by Matt Hilton
‘He’ll settle down in a minute. It’s simply a reaction to the drugs: once he comes around a bit more he’ll calm down.’
‘I could knock the shite right out of him…’ The male voice had grown quiet, a whisper, but was all the more threatening.
‘No. Don’t touch him. It’s imperative that he is unharmed.’
‘What difference does it make? He’s going to end up-’
‘Hush! Don’t say that. He might be disoriented, but he’ll remember everything we’ve said.’
‘As if that will make any difference? Only a fool would expect to walk away from this alive.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I want him to think about his wife and daughter, not his own life.’
My wife and daughter?
Miller finally managed to crack open an eyelid. His pupils jiggled around like crazy, making a face above him swim in and out of focus, but there didn’t seem to be much wrong with his hearing. ‘What about my wife and daughter? What have you done to them?’
The female moved close to him, placing a cool palm on his cheek. ‘You needn’t worry about them. If you do exactly what you’re told no harm will come to them.’
Miller realised that the speaker, the one cautioning her partner against violence, was the same woman who’d greeted him inside the police van. And with that recognition, he also recalled that she had stuck a needle into him and injected him with some kind of drug. Miller struggled as panic surged through him, and again he was rewarded by the sharp banging sounds as the chair legs bounced and rattled around on a hard concrete surface.
A hand grabbed the nape of his neck and squeezed. Pain flashed through him as if touched by a bared electric cable. ‘Hold still,’ the man snapped from behind him, ‘or I swear to God I’ll snap your neck.’
Tears ran freely from Miller now, but they helped unglue his eyelids and he blinked furiously to clear his vision. ‘Please…my family: tell me they’re OK.’
The woman leaned in and once more smoothed her palm over his cheeks. ‘I told you earlier. Behave and you will go unharmed, but it will only complicate matters if you keep fighting us.’
‘I don’t know who you…you are or what you want…’ Miller’s words tumbled out over a slightly swollen tongue, sounding garbled even to him. ‘I…I won’t fight you. But my family?’
‘They’re safe.’ The woman turned away briefly, but then returned and fed his spectacles on, hooking the legs over his ears. She adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. ‘Better?’
Miller could see more clearly now, and again he noted how young, pretty and out of context the woman was – particularly when considering the circumstances. He noted that her eyes were steady as they returned his scrutiny, but it was as if pity flitted just beyond them and he felt a quake of hope go through his body. Despite her tough demeanour the woman regretted her actions. Her male companion was different. He was a cold-hearted bastard and wasn’t anomalous with the grimy background of a filthy industrial unit at all; he was vermin similar to the sleek rats scurrying among the piles of damp cardboard that surrounded him.
‘Why am I here? Is this about a ransom? I assure you; I’m a poor man, you’ve picked on the wrong person if you’re expecting money.’
‘A poor man who drives an E-type Jaguar?’ The woman smiled at him.
‘It’s a company car; I don’t own it. My wife and I, we live in a terraced house in-’
The woman shook her head, the action denoting how uninterested she was in his argument. ‘I know everything about you, Mister Miller. And before you again try to win any pity, know this: I don’t care about your lack of money. This is not about ransom, it is about a service I need from you, one for which you’ll be greatly rewarded.’
‘What do you mean? Tell me.’ Miller attempted to lift his hands in supplication, but found that they were bound tightly to the arms of the chair.
‘There’s a job you must complete for me, and for it I’ll give you back your wife and daughter.’
‘You said that my family were safe!’
‘They’re safe, and they’ll stay that way, unless you do something stupid like alerting anyone about what I want from you.’
‘Where are they? I want to see Marjorie and Jessie!’ Miller tried unsuccessfully to struggle free from the chair. Again the big man – who still wore his fake police disguise – grabbed the back of his neck and pinched down. Miller howled in pain, his legs spasming in their bindings.
‘You don’t get to make demands,’ the bogus cop said.
‘Leave him be,’ the woman said, her voice pinched with anger.
‘The fuckin’ prick needs to start listening,’ the man growled, but he let go of Miller’s neck and stepped away. Miller’s face was screwed in pain, anticipating strong fingers digging into his nerves again.
The woman moved closer, and Miller got a waft of her warmth, and carried on it was the tang of her perfume. She placed her hands on his knees and crouched down in front of him. Miller caught a glimpse of slim thighs beneath the hem of her skirt as it rode up. He didn’t look away – but not through any lecherous reason, but for the fact he found it all so surreal. The woman’s left eyelid drooped lazily as she peered at his face. Miller looked back at her, ashamed that she’d caught him looking up her skirt. She shook her head softly.
‘You only have to agree to doing something for me and your family will be released,’ she said.
‘I want to see them.’
‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’
‘Then I won’t do a damn thing for you.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you will. I can’t show you Marjorie and Jessie, but I’ll allow you to hear them.’ The woman stood, waving over another man who approached from behind Miller. He had not been aware of the other’s presence. The man was holding a cream telephone with large buttons, a long extension cable dragging behind. He pressed the receiver to Miller’s jaw. Miller juggled his head to settle the receiver firmly to his ear. He needn’t have: the screams were loud enough to hear without close contact. In response he shouted for his wife.
‘Save your breath, they can’t hear you,’ the man said.
‘That’s enough,’ the woman said.
Miller still tried to holler to his wife. He was under no illusion that the screams were the cries of his wife and child; he’d never heard them screaming in terror before, but they were recognizably the voices of his loved ones. ‘What are you doing to them?’ He screamed directly at the young woman.
‘Only enough to motivate you, Mister Miller.’ The woman stepped forward and plucked the telephone from her companion. She spoke into it. ‘That’s enough, I said.’
Miller craned his head, but he could no longer hear his wife and child begging for mercy.
The woman hung up the phone, handed it back to the man who retreated. Miller glared up at her, and if hatred were enough to kill he’d have torn her to shreds with the intensity of his gaze. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘It’s a simple trade,’ she replied. ‘You give me a life, and your family live.’
The bogus cop added, ‘The alternative is that Marjorie and Jessie will be butchered and their parts strewn the length and breadth of London. You don’t have to agree to our terms…’
‘You want my life, you can have it,’ Miller said without pause.
‘Sorry, but your life means nothing to me. I want the life of another,’ said the woman.
‘You want me to commit murder?’
‘Not just a murder,’ she said. ‘I want you to deliver a statement.’
‘Who?’
She told him.
Miller almost blacked out, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all. Panic engulfed him; the sheer insanity of what had to do was terrifying. Yet in his mind he heard again the agonized screams of his loved ones and knew he’d no option but agree.
Chapter 25
January 28th 1988
Clapham, London
Brent Walker jogged between two towering st
acks of pallets, fleet-footed in his Dunlop “green flash” training shoes, despite the tug of his injuries picked up in the vaults beneath the British Museum. He came to a halt, placing his back to one of the piles of packing crates. The crates were empty, but for trailing cellophane wrapping that had been torn apart when the pallets were unloaded. Some of the cellophane streamed from the highest points of the stacks, caught and lifted aloft by the breeze now that the rain had stopped.
Walker checked for the chief.
Rembrandt was a dozen yards away, crouched near to some oil drums. The chief had discarded his pale blue denim jacket in favour of something darker: a woollen jumper purchased since their arrival in London. Rembrandt held a pistol alongside his right thigh. Walker also held a gun that he’d previously prepped for action.
Rembrandt took two fingers, held them to his eyes, before pointing across the service yard towards the grimy structure before them. Walker nodded, then leaned out cautiously, checking the position of two men standing outside the entrance door.
It was apparent that the people who’d snatched Barry Miller weren’t cops. Sharing the task of following them with Bowlam and Dhand, Walker had tailed them to this semi-derelict industrial unit in Clapham, where the police van had been driven inside, and guards set at the perimeter. Now that they were beyond the sight of any potential witnesses, the kidnappers had shed their disguises and now stood in raincoats, collars turned up. One of them held a rifle, and the other was likely armed though his gun was concealed beneath his coat. The two men smoked cigarettes as if they were going out of fashion, sending up plumes of smoke.
As well as those who’d posed as police officers, Walker had seen a smart looking young woman, plus there had been another two men waiting for them on arrival. As far as numbers went, they were pretty much even, but Miller’s abductors had a major advantage in that they were familiar with the old factory whereas Rembrandt’s team were going in blind. Still, Walker thought the bad guys were also at a supreme disadvantage: they had no idea they were mere moments from attack.
Rembrandt caught Walker’s attention. He was signalling to Bowlam and Dhand who had moved from an adjacent side street to come alongside the factory unit from the right side. Walker could see neither of his pals from his position, but didn’t doubt they were in position.
On cue, there came the thrum on an engine, and Crystal Kwolek drove the Ford Granada alongside the entrance gates and got out of the car. After the police van had been driven inside earlier, the gates had been padlocked shut; Walker and the others had found ingress by scaling the adjoining brick wall, out of sight of the guards. Kwolek moved close to the gates, and hailed the men at the front door: the rifleman had hidden his gun behind his back. Despite the cold breeze – or perhaps because of it – she’d taken off her coat and suit jacket, and stood only in her heels, skirt, and pale lilac blouse that clung to her pert breasts, which she pressed towards the wire mesh as she held up a folded map. The guards looked at each other, and then back at Kwolek with undisguised lechery. Kwolek smiled at them and waved them over. The guards again looked at each other, sharing a murmur of conversation, before one of them gave a flippant nod to his mate, then swaggered towards the gate. He was the man whose weapon was concealed inside his coat.
Walker’s pulse accelerated. Any second now and things would get noisy. He’d never been afraid of action before, in fact he’d embraced it. But this was different. Effectively his mission entailed saving the future! Nuclear war would devastate his world. All because of an impending attack on the US president by the man currently held – and most likely coerced – by those inside the factory unit. They had to be stopped. All inside the building must die, and if that also meant taking out Barry Miller then so be it. If it meant Walker giving up his life to save the earth then so be it. Walker sucked in a calming breath and settled himself. He peered towards where the guard approached Kwolek, but tore his attention back to the man at the door. Kwolek was good, the man at the gate her responsibility, Walker must concentrate on the job at hand.
Voices drifted to him, Kwolek asking directions to some bullshit location, playing the dozy bimbo for the guard, but Walker ignored them. He flexed his left hand, glanced at Rembrandt who also tensed for action. Jamal Dhand appeared from the far corner, moving at a crouch towards the rifleman. Jamal gripped a curved knife synonymous with the Gurkha Regiment. Walker had witnessed the effectiveness of the Kukri before and almost pitied the guard. He held his breath.
Something must have warned the guard of his impending doom, because he to began a turn. His eyes widened in shock as the blade flashed towards him, but that was all. The blade chopped into his neck beneath the guard’s left ear, cutting in an oblique angle that ended near his right collarbone. As the guard collapsed, his sundered head flopped unnaturally, and blood belched over the pitted surface. The guard hadn’t got off a warning shout, and he’d fallen soundlessly, supported on his way down by Jamal. But the guard’s pal was wired enough that he realised something was up. He turned from Kwolek, saw Jamal Dhand towering over his fallen comrade and immediately grabbed at his coat, fishing for his sidearm.
Benny Oxford swept from hiding and pounced on the guard, grabbing at his gun hand, while headbutting the man in the face. Walker heard the crack of bone on bone all the way across the service yard, and thought that the impact would be enough to stop any man. But the guard surprised him, as well as Oxford. The man was no slouch in a fight. He struck at Ox with the side of his left hand, even as he wrestled for his gun.
‘Benny!’ Kwolek screeched. ‘You have to kill him!’
The gun cracked.
Thankfully it was after Oxford broke the guard’s wrist. The bullet struck the nearby brick wall, missing Ox’s body. Benny continued to wrench the man’s gun hand and the guard shrieked in agony as bones and ligaments were ripped apart. The gun fell uselessly from his mangled fist. Oxford closed on the man, wrapping an arm around his back, the other forearm braced against his throat to cut off his shouts of alarm.
Kwolek pushed through a narrow gap between the gates, scraping the skin raw on her arms and legs. She pulled out a knife from behind her back, as Oxford bent the guard’s spine tortuously. She swept the blade across his exposed throat. She watched dispassionately as Ox lowered the dead man to the ground, but then turned seething eyes on her big friend. ‘Benny, you have to put your morals aside,’ she snapped. ‘Just kill the bastards will you?’
‘S-sorry, Crystal, I thought I could knock him out.’
‘Don’t think, Benny, just bloody do it.’
Walker shook his head at Oxford’s reticence to kill: it was a noble trait, but not when the lives of billions of others depended upon it. Ox’s plan for knocking out the guard might have been with good intention, but now their advantage of entering the factory undetected was blown, seeing as the guard had been allowed to get off a shot. Walker raced for the entrance, a few yards behind the chief.
Jamal was already pressed up close to the doorframe, while Bowlam sprinted past the front of the factory to join him. Bowlam was carrying the re-assembled machinegun carried here from the future inside the cardboard tube. He positioned himself on the opposite side of the entrance, covering Rembrandt and Walker’s approach. Kwolek and Oxford had another task to complete, and, by the sounds of twisting metal, Ox was already on it.
From within the building came the first shout of enquiry. The voice was accented: Northern Irish.
Walker skidded to a halt, standing next to his pal, Harry Bowlam, while the chief joined Jamal.
‘Two in,’ Rembrandt said, ‘then we follow. Clear as we go.’
Jamal leaned across and pulled open the door. Bowlam edged forward, leading with the barrel of his gun. In the next instant Bowlam was inside, and Walker followed, sweeping the space for hostiles. There was no resistance. ‘Clear,’ he called.
Rembrandt and Jamal came inside, and immediately the chief gave directions, sending Bowlam and Walker into a foyer, while he and Jam
al found a door to the right and went through. Walker followed Bowlam past a reception desk, checking that no one was in the shallow workspace behind it. All he saw was a dusty chair, and old newsletters and pamphlets strewn across the floor. Another door presented itself and Bowlam edged forward. Walker held his gun in both hands.
His heartbeat pulsed in his ears. He opened his mouth to alleviate the internal noise and to make better use of his senses. He heard the clatter of feet approaching from beyond another door. His friend had also heard it. Bowlam lifted the machinegun just as the door was thrust open and a big man in a cop’s uniform stepped into view. Walker recognised the man as the one who’d escorted Barry Miller from his Jaguar to the back of the police van, though the man had discarded his jerkin and flat cap. Everyone inside the factory was a potential target and Bowlam acted upon his orders. He ripped the man’s chest open with a short burst of copper-sheathed bullets. Walker watched as red florets bloomed on the cop’s white shirt, and had to remind himself that the man was a fake, that this wasn’t a cop on cop contact. The man was one of those responsible for bringing hell to Walker’s existence, and he was hard pressed not to pop an extra couple of rounds through the bastard’s face. Instead, he kicked the corpse out of the way and went through the door, going to one knee and covering Bowlam as he followed.
There were more shouts, and from somewhere to his right came the repeated crack, crack, crack of a handgun: the chief or Jamal engaging the enemy. Walker shared a grin with his pal. ‘Who’d have thought it, Harry? Me an’ you, saviours of the planet?’
‘Always knew we were destined for big things, Brent.’ Harry winked. ‘After this I vote we demand a parade.’
‘To hell with the parade! Bring us your fucking daughters!’ Walker laughed.
He’d barely finished the sentiment when a man stepped out from hiding and shot him in the side of the head.