Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Mac turned away from Sergei’s dead body. The door had been blown into a wreckage of splintered pieces. Outside he saw a war zone.

  ‘We should warn you that some viewers may find the following pictures distressing . . .’ The warning from TV news flashed through his mind. Bits of human bodies were scattered around. Arms. Feet. A pair of boots stood in the road a good distance from two car-wash workers groaning on the ground. Blood spread in myriad, almost artistic patterns, across the paintwork. Across the body of a blue Ferrari.

  Ferrari. Toy red Ferrari. The kid.

  Mac jerked back to the office. Rushed inside the wreckage and began searching. And searching. Suddenly he stopped. In the back yard, by a door hanging from its hinges, he saw a small foot peeping from under a plank of wood that had once been the top of a table. He ran forward. Pulled the wood off. There, lying on his back amongst some weeds, was Milos. His body completely unmarked by the results of the attack, he seemed to be sleeping a child’s sleep.

  Live long and free. The words carved into Milos’s birthday pie flashed through Mac’s mind. But he could see that the child wasn’t going to fulfil that dream because he wasn’t breathing, just like another boy a year ago.

  ‘I love you Daddy.’

  The sing-song words, with the lisp from two missing front teeth, made Mac open his eyes. He lay on his back on a large turquoise towel, next to the one person he knew would never lie about loving him. Stevie. His son. He grinned as he slipped slowly onto his side. The six-year-old was facing him, his small body hitched up on his left elbow as he stared at his father. Apart from his honey hair, he was a little Mac all over. The blue eyes, the stubborn-set chin, the nose that was always going to be a dominant feature of his face.

  They were at the beach. Southend. The day had started with a dawn that seemed unsure about whether the day was going to be hot or cold. And that uncertainty in the air had kept the people away from the beach. But not them, not Mac and son – oh no. They’d set off like it was going to be the best day of their lives. And if the sun didn’t venture out, well hey, that wasn’t going to get in their way. But it had come, bright and easy, just as they reached the beach.

  They didn’t get many times like this to be together. Well, not since Donna had given him his marching orders last summer, smacking the door shut on a decade of marriage. He’d been the one to make a dog’s dinner of his marriage, not her, so he fully understood her hating his guts, but not once had she stopped him from seeing his boy. No, he’d been the problem. Never around when Stevie needed him. Months spent going underground, too busy being someone else rather than the father he should’ve been. The first chance he got after rinsing off the filth from his latest job, a kiddie-porn ring, was to have a special day with his little boy. Looking back, he should’ve realised that he was mentally and physically washed out and maybe he should’ve given it a day or two before he’d seen his son. But he hadn’t. And it had changed his life for ever.

  Mac made a mock-growl as he heaved Stevie sky-high. The child let out a giggle that rippled like the waves lapping against the shore. Mac settled the small body against his chest in a loving embrace. Closed his eyes. Soaked up the silence. The peace. The quiet. The twin breathing of his son and his own. The tiredness faded away and he drifted into the most comforting sleep . . .

  He didn’t know what woke him. A noise? The touch of the sea breeze against his skin? The dying warmth from the disappearing sun? He sat up. Looked around. Noticed the abandoned beach ball, bucket and spade that they’d taken with them. The deserted beach. Deserted . . . He shot to his feet. Frantically looked around. No Stevie.

  ‘Stevie.’

  No response.

  ‘Stevie.’

  He ran along the beach.

  ‘Stevie.’

  His shout became a roar. He swung his gaze around. Left. Right. Back. Forward. And that’s when he saw it. Something bobbing in the water. A good distance away from the shore. He didn’t stop to think. Just hurtled into the water. Started to swim. Long strokes painfully stretched his muscles. Water tumbled into his mouth, open with desperation. He got closer. Closer. He wanted to deny what his eyes were telling him he saw. A small body, lifeless, floating, head down, in the rough sea.

  He reached it. Turned the body over. It wasn’t true because it couldn’t be true. Stevie.

  The small body moved. Mac looked down at the young child in his arms. The tiny mouth sucked in a shuddering breath. Reuben’s son was not dead.

  forty-six

  4 p.m.

  Rio parked her beloved ebony BMW X5 outside the tattoo shop. When she’d first become a detective, a few people had pulled her aside and told her to get rid of the Beamer because, in their opinion, it would be too bling, too much of a reminder that she was ‘black’ – and she didn’t want to keep pushing that in people’s faces, now did she? She, in turn, told people to get out of her face and step back from her BMW, or Black Magic Woman, as she name-checked it. And she was the black magic woman that the police force was never going to be able to forget.

  Rio got out the same time as Martin. Headed for the door. She noticed the Closed sign first of all. Tried to push the door open. Locked.

  ‘Check round the back,’ she ordered the younger detective.

  She cupped her hands over a window and peered inside. No one. Nothing. Just a myriad of mounted designs like a junkie’s psychedelic daze looking back at her.

  ‘No one round the back.’

  The tattoo artist was long gone. Was he running scared? And if so, why?

  DI Rio Wray kicked the door in frustration.

  Mac careered down the road in one of the half-washed cars from the car wash, mounting the pavement, overtaking, shooting lights and attracting obscene hand signals and shouts from other drivers. But none of that mattered. All he cared about was getting the unconscious child strapped in the passenger seat to the hospital. Abruptly the traffic came to a standstill.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ he growled. Then banged against the horn. Once. Twice. But the traffic was still going nowhere. He checked the kid. He seemed unnaturally still. Had he stopped breathing? Quickly Mac placed his palm against his small chest. He couldn’t feel anything. But he kept it there, waiting. Waiting. Then he felt that slight rise in his hand from the oxygen still pumping in Milos’s body. But if he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reuben’s son might not make it. The traffic started moving and Mac took no more chances. He mounted the pavement to the horror of pedestrians and kept going. And going. Then he hit the road again. Passed a side street with two cars in it. A black Merc, the other a metallic run-around. Two furtive men between the vehicles.

  He skidded to a halt. No way. He couldn’t be that lucky, could he? To stumble across the gunmen? But what about the boy? He looked down at him. Decision time. He made his decision in a few seconds. Jacked the car backwards until he was near the side street. Flew outside, gun by his side. He moved with the grace of an avenging angel towards the entrance to the side street. He didn’t feel fear as he walked. The men were too busy, hurriedly transferring items from one car boot to another, to take note of his presence. As he got closer, Mac saw the holes in the black Merc. Bullet holes. He raised his gun at the same time as they saw him. One ran, while the other went for his pocket. Mac blasted a bullet in the ground near the man with his hand inside his coat. The warning shot made him pull his hand back. It came out empty.

  Mac didn’t say a word as he kept the gun trained right at his heart. The other man slowly raised his hands in the air. In the distance, Mac clocked the other gunman escaping over a wall and knew that there was no way he was going to be able to plug him from here. Mac lowered the angle of the gun. Pulled back the trigger. A slug slammed into the man’s leg. With a groan the man dropped to his side. It felt good that afternoon to be finally shooting someone.

  Mac finally spoke. ‘You move and that will be the end.’

  Mac kept his piece trained on the bleeding man as he moved towards the ca
rs and inspected their boots. Sports holder packed with grenades and firearms, one of which was a high-end pistol with silencer. Mac shoved it in his pocket, along with a couple of hand grenades. He found a machine gun under a sheet. He pulled the sheet off and walked back to the man. Crammed the cloth deep down in his mouth. Then he smashed his Luger on the side of his head, sending the man into an oblivion as dark as the colour of the Mercedes.

  forty-seven

  Mac burst through the doors of the A&E department of Mission Hill Hospital, holding Milos tenderly in his arms. The boy looked broken. His arms flopped to the side, his legs shook with every step Mac took. Mac was scared. Really scared for the boy, because since taking that life-giving gasp of breath, his body hadn’t moved again.

  The place was packed. People standing. People sitting. People nursing their own wounds from life.

  ‘Help me,’ Mac shouted.

  All eyes turned to him. Someone gasped. Then a nurse rushed towards him.

  ‘This way,’ she said urgently, already moving along the corridor.

  He kept pace with her, until they reached a room. With one hand she pushed against some swing doors, making room for him to move inside. He entered a room with blue curtains surrounding three cubicles and the beep of machines pulsing in the air.

  ‘Put him down, over there.’ The nurse pointed to a fourth cubicle where a makeshift bed waited.

  As Mac placed the boy down, the woman called out, ‘Doctor.’

  Female doctor, tall, looking professional but with tiredness lining the corners of her eyes, stepped out from one of the other cubicles. Her gaze went immediately to the Milos. She moved across and spoke to Mac at the same time.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He got caught up in an explosion.’

  She looked at him quizzically, but he wouldn’t say any more than that. The doctor started examining the injured child. Then threw some medical terms at the nurse. The nurse nodded and went into auto-action. Mac stepped back as she dragged a small trolley across the room. It rattled with the clang of medical instruments on it. Then she got an IV drip ready.

  She turned to Mac. ‘You need to wait outside. I’ll get someone to take details from you in a while.’ She caught his eyes. ‘We’ll do everything we can for your son.’

  Then she turned. Whipped the curtain round the cubicle. Mac didn’t move straight away. All he could feel was the emptiness now in his arms. Finally he moved. Stepped outside the room. But he didn’t leave. He stared through the door, with the chant of her words drumming in his head.

  Your son.

  Your son . . .

  Mac stared at the medical team that worked furiously on Stevie. He’d tried everything he could to get his boy breathing once he’d got his body back to the shore. Nothing had worked. But he wasn’t giving up, not on his Stevie. That’s when everything he’d learned about how to deal with an emergency as a cop kicked in. He’d taken out his phone. Hit the Internet icon. Punched in details for the nearest hospital. Found it. A quarter of a mile away. Picked up his son. Placed him in the car.

  He didn’t remember the drive. Didn’t remember entering the first building he’d got to. The café on the ground floor. Didn’t remember the collective inhalation of surprise and shock that sounded from the people at the tables. From the man at the checkout till. Didn’t remember the doctor arriving and taking Stevie from his arms. All he recalled was standing in the corridor and looking crazily through the glass-panelled windows as they worked on Stevie. When the doctor checked the clock on the wall, he knew it was too late. His blue, blue-eyed Stevie was gone. Laid out, his lips a strange shade of blue. And that’s when he’d ended up on his knees. And cried. Just cried.

  ‘We’ll need to call the police immediately,’ the doctor said to the nurse.

  The nurse nodded as she stared at the boy on the bed. They still weren’t sure about the extent of his injuries, but at least they’d managed to get him breathing and stabilised.

  ‘Find the father outside,’ the doctor continued. ‘Get as much detail as you can from him. Reassure him. But don’t mention the police.’

  She followed his instructions but when she checked the corridor outside, there was no sign of the father.

  forty-eight

  Should he make the call? The question batted around Mac’s brain as he sat tense in the driver’s seat of the car outside the building that housed the butcher’s and Calum’s office. He pulled out his mobile. Toyed with it in his hand as he decided whether to contact Reuben. No doubt word had already reached the arms dealer about what had gone down at the car wash, but he wouldn’t know what had happened to his son. Mac knew he shouldn’t feel a fuck of emotion, not for a man who ran an illegal arms-trafficking outfit. But Reuben wasn’t just a criminal; he was a father as well. A man who gave his kid a lavish birthday party. A man who would be devastated by what had happened to his boy, just like Mac had been twelve months ago.

  He made his decision.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Sergei’s dead . . .’ There was control in the other man’s voice, but Mac could also hear the spark of something else. Anger? Grief? He wasn’t sure, but whichever it was, this man’s world had been thrown down a path he wasn’t expecting.

  ‘I know . . . Listen . . .’

  But Reuben ploughed on. ‘I can’t find Milos. No one can find—’

  ‘I took him to the hospital . . .’

  ‘Is he dead?’ All the emotion dropped away from Reuben’s tone.

  ‘He’s at Mission Hill. They’re working on him. I think he’ll be fine . . .’

  The line went dead. He stared at the butcher’s shop below Calum’s office. The shop appeared shut up. He stayed put, watching, double-checking that the workers inside the butcher’s were indeed gone for the evening. When he was satisfied that no one was around, he drove the car to the mouth of the alleyway he’d used to get into Calum’s office that morning. He got out of the car. Moved to the boot. Opened it. Back at him stared the bulging eyes of the gunman who was trussed up inside. Mac popped a pill. Swallowed.

  ‘Me and you need to have a little chat,’ Mac said.

  He dragged the man out of the car and reopened the butcher’s for business.

  A fist slammed into the man’s jaw for a second time, spraying a mist of blood into the air.

  Mac flexed his aching fist as he yelled, ‘You and I need to sort a few things out. Let’s start with an easy one – who ordered the car-wash job?’

  But the gunman tied down to the butcher’s block only glared back. They were inside a large room at the back of the shop, which was well below room temperature and filled with deadly implements laid out cleanly and tidily on shelves. Mac’s plan had been to use the deep freezer. Hoist the murdering bastard from a hook next to the carcases of dead animals, but with the tips of his toes touching the floor so that he felt the rage and pain from the bullet hole in his leg. But then he decided that positioning the wounded man in such a way maybe wouldn’t give him access to what he needed to get the truth. No, flat on his back was where he needed this killer.

  ‘Can’t remember? That’s OK, we’ve got time. Let’s try the woman who was shot in the hotel, the gun and grenade play at the car wash. Who ordered them? Same people?’ Mac thought for a moment before adding, almost as if he was merely curious, ‘And my miraculous escape at the car wash. How did that happen? Was that orders . . . or was I just “lucky”?’

  The last question had been plaguing Mac. The man had had a chance to take him out but hadn’t taken it. Why? Was that what had happened at the hotel; he’d been deliberately shot, but in such a way that would’ve been no threat to his life? The chemicals from the pills rushed through his blood, building a power within. He sucked in a mammoth breath, the air in this death-house some of the sweetest oxygen he’d ever tasted.

  ‘Come on – rack your brains. Try harder . . .’

  The man let out a sharp laugh that wasn’t reflected in his eyes. Then he spat out a toot
h from his bleeding mouth. Clamped his mouth defiantly tight. Furious, Mac raised his fist again, but froze with it in mid-air. Smashing this man’s face into oblivion wasn’t, he suspected, going to get him any nearer the truth. He needed to make this man feel pain, real pain. Mac dropped his hand as he twisted round. Walked over to a collection of aprons hanging from aluminium hooks. He pulled one off, surprised at its weight. Then he realised that this was no ordinary apron, but made of thin stainless steel, probably to protect a butcher from the impact of a slipping knife. He eased it on. Turned his attention to the shelves showcasing a butcher’s tools of the trade.

  Hammers.

  Some kind of flat scraping instrument.

  Wire brushes.

  Long, thin, steel tool with a wicked point at one end.

  Curved knives.

  Butchers’ knives in different sizes and blades.

  Meat and bone saw.

  Mac chose the long tool with the pointed end that reminded him of a screwdriver. He strode back to the man and stopped beside his legs. Located the bullet wound. He touched the outer edges of the hole with the steel in his hand. The man flinched, but didn’t call out. Mac deliberately grazed the hard point around the mangled mix of flesh and blood in the top of the wound. Harsh, rapid breathing blew out from the other end of the butcher’s block. Without warning, Mac forced down. Nice . . . and . . . slow. Maximum agony. A high scream bounced around the white tiled walls. Mac considered shoving the cloth back into his mouth, but decided against it. Sometimes the sound of your own scream intensified your feelings of terror.

  ‘Hotels . . . the doctor’s clinic . . . and of course we can’t forget the car wash. Quite a little list. Go on – give us a hint. Why did the doctor have to go? Or are you the kind of hired gun who doesn’t care about the details?’ Mac finally demanded as the steel kept up its journey. ‘But you know who hired your gun, don’t you?’