by J. D. Weston
Denver parked the Audi between the old VW Transporter, which served as the team’s mobile unit, and Harvey's BMW motorcycle, in the small workshop area to the left of the large doors. The workshop comprised of three shoulder-height, snap-on tool chests which contained every tool Denver would need to maintain the vehicles, as well as an engine hoist, and an overhead hoist, which was fixed to a mobile gantry and large workbench. It was the set up that Denver had always dreamed of.
Denver was the team's engineer and mechanic. He was also a world-class rally-cross driver and pilot. Harvey saw through these talents and saw only a solid, reliable pair of hands. Denver had been given a choice as an adolescent, to either face prison for his multiple car thefts, or enter into the government's rehabilitation program. He'd selected option B and had since worked his way up through the ranks and departments.
Beside the workshop in the far left-hand corner was a caged off area that, according to Frank’s strict instructions, was to be kept locked. No exceptions. The cage was twelve feet by twelve feet. Three of the four chain link walls had lockable steel armoury cabinets. The cage itself was Melody's domain, and she prided herself on her stock of weaponry and the cleanliness of her weapons.
Melody took credit for the operations of the team. She was a trained sniper and surveillance expert.
Beside the cage was Melody's desk. It was a simple set up with a laptop and a desktop printer. Next to her chair was a cabinet where she stored the surveillance equipment. In addition to the basic communications equipment, the team used the surveillance hardware because, if used correctly, it gave them eyes and ears wherever they needed them. All they had to do was plant them.
A mezzanine floor ran along the right-hand wall and across the back of the unit. Up there was Frank’s office, a meeting room, a kitchen area and a mess.
Harvey had been allocated a space on the ground floor in the far right-hand corner, away from the large doors and beneath the mezzanine. It contained a punch-bag and a chair with a small table to one side. Harvey required few possessions.
Frank's office upstairs mirrored his previous office in the department on the Southbank which he’d occupied before he’d been offered the chance to head the new team. It was a fairly large room with windows opposite the door that looked out over the Thames Barrier. His desk was central to the room and two-thirds back from the door, with a large pin board behind it. The pin board was the only possession he had taken from his department office when the team had formed, and he had relocated.
On the pin board were photos of known organised crime families or groups. They were collated in various areas of the board according to the relationships amongst them. Some had a large cross drawn through them; some were linked to other groups with string. Six months ago Frank had managed to put three crosses through long-standing faces on the board. A personal best for one bust.
The analogy Frank used to describe being a cop of any description was that a city needs a method of disposing of garbage. If it doesn't have a method, the streets become dirty and hazardous. Society will never be garbage free because a new batch of garbage gets created even as the old one is being collected and taken out. Criminals are that garbage.
Frank heard the main doors slide open and the Audi's heavy doors close. He heard the voice of Denver calling out to Reg, probably a childish insult.
Frank stepped out his office and leaned on the handrail. He looked down at his team.
"Stone, got a minute please?" His Scottish accent was soft and subtle and hid the underlying tone which meant that anyone he beckoned didn't know whether they should prepare for a bollocking or praise. It wasn't a deliberate trick on Frank's part. It was just his voice.
Harvey looked up from the workshop floor where he had just begun to fiddle with his motorbike's panniers and stood to walk towards the metal steps that ran alongside Reg's command centre.
“Close the door, Stone, take a seat.”
Harvey did as instructed and stared at Frank. Harvey had a crop of dark hair, which was kept short at all times. He had an athletic build and stood at six foot one inch. He maintained a shaved face, but other than that he underwent no other grooming. The most striking feature of Harvey Stone was his presence. He had a way of telling you what you needed to say without moving his lips or uttering a word; a trait he had learned from his mentor, Julios.
Julios had taken Harvey on when he was very young. He had channelled the anger inside the boy and developed him into a killer. Harvey had been hunting the men who raped and killed his sister since he was twelve years old. The first man had been easy to find; he'd worked for Harvey's foster father. Julios had helped Harvey find him and take him out. Six months previously, Harvey had found the second man and tortured him, only to find out that Harvey's foster parents’ real son, Donny, was the third man. Donny had been right under his nose all along but had fled to the Maldives following an attempt on his life.
Julios had been killed in the build-up to the event, which left two people on Harvey's list. Donny Cartwright and the man that killed his mentor and friend, Julios.
The first lesson Julios had taught Harvey as a boy had been a simple one that he continued to practice in every element of his life. It was an art. Patience, planning, and execution. Harvey could wait. He’d find his target eventually. His executions were typically immaculate.
"Debrief?" said Frank.
"Debrief?" replied Harvey. "What do you want to know?"
"I sent you to do a job, so your debrief should be an account of the job’s success level, plus any information on anything else that I need to know about."
“Shaw’s dead,” replied Harvey.
"Shaw is dead? That's your debrief?”
"I killed him. Well, technically, I allowed him to kill himself. I just didn't stop him."
“And I presume you didn't stop Angela Norman from killing herself either?”
“No, I didn’t, that was interesting. I wasn’t expecting her to show up.”
"Interesting Stone? She was one of the country’s most promising stage actresses. You let her die?"
“It would have compromised the investigation if I’d stopped her.”
“Listen, Stone, I know you’re new to all of this, but you need to remember you represent the other side of the law now. You’re no longer a criminal. We have ways of conducting ourselves, and there are also ways we shouldn't conduct ourselves. Allowing an innocent actress to die is not one of the former. Is that understood?”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“This isn't a bollocking, Stone.”
“I don't care if it is a bollocking.”
“This isn't a bollocking, but you do need to remember that I have a file on you that would see you put away for more years than you have left in your body.”
“Is that a threat?”
"No, Stone, it's not a threat, it’s a demonstration of the lengths I had to go to keep you from being tossed into a six-by-four cell for the rest of your life. Have some respect. You're a talented man, Stone, but you don't intimidate me. You have an opportunity here to do a fantastic service to your country, repay some debts. Use it wisely. These opportunities are few and far between. Understood?"
“Repay some debts?”
“Yes repay some debts.”
“You have a noose around my neck, and you’re waiting for me to step out of line?”
“I have a noose around your neck, but I’d like to help you take it off.”
Harvey just looked at him. He was neither angry or upset at Frank who was just doing a job for the government, and Harvey was doing a job for him, it was black and white.
"The bodies were found, the stage manager called it in around fifteen minutes ago. I don't have a full report yet; they're probably dusting for prints and running forensics. The only detail I have was that they were naked and looked like they drowned in their own blood." Franks' face turned into a look of disgust. Harvey remained impassive. "Why would they have drowned in their own blood?"
"That's what happens when you start messing around with drugs, Frank. Bad things happen."
“But why were they naked? What did you do to them?”
"They were naked of their own volition. They took drugs of their own volition. I just happened to switch their lines of coke for lines of something else. The unit is in the clear; there's no trace back to us. No cut throats, no torture, no gunshots."
“Good.” Frank took a breath, “Listen, Stone. You're an asset to this unit. I want this to work, and I understand you're not used to the formalities, but I can help you there." Frank took a sip of water and watched Harvey's emotionless face, "In future, do you think we can work out a way of you giving me a debrief after each case? Without me having to chase you that is."
“Debrief?”
“Debrief.”
“Reg has the number, there’s your debrief.”
“What number?”
“The number of the man who arranged the hookers for him.”
Harvey left the room, and Frank shook his head in disbelief.
Harvey left the warehouse and took a walk down to the riverside, letting the cold breeze tug at his shirt and pimple his skin. He loved the river at night.
Harvey was still in a state of transition, and he was struggling. Up until six months ago, he had essentially been a hitman for his foster father's web of criminal activities. Now he worked for an informal arm of the very people he'd been avoiding his entire life. What a mess.
He walked down to the river and stared down at the water that flowed around the Thames Barrier leaving deadly whirlpools in its wake that would suck a man into the river’s darkest depths. It was an endless cycle of power, always hungry always alive, and always moving, turning, churning.
John Cartwright had been just as hungry. Always planning a job, moving around, an endless cycle of power.
John Cartwright was Harvey's foster father. He and his wife Barb had taken Harvey and his elder sister on when they'd been left in his bar one night. Barb had wanted to foster them as they only had one son, Donny, and couldn't have more. When Harvey had inquired years later, he learned that his real parents had killed themselves in a double suicide and left a note inside the hamper Harvey was laying in.
John had always been surrounded by his men; his endless cycle of power. The men saw Harvey and his sister, Hannah, grow from babies. Julios, John's minder, had a soft spot for Harvey, he play-wrestled with him and taught him how to sneak and be quiet. Looking back, Harvey realised that the lessons in being quiet were more for Julios' sake.
Hannah was older by a few years and was developing into a young lady, much to the admiration of John's men. Harvey woke one night and found her bed empty. He had sneaked down the long and winding staircase into the kitchen, where he heard the violent whimpers and grunts of the men raping her coming from the basement.
Harvey had hidden in the shadows, he was just a boy, and saw only one man emerge from the basement. He remembered the man's profile in the moonlight like it had been scratched onto his eyes.
Less than a week later, Hannah had taken a kitchen knife and slaughtered herself in the night. Harvey had lost the only friend he'd had, and the only person he had truly loved. For her to do such a thing to herself was unthinkable. She'd been a happy girl until that night; she had shone.
Harvey had turned his grief into violence, viscously attacking bullies at school, and even hospitalising some of them. Eventually, John had to pull Harvey out of public school and invite private tutors to teach Harvey at their huge three-hundred-acre estate in Theydon Bois, Essex.
John had also asked his minder, Julios, to take Harvey under his wing and channel his aggression. Soon, Harvey was immersed in Julios' lessons. Self-defense and psychological control grew to incorporate martial arts, which Harvey absorbed. He began with defensive techniques, such as judo and aikido then progressed to taekwondo. Harvey was amazed at how Julios was able to simply side-step a punch and use the attacker's momentum to throw them to the floor, or disable a man using only one hand.
Less than a year into his studies, Harvey had adapted and taken on Julios' mantra: patience, planning, and execution. It was considered in every element of Harvey's life. It was around that time that Harvey had recognised the man whose profile was etched into his mind, the man from the kitchen on the night of the rape. He'd been one of John's men. Julios had understood Harvey's needs and guided him through his initiation.
Harvey had been patient. He had planned. He executed the man with just a blade.
He’d been twelve years old.
In the years to follow, Harvey and Julios became a cohesive team, carrying out the jobs for John that nobody else could do, mostly taking out rival gang members, or just sending a message to people that stood in John’s way or on his turf. John had men to do dirty work, but often these jobs required a delicate touch, which was a little more refined than six guys kicking some doors in and opening fire.
Deep down, Harvey always had two things on his mind, two goals. Find his sister's rapist, and discover the truth about his parents.
He'd trained while he searched. For close to thirty years Harvey had been isolating targets. Sex offenders out on bail or released from prison. Scum. People that society wouldn't miss. He'd honed his skills in reconnaissance, surveillance, espionage and above all, he could kill somebody with his bare hands and had done many times.
He had become a force to be reckoned with, an incredibly gifted and ruthless killer.
Six months previous to the night Harvey looked down at the water that swirled before the great Thames Barrier, Julios had been killed in a botched job organised by Sergio, John's adviser, accountant, and lawyer. In a turn of events, Harvey had learned that Sergio had been that second man; the man he'd been hunting for all of his adult life.
Harvey caught him and boiled him alive.
During his slow and painful death, Sergio had told Harvey of a third man in an attempt to let him live. The third man turned out to be Donny Cartwright, Harvey’s foster brother.
Sergio’s death had been horrible; he’d truly suffered exactly as Harvey had intended. But Harvey was thirty-two years old, and despite a life of dishing out justice, his own questions remained unanswered.
He was still unaware of his real parents’ story, how they died, where they were buried. He didn't even know their names.
His best friend and mentor had been killed, but Harvey had never found the man that pulled the trigger.
Finally, his sister’s death had not been fully avenged. Donny Cartwright was out there somewhere. Harvey would find him if it was the last thing he did.
Harvey had tapped out of the criminal world and rode his motorcycle to France to buy a small property and live out his days in the sunshine. Somewhere he could focus on finishing his life's work.
That’s when Frank had stepped in.
Harvey's options had been slashed from endless possibilities down to just two; prison for the brutal murder of Sergio and anything else they could find on him, or turn his skills into good and work directly for Frank.
He sighed and stared out at the water. How it had all changed. He turned back and looked at the bleak brick building. It was a far cry from the little farm he'd bought on the south coast of France, twenty minutes walk to the Med, green fields and smiling faces.
Sure, he liked the team. They were okay, and Frank was okay too deep down. But the transition to the other side was difficult. The threat of prison loomed over him like a shadow on his heart. It wasn't the tough life of a category A prison that would keep Harvey awake, he could handle himself, and he was pretty sure that being who he was and being associated with John Cartwright would place him fairly high up whatever ladder there was to climb inside. But it was the knowledge that he'd never get a chance to find Donny, knowing that he'd never understand what actually happened to his parents, and never find out who killed Julios.
That’s what would taunt him and keep him awake at night.
3
Absent Without Leave
Frank stood and walked to the landing outside his office, “Mess room. Now. Everyone.”
Denver had started to drain the oil from the VW Transporter. It was jacked up, and he was laying underneath removing the sump bolt, oil had begun flow into an empty container. "Great timing, boss," he muttered to himself.
Reg was leaning back in his reclining office chair. He had his wireless keyboard on his lap and was typing commands into a secure shell terminal that was hosted on a virtual computer in a data centre in St Petersburg, attempting to hack into his own systems. Lines of code filled two of the twelve screens. Each red line was followed by one blue line; attack and defence. His automated systems were working, but not fast enough. He was attempting to pull the resources from the firewalls with continuous attacks to prevent them from being able to operate efficiently. This particular denial of service attack would never allow a hacker inside the network, the attempts were too weak, but it would give the hacker an indication of the resources a network had so that he or she could tailor a more sophisticated approach.
"Reg, let's go," said Melody as she walked past. Melody Mills was five eight with dark hair and a cute exterior. She wore cargo pants, tan boots and a tight-fitting t-shirt. She was the little sister of the group but could hold her own in a physical or verbal confrontation.
Denver walked behind her wiping his hands on a rag. He had on overalls that were fairly clean and a baseball cap with the emblem of a little-known, British, high-performance car maker that he admired.