She jumped back as one slid open under her touch and then moved closer and peered inside.
Dan joined her, removed one of the guns from its cushioned housing, and then swept his hand over another drawer and picked out two full clips of ammunition.
He tucked the gun into his waistband, his eyes meeting Sarah’s.
‘I can’t do this without a weapon,’ he said.
‘Where’s yours?’
‘They won’t let me carry until I pass a psych evaluation next week.’
Sarah frowned. ‘Psych evaluation?’
‘More bullshit. Don’t worry about it.’
Dan moved round the room, switching on computers as a series of screens flickered to life, displaying eight different views of the street outside.
‘You’ve got your own CCTV network?’ Sarah moved closer to the screens, her arms across her chest as her gaze followed a taxi from the end of the street to a house beyond Dan’s.
He turned to her and grinned. ‘When we started, we had the basics. This is something I’ve been adding to each time I’ve been back,’ he explained. ‘For emergencies.’
‘Does David know about this?’
‘Sort of. Like I said, I wanted this for emergencies,’ he said. ‘Everyone needs a back-up plan, right?’
Sarah peered around his shoulder as he keyed through the commands.
‘How the hell did you get this set up?’ she demanded. ‘There must be thousands of pounds worth of equipment here.’
‘Someone in the IT industry owed me a favour,’ he said. He finished checking a screen that displayed a list of licence plates and facial recognition triggers, running his finger down the list of names. ‘Okay, well nothing to report, so we haven’t been followed.’ He sighed, almost letting the tension ease from his body but not yet able to relax. ‘Not much else we can do tonight.’
‘Right,’ said Sarah and ran a hand through her hair. She pointed up the stairs. ‘Let’s have a drink and eat.’
***
Dan flicked through the pages of research Sarah had brought from her apartment and twisted his fork into the plate of spaghetti in front of him.
They’d debated using the dining room before dismissing the large area as too formal. Instead, they sat companionably at the kitchen bench, perched on stools either side, a bottle of wine between them.
Sarah leaned forward and topped up their glasses. ‘Are you any closer to finding out who betrayed you?’
Dan put his fork down and sipped the red before speaking. ‘Mel made some low-key enquiries through some formal channels to see if anything came up, but the place is silent.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t push her harder than that, or whoever set me up will know I’m onto them before I’ve had a chance to work out what’s going on – and why.’
‘What’s the next step?’
‘It’s kind of hard to think about that, what with this stolen isotope to find,’ he said. ‘But Mel reckons she’ll run some checks through other channels.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘God knows what that means, given her background. We’ll all probably end up in prison.’
‘I can’t understand why someone would do this to you.’ Sarah sat back and pulled her wine glass towards her, staring at the dark liquid as she swirled it around. ‘Like you said, all the people you’ve dealt with are either behind bars or—’
‘Dead. I know.’
***
Dan hissed through his teeth as Sarah applied an antiseptic lotion to the stitches that laced across his shoulders and tried not to swear.
‘Stay still,’ she murmured. ‘Nearly done.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. You make me nervous when you do that.’
‘You make me nervous when you do that.’ Dan clenched his teeth.
She chuckled under her breath, but there was little humour in her voice.
He knew his scars scared her – they represented a past he fought to put behind him and a future that, at best, seemed uncertain.
After a few years apart, they’d slowly drifted towards each other again, but neither of them was prepared to commit to anything more serious than the occasional dinner or overnight stay – if Dan was honest, it scared him that people could harm Sarah or use her to get to him. And he knew Sarah was scared she’d lose him because of his work. It was why they tried their best to keep their on-again, off-again relationship low-key.
The fact that someone had found out he’d gone to Sarah’s apartment after returning from Eastern Europe and had then accosted her in broad daylight only a short distance from her home had rattled him.
Much more than he was willing to admit to her.
Somehow, he had to work out who was trying to kill him – and why.
‘Done.’
Her voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked over his shoulder at her as she tidied away the bottle of antiseptic and dirty dressings.
He slipped under the cool cotton sheets as she padded into the en suite bathroom and dropped the dressings in a small waste bin under the basin, and propped himself up on the pillows, wincing as one of the dressings caught on the material.
By the time Sarah joined him, he’d done his best to hide his discomfort – he’d suffered worse, in the past, and he reminded himself he was at least at home, not in the guts of a far-flung prison knowing he’d been betrayed, believing he’d been forgotten.
She sighed as her cheek touched the pillow beside his, as if all the tension was leaving her body, for a while.
‘What’s happening, Dan? Why are these people trying to kill you?’
Dan lifted his arm so she could snuggle up next to him, her breath caressing his chest. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about the jobs I’ve done over the past few years, and I can’t think of anyone that could get this close to me.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Stay out of trouble,’ he said.
In reply, she smiled up at him.
‘I’m serious,’ he said. ‘No poking around asking questions, not until I’ve got a better idea of what’s going on around here.’
‘Okay.’
She stretched, her warm lips finding the skin of his neck before travelling slowly down his arm, and he closed his eyes, unable to stop the groan that escaped him.
‘Why couldn’t you have done that instead of using the antiseptic?’
CHAPTER 22
Ben wrenched the steering wheel, executing a sharp right hand turn before pulling the vehicle up to the kerb.
He squinted through the windscreen at the towering apartment blocks that boxed in the street, the concrete fascia covered in grime and graffiti.
Here and there, a splash of colour broke up the grey monotony; laundry hung over lines beside front doors.
The arrangement had been to drive to the warehouse after switching vehicles, lie low for twenty-four hours, and then move onto a safe house that Joe had organised.
The drive had taken a little over three hours. Joe had spent half the journey wondering who wanted the isotope – and why.
Ben was more pragmatic.
‘Who cares, as long as we’re getting paid?’ he’d said. ‘As soon as this is delivered, I’m off to the airport and out of this shit-hole.’
Joe had conceded the point. They were, as their safe deposit boxes could testify, being paid handsomely. In cash. More importantly, in used bank notes. Half before the job and the second half upon delivery.
The safe house, as Joe called it, was simply his mother’s council flat. She’d been taken into a nursing home six months ago and never returned. The paperwork backlog at the council was so large, the tiny apartment hadn’t yet been transferred out of her name and back onto the ‘available’ list after her funeral eight weeks ago. Joe reasoned that as long as he had a key, it was theirs to use.
It made sense.
Ben glared at a small group of kids that passed the car; they took the hint and ran off, shouting abuse towards the vehicle as they scattered.
> He glanced down at a nudge from Joe.
‘Here. Take the key. I need to dump the car.’
‘Which one is it?’ He peered through the window at the dimly lit entrance to the nearest block of flats.
‘Second block back. Third floor. Take the stairs on the left side of the building.’
‘Shortcut?’
‘Less chance of stepping on a needle,’ Joe scowled. ‘Fuckin’ junkies have taken over the other stairwell.’
‘Jesus.’ Ben opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, slipping the key into the pocket of his jeans, before wrenching open the back door of the vehicle and sliding the silver case towards him. He looked over his shoulder and swore.
Two blocks back. Third floor up. Carrying a lead and concrete-lined box. On his own.
Joe chuckled. ‘You need the exercise. Get moving. I’ll be there within the hour.’
Ben braced himself to take the weight and then lifted the case out of the car and placed it on the kerb at his feet. He bent down and glared at Joe.
‘You’d better be right about this.’
He slammed the door shut on the burst of laughter from the front seat and then stepped back as the vehicle pulled away from the kerb.
Joe steered the car in a tight arc and then accelerated back to the road junction and drove away.
Ben cursed and then bent down to pick up the case, hefted its weight between his arms, and walked towards the stairwell.
A concrete path curled round what had once been a grassy area laid out for the residents of the housing estate.
Ben’s lip curled up in disgust at the smell of dog shit as he passed, and he noted the discarded beer bottles and cigarette packets strewn over the dirt.
At the far end, some kids had built a small wooden ramp, no doubt to act as a jump for their bicycles, and he wondered what sort of childhood they faced.
He shook his head to clear the thought and shifted the weight of the metal case between his hands as he approached the enclosed staircase.
A wave of nausea made him stumble before he’d had a chance to start climbing the stairs, the sensation so sudden it caught him off guard.
He bent down, put the case on the second step, and remained leaning over, his hands on his knees.
His eyes watered, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth, saliva forming at the back of his throat.
The moment passed, and he eased himself upright.
Automatically, his thoughts turned to the greasy takeaway meal he and Joe had consumed only a few hours ago and cursed the fast food establishment they’d bought it from.
He exhaled, lifted the case once more, and began climbing the stairs, hoping he reached the apartment – more importantly, the toilet – before his stomach decided to have another go.
His nose wrinkled as he reached the first landing, the stench of urine and someone else’s vomit assaulting his already frayed senses.
He held his breath, promising himself that next time he’d put himself in charge of finding a safe house.
One that didn’t resemble a war zone, for a start.
By the time he reached the third floor, the nausea had returned; sweat was streaming down his face, and his heart was hammering. He took great heaving lungful of air as he staggered along the passageway and then swerved away from a door as a dog threw itself against the other side, barking before being yelled at by its owner. A faint whimper was followed by a muttered curse, and then the noise was drowned out by a television in the next apartment he passed.
Finally, he saw the apartment he’d been directed to, a brass number six screwed to its surface, the paintwork peeling under a tag that had already been graffitied across it in the owner’s absence.
Ben lowered the case to the tiled floor of the corridor, pulled out the key from his pocket, and unlocked the door.
He pushed it open and then, realising an automatic closer had been fitted, positioned himself until he could wedge his foot against it and bent down to retrieve the case.
The next bout of nausea was so vicious, he nearly dropped the case.
He almost cried out in hurt and surprise at the spasm that wracked his abdomen before instinct kicked in and he bit his lower lip, drawing blood.
Sick or not, he didn’t need a nosey neighbour opening their door to find out what the noise was coming from their dead neighbour’s apartment.
He staggered over the threshold, waited a moment to ensure the door closed under its own momentum, and then hurried through the shabby home before dumping the case on the kitchen bench.
He spun on his heel, opened a door that led to the old woman’s bedroom, cursed, and tried another door.
He groaned with relief, pulled the cord to the left of the door frame, and stared in shock at the sight of his own pale face in the bathroom mirror.
Then another spasm gripped him, and it was all he could do to launch himself at the toilet bowl and sink to his knees.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, the motion in his abdomen subsiding in gradual waves until he felt able to stand.
He leaned against the wall while he tore strips of toilet paper from the roller next to him and then cleaned himself up and flushed.
He shuffled across to the small sink, careful to avoid looking at his reflection, and ran his hands under the cold tap, splashing his face and cupping the cool liquid to his lips to wash the acidic taste from his mouth.
Cursing Joe’s penchant for crap food, he walked back through to the kitchen and searched the cupboards until he found a glass. He filled it with water from the tap, silently grateful for Joe’s foresight not to alert the Council to his mother’s death.
He sipped at the liquid, careful not to gulp it, and then set the glass down on the bench and turned his attention to the case.
He checked his watch. By his reckoning, it’d be another thirty minutes before Joe showed up, and curiosity was eating at him.
He shrugged. ‘Might as well,’ he murmured and flicked the combination lock until the correct numbers were displayed.
He paused before raising the lid and then chuckled as he realised he’d been holding his breath.
‘Let’s see what half a million quid’s worth of isotope looks like,’ he murmured and lifted the lid.
Afterwards, he couldn’t remember how long he’d stared at the contents while his brain tried to comprehend what he was seeing.
When he did finally snap out of his thoughts, he dropped the lid back into place and backed away from the kitchen bench, a sudden urge to piss catching him off-guard.
Part of his mind was screaming at him to get help, the other part chastising him for even thinking of phoning the emergency services.
How the hell had it happened?
They’d been so careful, making sure the box had been secure in the vehicles, never jolting it the few times they’d had to pick it up.
His head snapped to the side at the sound of a key turning in the front door, and then it opened, the automatic closer hissing until Joe pushed the door shut.
Ben heard him lock it, the rattle of the security chain jangling his nerves, and then the smell of fish and chips wafted into the room seconds before Joe appeared.
‘Dinner,’ he beamed and then frowned. ‘Mate, you look like shit.’
Ben pointed at the case. ‘One of the vials is broken.’
‘What do you mean, it’s broken?’
‘We’ve got a fucking radiation leak.’
CHAPTER 23
Hugh Porchester took a deep breath and turned his attention to the four people who sat around the conference table.
Above their heads, the Prime Minister’s gaze frowned down upon them, his normal healthy pallor bleached by the video-conferencing camera’s harsh light.
‘Could everyone leave the room, please?’ said Porchester. ‘I’d like to talk to the Prime Minister in private.’
He ignored the raised eyebrows and muttered responses, placed his palms on the table, an
d waited while his colleagues filed out of the room.
His eyes found a speck of dust suspended in the air, and he watched fascinated as it spun in the glow from the projector above his head.
He fought down the panic that was threatening to surface, knowing he had to remain calm if he was going to make this work.
He had to be convincing.
He clenched his jaw as the door was closed behind the last person to leave the room and then lowered his eyes to meet the camera under the video-conferencing screen.
‘What’s going on, Hugh?’ demanded the Prime Minister.
‘There’s been a problem with the project,’ said Porchester. ‘And I don’t think you’d have appreciated my drawing it to the attention of our colleagues.’
‘What sort of problem?’
Porchester sighed, threw his pen onto the table, and leaned back in his chair. ‘The radioactive isotope that the drilling crews use to test the boreholes has been stolen.’
‘What?’ The Prime Minister jumped forward in his chair, his eyes wide. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Three days ago. The drilling crew were shot,’ said Porchester. He held up his hand to stop the leader of the country from interrupting. ‘I didn’t want to tell you until I had more facts.’
‘Are the police involved?’
‘Yes, of course – it’s a murder investigation,’ said Porchester. ‘But more significantly, it appears that a case of radioactive isotope used in the geological testing process at the drill rig has been stolen,’ he added. ‘As it was, no-one realised the significance of the attack until Dan Taylor stumbled across it by accident.’
‘Taylor? They found him then?’
‘Yes. A covert team was used.’ Porchester glared at the Prime Minister. ‘I would have appreciated being briefed on the matter prior to his rescue.’
The PM waved a dismissive hand. ‘There wasn’t time,’ he said. ‘What’s the latest on the isotope? Have you managed to contain news of the theft from the press?’
Three Lives Down (A Dan Taylor thriller) Page 11