Dance with the Enemy (The Enemy Series)

by Rob Sinclair

  Logan felt his whole demeanour change at his boss’s words. Finally it felt like they were on an even keel.

  ‘It comes back to the same question then,’ Logan said. ‘Why Modena? What does he have that they want?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mackie said.

  ‘No. Me neither. But I’m going to find out.’

  ‘Just be careful, Logan.’

  It was almost a throw-away comment. Something that Mackie had said to him more than once recently. But this time, Logan picked up that there was more to it than that.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Mackie didn’t respond straight away. Logan was about to push him when he finally did.

  ‘There’re a lot of eyes on you, Logan. Just be careful.’

  ‘This again? Is there something you’re not telling me here?’

  ‘Like what? I’m just concerned. I want to make sure you’re okay. You know your psychologist told me you’re suffering from post-traumatic stress. I mean, I guess I knew that, but –’

  ‘She said that to you?’ Logan interrupted. ‘Isn’t what happens in that room supposed to be between her and me?’

  ‘That’s not how it works. You’re seeing her because I need to know if you’re mentally fit to carry out your role. She has doubts that you are. I’m not so sure I agree with her, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Logan said. ‘Just let me do my job.’

  He ended the call before Mackie could say anything more, then stormed out of the safe house.

  By the time Logan got back to his car, his hands were shaking again. This time he was pretty sure it was adrenaline, though. He was incensed by what Mackie had just said to him. And about what that stupid bitch of a psychologist had said to Mackie. Why did they care anyway? He did his job, he got results. So what did it matter whether he did that with a smile or a frown on his face?

  And what the hell did post-traumatic stress mean anyway? What he had seen was traumatic. It was stressful. What they should have been worried about was the eighteen-year period before that during which he’d felt nothing about killing people and seeing people be killed. Surely that was the type of man who was a cause for concern. But no, the moment he reacted like a real human being, they tried to make out that he was not good enough to do his job.

  He pulled away from the kerb, engine fully revved, tyres screeching. He only narrowly avoided hitting an oncoming car. The driver gave him the finger. Logan did his best to ignore it. He couldn’t take his anger out on some random guy.

  After a few minutes of driving, he started to calm again. The trembling in his hands stopped and the fog began to clear. Still, he was left with a sour taste in his mouth. Mackie was the person who had pulled Logan into this in the first place. Not just this case, but this entire life. If anyone was responsible for the direction Logan’s life had taken, it was Mackie. Now he was talking to Logan like he was no longer the right man for the job. And that hurt him.

  But he was sure he would prove Mackie wrong.

  He had to.

  Logan parked the car in an underground car park around the corner from the hotel. After paying at the ticket machine, he walked the short distance to where he was staying and went in through the front entrance. He smiled and nodded at the man on reception as he made his way towards the lifts.

  ‘Er, Mr Burrows?’ the man on reception said as Logan walked past.

  Logan turned back to him and smiled again.

  The man came from around the reception desk and into the foyer, and walked up to Logan. ‘I just wanted to check that everything is okay with you, sir?’

  What? Not another do-gooder, Logan thought. Perhaps he should start walking around with a sign on his head saying, I’m fine. Honest, I am.

  ‘Yes, everything’s okay, thanks. Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘Well, it’s just after the Interpol detective was looking for you yesterday. I thought maybe something was wrong?’

  Logan felt his body stiffen, his heart rate quicken. He knew immediately what the man’s words meant: he didn’t know how or why, but his cover had been blown. Someone was looking for him. And the chances were it wasn’t Interpol. He thought back to the events of the last two days. He didn’t think that he had been followed but he couldn’t be sure. It was possible that he’d let his guard down – he hadn’t exactly been on top form recently. Perhaps Mackie had been right all along.

  Logan knew it was time to leave. It wasn’t worth the risk of going to his room. There was a good chance someone might be waiting on the other side of the door for him. And whoever they might be, it was a fight he didn’t want to have, didn’t need to have. Not now anyway. ‘Know your enemy’ was an age-old rule; walking into a blind ambush was not the way to do things. Mackie could send someone else to recover his things, amongst which the only items of any importance were his IDs. Right now he just had to get out of there.

  Logan took a step towards the man, crowding his space, towering over him. It had the desired effect. The man shrank and looked scared, probably not knowing what to expect from a man that Interpol were supposedly after. He took a step back, looking left and right as if hoping someone might come to his aid.

  Logan took another two steps forward, his face only inches from the man’s.

  ‘What was the detective’s name?’ he asked, his tone terse. ‘The one who was asking about me.’

  ‘I … I, er, I don’t know. I don’t remember. He was English. It was my colleague who dealt with him.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I … er … he said he wanted to speak to you. He didn’t say why.’

  ‘He knew my name?’

  ‘No … that’s what he wanted to know. He wanted to know your name. He said he needed to speak to you.’

  ‘You gave him my name?’ Logan sizzled. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I … er, I don’t know. Your size I guess, but older. He was just dressed like a normal guy. Not in a uniform, I mean.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Logan said, leaning closer towards the man. The receptionist cowered away even further, opening and closing his mouth but not saying anything. Logan could see people starting to take notice. As incensed as he was, he couldn’t stand there all day questioning the guy. It was time to go. He turned and walked out of the hotel.

  It was some comfort, at least, that whoever was looking for him didn’t know who he really was. He’d used a cheap ruse to find out Logan’s name. Or at least his cover name. The only thing he must have known before that was what he looked like. Which probably meant he’d been followed at some point. The description he’d got was pretty useless, but he couldn’t do anything about that now.

  Damn it, he thought. He’d missed that he was being tailed in Las Vegas, and he’d missed again in Paris that someone was following him. How would he explain this to Mackie? The more determined he was to prove he was up to the job, the more things seemed to be going pear-shaped for him.

  He stepped out into the open and, as casually as he could, began to walk away from the hotel in the opposite direction of the garage. He didn’t want to make it obvious that he was looking for someone following him. If he was being tailed, it was better to let whomever it was think he still had the upper hand.

  As Logan walked, he recced the street outside the hotel as best as he could. There wasn’t anyone who matched the receptionist’s sparse description. But someone else caught his eye as a potential candidate: a man on the other side of the road, leaning against a lamppost and pretending to talk on his phone. It wasn’t the man the receptionist had referred to – this guy was squat, probably half a foot shorter than Logan. Even in his casual attire Logan could tell that the guy was well-built. He had a shaved head and a mean-looking face with Slavic features. He looked like a fighter. A pit-bull terrier. But if this guy was the tracker, he’d also let himself be caught too easily, so surveillance probably wasn’t his field of expertise. Logan’s guess was that he would be a hired gun for someone
.

  But why would anyone be following me at all? Logan thought.

  Logan carried on his walk away from the hotel, not looking behind him at all. At first he wasn’t sure whether the Slav had followed him or not. After about a hundred yards, Logan stopped. He rummaged in his pocket, put his head to the sky in exasperation and turned on his heels. He was no actor, but he thought he’d played the role well. Logan looked up and scanned the street as he began to walk back in the direction of the hotel. He spotted the Slav, still on the other side of the road, walking towards him. He was about twenty yards down from Logan.

  As they crossed paths, Logan looked up, over to the other side of the road. The Slav casually walked by, his head down. He didn’t slow in his step or make to change course at all, despite Logan now back-tracking on himself. But Logan didn’t buy it. This guy was definitely following him.

  Now he just needed to decide what to do with him.

  Chapter 20

  Modena wasn’t sure whether he had been awake or asleep, but the sound of the door closing startled his mind into clarity. He’d been thinking – or dreaming – about his wife, Lizzie. Their twenty-year marriage had been on the rocks for some time, largely due to his continuing infidelities and over-commitment to his work. But given the time to reflect and the shocking circumstances of his imprisonment, it was hard not to feel sentimental, which in turn was filling him with regret as to how he’d treated the woman he loved.

  He looked up at the figure that had come into the room. It took him a moment to think why this time something felt different. And then it clicked. This man wasn’t wearing a mask. Modena’s immediate reaction was one of panic at this unexpected turn. Surely it couldn’t be a good thing that they were now willing to show their faces? For a fleeting second, though, as the bearded man casually walked over to him, he wondered whether he might be one of the good guys, there to save him. But as the man’s face came fully into view in the dim light, Modena saw the menacing grin and knew that wasn’t to be the case.

  But then something else struck him as well. Didn’t the man’s face look familiar? Where could Modena know him from?

  The man kneeled down in front of Modena, who was once again tied and bound to the steel chair. His mouth had been taped over, restricting his breathing to his clogged and bloodied nose.

  ‘That was a good performance you put in there, Frank,’ the man said matter-of-factly in a snobbish English accent that surprised Modena.

  The man reached out and ripped the tape off Modena’s mouth. He let out a long groan at the sharp pain that rushed through his sore skin.

  ‘Why?’ Modena said through heavy breaths.

  ‘Why what, my dear man?’

  ‘Why the sham? That video. It’s not what this is about. I already know that.’

  ‘Who says it’s not?’ the man said, getting to his feet and walking over to the wooden bench off to Modena’s right.

  Modena watched nervously as the man unrolled what looked like a utility belt onto the table. There was something about this bearded man that worried him. He couldn’t have been more different in his appearance, in his manner, to the oaf who had beaten him countless times now. Who had made the demands of him. And yet this man’s demeanour, his voice, his presence were even more terrifying somehow.

  ‘You could say,’ the man said as he inspected the contents of the belt before rolling it back up, ‘that you being here has a dual purpose.’ He slowly walked back over to Modena, kneeling down once more. ‘Do you know who I am?’ the man asked.

  ‘No,’ Modena said, not entirely convincingly. He believed he knew the man’s face, but he just couldn’t think from where.

  ‘Frank, I’m not a vain man, but you’re disappointing me. I’m Youssef Selim. You know of me, right?’

  Modena’s eyes went wide as the man’s appearance finally fell into place. Of course he knew all about Selim. Who didn’t? And at the sudden realisation of what Selim’s presence meant, Modena began to writhe in his seat, first shouting, then weeping.

  ‘Shhh, come on now, calm down,’ Selim said. ‘There’s no need to be like that.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Modena asked, his head bowed low, not wanting to look this man in the eyes.

  ‘By you, do you mean just me? Or all of us? I can tell you what they want from you. But I think you already know that. The information you have is very valuable to them. There’s a lot of money involved, and I’m sure a man like you can understand the lengths that people are prepared to go to for money.’

  ‘I can’t do it!’ Modena shouted, the desperation clear in his voice. ‘It’s impossible!’

  ‘Frank, Frank, come on now. You know that you can. And I know that you will. But you didn’t let me finish. That’s what they want from you. And honestly, part of their gain will be for me too. I like money as much as any other man.’

  Selim reached out and, using just his forefinger, lifted Modena’s head so that the two men were looking at one another again. Selim’s dark eyes seemed entirely black in the low light, only adding to his menace. Above the stench of sweat, urine and faeces in the room, Modena was struck by the strong, sweet smell of the man’s aftershave which seemed to clog up his nostrils with every pained breath.

  ‘But there’s something else that I want from you too. Something just for me.’

  Selim stared into Modena’s eyes, as if trying to burrow into his thoughts. Then the sides of his mouth crept up into a wicked smile.

  ‘Frank, I want you to see you suffer.’

  Modena was unable to control his emotions and he cried out, tears rolling down his face.

  ‘Please,’ he begged as he watched Selim unroll the utility belt on the floor to reveal a set of gleaming metal tools.

  ‘Oh, don’t be starting with that,’ Selim said. ‘Surely you know that begging is demeaning. What will happen, will happen.’

  Selim calmly caressed the top of each of the tools one at a time, as though they were precious jewels.

  ‘Pain is subjective, you know,’ he said. ‘Like any other emotion or sensation, some people are more alert to it than others. Some people can train themselves to ignore pain completely. Can you imagine that? Being able to live entirely without pain? But doesn’t that take away some of the life from you? If you feel pain, you know you are alive, and that is surely something to be thankful for. And completely blocking out pain is a very difficult thing to do, I imagine. I certainly can’t. Unfortunately, Frank, I don’t think you can either.’

  ‘No, please don’t do this!’ Modena shouted, terrified by Selim’s menace. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll try to help. Please!’

  ‘I know you will, Frank, I know you will. You’re a very honourable man. And I’m sure the others will be very pleased to hear that you’re finally willing to co-operate.’

  Selim unfolded a flap on the belt, took out a thick nail, two inches long, and turned it over in his fingers. With his other hand he pulled out a claw hammer, its head dented from previous use.

  ‘But your sudden decision to help us is not going to make a difference for you now.’

  ‘Please!’ Modena shouted as loudly as he could.

  Selim ignored him. ‘This little trick is something I learnt a long time ago. You see, the key to torture is to deliver maximum pain for minimum damage. There’s no point in having your victim bleed out on you in just a few minutes. Where would the fun be in that?’

  He chuckled to himself and held the nail up close to Modena’s face.

  ‘You take a nail like this, and you place it up against the fingertip.’

  Modena’s wrists were already bound to the chair, but Selim pressed his left arm down onto Modena’s right forearm, pinning the arm and hand in place and allowing him to prise a finger open. He placed the tip of the nail at edge of the finger where the fingernail ended.

  ‘Then you take a hammer, like this, and …’

  Selim swung the hammer in a short, sharp arc, putting seemingly little effort into it, allowing
the weight of the tool to do the work.

  ‘… just give it a little tap to start.’

  The hammer connected with the nail head, forcing the pointed tip into Modena’s finger, between the flesh and the fingernail. Modena began to scream out, louder. Pain shot through his finger, up his arm.

  ‘Once it’s in, you can give it a bit more welly.’

  Selim swung the hammer back and forth another two times, using more force now to drive the nail further up into Modena’s finger. There was a sickly ripping noise as the fingernail rose off the flesh, and blood seeped out of all sides.

  Modena writhed and coiled in the chair but he couldn’t move. He screamed, he cried, he shouted, he spluttered.

  Selim stood up, inspecting his handiwork: the nail protruding from Modena’s forefinger and the small pool of blood forming underneath it.

  ‘Now tell me, Frank, have you ever felt pain like that?’

  Selim paused before kneeling back down to the belt to retrieve another nail.

  ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? How much pain can be caused by a seemingly innocuous wound. I always like to start off like this. It’s a great opener.’

  Selim lifted Modena’s head up again, and held his face close. Modena squinted his eyes shut, not wanting to look, wanting to take himself someplace else. To his home. To his wife. But he didn’t know how. All he could think about was the agony that he was now in. And about what more was to come.

  ‘And I know what you’re thinking, Frank,’ Selim said, almost in a whisper, a wide grin on his face. ‘You’re trying your best to find some way to ignore the pain, hoping it will go away, hoping your body will get used to it. Hoping that this is as bad as it will get.’

  Selim placed his arm back across Modena, pinning him in place, and then positioned another nail.

  ‘But it’s not, Frank. I’m sorry to tell you but this is only the start. I’m not going to stop. It’s only going to get worse for you from here. So you’d better start praying.’

  Modena was already screaming as Selim raised the hammer once more.