven head, who was covered with tattoos. His face was long with thick lips and ill-kempt yellowing teeth. On his long chin, there was a ginger goatee beard. His nose was flat, and appeared to have been broken several times, perhaps as a result of too many fights.

  “I am going to cut you up,” he began, “but I won’t kill you till after you have watched me pleasure the girl.” He smirked.

  Steel didn’t have time for these games—he just wanted answers.

  The beast-like man lunged forwards swinging the blade, hoping to stab his enemy, but Steel was too fast and just leapt backwards. Then he brought down a smashing blow to the man’s face. The Scotsman stepped backwards, sensing that his adversary was no average guy. He reached in to his army-style jacket and pulled out a taser gun.

  “Now then, pretty boy, let’s see how you dance, shall we?”

  Blood streamed from the man’s nose. He crouched slightly, finding his balance for the next strike, his knife held tightly in a vice-like grip, the knuckles on his large hands white. Then he spun, the blade slicing the air, almost slicing Steel’s torso. But Steel had stepped backwards, pre-empting the attack. As John Steel came back, he placed a well-aimed kick to the man’s right knee, causing him to buckle. Steel watched and assessed what the man would do next. Rising from the floor, he stared at Steel and leered at him.

  “You know it’s funny, but no one has ever given me this much trouble before. It’ll almost be a shame to kill you, but orders are orders I suppose.”

  The assassin lunged with the taser, hoping to catch a body part to immobilize his enemy. Grabbing Tia’s leather jacket from a coat rack, John threw it over the taser arm, then spun round, presenting his back to the assailant. As the man rushed in, Steel grabbed the wrist of the man’s now outstretched blade arm, and with a quick twist, broke the man's wrist. There was a loud sickly snap like a tree branch breaking, and the blade fell to the ground. In the same motion Steel brought his head back, using his skull to smash the man in the face. There was a muffled cry as the assassin stumbled backwards and fell over the bed. Steel quickly turned, ready for what was to come.

  “Okay,” John demanded. “Who do you work for and what do you want?”

  The assassin struggled to get to his feet, blood flowing freely from his mouth and nose. Steel repeated his question, his eyes fixed firmly on the broken man who just glared and raised his middle finger of his left hand, and then jumped off the balcony into the night.

  They both stood and stared at the open balcony door.

  “Well,” Steel said, walking over and closing it. There, on the glass was a bloody hand-print—Steel took out his cell phone and photographed it.

  “Well, Mr. Black?” she asked, "What do you mean "well?”" her anger grew.

  “Well, how did that maniac get into my room?.... Come to think about it, how the hell did YOU get into my room?”

  He smiled wearily as he sat on the bed, wondering how long the explanations were going to take.

  “Or maybe,” she continued to probe, “well, how did you learn to fight like that?”

  Steel stood and kissed her—it was the most expedient way to shut her up. He felt her melt in his arms as he pulled her close, until they drew away slowly, still looking in one another’s eyes.

  “Actually what I was going to say was, well I could do with a drink. Coming?” Steel asked her, brushing himself off as he headed for the door.

  “How about if I see you in the Irish bar in ten minutes?” He smiled as though nothing had happened.

  Tia stood and watched him leave, her mouth open, stunned at his coolness—or was it coldness? Who was this man, she wondered, who had just fought an assassin, watched the guy jump out of the window and then calmly walked out of the room as if it was a normal day? She did not know whether to be impressed or scared.

  In the elevator Steel sent a text to his friend Detective Tooms, of NYPD. He was sending the picture of the print he’d taken, along with a brief explanation of why he was sending it. He was aware that if he sent it to his one-time girlfriend Sam McCall, she might take her time opening it or just delete it without opening it if she recognized his caller ID, as an act of petulance. Things were definitely heating up and one way or another he was now a part of the action. This was the right ship and he had to prevent whatever was planned to happen.

  TEN

  It was late, and by the time Steel had arrived at the Irish Bar most of the customers had left. Only a few hangers on remained, nestled in corners, perched on bar stools holding onto glasses and bottles that they clearly been nursing for some time. The air was heavy with the smell of stale beer and body odour. Years before, places like this would have been fogged with cigarette smoke and loud music from live bands of a 70s-style jukebox, but times changed—some things changed for the better, others for the worse.

  The investigator found a booth in a far corner and sat with his back to the far wall, next to the large window which was mostly covered by the bar’s logo. He was well positioned to look out, yet keep out of sight of any passers-by, what’s more he had a perfect view of the entrance. In the background, Irish music played softly from the overhead speakers mounted in the corners, a soft but sporty melody: the sort of tune that got on your brain and made you tap your feet without realising it.

  As he watched people come and go, a barmaid came over. She was tall and pretty, in fact Steel couldn’t quite believe how pretty she was. Her long blonde hair was caught tight in a ponytail, and her eyes were a piercing blue. She smiled beguilingly, but when she spoke, her high pitched, toneless voice shattered the goddess illusion. He ordered a double Johnnie Walker Red and watched her walk away back to the bar. With her exquisite figure she could have been a model—but not for stylish clothing, she was more suited to men’s girly magazines. Steel shook his head in disbelief at the incongruity of her personality and her appearance and grinned to himself.

  He looked up at the door to see Jonathan Grant, the man he’d encountered yesterday, rush in looking excited, his head darting all over, obviously searching for someone, perhaps him. His acquaintance had a look of relief on his face as he saw Steel sitting in the corner booth; he rushed over and slid onto the cushioned seat opposite the man he’d been following.

  “Good evening, Mr Grant,” John Steel broke the ice.

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Grant looked up at the waitress as she brought Steel his drink. She returned his gaze, but her smile lost some of its pizzazz.

  “Hi,” she said to him. “What can I get you?”

  The newcomer pointed to Steel’s glass. “I’ll have the same as him, please.”

  She nodded, still smiling, and both men watched her hip-swaying walk back to the bar.

  “Wow.” Grant kept his gaze on the pretty blonde while Steel waited patiently for him to snap out of his reverie and say why he was there.

  “Grant, Grant!” Steel snapped, tapping his glass on the table to bringing him back down to earth.

  “What? Oh yeah.” Grant leaned closer. “I heard a whisper that there was some trouble last night down in the engine room.” He sat back as the waitres
s brought his drink. As she set it down she paid him scant attention, apparently mesmerized by the more attractive man.

  “Thank you.” Grant’s voice was just below a shout but slightly louder than normal

  “You’re welcome, sir.” She turned and walked away, her hips moving sensuously.

  “What is it with you and women anyway?” Grant demanded.

  Steel leaned back and cracked a smile. He was reminded of similar remarks made by his Jamaican friend, Darius.

  “So, you mentioned some trouble downstairs?” John said.

  Grant leaned in closer again after looking round to check that no one could hear him.

  “It seems that some poor son-of-a-bitch fell off the upper gantry and hung himself.” His eyes were alive with excitement as he recounted the incident.

  Steel wondered if the other man had any idea that the poor kid had been tortured first, and the apparent hanging was just a cover-up.

  “Accidents do happen,” Steel said almost coldly as he took a sip from the whisky. The strong aroma of the malt tickled his nose and the liquid had a pleasant warmth as he held it in his mouth before letting it slowly flow down his throat. As he placed it down onto the table, he spun the glass slowly between his fingers.

  “I don’t believe it was an accident,” Grant commented.

  Steel looked up at Grant, moving just his eyes.

  “Word is that the engineer went to see the captain that day to deliver something,” Steel’s companion continued.

  “And nobody in the lower decks saw him again after that.” Grant sat back and took a large mouthful of the golden liquid; his eyes bulged at the burning sensation in his mouth.

  “If you’re going to spit it out, make sure it’s in the glass, will you?” Steel told him. “Thanks.” He watched as Grant spat into the glass and pushed it away from him.

  “So apart from finding out that you don’t like whisky, what else have you learnt?” Steel asked, waving the waitress over to give him some water. She placed the glass of still water in front of Grant and took away his drink.

  “Any ideas what it was that the dead man was bringing to the captain that day?”

  Grant shook his head as he drank.

  “No, not a clue. But he was seen coming back. He just didn’t reach the lower decks.”

  Grant could sense that something was on Steel’s mind

  “Listen, Mr Grant—Jonathan—if I was to ask you to stop investigating this and let me handle it, would you leave it alone?” Steel felt foolish asking, as he already knew what the answer would be; however, he felt that he had to try. Grant looked at Steel suspiciously for a second.

  “Why would you want me to stop?” Grant words were slow and cautious, almost afraid that he had confided in the wrong person. “Why? Has something happened?”

  Steel’s facial features didn’t move. It was a deadly poker face, but Grant perceived this more as concern, but concern for what he had no idea.

  “Jonathan, all I can surmise at the moment is the feeling that if you continue with this investigation you may come to some harm.”

  Grant thought for a moment. He could read something in Steel’s words. He could tell Steel knew more, probably a lot more than what he did, but his concern was apparently for his wellbeing.

  “I am afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Black. You see, I know there is a story here and I am going to find it with or without you.”

  Grant’s words gratified the other man and he nodded in obvious admiration for Grant’s decision, even though he considered it to be a foolish one. The fact was that Steel knew he would have done the exact same thing if the roles had been reversed.

  “Very well,” John Steel said. “We are to make port in Vigo, Spain, tomorrow. We need to know if anything or anyone new comes aboard.”

  Jonathan Grant looked at his new acquaintance as he sat back in the seat of the booth, causing the fake leather to creak.

  “So what information are you not sharing with me, Mr. Black?”

  Steel stared back and took a sip from his drink.

  “Jonathan, when I find out what is going on I promise to sit down and tell you the whole damn story. But for now I think it’s better if I keep what I know to myself.” He looked over to the elevators and saw Tia step out into the almost empty promenade.

  “But right now I would like you to leave.”

  Grant’s face became a mask of suspicion and contempt.

  “Why? Have you got a meeting with someone special?” Grant leaned back, deliberately making himself comfortable in defiance of Steel’s request for him to go.

  “Well, I sincerely hope I am someone special!”

  Grant looked up in surprise to find Tia May standing next to him. His jaw dropped at the entrancing sight of the tight jeans and baggy T-shirt clinging to her curves. She seemed to revel in the male attention focused in her direction

  “May I?” Her voice was soft and gentle, leaving Grant goggle-eyed and confused.

  Steel tapped the table with his glass, shocking the other man out of his daydream.

  “What did you say?” Grant waffled.

  “Oh, er, sorry.” He got up from his seat so that she could sit down, his face glowing with embarrassment.

  “How did you two meet?” Grant asked, completely gob-smacked by the whole incident.

  “Oh, I just helped her take some garbage out once,” Steel replied.

  “That’s all.”

  Tia smiled as she watched Grant disappear, shaking his head in bemusement.

  The next morning as the sun cast a pleasing burnt orange glow across the New York City skyline, McCall made her way to the electrical contractors company where Donald Major had worked. The multi-storey building’s white walls were turned a fiery orange as they caught the new day’s sun. The structure had a feeling of newness about it: large glass windows were housed in big concrete plate walls encased by a number of small bushes and silver birches. Sam McCall pulled up to the main gate where a security guard came out of a small booth. The guard walked up to her as she wound down the window of her faded blue ’66 Ford Mustang.

  “Hi, can I help you, Miss?” He was a jolly, large-framed African-American man with gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

  McCall raised her badge to the window.

  “I am her to see Mr Brown, the CEO.” The guard’s good humoured face lit up.

  “Go straight in, Miss.” He raised a large thick arm and pointed to a parking lot to the left of the main building

  “You can leave your vehicle there. At the main building, you can’t miss the entrance.”

  McCall thanked him and drove up, slowing down for the procession of speed bumps.

  The parking lot was large and sectioned off alphabetically. Small shields stood at the entrances, each a different colour with a letter, for visitors’ convenience. As McCall drove past the mass of vehicles, she noted that it catered mainly for the thousand workers as well as the occasional visitor. She parked in a shady spot underneath a small ash tree in one of the middle sections of the lot where only a few vehicles stood. She made a note of the sign:

  Blue F.

  She entered the building through automatic turnstile doors. Inside, the entrance area was large and bright with a white marble-tiled floor. Straight in front of her, in the back wall, were three elevator doors, their polished surfaces reflecting the morning sun.

  There was a long white marble reception desk to the far right and to the left a polished metal staircase leading to the first-floor balcony. McCall approached a tall woman who sat behind the front desk, her heels making an echoing tap, tap, tap as she made her way across the stone tiled floor. The receptionist’s black hair was tied up at the back in a chignon style, exposing her slightly pale skin. She wore a tight-fitting black suit bearing the company logo, a black tie and a white blouse.

  The woman, who appeared to be in her late twenties, saw McCall as she approached, and her smile revealed sparkling white teeth. McCall looked round at the other, similarly
dressed women who casually wandered around, reflecting that they were all stunningly attractive. Was this a publicity trick to attract more customers? she wondered. The detective smiled to herself, feeling she was in a Robert Palmer video (the pop singer used to specialize in having beautiful models in his videos).

  “Hi, welcome to The Tyler Corporation, how can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice was soft and sultry, and McCall thanked God that her two male colleagues were not with her: she could just imagine their goofy faces, as they would have entered the reception area, laughing and acting like schoolkids.

  The female detective raised her badge, that was hooked neatly on to her writing folder.“Hello, Ma’am. I am Detective McCall from Homicide, and I would like to speak to Mr. Brown,” she said.

  The woman raised an eyebrow and McCall could tell that this was likely to be one of her most interesting working days ever. She picked up the chromed receiver on the cordless phone and pressed a button on the touch screen. Sam McCall could hear it ring a couple of times before a female voice answered. The receptionist appraised her colleague about the situation, and after a couple of mumbled replies the woman placed down the receiver and turned to McCall.

  “Okay, Detective, if you take the centre elevator up to the third floor, from there, turn left, and then follow it to the end of the corridor. At reception you will find Dawn, Mr Brown’s PA.”

  McCall thanked her and set off for the elevator.

  The third floor was full of offices behind long glass walls with a ‘rainfall’ effect etched into the thick glazing. The furniture was of dark wood, and the ceiling had small square down-lights that reflected on the sand-coloured stone floor. At the bottom of a long corridor of glass walls were two large glazed doors emblazoned with the company logo, and a large wooden desk sat neatly on a red-carpeted floor with a perfect view down to the elevators. Using the polished brass handle, McCall pushed one of the doors open and approached the woman behind the desk. Mr Brown’s PA appeared to be older than most of the other female staff members: the detective judged her to be in her late forties.