by G. B. Hope
‘For Christ’s Sake, Phillip, just tell me.’
‘I’m worried that you might be involving too many people. Perhaps you should only make the full plan known to those who seem completely ready to act. I’m just… worried.’
Michael realised that was what had been niggling away at the back of his mind; security. A coup had to be a tight-knit enterprise to have any hope of succeeding. He would pick his men carefully.
He patted Phillip on the shoulder. Then, feeling a little light relief was needed, he called Taylor and Sienna over to the tee.
‘You two can have a few shots,’ he told them.
‘Oh, no, sir,’ protested Sienna, ‘I’m no good at this.’
‘Have a try. I insist.’
So, the two young women had a go at pitch and putt. They rarely got a shot anywhere near the green, but it was good fun, entertaining them all, making Sienna laugh, and even raising a smile from Taylor.
THIRTY
Liam McAlister and Danielle Lees were only half brother and sister, but that was just a technicality - they had always been very close. Occasionally, he joked that he would have preferred a brother who could play sports with him, but the two of them got on just fine. Liam had always watched out for Danielle, so when he heard what the true dynamics actually were in the compound, he quickly assured her that she didn’t have to worry about control freak, Ivanovic, or sleazy Ziegler ever again.
Liam was unable to walk on his damaged ankle, so he would just heal for a while, enjoy the recovery time and let his sister and Sabrina look after him. As soon as he was able, they would get out of there on the Manning’s boat. Meanwhile, they caught up on all that had happened to them both, chatted about the event, and what unpleasantness they had gone through.
All Liam’s group were grateful for the rest. There were months of supplies stock-piled, looted from houses where the occupants had failed to come home. And plenty of beds spare. Sabrina quickly got to know Danielle, and it was fun sharing the taking care of Liam. The Mannings, well, they were happy together anywhere. Danielle had thanked them for all their help, then settled them into a room in Mrs Ikin’s house.
Allison was so pleased to be able to have a bath and wash her hair. Ivanovic had arranged for the water to be boiled at his house, and given Allison her own wing, although the en-suite and the mini-gym were pretty much redundant.
She came down to his kitchen in just one of his monogrammed dressing gowns. Ivanovic looked very suave, wearing a whiter than white shirt and dark slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong, tanned, forearms and a Rolex watch. His teeth, definitely whitened, welcomed her with a smile.
‘Allison, you look delightful in that. I’ve made some sandwiches. Very basic ingredients, I’m afraid. But there’s nothing basic about this.’ He showed her a bottle of red wine. She peered at the label, but couldn’t distinguish it from the kind of bottle she would buy down her local supermarket for £5.99, but she gave him a sophisticated smile, nevertheless.
‘Come, let’s get comfortable,’ he said. ‘I want to hear all about you.’ They moved to his candle-lit lounge. ‘What brought you to the States?’
‘Oh, Martin, I don’t like to talk about myself.’
‘I can’t believe you are shy. Were you coming to see a man? You can tell me, I won’t mind.’
‘I just love America, Martin. I thought it was time to come and see it for myself. All the Americans I know hate the place. They don’t realise they are living in paradise. Or were.’
Ivanovic poured Allison a glass of wine and passed it to her.
‘I assure you, Allison. This is one American who loves America.’ He poured his own drink and clinked glasses with her. ‘What do they say in England? Cheers?’
‘Bottoms up.’
From his first and only meeting with Ivanovic, Mr Manning felt unnerved. He was pretty sure he was good at being able to spot a psychopath when he saw one. Perhaps it was his shotgun that got them off on the wrong foot, or maybe Ivanovic didn’t want any more old people in his new commune. Either way, Mr Manning was keen to be on his way, with Zahira, and hopefully the youngsters. Plus, naturally, he was worried about Maria. The next time he saw Liam, he suggested making him a wooden trolley, on which he could be towed out of town. Liam persuaded him to rest for a few days, confident he could walk on his ankle by then. Mr Manning knew his wife was tired and stressed, and there was decent food there, so he agreed. He kept his shotgun with him at all times, though, and tried to avoid speaking to Ivanovic, or his toady deputy, Ziegler.
***
Mrs Jefferson was back in the laundry room of the Country Club, drinking tea with Jane Flynn. A new edict had come down from Ferguson: punishment to be administered to both Taylor and Sienna. Their crime: playing golf without permission.
Michael found a locker room where he could punch and kick every single metal door in a rage, until he was spent, and forced to slump to the floor, sweating profusely. He couldn’t find any swear words - his fury was way beyond that kind of thing.
He got to his feet, wiped his face on an old towel, checked that he looked vaguely normal in a mirror, then headed back to the laundry. He entered and stood in silence, looking at the two women, who had both gotten to their feet. After about ninety seconds, Jane felt she should say something.
‘Both girls are in Taylor’s room, sir. Waiting for you.’
Michael felt bile rise up from his stomach. He stared at Mrs Jefferson. Then he looked out the window at the coming dusk.
‘Mrs Jefferson?’ said Michael, ‘When will you have to report back on this punishment?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Last time I was asked two days later.’
‘So, it’s not very likely tonight, is it?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You look tired, Mrs Jefferson. Why don’t you have an early night? Come back in the morning? I’m feeling tired myself. I don’t feel I would do the punishment justice.’
Mrs Jefferson was not concerned when it took place. She looked at Jane, then back to Michael, nodded and agreed.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jefferson. If anyone asks, say just that that I was tired and would prefer to do it in the morning. Jane will see you out.’
When they were gone, Michael walked to Taylor’s room and went straight in. Both girls jumped to their feet. Sienna had clearly been crying, while Taylor looked her usual, petulant self.
‘Girls. There will be no punishment tonight. There will be no punishment ever again. You will both go to bed now, in this room, and stay here until I come for you. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Taylor, her face now expressing huge surprise.
It was a big decision to make, but Michael knew it was the right one; giving his machine-gun to a man called Angelo, who was ex-US military, and who would go into the sleeping quarters where three of Ferguson’s men were known to reside.
The order to discipline Taylor and Sienna had been the last straw, and proved the catalyst for action being brought forward three days. There were six other men on board, not counting young Jerry, who would stay with Michael. Two brothers, both architects from Baltimore, called Robert and Jake, were to double-team the man on night guard duty. They were armed with knives. There were two chefs involved, James and Leland, carrying a meat cleaver and a knife, respectively. Leland had impressed Michael with his physique and keenness, so had targeted Ferguson’s main man, Bill, in the suite where he slept. Michael then had two wedding guests, Tom and Evan, both from Florida, who knew where to go for their targets. Overall, the plan was to kill or disable their victims, take charge of the weapons and fall back on the laundry, ready to deal with anyone who had been missed. Michael and Jerry were going after Ferguson, who resided in the Bridal suite. If they could decapitate the leadership then it would surely hinder any violent response from the men.
The raiding parties synchronised their watches in the laundry at 1.45 am, wished each other good luck and set off. Leland came with Micha
el and Jerry, because Bill was near to Ferguson.
Michael and Jerry both carried kitchen knives, and Jerry had improvised a wooden club as well. As they walked the silent corridors of the Country Club, Michael was astonished at how calm and brave he felt, as if he had taken tranquillisers. Perhaps he was just “in the zone”, and would fall apart days later when he thought back on the events of that night, or maybe his brain refused to let him think about the probable act of base violence he was about to carry out. Besides, Jerry, behind him, was breathing heavily enough for both of them.
They got to the wing with the luxurious guest suites. Carefully, they inched forward, unsure of whether there would be a night guard outside the Bridal suite - but Ferguson didn’t have that many men under his control to have two up all night. All was quiet. Leland connected fists with a shaky-armed Jerry and went to his post. They were waiting for exactly 2am, or for any sound of gunfire. Michael had imagined that Ferguson would storm out into the corridor at the sound of any kind of disturbance, but if that didn’t suddenly happen, then he was going to force entry as quickly as possible.
Michael’s cool nerves were suddenly shot to bits as he realised there was someone behind them. He spun round on his heels, knife brought up violently into the neck of Taylor, who froze. Michael just managed not to carry through with the move as he realised it was her, his heart assaulted by a massive rush of adrenalin, which then jumped to his head and set a vein pulsing across the top of his skull. Now he found a swear word.
‘Fuck!’ he hissed. ‘What the fuck are you doing here, Taylor?’
‘I heard what was happening. I want to help, sir.’
‘Stop with the sir shit. Go back to your room.’
She stood her ground. She was frightened, very nervous, but her expression was one of pride. Pride in Michael, and also some guilt for ever doubting him. She was not going to go back to her room while Ferguson was still in charge.
Jerry leant in, showing his watch on a trembling wrist, with seconds to go. Michael wondered if Jerry was going to be much help. Michael pushed Taylor back a few yards.
Two o’clock in the morning arrived, with no gunshots. Michael hoped Angelo was doing the business quietly and efficiently. In the gloom of the corridor, he looked into Jerry’s eyes, saw that the youth was about to wet himself, and gave an aggressive grimace to suggest they were going to do it.
Together they barged through the Bridal suite doors, like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. The doors had probably not been locked, as they opened like curtains. They found the living area resembling a pig sty, littered with food and bottles, completely the opposite to what would be expected of the always sartorially-elegant Ferguson. Jerry knew where the bedroom was, so took the lead. Suddenly, Michael felt fear - fear of running in on a man with a loaded gun. Gunshots did then sound from the grounds somewhere. Michael’s head felt like it would split, as he went after Jerry. Jerry, who had not frozen when the time came.
Into the lit bedroom, they found a shape in the bed. It stirred. There was something wrong. Michael and Jerry wanted to attack, but the head which turned on the mattress had long hair. Bang! Bang! Bang! Shots deafened and blinded them - from the bathroom. Ferguson, naked, enraged, fired again, shattering a light. Jerry was first to react, throwing his piece of wood, actually hitting Ferguson right on his nose, stunning him. Michael moved on auto-pilot (he would never be able to remember in the future what exactly he did) but he was over there in a flash, stabbing Ferguson in the chest. The blade was only a small way in, maybe hitting a rib. Michael tried again, and this time the blade almost disappeared. He didn’t attempt to pull it out, Ferguson was going down, quickly followed by stabbing from Jerry. Michael just wanted the gun from Ferguson’s hand. He kicked it free, then stood there panting, vaguely aware that Jerry was still stabbing in a mad frenzy, taking out all his angst and hatred.
A girl gasped - Taylor was in the room, watching Jerry butcher Ferguson, seeing the blood spurt and the squirming form on the floor finally go still. Then Taylor looked at the figure in the bed. Michael focussed his eyes. The girl in bed was alive but lifeless, her hands tied to the bed post, her body nude.
‘It’s Kacie!’ screamed Taylor at him, as she tried to cover her friend’s nudity and tug at her bonds. ‘It’s my friend, Kacie.’
Michael went to the bed. He used the knife, which he realised was bloodless, to cut the ropes, allowing Taylor to take her friend into an embrace.
More gunshots sounded nearby. Then Leland rushed into the room, his face spattered with blood. He nodded at Michael. Michael heard crying, looked at the girls, but it turned out to be Jerry, weeping over the butchered carcass of Ferguson.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted Michael, just as a fire alarm sounded. He pulled Jerry away. ‘Let’s go!’ Then he picked up Ferguson’s handgun and put it into the back of his trousers. Then he took it out again, not keen on inadvertently blowing half a buttock away. He looked for a safety catch but couldn’t see one, so decided to carry it out in front of him, instead. Taylor was dressing Kacie in whatever was at hand, which was Ferguson’s trousers and someone’s coat. Kacie looked drugged in Michael’s opinion.
‘Come on!’ he screamed through the fire siren.
They all left the suite. Some of the people allocated to be in Ferguson’s group challenged them. It was forgiveable, with them not knowing a coup was taking place. Michael threw a punch at someone who grabbed him - he missed, but then they were running down the corridor, aiming for that re-grouping in the laundry.
They could smell smoke, so there was actually a fire. They stopped when they heard more gunfire in the wing containing the laundry. Michael made the decision: time to head for the woods. He took them out through a fire escape door. Leland was ready to split away from them.
‘I’m going to find my friends,’ said Leland.
Michael shook his hand.
‘Good luck to you, Leland.’
Leland ran off into the night. Michael found Taylor tugging at him.
‘I’m not leaving Sienna,’ said Taylor. ‘Or Mrs Flynn.’
‘Taylor, we have to go now, while we have the chance. I don’t know how many of Ferguson’s people have been taken out.’
‘No.’
‘Taylor, come on.’
Taylor screamed. ‘No! You’re not my master! You’re not! I won’t go without them.’
Yet more gunshots. Every nerve in Michael’s body told him to turn around, run for the woods and never think of this place or these people again. Instead, he told them to wait right there, and he ran back into the building. Immediately, he came across Wade, one of Ferguson’s men, crouching behind a counter with his gun in hand. For a tenth of a second, Wade hesitated over what Michael’s status was, enough time for Michael to shoot the man. He only hit him in the shoulder, but Wade slumped backwards, screaming. Michael picked up his gun from the floor. Now there was no cool about Michael, his eyes were out on stalks, as he edged towards the laundry. He became aware of smoke beginning to billow along the ceiling. He needed to leave. He heard shouting, as everyone reacted to the turmoil. He inched further. Then he saw Jane Flynn, clearly shot dead on the floor. Enough was enough, Michael turned to leave.
‘Sir!?’
He looked back, at Sienna climbing out of a floor-level cupboard. The girl was terrified, unsure of whether he was a good man or an evil one. Michael rushed across.
‘Sienna, it’s all right. We’re leaving this place right now. Taylor’s outside. Come on.’
He dragged Sienna, still dressed in her uniform, back the way he had come, then outside into the tearful embrace of Taylor.
Without another look back, Michael headed off in any direction, four people trailing after him.
THIRTY ONE
At the Ivanovic compound, everything was quiet and peaceful. Established as the leader of the group, Ivanovic remained content, as long as people did their chores, which mainly entailed taking turns washing the pots after meals. In fact, he was
more than content, as he had Allison as a house guest. Nothing had happened between them, not even while drinking wine on the first night. That occasion she had claimed absolute fatigue, teasing him, promising a better time when she was recovered. Happy to play the game, Ivanovic had not pressed the matter, and was quite enjoying courting the Englishwoman and the innuendo that came with it, as their paths crossed during the long days.
Liam, Sabrina and the Mannings were fine with Allison being in Ivanovic’s house, assuming she was just behaving as she would have done before the event. They were happy to only see her at meal times, and there was nothing to talk to her about. She was definitely not leaving with them, Liam decided.
Liam’s ankle was still swollen and unable to walk on. The pain was slowly dissipating, which he hoped meant that it wasn’t broken. Not being able to ice it immediately after the accident might mean he had a permanently larger ankle, but he’d heard about things like that during his amateur soccer days, and was not too worried. And, besides, he had the adorable Sabrina to fuss round him.
The calm resolution of the journey allowed him to think. Sabrina mattered enormously to him. Or enoromously, as she had recently said, in her cute, unusual accent. He teased her once or twice about her accent – bizarrely, it sounded like a German trying to speak English, or a Dutch person. He teased her by speaking with a heavy Dutch accent. She had laughed, blushed and protested, ‘I do not sound like that.’ However, it just added to her sweet demeanour. He wanted to protect her, be with her, make love to her. He wanted to take her home with him to his family.
His family; he talked with Danielle. They were worried about certain family members, sure about others. They agreed that a few cousins were extremely adaptable and pragmatic, and hopefully they were all gathered together. Danielle questioned Liam about the Mannings. Was a cross-Atlantic journey even feasible? All he could say was that he trusted the old couple implicitly.