Ruthless: A London gangland romantic suspense novel ( The Bailey Boys Book 3)

by PJ Adams

  He didn’t even try to turn. He’d seen the gun out of the corner of his eye. He knew the layout of that little hallway. He knew I was good, and that in this situation he would have barely a 50:50 chance of bettering me, and when one of you is holding a gun that doesn’t even need its safety released, those percentages just aren’t good enough.

  “There’s my brothers, of course. My old man, down in Wandsworth. But then family’s more than that, isn’t it? Reuben – he’s family. My old mate Fearless, God rest his soul. All family. Even you, Freddie. Family. Believe it or not, I actually give a shit.”

  Percentages aside, I knew Freddie was always on a short fuse. He might just chance it. I pressed the snout of my Glock between his shoulder blades as a brief reminder, then returned my aim to the back of his skull.

  “Loyalty, too. That matters. I know you’ve gone over to the Russians. I saw you there at Shakers today. I know you probably think you didn’t have much choice, you had to play at the only show in town or whatever. But I also know that somewhere in that stubborn skull of yours you’re one of us, aren’t you, Freddie? You still have some loyalty to the people who gave you a break. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

  I tapped him again with the gun, and he flinched.

  “And also, Freddie, well... family. That’s your sister in there, not just some expendable piece of meat, no matter how much you try to distance yourself. I’m going to leave you with a few words of advice, my friend. Get your shit together, Freddie. Get your shit together and get your sister out of there. Get her out of the country, somewhere safe, away from all this. She’s not part of this world. You understand me, Freddie? I’ll be watching.”

  With that, I drew my gun away, slipped it into my shoulder holster, turned and was two steps down the stairs before Freddie had even had time to straighten, twist at the waist and watch me go.

  17

  They kept her overnight in a storeroom. There were boxes full of bottles, a chest freezer, a microwave. She could have eaten well and drunk herself unconscious if it weren’t for the handcuffs that kept her arms clamped uncomfortably behind her back.

  They.

  Alfredas.

  Her brother. He had cuffed her, his touch rough – almost as if he was over-compensating, proving to himself and those he served that she didn’t matter to him, that this was just another job.

  This was his world.

  She had known that before coming to this country. Back in Vilnius he had mixed with a bad lot from an early age. Their father had always been a petty criminal, an opportunist and a brawler, but Freddie had gone way beyond that. When she’d come here to track him down, she’d learned a bit about the Bailey family, and she’d understood that he had gone up in the world – or down, depending on your perspective. A higher class of violence.

  And now... now her brother worked for the gang that had supplanted the Bailey Boys.

  She couldn’t help wondering how many times he had manhandled a woman like her, cuffed her and locked her up. How many times he had done this to a man, beaten and tortured him to whatever ends his shady bosses demanded.

  A child?

  It was not a healthy line of thought, even at the best of times, let alone when you were the one cuffed and vulnerable, kept prisoner in the back room of a shabby strip club in a city you have never even visited until today.

  §

  Another man came to her some time that first night.

  When the door opened she heard a sudden swell of noise, music from the bar, a babble of voices.

  The guy had a plate with food – a burger, chunky fries, salad; incongruously good food from the bar because that was what must have been available. A bottle of mineral water, too, which she drank greedily when her hands were freed from the cuffs.

  She stretched, sore from the restraints, the resulting awkward sitting and standing.

  The man’s eyes were on her like insects and she felt dirty. Not just unwashed, but dirty.

  And so damned vulnerable.

  That it was not Alfredas was even worse, despite her own brother’s betrayal.

  At least Alfredas would not... touch her.

  Thankfully, after a time the man left her with the food.

  She made herself eat, then surprised herself that she was actually hungry and finished it all, despite the ache of fear in her belly. While her hands were free, she made use of the bucket, and left it in one corner of the storeroom.

  When the guy came back to cuff her again, he glanced at the bucket and called her a dirty bitch in Russian. He yanked her arms, hurting her, kept his face close to hers and called her that again.

  That was when she was the most scared, when his tight grip on her arms pulled her hard up against him and she could feel his hot, damp breath on her face.

  Then, after a moment, he stepped back, turned away, left her alone once more.

  She paced the storeroom for what felt like hours after that, unable to make herself settle, her mind replaying the exchange again and again.

  In her head she stamped hard on his instep, headbutted him in the face, stabbed a knee to his groin, but it never ended well. None of this ever ended well.

  §

  She lost track of time. Slept uncomfortably on the hard floor. Woke in all kinds of pain. Slept again.

  Sometimes she heard music and voices, distant sirens, a truck idling outside. She remembered there was a yard to the rear of the club. That was where Ronnie had brought her. She eyed the storeroom’s window repeatedly but it was small, and covered with a sturdy metal grille on the outside.

  Another man came to her with a bottle of water, and uncuffed her long enough for her to drink.

  Some time later, the guy with the mohawk came to her.

  She had never been so close to a man so intimidating. It was not just his physical presence, although that was bad enough. He was tall and broad, an immense strength concealed under that suit; tattoos spread up his neck from the parted collar of his white shirt, and there were more tattoos on his scalp where the mohawk hadn’t quite grown out.

  More than that, though, it was his look, those eyes with nothing behind them. Something missing that normal people had.

  He addressed her in Russian, the arrogant assumption that she would understand.

  “My boss wants to know where Owen Bailey has been hiding. We know he sent you.”

  Maggie stared at him, debating whether she could call his bluff and pretend not to understand. Alfredas knew she spoke Russian, though. Instead, she answered in English.

  “I do not know this man, so he could not possibly have sent me.”

  Still nothing behind those empty eyes. Just a menacing step towards her. He really was a giant of a man.

  He reached one big hand toward her and touched a finger to her jaw, the contact surprisingly delicate, like a feather. More disturbing because of that.

  “You like to play?” Still speaking in Russian, his tone now as soft as that touch.

  She tried to back away, but she was up against a row of shelves.

  “I can play, too,” he went on. “Or you can tell me what I need to know.”

  She had never felt such fear.

  That first guy had been creepy enough, but this one...

  She had been in tricky spots before. Dangerous situations. She’d got into fights, she’d been beaten up.

  But never had she felt so powerless.

  “I do not know where this man is,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  She would take it. Whatever they did to her.

  Or at least, she hoped she could take it.

  She would pay the price of her silence.

  She was not a person to betray others.

  That finger found her jaw again, tracing a delicate line downwards, and then a big hand cupped her chin in a relentless, painful grip, as if at any moment he might merely squeeze and her face would pop like an over-ripe fruit.

  Voices outside the room... perhaps that’s what saved he
r at that moment. Men talking, then a voice raised – she did not make out the words, the language, even, it was just noise.

  It caught Mohawk’s attention, though. He turned his head, reluctantly, answered in Russian: “Okay. Okay. I’m coming.”

  He released his grip on Maggie’s chin with a sharp flick of the wrist, a casual gesture to him, but one that whipped her head sideways, sending agonizing bolts of pain down her neck.

  “Later,” he said, and stepped towards the door.

  §

  When Alfredas came for her, things had changed.

  “You should have answered Maliakov’s questions,” he said. “I do what I can to protect you, but... Maliakov is in a different category.”

  “I will not answer their questions,” she said, stubborn to the last. She guessed Maliakov was the guy with the grown-out mohawk. “And I will not answer yours, if that is why you are here.”

  “You do not need to,” said her brother. “Your boyfriend is here to see us.”

  Not long later, Alfredas walked her out. He’d tried to take her by the arm but she shrugged him off, met his look with a glare, daring him to lay a single finger on her again.

  One of the girls brushed past them in the doorway, clutching some flimsy clothing to her bare breasts. She met Maggie’s look briefly, glanced down and saw the cuffs, then looked quickly away.

  For a moment Maggie wondered if this might be the best possible fate she could hope for: to be kept here like one of these girls, to dance and strip and do whatever else the Russian gang bosses wanted of her and always to live in fear; to become the girl whose only response to something bad was to look away and rush on past.

  Alfredas nodded toward the stage, and she wondered if she had been right. Did they want her to dance?

  It was a ridiculous thought, particularly as she was wearing jeans and a t-shirt.

  She stepped onto the stage even so, understanding that there were times to be compliant. Alfredas took hold of the handcuffs, unlocked one hand, tugged her arms upwards so he could hook the cuffs through a metal ring high up the dancing pole and then secured her again.

  It hurt. The new angle for her already sore arms and shoulders and back. It took a moment for her to focus, to look around and take the scene in.

  Two men at a nearby table, one of them the creep who had called her a dirty bitch. Men at the bar. Others, too. All looking the same, heavy Slavic features and dark suits.

  Then she spotted the group of four men seated around a table at one of the semi-circular booths.

  Owen!

  She hadn’t recognized him at first, his face shaved smooth and that suit and tie he looked so at home in.

  He hadn’t seen her, was talking. One of the other men was the giant with the mohawk, and the one in charge who she had seen when she arrived here, the older man with the thinning dark gray hair. The fourth man, she did not know, and so she could not tell if he was another member of the Russian gang or someone who had come with Owen.

  Owen... He looked at her now, and it was a knife in her heart. The lack of response. Not even a blink.

  He simply stared at her, as if she might be one of the dancers but he wasn’t really interested.

  She met his look. Couldn’t work out if she was willing him to do something or willing him to keep that expressionless face blank and continue not to react.

  He looked away. Said something to the Russian boss.

  At this distance across a dimly lit club it was hard to see their expressions. Hard to tell if they were the bitterest enemies or if it was a straightforward business discussion.

  How well did she know Owen Bailey, after all?

  She knew his reputation, and she knew that such a brutal image did not tally with the man with whom she had become familiar.

  But was he really any different to the Russian boss? To that monster with the mohawk? To her own brother? For she now knew that Alfredas had become something far worse than the fiery youth who had walked out of the family home in Vilnius almost two years before.

  What was he doing?

  He should just tell them this was a mistake. She was here for Alfredas. They should let her go. Shake hands and forget about this foolish mix-up.

  When Owen stood she thought he must have struck a deal, and was now coming to release her, take her away from all this.

  He didn’t even glance at her, though. Just held his head high, his shoulders square, and threaded his way between the tables towards the exit.

  Seconds later he had gone.

  She concentrated on her breathing. Tried to focus her thoughts on that rather than anything else that might rush into her head.

  Anything but think about her fate and the man who had worked his way into her heart but now had abandoned her to that fate.

  Anything but that.

  §

  One of the men in suits took her back to the storeroom, her hands cuffed behind her back again. He swore at her in Russian, tried to be intimidating, but gave up quickly when he saw he would get no response.

  She felt dead inside.

  Everything, just... flat.

  She had been a fool to travel all this way to a hostile foreign country, chasing after a brother who had been rotten to the core even before he had gone.

  Family is nothing when it is this.

  She had been stupid to overcome her distrust and doubts, to open up to a man like Owen Bailey, to give her body to him and with it a sliver of her heart.

  Had she always been this way? Naïve. Blind to the flaws in others. Unable to read them.

  Maybe this was the fate of all good people. Place your trust in others and inevitably you will be exploited and beaten.

  She sat in one corner of the storeroom, her knees drawn up to her chest where she would have hugged them and rocked herself like a maniac if only her arms were not trapped painfully behind her back.

  She had never been in such a bad place, both mentally and literally.

  She tried to understand. Tried to work out what might have happened, the shift from Alfredas’s people trying to extract information from her about Owen, to the man himself appearing in this club. Had he struck some kind of deal, traded her for his own safety? It did not make sense, but then nothing else did, either.

  She ground her chin down onto her knees, a new source of pain to distract her.

  She had been a fool.

  And now... she had nothing.

  §

  When Alfredas came to her, some time later, she did not respond at first, lost in her own world of pain and despair.

  His hand on her shoulder got through. Human contact. She glanced sideways into his eyes that were so like hers. Shrugged off his touch.

  “I did not mean it to be this way,” he said.

  She looked at him again. She couldn’t tell if he meant those words, or was merely saying what he thought she might want to hear, going through the motions of being a real human being when clearly that was not natural for him.

  “I thought... I thought it was just for show. You are family. I did not think they would do this.”

  “‘They’ did not do this,” Maggie finally said. “You did.”

  He looked down. Nodded.

  Met her look again.

  “I will get you out,” he said. “They will release you and you can go back to your life and forget about me, and all of this.”

  Did he really believe that? That even if she walked out of here right now she could somehow shrug it all off and find a normal life?

  “Your man–”

  “He is not my man.”

  “Mr Bailey. He has gone. He has promised not to get in the way, and in return Mr Salko has assured him that you will be set free.”

  So she had been right: a deal had been struck. But... a deal to ensure her freedom? Was that what had happened? Could she believe that, or was it just another foolish hope to cling onto? Another delusion?

  “So I can go now?”

  Alfredas looked away
again, and her hopes sank.

  “You will be released, yes,” he said. “But first there is something I must do.”

  18

  I didn’t believe Salko when he told me I was insignificant, no more than a minor irritation.

  Of course my ego would never have allowed me to believe that, but also it was a rational assessment. Only earlier this year I’d taken out one of their key players and left the Russian mob publicly humiliated and having to retreat from a lot of their activities under police pressure. They’d lost a lot of face, and I knew how important that was.

  And, despite the fact that I’d been off the scene all summer, this was still my patch. The Baileys had decades of connections and history here, and plenty of favors still to call in if we ever felt so inclined. The Russians knew damned well that if I decided to renew my interest then I could make life very difficult for them.

  Salko and Davydov were businessmen. They measured risks, and acted on their assessments, just as I would have done.

  And having the senior Bailey Boy on their doorstep was not a risk anyone in our line of business would ever choose to take.

  They were smoking me out. Drawing me into the open.

  Reuben had been my protection at Shakers today, but I knew they would not be far behind me now.

  All this went round and round in my head as I drove home that evening.

  Salko had promised to release Maggie, but I didn’t set much store by his word. He would hold her as long as she was of value and then what happened would depend on his assessment of various risks and benefits: the risk that she might cause trouble of some sort, maybe talking to the police or getting others involved; the benefits of keeping Freddie on board if they stood by their word and let her walk. Maybe some awful middle ground of tying her to them, dragging her into their people trafficking activities, chaining her with drugs so they could use their hold over her to control Freddie.

  Could I have done anything more?