Mr Swan pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at the display. “They’re on their way, Mr Esposito,” he said eagerly. “And they’re not alone.”
“Very fine,” said Mr Esposito. “Very fine.”
Two porthole-shaped windows provided the only illumination into the murky room. A large model anchor in the courtyard cast an impressive shadow on the rear wall. Abby stooped down to get a better view of the figures moving up the winding path. Her heart thumped when she caught a glimpse of Sam.
“No. Sam,” she said, biting her cheek. She started to move towards the window, but Mr Swan grabbed the back of her hair and yanked her back into place.
Joey had to resist the urge to crush the back of Mr Swan’s skull with his gun.
“That’s far enough, sweetheart,” said Mr Swan. “We don’t want them two to see you just yet.”
Abby struggled against his hold, but Mr Swan casually parted his jacket with his free hand to reveal his weapon. “Temper, temper,” he admonished her.
Madeline clenched her fists. She knew she had to do something, but just didn’t know what. In desperation, she leaned down and grabbed for a heavy ceramic octopus which sat, legs splayed, on the floor, offering itself as a doorstop.
She swung it and missed Mr Swan’s head by inches, but his head was not the intended target. When released, it hurtled through the air like a missile, torpedoing the glass porthole like a, well, like a multi-armed ceramic mollusc through a porthole. Before Mr Swan had time to react, Madeline screamed, “Emma, run! It’s a trap!”
Mr Swan grabbed his gun and thrust it under Madeline’s chin. “One more word, sweetheart, and they’ll need a mop to soak what’s left of you up.”
Brave as she was, the presence of a gun so close to her face was enough to silence her.
Mr Esposito stood with urgency. “Mr Swan?” he said.
Mr Swan needed no further instruction. He moved towards the broken window. “It’s fine, boss,” he said. “The guys have got it under control,”
Moments later, figures moved in front of the one remaining intact window, disrupting the perfect shadow on the wall and replacing it with an even larger, more ominous shadow.
Agents Tanner and Weiss forced Sam and Emma through the doorframe at gunpoint.
“Smashing welcome,” said Tanner, in reference to the broken window.
His partner looked at him uncertainly. “Smashing? Really? You’re talking like the locals now?”
“When in Rome,” replied Tanner, shrugging his shoulders.
Weiss shook his head, disappointed.
Abby lurched forward, as much as she was able. “Sam!” she shouted. “They’re not the FBI!”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, I pretty much got that when he stuck a gun in my back. Are you okay?” he asked.
“What a delightful little reunion,” announced Mr Esposito. “Quite the gathering,” he said, moving towards Emma. He stood in front of her and smiled. “The wonderfully talented, Emma. We had a wonderful thing going, did we not we?” he asked.
“We did not,” was Emma’s response. She struggled, trying to release her arms from Weiss’s grip, but to no avail.
“Oh, but I think we did,” Mr Esposito went on. “A shame you had to spoil it,” he said. “Such a shame. Tell me, Emma, I know you have spoken to the FBI. The real FBI, that is. I need to know what you have told them, my dear.”
“Like hell I’ll tell you,” cursed Emma, flicking her head in disgust.
“I think, perhaps, you will.” Mr Esposito gave a gentle laugh, then turned to his associate. “Mr Swan, if you would be kind enough, please?”
“Sure thing, boss. Been waiting for this,” was Mr Swan’s response, and he grabbed Madeline by the neck and began to squeeze.
It was horrible to watch. Madeline’s eyes started to water, and her face reddened as she gasped for air like a fish caught on the beach at low tide.
“That’s enough!” shouted Joey, moving his considerable frame towards Mr Swan.
Mr Esposito motioned to his associate with a flourish of his hand, and the grip on Madeline’s neck was released. Mr Swan appeared displeased at having to do so, but of course he complied.
Mr Esposito walked over to Joey. “It would seem you are developing a curious trace of compassion, Mr Schmidt,” he suggested. “Perhaps not the best trait in our line of work.”
Joey took a step back and lowered his shoulders. “No, sir,” he replied. “No, it’s not that.”
Mr Esposito paced around Joey, looking him up and down. “Yes, I fear you are losing your touch, Mr Schmidt. We need her to speak,” he said, looking at Emma Hopkins, before continuing. “So, Mr Schmidt, I would like you to use the neck of Ms Hopkins’ sister here, in such a way as to make Ms Hopkins talk, if you would be kind enough. After all, you have just assured me that, contrary to my supposition, you have not, in fact, lost your touch.”
“Yes, sir,” Joey had no choice but to reply. The blood drained from his face as he stepped forward. He knew that disobeying Mr Esposito was a death sentence. He betrayed no emotion as he raised his right hand to her throat. And squeezed.
“Joey, no, you can’t do this!” shouted Abby. “This isn’t you anymore!” she pleaded.
Joey turned to Abby, but his face was impassive as stone as his hold tightened further. The heel of Madeline’s shoe flapped to the floor as the grip on her throat raised her up on tiptoe. She gurgled, and her eyes looked like they were on stalks, ready to pop out of her head.
Mr Esposito gave a satisfied smile when Madeline looked to her sister imploringly to relieve her suffering. “You can make this all go away, Ms Hopkins,” Mr Esposito told Emma. “This need not continue.”
In a blur of motion, Joey had released his grip on Madeline and his hand was reaching inside his jacket.
Unfortunately, Mr Swan was ready for this. “Ah-ah-ah,” he said, pressing the muzzle of his gun against the side of Joey’s head. “And what do you need a gun for, Joey?”
Mr Swan gave a glance to one of the other two henchmen — who up until now had done nothing, standing like bookends awaiting instruction. Mr Swan gave a nod, and Bookend №1 left the room via the front door, taking care to avoid the shards of glass from the broken window scattered across the floor.
Mr Swan reached inside Joey’s jacket and removed his gun. “I’m not convinced you were going to shoot her, Joey, so the only other option is that you were going to shoot us. Is that what you were going to do, Joey?” sneered Mr Swan.
Mr Swan frisked Joey. There was nothing else to be found in the jacket, so attention was shifted to the legs. Mr Swan smirked as he lifted Joey’s trouser leg, first on the left and then on the right, revealing a gun tucked away nicely on each ankle. “I thought as much,” said Mr Swan. “You don’t mind?” he asked, relieving Joey of his weapons. “Then again, it really wouldn’t matter if you did mind, would it?”
Joey’s concerns about the current situation were confirmed when Bookend №1 re-entered the room with a smug grin plastered across his face.
Mr Swan kept his gun trained on Joey’s head. “I’ve got someone eager to meet you, Joey!” he said, barely able to contain his excitement. And then he nodded to the underling again.
Bookend №1 stood to one side and a familiar figure filled the doorframe.
Joey gave a resigned laugh, but he felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He looked at Madeline and Abby and shook his head before turning back to the door.
“Not as smart as you thought, are you, Schmidt?” said Mikey Montgomery, entering the room.
“Mikey,” said Joey, facing his former partner. “That’s some lump on your face,” he said with a crooked frown. “I wish now that I’d given you another.”
Mikey rubbed his face. “You should have, Joey. It might have saved your life,” he replied, and he advanced towards Joey, fist cocked.
“No, not yet,” said Mr Swan, placing a hand across Mikey’s chest. “Not quite yet. I understand your eagerness.
But we have some business to attend to first.”
A small blood vein pulsated on Mikey’s forehead. He was like a caged bull desperate to be let loose, although, without a gun pointed at his person, Joey could easily have wiped the floor with him.
“Enough of the distractions,” said Mr Esposito. “As much as I have enjoyed my stay on this little island, my time here is coming to an end. I have a bottle of Italian brandy waiting for me on my jet. Squisito. And I really should not leave it unattended much longer. I am sure you understand.”
Emma raised her hands in submission. “Mr Esposito, I’ll continue to work for you,” she insisted. “You always said I was the best forger in the business. I’ll do whatever you need. Make you whatever you need. I’ll make you rich.”
“Ah, but I am already wealthy, Ms Hopkins,” he replied.
“Please, Mr Esposito. I’ve forged, what, over a hundred items for you? I’ll do more. Anything. Just let us all go. Please,” she said, her cheeks awash with tears. “I promise I won’t talk to anyone. Please don’t kill us.”
Mr Esposito smiled sunnily. He placed his hands in his jacket pockets amiably. It was at times like these that he wished he were not allergic to cats. It would have given him something to do with his hands.
“It is certainly true that you have added a number of zeros to my account balances, Ms Hopkins. However, I know that you have already spoken to the authorities. And, regardless of how much money I may have, it would be of no use to me should I be serving thirty years’ time in some prison, now would it?”
Emma opened her mouth to protest, but it was futile.
“I am afraid we are well beyond the point of you pleading for your life having any effect whatsoever, my dear. My business partners would find it fantastically distressing if I were to let you go. If I were to let any of you go.”
Joey’s eyed danced around the room, calculating any advantage. At present, there was none.
“Emma Hopkins,” Mr Esposito went on, almost gently. “I have relished my time working with a master such as yourself, but the simple fact of the matter is that I cannot afford for you to testify against me. What I must do, you understand, is nothing personal. It is simply a business decision. As you must know, I do not hesitate to, shall we say, disassociate myself, from those who put my operations at risk. I regret to say that today I find it necessary to disassociate myself from an additional four people.”
“Five people,” Mr Swan interrupted impertinently.
“Mr Swan?” Mr Esposito responded politely, ever unflappable.
“Don’t forget Joey, boss” Mr Swan suggested, tapping his gun against Joey’s beefy arm.
Mr Esposito raised one hand in acquiescence. “Ah, quite right, Mr Swan. And what would I ever do without you?”
Mr Swan bowed his head in gratitude.
“Has the boat arrived?” Mr Esposito enquired, turning to the second bookend.
“Yes,” responded Bookend №2, pleased to be called upon for the first time ever.
“Very fine,” said Mr Esposito, replacing his familiar cream fedora hat. “Now. I am terribly sorry to have to say addio to you all,” he announced, with an impressive air of sincerity. “But, I have business elsewhere. There is some good news for you, however,” he added. “At least you are going to go on a nice little boat trip. Most unfortunately, you will not be enjoying it for very long.”
Emma reached out like she was making one last plea for her life. “Mr Esposito. To confirm. You’re going to kill us all? The five of us? Like you’ve killed so many others?”
Mr Esposito smiled wanly. He looked at Tanner and Weiss and paused for a moment. “Please tell me that you two have searched them?” he said in a manner that indicated he already suspected the answer.
Tanner and Weiss looked at each other like two schoolboys who’d been caught lighting the neighbour’s pet on fire. Again.
“Sonnuva–” cursed Mr Swan, tearing toward Sam. He ripped open Sam’s shirt, buttons popping off, each in turn, and sailing to the floor. “He’s wired, boss,” confirmed Mr Swan, and, with that, began pummelling whoever was closest to him — which, unfortunately for Agent Tanner, was him.
The smile never left Mr Esposito’s face, as he took a cursory glance through the remaining intact portal window. “Well done, Emma. Truly excellent. Although this only brings the timing of your demise forward, I fear.” He made for the door and turned to Mr Swan just as he reached it. “Kill them all,” he told him. “Now.”
“Shit!” someone shouted.
“It’s SCHMIDT!” Joey Schmidt yelled. And, with that rallying cry, he came to life.
He threw a right hook at Weiss that all but removed his head from his shoulders.
Tanner jumped into the fray, but was blinded from the tears of pain welled up in his eyes from Mr Swan’s clobbering and soon greeted the floor with his face.
The two bookends were about to earn their wages as they reached inside their jackets to carry out Mr Esposito’s order. But, before they could act, Sam swung his left foot and caught Bookend №1 squarely in the bollocks. Bookend №1 fell to his knees with a whimper, and then promptly passed out from the pain.
Bookend №2 moved back, out of the way of his fallen comrade, and managed to get off a shot from his pistol.
Sam winced, closing his eyes as he threw a punch with everything he had in the locker. He opened his eyes in time to watch his clenched fist make contact with the offending chin. Bookend №2’s eyes rolled back in his head as he crashed against a painted jolly roger mural hung on the wall.
Sam didn’t have a moment to revel in his knockout punch as the sound of another shot deafened him a moment before the smell of burning gunpowder filled the air.
“Joey!” screamed Madeline, and rushed to his aid. She cradled Joey’s head as he lay the floor. “Joey!” she screamed once more, in horror, seeing the palms of her hands now covered in blood.
Mr Swan swung round and pointed his gun directly at Sam. Mr Swan smiled for an instant before the sound of a gunshot rang out, once more.
“Sam! Oh, no!” pleaded Abby. Sam stood motionless with a simple expression on his face. He didn’t speak as he clutched his chest. He gave Abby the gentlest glimmer of a smile as he staggered back. “I’d catch… a lobster… for you…” he said before his head dropped.
“Don’t you dare leave me, Sam Levy, don’t you dare!” she demanded, reaching out to support him.
This all played out in a matter of moments. Mr Esposito had momentarily hesitated, but then he remembered himself and grabbed for the door.
“Mr Swan. If you please,” he said. “Finish the job and kill the rest of them. We’ve outstayed our welcome.”
There was no answer.
“Mr Swan.”
Again, there was no answer. Neither was there any further sound of gunfire.
Mr Esposito looked back, on the verge of chastising his faithful assistant, but saw Mr Swan fallen to the floor, wobbling on one knee, and gasping.
Mr Swan looked up at Mr Esposito, holding the palm of his right hand to his heart, as if swearing an oath. Blood seeped through his fingers. “Boss. I’m sorry, boss…” he said, before falling face-first onto the cold concrete floor.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the courtyard as the outline of several new shadows flitted across the rear wall.
“Nobody move!” screamed a figure, gun drawn, emerging in the smoke-filled room. He was followed closely by several more armed men, awaft in the smoky haze, who repeated the same instructions but with even more ferocity.
But nobody was moving.
Many were down for the count. Of those remaining, Abby was holding onto Sam and Madeline cradled Joey on the floor.
Only Mr Esposito was standing, and that wasn’t for long as he was quickly dispatched.
As the smoke spilt out of the opened door and the room cleared, Emma stared at the lead figure looming over them, his face now revealed. She stared at him but she couldn’t seem to wor
k out what she was seeing.
“Henry? Henry, is that you?”
None of the armed men waivered. “Search everyone,” demanded one of them. “If anyone moves, take them down,” he said. “I want everyone restrained until we figure out who’s who in this godforsaken mess.”
Madeline looked up at the armed men with tears in her eyes. “You need to help me,” she pleaded. “I think we’re losing Joey.”
Chapter Eighteen
Blood, Treacle & Tears
T he Isle of Man was, on the whole, a sedate, picturesque place to live and an idyllic place to visit. It was this charming allure that brought Sam to the little Island in the middle of the Irish Sea all those years ago. For a place with a minimal crime rate, the sight that greeted those enjoying the sun-kissed Douglas Beach that day would live long in their memories. It was a scene better suited to a Tom Clancy novel than a seaside town as three helicopters appeared from their cover behind the rolling Manx hills. A Navy gunship filled Douglas Harbour from where several ribs were dispatched, heading at speed towards the lighthouse sat precariously on the cliff.
All roads in and out of the Island’s capital were closed as inquisitive onlookers gathered on the periphery, drawn by the thumping noise from the helicopters which circled the bay.
“You have to help him,” said Madeline, as the paramedic eased her gently to one side.
“We’ll do what we can, I promise,” said the man with a face that oozed compassion. “Give him some room, please. We need space to work. Now, what’s his name?” he asked to Madeline.
“Joey,” she said.
“And his surname?” he asked.
Madeline looked blankly. “I don’t think we know, do we?” she asked, looking around the room. “I mean, for certain? We don’t even know if Joey is his real name. But he answers to Joey.”
“Joey it is, then,” the man said as he started examining his patient.
Armed police filled the room and any movement was closely scrutinised. Two officers stood over Mr Swan as another paramedic worked furiously on him as well. She looked exhausted when she eventually looked up at the two officers. “There’s nothing more I can do. This one’s gone,” said the medic. She said this dejectedly, but also with acceptance as this, unfortunately — as a paramedic — came with the territory.
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