“The place will be a building site,” he said. “Any chance you can find a place to stay awhile, Mr Moore?”
“Never mind about me, Mr Able. I’m sorted during the week.”
From her seat at the table, Primula Johnston’s eyes lost some of their sparkle, but the woman had plenty to tell her listening circle and it was clear she had no real information for Lara and Ryan.
The aged chatterbox had nothing to offer but the rampant speculation of a vivid imagination in a bored mind.
Chapter 10
Saturday 18th February – Midday
Walthamstow, NE London
Kaine followed the plumber out of the house. If anything, the wind had freshened since his dance with Damian, and a light rain had started to fall. He pulled up the collar of his jacket, tugged the zip all the way up to his scarf, and jammed the cap tight down on his head.
“Won’t be long,” Brian said as he slid behind the steering wheel of a late model Ford Transit. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
“No thanks, Brian. Need to stretch my legs and get some fresh air.”
Brian guffawed. “Fresh air? In London? Fat chance. You might as well suck on the tailpipe of a double-decker bus for all the good this stuff’s going to do your lungs. Still, I’m hardly helping with this big, gas-guzzling Transit. Saving up to buy an electric van, but they’re so damned expensive. Need to grow the business first. Catch you later, Mr Griffin?”
Kaine touched the peak of his cap. “Be seeing you, Brian.”
The plumber fired up his noisy van and drove off, heading south along Brooke Street, towards Baker Rise, and, eventually, the High Street. Kaine set off in the same direction, keeping a leisurely pace, and maintaining full awareness of his surroundings. Despite his confident responses to Lara’s questions, there was no telling how Damian or Barcode would react to Kaine’s presence.
In truth, he felt exposed and unarmed. Kaine could probably handle untrained, knife-wielding, young thugs easily enough if they attacked one at a time, but he had no idea how many punks he might actually face. And he had Lara to protect, not to mention Darwin Moore. No doubt about it, he needed a weapon, and he knew exactly where to source one.
Since long before his life had turned to crap—with the definite exception of finding Lara—he’d maintained a discrete residence in London, a place no one knew but him, Lara, and Rollo. He’d inherited the renovated cellar in a back street of Enfield from a distant relative and had sold it to a shell company he’d registered in the Channel Islands under an assumed identity. The shell company paid the utility bills and local taxes. Since taking ownership, he’d done very little to the apartment. The decor was post-war functional, but the building was secure and, with Rollo’s help, he’d installed a large safe and had stocked it with emergency supplies, including cash, identification papers, and various pieces of military equipment which included small arms.
The last time he’d visited the place had been the evening before he turned the tables on Sir Malcolm Sampson, former head of Sampson Armaments and Munitions Services Plc, and current occupier of one of Her Majesty’s least cosy prison cells. Kaine could still feel the impact of the beating he suffered at the fists and feet of Sir Malcolm’s primary stooge, Adam Akers, but allowed himself a satisfied smile as he recalled the way Akers had earned his new moniker, Pinocchio.
Yep, that’s right, Ryan. Enfield it is.
The fastest way would be through the underground, but travelling via public transport carrying an unlicensed firearm and other military ordnance was begging for trouble. Some of London’s larger travel hubs had been fitted with metal detectors, and the recent epidemic in knife crime had forced the Home Secretary to update the police’s powers to stop and search. News bulletins confirmed that the Metropolitan Police were not exactly shy in utilising this new power, nor were they renowned for the efficiency of their targeting process. Suffering a random stop and search was a sure-fire way for Kaine to end up inside, and once in the tender embrace of the authorities, Kaine’s life would be over, both figuratively and actually. He was under few illusions. He’d be unlikely to survive even a brief stint in lockup.
Although possessing incontrovertible proof of his innocence—provided in Sir Malcom Sampson’s own words—Kaine was still in danger. Powerful people wanted nothing more than for Ryan Kaine to vanish, permanently. If his death ensured that situation, they would shed few tears.
On top of everything else, if Kaine placed the evidence in the public domain, Her Majesty’s Tax Office would insist he return the millions he’d liberated from Sir Malcolm’s slush fund in return for clemency. Kaine wasn’t about to do that. He’d taken the money with the express intention of supporting the families of the victims—The 83—and he’d be damned if he’d let it be used to pay Sir Malcolm’s back taxes.
On his way to the hotel to pick up the hire car, Kaine passed a number of pedestrians, none of whom he recognised, and none presented a challenge. The Tribe’s foot soldiers were clearly reluctant to face the chill wind and rain of a wintery afternoon in London’s fair city.
The rain increased in intensity, and Kaine doubled his pace. Steady at first, it soon built into a heavy downpour, drumming on his cap and soaking into the shoulders of his light coat. He should have brought the brolly.
Sod’s Law.
Kaine turned left into Baker Rise and broke into a jog. The hotel was less than a mile away, but he’d be completely soaked and frozen by the time he reached the place. It would teach him to step out of the house unprepared.
He jogged right into Lower Street and hurried along, sidestepping shoppers part-hidden under brollies and hopping over the growing puddles. Up ahead, a bus stop offered a brief respite from the deluge. He ducked under the awning and waited for the worst of the weather to pass.
Three people, hunched against the cold, noses buried in their smartphones, waited for the number eighty-three. According to the digital display attached to a nearby lamppost, the bus would arrive in three minutes. A mother pushed a baby buggy into the bus stop. Kaine smiled at her. She ignored him.
Fair enough.
Kaine’s mobile vibrated. He dug a sodden hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the phone. A text message filled the screen from an unknown caller:
“Your wife in danger. Need help now.”
Apart from Lara and Corky, only one person knew this particular burner number—Damian Baines.
Jesus.
Without further thought, Kaine dived back out into the driving rain, his heart hammering.
With feet barely touching the pavement, he retraced his steps at a sprint.
Nose-to-tail cars blocked Lower Street. Pedestrians obstructed his path. He buffeted, collided, barged.
“Excuse me!”
“Hey, what the fu—”
“Sorry, mate!”
“Bloody hell—”
“Excuse me!”
“Sorry!”
As he made the left into Baker Rise, the traffic cleared and the pedestrians dispersed. He sidestepped someone yelling into a mobile, and jumped into the middle of the road. Breathing hard, legs driving, arms pumping, he sprinted past a slow-moving taxi, an SUV, a panel van, a hatchback.
Car horns blared. Drivers yelled.
A motorbike filtered between the cars, hogging the central gap, head-on. It stopped, headlight flashing as Kaine slid past.
He had fifty metres before the right turn onto Brooke Street. Only fifty metres …
His lungs burned, his legs aflame.
Lara. What if they’d hurt her? What would he do?
Don’t go there, Kaine. Not yet …
Kaine sprinted on.
The rain stopped suddenly.
He splashed through puddles. Dodging the traffic, he screamed right onto a deserted Brooke Street, increased his pace. The houses blasted past. Number thirty-two … forty … fifty-four.
There, up ahead on the left, number sixty! Still at full pelt, he dug a hand into his pocke
t for the key.
“Lara!” he screamed.
Hell. Wrong name. Wake up.
Hopefully, no one heard.
“Beth?” he yelled.
After vaulting the low wooden gate, he climbed the ramp in two long strides, slip-slid to a stop, and paused at the door long enough to jab the key into the lock and crash through into the hallway.
“Beth!”
He raced along the hall and barged into the kitchen. Darwin and Primula turned as one, shocked to see him.
“Where’s Beth?” he yelled, panting hard.
“What the matter?” Primula asked.
“My wife, where is she?”
Darwin pointed towards the front door. “She popped out to the corner shop for some—”
“Damn it,” Kaine shouted, turning and heading out again. “Why d’you let her go?”
The young man’s response was lost in the crash-rattle of the front door slamming shut.
Kaine darted back out onto the path. A pale sun broke through the heavy clouds. Despite the panic during his mad dash, his mind raced through the options. If Lara had headed towards the shop near the High Street, he’d have seen her, therefore … which way?
Which way? Which bloody way?
Still breathing hard and sweating through heavy, wet clothes, but recovering fast, Kaine stood still, trying to think.
The corner shop? Which corner shop?
Raised voices cut through the quiet—taunting, mocking, laughing.
Voices. Young men.
Where?
Away to his left. Well away at the far end of the street. Three hundred metres, maybe more. Near the playground.
Kaine hurdled the front gate and scrambled towards the noise.
Oh God, no. Please no!
Damp air cooled his face and hair. Sometime during his sprint, he’d lost his cap. There, in the distance. At the end of the terrace, a narrow alleyway, Crease Cut. Figures moved. Circling.
Corralling.
Kaine dug deeper into his reserves, ran faster. Faster than ever, but time slowed. He was running through treacle.
Lara, surrounded by three men, raised her arms, backed away.
“Beth? Beth!”
Facing the men, she reversed up against a wooden fence. Nowhere left to go.
Kaine screamed again.
“Leave her alone, you bastards!”
Forward. Faster. Hurry, man. Hurry.
Only a hundred metres away, but it might as well have been a kilometre. The biggest of the three, Barcode, grabbed Lara’s arm.
He was too late.
Too damned late.
Chapter 11
Saturday 18th February – Lara Orchard
Walthamstow, NE London
Lara pulled on the handle to the front door. Swollen by the lack of paint and the damp atmosphere, it stuck tight against the jamb. She tugged harder and the door burst open, nearly bopping her on the nose for her troubles.
Silly.
Smiling in embarrassment at nobody, she glanced back towards the kitchen, but the closed door confirmed neither Darwin nor the irritating neighbour, Primula, had seen. His apologetic voice and her wailing confirmed they were still too engrossed in their discussion to have noticed her error.
Lara stepped outside, into the cold and wet.
To close the door properly, she slammed it and the noise reverberated through the hallway. If Darwin insisted on staying in the house, they’d offer to upgrade it for him. She’d ask Ryan to authorise a total rebuild. He’d agree. Of course he’d agree. On top of that, Ryan was bound to know someone reliable in the building game. Former shipmates. That was how it worked with the military. People knew people who knew people. If not, their resourceful quartermaster, Rollo, would know where to go for decent work.
In her haste to leave the embarrassing spectacle in the kitchen, she’d wilfully ignored Ryan’s instructions, but a quick trip to the nearest shop with a pharmacy for some headache pills and more groceries surely wouldn’t be a problem.
Darwin had pointed her in its direction.
Which way did he say? To the left, away from the High Street.
Lara pushed through the gate. Rusty hinges screeched. Another item to add to the repair list—a new front fence and gate required. She turned left and hurried along with the wind and rain at her back.
The time of day, together with the inclement weather, meant Brooke Street was pretty much deserted. Lara weaved in and around the puddles, keeping her head bowed and shoulders hunched. The rain increased in force. February in London, a far cry from the windswept but milder weather they enjoyed on the Aquitaine coast. Darn it, she should never have ventured outside without a brolly. They had one in the boot of their hire car, but she’d forgotten to bring it. She’d remember for tomorrow.
Still, it didn’t really matter if she got wet. A little rain wouldn’t hurt her. In fact, she rather enjoyed being close to nature. It made her feel alive. The only thing better would be if Ryan were there with her.
“Hey, wo-man. Where you going all on your own?”
The voice, from the side and slightly ahead, crashed into her thoughts. Lara stopped. Jerked up her head. Three men appeared from a narrow, muddy side alley. One she’d completely missed.
In the middle of the three, Barcode stood a head taller than the others and slightly to the front. Once more, the leader.
To Barcode’s left, stood a skinny white youth, little more than a teenager. He wore a sodden denim jacket, jeans, and filthy trainers. Bare-headed, the kid’s lank hair hung to his shoulders. His brown eyes stared at her from a face that revealed little emotion.
The third, his acne-scarred face as expressionless and disinterested as Skinny’s, but much wider and darker, hung back from the others, slouching under a purple baseball cap. Tribe colours. Hands stuffed into pockets and leaning against a rickety wooden fence, he presented no immediate danger.
Barcode’s tone bled aggression. He took a single, swaggering pace towards her. Confidence written all over his handsome but brutish face. She was alone. Defenceless. Without Ryan at her side.
Barcode allowed his arrogance full rein.
“I asked you a question, be-atch. Answer me.”
Lara scoped the area. Out in the open. No one about. Houses crowded in all around, but the closed doors and blank windows offered no immediate sanctuary.
Lara, you darned fool.
She’d been such an idiot. How many times had Ryan told her never to let down her guard? Even here, in London, in broad daylight, she should have been more careful. Ryan was going to be so disappointed in her. She was disappointed enough in herself.
Stupid woman!
She pulled in a breath, and fought the urge to scream in rage and fear. No, that would likely enrage Barcode, put him on his guard when she needed him overconfident. So what if she were on her own? She wasn’t helpless. Oh no, she wasn’t helpless at all.
Poor Ryan. He’d lost so much, but he darn well wasn’t going to lose her too. Not today.
Barcode took two more self-assured strides. Slow and certain, he was playing with her. A tomcat with his mouse. Three metres separated them. Slightly more than arm’s length. He stared down at her. Intimidating. Smirking. Flashing milk white teeth.
If she ran, he’d catch her in seconds. With a greater start, she’d be able to outpace him. No doubt. The man was big, muscular, but she had endurance and pace. Ryan drilled the fitness into her. They trained for hours, covered miles, raced along the dunes near the villa, swam the Bay of Biscay. Yet, here she stood, up close to danger, with no means of outrunning her attacker. She backed up, edged to her right, away from the alley, closer to a slatted fence.
Barcode’s smirk grew wider.
The two behind him, Skinny and Acne, shared a glance before closing on their leader, staying wide to encircle her. They paid more attention. Their interest increasing.
Despite her daggy clothes, Lara was a woman, apparently helpless. To them, she present
ed an opportunity for amusement. A way to pass the time on a wet winter’s day.
She may have allowed herself to wander into danger, but this wasn’t over.
Damn them.
Danger and anger forced the adrenal glands to release their payload. Adrenaline flowed through her system. Her heartrate doubled, pumping blood faster through her arteries. Muscles warmed, preparing for action. Her breathing rate increased, oxygenating the blood, driving fuel into the voluntary muscles.
Time slowed to a crawl.
The pupils in Barcode’s brown eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. He licked his lips. The sneer reappeared. Bared teeth showed, pink gums, moist with saliva. A ravenous animal.
Acne snickered. Paying even closer attention.
Skinny hesitated, apparently reluctant to join in the hunt.
Lara backed further away, sidestepped again. Now fully at her back, the fence offered protection, no one could get behind her, attack from the rear.
Barcode lunged and grabbed Lara’s right forearm. He hooted in triumph.
Time slowed further. Her moves were easy, practised. Automatic.
Without conscious thought, Lara made a quarter turn, rotating away from the attack. Simultaneously, she placed her hand on top of his, locking the powerful man’s wrist against her own. She lifted her arms straight up in front of her face as though raising a sword, and stepped through the arch formed in Barcode’s twisted back.
Barcode’s arm bent at the elbow, it had no choice.
He squeaked in surprise, his balance gone, the whole of his weight resting on the fulcrum formed by Lara’s wristlock. For a briefest moment, he teetered on one leg, the other dangling out in front, waving in mid-air.
She took a shuffle-step forwards, extended out and cut down and away with her arms in a sword-slicing motion.
Barcode howled, flew backwards through the air, and landed in the middle of the pavement, head, arms, and ankles slamming into the concrete. Air whooshed from his lungs. The back of his shaven head cracked against the paving slabs. The skin split, and blood flowed through the gash.
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 10