4. Gray Retribution

by Alan McDermott

  After five seconds, Hart released the trigger and the boys pulled back the covers.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’

  Three pillows lay end to end on the bed, but there was no sign of Gray.

  Sean went over to the crib in the corner of the room and removed the bundle they’d seen Gray carrying earlier. It was heavy, and when he removed the blanket he found himself holding a fire extinguisher. Hart saw a note taped to the bottom, and he snatched at it.

  I thought you might need this.

  At that moment, Hart knew he’d been set up. With thoughts of self-preservation overriding any paternal instincts he may have had, he ran from the room, already at the top of the stairs before he shouted a warning to his sons.

  ‘Get out! It’s a trap!’

  He almost jumped down the entire flight of stairs, knowing that an inferno would erupt at any moment, but he managed to reach the back door without being grilled alive. He swung the door open and ran out into the rain, only to find a shadowy figure waiting for him.

  Tom Gray stood ten yards away, holding a six-inch blade in his right hand.

  Sean and Aiden followed their father out into the rain, and Hart spun when he heard the air forced out of their lungs. The boys were being held in headlocks with knives to their throats by two large figures, who had obviously been waiting on either side of the door.

  ‘You stole something from me,’ Gray shouted through the storm. ‘Something I loved very much.’

  ‘Fuck you, Gray!’ Hart reached inside his jacket, but when a round whizzed past his face he froze like a statue.

  ‘Pull the gun out, nice and slow, or the next shot won’t be a warning.’

  Hart obeyed, tossing the gun to his left. Carl Levine and Sonny Baines walked out of the darkness, Levine collecting the weapon and frisking him while Sonny kept the silenced 9 mm aimed at his head.

  Satisfied that he was clean, the two men stepped away.

  ‘Why, Hart? Why did you kill my wife?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ Gray said. ‘Why else would you run screaming at the sight of a fire extinguisher? You thought I was going to burn you to death, didn’t you? And why would you come down here tooled up?’

  ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ Hart persisted, trying to think his way out of trouble.

  ‘Wallace told me,’ Gray pressed, and saw that he’d scored with that remark. ‘It doesn’t really matter,’ he continued. ‘Whatever you tell me will be lies, and I’ve had enough of those lately.’

  Gray pointed his knife towards Smart and Campbell, who had the boys subdued.

  ‘Do it.’

  They simultaneously pushed the Hart boys to arms’ length and shoved the knives into their chests.

  ‘NO!’ Hart cried.

  ‘You know, there really isn’t that much guilt when you ask someone else to do your killing for you,’ Gray said. He closed in on the father, who’d collapsed to his knees in tears.

  ‘I bet it was much the same when you sent Robert Harman round to kill my wife.’

  Hart looked up at him, rainwater dripping down his face, his eyes shining with hatred. Exactly the reaction Gray had hoped for. He dropped his knife at Hart’s knees and walked away.

  The boys had already bled out, leaving only the sound of the rain, but that wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of Hart’s ungainly footsteps as he ran towards Gray, who spun and deflected the clumsy lunge.

  ‘They say revenge is a dish best served cold,’ Gray said, ‘but you’re running awfully hot.’

  Hart tried again, stepping in and slashing with the knife, but Gray easily skipped out of reach and delivered a hammer blow with his fist that caught Hart on the temple.

  The older man fell to the grass, and Gray knelt on his chest while he groped for the knife that had fallen to the ground. He found the blade and held it to Hart’s throat.

  ‘Fortunately, I’m decidedly frosty.’

  The answer he got was a face full of spittle, which he wiped away with his sleeve.

  ‘You can have that one,’ Gray said, pressing his nose to Hart’s. ‘This, however, is for Vick.’

  Gray turned the blade up and pressed it to the underside of Hart’s fleshy mouth. As Hart’s eyes widened, he plunged the knife upwards, through Hart’s tongue and into his brain, all the time looking into the gangster’s eyes. It took several moments for them to cloud over. Once it was done, Gray climbed off him and walked away without a backward glance.

  His four friends surrounded him, concern etched in their faces. Before they could say anything, Gray pointed his knife at Smart and Campbell. ‘Can’t you guys at least roll around in the mud a little? Maybe make it look like we had a fair fight?’

  ‘But this jacket cost me a fortune,’ Campbell complained.

  Gray pointed to the ground. ‘Get down and give me five, soldiers.’

  While Campbell and Smart covered themselves in everything but glory, Gray called Sonny and Levine over and went through the checklist.

  ‘Carl, get rid of everything in the bedroom.’

  Levine disappeared into the house, while Gray made sure Sonny had the guns covered.

  ‘I stripped and cleaned my weapon wearing gloves, so no prints inside or out.’

  ‘Same go for the mag and ammo?’

  Sonny nodded.

  ‘Okay, empty it out and make sure you get Hart’s prints all over it. Every nook, every round.’

  As Sonny dashed off to complete his part of the ruse, Gray told Smart and Campbell to get to their feet.

  ‘Get their prints on the knives,’ he said, pointing to the corpses. ‘I don’t know if they were left or right handed, so do both.’

  Five minutes later, the men were once again assembled before him.

  ‘What about the driver?’ Gray asked.

  ‘On the way back from our midnight walk, we came across his car,’ Sonny said, in his best courtroom voice. ‘He got out and pulled a gun on us. A fight ensued and it went off.’

  ‘Really? Where’s the shell casing with Hart’s fingerprints all over it?’

  Sonny held one up for inspection. ‘Ta da.’

  ‘Serial number filed off the weapon?’

  ‘Clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Good man. Go get the driver’s prints on the 9 mm and drop it next to him, then put Hart’s gun in the bag they brought.’

  Sonny disappeared again, and once more Gray was grateful to the driver for having gotten out to take a leak, thereby enabling Gray’s men to dispatch him in what would appear to have been a fair fight.

  When all four men were finished, he gathered them round. ‘What are we missing?’ He looked from man to man. ‘Come on, guys, there’s always something.’

  They all thought hard but came up empty, so Gray had them all go through their stories one more time.

  Satisfied that all bases were covered, Gray pulled out his phone and dialled the number.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Thursday 24 October 2013

  For Joe Brandt, there was nothing like the night shift to make some progress on his latest book. A long-time fan of sci-fi, Brandt had been writing his own stuff for several years, and constantly dreamt of the day an agent would give him the thumbs up. Despite over two hundred query letters and barely half a dozen responses, his enthusiasm hadn’t waned, and he attacked the next chapter with gusto.

  He was just about to orchestrate a deadly battle between the Vxlen and the Gords when his headphones signalled noise inside Wallace’s apartment. He put the tablet aside and fired up the infrared camera.

  Sure enough, Wallace’s blurry figure could be seen heading for the bathroom. Brandt assumed he was simply going for a midnight pee, but when the detective finished and turned on the shower, he marked the time in the journal.

  3:15 AM.

  ‘Can’t sleep, eh?’

  Brandt woke his companion, John Orwell, and told him about the new development.


  ‘Any coffee left?’ Orwell asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Unlike Brandt, he didn’t find night duty to his taste.

  ‘Finished hours ago,’ Brandt said.

  ‘Great. So what’s he doing up so early?’

  ‘Dunno,’ Brandt shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s just got an early start today.’

  ‘Well, it’s your turn to follow him. And remember, don’t get too close. Let the tracker do the work.’

  Brandt checked the camera and saw that Wallace had yet to finish his ablutions, so he grabbed his tablet and quietly opened the back door of the van and closed it behind him. The company car was parked around the corner, and when he reached it he was glad to see it still had all of its wheels.

  ‘All set here,’ Brandt said into his throat mic. ‘Let me know when he sets off.’

  He climbed in and started the car, cranking the heater up to full before reconvening the intergalactic war.

  An hour later, Orwell informed him that Wallace was on the move.

  ‘He’s carrying a bundle of clothes. Looks like he’s just going to the laundrette.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Brandt replied, turning on the tracking device. ‘He’s got a washer-dryer in his flat.’

  He waited until the dot on the screen began to move and counted twenty seconds before pulling out and following. The device attached to the underside of Wallace’s Ford had a two-mile range, so Brandt was able to sit far enough back that he wasn’t visible in the detective’s mirrors.

  After half an hour, Brandt found himself on the M23, and he called in his position.

  ‘Looks like we’re heading to the south coast.’ The dot on the screen showed Wallace just over a mile ahead, and a signpost declared him thirty-two miles from Brighton, and seven from the airport.

  ‘We’re coming up on Gatwick,’ Brandt said. ‘He’ll be there in five minutes. If he takes the turn off, call it in and see if there are any flights booked in his name.’

  Wallace continued on past the airport and towards the south coast, before turning east five miles from Brighton. Brandt continued to report in, and eventually the target car came to a stop near a secluded beach.

  ‘Looks like we’re here,’ Brandt said, giving his current location. He stopped the car half a mile away and made his way on foot, jogging at a comfortable pace until he had the detective’s Ford in sight.

  Wallace appeared to be walking towards the water. Some ten yards from the shore he dropped the bundle of clothes and removed his shoes and socks. After rolling his trousers up, he continued on into the water, carrying only his footwear and a towel.

  Bit nippy to go paddling, Brandt thought.

  He watched Wallace traverse the beach until he came to a rocky outcrop, then climb up and dry his feet as best he could in the driving rain. With his socks and shoes back on, Wallace headed towards a small hamlet, where he climbed into a ten-year-old Fiat.

  Brandt raced back to his car and used the satnav to identify possible routes out of the area. He was thankful that there was only one, and set off in pursuit. He called in his findings and asked someone to check out the abandoned Ford, then gave his current heading.

  Wallace led him through the countryside until they once again hit the A27, this time westbound. Brandt held back, letting the Fiat guide him with its taillights, until they reached the outskirts of Shoreham-by-Sea.

  ‘He’s taken the exit towards the airport,’ Brandt said into his mic. ‘Do I stop him?’

  Orwell told him to wait until he got orders from the office. ‘For now, just hang back and see what he does.’

  With no other choice, Brandt continued the pursuit until Wallace slowed and took the turning towards the airport car park.

  ‘It looks like he’s booked on a flight,’ Brandt said, as Wallace exited the car carrying a suitcase and hand luggage.

  ‘I’m still waiting to hear from HQ,’ Orwell said. ‘Do nothing until I get back to you.’

  ‘You’d better hurry. These planes don’t exactly hang around all night.’

  Brandt sat in the car, desperate for a response, but when the Piper Cherokee began to taxi away from the hangar, he knew the chance was gone.

  ‘Wallace just reached the end of the runway,’ he said, disconsolate. ‘Tell the boss we lost him.’

  His job dictated he be thorough, though, so Brandt braved the wind and rain to run to the small passenger terminal.

  ‘I need to know who just left on that plane,’ he said to the balding man behind the counter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the man smiled, ‘but we can’t give out that information.’

  Brandt placed his ID on the counter. ‘In that case, I’ll speak to your boss.’

  When Andrew Harvey reached the cottage just after five in the morning, he found half a dozen police cars already on the scene.

  After showing his badge, he was allowed through the outer cordon and found Gray standing next to a police car, a uniformed officer taking his statement. Harvey once again made his introduction and asked for a moment alone with Gray.

  ‘Tom, please tell me why the hell I’m standing in the Welsh countryside looking at you and a pile of bodies.’

  ‘What can I say? Somehow Hart found out where I was staying and he came after me. I had to defend myself.’

  Harvey looked round and saw a few more familiar faces.

  ‘So Sonny, Len, Carl and Jeff just happened to be passing, did they?’

  ‘No, I decided to use my time wisely and asked the team to join me. We were going over new deployment tactics for the sentinels. We came back from a night exercise and found these guys waiting for us.’

  Harvey leaned in closer. ‘That’s bullshit, and you know it.’

  ‘Maybe, but if it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, maybe its name’s Donald. We’ve given our side of the story, and we’re sticking to it.’

  Harvey was exasperated. ‘I thought you were going to let it go. For Melissa.’

  ‘Exactly right, Andrew. For Melissa. Whether Hart was behind bars or free to go about his business, she would never have been safe. Now she is.’

  ‘So you gave Wallace this address instead of the one for the safe-house, knowing he would send Hart after you.’

  ‘You know, I did have two addresses in my pocket. I must have given him the wrong one. By mistake, obviously.’

  Harvey looked around the scene. The forensic tents were already in place, with technicians inside working on the bodies. An ambulance sat silent, too late for the dead and not needed for the survivors. A normal scene, but he felt something was missing.

  ‘Where’s Melissa?’

  ‘Len’s wife is looking after her,’ Gray said. ‘I thought about bringing her here, but just in case she relapsed, I wanted her near the hospital.’

  Harvey suddenly felt weary. He was severely pissed off with Gray, yet at the same time glad he was okay. The fact remained that he knew Hart had been set up, and would have to report it to his boss. What Veronica Ellis made of it would be anyone’s guess.

  ‘I’m too tired to think right now,’ he said to Gray. ‘Call me when they’re done with you.’

  Harvey walked back to his car and climbed in, not relishing the three-hour drive back to London.

  Although, he reflected, the drive would be bliss compared to his next meeting with Ellis.

  After the drive from Orly Airport to Paris Charles de Gaulle, Frank Wallace was ready for a drink. He hit the bar and swallowed a double whisky before setting off for the departure gate. The clock on the wall told him he had fifty minutes to wait, so he dug into his bag and found the book he’d brought along for the journey.

  After turning to the dog-eared page, his mind began to wander. The next step was to reach Brazil, but after that, he had no firm plans. He decided to find a decent hotel, and from there he would research the countries of the world to see which ones had no extradition treaty with the UK. He knew that Suriname, to the north of Brazil, was one such haven, and he could hang out there until he
found another country to settle in. He suspected that his options would be limited to the African continent and Southeast Asia, but what the hell. He was sure he could manage a few years on a Thai beach with young locals to provide his entertainment on the lonely evenings.

  ‘Entschuldigen Sie, bitte. Kann ich Ihren Pass sehen?’

  Wallace stared at the stranger, a man wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and a quizzical look.

  ‘Entschuldigen Sie. Kann ich Ihren Pass sehen?’ the man repeated the question, pointing to his own wrist.

  ‘Ah,’ Wallace exclaimed, and held out his hand so that the man could see his watch. The stranger grabbed his wrist and Wallace heard the familiar click as the handcuffs were applied.

  ‘Really,’ the man said, the English tinged with a heavy French accent. ‘If you’re going to use a German passport, Mr Wallace, you should at least learn a few rudimentary phrases.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ the detective shouted, drawing stares from his fellow passengers.

  The leather-clad man held out his warrant card. ‘Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. It seems you left a few unanswered questions back in London, Mr Wallace, and our counterparts there are rather keen to speak with you.’

  Another agent from the DGSE arrived, and indicated the exit.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Epilogue

  Tuesday 29 October 2013

  Tom Gray was in the middle of mixing Melissa’s dinner when the gate buzzer sounded, and through the CCTV he could the familiar face.

  ‘Come on up, Andrew.’

  He hit the gate release and turned back to the formula, ensuring it was exactly the right temperature before opening the front door.

  ‘Hi,’ he smiled.

  Harvey wasn’t so cheerful, which immediately had Gray on edge.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I just came from a meeting with Ellis,’ Harvey said, standing over Melissa’s bouncy chair. The little girl looked none the worse for her recent ordeal, gurgling away, eyes transfixed by the set of multi-coloured keys in her hand.