by Mari Hannah
A villain Brian may be, but Kate felt she owed him a debt. That wasn’t a good place to be if you were a police officer. Though Bright loved Hank like a brother, he was fifteen hundred miles away when he was shot. He had no bloody idea what it felt like to be so far from home with an officer down. She was thrilled when Brian took off, evading capture, a secret she’d take to her grave.
A smoking cigar landed on the dusty floor beside her feet, regaining her attention. Kate ground it out with her boot. When she looked at Brian, his smile had gone. He sat forward, head down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, a moment of quiet reflection. He seemed to be weighing up the pros and cons of an internal argument.
He raised his head. ‘What would you say if I told you that you’re looking in the wrong direction?’
‘I’d say you couldn’t possibly know that.’
‘I know more than you think. This is terrorism, but not the kind motivated by faith, not even close.’
‘Then let’s hear it.’
A beat of time.
‘Start talking, Brian, or I’m out of here.’
‘If I were you, I’d give Bright a call. There’s a nasty piece of work in your freezer up north with half his head missing.’ Bright and Brian were well acquainted. When the two men knew each other, the head of CID was a rookie on the regional crime squad, Brian a young gang leader who’d taken over when his father died, two ambitious young men on opposite sides of the law.
All that was a lifetime ago.
‘What are you on about?’ Kate said.
‘Don’t insult me.’
She looked away.
Feigning ignorance hadn’t fooled him. She knew he could only be referring to Yulian Nikolaev, whose violent death Robbo and her team were investigating, almost three hundred miles away at Northumbria’s Central Area Command. According to Robbo, they weren’t getting very far. No one wanted to speak up and risk becoming the next target of these violent gangsters.
Brian could see that she was struggling to make a connection. ‘Trust me, you need to head home. You won’t find the answers to your air disaster here. I read the papers. The Met haven’t a clue. MI5 or Homeland Security either. You’re in pole position to earn yourself a leg-up.’
‘I don’t need a leg-up. And how do I know you’re not playing me?’
‘You’ll have to take my word for it.’
‘Your word?’ Kate arched an eyebrow. ‘You’re cracking me up.’
‘When have I ever lied to you?’
He hadn’t, at least not that she knew of.
‘I understand you being sceptical,’ he said, ‘but ask yourself why law enforcement have no fucking clue, and why no one has claimed responsibility. If this was an ideological terror attack, they would have. These bastards thrive on publicity, invoking fear at every opportunity. They get off on intimidation. Aside from that, there are easier and quicker ways of getting you out of my hair than feeding you false information.’
Kate eyed the nearest inspection pit, a gaping hole in the ground that sent a shiver down her spine. Given their history, she didn’t believe that Brian would harm her, but you could never take chances with men like him. ‘Forgive me for being dim,’ she said, ‘but I’m struggling to make a connection between unrelated events happening at either end of the country. None of what you’ve told me makes sense. You’re saying the Northumbria case is linked to this plane falling out of the sky?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
Kate was intrigued. ‘Motivated by what, exactly?’
‘Profit margins are falling in the drug-running business. The territory is overcrowded, everything up for grabs. Drug cartels have fallen out. They’re flexing their muscles, reducing the competition, cancelling each other out.’
‘Sounds like history repeating itself.’
He looked wounded. ‘I never involved myself in drugs. I’ve seen what that shit does to people.’
Bright had once described him as the most audacious criminal he’d ever come across, but it seemed he was once again telling the truth. There was nothing on his record to suggest that he’d dabbled in illegal substances, hard or soft.
‘I need names,’ Kate said.
‘I need to keep breathing.’
His comment shocked her. It was clear that he didn’t want to get too involved. For the first time ever, she could see a vulnerability in his eyes. He was gaunt, pale and fallible, definitely under par. She wondered if he was ill due to his diabetic condition, or just slowing down with age. Her mind was racing. He’d given her a lead, but with no meat on the bones. How could the death of a man involved in trafficking huge quantities of drugs into the UK be the key to the fate of Flight 0113?
Brian gave her a nudge. ‘In my world, if you fail to take a warning seriously, you pay the price. My sons are six foot under for that very reason. The O’Kanes weren’t going to stop killing until they had finished what I started in 1993. You know that, right? Kill or be killed. That’s the way it works. I was no threat to them, but they were too thick to recognise it. Their decision to go after my lads couldn’t be ignored, but we are small fry compared to the people Nikolaev wasted before he was taken out.’
‘You’re saying this is tit for tat?’
‘I agree it seems excessive—’
‘Excessive?’ She spat the word out. ‘A catastrophe is what it is. You don’t kill over three hundred innocent travellers to take out a rival gang.’
‘Gang is too small a word, Kate. This is huge, a global feud between major players worth billions. They have no morals, and more money and fake passports than you and I could ever imagine.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs, but there’s a rumour that it – whatever it is – went horribly wrong. Not that the people you’re after will give a shit. They’re ruthless. Why do you think I’m telling you this?’
‘I need more.’
‘You’re smart,’ Brian said. ‘You’ll work it out.’
‘With your help, perhaps. Without it, I’m pissing in the wind.’
‘I’ve given you all I’ve got.’
‘Bullshit! You can do better than that.’
‘I can’t, so you had better get to it. These people won’t stop at Nikolaev. They’ll decimate his crew.’
That worried Kate. It seemed Robbo was in the centre of a turf war. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘I have informants who keep me fed—’
‘Who I accept will tell you stuff they’d never tell me, but then they must know the ID of the others involved.’
‘No one is sharing names.’
‘C’mon, Brian, you’ve come good before. I’ll never be able to repay you as long as I draw breath, but I’m begging you to help me nail those responsible for downing that plane.’
‘You want blood? Because if I dig too deep, that’s exactly what you’ll get – only it’ll be mine you’ll be covered in, along with your own and whoever else gets in the way. These guys aren’t fucking about. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I’ve changed. I’m sick of the violence.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Her eyes were on his weapon.
‘No, really, I’m too old for this.’
Kate believed him.
Robbed of his sons – whose only sin was to have been born into the wrong family – Brian was a shadow of his former self, a man who’d fled to Spain and stayed relatively crime free, until the O’Kanes murdered his offspring. A clean kill would have been one thing; torture was something else. The way Brian’s sons had been made to suffer before the O’Kanes put them out of their misery had unleashed a monster intent on revenge.
‘I no longer have the desire, nor the energy, to fight or run, Kate. If they get wind of the fact that I’m talking to you, they will kill me.’ Picking up his firearm, Brian studied it a moment, turning it over and over in his hands, a pensive look on his face. When he lifted his head, he looked emotional and sad, fear reflected in his eyes. Raising his arm, he pointed the barrel at
his head. Kate’s mouth dropped open as he released the safety catch. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger.
66
Having trudged almost half a mile to the nearest main road, Kate tried to thumb a ride, but no one slowed for the six-foot biker they probably assumed was a man. Ten or fifteen minutes later, her luck finally turned. Flagging down a cab, with no money to pay for it, she climbed in, giving the driver the address of the hotel where she hoped agents Torres and Garcia would be waiting.
‘You OK, luv?’ The driver’s worried eyes met Kate’s in the rear-view mirror.
A nod was all she managed in reply. She wasn’t his ‘luv’, and had too many things on her mind to engage in small talk.
She glanced out of the window, remembering the outward journey, a hessian bag pulled over her head, duct tape wrapped around her neck to keep it in place. Smoke mixed with the motion of the car and the stench of cheap aftershave made her nauseous as they sped along the road. Stacy never spoke, nor did the guys either side of Kate, though she sensed the tension coming off them, all three ignoring the fact that they had abducted a cop.
‘Did you have an accident?’ The driver again.
For a moment, Kate didn’t understand why he was asking, then realised that she was dressed in motorcycle kit, a nasty cut on her hand, dried blood and what felt like a lump the size of St James’s Park on her forehead. Lying was sometimes easier than telling the truth. ‘Yeah, my bike’s a write-off. I’m a police officer. Any chance I could borrow your phone?’
He looked uncertain. ‘Can I see your ID?’
‘Don’t have it on me.’
‘Then no can do. I’ve been robbed before, luv. Comes with the territory. You should know that. I thought your lot were welded to their ID—’
‘Lost my wallet. If you want paying, you’ll have to ring someone for me. Pull over.’
The driver obliged. He did want paying.
Off by heart, Kate couldn’t remember Hank’s mobile number – it was on constant speed dial on her police mobile – so she reeled off her own, knowing he’d pick up any calls. He’d be going out of his mind, having not heard from her. When the cabbie lifted the phone to his ear, she added, ‘Tell the guy who answers to bring cash and meet us at the address I gave you.’
Hank was waiting patiently on the pavement when they arrived. He looked stressed out as he settled her fare and helped her from the vehicle, all the while the driver yapping on, asking if she really was a cop, apologising for doubting her, advising Hank that he should take her to hospital and have her medically examined. He said he would, thanked the driver and slammed the rear door, watching the cab disappear into heavy traffic before turning to face Kate, his eyes homing in on her head wound.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said.
‘Yeah, I can see that.’ He eyed her car, which he’d abandoned at the kerb, the door wide open. ‘Get in, I’ll drive you to A&E.’
‘No need, I didn’t come off the bike.’
‘I know. I found it lying on its side, keys still in the ignition. What the hell happened?’
‘They grabbed me as soon as I left the pub.’
‘That’s not what I meant. I’ll kill that bastard if I ever set eyes on him again.’
‘Brian didn’t touch me—’
‘Well someone sure as hell did.’
‘Lock the car and come inside. We don’t have time for this.’
In the hotel, Kate ignored the lift that would take her to Garcia’s room on the third floor, as well as the sympathetic looks from hotel guests as she passed through reception, finding a quiet corner where she could sit and talk to her overwrought detective partner. Hank was still trying to convince her that she should get checked out by a medic. When she refused, he left her for a moment, returning with a bucket of ice, then proceeded to wrap some cubes in a napkin which he placed in her hand, instructing her to apply it to the goose egg on her forehead.
She did as he asked.
Hank returned to the bar to collect a large bottle of water and two glasses. He set them on the table, poured them both a drink and sat down. Kate drank hers in one go, then filled him in on her meeting with Brian. She told him everything: about the unprovoked assault by the guy with the skull tattoo, the revenge attack that followed, the information Brian had shared with her and the fact that he’d turned the gun on himself, the horrific way in which he’d chosen to end their conversation.
‘What?’ Hank didn’t shock easily.
‘It wasn’t loaded,’ she said, ‘but for a moment, I thought …’ She choked on the words as the scene replayed in her head, an involuntary shiver as a ghost walked over her skin. ‘I really thought he was going to off himself right in front of me. The crazy sod knows how to make a point.’
‘Which is?’
‘He was demonstrating the fact that the people we’re up against are extremely dangerous. He’s also had enough. Losing his kids has had a profound effect on him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s no saint, but he’s not the man he used to be. He’s older and wiser. His gun is insurance, a threat to those who work for him, no more. He told me afterwards that it’s never loaded these days.’
‘And you believe him?’
‘I do, as it happens. Just a feeling I had when I was with him. Assuming he hasn’t fed us a load of bullshit, we should be grateful for the information he supplied. If Nikolaev’s rival was on that plane, that puts a whole new spin on things. It could be our starting point.’ When Hank asked if she intended alerting Bright, Kate shook her head. ‘Not yet. Torres is our handler. We’re acting as her field team. She’s the one we need to convince to take the word of a man like Brian.’
67
On the floor outside Garcia’s room there were signs that he had company, and that they had already eaten, two trays lying side by side, waiting to be cleared away by room service personnel. No alcohol, only sparkling water bottles, Kate noticed. She waited for a couple of guys to pass along the corridor before knocking gently on the door, the feeling of being under scrutiny through the spy hole arriving instantly.
Seconds later, the safety chain came off.
Garcia opened up, his gun strapped to his chest.
If Kate never saw another firearm in her lifetime it would suit her. She limped across the threshold, Hank following her in. The US special agents were visibly dismayed when they saw the state of her. She wasn’t expecting and didn’t want sympathy, nor did she get it. Meeting Brian Allen had been her idea. She wouldn’t complain about it now.
Introductions complete, Garcia shook hands with Hank. There was no verbal welcome from Torres, nor any physical contact, merely a slight nod acknowledging the British detective sergeant’s presence. Kate could tell that she was pissed at him for having set an anti-surveillance trail, ensuring that no one followed her to her clandestine rendezvous.
Had it not been so serious, Kate might have smiled.
Having told Kate that Garcia had the ability to follow anyone, Torres was affronted by the fact that Hank had done such a good job managing to lose not one, but two US special agents. If she raised the matter, Kate would defend him. She was proud of him. If the Americans had entered the disused garage tooled up while Tattoo Man was polishing his boots on Kate’s ribs, there might’ve been a bloodbath.
The atmosphere in the room was like lead.
Using a remote, Garcia killed the TV, a CNN report of two shootings in Canada’s capital city: one at Ottawa’s National War Memorial, where a soldier on sentry duty had died from a gunshot wound; and a second attack inside the parliament building, where the sergeant-at-arms, a former mounted policeman, was being hailed a hero for shooting a suspect dead, a man with connections to radical Islamists, the incident occurring days after a terrorist incident in Quebec that killed two Canadian soldiers.
The world had gone mad.
Torres’s attention was on Kate, more specifically on the state of her face. ‘That motherfucker really worked you over. That’s what you get when you put your trust
in a convicted felon. You’re lucky he didn’t kill you—’
Again, Kate found herself defending Brian, telling Torres not to jump to conclusions, that her injuries weren’t caused by the informant she’d gone to see. ‘If it hadn’t been for his intervention I’d have ended up a basket case,’ she added. ‘If you think I’m a mess, you should see the other guy.’
Ignoring her, Torres examined Kate’s head, applying the gentlest of pressure to her left temple.
Kate yelped, pulling away.
‘Hold still. Serves you right for going in single-crewed.’
‘That’s what I told her.’ Hank said. ‘She has selective hearing, but I don’t suppose that’s gone unnoticed. She refused a trip to A&E. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.’
Torres ignored him in favour of Kate. ‘You look like you could use a stiff drink.’
A nod. ‘It might dull the pain.’
A flick of the head from Torres sent Garcia to the minibar. He took out a Scotch miniature, poured it into a glass and handed it to Kate while his boss disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a first-aid kit to clean her wounds. When Torres was done, Hank replenished the ice pack he’d had the foresight to bring with him from the hotel bar, instructing her to keep it on.
Torres took Kate into the adjoining room, kindly supplying tracksuit bottoms and a clean vest she could change into, closing the door behind her as she left the room. The clothes were a good fit, cool and comfortable, much lighter than Kate’s leathers, though they had afforded her a great level of protection from injury, as they were designed to do.
Kate checked out the bed.
Now she was in a place of safety, all she wanted to do was curl up and sleep, but she had work to do that couldn’t wait. Her reflection was blurry in the mirror, a bruise quickly developing above and below her left brow. She felt pressure building behind her eye and her sight was not as it should be. Convincing herself that she was mildly concussed, that her symptoms would pass, and spurred on by a potential new lead, she rejoined the others.