Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5)

by Kerry J Donovan

  “You already said that, ho.”

  Fully upright, but balancing unsteadily with one hand on the bannister and the other on the wall, she filled her lungs, which made her tits swell to the size of overripe melons.

  “An’ I meant it, limp-dick! Couldn’t hardly feel you inside me you was so damn small.”

  Barcode snarled and took one pace towards her, stepping out into the hallway in all his naked glory.

  Who cared if the neighbours saw him through the uncovered hall windows? They’d see the ho was lying about his equipment. All the other sluts in the neighbourhood could testify to his size and his prowess. Legendary, he was. A stallion. All the girls told him so.

  The woman cowered away.

  Still spewing her lies to anyone who’d listen, the ho staggered and stumbled down the stairs, the four-inch heels making her life difficult. Halfway down, she toppled, nearly fell, but caught herself on the handrail. Seconds later, she fumbled with the locks on the front door, opened it up, let in a gust of freezing rain-filled air, and tumbled outside.

  She left the door wide open to the elements, but fuck it. Ain’t no one gonna break into Barcode’s place. His crib was safe. No one would dare, and he wasn’t about to head down the stairs, naked, to close the door. He’d do it later, after he got dressed.

  Another blast of glacial air hit his bare skin. He shivered, pecs bunching and bouncing, and looked down. Shit. Cold didn’t do his boy any favours. One glance at the big man and the hookers in the hood would maybe change their minds.

  Barcode turned, ducked into his room, and pulled on some warm clothes.

  Fuckin’ head.

  Wouldn’t stop throbbing. Painkillers might help since the product wasn’t cutting it. A little trip to the pharmacy would do nicely.

  A pharmacy?

  Yeah, that’ll do it.

  Barcode smiled to himself as an idea worked its way into his aching brain. An idea to help push him to the top of the pile. To make him stand out to TM and the rest of the Tribe.

  And he needed to make a statement to prove he wasn’t no wuss after what the betty had done. Had to prove it to himself as much as anyone else. At the same time, he’d let off some steam.

  He’d had more’n enough of standing in line, bowing and scraping to the man—assuming TM was a man. No way of telling with all them electronics hiding his face and his voice from the world.

  What was up with that, anyway? Why hide away from your people? No adulation that way, and without the hero worship, what was the point? Money and power didn’t mean nothing, not unless you could flaunt it.

  Once dressed, Barcode stood still and admired himself in the mirror built into his closet. The power of black.

  Black Converse, black jeans, black polo-shirt, black puffer jacket, black baseball cap with a silver star logo. The cap hurt where it dug into the wound on the back of his head, but he’d put up with it. The cap hid his injury from the world, added shadow to hide his face from the surveillance cameras, and completed his look.

  Man, he was fine. Wore his threads with style.

  Without pulling his eyes from the hunk in the mirror, Barcode fastened his zip, pulled it halfway up, and rubbed his hands together. He smiled, teeth flashing white in the mirror.

  Time to “borrow” a car, head out for some meds at the Three Ps, and have himself a little fun.

  #

  Parthak’s Parkside Pharmacy, a small, family-run shop on a back street five miles from Walthamstow, stocked exactly what he needed—super strength ibuprofen. He even paid for the packet of ten and a small bottle of water to wash them down. No profit in thievery if it drew attention outside Tribe territory.

  He kept his black leather gloves on and paid in cash. No point leaving clues or drawing attention to himself. The baseball cap did its job of hiding his face. Early on a Sunday morning, the shop had been empty, except for the middle-aged pharmacist who served him. Small, pointy-shouldered, and quiet, the man barely even looked at Barcode.

  Excellent.

  Almost like he planned it.

  On the way back to the car, he downed three of the tabs and drained the water bottle. Fuck knew how long the meds would take to work, but it couldn’t happen fast enough for him. Apart from making him irate, the headache was fucking with his vision. Blurred it was. So blurred, he nearly ran up the ass of a black cab that stopped suddenly to unload a passenger. Cabbie’s foul language and the slur he cast on Barcode’s lineage nearly made him change plans.

  It wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility for Barcode to follow the cabbie all day, waiting for the chance to run the fucker down the first time he got out of his motor. If he hadn’t already made up his mind to wreak havoc on an enemy, Barcode would have done it, too. Cabbie would never know it but, that day, he happened to be one lucky, toilet-mouthed white dude. On the other hand, Barcode had a shit hot memory for faces and numbers and had taken note of the black cab’s licence plate.

  One day, Cabbie’s luck would run out.

  Yeah, one day.

  His car, a gutless old Fiat 500, lifted from an unmanned NCP carpark using a thin steel lever and a screwdriver to unlock the ignition, wouldn’t win no races. The little green fucker wouldn’t turn many heads, neither. But it was perfect for Barcode’s purposes.

  Perfect.

  He’d parked on double yellow lines across the street from the pharmacy, but didn’t expect to wait long, not in the Parksiders’ turf.

  Sure enough, twenty minutes after he’d swallowed the tabs, and five minutes after the fucking things finally started to ease his hurt, the random targets revealed themselves.

  ’Bout goddamn time!

  Three jacked-up assholes wearing hoodies and showing Parkside Crew colours—bandanas in snot green and puke yellow—turned the far corner, heading towards Parkway Shopping Centre. Their backs to Barcode, they were the only ones on that side of the street. A bus lane, yellow lines, and loading bays kept the street clear of parked cars, too, which was why he chose that particular spot, and that particular pharmacy in the first place.

  One hundred metres and sliding further away.

  Smiling, heartrate rising, Barcode studied his prey.

  Assholes wore the same uniform—dark green parkas, blue jeans, and white trainers—and walked with a swagger that shouted out their confidence and smugness. None looked around. None sensed danger. The tall one on the right nearest the kerb wore a black beanie, the two smaller ones on the inside wore baseball caps, one green the other white. They jostled each other, laughing and joking. Having a great time.

  Not for long, dickheads.

  The one in the middle elbowed Beanie Boy, who lost his balance and staggered into the road. A fast-approaching cyclist in the bus lane yelled a warning. Beanie Boy jumped back onto the pavement, helped by his buddies. They all laughed and jeered at the Lycra-clad cyclist on the town bike, who dropped his head, hit the pedals hard, and rode through the next set of lights on amber. Car horns blared. Lycra-man dodged through the cross traffic and disappeared into the distance. All the fun of the fair.

  Time for some jollies.

  Barcode twisted the screwdriver and held it on a full turn. The little engine coughed, died, coughed again, and caught. The motor didn’t exactly purr, but it did hold steady, eventually. The fuel gauge told him the car was near empty. Didn’t matter though. He wouldn’t need it to run much longer.

  Like the excellent driver he always was, Barcode checked the wing-mirror before pulling out into the stream of slow-moving traffic. The lights turned again and the traffic stopped.

  Barcode kept the Fiat in first, left foot hard down on the clutch, right foot on the brake. The choke cut out and the car’s idle slowed.

  The Parkside trio made the crossing and carried on towards the shopping centre. Two hundred yards and getting further away.

  The lights turned green and the cars ahead moved off. Barcode allowed a gap to grow between him and the slick motor in front, a BMW 3 Series—midnight b
lue with tinted windows. A real beauty.

  Behind Barcode, the driver in a filthy white van grew antsy, sounded his horn and flashed his headlights a couple times. Barcode threw him the finger and waited.

  More angry horns blared. Drivers desperate to reach the next red light.

  Barcode bided his time.

  Green.

  Wait for it.

  White Van Man threw open his door, leaned out, and started hollering.

  Ahead, the flasher on the BMW indicated left. The car turned and cleared the junction. The other cars in Barcode’s lane crawled further along the High Street. The gap between them and his Fiat grew to fifty metres, more.

  Still green.

  Wait for it.

  Barcode released pressure on the brake but let his foot hover over the accelerator pedal. The Fiat rolled slowly forwards.

  White Van Man popped back inside his cab and slammed his door.

  Still green.

  Wait. Wait for it.

  Amber!

  Barcode stamped on the throttle. The little engine screamed and the Fiat shot forwards. The car entered the junction as the lights turned red and raced ahead.

  Beanie Boy reacted first. He turned. Blue eyes in a white face bugged wide. His mouth opened in a scream that was drowned out by the Fiat’s racing engine.

  Barcode twitched the steering wheel, entered the empty bus lane, climbed the drop kerb, and aimed the car dead centre.

  Women screamed. Horns blared.

  His mates scattered, but Beanie Boy took the full force of the Fiat’s front wing.

  The steering wheel juddered in Barcode’s hands as bones turned to powder under the impact of rusty steel and rubber. More screams. Another twitch of the wheel and he was back in the bus lane, gathering speed.

  The Fiat sideswiped a Ford but Barcode kept the pedal to the rubber floormat. In the rear-view mirror, bodies writhed and a splash of red painted the grey pavement.

  Two minutes later, Barcode, still laughing his ass off, slowed and turned left into a quiet side street.

  A minute after that, he found an empty disabled bay outside a derelict shop and parked up. Keeping his head down and turned away from any street cameras, he climbed out of the Fiat, and grabbed the empty water bottle from the passenger seat. Then he took a circuit around the car to inspect the damage. Apart from the smear of blood, some hair attached to scalp on the bumper, and a slight crease to the front wing, Beanie Boy hadn’t caused the Fiat much damage. The owner could count himself lucky. Beanie Boy couldn’t.

  Barcode chuckled, stuck the bottle into his pocket to bin later, and turned away, heading for home. He slouched his shoulders and added an extra roll to his walk. Soon as he found a quiet alley, he’d duck inside and reverse his jacket to show off the bright red lining. It didn’t hurt to confuse the people watching the cameras.

  Such a blast!

  He hadn’t felt so good in a long time. One sure-fire way to clear a throbbing headache.

  Who needs ibuprofen?

  Chapter 19

  Sunday 19th February – Barcode

  Walthamstow, NE London

  16:13.

  After a telephone summons from Demarcus Williams, Barcode stepped into the near-empty Hub with his heart thumping hard and fast. His throat was as dry as the snatch on the fat ho from last night, his hands were sweating, and his head had started thumping again from cracking it on the pavement.

  Although nervous as fuck, he was still buzzing from the kill. Man, he loved taking out them Parksiders.

  Better’n sex.

  Soon as he smoothed things over with TM, he’d get his own back on the fucking be-atch who’d knocked him flat on his ass and made him look like a moron.

  Assuming it was possible to smooth things over with TM.

  Assuming he survived the next couple of hours.

  Fucking be-atch flipped him like he was a burger on a griddle. How she do that, tiny as she was? All skin and bone. No meat on her at all. Damn near flat-chested and fuck-all booty. Caught him unawares, is all. By surprise, but he’d give her a good seeing to before killing her. No one made Barcode look stupid. Back when he were a kid, all them years ago, the ink-man tried to do it, and look where that got the fucker.

  The be-atch would feel his meat in her mouth and up her ass, then she’d die—painful and slow. After that, he’d take care of the wiry little fucker she was married to.

  No one dissed Barcode and got away with it.

  No one.

  Demarcus Williams greeted him from behind a desk with his usual arrogant snarl. Barcode lowered his gaze. Looking Demarcus Williams in the eye would be seen as a challenge. Not the time. Not the place. One day it would happen, but not this day.

  The buzz of the near-empty Hub had died the moment Barcode stepped through the doorway. In the hallway outside, two of the Goons—the big one with the squinty eye who carried a baseball bat, and the fat one with the shaved head—patted him down like Five-O before letting him inside. As though he’d ever try a frontal attack on Demarcus Williams in the Hub. Did people think he was that stupid?

  Nah. If Barcode was going to make a move on Demarcus Williams, he’d do it sneaky. Wait ’til the big, tattooed fuck was alone and unsuspecting. He’d catch the motherfucker outside, down a dark alley, and shiv him in the kidney. Asshole would die slowly that way, painfully. Bleed to death on the inside.

  Yeah, that would be the way to do it, but Barcode needed an alibi. Not for the bacon, but for TM. He’d have to plan Demarcus Williams’ death when Barcode couldn’t be blamed.

  Yeah, he’d wait until Demarcus Williams was alone. That’s when he’d do the meathead. Not in the middle of the fucking Hub with five armed guard dogs, five Goons.

  The fuck-off big TV screen hanging on the wall behind Demarcus Williams, the one TM used to deliver his instructions, was blank. Dark and menacing, but blank.

  Thank fuck for that.

  Last thing he needed was to hear TM’s electronic voice taunting him about being butt-fucked in public. Nah, that ritual humiliation would occur at the usual call time, eight o’clock. He had a while before that happened.

  Maybe he’d catch up with the betty before the evening meeting. And he’d be sure and take snapshots with his phone of the way he took his revenge before sliding her beaten and bloody corpse in the Thames. A good dumping ground, the river. Washed away all the forensic evidence. Sometimes it washed the corpse out into the Channel, never to be seen again. Confuse the Feds. That was the point. Worked before, with the ink-man, and it would work again.

  The monitor on the wall was huge. Like a fucking cinema screen. Imposing. Thank fuck it was off.

  Barcode swallowed and kept his head slightly lowered.

  Play the part, man. Play the part.

  The big screen and all the computers made the Hub look like a for real centre of operations and impressed the fuck out of the rest of the Tribesmen, but not Barcode. Took a lot more than shiny computers and big screens to impress him.

  Still sneering at Barcode, Demarcus Williams snapped his fingers at a geek sitting behind one of the computers. The big monitor blinked on, revealing a detailed street map of the hood. The same geek tapped a couple of keys and added all the pitches to the map. They appeared in different colours; green, amber, and red. Barcode’s three pitches were flashing an ominous amber. Not good.

  Shit. So not good.

  He knew exactly what the flashing and the colour meant. His position as crew leader was up for discussion. One of his team was making a move and he had a good idea which one. A weasel with zit scars all over his ferret-face.

  Demarcus Williams, the musclebound and bald fuckwit, climbed to his feet and lumbered around to the front of his desk, chest pumped and elbows rounded out, like a strutting Silverback. Two of the other Goons, Delinquent and Alphonse, stood close by, ready to jump to his defence. Would they really take a bullet for Demarcus Williams or TM? Maybe one day Barcode would find out, but not today.

  Na
h, not today.

  Demarcus Williams sat his big fat butt on the front edge of the desk and waited in silence for the sign of respec’. Barcode obliged the fuckwit with a nod and waited. It didn’t take long.

  “W’happen yesterday?”

  Demarcus Williams’ deep voice boomed around the room, bouncing off the painted brickwork. The pencil-necked geek in the corner stopped typing. His fingers hovered over the keys, but he pretended not to listen.

  Barcode spewed out his rehearsed answer. “Path was muddy, man. I slip an’ fell.”

  Demarcus Williams sucked air through his teeth. “You slipped?”

  “Yah, s’right. I slipped. Muddy in that lane. Been raining hard an’ my old trainers got no grip. Bought myself a new pair, look.” He lifted a foot to flash his jet black Converse All Stars. “Tread’s better on these babies.”

  Demarcus Williams sucked through his teeth again and pulled his flabby lips back into a sneer. Dissing him. Dissing Barcode. Fucker.

  “That’s not the way I heard it went down.”

  “What way you hear it, Mr Williams?”

  Yeah, he’d be Mister, for now. Wouldn’t be forever, though.

  Demarcus Williams tilted back his head and looked down his nose at Barcode.

  Dis me now, fucker. We see what happen later.

  “Way Benjie tells it,” Demarcus Williams growled, “you was beaten up by a white woman who weren’t no taller than my mammy. Benjie said you ended up flat on your face with the woman’s boot up your ass.”

  Barcode rounded his shoulders and puffed out his chest, copying Demarcus Williams’ stance, but not overdoing it.

  “Benjie a liar. Let him come tell me to my face!”

  “Benjie!” Demarcus Williams called over Barcode’s shoulder. “Come tell us all what you saw!”

  Benjie, the shit-faced weasel who should have had Barcode’s back, slid into the room from the outside hall where he’d been skulking. He was all apologetic and shy, like—until opening his mouth.

  “Yes, Mr Williams? What I do for you?”