by Tom Field
“I’ll put it on loudspeaker.”
He heard a click and then Nicole-Louise said,
“You’re open.”
“Mr Walker,” he said, “You are free to go and you will be safe.”
“The bomber is dead?” Walker asked in a worried tone.
“Yes he is.”
“Lord Ashurst-Stevens?” Walker asked.
“He will be soon. I’m sure that you will be covering his death when you go back to work, and so it will be a busy few days for you, but the distraction is exactly what you need to get your life back to normal,” he replied.
“Thank you,” Walker said, “For everything you have done. And that’s from both of us. You saved my son’s life; I will never be able to repay you,” he added.
Ward felt a sudden rush of emotion surge through his body. Walker did what he felt he had to do, for the sake of his son. He would have to live with the consequence of his actions and the blood on his hands through the Paris and London bombs, but he was a father first. A father’s love is limitless. Ward had seen that with Gilligan and now with Walker. And he felt envious.
“You will be able to repay me if you get on with your life and make sure that your son becomes the best he can,” he said.
“I will,” a muffled, younger voice said in the background. Ward smiled to himself.
“Nicole-Louise, can you turn the loudspeaker off,” he asked. Another click could be heard and then he continued.
“Thank you so much you two. You and Tackler have contributed more to this than anyone. You have saved a great number of lives yet again, and you are the most important two people I know,” he said.
“We all played an equal part Ryan,” she replied.
Ward suddenly remembered the target that Eloisa had set in Ireland and so he said.
“Tomorrow, I might need some help on some freelance work, are you two available, this one is a choice?” he asked.
He heard her speaking to Tackler and then came back on the line,
“He said he will on one condition,” she said.
Ward knew immediately what that condition would be.
“Tell him that I will have Lawson back in the U.K. by tomorrow night, and I won’t mention his name in his presence,” he said with a smile.
“Then we are in,” she replied with a soft giggle, and hung up the phone.
Lawson looked at him mystified.
“No more flirting with Nicole-Louise to piss Tackler off,” he said to Lawson.
“I think she wants me.”
“If you go near her, I will kill you myself,” he said.
“That’s the second time you have said that, you wouldn’t really, would you?” he asked.
“Hurry up and get to the warehouse,” he replied, and he closed his eyes and leant back into the soft, leather headrest of the Mercedes.
Ten minutes later they were pulling up outside the garage.
Ward knew something was wrong immediately.
McDermott and Paul were standing outside waiting. The three Range Rovers were parked neatly inside, and Ward could see Fringe and Wired loading equipment into the back of them. They were clearing out.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Paul looked at the floor while his father said,
“You had better come and take a look inside.”
The chair where Ashurst-Stevens had been sitting was back around the table.
“We got back from searching for Fulken and he was gone. All that was here were these,” McDermott said, holding up three cable ties which had clearly been cut.
“Well he didn’t cut them himself,” Ward said.
“We literally got back and he was gone,” McDermott repeated.
“We should have kept one person here. We made a mistake,”
Paul said.
“No. You focussed on catching Fulken. That was exactly the right thing to do. And we caught him so don’t worry about this,” Ward replied.
“We are done here then?” McDermott asked.
“Yes we are. The money has already been paid into your account,” he said, “You saved a lot of lives.”
“I told you; give it to Gilligan’s wife.”
“And I told you, that was covered,” Ward replied, “Keep it, pay for some psychiatric help for Wired,” he added with a smile.
“I think I need more than half a million dollars!” McDermott replied.
The rest of McDermott’s team came in. Ward walked around to each of them and hugged them all.
Brothers in arms in every sense of the word.
Ward and Lawson walked out of the garage and got back into the car.
“Where do we find him?” Lawson asked.
Ward didn’t reply but took out his phone and dialled The Optician.
“Hey,” The Optician answered.
“Did you take Ashurst-Stevens?” he asked.
“I was just doing what The Old Man ordered me to do.”
“I know. What do you think about that?” he asked him.
“I never question the reasons why, you know that. I just do.”
Ward respected The Optician more than anyone else in the world. He displayed loyalty and a sense of duty that most men could not comprehend. Ward changed the subject.
“I will want your help in Ireland over the next few days,” he said.
“I’ll be there for you when you call. As always,” The Optician replied, “Someone has to look after you,” he added, and he hung up the phone.
Ward looked at Lawson,
“Take me back to Brooklyn, we are finished,” he said.
“What about Ashurst-Stevens?”
“I’ll deal with him when you are safely back in England.”
They drove back in silence.
He felt deflated and carried an overwhelming feeling that he had unfinished business to attend to.
Thirty-five minutes later, Lawson was bringing the car to a stop outside Ward’s apartment in DUMBO.
“Thanks for everything Mike,” he said and extended his hand for Lawson to shake.
“I have this awards ceremony to attend to with Abbi and I will be flying straight back tomorrow morning,” he said. “If you need me until then, I’m yours”
“I think our hands are tied on this,” Ward replied, and went to step out of the car.
“Wait!” Lawson said.
Ward turned and looked at him.
“One question?” Lawson asked.
“Shoot?”
“Are you the great Ryan Ward?”
“I’m the great Ryan Ward, only if you are the great Mike Lawson,” Ward replied with a smile and got out of the car.
He didn’t turn to watch Lawson drive off as he walked into his apartment building.
Thirty minutes later he was showered and relaxed.
The last few days had been adrenalin-fuelled, and this was the first moment that he had to relax. He looked at his watch. It was 02:00am. He picked up his phone. There were no missed calls from Centrepoint. He dialled his number.
“One of us knows how to answer a phone.”
“Why did you take Ashurst-Stevens?” he asked.
“There is no way on earth that we can eliminate a worldwide prominent figure and get away with it,” Centrepoint replied.
“Regardless of what he has done?”
“It’s not that simple. I keep telling you. It’s about the bigger picture.”
“And what is the bigger picture?”
“We now have him where we want him, and we can use him in the future to control the news for our benefit.”
“So you want to be the newsmaker now?” he asked with a tone of disgust in his voice.
“Look,” Centrepoint said, “I feel as bad as you do for all the lives that have been lost because of this, but I know without a doubt that in the future we will need him, and we will save a great deal more than we have lost.”
“Do you want to go around and tell that to Mrs Gilligan?”
&nbs
p; Silence on the end of the phone.
“What provisions have you made for her?”
“The standard insurance pay-out I assume.”
“You think that will be enough to raise two kids?” he asked sarcastically.
“Added to the four million dollars that Nicole-Louise stole and put in her account, yes I do.”
Ward decided to leave that issue there.
“I want to kill him, for Gilligan,” he said.
“When we have no more use for him, if that day ever comes, then I will not authorise it but I won’t get in your way either,” The Old Man replied.
Under the circumstances, Ward would take that for now.
“Both the lawyer and Ashurst-Stevens said that there were higher powers at play, really powerful people. What do you make of that?”
“I’m pretty sure that I would say the same thing if you were pointing a gun at me too.”
That had been his initial feeling in both instances and he decided to let that matter go too.
“Don’t underestimate what you have done and how fast you did it,” Centrepoint said, “You’ve earned a rest.”
“I need to do something quickly over in Ireland,” he replied.
“I know, The Optician has already told me that he might be unavailable for a few days.”
Ward decided to leave that point too.
“Gill Whymark, Fulken’s handler. Where is he?”
“He’s gone, disappeared. Why?”
“What do you mean? Disappeared?”
“He has literally disappeared. No one can find him. They aren’t looking too hard mind; this whole thing with Fulken was a mess that could have rocked the government to the core, so he has probably disappeared in shame, why the interest in him?” Centrepoint asked.
“Because Fulken said that he had my picture on the wall in their safe house, along with nine other people. I assume that means he knows who all ten of your Deniables are, including me?”
There was a long silence on the phone until Centrepoint said,
“What else did Fulken say about that?”
“Nothing,” he replied, “Apart from the fact one of them was a woman.”
“Leave that to me, I’ll find out what that means,” Centrepoint replied.
“I’m not happy about this Ashurst-Stevens business.”
“I know. But I am sure that when we need him and use him to our advantage you will be glad that you kept him alive.”
Ward hung up the phone.
Later, he sat down on his sofa and prepared to draw a mental line under the whole sequence of events of the past ten days. It was a customary mental exercise that he carried out. It was counterproductive to carry issues, regrets or resentment from a previous mission into a new one. He had learnt that very quickly. It caused distraction. And as Asif Fulken had found out, distraction invariably led to downfall.
He leant back, closed his eyes, exhaled loudly and started to wash his mind of the past. He was taking back control.
What he had no control over was the future.
A future that would take him to the darkest and most dangerous parts of the world.
A future where his ability to trust would be called into question daily.
A future where his belief in love would be destroyed.
A future where the hunter became the hunted.
A future where friendship would crush him but also prevail. A future where his faith in everything he did would be destroyed and then born again out of the ashes.
A future that was going to unravel, bit by bit and piece by piece over the next six traumatic months.
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Volume One – Part Two
Traffic
She was dragged into the room by her hair. She was no taller than five two and she was painfully thin. She had been stripped and violated by her transporters en route to the sprawling mansion which was situated in an exclusive part of Beverly Hills. She had entered through the obscenely grand gates, which were painted a rich gold colour, and driven slowly up the immaculately laid tarmac drive which led directly to the mansion doors. No mistakes had been made in completing the drive to the exact specification. The King would not tolerate mistakes; any deviation from specific instructions would result in punishment and the full wrath of his anger. He would view incompetence as a crime against him, and any crime against him would be punishable with the most sickening and unimaginable pain being inflicted.
He enjoyed this part of being The King.
She had been pulled out of her room by three men just five and a half hours ago. It was a room that contained only five beds and one chest of drawers. She had begged for another chance as soon as they had burst through the door, her pleas met with a sharp slap to her face before the men laughed as they stripped her. All she could smell was vodka and cigarettes. It was a smell that reminded her of her uncle back home in Albania. She was afraid of him too.
She was shaking, not through cold, but through a fear that ran through every inch of her body. She felt sick and her voice had deserted her. Her tears were clouding her vision and she felt disorientated. The pain of her hair being pulled had long since subsided, and was now replaced by a pain in the pit of her stomach that was restricting her breathing.
The King was sat on his throne waiting.
Literally, it was a throne. He believed it impressed all who saw it. But it didn’t impress the girl, as her tears thinned and her vision returned. It terrified her.
She saw the devil.
The eyes of twelve equally frightened and thin girls looked at the floor, refusing to look at her, as she was thrown down like a bag of garbage that had hung around for too long.
Her crime?
She had tried to escape.
Her name was Tatiana.
She was fourteen years old