Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘I’ve got a gun. You’re going to get up and come with me to reception, making it look like we’re two colleagues having a laugh and a chat. If we get stopped, I’ll do the talking. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be fine. If you don’t, those pretty little boys of yours won’t see Mummy ever again.’

  Mac gestured with his head for Linda to follow him. But she stayed frozen in her chair. He tapped his pocket and extended his two fingers to indicate a gun and, slowly, she got up out of her chair. They left the office with him walking jam-tight by her side. Outside, the corridor was clear, and so they carried on walking. Above and below them on other floors, they could hear the sound of running feet and shouting. The lift doors were open but above them a notice flashed: ‘Out of service’.

  Mac whispered, ‘Stairwell . . . You’re doing good, just stay calm and no one’s going to get hurt.’

  They went down the stairs. As they did so, two armed men came running up from the other way. One yelled at them, ‘What are you doing? Everyone’s confined to their offices.’

  Mac realised he’d grabbed Linda’s arm for support and he whimpered, ‘But that’s where we’re going, our office is on the bottom floor.’

  The man waved his gun at them, ‘Well, move it.’ And with that they were gone. Mac and Linda kept walking until they reached a mezzanine balcony just above the ground floor. Mac locked an arm round Linda’s waist and jammed her so close to his body he felt her erratic breathing vibrating against his skin. He peeped down at the reception area. Armed police everywhere and, by the security gates, Mac could see Rio Wray and a couple of her sidekicks, positioned like spiders in the middle of a web.

  Linda twisted her head slightly and whispered, ‘You’re stuffed. You might as well go down and turn yourself in. You can’t get out of here.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  But she was right. There was no way out through the exit.

  ‘You’re coming with me to the basement.’

  Linda stiffened. ‘Please, don’t rape me . . .’

  He knew he was wrong to terrorise this ordinary mum, but the only way to make sure she stayed in line was to get her to think of the worst. The basement was his only option if what Calum had reminded him of this morning was true.

  ‘Do you recall that nuclear shelter under HQ where the code for the door was so secret, it couldn’t be written down? So they made it “9999” so the relevant people could remember it? Idiots, fucking idiots . . .’

  He marched Linda towards the rear of the building, down a dimly remembered flight of stairs until they reached a solid steel door. The door had a sign attached; it was stencilled in the font used by the Civil Service: In The Event of a Nuclear Attack, This Door Will Be Sealed.

  fifty-seven

  6:35 p.m.

  The sign was rusting slightly round the edge and the door hadn’t been used in a very long time. Not since the days when the prospect of a nuclear attack had meant every official building in London had had a bunker installed under it, so that important people wouldn’t get fried by radiation. Deep underground, they could carry on with the administration of the blackened and blasted city above. As if anyone would have cared. When Mac had first joined The Force, the Cold War paranoia of the 1980s had lingered on, and so, in a drill once a year, everyone had donned radiation suits and trooped down to the bunker. They were given offices to ensure that the corpses above would still be able to rely on the forces of law and order. It was regarded pretty much by the staff as a day off. And, of course, it wasn’t without its comical side. In the confused and confusing tunnels and passageways that spaghettied under The Fort, staff used to get lost and no one really knew where the bunker began and ended.

  ‘Do you recall that nuclear shelter under HQ where the code for the door was so secret, it couldn’t be written down? So they made it “9999” so the relevant people could remember it? Idiots, fucking idiots . . .’

  But had the fucking idiots changed the code since the end of the Cold War?

  ‘Stay put,’ Mac ordered Linda.

  She just nodded, wrapping her arms round her trembling body as soon as he let her go. Mac opened the metal panel to the code box. The crusty keypad was stiff under his nervous fingers. He stabbed his finger at a single key.

  9999.

  Pulled the handle to the door. It remained defiantly shut. Not such fucking idiots after all, then. He examined the pad. It hadn’t been cleaned in decades. He turned in desperation to Linda. ‘Have you got a hairpin?’

  She rapidly shook her head. Mac began hurriedly thumbing through his wallet. He took out a credit card and used the corner to scrape away at the edges of the key. When he’d done, he tried again.

  9999.

  Bollocks, same response. He tried again, his anger mounting. He sawed away with his card so violently that there was a click, followed by the sound of a small object falling to the floor. Mac looked down. The number nine key had come away. Disbelieving and dazed, he picked it up.

  Linda begged, ‘My boys are too young to lose their mum.’

  Mac threw the nine back on the floor and examined the broken keypad. Where the nine had been was a small metal button caked in dust and grease. Using his fingernails he tried to clean it up, and then tugged it backwards and forwards. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, he could hear shouting behind the door. He pulled the button towards him and pressed it in.

  Pulled and pressed.

  Pulled and pressed.

  Pulled and pressed.

  There was a brief pause before the heavy lock groaned and dropped. He yanked on the door handle and it gave slightly but refused to open. He grabbed it with both hands, put his foot on the wall. And heaved. Slowly, and with much creaking and wailing of the hinges, the door opened to the bunker beyond. He peered inside.

  That’s when there was a scream behind him, ‘He’s down here! He’s down here!’ He turned to see Linda fleeing up the stairs.

  He didn’t have time to go after her, even though he knew she would lead Rio straight to him.

  fifty-eight

  6:40 p.m.

  Cursing, he slipped into the bunker. Slammed the door. Turned the lock.

  Darkness.

  He searched along the chilled wall, hands weaving like a man reading Braille. There had to be a light switch somewhere. The air was dank, unpleasant in his lungs, as he kept moving sideways. His right hand hit something. He stopped moving. Let his fingers feel. Round outline. Size of an egg. He felt over it. Stopped when he encountered something jutting out of it. Slim, cold, hard metal. Switch. He flicked it on.

  Blue fluorescent light.

  The first thing he noticed was a corridor in front of him. Mac ran along the corridor, past the offices marked clearly for various individual posts in the new blasted Britain, past conference rooms, past rooms with iron bedsteads for the survivors. But no sign of another exit. He choked on the concrete dust particles floating in the air. He doubled over, coughing hard. Wearily, Mac rested on a wall, trying to suck oxygen into lungs. But, as he did so, echoing through the blue-lit corridors, he heard banging and deeply muffled shouting. The enemy were at the gates. He ran on.

  Another junction. One sign pointed to ‘Executive Committee Rooms’, whatever that was. Another unhelpfully suggested that if you wanted ‘Ministry of Defence liaison’ you should turn left. Mac stopped again. He knew there would be an exit point somewhere into another building. The distance he had already run and the necessity for interconnection between government departments meant there had to be. He began running again, but then brought himself up short. He could hear the echo of voices and movement. No doubt about it now, they were in the bunker.

  He fled in what he hoped was the opposite direction to his pursuers, ducking and diving although he could see no one. And still the endless rows of blue lights and the endless offices and empty rooms and official signs. He reached another junction. One sign again pointed to ‘Executive Committee Rooms’. Another if you wanted ‘Ministry of Defence
liaison’ . . . Bollocks, he’d run in a circle.

  Behind him, he heard a shout of: ‘Don’t just run around – find the access points and seal them off.’

  Mac looked around on the wall at the end of the passageway and saw the dark shadows of figures against a background of blue light. He pulled out his gun and darted off towards MOD liaison. But as he turned a corner, at the other end of a passageway, he saw two cops, dressed to kill. For a few seconds they stood looking at each other before one of the officers raised his gun and shouted, ‘Stop or I’ll shoot . . .’

  Mac ducked. Twisted back round the corner. The sound of the gunshot that followed pulsed like thunder up and down the enclosed space until it faded and died. From another direction, he heard a shout of, ‘He’s shooting, he’s shooting, take cover . . .’

  Mac ran wildly, without any sense of direction. Down another passageway. Past endless rows of more lights, like in a bad dream. As he ran he noticed another route off to his left. This one seemed to run in a straight line and was unlit. In the distance, he heard the sound of running water. Occasionally there was a blur of murky yellow light shining up from the floor. A stench in the air turned his stomach. He ran down the path; the sound of water became louder before fading again. The smell became a stench, with sulphur its main fragrance. Suddenly the ground beneath him wobbled. He stepped back. Looked down. A large, square, iron grille. And underneath it was a stream of dark, running water. A sewer.

  He almost gagged at the stink as he got down on his knees. Wrapped his fingers around the grille. Pulled as hard as he could.

  No movement.

  He ran on in the blackness, until he came to another grille. Tried to tug it free. No movement.

  He did the same to the next grille.

  No movement.

  Beams of torchlight suddenly shone down the tunnel. Shouts. Mac jumped to his feet. Began motoring forward. Stopped dead in his tracks when more torchlight shone up ahead of him. He was caught like a rat in a trap, but he didn’t even have a rat’s sewer to escape down.

  He crawled backwards, keeping low, to the grille he’d just left. Felt the hinges with his fingers. Placed the barrel of the Luger between them and began trying to shoot the hinges off in turn. In front and behind, the torches were switched off as the shots echoed. He stood up and back to the wall, firing his remaining bullets at the grille. When he put his hands out in one last desperate attempt to pull away the metal bars that were keeping him imprisoned, he found the grille had plunged into the water below. He followed it, squeezing through the space and dropping ten feet into the freezing stream.

  Following the flow, he waded forwards. The smell was overwhelming as he ploughed on through the murky water, searching for the telltale signs of a manhole cover. Fifty yards on, like the trail of a descending angel, a shaft of light came into view. An iron ladder led up to the surface, and Mac used his shoulders to dislodge the cover at the top, emerging blinking into the daylight, in the middle of a road. A car was coming straight at him. He managed to duck as the driver let loose with his horn. The sound of the vehicle shooting over the opened manhole blasted overhead. Mac took a breath. Listened. No noise overhead. He shoved his head above ground level again. Empty road. Climbed out.

  Mac pulled his cap low and walked to the pavement, his wet trousers flapping against his legs. Soon he disappeared into the thick stream of passers-by.

  fifty-nine

  7 p.m.

  Phil Delaney puffed hard on a real cigarette as he looked at his computer screen for the umpteenth time, seeing if Mac had been detected through his mobile. He knew it was useless because Mac would’ve dumped the phone by now, or got rid of the SIM card. But you never knew . . . But he did know, as the info on the computer screen came up blank again. When he got his hands on him . . .

  The hard knock at the door cut through his vengeful thoughts. Before he could respond, the door thrust open to reveal his PA. She closed the door with quick efficiency and said, ‘Someone’s been trying to access our security files.’

  Phil straightened up as he abandoned his smoke in the ashtray beside him on the desk. ‘Where from?’

  ‘The Fort.’

  Phil’s mind swirled. Came back with a name – Rio Wray. No, he shook her name back: even Rio understood not to go that far. She might be an eager beaver, but she wasn’t going to commit career hara-kiri. She was a by-the-book cop every step of the way. So if it wasn’t her, who else could it be?

  He leaned back in his chair with the appearance of being relaxed. ‘Thank you, Shazia.’

  But instead of leaving, she hesitated.

  ‘Is there something else?’ he asked.

  She shook her shoulders back like she was about to make an important announcement to an audience. ‘Just to remind you, sir, that smoking in public buildings is strictly prohibited.’

  And with that she was gone. Trust him to have a personal assistant who also doubled up as the health and safety rep of the building. He picked his cigarette back up. Pulled in some much-needed nicotine, and then took out his mobile.

  ‘I’ve found Mac,’ he said as soon as he connected.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I said I’d found him, not that I’ve got him.’

  Phil eased up as he continued. ‘We need to shut Mac down. Permanently. So this is what I want you to do . . .’

  Rio began shouting orders as soon as she got back to the squad room.

  ‘Check out the CCTV.’

  ‘I want patrols on the roads and underground.’

  ‘I want that bastard found.’

  The atmosphere inside the squad room was explosive and loaded with disbelief. That someone would have the brass balls to come into their law-abiding house and run rings around them, take potshots at them . . . and yeah, get away from them. It was the last one that stuck in all of their throats most of all; shit, if it got out that they couldn’t even apprehend someone inside the walls of The Fort, their reputation would take yet another nosedive in the public confidence stakes. Rio still couldn’t believe it.

  Mac.

  Mac, for crying out loud. But then all the pieces had been staring her straight in the eye – the baseball cap he wore to cover his head injury, the description from the cabbie, the code for the undercover cop. And his enhanced face on the security footage. But Mac a killer? That was one leap she still couldn’t make. But she had to deal with that possibility. Personal feelings didn’t have a place in this.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Martin let out close to her. She was so caught up in her manic thoughts, she hadn’t even heard him approach her. ‘We’ve got his image, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find out who he is,’ Martin carried on.

  No one in this room, other than Rio herself, knew who Mac was, especially with his baseball cap hiding most of his face. Should she tell her team that they were hunting one of their own? This was a sensitive situation, and she knew that the top brass would want to spin this one. The press were bound to find out what had happened – that’s if they hadn’t already – and no doubt the PR team from the commissioner’s office would be handling that.

  ‘Just carry on coordinating the search for now,’ Rio finally said to Martin. ‘Leave all the ID stuff to me.’

  Her mobile rang. She pulled it out.

  ‘DI Wray.’

  The top brass were already in play. ‘Yes, sir?’ she answered her senior officer, Detective Chief Inspector Newman.

  ‘I need you to come upstairs.’

  Rio got her story straight as she headed for the top floor. Her superior’s suite of offices was decorated with the feel and quiet of a library. DCI Newman’s PA looked grim-faced at her desk as she nodded her head towards his door. Rio took a breath. Knocked once. Opened the door. The adrenalin pumped back into her body when she saw who waited inside. Not her superior, but Phil Delaney.

  sixty

  ‘You lying piece of filth.’

  Rio’s harsh words blasted inside the room as she stared at her lover and M
ac’s boss. He sat at DCI Newman’s desk, while she stood in front of it.

  ‘Sit down.’ The calmness of his voice was in stark contrast to the heat of her own.

  But, instead of following his instruction, she leaned her palms against the desk, the veins in her forearms coming to the surface, bunching and throbbing. She thrust her head forward. ‘You’ve had me running around in crazy circles from the get-go. You knew all along that the code number for one of your people belonged to Mac. Didn’t you?’ Her voice rose. ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Sit. Down.’

  She stared him out, the rage inside her making her nostrils flare. Didn’t move. Her bottom lip trembled, as though the words inside her mouth would come bursting out any second. But she held them back. Hitched herself off the desk. Took the chair, but arranged her body on the edge of the seat.

  ‘You and I both know that Mac’s a pro. No way would he have murdered that girl in the hotel.’

  ‘Then why is his face plastered over the security film from the hotel’s reception? And his blood in the room? What the fuck was he doing there in the first place?’

  Phil leaned slightly back in the chair. ‘You know I can’t tell you the ins and outs of an operation. It’s—’

  ‘Yeah, I know, confidential. But let me tell you what isn’t so top secret is Mac running around this building like some kind of Looney Tune. One of our people could’ve been murdered – doesn’t that bother you?’ Rio wiped her hand across her face like she still couldn’t believe what Mac had done.

  Her words didn’t move him. ‘What bothers me at the moment is that you stop pursuing Mac. I’ve already had a word with your DCI and a number of other people. Leave this one alone, Rio.’

  She twisted her mouth in bitterness and threw her words out with a bite that would terrify most people. ‘I’m not surprised that it doesn’t bother you that someone in this building might have been killed—’