I tried to sit as far back in the seat as possible as he approached. This was a dangerous man. Even to someone as unused to violence as me, the speed and professionalism of the assault on his erstwhile colleague had been impressive. A man capable of that was capable of a lot of things, none of them nice.
But it soon became clear he had no interest in hurting me. At least not yet.
‘Hold still, I’m going to let you go.’ He found the key he was looking for and unlocked the shackle attached to my right wrist. ‘We haven’t got a lot of time before Lench gets here.’
‘Have you got any water? Please, I need some water.’
‘I’ll give you some in the car. Now, stop moving.’
‘Who is Lench?’ I managed to ask.
‘Someone you really don’t want to meet,’ he answered, freeing my left wrist, then concentrating on the shackles pinning my ankles to the chair. Finally, he pulled me up.
I was shaky on my feet, feeling very faint, but he didn’t give me any time to get my bearings. Instead, he pushed me impatiently towards the door. ‘If Lench finds us here like this, we’re both dead,’ he explained hastily, and I was surprised at the fearful urgency that cut through his own voice.
Mantani was moaning loudly on the floor. If I’d had more strength I would have kicked the bastard as I passed, but it was all I could do simply to keep upright and moving. And anyway, my rescuer had already done enough.
We moved fast down the corridor and out the door we’d come in, the gunman ushering me along by the arm. It was raining hard, and I licked at the drops as they landed on my face. But the metal steps were slippery, and as we made our descent I fell on my behind and went bumping down about three of them, just like Max liked to do on the stairs at home, before the gunman lifted me up by the collar and shoved me the rest of the way down.
He clicked off the alarm of the black Nissan 4×4 we’d travelled in and stopped and listened. We could both hear it. A car coming along the road in our direction – the only one on it by the sound of things. And it wasn’t far away.
Lench.
‘Get in, fast,’ he demanded, running over to the driver’s side.
I didn’t need asking twice and hurried round to the front passenger door, praying he hadn’t been lying about the water. As I pulled the door open and pushed a leg in, he slammed the gearbox into reverse and the car shot backwards out of the car park. I got a hand on the dashboard and pulled myself inside, shutting the door behind me just before it smacked into the boundary wall. The next second we were doing a three-point turn in the middle of the street – a long and dimly lit place of warehouses, vehicle repair shops and empty silhouetted concrete buildings which squatted malevolently behind fences topped with razor wire and keep out signs.
Fifty yards behind us, a single pair of headlights was approaching quickly. My rescuer cursed. He shoved the car into first and took off down the street in a dramatic shriek of tyres.
He took the first turning left, swinging the wheel so sharply I didn’t think we’d make it. The back of the 4×4 slid on the wet tarmac and the rear wheel on the driver’s side smashed against the kerb, jarring me in my seat. Immediately, he changed down into second, brought the car under control, and slammed his foot to the floor. At that moment the other vehicle loomed up behind us without warning, its headlights temporarily blinding me. Ten yards separated us.
The 4×4 shot forward, gathering speed, its engine beginning to squeal as the rev counter hit four thousand and kept on going, before easing a little as we hit third. The pursuing car came with us, accelerating even faster, the glare of its headlights subsiding as it came within inches of our rear bumper.
‘He’s going to ram us!’ I screamed.
There was a major left-hand bend in the road ahead. Thirty yards, twenty yards . . . The engine continued to protest in a banshee-like howl as the rev counter shot back up again, but the gunman kept his foot on the floor. If we weren’t rammed, then we were going to smash straight into the concrete wall rising up like a wave in front of us. I clenched my teeth and put my head in my hands, praying that the car had airbags.
Suddenly, I was thrown forward in the seat, the belt not stopping me from striking the dashboard at chest height. The gunman had slammed his foot on the brakes and we were doing an emergency stop. The tyres shrieked as we went into a wild skid, and he was forced to turn the wheel sharp left to prevent it from developing into a complete pirouette. Just as I pushed myself back into the seat, trying to ignore the searing pain shooting through my sternum, the pursuing car smashed into our rear in a cacophony of shattering glass and twisting metal. I was thrown forward for a second time, this time headbutting the windscreen like an angry drunk. As I fell back, opening my eyes again, all I could see ahead was the concrete wall. Five yards, four, three, two . . . The 4×4 was swinging round with the momentum of the skid, and we were about to hit it side on. I tensed against the coming impact, wondering when this nightmare was going to end.
And then suddenly we’d stopped, only a foot or so away from the wall. The whole street became deathly silent. The pursuing car was also stationary ten yards away; it too had been knocked sideways. As I watched, the driver’s door opened and an immense black-clad figure appeared in the gap. I couldn’t see him very well in the darkness, nor did I make much effort to. I was too busy looking at the gun in his hand, which, as he stood up, was now pointing straight at me.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could get a word out we’d shot forward again and were accelerating round the bend and out of range, like something out of a computer game. The driver ratcheted through the gears until he got to fourth, the speedometer rapidly passing fifty. As the road straightened, I looked round in my seat, saw that there was no-one following and was just about to sigh with relief when he did another ferocious emergency stop, took a right turning that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, roared down to where it became a T-junction, and went right again. Still no-one was following, but he kept driving fast, and we’d got close to sixty when he finally jumped a set of red lights at another T-junction before slowing down as we joined a welcome convoy of evening traffic on a main road I vaguely recognized.
‘Thanks for that, Schumacher,’ I gasped. ‘Now where’s that fucking water?’
‘There’s some in the glove compartment. And aren’t you going to thank me for saving your neck back there?’
I pulled out a three-quarter-full bottle of Evian and didn’t speak until I’d downed the whole lot. ‘Thanks,’ I said eventually. It was only then that I asked him a question that was now really beginning to bother me.
‘Who the hell are you?’
He turned in my direction as we slowed down for more lights, observing me coolly from behind the balaclava.
‘I’m a police officer,’ he answered.
18
Lench stood in the rain for several long seconds staring in the direction the 4×4 had taken, knowing that something had gone badly wrong. Finally, he lowered the gun and got back into the Lexus. When he switched on the ignition, the engine made an injured whine, and he could hear something rattling. This annoyed him. He liked the Lexus. It was a nice, smooth, comfortable ride and fitted his bulk perfectly. Now he was going to have to get it repaired. It might even be a write-off. Someone would pay dearly for this. But first he had to find out exactly what was going on and why the vehicle his men had been using had been fleeing the place where they were meant to be holding Tom Meron until he arrived.
He drove back to the warehouse, becoming progressively more annoyed. The car sounded like shit, and he couldn’t get round the fact that somehow he’d fucked up.
He pulled into the parking area and stepped out of the car. Seeing that the door to the back of the building was open, he drew his gun, an easily concealable short-barrelled Heckler & Koch USP Compact loaded with powerful .45 ammunition that he used only in emergencies. His preferred weapon was a spring-loaded jet knife with a six-inch steel blade; attached to the
inside of his forearm, it could be activated by a simple flick of the wrist. He’d only used it once, during a struggle with a target on a boat in the middle of the Irish Sea. They’d been trying to attach weights to their victim so he’d sink like a stone when they heaved him overboard into the black waters, but the bastard had made a last-ditch attempt at survival by grabbing Lench round the throat in a surprisingly powerful grip. The target had been a loud-mouthed environmental activist with useful legal and political connections, and the sort of good looks that attracted unwanted attention. He’d been determined to stop one of Lench’s employer’s companies from building a hotel and marina on virgin coastline south of Dublin, so he had to be made to disappear. He was young and fit, a semi-professional rugby player as well, but Lench had still been caught out by the ferocity of the assault from a man who must have known it was futile, given that he was one man against four and his legs were already partly bound. But perhaps, like a Hollywood hero, he wanted to make sure he took one of the baddies with him.
Either way, he was doomed to failure. As his grip tightened, cutting off breath, Lench had simply smiled at him, raised his left hand so that it was caressing the young man’s ear beneath the vibrant locks of golden hair, and flicked his wrist with a sudden jolt. The blade drove through the soft flesh just behind the lobe and penetrated the brain instantaneously. The victim’s eyes had snapped open in shock, his grip had loosened, and he’d slid down onto the greasy deck, his head disengaging from the blade with a strange sucking sound. It was a pity they couldn’t have kept him alive for the actual ceremony of sending him helpless into the icy depths. The employer had wanted him to be given a gloating message so that he knew exactly why he was going to die, but unfortunately this was no longer possible. However, Lench was thankful that he had had such an ingenious weapon of surprise, and he’d kept it ever since, wearing it as often as was practical.
He crept up the steps and, hearing nothing, stepped inside. The door to the store room was half-open and the lights were on beyond it. He walked forward, making no attempt to disguise his footfalls. He had been trained in ambush techniques and building clearance and knew exactly what to look for. There were few places to hide in here, and he guessed that no ambush would be forthcoming.
He stopped at the door and saw through the gap one of his men lying on the floor, still clad in his balaclava. He was moving and making the odd quiet moan, and by the squat build Lench guessed it was Mantani.
For the first time in a long while he felt something akin to fear. It wasn’t that emotion exactly, more a combination of disappointment and anxiety. He’d let down the only man he feared letting down.
Then the rage came. It was a cold yet intense anger, one that tightened the features of his face and made his eyes narrow, but which remained perfectly controllable. He knew how and where to channel the energy it gave him.
He kicked open the door so hard it slammed against the wall, then strode inside, eyes darting left and right to confirm his suspicion that no-one was waiting for him, and made directly for Mantani. The injured man’s moans were louder now and he was attempting to sit up. Lench suspected this was entirely for his own benefit, a feeble attempt to show how badly hurt he’d been, so that he might be spared punishment. He must have known it wouldn’t work, but most people will try anything when they’re terrified.
Leaning down, Lench slipped a hand under Mantani’s chin and wrenched him to his feet. He turned him round and held him steady at arm’s length by the throat, using the arm with the jet knife attached. Behind the mask, Mantani’s brown eyes were wide and fearful, as well they should have been. His boss was not a man to displease.
‘What happened?’ asked Lench in a curiously high-pitched voice that belied his bulk and physical strength.
‘Daniels,’ he gasped. ‘The bastard hit me over the head with his gun when I wasn’t looking . . . Left with the prisoner . . . It was just after I spoke to you. I’m sorry . . .’
If Lench had been a man who let his immediate instincts get the better of him, he would have used the jet knife on Mantani there and then. He could tell Mantani was afraid he still might. After all, he had been one of the people on the boat that day the knife had last been put to use. But Lench knew better than to act on instinct. Mantani had made a mistake, but then he had made one too. He should never have hired Daniels. The man was too intelligent to use as a hired thug and had clearly not been trustworthy. But Lench didn’t have many men working for him who could be trusted to kill on his behalf. It takes a special type of person to murder another without compunction or remorse, while at the same time being capable of understanding and obeying orders. They were a rare breed, and Mantani was one of them. To get rid of him now would be counter-productive.
‘You fucked up,’ Lench said quietly. As he spoke, he increased the grip on his employee’s windpipe until Mantani’s breathing came out in thin, pained rasps.
‘Please, sir . . . can’t breathe . . .’
‘I pay you well, Mantani. Better than an ex-con with no hope or prospects deserves. For that I expect some reliability. Tonight, you haven’t given me that. Make the mistake again and I’ll work on you until your eyes bleed. Do you understand?’
Mantani managed to nod, and Lench let go and allowed him to fall heavily to the floor. He lay where he’d been dropped, propped up on one arm, rubbing his throat, while Lench turned away.
‘Go down to my car and wait for me inside,’ he ordered. ‘I have a private call to make.’
When Mantani had left the room and Lench could hear him going down the steps, he took out his mobile and made a call he wasn’t looking forward to.
After ringing for close to a minute, the phone was picked up at the other end. There was the distinct buzz of chatter in the background, punctuated by loud female laughter. That would be the employer’s wife. She’d clearly been drinking again. Over the top of the noise, the employer spoke four words: ‘Have you found it?’
‘There’s been a problem.’
‘Wait a minute, let me go outside.’ There was a pause of perhaps thirty seconds, the sound of doors being opened and shut. Finally, the background noise faded to nothing. ‘How bad’s this problem?’ the employer asked at last.
‘Manageable. We’ve lost target one.’ In keeping with operating procedure, Lench made no mention of names over the phone.
‘And you’re sure that’s manageable?’
‘He took one of our cars,’ Lench answered, not adding that one of his own men had sprung him, ‘but we can follow him.’
‘How?’
‘It’s got a tracking device on it. If we’re lucky, he’ll lead us all the way to target two.’
‘I don’t want to rely on luck,’ the employer said, and for the first time there was the hint of reproach in his voice. He almost always treated Lench with an unquestioning courtesy that bordered on affection, as if he was the son the employer had never had, and it was for this reason more than any other that Lench showed him such loyalty. It was also why the rebuke made him flinch.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll get him. I swear it.’
‘And when you do, make sure he talks. We have to conclude matters as soon as possible.’
‘Oh, he’ll talk all right,’ said Lench, staring down at one of his immense gloved hands, imagining it breaking fingers one by one. ‘First he’ll scream. Then he’ll talk.’
19
‘By the way,’ I told my rescuer as we drove down a quiet street of terraced housing with monolithic council blocks in the background, ‘you’ve still got the balaclava on.’
‘Oh yeah.’ He pulled it from his head in one swift movement and chucked it down between the seats, revealing a dark-haired man of about thirty with the lean, wiry features of an athlete and the look of someone who’d been in the forces.
‘So,’ I said, looking at him, ‘if you’re a police officer, how come you were going to shoot me?’
‘I wasn’t. I was bluffing. There was no way I would have p
ulled the trigger. I’m here to protect you.’ He checked the rearview mirror again, still concerned that our pursuer might be following, before making another turning.
I asked him what his name was.
‘Daniels,’ he answered. ‘I’ve been working undercover for the man who was coming for you. Lench. I don’t know his other name, but what I do know is he’s a stone-cold killer. That’s why I got you out.’
‘You hit me in the gut out on that street,’ I said indignantly, remembering the way he’d got me into the car in the first place.
‘That’s because I was undercover. I was playing a part. I’m meant to be a former armed robber who once kneecapped a fellow gang member. I can hardly go all faint when things turn nasty.’
‘It hurt.’
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not looking sorry at all. In fact, he appeared completely unruffled by events, as if a night out kidnapping and torturing was par for the course, which I suppose in his undercover role it was.
I was still very unsure of him. He could have been a copper, but then again he could just as easily be a crook. I’d run into enough of those today to know that there were plenty of bad guys about.
‘You know, this whole thing took months to set up,’ he said, staring at the road ahead, ‘and now it’s been blown. My bosses are not going to be pleased.’ His tone suggested this was my fault.
‘Forgive me if I don’t sympathize,’ I said. ‘Six hours ago I was living a normal life. Now, for some reason I still can’t fathom, people I’ve never met are trying to kill me, and my wife’s missing.’
‘Welcome to the big bad world, Mr Meron.’
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