Hurt (The Hurt Series)

by Reeves, D. B.

  Next on the list: Bhloa cyclone, Pakistan. Killed over 500,000. Date: 13/11/70

  Chamber’s second number: 111370.

  Next: India cyclone killing 300,000. Date: 25/11/1830

  Chamber’s number: 11251830

  The fourth devastation to appear on the list was the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake.

  Frantically, she worked her way down both lists, marrying up the dates until she reached God’s ninthcruellest act upon the world.

  Kamakura, Japan. 30,000 dead from an earthquake that hit on 20/5/1293.

  Yet the ninth number on Chamber’s list bore no resemblance to 2051293.

  91877.

  Edwards’ words: Son of a bitch chalked up the nine longest range kills in British Military history. Was going for the big ten when he got hit.’

  91877. Jessop shut her eyes, converting the number in her head.

  ‘Trust me, the guy’s top fucking notch. Never misses. Used to boast he’d hunted the best and killed the best…’

  She logged onto another website which detailed world events on 18/9/1977. Other than the US Voyager I taking the first photograph of the earth and moon together, nothing of global significance had made the news that day in history.

  She glanced back at the list, considering the cruel acts of God that had befallen the unfortunate thousands on the nine previous dates. Her eyes fell to the last number, its significance suddenly chilling her flesh and knotting her stomach.

  Disaster had not struck the world that day.

  But it had struck her world.

  Because on the 18thSeptember 1977 her family was slaughtered. And Chambers knew this…

  ‘…and was deadlier than God himself.’

  Chapter Eighty

  Other than a number of name changes over the years, The Penta Hotel was one of the few buildings that had remained constant and unchanged since as far back as Jessop could remember. In a growing city where the landscape would alter monthly with newly erected office blocks and apartments, and every street corner was occupied with trendy coffee shops and ghosts, The Penta was a welcome beacon of stability in more ways than one.

  Situated in the heart of the city centre, the 4 star hotel was the city’s largest and oldest hotel. With six floors accommodating 238 rooms, a swimming pool, gym, and three sizeable conference rooms, it was a favourite for companies to host corporate meetings and seminars.

  It was also a favourite of The Witness Protection Unit, who used it as a half way house for key witnesses due to its location just two minutes walk to the Magistrate’s Court. An arrangement with the hotel meant the WPU could commandeer any of the rooms with an hour’s notice.

  The room they had secured for her was on the fifth floor and faced east. This was both their preferred floor and side of the building, because none of the adjacent buildings stood over two stories high, eliminating the threat of a rifle shot through the room’s window. Of course, that wouldn’t stop Chambers taking a shot at her on the street whilst she was out hunting the bastard, but she’d already devised a plan to prevent that from happening. A plan she had not disclosed to anyone.

  Decorated in soft blues and warm creams, with a small flat screen TV, double bed, built in wardrobe, and an adequate pastel green bathroom, her room was as comfortable as any hotel room she’d stayed in. Admittedly, it was hardly The Bellagio, but with the WPU’s 24/7 surveillance, and their detailed plans of the building and every possible exit, it was a hell of a lot safer than her house.

  After unpacking the few clothes and personal possessions she’d listed for the WPU to bring, she took a well needed shower, turning the power on full until the scorching jets of water massaged the knots from her shoulders and back. She couldn’t help but wonder if the safe house Ray and the girls were holed up in had such a powerful shower, and if it did indeed have Broadband and Sky Plus for the girls. Ray had been right in thinking there’d be hell to pay if it didn’t.

  And that was a hell she’d dearly pay if only to be with her daughter again.

  If only to hear her voice again.

  She stepped out of the shower and threw on the hotel’s white towelling robes. Padded to the bed and picked up the secure phone she’d been given. Prayed the secure phone line was up and running. She dialled the number, eyeing the photo of Ray and Chloe she’d perched on the bedside table. A voice asked her for her password, then informed her for everyone’s security to keep the conversation basic and that the connection would be automatically broken after three minutes. A silent moment later and Ray said, ‘Hey you.’

  Relief swept through her like a tidal wave. ‘Hey yourself. How’s it going?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You feeling okay?’

  ‘Never better.’

  Of course, she thought. ‘The place to your liking?’

  ‘It’s comfortable and quiet. Good for writing.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘They’re fine. Luckily for both of us they’ve got Sky Plus.’

  She smiled to herself, looked at the clock, aware Ray also knew they hadn’t long to talk. ‘Chloe around?’

  ‘Wait a sec’.’

  A moment later Chloe was on the line and Jessop’s chest was fluttering with the sound of her girl’s voice.

  ‘We haven’t got long left, sweetie. You settling in okay?’

  ‘It’s cool. Nothing much to do, but hey.’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

  ‘Yeah, and yours.’

  ‘I miss you.’

  ‘You too.’

  ‘Listen, we’ll talk again soon, sweetie. Can I have another quick word with Ray?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Ray said, ‘Hey.’

  ‘Some wedding day, right?’

  ‘Not exactly how I envisioned it.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you, promise.’

  A pause. ‘I’m counting on it. Be a crime to waste that speech I wrote.’

  She closed her eyes against the prick of tears. ‘Can’t wait to hear it.’

  ‘Then catch that fucker, okay?’

  Her throat closed.

  ‘But hey…Lets be careful out there, huh?’ The connection broke.

  Through sodden eyes she stared at the photo of the people she’d just talked to. People she loved so much her chest hurt just thinking about them.

  Yeah, she’d be careful. Real careful. She had too much to live for not to.

  She hoisted herself off the bed and padded to the door. Checked it was locked.

  It was time to execute her plan.

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Two days later

  Monday, November 6th

  ‘He’s struck again,’ Mason said through her mobile. ‘Last night. Thirty-six-year-old father. Chamber’s caught him in his garage tinkering with his car. Made his ten-year-old boy watch as he sliced his old man’s tongue out and let him choke to death on his blood.’

  Perched on the side of the hotel bed, Jessop took a swig from a carton of orange juice and glanced at the alarm clock: 7.58am. ‘Name?’

  ‘Mark Hughes. Boy’s name is Liam.’

  She scribbled down the names below the last victim Chambers had claimed on Saturday:

  No’ 7: Collette Wilkes, 28. Ambushed in her kitchen Saturday night before bed. Stabbed in the gut and slowly bled out in front of her husband.

  Mason said, ‘Listen, boss. Are you okay? I mean you haven’t left - ’

  She hung up. Lit a cigarette. Scrutinised the list of victims. Discounting Terence Randal, whose death was motivated by Chambers’ want to expose the truth about him raping his son, Mark Hughes brought the total to eight.

  Eight from ten left two.

  91877.

  She was next.

  She eyed the vodka bottle lying on the bed, its contents one shot shy of empty.

  She hated loose ends.

  A moment later the bottle was empty. Satisfied, she clim
bed back into bed and pulled the duvet over her head.

  Chapter Eighty-two

  2 weeks later

  Monday, November 20th

  ‘I write my own laws, with Death I break bread. Killers are quiet when they come from my head…’

  She ground her teeth against the blasting sound of Slipknot, Chloe’s favourite thrash metal band at the moment. Her trigger finger worked on instinct, twitching rapidly, sending CGI mutant zombies to a bloody hell on the plasma screen. On her request, the hotel had supplied the game and console a week ago. She’d played it so often she could second guess every attack, knew every corner from where every flesh-eater would appear.

  If only her job was as simple.

  If only she could second guess the real monster’s movements. Be there with a big fucking gun and blow Chamber’s sick fucking head off when he stuck it out. No trial, no defence, no insanity plea, and no cushy fucking cell to while away a couple of years.

  But she couldn’t, could she? Because Corporal Phillip fucking Chambers was ‘highly proficient in concealment and stalking techniques.’ And ‘patience was his greatest weapon.’ And ‘Now that you’re onto him, be prepared for him to use it.’

  Meaning?

  ‘Meaning you might have to exercise some patience of your own.’

  Not a problem.

  Not a problem at all.

  Perspiration coated her forehead as her heart accelerated with the speedy guitars piercing her eardrums through the headphones. Since she’d downloaded the albums onto the iPod the hotel had also supplied, rarely did her head not. In her new world silence was deafening.

  Silence meant thinking. And thinking was useless against God.

  He did what He wanted, when He wanted, where He wanted.

  She quit the game, flung the controls down. Mixed some vodka and orange juice together in equal quantities and drank thirstily. Turned the volume on the iPod up to maximum and flopped back naked on the bed.

  ‘What I want is so insensitive. Stay out and be abused. Cause this is so confused. I only want to be left alone, and rot away.’

  Her grip faltered and the bottle slipped from her palm and fell on the mess of files and paperwork blanketing her bed. She reached for it blindly, but instead of the bottle, found an object with a more reassuring feel.

  Out of the corner of her eye she regarded the gun she’d liberated from the evidence room before holing up in here two weeks ago. A Webley Mk 4 revolver, used by the British Military until the late eighties, and now one of the most common and cheapest firearms to be bought on the street.

  Along with patience, the gun was all part of her plan, and also had a delicious irony attached to it. A thin smile crossed her lips.

  For when Corporal Phillip Chambers came for her, she’d end his disillusioned reign with the weapon favoured by his military forefathers.

  Chapter Eighty-three

  Friday, December 1st

  ‘Hey sweetie.’

  ‘Hey,’ Chloe replied.

  As always, Jessop’s throat closed at the sound of her daughter’s voice. ‘How’s it going out there?’

  ‘Same as always…boring.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but − ’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It’s for our own safety.’

  ‘Shouldn’t be too long now.’

  ‘You said that last week, and the week before that.’

  ‘I know, but this time we’re real close. Got a big break yesterday.’

  ‘You said that last week, too.’

  She gripped the phone tight. Had she said that last week? How many empty promises had she made her daughter over the last month? She eyed the vodka bottle resting between her knees ‘Ray around?’

  ‘’Course. Where else would he be?’

  ‘Hang in there, sweetie. I promise − ’ but there was no one on the end of the line to make the empty promise to.

  She grabbed the vodka and heaved herself from the floor. Her legs wavered and she reached for the bed for balance. Fell on to the duvet and cursed as she lost her bearings and the phone.

  ‘Catherine?’ Ray’s voice, distant and small.

  She scrambled through the duvet, chasing the voice, knowing she hadn’t long to respond to it.

  ‘Catherine, you there?’

  She spotted the phone on the carpet next to an open file on Chambers. Reached for it with her free hand, brought it to her ear and pushed herself into a seating position. ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘You alright?’

  ‘Fine. Is Chloe alright?’ She stole a quick pull on the vodka.

  ‘She’s worried about you.’

  ‘I’m not the one she should be worrying about. It’s you she should be worried about.’

  Ray sighed. ‘I’m doing okay. Listen, Cathy, we’re all going stir crazy here. So as much as we all want to hear your voice, the last thing we need is you calling up drunk every week and telling us you’re closer to catching Chambers and getting us out of here when you’re clearly not. It’s not fair on any of us.’

  She swallowed more vodka, a sudden fury igniting within her. ‘Wait a minute, Ray. So what you’re saying is that I shouldn’t lie to my daughter to spare her feelings? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m saying − ’

  ‘Because if that is what you’re saying then do you know what that makes you, Ray? Huh? It makes you a hypocrite! You hear me! A fucking hypocrite!’

  Ray didn’t hear her because the line was dead.

  Chapter Eighty-four

  Wednesday, December 6th

  Again.

  ‘One, two, three…’

  ‘Knowledge in my pain… Or was my tolerance a phrase. Empathy out of my way… I can’t die. I can’t die. I can’t die…’

  Such was the noise from her music she continued the count in her head, striding across the carpet of files and paperwork toward the door. ‘…eleven,’ she said when finally her forehead met resistance.

  Ignoring the pain in her forehead, she turned and planted her bare heels against the door. Again.

  Took a step. ‘One, two…’

  ‘Never ever surrender − I won’t allow it! Never ever surrender − despise! My state of mind gets so one sided. Despise, despise, despise….’

  ‘…eight, nine, ten…’ She reached the window opposite and pushed her nose against the drawn curtains. ‘…eleven.’

  Again she turned. Paced the room until her forehead was pressed hard against the picture of the ex-sniper with the scarred face taped to the door. ‘…ten.’

  Ten?

  How can that be?

  How can it be ten when all the other times had been eleven?

  She hadn’t altered her pace or lengthened her stride. And as much as she felt as if the walls were closing in on her, logic dictated the room hadn’t actually suddenly shrunk.

  So where had that one step gone? It couldn’t have just vanished. This was no random act of God that was out of her control. No game devised by Chamber’s to mess with her head.

  She controlled the steps, not God or Chambers. She controlled them. They did not control her. They were of her doing, her creation.

  She. Is. In. Control.

  She blinked against something wet and warm that had trickled onto her eyelid. The liquid spilled onto her cheek and trickled down to her top lip. She didn’t need to see or taste the tear to know it was blood. She could smell it.

  She knew the smell well. It was the smell that had overpowered the aroma of her mother’s chicken casserole when Hoyt had come calling. It was the smell that had stayed with her ever since, dictating her life both personally and professionally to this point in time. To this room.

  To this exact place in the room. Standing before the door staring at the man who wanted to kill her. Corporal Phillip Chambers, who had watched his best friend die in his arms and had found salvation in the experience.

  ‘Try listening to your whole family die. Then tell me you’re a better person for it.’

  She dabbed at a sticky r
ed smudge on Chamber’s forehead. No doubt there was a similar one on hers. She smeared her blood over her nemesis’ shrapnel scarred face. Smiled as she imagined it was his own blood, spilt from the bullet she would plant between his eyes when finally he found came for her.

  Chapter Eighty-five

  Saturday, December 9th

  It went like this: Today room 199 to the right of her room through the adjoining door was occupied by Mr Chan, a Chinese banker over here on business. Yesterday the room’s occupants were a Mr and Mrs Smith, who were spending a seedy night away from their respected partners. Tomorrow the room will be home to a Mr Prior, who worked for a sporting goods company in town for a conference in one of the hotel’s three conference rooms.

  None of these people actually existed, except in her head.

  She decided who the room’s occupants were to be, and for how long they stayed. She footed the bill, and considered it money well spent.

  Whenever she required room service, she would phone from 199 then return to her room to watch whoever entered next door on the tiny security camera she’d strategically hidden beneath a pillow. Safe in her room, she would watch in real time as room service would keep up the pretence, greeting whoever she had instructed them to pretend resided there, before leaving what she had ordered on the table. They would then lock the door on the way out, and she would wait until she was satisfied they and her cover had not been compromised.

  Once satisfied, she would enter the room, Webley in hand, collect her order, and retreat back to the sanctuary of the room in which she felt safest.

  The same rules applied to visitors, the last being Mason some time ago, who, after she was convinced had not been compromised by Chambers into betraying her, had been ushered into her safe haven. And then, to her utter disbelief, had dared to comment on her method of survival.

  ‘Okay, Detective Inspector,’ she’d said. ‘If you were me, what would you do?’

  ‘For a start, I’d stop feeling so damn sorry for myself, drag my arse out of this room, and help us catch the bastard,’ had come Mason’s reply.