by Michael Kerr
“Noon intends to hit Barnes. And Barnes has supposedly got a thing going with her,” Dom answered.
“Is this everything?” Kyle asked, tapping the paperwork as he spoke.
“Yeah. Do you think you can find Noon and bring him to me?”
“Sure. But don’t expect it to happen like that,” Kyle said, snapping middle finger and thumb off each other to produce a loud click. “This guy might be a wacko, but he gets the job done and knows how to duck and weave. He ain’t no schmuck.”
“I want him in one piece,” Dom said. “He capped my father. I need to make him wish he hadn’t.”
“I don’t usually lift people. I would have to adjust my rates accordingly for customised work,” Kyle said.
“Cash isn’t an issue,” Dom said, pulling a bulging envelope from the inside pocket of his Saville Row suit. “There’s fifty thousand US dollars here.”
Kyle shook his head. “I don’t work like that. Give me a few grand in Sterling to cover my expenses. I’ll give you an offshore account number to transfer my fee to, when I deliver.”
Dom put the envelope away. Withdrew his wallet to remove a generous wedge of crisp bank notes and hand it to the impassive-looking American. “There. And if the cop goes down, I wouldn’t be sorry,” he added.
“I’ll work it into the mix. Now, sit tight and give me two minutes before you leave the room. And Mr Santini, don’t be tempted to have me followed. I work strictly on my own, with no strings. You won’t see me again. I’ll call and let you know when and where you can pick up Noon.”
Dom got up and reached out to shake Kyle’s hand, but the American ignored the gesture and left without saying another word.
Kyle slipped out of the Holiday Inn by a rear door that led into the car park. Climbing into a Hertz rental, he headed into the city, watchful for a tail. He was no stranger to London, having visited more than a dozen times over the years to conduct ‘business’.
At fifty-two, Kyle was a veteran in the shadowy world of professional mechanics; an ex-Special Forces sniper who had adapted his uncommon talent to serve him well throughout the years. He had more hits to his credit than Elvis and The Beatles combined. He was the trigger who had brought an abrupt end to over sixty citizens, including politicians, gangsters, civil rights leaders, captains of industry, a Las Vegas casino owner – who was in partnership with the mob and got greedy – and rich husbands and wives who wanted rid of their spouses, permanently. Kyle only drew the line at children and babies. He had never taken a contract on a minor. He had some principles. Married with two grown-up daughters, Kyle led a double life. In his persona as a successful player of the markets, his portfolio was genuine, and in reality he had not needed to kill for over a decade. But it was what he did, and excelled at. Of late he’d made the decision to limit himself to two or three hits a year. He even took the location and identity of the marks into consideration these days. He could afford to be picky. He would not have taken this one, had it not been Andretti who’d contacted him. Benny was of the old school; a rare gentleman in the criminal fraternity, more connected than any other racketeer on the east coast. And the job offered was unusual. To hit a fellow pro’ was not unheard of, but rarer than the movies would have it. By all accounts, the shooter in question was begging for it. Like a rabid dog, he had turned on the hand that fed him. There was no room in this line of work for a crazy son of a bitch running amok. He would track him down, immobilise him, and deliver him to Santini. The cop would be a nice bonus, if it worked out. Kyle had no love for the law.
Checking in to a midrange, nondescript hotel and registering as David Masters, Kyle ordered a club sandwich and pot of coffee from room service, then slept solidly for three hours before showering, shaving and settling at the writing desk to study at length the information Santini had given him. He began the process of thinking out the best way to locate and abduct Gary Noon.
It was obvious that none of the players would know Noon’s whereabouts, but Kyle knew his intentions. The way to run him down was by considering Santini and the cop as his contracts. If Noon was as good as his reputation, then Kyle’s mock planning to hit the two men would be the best way to put him in the same location as the rogue shooter. First element to this Gordian knot was selection. Who would he deal with first in Noon’s position? Kyle studied the facts. Frank Santini had been sniped at his home. Electrified fences and armed foot patrols with dogs had not deterred Noon. The attack had been ambitious, audacious and unexpected. What would I do? Kyle thought as he closed his eyes and went into himself, to become unaware of his surroundings, such was the intensity of his concentration. Dominic Santini was on red alert to the threat, taking all precautions. Surprise was not possible at this time. The cop would be the softer target. He would be first. But not at his home, where he had broadcast he would be. That was a trap. Kyle made mental notes under the three headings of; Opportunity, Method, and Extrication. The best opportunity would be by employing diversionary tactics. He would draw Barnes out, preferably by means of an inducement to make him freely lower his guard. The cop would be armed and dangerous. This was a highly trained pro that worked in the Yard’s Serious Crimes Unit and was also experienced in minding potential marks. He had already survived an attack by Noon, and would be as skittish as a virgin in a football team’s locker room. Barnes was not to be taken lightly.
The woman! Dr. Beth Holder was the knife blade to cut through the cop’s defences, if it was true that they were doing more than just working the case together. That was the opportunity. Method next. Noon bore Barnes malice. It would have to be close up and personal. Perhaps a silenced handgun. Given the chance, he would kill the woman first, maybe in front of the cop. Then perhaps gut shoot Barnes and let him suffer the loss of a loved one and a great deal of pain for awhile, before double-tapping him in the head and quitting the scene. If it was unknown to others where Barnes was, then he could walk away with impunity. And if Noon was paranoid, as the newspaper reports claimed, then he would be ultra careful in selecting the killing site. It would have to be the woman’s apartment. Kyle smiled. The perfect venue. Noon would believe he could do the job and leave before anyone realised that the hit had taken place. That was where he could be taken from, as he made his move.
Dressing casually, Kyle left the hotel and drove across town to an address in Forest Gate to meet a gun dealer he had done business with before. Within the hour, he was in possession of a SIG P228, a silencer, a box of Teflon-tipped ammunition, and a shoulder rig. He headed out to the woman’s address in Roehampton, hoping that the job would be wrapped up inside a week. It was his daughter Janice’s twenty-first in nine days time, and he would have liked to have helped his wife, Terri, with preparation for the outdoor party they planned. He owned a large waterside property in Coral Gables, and wanted to be back in Miami to oversee the erection of the marquee in the backyard, and the setting up of the outdoor lighting and firework display. Nobody got things done right nowadays unless they were stood over and hassled. It promised to be a memorable night, as befitted his youngest princess. There would be a live band, and a surprise guest in the shape of Janice’s favourite singer, Ricky Garcia. Kyle played golf with the rock star’s father, Tony, and had offed a union official for him several years back. It nearly always came down to not what, but who you knew.
He parked where he had a clear view of the entrance to the apartment block. It was well lit. He settled, ready to do what he had decades of experience of, watching, waiting, and ruining people’s day in the extreme.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DOM completed thirty lengths of the pool that abutted the rear of the house. He swam fast, using his powerful arms and shoulders to cleave through the water. His legs and feet hardly moved, giving the top half of his body no assistance as they dragged along in his wake like excess baggage. Swimming was the only sport he indulged in. The activity had a calming influence, soothing him and suppressing the anger that he felt at being almost a p
risoner under self-imposed house arrest.
The large patio doors formed a glass wall at one side of the pool. They were open, and Tiny was sitting at a table in the small, cobbled piazza. He had never been to Italy, but supposed that this portico with tiled roof supported by marble columns was what Frank Santini had based on some place he knew in the old country. It was a miniature Venetian Riviera. Tiny would not have been surprised if a couple of gondolas had been moored in the pool for added effect. The whole estate was a shrine to wop architecture and landscaping. It could have been set beside Epcot’s World Showcase Lagoon with a small scale version of the coliseum, and a Pizza Hut thrown in for good measure.
Tiny was nervous as he watched his boss. Dom was pissed that no one could locate Noon. His mood was degenerating with every passing day, as internal pressures raged within him. He needed to release the pent-up frustration, and nothing less than dismembering his father’s killer would pacify him. Tiny knew that Dom always found murder a satisfying solution. The gratification of personally dealing with Noon would be a special and glorious liberation, incorporating revenge with the riddance of a serious threat to his continued good health.
The wall-mounted extension phone rang. Tiny answered it.
“It’s the cop, boss,” he shouted as Dom approached the shallow end of the pool and stood up in thigh-deep water.
“So take a message, why don’t you?” Dom rasped, combing his long, matted hair back with his fingers.
“He says it’s personal,” Tiny said, almost apologetically.
Dom nodded, walked up the steps onto the non slip surround of the pool and took the receiver from Tiny.
“Yeah?” he growled, snatching the offered towel from Tiny and wiping his face with it, before draping it around his shoulders.
“You’ve got another fox in the chicken shed,” his contact said.
“Don’t speak to me in fucking riddles. My phones are secure.”
“Okay. You’ve got another undercover cop on the inside.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, yet.”
“So find out.”
“I’ll try.”
“Trying doesn’t cut it. When was he planted?”
“Not long after you whacked the other one. I’d check out every guy you’ve hired over the last twelve months.”
“I will. And when I turn him up, he’ll be nailed to that stupid fucking revolving sign outside the Yard. Your mob are starting to seriously piss me off.” With that, Dom ripped the phone from the wall and hurled it into the pool.
Tiny watched the handset sway back and forth through the water as it sank to the bottom. Braced himself to face the tsunami that was Dominic Santini.
Dom walked back down the steps, unmindful of the towel that floated off his shoulders to become waterlogged and slowly drift down to join the telephone as he set out to swim another ten lengths. Only when he felt capable of speaking without exploding into frenzy, did he once more exit the pool and address Tiny.
“We’ve got another stinking cop on the firm,” he said. “Make a list of all the new faces that have been hired during the past year. Then check their backgrounds and dig out the fucking plod.”
Tiny said nothing, just nodded and made to leave.
“First, fix me a drink,” Dom said as he pulled on a towelling robe.
Tiny obeyed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was beginning to feel vulnerable, out in the middle of a firing range with nowhere to take cover. Frank had been the boss, and Dom didn’t have the old man’s acumen to run the show. Tiny had a premonition of disaster. A niggling voice told him to get out while he had the chance to. If the cops lifted Noon before the Yank shooter found him, then Dom and everybody close to him would spend the foreseeable future doing soul-destroying time in the confines of a maximum security dispersal nick. Tiny shuddered inwardly. Truth was, he felt not a shred of loyalty to Dom. Being a glorified – if highly paid – manservant was beginning to pall. He was no slave. He was Luther Tyrell, and didn’t need the money enough anymore to be treated like dirt by a lowlife psycho dago who he had no respect for. And yet it wasn’t easy to walk away. You didn’t just quit as if it was a nine-to-five job. He knew too much about the operation to be allowed out. There were examples that came to mind. Billy Henderson was one. The big Geordie had ducked-out after being on Santini’s payroll for eight years. The dumb ox had legged it back to Newcastle, sure that he would be safe. Tiny and Eddie had been sent up to waste him.
It wasn’t personal. They’d found Henderson’s sister on a council estate east of the city. Donna had been gutsy, like her brother. They slapped her around for a while, knocked a few teeth out, broke an arm, and were about to start in on her two-year-old daughter. It was then that she saw the light and gave Billy up. She swore on her kid’s life not to pick the phone up or tell anyone that they had dropped by. Tiny believed her. She wasn’t thick. The threat of another visit, and the promise that a pan of boiling water would be poured over the kid, guaranteed her silence.
It had been a cold November night. Billy left a city bar alone and made his way on foot to the flat he rented, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets of a parka, beer-breath steaming the frigid air as he whistled out of tune and wove his way along the pavement.
It was almost too easy. They manhandled the protesting but incapable drunk into the boot of the car and subsequently committed their former co-worker to the murky waters of the Tyne. Tiny recalled the look on Billy’s face as his throat was slashed prior to him being pushed over a railing to somersault down and vanish into the freezing river.
No, Tiny determined. Like it or not, he was in for the long haul. It was the lesser of two evils. For a second, he actually considered drawing his gun and emptying the clip into Dom. But as the rest of the house, the area was covered by CCTV cameras. Carlo Falco was loyal, had his finger on the pulse, and was most likely sat watching them now via the bank of monitors in the small control room at the top of the house. Carlo knew everything that happened, and would never, ever turn on Santini. His allegiance to Frank had been transferred to Dom.
“So get to it, Tiny,” Dom said, taking the ice-laden glass of Scotch and walking out into the walled-in courtyard.
Tiny masked the growing hatred he felt for his boss, nodded and left. Less than an hour later, he found Dom in the main lounge, sat back in a recliner chair, now dressed in beige polo shirt and cream slacks. He was barefoot, and his large hammer-toed feet moved to the music of The Three Tenors: Pavarotti and co. His eyes were closed, but Tiny said nothing. Dom knew he was there. After a few minutes, when the track had finished, Dom picked up a remote from the chair’s arm and paused the CD. He was much calmer. The rich voices had soothed him and repelled the dark spell that the cop’s call had cast.
“What have you got, Tiny?” he asked.
“Hard copy of all employees hired since Demaris was taken care of,” Tiny said, approaching Dom and offering him the file he held.
“How many?” Dom asked, waving away the file.
“Eighteen. But eleven of them are solid, recommended, with all the right connections. Of the other seven, three are croupiers who could never get close to the business, and another two run sex shops in Soho.”
“Which leaves?”
“Andy Webb and Ray Lansky.”
“Webb was with Herbie Leach for years.”
Tiny nodded. Andy had been top muscle for Leach, up until the south London gangster had been shot gunned to death at a meet with a Russian Mafia leader.
“You think it’s Lansky?” Dom asked.
“He’s favourite, boss. I thought he was sound. But that’s where the mud’s stickin’.”
“Where is he, now?”
“Doin’ a patrol of the grounds. He’ll be on stand down in half an hour.”
“Arrange for him to be in the basement, softened up and ready to sing in forty minutes.”
Nick was Feeling good. He now enjoyed a
great deal of trust, having assisted in the cover up of Frank’s death at the house, and the disposal of the other bodies. He felt that the end of the case was in sight, and that it wouldn’t be long before he had enough hard evidence to wrap Dom and his firm up and bring them down.
After being relieved by one of the other men, Nick strolled back through the grounds to the bunkhouse, opened the door and was surprised to see Tiny standing in front of him, his massive body silhouetted against the bright sunlight that shone through a window on the opposite wall. There was no time to even think. The black, knuckle-scarred fist shot out and caught him square on the point of the chin. Nick was out before the back of his head made contact with the ground.
Matt was doing press-ups when the phone rang. With his right leg, he powered himself up from the floor, gripping the arm of the settee for balance as he swung his plastered leg into a vertical position. He picked up the phone.
“Matt?”
He grunted in the affirmative.
“Why the heavy breathing? What have you been up to?” Beth asked.
“Press-ups,” he gasped. “I’m trying to get fit. I’ve spent too much time sat on my arse chain-smoking, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts of late.”
“I can think of better ways to exercise.”
“You offering to be my personal trainer?”
“Yes. With my fitness plan, you get to enjoy toning-up and losing calories, without even having to get out of bed.”
“Put me down for a prolonged course. But until I can attend, I’ll just have to do it the hard way.”
“I’m missing you, Matt. Can’t we meet?”
“No, Beth. It isn’t worth the risk.”
“But what if nothing happens?”
“It will. Something’s got to give. Noon can’t just stop. You said that yourself. If we’re lucky, Santini will find him and close it out. Or Noon will make a play for me and walk into a trap.”