“Are you having a laugh?” Either one of the lads sent him in as a practical joke or the man was on something. Where the bloody hell did the bloke think they were, Hollywood? The runt looked as if he should have been at home playing computer games.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
Raymond wasn’t in the mood for this, and had things to do. Stepping around the desk, he approached his visitor, the size difference becoming more apparent with every step. No one came to his garage, the place that he had built from nothing, with that sort of attitude and got away with it. Even if he admitted that his guest had balls, he wasn’t going to keep them long.
“So, who’s your boss then?” He towered over the man, who met his gaze, considering him with what could only be described as mild disinterest, as if Raymond was something that he had just stepped in.
“You have had your chance, Mr. Biggs,” the visitor replied, smiling.
Despite Raymond’s age and experience the man’s reply riled him, and he raised a meaty ring-encrusted fist, fully intending to flatten the little shit’s face.
He was dead before he could finish the thought, let alone the action.
Blake raised his tumbler and savored the strong aroma of his scotch before downing it; Harry, who also enjoyed his drink, followed suit with a large helping of vodka.
They had arrived early and were settled into a comfortable spot at the rear of the garden, using the trees to give them a little respite from the scorching sun. From their position they could see and be seen, but people would have to make the effort to approach them if they wanted to talk, which was the way the two men liked it.
The funeral had been a gloomy affair and the wake was almost as bad. It was being held in the deceased’s home in Essex, a popular retreat for the petty criminals who had made enough money to afford a second home and didn’t mind the commute to London. The only entertainment was the half-cut widow who wandered around the garden with a bottomless glass of martini and wearing a layer of make-up as hard as her old man had once been.
“Any guesses who was behind it?” Blake asked quietly, whilst glancing around for another drink, but the waiters were elsewhere. He had just finished tying up a few loose ends in France when he had heard the news of Biggs’s demise from Harry, his friend and business partner in Britain.
“Buggered if I know,” his friend replied, studying his empty glass.
On the odd occasion that he’d had dealings with Raymond, Blake thought that the bloke could have been a bit of a bastard if crossed, but generally played by traditional rules: other than the refitting and re-homing of cars, the man appeared to have had little interest in the more violent types of income.
“Is there anybody else in his field of expertise?” He grabbed another tumbler when a waiter eventually passed their way.
“No one of any importance,” finding no vodka on the tray, Harry settled on a scotch.
It was true. Blake found it hard to imagine anyone with a reputation to keep would be so blatant as to do a hit in a garage full of ex-cons and hard cases. It took a certain confidence, or arrogance, that you didn’t generally find in your average chop shop owner.
“Harry, do me a favor will you, and keep your ears to the ground.”
The men who had stepped from the shadows were competent fighters and had pushed him to his limit. He had only lasted so long because his years of training had built a level of stamina and skill that his appearance didn’t support.
As it was they had beaten him unconscious and, when he came to, he was lying in the dust, his backpack and possessions gone and stripped of his clothes. The sky above was barely colored by the rising sun, and he shivered, feeling truly miserable. Checking to see if anything was broken, he staggered to his feet and considered his limited options: he would have to try and trek through this backwash, naked, and try to find the nearest British consulate.
“Congratulations my friend, you have shown endurance.”
Shaun found it hard to identify the source of the words as they appeared to drift from the shadows, but he narrowed it down to one corner of the yard, while covering himself with his hands.
“However,” a few seconds of silence followed, allowing him to make out the man who had spoken, camouflaged by shadows. “Endurance is one of many traits, all of which are useful and should be respected, but only as part of a whole.”
The speaker, a scrawny old and bald man, sat cross-legged on a reed mat in one corner of the courtyard, dressed in an intricately detailed Mao suit. Seeing that he had the other’s attention, he used a small teapot to fill two cups with what appeared to be green tea, the liquid steaming gently in the cold air.
“Every living thing on earth embodies a particular trait, be it strength, speed or agility, while others rely on cunning. Stay with me and I will teach you how to learn from these, to become one with the animal of your choice.” A delicate but long-fingered hand cradled a cup, lifting it to his thin lips in a smooth movement, before pausing.
“Of course, you may choose to leave.” The man offered, smiling broadly and revealing small but sharp teeth. He reminded Shaun of a reptile, but despite the man’s strange appearance, there was no alternative—he had spent his life savings and travelled the world for this moment.
“Teach me.”
Shaun woke up abruptly, instantly aware of the room and his surroundings, just as his training had taught him. But as always, in the first few moments of awareness, doubts troubled him; doubts he attributed to childhood traumas, a weakness that his subconscious clung to. He cleared his mind and focused his attention on preparing for tonight’s job, exercising and meditating, strengthening the bond with his guide.
After washing and shaving, he brushed his thin hair into something resembling a style before donning a new suit, clothing which ill fitted him but his employer insisted he wear. Checking himself in the mirror, he left his room. He had been in London for a week and a half and had stayed at a different hotel each night. He had access to enough money that there was little that he couldn’t buy, so he carried no baggage.
Tonight’s destination was in Peckham, an area of south London easily reached by underground but rarely visited by tourists: an area already blighted by unemployment and poor town planning, its high record of knife crime hardly helped attract visitors.
He hoped it would live up to its reputation.
“So what do we have then?” Blake was hunched over the table with an ordinance survey map of London and its surrounding areas spread out before him.
“Well, I ain’t got a bloody clue,” Harry replied. He had been reading from a list of a dozen names and locations, and together they had managed to sprinkle the map with a collection of pins that fell in no particular pattern. The murders were neither focused in one area nor spreading in any direction.
Blake lit a cigarette and took a heavy drag on it, before flicking ash into the foil container that held the remains of their takeaway. They had spent the evening above the Stag and Hounds, one of the pubs in Wapping that he had a hand in, and on the rare occasions that they managed to get together they let the flash stuff slip and relaxed like slobs. The room was hazy with cigarette smoke and stank of curry.
“First: we know that none of the targets had anything to do with each other, despite what the Old Bill have been telling the papers,” he picked up a beer can, “and they’ve all been relative small-fry, no one with real domination in any area of business.”
“So why knock them off?” Harry asked.
“I don’t know, possibly someone with a vendetta against petty criminals, or a tooled-up have-a-go hero? They’d have to know where all the targets were based.” Blake took a swig of his drink, studying the map again. “So it’s pretty obvious that someone with at least a little knowledge of the London crime world is involved, but we don’t know anyone who’d fit the bill.”
“Second: no one in London or the south of the country is making any moves, and you’re not aware of anyone from up north s
ticking his fingers into too many pies, so it could be someone from overseas.” Harry had probed his contacts in the police and also the underworld for information, but had had no success. Blake let Harry deal with most of his British business, and trusted him to judge whether his sources were bullshitting or not.
“Do you think someone is trying to set up a colony?” Harry followed.
“Possibly, but I don’t know of anyone in Europe, or elsewhere, who would bother to be this low key.” He finished his drink, and ran a hand over the coarse stubble on his head “It’s almost not worth the effort,” he sighed, shaking his head.
“Finally, none of the killings have involved shooters. It’s all been up close and personal, so maybe killing wasn’t the intention, maybe it just happened that way because our friends wouldn’t do what they were told.”
Both men paused for a while, considering the options. Blake could feel the thumping base of the music in pub below filtering through the floor, and wondered how anyone could listen to that shit.
“So who do you think it is then, Somalis? Triads?” Harry asked, picking up the remains of naan bread from his plate, before mopping up the last of his vindaloo. “They like their knives, don’t they?”
“Maybe, but something is bugging me,” Blake got to his feet and strolled over to the window, his heavy brow creased in thought. “The targets are so random. There’s almost no connection between them. It’s like whoever’s doing it is merely following orders.”
“What, the police or someone in power?” His friend asked.
“That’s what’s bothering me.”
“You will be given a list of people and where to visit them. They will have been sent a message.” His mentor had advised him. “Show no mercy for those who decline the offer. Co-existence is for the weak—such is the law of nature.”
The tower block peeked from between two of its fellows, using the night as cover, and the flat he had to visit was to be found on the fourth floor. Loitering in the car park for a few moments, Shaun timed his arrival with that of a portly, brat-harassed woman and caught the door before it shut. Although she glanced back, she didn’t stop him. Those who lived in these flats minded their own business, and no one visited this area of Millwall unless they had a reason to do so anyway.
Making his way to the correct floor, he approached the flat by following the corridor that ran along the outside of the building, wondering how he must look in the cameras his target had installed. The corridor gave a great view of both the car park and of anyone who walked down the corridor. In the distance he could see the floodlights of the football stadium and a cool breeze drifted across the city, cooling the sweat on his forehead a little.
Stopping before the door, he buzzed the intercom that had been installed on the doorframe, and waited.
“What is it you want?” Even through the crackle, the man’s words were obviously spoken with a thick Caribbean lilt.
“I would like to speak to Mrs. Clarke, please.”
“You must have the wrong place, as there aint no Mrs. Clarke here.”
“We both know Mrs Clarke is here. I have a proposal for her.” He was bored with the routine and eager to get on with it, as was his guide.
A few minutes later, the door clicked open and an imposing brute of a man stepped out of the dimly lit hallway, the hooded tracksuit top that he wore covering all but the man’s heavy jaw. After sizing his visitor up for a moment, he ushered Shaun into the flat’s hallway, before frisking him.
Afterwards, he was pushed into what once had been a living room but was now evidently a well-furbished waiting room; two expensively dressed and decorated men sat there, both slightly overweight and evidently uncomfortable with his intrusion. A plump black woman sat at the table before them, her dreadlocks bulking out her size and adding to her aura of dominance. Going by the collection of fine china adorning the table they could have been having evening tea, but the sullen teenage girl who sat next to her led him to conclude that something else was on the menu.
“Speak your piece and go, boy. Can’t you see I’m busy?” She waved a hand at the men opposite, her piggy eyes regarding him carefully. “Unless you want to…”
“Good evening, Mrs. Clarke,” he interrupted, aware of the doorman stepping up close behind him. “You have been sent a message, what is your choice?”
Silence greeted him as she weighed him up and the men around her tensed in their seats, silence which was only broken when the woman slowly doubled up in laughter, great rolling laughs that wobbled her chins and echoed around the flat for the next minute or so, until she had pulled herself together.
“I remember the message. Tell your boss to come here himself if he wants to say something to me.” She pulled out a tissue and dabbed at the corners of her eyes, still smiling.
“Mrs Clarke,” he grinned, stepping forward, “thank you.” She would be his first female kill.
“What happened?” Blake sat behind the wheel of his Audi, cracking open another fortune cookie. A scrawny teenage girl was draped in the passenger seat, a foot up on the dashboard and wearing a short skirt that revealed too much pale thigh for someone her age.
“This geezer comes into the room and starts mouthing off, the old bitch laughs and the next thing I know, he’s over the table and doing her in, innit?” She looked out of the window at the passing crowds of theatre goers, but he allowed her to carry on.
“He said that she should have got a message or something, but she weren’t having none of it.”
“What happened then?” He noted the bruises on her legs.
“What do you think? I legged it, thought I was going to end up like her. While he was doing his kung fu shit on the punters, I ran out the door.” She pulled out a stick of chewing gum and after unwrapping it, threw the foil wrapper onto the floor, despite Blake’s glare.
“Anything else?” Blake added, winding down the window a little to let in some fresh air. He’d caught up the girl two days later because she had walked into one of Harry’s pubs and spilled the beans to a mate who worked there. Luckily, this friend also knew that Harry had a warm reception and sympathetic wallet for any burning information that came to be of use.
“Small and ugly looking, bulgy eyes, and about my height; he was a right ugly fucker,” she paused as if thinking of something, “and he was really fast.”
“I bet he was.” Blake replied, handed her the other hundred quid that he’d promised and after slipping it inside her cheap trench coat, she stepped out onto the pavement, slamming the door behind her.
Shaking his head, he pulled out his mobile phone and dialed Harry’s number.
“I’m hearing from you more than I do my missus,” his friend laughed, “and you know how she nags. What now?”
“We need to ask around to see if anyone has received any unexpected messages. Tell them that if they have, they might be next on the list, and that they might want to contact me.”
“By ‘we’ you mean me? People will think I’m a right nutter.”
“Well, you’re the one with all the contacts, mate,” he stubbed out his cigarette.
“All right, I’ll speak to you soon. By the way, while I’m making a complete twat of myself, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to speak to Ashford.” Blake decided it was time to call on a specialist, just in case.
“I have chosen the Sun Spider.” He stated calmly.
“Interesting choice,” his host eyed him, his face impassive despite the twinkle in his eyes. “Most of my western students go for the Tiger, Bear or something else just as predictable.”
It was morning and they sat together drinking tea and eating small bowls of congee decorated with thin strips of meat, soaking up the rays of the sun peeking over the distant mountains. The courtyard was empty and he only saw the other men who lived there when he trained and fought with them.
“You are aware of its weaknesses?”
“I am, but its strengths outweigh them.”
His host had treated him well, but tested him and the other students every day with extensive martial arts training and a vicious sparring session each evening. As the days had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, it became a routine that he almost looked forward to, despite the aching muscles and bruises. His decade of training back in Britain had made him well capable of handling himself, but only now did he realise how naïve he’d been; focus could be found in the dojo or with an instructor, but experience came from constant beatings and the avoidance of such.
Later that night and after his training, his host entered his room, followed by another student who was carrying two cardboard boxes.
“This shall be your home for as long as is necessary. Each day you will continue with your training, each evening with your sparring.” The old man lit the incense, and a sweet but faintly sickening smell permeated the air; as it did his host removed various organic paraphernalia from one of the boxes, placing them around the room. Shaun noted hair and what appeared to be flakes of skin drifting to the ground beneath them.
“Watch and look after your guide, as well as his prey.” The old man counseled, lifting the lid of the other box, where it had been placed on his bedding. A few seconds later, a large Sun Spider crept out of its prison and edged onto Shaun’s blanket, its pedipalps feeling the air. “Feed him, study how he moves, waits and strikes at his target. Learn from him. Learn from his prey’s reactions.” He smiled, revealing his yellowed teeth. “When he eventually dies, as must everything, eat him. Consume his knowledge.”
“If I think you have learnt enough, you shall have your first mission.” His host finished his preparations and turned to face his student, before stepping forward with a speed that Shaun could never have imagined, close enough that he smell the other’s rancid breath.
“Remember: patience, learning and most importantly, my wishes are all that matters.”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 68