Hit Me (The Bailey Boys #2)

by P. J. Adams

  Maybe the sounds from the party had broken through. Voices too close.

  I stood, held her, and still she was shaking.

  Murmured into her ear that she must go now, right now.

  Watched her stumble away from me, legs still unsteady, and always knowing that this could be the last time.

  Forcing myself to turn, to stare out at the sea, stained red like blood with the dying sun behind me.

  §

  Later still, darkness had descended and I was back in the thick of the party. I found Hristo Markov by the main pool and he turned to me and I was sure he must know, and then he gave a cheery wave and smacked me on my good arm and said, “Hey, Englishman. You like the party, yes? You having some fun?”

  I nodded, and I smiled, and I saw that he didn’t know.

  Then: “You and me, we talk, yes?” And I wondered then if he did know and he was leading me away with his arm around my shoulder and Georgi at our backs for my punishment.

  The two of them had been doing coke. If it came to a fight that might balance things up a little in my favor, but also it would make them less easy to anticipate. More volatile.

  Georgi was almost certainly carrying, though, and my wounded arm was a hindrance, so I wasn’t exactly in a good place if they did decide to get rough.

  “What is this place?” I asked, as we walked down another path between buildings to a terrace that overlooked the bay. Revelers were scattered around at tables and standing in small groups. Over to one side, not quite out of view, one of the hookers I’d seen earlier was down on her knees in front of a guy in red and white Arab keffiyeh head-dress.

  “This?” said Markov, stopping and turning three-sixty degrees, a grin all over his face. “This is Colombia, my friend. These people make what we do look like children’s games, yes? They run most of the supply routes into Europe. This is where they come to play.”

  I nodded. “You not worried they’ll squeeze you out?”

  Markov laughed. “They don’t care about things at our level, Englishman. They happy to work with professionals like me, as long as we run a tight operation. Why do you think we get invited to things like this?”

  “Talking about tight operations,” I said, “what was all that business with my brother? Why target him?”

  Markov swept a hand through the air dismissively. “Bad intelligence,” he said. “Your brother is safe.”

  “‘Bad intelligence’?”

  “You English,” said Markov. “There is a new organization trying to get established on the Costa. An English gang. Some of my people, they see the Bailey Boys here and they make too many connections.”

  It was starting to make sense. “That kid,” I said. “The one at El Divino.” The one whose friends had shot me. “Is he part of it?”

  “It would seem so.”

  I’d thought at the time it had looked like a rival gang checking out Markov’s territory.

  “Whoever they are, they’re nothing to do with me or Dean.”

  A narrowing of those small eyes. “I know that,” said Markov. “I’ve had you checked out. Thoroughly. I know when you breathe, when you piss and shit. I know everything.”

  What was he telling me?

  I dismissed such thoughts instantly. I’d checked Markov out, too. I knew what he was like. If he had even the slightest suspicion about Imelda and me I wouldn’t be standing here now. I’d be in the trunk of a car heading up into the mountains.

  I rubbed the back of a hand across my mouth, intensely aware that I could still taste her on my lips.

  Markov was staring past my shoulder now. Casually, I turned to see what had snagged his attention.

  “Him. The skinny mangal with no chin. You know him, yes? Georgi says you do.”

  Jack the Knife. He really had gone up in the world.

  “He was at Los Momentos the other night,” I said. “I wouldn’t let him in. Back in London he was trouble, so when he showed up at Los Momentos I turned him away. Needed a little persuasion, though, so I hit him. Once.” It usually doesn’t need more than once, in my experience.

  “Tell me about him.”

  I glanced across again. Jack was with one of the guys from before – the one who wasn’t a footballer – and a couple more girls. As I’d noted earlier, he looked at home here, which was quite a transformation from the Jack I’d known previously.

  “Back in London he was a chancer,” I said. “Came up from one of the estate gangs, but never rose beyond a bit of dealing, a bit of minor villainy. He’s always fancied himself. He carries a vintage Italian stiletto switchblade in the waistband of his pants, which is why we all knew him as Jack the Knife. He was okay, though, until he took to putting too much of his profits up his nose.”

  I glanced at Markov and Georgi then, very aware that they were prone to the same vice, but my comment passed them by.

  “I had one or two run-ins with him, back in the day. He knows I won’t take any shit from him. Must say, boss, I’m surprised to see him out here, mixing in these kinds of circles.”

  Markov was nodding as I spoke.

  “Jack McGill, as we know him here, he came to the Costa a few weeks ago. It seems he already had some contacts, and he and his partners have taken no time making more. The ones who shot you, they are his people. Maybe they even target you, no? You hit McGill, after all. Men like him, they do not like it when you mess with their reputatsiya.”

  I said nothing.

  “We need to get to know Mr McGill and his friends, I think,” went on Markov. “We need to help him understand that they cannot just show up and expect to take over, yes? You want to help me communicate that message to your compatriot?”

  This was going to get messy.

  I remembered what Fearless had said about the authorities turning a blind eye to conflict between the foreign gangs on the Costa. They didn’t care as long as the gangs kept it among themselves.

  Markov knew that, but did Jack the Knife, or was he going to be in for an almighty shock when faced with the full might of Markov’s ‘communication’?

  And that was when I realized I could use this. Imelda could.

  That was when I decided that, yes, I would do what she asked, I would help her vanish and start a new life, even if that meant I would never see her again.

  Or maybe I was kidding myself: maybe I’d really made that decision long ago, and it was only now that I finally acknowledged it.

  §

  We left in the early hours of the morning, with the partying still in full swing. Maybe it was always a party here at the Colombians’ villa complex at Sotogrande.

  Georgi got the limo, and I stood by with Markov and Imelda.

  No eye contact, no words, between Imelda and me. Just the faintest brushing of the backs of hands and forearms as we stood. A reminder of what that contact felt like. Of earlier.

  Then, as Markov went round to the other side of the car, I stepped forward to get the door for Imelda, and as she passed I murmured, “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  I’ll do what you ask, even if it means I never see you again. I love you.

  She lowered herself, turned, and those dark eyes flitted up to mine.

  A slight nod.

  She looked scared.

  As if she understood we had just entered a new phase, one from which there could be no return.

  18

  Back home, kidnapping gets you fifteen to life, guaranteed. Bang on some extra for grievous bodily harm, assault by battery and a whole host of lesser offenses the prosecutors like to tag on to make their stats look good, and you’re looking at some serious judicial comeback.

  Down on the Costa it’s a whole different ball game. In a place where few rules apply, the fundamental one is always to keep it among your own.

  For instance, if you kidnap some jumped-up lowlife like Jack ‘the Knife’ McGill and you keep everything behind closed doors – or in this case up in the mountains – the authorities couldn’t care less. Indeed, they’d see
it as a favor if it resulted in one less imported gangster on their streets. As long as the mess was cleared away afterwards.

  Out here, kidnap was just a day to day business operation for the likes of Hristo Markov and his crew.

  §

  Jack and his new pals were based in a development a couple of kilometers east of Puerto Libre. They were running a tidy little operation, among other things overseeing a network of small-time dealers that worked the Costa – dealers like that snotty kid we’d staked out before – dipping into established clubs, operating under the radar for as long as they could and then moving on.

  It was a new kind of operation, and to most eyes there was no connection between Jack’s network of street kid dealers, until you realized the scale of it, and the degree of coordination required. No wonder he’d got himself an invite to the Colombians’ party at Sotogrande the other night.

  Most of the time they hung out in an English bar on the seafront called the Queen Victoria, so this was where I made sure to show my face.

  This was an unfamiliar role to me: the bait in the trap. It was an obvious move, though: Jack knew me, and after I’d knocked him out that night at Los Momentos he must surely want to get back at me. My presence might tempt him into something stupid, and stupid was exactly what we wanted from Jack.

  It felt odd, though. Made me feel exposed and self-conscious.

  I was sure it must be bleeding obvious what I was up to as I sat there at the bar, halfway down a pint of John Smith’s, talking loudly with the barman about the football. The place was like a hundred other English bars on the Costa: dark wood, football memorabilia on the walls, a pub quiz every night and Sky Sports playing constantly on half a dozen screens.

  Jack the Knife – McGill, as Markov called him – sat with a small group at a table in the darkest corner of the place.

  He’d clocked me as soon as I walked in, and I feigned hesitation, surprise, as we made eye contact and I tried to give the impression of rethinking my choice of bar for a quick pint. Then I’d shrugged, nodded to him, and went to the bar.

  After a time I sensed him at my shoulder, but I didn’t turn. Let him think he’d caught me off guard, that maybe I’d gone soft out here on the Costa.

  “Surprised to see you here, Bailey,” he said.

  I turned, shrugged again. “Just exploring the coast,” I said. “Day off, you know what I mean?”

  His eyes narrowed. Was he trying to psych me out? He really had grown in confidence, but I wouldn’t give his judgment more than five out of ten.

  I played along, averting my gaze. I looked across at the barman, who was studiously polishing glasses, and then down at the floor.

  “Listen, Jack,” I said. “That business the other night. No hard feelings, right? I was just doing my job. The other guy I was with, he was spoiling for a fight... he wouldn’t have been so generous. It was the quickest way to put an end to it, yeah?”

  Another pause, then with a considerable amount of effort, Jack broke into a smile and laughed. He went to clap a hand on my arm and then just managed to stop himself, his hand hovering in mid-air – although my arm was mostly healed, I’d chosen to wear the sling again this evening.

  “Sure, sure, Lee,” he said. “No hard feelings. We’re all big boys over here, aren’t we? I know what you mean. So what did you do to your arm, then?”

  Bastard. If what Markov said was true, then Jack knew exactly what I’d done to my arm – or what his boys had done to it.

  I shook my head, said, “Oh, you know how it is. Some pencil-dicked wanker with a grudge. It’s nothing.”

  His jaw clenched at that, but he said nothing, kept smiling. He nodded at my drink and said, “You want another one of those?”

  I looked at my near-empty glass, hesitated, then said, “No thanks, mate.” I indicated the darkness outside, and went on, “Getting late, and I’ve already had a few. Can’t hold ’em like I used to.”

  Jack laughed again. “It’s the sun. That and you’re getting old.”

  “True that.” I stood, and said, “Glad there’s no hard feelings, Jack. I’ll be on my way.”

  I went out of the door that led onto the seafront, and paused by the railings above the beach, sucking in a deep lungful of the night air.

  I didn’t understand why I was so apprehensive.

  Partly it was because of the unfamiliar role: I was far more accustomed to being the enforcer, the threat, not playing these cat and mouse games.

  But more than that, I realized it was because I was getting sucked in deep, and not in a good way. Characters like Jack the Knife were always best avoided – they weren’t old school business, they were erratic and dangerous, risk-takers who would always lose out in the end but would be sure to take down those around them.

  And Hristo Markov was a whole other order of erratic and dangerous.

  It wasn’t that I was scared of him. Not at all. It was that the risks were so many and so hard to assess. Mix him up with Jack the Knife’s gang and a bunch of Colombian narcos and the only certainty was that it was going to get messy.

  And here I was, choosing to put myself in the thick of it.

  I recalled my surprise when I realized Dean was serious about taking himself out of this business, that he had retired from it. Right now, that option had never looked more inviting.

  I loitered, just another late-season tourist enjoying the cool sea breeze after the day’s heat. Watched the other holidaymakers strolling past, mostly couples and oldsters at this time of night, the families back in their apartments putting the kids to bed.

  Just along from where I stood a group of local teenagers raced around on skateboards and scooters, the boys all bottled beer and cigarettes and showing off to the girls – little hard men with next to no idea what it really meant to set yourself up as the big I Am.

  I turned away, started to walk, no hurry.

  The paved walkway above the beach followed the line of the bay before snaking round the edges of a series of rocky inlets.

  There were still plenty of people about, so it was hard to tell if I was being followed. Maybe nothing would come of it tonight. But I remembered that look on Jack’s face when I’d dismissed the ‘pencil-dicked wanker’ who’d had me shot. If he didn’t act now, he was sure to before long, and now would be so much neater because–

  I took a right into an alleyway that passed between a pair of old buildings that leaned towards each other over the gap. On one side was the rear of a restaurant, lined with bins, and on the other a tourist tat shop closed for the night.

  I paused, took out my phone and tapped at it with my thumb.

  When I looked back along the alley he was there. Tall and lanky, arms hanging loosely, one hand over the waistband of his jeans where he kept that switchblade.

  I couldn’t see anyone else, which was good. And stupid on his part.

  “Hey, Jack,” I said, feigning surprise, although I didn’t really have to bother. “You go this way, too?”

  “Tonight, yeah.”

  He’d been straight when I’d spoken to him earlier, but now he had that edge in his voice: it had taken a little more than Dutch courage before he’d come after me. Some things never change.

  “So what’s it to be?” I said, bored with the pretence. “Have you come here to teach me a lesson? Fancy it when I’ve had a few and my arm’s all shot up? Is that it?”

  “Maybe. Things are different here, Bailey. New world order and all that. Meat-heads like you don’t get to throw your weight around like you could back in London. Out here it takes a bit of brains to make it good, you know what I’m saying?”

  He believed his own words, I’d give him that.

  “Is that it, Jack? Or do you fancy your luck?”

  We’d come to stand a few feet apart. I could see the whites of his eyes popping in the gloom of the alleyway.

  I was on the balls of my feet, every muscle tensed, poised for action.

  He really did think he could take
me on, and where my estimation of this new Jack had been steadily creeping upwards, now it plummeted.

  I glanced away, deliberately drawing him out, and when I looked back he had the knife in his hand.

  He was fast – faster than I’d known him before.

  I raised my good hand, beckoned him towards me. “Come on, then, if you really want it.”

  He snaked the knife through the air theatrically.

  “You know you’re not going to do it,” I went on. “You haven’t got the balls when it’s face to face. You’re not going to, are you?”

  “Yeah? What’s to stop me?”

  It was over in an instant.

  I saw his body tense and the hand holding the knife draw back above his shoulder as if he was about to slash it down across my face, just as he said those words: What’s to stop me?

  “That,” I said softly, as a meaty fist closed around his wrist, and another hand came down on his shoulder, locking him in position, almost toppling back. Georgi had him in an iron grip.

  Something else happened in the gloom – a twist of the arm, perhaps, or a foot in the back of the knee – and Jack the Knife crumpled to a kneeling position with a sharp gasp of pain, and the knife clattered away onto the paving.

  Another dark shape emerged from the shadows to my left, and as I turned to make out Markov I heard a dull thud and another sharp gasp from Jack. When I looked back, he lay crumpled on the floor, clutching his ribs.

  “Is good, yes?” said Markov. “Don’t worry, Lee: we will take it from here. You can leave us now.”

  Now when I looked down at my fallen compatriot I saw the fear in his eyes. He must know Markov, and if he did then he also knew what the Bulgarian was capable of, and he must know that nobody would ever want to be the subject of the sentence, We will take it from here.

  §

  I could have just left it.

  I had no compassion for Jack: he’d got himself in deep, and anybody in the game he was in must know the risks. Anyone operating on this stretch of the Costa must know there was a serious likelihood that one day they would end up under a pile of rocks in some remote ravine in the Serrania de Ronda.