by Adam Hamdy
“Tyrese is right. If you go to the Bureau, you’ll be at risk. I know. They couldn’t protect me,” she heard John Wallace say.
“Then we’ve got to do something about it.” The respondent had a deep voice and a strong New York accent.
Ash moved slowly, cautiously craning her head to peer round the corner. She stifled a gasp when she saw Wallace sitting opposite Steven Byrne, the man whose son had triggered everything. A lump swelled in her raw throat. She wasn’t going to cry over this betrayal. She would be strong, like her father. People had feared him, and even in the face of his hateful violence, her mother had lacked the courage to betray him. Strength through fear, through solitude. People were craven and their treachery inevitable. She was done suffering for others. Ash quickly concealed herself and suppressed her hurt and anger with questions that tore through her mind with the pace and violence of machine-gun fire. The loudest of the volley of queries was whether Wallace had bartered her life for his.
“What about Archangel?” Wallace asked. “What do you think it is?”
“Some kind of code name,” Steven replied hesitantly.
Who were they talking about? Why were they even talking? Who or what was Archangel? Ash saw a double door that looked like an exit. It was located halfway along the wall that lay to her left, beyond the kitchen area. There was no way she could get to it without being seen, and she wasn’t willing to risk her life betting on the fact that Wallace hadn’t been turned. She retreated toward the bedroom, and as she stepped silently away, the conversation returned to a low, indecipherable drone.
Ash pushed the door closed, and looked around the windowless room desperately, until her eyes fell upon the cell phone that lay on the bedside table. She hurried over to it and was relieved to find that the key lock had not been activated. She knew she was taking a huge risk, but she was out of options. She’d given everything to Wallace and the Pendulum case, and seeing him sitting with the killer’s father was the ultimate betrayal. She couldn’t believe that she’d harbored feelings for Wallace, that she’d allowed him into her life, and that she’d planned to bring him closer. The memory of the kiss sickened her. She’d given him so much, and it still wasn’t enough to bind him to her, to guarantee his loyalty. She’d never known real love, not even from her mother who had chosen Nicholas over her, but she felt certain that this wasn’t it. Lovers did not sit down with the enemy.
It made her angry to think of how much she’d given to those who didn’t care for her. She wouldn’t worry about the consequences anymore. She couldn’t stay here with these men. She didn’t trust them and she couldn’t live with the fear that they might return her to that chair, to the device that had broken her. She’d been betrayed and was truly alone. Like a scab picked from a pustulous wound, that bleak conclusion unleashed an oozing stream of corrosive thoughts that seeped through her mind. She’d tried to picture Wallace’s face during her ordeal, believing that thoughts of him would give her the strength to resist the torture. He’d been her one good thing, the one person she’d thought she could rely on, her friend and future lover. She couldn’t believe she’d been so foolish. Trust didn’t exist, at least not for her. She’d felt such anguish at giving her tormentor the name of the hotel. If she’d known of Wallace’s treachery, she would have surrendered sooner. The dark thoughts kept coming. Wallace had never liked her. He’d been involved in the Pendulum killings from the outset. He and Byrne had plotted the whole thing and worked Wallace into a position where he could manipulate her, and through her, the Bureau. Her mind raced and cartwheeled with the horror of her misjudgment. Her father had been right all along; she’d turned her back on the divine and this was her punishment for being a bad person. Maybe this was a brief period of respite to lull her into a false sense of security before they returned her to the cell for more torture. The dark thoughts gathered momentum and were soon flowing so quickly that Ash wanted to cry out, but instead she activated the phone’s keypad, and her eyes misted with tears as she dialed a number she could never forget.
75
The sky was so dark that Bailey could almost feel the oppressive weight of night closing in around the Mercedes. They were in the eastern reaches of London, north of the Hackney Marshes, south of Walthamstow, an area that was a mix of residential estates and industrial sprawl. Salamander turned off Forest Road, steering through a pair of open steel gates marked “Thames Water Walthamstow Fishery.” The narrow road ran alongside a banked railway line, toward a daisy chain of reservoirs. When they were fifty yards along the treelined route, a scrawny figure stepped out from the bushes and flagged them down. The car’s headlights illuminated a troubled, bloodless face. The only color came from dark purple bags that sagged beneath haunted eyes. His left trouser leg was bloody and a makeshift bandage circled his thigh just above the knee.
Salamander parked in a rest stop, and stepped out to embrace Danny.
“They killed him. I was right there,” Danny said, his voice broken by distress.
“I’m sorry, man.” Salamander spoke softly. “Ya OK?”
Danny shook his head.
“How’s ya leg?” Salamander asked.
“I think the bleedin’s stopped.” Danny wiped his eyes. “Where’s Frank and Jimmy?”
Salamander looked down at the ground, unable to answer.
“They got shot,” Bailey replied. “We don’t know if they made it.”
Danny fumed. “I’m gonna get that fucker,” he spat.
“Yeah,” Salamander said coolly. “So what we got?”
“There’s an old copper mill by the lake on the other side of the railway. Follow me,” Danny instructed, limping into the bushes.
Bailey trailed Danny and Salamander into thick hawthorn. A narrow path ran between the bushes, but they still had to contend with spiky branches which scratched at them as they forced their way to the other side. They emerged at the foot of a railway embankment, and Bailey’s body ached as Danny led them up the steep incline. When they reached the summit, Danny signaled them to drop and the three men lay level with steel tracks that stretched into darkness in both directions.
A dozen yards to their west the embankment ran into a steel viaduct, which led to a bridge that crossed the River Lea. South of the bridge, the river curled round a bare patch of land in the heart of which stood a large Victorian mill. The tall building was flanked by a pair of old warehouses. The mill was a three-story, square redbrick structure and the two-story warehouses spread out to its west, reaching toward the river. The bare yard was surrounded by mature trees, and behind them was a dark body of water. Bailey surmised that it was the stream that once powered the mill. It ran southwest and must have joined the river at some unseen fork. The warehouses were dark but some of the mill’s casement windows were lit, illuminating a solitary Mercedes SUV that was parked in the yard.
“There were three of them,” Danny said, pointing toward the car. “The other two left about an hour ago. Full of heavies. Soldiers or pigs, I reckon.”
“You think Melissa’s in there?” Bailey asked, gesturing at the mill.
Danny nodded. “I saw ’em carry her inside. I’ve been watching the place ever since.”
“Ya been countin’ bodies?” Salamander quizzed.
“Yeah. Reckon there’s two of them in there,” Danny replied. “Including that fucker, Mayfield.”
“Two on three,” Salamander mused. “I’ll take those odds. Come on.”
Salamander slid down the embankment and Danny and Bailey followed. The three of them retraced their steps through the hawthorn and returned to the Mercedes.
“Ya got any tools?” Salamander asked.
“Nah,” Danny replied. “I had to leave Terry’s place sharpish.” He hesitated, and Bailey thought he might well up, but after a moment he continued. “I took the Ferrari. It’s in a pub car park across the way, but I’ve already checked, there’s nothing useful.”
Salamander opened the G-Wagon’s trunk and lifted the inlai
d carpet to reveal a concealed locker where the spare tire should have been. When he popped the lid, Bailey saw a cache of small arms and ammunition.
“This is all we’ve got then,” Salamander said.
“I’ll take the MP7,” Danny announced, leaning forward and grabbing the small, snub-nosed Heckler & Koch submachine gun. He pocketed five extended clips and stepped away.
“What d’ya want?” Salamander asked.
Bailey hesitated, studying the weapons.
“We need ya, Haybale,” Salamander observed. “And ya can’t go in empty-handed.”
Bailey nodded and reached for a SIG Sauer MPX and a Heckler & Koch USP pistol. He took three clips for each of them.
Salamander picked up the last two guns, a Mossberg 500 12-gauge shotgun and a second USP pistol. He filled his pockets with clips and shotgun shells, shut the trunk, and started loading cartridges into the Mossberg’s breach as he headed toward Danny.
Bailey followed the two men through the thorny bushes and back up the embankment. This time, they crept along the railway tracks in low single file until they came to the start of the viaduct. They slid down the other side of the embankment and took cover behind a small shed that abutted the viaduct.
“Danny, ya take the back,” Salamander whispered, pointing to a solid wooden door directly opposite the shed. “We’ll take the front. We’ll go on the signal.”
Danny nodded, and the three of them set off across the yard, moving quickly and quietly through the shadows. Bailey followed Salamander to the northeast corner of the building, while Danny stationed himself by the back door.
Salamander ducked low and scurried along the side of the building, and Bailey ignored his protesting body and did the same, clasping the MPX close to his chest. He flipped the safety off as they rounded the next corner and approached the main entrance. The dark stream lay about twenty yards to their rear, and a little to their west Bailey could see that it ran beneath a short, narrow bridge. He was about to point out the second route into the yard when he saw Salamander step back from the front door, flip the shotgun up, and fire a single blast that shattered the lock.
As they rushed into the building, weapons ready, Bailey heard the rattle of machine-gun fire and guessed that Danny was tackling the back door.
The building had been stripped to its shell, and their footsteps reverberated off the bare brick walls as they hurried across the dusty wooden boards. There was no other sound as they moved into the dark hallway, and Bailey was surprised not to meet immediate resistance.
“I don’t like this,” he whispered, and Salamander nodded.
Three closed doors were set in the north, east, and west walls, and a narrow strip of light illuminated the stairs that led up to the first floor. Salamander moved to the east door and signaled Bailey to cover him as he turned the brass handle. Bailey took a deep breath and tried to steady his weapon against the adrenaline that was surging through his veins. He was blinded by light when the door swung open, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw that the bare room was empty.
They moved west and repeated the procedure to get exactly the same result. When they opened the north door, Bailey caught sight of a shadowy figure and his index finger tightened around the trigger, but he restrained himself just in time. It was Danny.
“The place is empty,” the young villain whispered as he joined them.
“There’s another way out,” Bailey observed quietly.
“The little bridge?” Danny countered. “I could see that from the tracks. Nothing came or went.”
“Upstairs,” Salamander said softly, leading the way.
Bailey held his breath as they crept up, but breathing was the least of their worries; each of the steps creaked loudly, marking their progress with loud, painful sounds that seemed to echo throughout the building.
The staircase led into a wide open space. Apart from a handrail to their right, and a retaining wall to their left, it looked as though all the interior partitions had been ripped out to create a single room that took up the length and breadth of the building. Salamander paused at the top of the steps, which marked the end of the retaining wall. He nodded to Danny to join him, and the scrawny criminal leaned out to provide cover as Salamander stepped into the open.
“Drop your weapons!” Mayfield’s voice echoed off the walls. “You think we wouldn’t see you following us in a fucking Ferrari? Where’s Bailey?”
Salamander edged further into the room, clasping his weapon.
“I said drop it!” Mayfield pressed. “Or we’ll shoot.”
“Six of ya. Two hostages,” Salamander observed as he put the Mossberg down.
Bailey knew his old friend was talking for his benefit. He saw Danny carefully place the MP7 on the lip of the final step as he entered the room with his hands up.
“Detective Bailey!” Mayfield yelled. “Show yourself, or your friends are dead.”
We’re all dead anyway, Bailey thought bleakly. The moment Mayfield had him, there was no reason to keep Melissa or Francis alive, and Salamander and Danny would go down, too. Fighting was their only chance. He’d rather kick and scream than crawl meekly to his death, and for all the panicked moments of anxious anticipation, in truth it was a simple transition. One moment he’d be alive, and in the time it took for a gun to fire a bullet, he’d be dead. It was a journey made by billions before him, and as he stood on the staircase watching his friends, Bailey felt his nerves melt away. He finally realized there was nothing to be afraid of.
He moved slowly, keeping tight against the wall, praying the stairs wouldn’t give him away. Salamander and Danny kept inching apart, creating space between them.
“I’m going to count to three,” Mayfield shouted. “One!”
Bailey reached the penultimate step and wrapped his finger around the trigger.
“Two!”
Bailey lunged around the wall and opened fire, spraying bullets high into the ceiling. His intention wasn’t to hit anyone, but instead to strike terror into his adversaries, while he surveyed the scene. His plan worked.
Wide brick columns rose from the floor at regular intervals. Melissa and Francis were gagged and bound to chairs in the far corner of the room, and Mayfield stood nearby. Five men in Pendulum uniforms were spaced around the room, each holding a submachine gun. They’d scattered when Bailey had opened fire, and regrouped as Bailey started to target them. He sprayed two of the men with bullets, and they dropped instantly.
“The hostages!” Salamander yelled, as he pulled the USP from his waistband and shot at Mayfield, who was heading for Melissa.
The other men started returning fire, and Bailey ducked behind the brick wall, narrowly avoiding being hit. Danny rolled, and stayed low as he grabbed the MP7 and unleashed a daisy cutter volley of shots that shredded the ankles of one of their assailants.
Bailey joined Danny’s assault, and craned his head around the brickwork, targeting the remaining three men, who’d taken cover behind the exposed brick pillars. Shattered brick and dust filled the air as bullets chewed their way across the room.
Mayfield cried out as one of Salamander’s shots struck home, clipping him in the shoulder. He went down when a second caught him in the right thigh.
Bailey shot a third man in the head, and with only two masked men remaining, he, Danny, and Salamander ran into the room, using the columns as protective cover. Their opponents were positioned behind adjacent pillars near the windows, shooting wildly as Bailey and the others worked their way down the room.
Bailey darted to the next column and hid behind it as the brickwork exploded under a hail of bullets. He heard a volley of shots and the assault on him was diverted elsewhere, giving him the opportunity to glance round the bricks. He caught sight of the edge of a torso—just enough to take a shot. He sighted the machine gun before squeezing the trigger. His target bucked as the bullet struck him, revealing his head, which burst like an overripe tomato when Danny shot it.
The last masked man s
urprised them all by breaking cover. Bailey opened fire, trying to adjust his aim as the armored figure leapt through the nearest window, shattering the glass before plummeting earthward. Bailey ran over to the jagged remains of the window and saw the shadowy figure limping across the yard, toward the trees. Salamander joined him at the window and raised his pistol, but before he could take the shot, the masked man had reached cover.
“Help me,” Mayfield cried weakly.
Bailey turned to see him cowering at Danny’s feet, his hands raised in submission. His gun lay nearby, at the foot of Melissa’s chair.
“Don’t, Danny,” Bailey advised.
“He killed my dad,” Danny replied, his voice ragged with emotion. “I’ve got to do this.”
“Please,” Mayfield pleaded. “I’ll give you the photos.”
“What photos?” Bailey asked.
“The ones we took of Sylvia Greene and David Harris. Of their bodies. I’ll give you proof we killed them,” Mayfield said, his eyes darting nervously from Bailey to Danny. “I’ll give you the names of all the people we were blackmailing, the messages we sent them . . . everything. Just don’t kill me.”
Bailey moved toward Danny, covering the ground slowly and deliberately. “We need him alive, Danny. We’ve got to find out what he knows.”
“Sal?” Danny cried out.
“This is ya business. Ya do what ya think is right,” Salamander replied quietly.
Tears started to flow down Danny’s cheeks as he wrestled with his emotions. Heavy silence filled the room, and Bailey stood still, hardly able to breathe as he watched the young gangster’s finger waver on the trigger.
Finally, Danny lowered his gun, and the motion acted as an immediate spur to action. Salamander ran over to Mayfield and kicked his gun away, while Bailey rushed to free Melissa, first ripping off her taped gag, before setting to work on her bonds.
“Am I glad to see you,” Melissa said tearfully, as Bailey freed her hands.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Danny collapse on to his backside, his head in his hands, his body shuddering with the release of tension.