by Tony Masero
I’ll bet, thinks Clem. “Well then, have a nice life.” Bitch! Clem hangs up.
The good thing about it is that Clem has made up her mind. Her head clears as if a weight has been lifted. With a determined finality, she moves through the house taking what she needs and transporting it out to the car. She will pick up Robert. Take him from the hospital and leave. She has passports with her. Credit cards. There is the ferry from Rosyth. A boat trip will be nice. Calm enough for Robert. Her sister lives in France. They’ll go there and stay with her for a while. Pick up the pieces and leave Charles to stew in his own mess.
Full of an uplifted feeling at the decision, she closes the trunk and drives off, wheels silent on the thickening snow.
McBraith has the devil of a drive. The weather is worsening. The snowfall increasingly heavy and the roads turning treacherous. His frustration is immense. He drives faster than he should, hoping to catch Clem at the house. He had just missed her at the hospital. Guesses she has headed home.
When McBraith arrives at the house, the front door is still open. The lights still on. He moves through the house calling. “Clem, Clem! Are you here?” Nothing. A ghost house. “Clem, where the fuck are you?”
McBraith slumps onto the battered sofa. A cloud of downy fibers rises around him. He rubs his sunburned features in both hands. No pain. Feels only emptiness. A hollow wretched, lonely emptiness. And guilt creeps in. He left his son, the son he professed to love. Left him in the hands of criminals whilst he chased after his own selfish goal. What a price. He ends up with nothing after all.
He knows he is ruined. When word gets out of his double-dealing, he’ll be finished on the international market. He starts to scheme. To think of ways he can survive. Close the business down. Take what cash there is and form a new company with a front man. He can sit in the background. A silent partner. Perhaps Tom Carlisle will do it. He will have to see.
Then there is Clem. Can he make it up to her? Promise to be a good boy. He doubts it. And Robert. He has the right to a life with his son. He will make it up to him as well. Make sure he has the best private medical attention. Psychiatrists too if he needs them.
Gets up. Finds the whisky. Swallows straight from the neck. The burn feels good.
Senses their presence more than sees them. Two of them. Dark shadows at the open door.
“Enjoy it, Mr. McBraith. It will be your last,” says Habib, a thin smile creasing his lips.
It is the screaming that finally wakes Peak. First he thinks it is a fox. The cry, sounding halfway between child and animal, drags him up from the depths. He was down deep. The first honest rest he has had in months.
They had put his evac back. Weather too bad for a chopper landing. Peak was pissed. It was true though. Snow was falling heavily and it was bitterly cold. He bitched, but it did no good. Hang in there, they said. We’ll get you out in good time. Soon as there’s a break in the weather. The chopper can take everything in one go. Sit tight. There’s no rush now.
Peak had cleared his communication site and hide, moving everything into the shed by the lake. Then he had taken up Chayne’s invitation. Hot shower and a soft bed had seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances. A simple entrance. The keys were under the mat. The luxury of hot water under a long shower, a microwaved meal and Peak had folded exhausted into bed. He slept as only off-duty soldiers do. As the dead.
Until the screaming, that is. Nothing else had disturbed his rest. Under the blanket of snow, Clem’s coming and going, and McBraith’s arrival had both gone unnoticed.
Hopping as he gets into his trousers, he checks the main house from the cottage window. He can see the lights are on, shining through the darkness and the trees. Maybe the woman is back? But there’s another bloodcurdling scream and he knows it’s not good. Peak laces his boots quickly and throws a jacket over his naked chest. He slips the Glock from out under the pillow.
The cold bites as he hurries from the cottage. Silently running over the deep snow. He is at the open door in seconds, gun held in a double grip between his legs. He peeks around the doorjamb. Through the open doorway, he can see across the lounge area straight to the figures at the bottom of the stairway opposite.
A hump of a man stands over McBraith. There is a short, curved blade in the man’s hand. It flashes briefly in the light. Slicing at McBraith’s chest. McBraith is tied to the staircase banister. Crucified. His arms stretched out on either side of him, held fast by twists of electric flex. His torn shirtfront hangs open, drenched in blood. Peak watches the thickset man take a handful of kitchen salt. Slowly, methodically, he rubs it into the wound he has just made. McBraith cries in agony. A cut. Salt in the wound. Another cut. More salt. It’s a long demonic torture.
Peak is tempted. He lines up on the back of the man’s dark head. Then he hears the voice. Languid. Slightly accented. Out of line of sight.
“It was you, wasn’t it, Mr. McBraith? What a clever man you are. A tracing mechanism placed amongst the cargo. It had to be you. Every container was destroyed with such accuracy.”
McBraith babbles. Writhes. Tossing his head from side to side. Another scream as blood flows from a new wound.
“Even that defeat, I could contend with. But my compatriots, now that is another matter. All our brothers lost in that ship. The years of training. Of survival. Blown into dust in a moment by the Americans. This, I do hold against you. And for this you will suffer.”
Peak crosses the doorway and makes his way to the window. It is boarded. He can see nothing of the man who is speaking. He reminds himself of the room’s layout. Knows the sofa is set there. Near the open fireplace. Are there just two of them, that’s the question. It has to be Habib or some of his men. If he could get a look he could ID them for sure. But there is no way without exposing himself.
“Isam,” says the voice coldly. “Remove one of Mr. McBraith’s eyes.”
That’s it. No option. It has to be now.
Glock at shoulder level. Peak fires the pistol as he enters. The bullet strikes Isam in the back of the head, blowing an explosion of blood over McBraith. The big man arcs forward, bounces off of McBraith’s drooping body and drops in a flurry to the floor. Peak spins around. Sees Habib sitting casually on the arm of the destroyed sofa. Peak sights. Wired. Waiting for him to move. They watch each other tensely.
Peak draws back his lips. That death’s head grin. “Habib Hamid. Been waiting to meet you for a long time.”
A flicker. The lights go out. Total blackness. All the fuel in the generator gone. Peak fires two shots. Flashes of searing light cutting the darkness. He slides sideways away from the doorway and the cool blue light reflecting in from the snow outside.
Silence. Did he make a hit? Peak waits for his eyes to adjust.
A shuffle. The rustle of clothing brushing against the floor. He is there. Alive and kicking. It’s the two of them now. Alone in the dark. But is he armed, Peak wonders?
Habib has thrown off his coat. Knowing the jacket will impede him. He snakes across the floor. Unarmed. He must find a weapon. Remembers Isam. The knife! It is a slow journey. Stretched fingers spread in front, testing for furniture unseen in the blackness. The way they trained him to cross a minefield. Tentatively. With care.
The American is silent. He does not need to move. He has the weapon. Habib watches for a flash of eyes in the shadows. Some hint of the American’s whereabouts. He feels the fireplace rug beneath him. Moves soundlessly on it. His fingers missed the broken picture frame left by Clem, but his knee finds it. There is the crunch of glass. He rolls forward quickly as Peak fires at the sound. Bullets pock the fireplace. Explosions of brick.
Habib feels a slick pool beneath his hands. Thick. Gelatinous. His sticky fingers touch the still warm body of Isam. He searches. Touches McBraith’s shoes. Moves on. The handle comes within his grasp. He has the knife.
The American moves. Quick. In a flash he is up. A flying shadow. The front door is kicked shut. Only a simmering of exter
nal light enters now. Habib stills his breath. Steadies his heartbeat. He listens for the sound of the other. Rustlings of movement. Whispers like dead leaves on a dry floor. Habib thinks he might use McBraith as a shield, but he knows that if he makes a sound the American will fire, shield or not. He must seek him out.
Habib feels his nearness. The air pressure changes minutely. It is an indication. The American is coming. Habib readies the knife. It is a mistake. The metal catches and reflects a dull gleam. The barrel of the gun is pressed into his neck. “Still. Don’t move,” Peak whispers harshly. “Try anything and you’re dead.”
Anger flows through Habib. He twists, curling away and driving the knife upwards. Feels it break through skin and penetrate.
Peak howls as the knife enters the muscle of his right arm, forcing its way in deep. He has the pistol in a double grip and the left hand, still bandaged, takes the weight of the pistol. The approach of the knife attack guides him, there is a hand attached to it, an arm and at the end a head. He pulls the trigger. Repeatedly.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Six months and still awaiting trial.
Chayne sits in his remand cell, a newspaper open on his lap. He has had plenty of time to catch up on his reading. The other prisoners leave him well alone. It only took one demonstration for them to know they were testing a no-go area. The examining thug is still lying in plaster on a bed in the infirmary.
He scans the newspaper. Bottom of the front page. Reuters report: Adula Mtubu, 34, daughter of the deposed tyrant, Omaluli Mtubu, was today married in a civil ceremony in Paris, France. The groom, Ndomo Boma and Adula are seeking redress from Banque Credite Suisse for her father’s assets. However, the bank claims that no evidence exists of the tyrant’s demise and details are impossible to confirm as the country is still in a state of civil unrest.
He folds the paper. Sits back on his bunk. Strangely, he has enjoyed the solitude. It has enabled him to straighten out his thinking. Thoughts of Justine are now as they should be. A great memory. A blessing that brightened his life. She no longer haunts him as she did. Laid to rest.
He has seen the TV reports. Two intruders shot down in an isolated Scottish household. The unfortunate death of the owner, Charles McBraith, during the gun battle. Struck by a bullet fired by one of the housebreakers and dying of a head wound on the way to hospital. Comments by a spokesman for his company. Sad loss. Prospects for the future of the company are unsure. His widow was not available for comment and was believed to be holidaying on the Continent. Brief and minimal information. No mention of arms dealing. Or terrorists. Chayne wonders if McBraith made a stand.
Sounds echo around him unnoticed in the corridors outside the cell. Metal doors slam. Key chains rattle. The click of heels on marble. The ever present subdued mumble of prisoner conversations. It is a sea of noise, he has become accustomed to.
“You! Chayne!” The screw is standing at the open cell door. Cold faced. Looking down at him from the shadow under his peaked cap. “Stand up!”
Chayne pushes the newspaper aside. Eases off the bunk. “What’s up?”
“Come on. You’re out of here. Release papers have come through.”
A question. “How come?”
“Charges have been dropped. That’s all I know.”
It is all too quick. Bland chatter from a gray prison official without a name. Something about insufficient evidence and extenuating circumstances. A whitewash, but Chayne doesn’t care. He’s out of here. Papers are signed. Property returned.
Eight hours later, he is standing outside the prison gates. Confused.
Early morning. Bright sunlight. Traffic roars past. Life goes on.
He finds a cafe. Treats himself to a coffee and a meal. Finds to his surprise that the food is not much better than the rubbish he has been eating for the past six months. He pushes it aside. Unfinished.
He has one thing he knows he wants to do. A last farewell to Justine. A graveside farewell. Sentimental? Maybe. But that’s what he wants to do.
At Waterloo Station, he hits the morning rush hour. They are pouring off the trains in swarms.
Chayne stands alone as the wave breaks around him. Droves of clerical workers, personal assistants, bank employees and hotel staff. All on a mission. Fast. Urgent. Work awaits. They bounce off him as they hurry past.
A young, pale-faced wraith of a woman bumps him. Flashes a fake apologetic smile. Then is gone. Something strikes his foot. He looks down. The woman has dropped her magazine. He picks it up and looks for her in the crowd. She is long gone. He looks at the magazine and chuckles to himself. The Lady magazine. Full circle.
As quickly as it came, the crowd disperses.
Chayne stands, virtually alone on the plaza. Looks up at the train timetable board. Destinations rotate. Times appear. Finds his connection. He has time to spare.
Flicks the pages idly. The usual. Gardens in Sussex. Recipes. Opera diva interview. And adverts. The full-page ad in bold type holds his attention.
“Where are you?” Big letters an inch high. “Gardener/Gamekeeper urgently needed to manage coffee plantation on the beautiful island of Kauai in Hawaii. Male, single. Only person having particular experience of Scottish country house management need apply. Ex-British military preferred. Good with hands. Apply to Clem McBraith, Konaville, Kauai, Hawaii, USA. Ref: MLOA”
The Aloha Airlines’ inter-island flight drops into Lihue airport out of a cloudless sky.
Chayne tastes the moist tropical air as he enters the baggage reclaim area. Soft and scented with jasmine. A small airport. Relatively few passengers. It’s off-season.
A figure comes toward him from around the baggage carousel. Yellow aviator sunglasses. Straw hat. Plastic lei of fake flowers around the neck. Arm in a black sling over a ludicrously luminous Hawaiian shirt. Calf-length shorts. Floppies. And a death’s head grin.
“Peak! Is that you under all that crap?”
“Damn right. How’re they hanging, Chayne?”
They shake. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the only one I know with enough clout.”
“If you mean the one that got you out of your undeserved incarceration?” Cheesy grin. Points a gun finger. “Got you.”
“Well,” Chayne smiles. “Thanks for that.”
Peak mimics an enlistment broadcaster, “We of the undercover services never forget a friend.”
“What happened up there in Scotland?”
“You mean, Habib Hamid?”
“Uh-huh, and McBraith.”
“Habib bought his ticket to the farm, courtesy of yours truly. Stuck me one time before he went, though.” Peak blithely waggles his sling. “He had a buddy whom I nailed as I went in. Unfortunately, the guy was standing in front of McBraith. The bullet rattled around the sucker’s skull and hit McBraith in the temple on the way out. We were snowed in; it took a while for me to get help. By then, it was too late. He didn’t make it.”
“And Clem?”
“Well,” Peak shrugs. “She’s come into a tidy sum now that McBraith’s gone. Got yourself a very wealthy lady there.”
“You set this whole thing up here?”
“Not quite. I just helped a bit along the way. But hey, enough of me. Your real savior is standing right over there.”
Thumbs a direction over his shoulder.
Clem stands there, patiently waiting. Holding Robert by the hand. Eyes meet. Hazel on blue. They smile at each other across the intervening space.
IF YOU ENJOYED THIS BOOK SEE THESE OTHER TITLES BY
TONY MASERO
WESTERNS
HARD RAIN MUST FALL * BAD DON’T MEAN WRONG * GRINGO WADE * IN THE DEVIL’S GRIP * SLASHED STAR * WAR RIDER * THE KILLING DESERT * JAKE RAINS * THE RIFLEMEN * THE PURSUED * DIRTY SHIRT BLUES * DEEP WATER RISING * DEATH RIDES ON THE HEELS OF TROUBLE * THE RAID * THE WIDOWMAKER * THE VENGEANCE OF ENDER SMITH * DAMN FOOLS GOLD * BLOOD LEGACY FROM RAT HELL * JOHNNY DOLLAR * MISTER D’EATH AND THE JUDGE * MISTY BLUE (Series) 1: THE LAST MOUNTAIN M
AN * MISTY BLUE 2: LOADED FOR BEAR * MISTY BLUE 3: A DOG CALLED KILL * MISTY BLUE 4: WILD IN THE WOODS * DEADLY MANHUNT * FULLBLOOD BOYD OVERMOUNTAIN MAN * BLOOD MOON TRAIL * BELLE SLAUGHTER (4 part Series) * CROSS BORDER KILLERS * PEACE AT WAR * TULANE * MOSE GOES WEST * GO LIGHTLY RIDER * THE HEART OF DARK PASSAGE * THE LEFT EYE GANG * BLOOD RIDDEN * THE BIGGEST WINNER IN THE WEST * THE DEAD CUT * TWENTY DOLLAR DEAD MAN
THRILLERS
(Writing as MICHAEL D’ASTI)
DEAD FALL BACK
BABYCHAIN BLUES
THE GARDENER
A WEB FOR ALL GOD’S ANGELS
BLACK EYE (A Noir Thriller)
THE KHANDA KILLINGS (Crime Novella)
IN THE FRAME
Historical Thrillers
FEED THE CROW
THE BITTER STONES OF INTENTION
Drama
THE DECEPTIVE EYE
MOMENTS OF RECURRENCE