Peggy was dead.
She knew it.
Had known it from the start. That the worst had happened. That she’d been left behind again.
She had to stop herself groaning out loud.
And surely North knew that even though she wouldn’t ever have given him up, they would be watching and waiting for him. Any which way, he was as ever a reckless fool of the first order and she was too, for wanting to see him just one more time to explain herself, and to try and save him. When all she’d done was make his situation worse.
Cold, shaking, she thrust her hands into the pockets of her macintosh and her fingers found the mobile phone. She hadn’t felt it but she knew he’d dropped it there with his left hand as his right brushed against the collar of her coat. Distraction. Sleight of hand. What happened to the old Honor Jones? The one who never gave up?
She almost dropped the phone as it started ringing. Pushing away the concerned strangers. Brutal. Faces falling. Sympathy rejected. Turning away from them.
When they knock on your door, when you get the call to come play, you have to pick a side. Was that what he said before they dragged him away?
She pressed the green phone icon to answer the call, lifting it to her ear with a hand she had to stop from trembling.
“Yes, this is Honor Jones. Who is this?”
Chapter 73
LONDON
11.45am. Monday, 13th November
The reek of stale sweat was the first thing he was aware of. Then came the pounding in his skull and the knowledge there was only pain where his arms used to be. North blinked, searing light, darkness pocked by rainbow spangles, and back to white-blazing light – the small movements shifting the skin, nerves shrieking with the effort as the world swayed around him. He willed himself back into consciousness, back into the pain, hauling himself, hand-over-hand, up from the darkness. Who was he?
His name was North.
And there was a woman. What was her name?
Honor…it slid from him… Honor Jones. He held on to the idea of her, the need for her once he’d named her.
Before the darkness was Honor. Before Honor was darkness.
As the room ratcheted back into focus, it took him a moment to understand he was dangling in thin air, chained to a steel butcher’s hook screwed into an oak beam in the roof of a subterranean gym. The boxing bag which usually hung there – discarded on the varnished pine floor like the trunk of a dismembered corpse.
No sign of Honor any more, nor the bridge, nor the strange birds crossing the rippling water. Instead there were shadows, spotlights above, buried in the ceiling, throwing down narrow tunnels of light which didn’t reach the corners of the room. North’s eyes fought to make sense of the space. Another body hung across from him, and a broiling pit of fear opened up at his core. He was strong and he knew the price. But Honor was a civilian and they would kill her as soon as she stopped being of use to them – break her into pieces for sport. He shook his head and the other body did the same. He took a short breath. It wasn’t her. It was him. Two of him hung in the mirrored room. The real North and the reflection. They wouldn’t die together after all, he was alone and the tiniest and worst part of him knew regret before he extinguished it.
There was a small cough as Bruno stepped out from the darkness, a grey figure either side of him. North watched him through the mirror. His companions were shorter and wider than Bruno – identical twins, their muscled arms crossed, their chests swollen, moving as Bruno moved, their knobbled heads shaved like those of their boss, full of paranoia and rage, he could see it in them, see that they were pumped up on steroids and the urge to hurt. He knew the type. Paid well for services rendered but they weren’t in it for the money, they were in it for the permission it gave them to damage, to inflict hurt and death.
Now he thought about it, his cheeks stung – he had the distinct impression someone had been slapping them hard to wake him, and he guessed that someone was Bruno.
He looked away from the mirror and back to reality. The big man grinned at him – his pointed teeth long and yellow. The compulsion in Bruno to cause pain, the cleaving of flesh and the grinding of bones, smashed itself into North’s brain. The satisfaction that North would soon be dead at his hands. At the picture of his own gasping, enpurpled face, the breath dying in him. North swallowed hard. There were only three of them, he reminded himself, he’d had worse odds.
“Where am I?”
Bruno regarded him, his head tilted to one side as if he was enjoying the view. “Home, so you need to mind your manners.”
Judge Lucien Tarn lived in Fitzrovia close to the British Museum. Much as Bruno loathed him, he didn’t have the authority to hang him from the rafters. But North was no longer Tarn’s favourite son. He was Tarn’s enemy and North knew how Tarn treated enemies – he dispatched them to Hell.
“Yours was religious wasn’t she, North? My mother was the superstitious sort.”
Bruno’s tone was conversational – cheery, even. “I’m a bit that way myself – superstitious.” Bruno’s huge hand lay against North’s chest, the fingers spread wide. The movement of a striking snake, the heel of the hand crunching into North’s solar plexus and North swung like a pendulum, beating down the sudden ferocious nausea, the back-and-forth movement agonizing down the length of his tethered arms. One lucky punch from Bruno, the bullet would shift and he’d be dead. Would he feel it? Or would the world screech to a sudden stop?
“Horoscopes though, they’re for pussies. But would you believe today, the horoscopes, they caught my eye. Taurus. A day of revelations and joy.”
With a stubby forefinger Bruno pointed, fussy as the swaying slowed. “Tyler,” he instructed and one of the bulging shadows moved toward the hanging man, balling his oversized fist as he went. “And what do you know?” Bruno regained his good mood. “Here you are. Revelations and joy. I may have to change my morning routine. Nice cup of tea. Shit a brick. Read Madame Zara.”
North built his abdominals into his very own Berlin Wall, but Tyler’s right fist came in close and hard and fast as a wrecking ball, and he willed himself not to groan when it hit.
“Kyle.” Bruno gestured at the other man, and Tyler took a reluctant step away. Kyle went for North’s face as if he’d been kept waiting and in the waiting had taken a vicious dislike to it. With a crack, North’s jaw swung wide, hung round awhile, then came back home. He breathed out then sucked in air again just to prove he could as Tyler moved back in for a right hammer-blow and a left hook into either side of his rib cage. North swung wildly on his hook, and his eyes snagged and kept hold of Tyler’s before his hanging body brushed against the length of the other man’s. Tyler liked it up close and personal.
“I’m willing to bet your horoscope made for gloomy reading though, North. I bet it warned you not to step on any cracks in any pavements or you might just fall down them and disappear.”
The two heavies sniggered at Bruno’s joke, their bulging eyes sliding up to him for acknowledgment, their foreheads gleaming, the leather holster tight under Kyle’s arm already dark with sweat.
North shook his head, his neck creaking between his up-stretched arms. Pretty soon, he’d have lost all use of them.
“It said three was my lucky number.”
Against the mirror was a Mac 10, its stock extended. He felt its pull, the coldness of the metal.
Bruno raised a thick eyebrow. “Is that so? Do you hear that, lads?” And he moved back in, punching North once, twice, three times, hard and fast in his kidneys.
“And are you feeling lucky, North?” Bruno said. “Because that’s what your mates called you isn’t it? ‘Lucky’. Maybe you were once – but not now. You see, if the judge loves you, I loves you. The shame for you is, the judge has gone off you something terrible. Which makes me remember that you’re an arrogant maggot. After everything he did for you. All you had to do was what you were told. Kill the woman. It’s not hard for a craftsman like yourself.”
> A line of blood trickled from the corner of North’s mouth, made a swerve into the deep cleft of his chin, and splattered on to the varnished floor where his feet should be.
“Even worse, this time you’ve stolen our money.” Bruno’s pale blue eyes followed the blood down with cold interest. “And surprise, fucking surprise.” The monolithic face loomed up at North, the yellowing-whites, crazy-paved with broken capillaries, the scent of lime cologne making North dry-retch. “We want it back, gobshite.”
North spat a glob of blood and phlegm on to the big man’s patent leather shoe. “Ask nicely then.”
Bruno waved back Tyler and Kyle and looked down at his left shoe, wiping it on the back of his trouser leg, flexing his right hand all the while. Not till he had glossed the leather to his satisfaction did he speak again.
“Please…” He punched North hard in his gut, North’s knees instinctively coming up to protect himself – just not far enough or fast enough.
“Can…” With each word came another hammer blow, and anger bloomed inside North, unfolding itself slowly, standing, stretching, suffocating the pain and fear.
“They…Have…Their…Money…Back…You…Son of a Bitch.”
The thing about pain was that it stopped. Accept it. Step into it. Breathe through it. Use it as nuclear fuel, because it’s not the pain that kills you. A mistake for amateurs. North let his head fall on to his chest as if the blows were getting to him. What the professional does is focus on payback. Focus on Judgment Day, death and destruction.
“There’s something not right about you, North. I told him.” He meant Tarn, “But he wouldn’t have it. Not his golden boy.”
A techno-chirrup and the rhythm of the beating hiccupped and shifted as Bruno checked his phone. He gave an ugly grunt of satisfaction and his fingers grabbed hold of the cropped hair at North’s crown to lift up his head, the other hand damp with perspiration squeezing his jaw hard.
“I’ll be back soonest. Off to see a friend of yours. Maybe she can tell us where the money is.”
North wrenched his body from side to side, the steel cuffs cutting into his wrists, the chain rattling against the butcher’s hook. Honor had realised Peggy was dead, and they had her. Bruno was going to do what North refused to do. They were going to kill her. And he couldn’t do anything about it.
No.
Wrong.
He could do something. Kill Bruno. Kill Tarn. Kill all of them.
“I’ll give her your best.” Searing pain shot through North, starting at his thigh and finishing at the ending of every nerve in his body. Bruno lifted up the knife he had stabbed into the flesh and muscle of North’s right thigh. It ran bloody along its length.
“Whoopsy,” he said.
He wiped the blade between the ball of his thumb and the pad of his index finger, flicking the blood off before licking them clean. He patted North’s cheek, letting the head fall back on to his chest, and North heard the metal taps to the patent shoes cross the wooden floor and the door close behind him.
The blood from his thigh was hot on his leg, as it poured from the open wound. Tick Tock. It wasn’t wide but it was deep and the loss of blood would weaken him past hope of resistance, past any hope of stopping Bruno.
North’s eyes were almost shut. Between the slits, he could see Kyle rubbing the reddened knucklebones of his fist as he leaned against the mirror. North read the impatience in him. The brothers were mumbling to each other. Ignoring the body swinging on the butchers’ hook. Kyle wanted to get on with it. He had a dog to feed. Bruno liked them to keep the dog hungry – made for a better watchdog, he said, but Kyle wasn’t so sure. Forget the dog. Tyler was having a good day – he’d be happy to play this out for as long as it took.
“Which one of you was born first?”
The twins looked across then at each other, as if considering whether to ignore him or answer. Tyler shrugged, the muscles round his neck moving up and down.
“Me.”
North did his best to nod.
“Then you won’t mind dying first.”
It took Tyler time to process the words, glaring at North, his neck thickening, as his brother moved across to the shadows – electro-pop blaring suddenly from the sound system. They were comfortable in the gym. Familiar with it. Maybe they used it to inflate their already ridiculous muscles. That was all good – the more relaxed they felt, the better.
Tyler moved back over to North, working him like he probably worked the punchbag lying on the floor, his eyes squinting – one-two, one-two, building. North let it happen, willing himself not to go too soon. And then it came – a punch hard enough to knock North backwards. He allowed his weight to carry him back and then forwards, the momentum giving him just enough power to lift his legs, wrap them around Tyler’s neck, and squeeze his thighs together, the movement forcing his own blood to gush from his wound, the sensation of denying his attacker the right to draw breath. Roaring as he turned, Kyle leaped for North, pulling at his legs, punching them and his twin, regardless of which was which, in his frenzy to separate the two. North had one chance. He shifted the full weight of his hanging body on to Tyler, as if he were a child riding on his father’s broad shoulders, locking his feet together at the small of the back and bringing himself high enough to lift the chain over the butcher’s hook and down around the exposed throat in one smooth and crushing move. He crossed his arms so the steel links could get better purchase on the throat, blood coursing through his arms till they screamed, till the tiny bones in the other man’s neck gave, the fight for breath stopped, and the body below him folded – North folding with him.
With his brother lost, Kyle scrambled for the Mac-10 by the mirror. North threw himself to the ground, his legs still trapped under the goon’s corpse, taking cover behind the boxing bag which exploded as 9mm bullets ravaged its red leatherette length looking for the flesh-and-blood man behind it. Sawdust flew into the air from the bullet holes as North grappled for the dead man’s Sig P226. He pulled at the body half-lifting it, the arm swinging wide and the punchbag exploded again – Tyler’s corpse with it – blood and bone splinters everywhere, noise bouncing from wall to mirrored wall. The gun in his hand, North reached round the end of the boxing bag and fired once. Twice.
The first shot took out the mirror behind his assailant, shattering it into a million fragments, each one showing a man dropping to his knees as if in prayer as the second shot found its mark – dead-centre of Kyle’s forehead.
North kicked off the remains which had pinioned his legs, and scrambled to his feet. His ears rang from the close-quarters firefight. He picked up the Mac-10 from Kyle’s body and checked the magazine. It fired 1,000 rounds a minute.
Empty.
The P226 should have had 13 more bullets in the magazine.
It had two.
One for Bruno. One for Tarn. It was enough.
On a hunch, he reached across to check Tyler for another weapon. He eased the switchblade from the holster strapped to the dead man’s ankle and slipped it into the back of his waistband. He stood up then hunkered down again, taking out the knife and cutting into the dead man’s thigh. He held his breath as he carved out a huge gobbet of flesh, hot blood dripping from it.
A turquoise and white-tiled corridor lead to a narrow back staircase with an ornate banister. Antique Spy caricatures lined the staircase walls, statesmen and judges ridiculed and popularised. As he rounded the corner of the landing, North stopped in his tracks. An enormous Doberman lay across the threshold of a door. Somewhere in the back of its throat, it growled. Its ears flat against its head, the dog raised itself on its haunches and then stood on all four legs.
His eyes never leaving the black pools of the monstrous dog’s, North moved his right hand behind his back to grip the heavy duty plastic handle of the eight-inch switchblade. The dog walked towards him, breathing in his scent through its wet black nose, black slobbery lips pulled back, wrinkling the muzzle and revealing shining yellow teeth.
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br /> North made himself stand still and with his left hand threw the chunk of meat into its maw. The meat was gone within seconds. With a sudden bound, the dog leapt, almost knocking him to the ground with its weight, its two front paws against his chest, licking his cheek, the smell of blood and dog breath.
North let go of the knife to push off the dog. She rolled over on to her back, squirming, and he stepped over her sprawling body.
“You, madam, are a disgrace to your profession,” he said.
The guard dog got back on her feet and trotted beside him, her body tight against his.
He kept his left hand on her warm bony head, the pistol in his right.
Chapter 74
Two bullets. With a mighty kick he booted his way into the room where the screaming was coming from – the gun out in front of him. It wasn’t Honor. Or Peggy. Fangfang was tied to the bed, her arms outstretched, her neck in a noose with a long leather cord that lay across the black silk pillow. Bruno covered the struggling girl, the cord bunched in his fist, his other hand across her mouth. He scrambled off the bed, reaching for the bedside drawer, dragging the teenager’s head up from the bed till the cord unwound itself from his grasp. North fired the gun at the drawer and Bruno screamed in pain and frustration, snatching his hand away and crashing against the wall. One bullet left. North moved the gun to his left hand and pulled out the knife from his waistband. He cut Fangfang’s ties and she scrabbled at her throat to release the pressure of the noose, coughing and gasping.
The Doberman stood snarling at Bruno, cowering in the corner of the room. Not even his own dog liked him. Bruno aimed a kick at the animal’s haunch and the dog snapped, slaver hanging from her jaws, teeth grazing the pale pink flesh of the fat man’s massive calf – spots of blood rising among the curling hairs.
“Are you all right, kid?”
“They found us – destroyed the computers,” Fangfang said ignoring the question as she scrambled into the black leggings and Hello Kitty sweatshirt discarded on the floor. Her voice was husky from the cord. He saw the men force the door, smash the computer bank, screens fizzing and popping, glass shattering, Fangfang’s terror.
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