One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down.

by Robert Enright

  A life had come to an end tonight on a rainy night in London.

  Bailey stood still, a resounding look of failure etched on a tired, stress-riddled face. Fletcher lowered his head in respect. Although she was a Drayton, Ashley was never one who’d registered on their radar. Yet she’d fallen to the same fate as two of her brothers had and with Lucas still at large, Fletcher was sure she wouldn't be the last.

  Sgt. Marshall ordered his team back into their van after they’d emerged from the student halls, all of them walking dejectedly, carrying fully-loaded weapons that wouldn't be used tonight. The two Sergeants nodded a goodbye to each other and the van took off, quickly followed by two ambulances, one carrying Ashley's corpse and the other taking Officer Patriski to hospital as a precaution.

  Bailey rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration, the radio call announcing three bodies on the stair well and the remains of another on the ground below meant an awful lot of paperwork. Adding that on to Ashley's death and the fact Lucas had gotten away, this was turning into one of the worst nights of his career.

  He knew it would be swiftly followed by the worst morning too, as he was sure that Chief Inspector Hurst would be in for a report.

  Bailey and Fletcher stood silently in the rain, as Officer Hatton emerged from the building, carrying the sports bag.

  “Good job tonight, Hatton,” Bailey said, not looking at her.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  She smiled her beautiful smile at Fletcher, who returned with one that he was sure was of significantly less appeal.

  Bailey sighed heavily.

  “I will catch him, Fletcher.”

  He turned and looked at the old, retired officer, who couldn't offer a response. Bailey drew his lips tight and looked around, a sudden determination to shut the scene down and get as many of his officers away from here as possible.

  There was one officer in particular he wanted as far away from there as possible.

  Starling had stood completely still while they rolled the stretcher past him, heading to the lift. A ghostly, pale statue of a man. Two officers, both of them male, asked if he was all right. He didn't respond, words refusing to leave his body.

  They eventually gave up, leaving Starling alone in the room. This was where she’d worked, where she’d come every night while he was out on the streets. She’d tell him how she would look out over the night sky, wishing she could fly through the stars to where he was.

  It was why he’d called her an angel.

  He slowly trudged towards the large void where a window used to be, the gusts of wind scattering the glass remains around his feet. Life suddenly felt worthless, the idea of having this love for someone and to not have them around anymore swam around his brain.

  He could just dive through, fall towards the ground and let the earth have him.

  It would be so easy. All of this pain, this sense of abandonment would just wash away, taken by the rain in its random quest to attack the earth.

  But it wasn't her fault she was gone. She was taken from him.

  His fists clenched, the wind and rain sneaking into the building and dousing him with a renewed sense of clarity. Annette, no... Ashley, was so scared of the life she’d lived she couldn't even tell the man she loved her real name. Ashamed of it, although it was the acts of others that had shrouded it with fear and hatred. She didn't want to expose him, a young police officer, to the world and family she’d belonged to.

  She had loved him too much.

  A few more tears were shed before Starling launched a pain-drenched roar of anger into the night sky. Officers below looked up, wondering what the noise was and preparing themselves for a second death.

  He didn't jump.

  He turned and strode back towards the elevator in the hallway, hell bent on the idea of retribution

  As he emerged on the ground floor, he noticed that the cars and flashing lights had diminished in numbers, the remaining few on clean-up duty. He slowly made his way through the lobby, one of the officers mentioning something about him being 'crazy' but Starling didn't respond. He pushed the glass doors and walked directly towards his car, parked with a wheel up on the curb, the driver door still open.

  He didn't even notice as Bailey broke away from a group of officers.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  Bailey stepped in front of him. Starling took a calming breath. His words radiated menace.

  “That girl is dead.”

  Bailey scoffed at the tone. Fletcher looked at the young officer, worried about his demeanour. He looked like a man lost.

  “So, what, is this you giving me your 'I told you so'? You deliberately disobeyed an order and...”

  Starling angrily reached up and grabbed his superior officer by his Met vest. He shook him angrily, pulling his face close to his. The Sergeant and the crowd of officers and remaining students looked on, shocked.

  “That girl is dead because of your failure to act.”

  “How dare you put your hands on me?”

  Bailey slapped Starling's hands away from his chest and steadied himself for a conflict. His eyes red from the tears, Starling stared back at him. He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the leather clad police badge that he carried at all times.

  He slapped it forcefully into the Sergeant's chest.

  “Fuck you!”

  Starling barged past Bailey, ignoring the barrage of threats of disciplinary actions as he trudged through the rain over to his car. None of it mattered.

  Not anymore.

  He got in and slammed the door, not even looking back. Wanting this entire event to end and never be returned to.

  He finally understood what Lucas Cole was doing. What it was like to have the woman you loved snatched from you by a monster.

  He vowed to handle it exactly the same way as Lucas too.

  He started the ignition and drove off into the rain.

  Daylight cut through the curtain the following morning, awakening Lucas with a thin strip of brightness across his eyes. He eased himself up, his ribs rattling in his chest and screaming for attention.

  He had slept.

  For the first time in weeks, Lucas had slept without being constantly haunted by a vision of Helen, her outstretched hand begging for his help and him never quite being able to reach for it.

  He hadn't dreamt at all.

  He pushed himself out of the bed, stepping over yesterday’s clothes and turned on the light in his bathroom.

  It still hummed with the thick stench of disinfectant.

  Bruises had begun to form down the side of his muscular body, a horrible purple shade introducing itself. The pain was trying its best to be overbearing. Lucas leant in close to the mirror, inspecting the cut running up his cheek. The dark red line sliced through his stubble, but it would heal.

  He turned on the shower, the water bucking a few times before jetting out in a constant stream. He let it fall over his body, the sounds of the outside world drowning out as it fell over him.

  After what seemed an age, he shut off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist and strode to the window. He stared out, half expecting a sea of police cars to be surrounding the Luxury Hotel, guns trained on his window.

  There was nothing.

  On the small desk in the corner sat his wallet and key card. On top of those, Helen's wedding ring.

  He slowly bent down, groaning with pain as he lifted his clothes piled messily by the bed. He carefully got dressed, wincing as he lifted his shirt over his head.

  He checked his wallet, which was still packed with plenty of fifty pound notes, and decided to buy himself some new clothes.

  He pocketed it and then held Helen's wedding band in his hand.

  He knew she would have hated what he was doing. Somehow, somewhere, she was trying to reach out, to get him to stop.

  He hated not listening to his wife.

  He slipped the ring into his pocket and headed for the door, knowi
ng he would continue not to.

  “You tell me how a man, who, by all accounts, is a nutjob, managed to escape from almost thirty officers in the middle of the goddamn street.”

  Chief Inspector Malcolm Hurst sat in the make-shift office, his long, limber frame making the room even smaller. His thick, grey brow was furrowed, the frown directed at a rather meek Bailey who stood respectfully in front of the desk.

  “Sir, I can assure you, we covered all the exits and...”

  “And he still got away?'

  “We hadn't anticipated that....”

  “He still got away?”

  Bailey's head dropped.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Chief Inspector shook his head, slamming a hand forcefully down on the desktop. Pencils leapt into the air and clattered back just as quickly. Bailey felt like a fool.

  “How many dead?”

  “That's three Draytons now, sir.”

  “And the others?”

  “Three dead from last night, sir. One has been identified as Shane Meehan, a close friend and confidante of the Draytons. Apparently, he was a childhood friend of Tommy Drayton.”

  Hurst raised his eyebrows unenthusiastically.

  “Oh brilliant. So our guy isn't content with just picking off family members, he’s going for childhood friends too? What's next? Dig up the Drayton’s family dog and take a piss on it?”

  Bailey knew better than to laugh. Hurst sat back, his long neck twisting in annoyance.

  “Look, Robert. You’re a good man and a damn fine Sergeant. Work with me here. What the hell are we going to do about this situation?”

  “I have men working double-shifts to locate this son of a bitch. Every contact, every possible lead but he leaves no trail.”

  “He's smart.” Hurst said, almost with admiration.

  “He's dangerous.”

  “That, we agree on.”

  “I’ve got officers stationed outside Auto Repair where Matt Drayton works and two unmarked police cars either end of Brixton High Street. They have Lucas's photo tattooed on their brains and will cut him off he makes a play.”

  “Brixton High Street?” Hurst asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “It's where Curtis's betting shop is sir. If Lucas shows up then they send an emergency transmission and we have an Armed Response Unit on him within five minutes.”

  Hurst shook his head firmly.

  “No, pull them back. We are about as welcome as a fart in an elevator with the Draytons at the moment. Let's not trample on their turf.”

  “But sir, we can take him on the street if we have to.”

  'No.' Hurst shook his thin head, the mop of grey hair swaying with the motion. “Let them think that we’re letting them handle it. Pull your men back a few streets. Have a plain-clothes officer somewhere in the vicinity but that's it. I don't want another repeat of last night. Do you know how much arse kissing I’ve had to do to fix what happened?”

  “Again, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a complete clusterfuck. Footage was recorded on a number of student's mobile phones of a young woman hanging from the side of her office block.”

  Bailey had no response, taking his beating on his powerful chin. Hurst sighed, pushing himself up on his long, spindly legs. His uniform hung from his thin frame.

  “Fix this, Robert. For both our sakes.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hurst strode with authority over to the Sergeant, extending a slender hand. His fingers frayed like the legs of a praying mantis. Bailey took it, shaking it firmly. Hurst even afforded him a smile.

  “If it does go tits up, at least we won't have the Drayton problem anymore.”

  “Every cloud, eh Sir?”

  Hurst chuckled, patting the Sergeant on his meaty arm and then walked out the office. Bailey exhaled, telling himself it could have been worse. He could have been relieved of his duties. But he knew he was highly regarded by the high-rankers in the Met: his reputation preceded him.

  Catching Lucas, and ending what was becoming an execution of the Drayton family, would be the making of his career. The only worry he had, was the retaliation from the Draytons and the fear they might target his officers, due to their ineffectual attempts at stopping Lucas so far.

  He was worried what their reaction to their loss would be.

  He left the office to return to his duties, not realising he wouldn't have to wait long to find out.

  It had been a long time since Curtis had shed a tear.

  He had trained himself to never show any emotion, not since those nights all those years ago when his father would berate him, strike him with hard rights and belittle him constantly. He refused to allow himself to show fear, or to show emotion.

  To show weakness.

  When he and Tommy had returned to 'Odds On' after visiting Fletcher, he’d felt good. He had a spring in his step; he was about to wrestle control of a situation and that would undoubtedly end with him leaving Lucas to die. He may have killed Lewis and Harry, but in the long run, they had been a burden which Curtis had felt obligated to carry. Without him they’d either have died long ago or would now be spending their lives trying to survive in a prison cell.

  He sat at his desk and poured himself a glass of his finest scotch. It was only when Tommy had told him that he couldn't reach either Shane or Hiller that he began to worry.

  Tommy received a phone call just after half past eight.

  Ashley was dead.

  Every precaution Curtis had taken had been systematically eliminated, some of them permanently, while his sister was killed publicly. Hanged like a piece of fucking meat in a butcher’s shop window.

  Tommy had left him that evening, telling Curtis he would demand the body so they could give her a proper burial. Tommy was just as furious, maybe even more so as he’d also lost his friend, Shane, in the chaos.

  When Curtis was finally alone, he slumped in the comfy, leather chair behind his expensive oak desk. He drank the finest scotch like it was tap water.

  He cried until he lost consciousness, the alcohol stealing him away from the painful reality for a few hours.

  It was midday the following day when Tommy woke him.

  “Get up.”

  Curtis mumbled, the alcohol still affecting every sense and his brain feeling like it was swelling in an ever-shrinking skull.

  “Come on, Curtis. You’re no fucking use if you let it get to you.”

  “He killed Ashley.”

  His words were mumbled feebly and his hand wearily reached for the almost empty bottle. Tommy rolled his eyes unsympathetically, swiping the bottle away before his fingers had grasped it.

  “Give me the fucking bottle.”

  “You need to shower and you need to wake the fuck up.

  “I'm going to kill him.”

  Tommy nodded, stomping angrily to the drinks cabinet and shutting the scotch away.

  “Not like that, you're not.”

  Curtis looked at him, his eyes red from the alcohol and his apparent grief. Tommy looked healthy and awake as always, like nothing had happened. He folded his colossal arms across his chest, staring at his older brother.

  “While you’re sitting around here, drinking and crying yourself to sleep, Lucas is still out there. He killed our baby sister and the way you're going to repay him is by cowering in here like a pussy?”

  Curtis's rage flashed, his face snarling as he pushed himself up.

  “How dare you fucking speak to me like that?”

  “Like what? Huh?”

  Curtis wobbled slightly as he tried to manoeuvre himself around the desk, reaching out to steady himself. Tommy didn't move a muscle.

  “It was your guys who failed to protect her. It's a good thing he killed Shane otherwise I would have skinned the prick alive!”

  Tommy didn't so much as flinch.

  “Do you even care that he killed her?' Curtis screamed in his brother's face. His breath carried the fiery after-stench of alcohol.


  “Of course I care. And I care that he killed my friend.”

  “Well you have a funny way of showing it!”

  Curtis stumbled across the office, yesterday’s suit hanging roughly off his body as he hazily made his way towards the drinks cabinet. He pulled it open, only for a forceful hand from Tommy to slam it shut.

  “Just because I’m not drinking myself to death or crying my eyes out, doesn't mean I don't care. I want this piece of shit dead for what he’s done.”

  “Then at least fucking act like it!”

  “I am.”

  Tommy reached behind his back, pulling the manila folder out from his back pocket. He slapped it down on the oak desk, a few pages sliding out from its side. Curtis looked at it in confusion, trying to command his brain to focus.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Tommy stared at his brother.

  “Payback.”

  Curtis shook his head, dismissing Tommy as he walked back to his desk. He raised his palms to his eyes, angrily rubbing them to try and wake himself completely. He pulled the cord for the blind, the wooden slats colliding together and whipping up to reveal the sunshine that the day was affording the city.

  There was no rain today.

  “Have you spoken to Matt?”

  “Yeah, I called him last night.”

  “And?”

  “He’s furious.”

  “So he should be.”

  “Furious with you.”

  Curtis turned, his face almost portraying a look of pain.

  “When is he getting here?”

  “He isn't,” Tommy shook his head. “He said he didn't give a fuck what you wanted, he’s better off on his own. If Lucas comes for him, so be it.”

  “He said that?”

  'Mmm hmm. He also said that he was strapped and he would gladly put a bullet between the eyes of the man who killed his sister.”

  “No, I'm the one who will kill this bastard.” Tommy shrugged. “You tell Matt....'

  “He isn't listening to us anymore, Curtis.”

  Tommy watched as his older brother collapsed into his chair, resting his head in his hands. His elbows rested on the table a few inches from the folder.