After allowing the applause to die down naturally, TM continued, “If his mission is a success and, since Barcode is a resourceful individual, I’m sure it will be, it will provide a serious blow to our nearest enemies, The Parkside Crew!”
He practically screamed the Crew’s name and brought new and spontaneous applause from the Tribesmen. Damian had to give TM a grudging respect for the way he handled the crowd, but there weren’t no doubt, he hadn’t finished. The hands appeared again, this time on either side of the blob of a head. They patted the space either side of where his ears might be, making a “calm down” gesture, but he kept quiet until the noise died completely.
“And that’s only the start,” he added. “By the time we’ve finished, the Parkside Crew will be destroyed!”
More howls of delight. More back slapping and applause.
TM carried on rousing the rabble for another few minutes before restoring order and starting in on what he called “the housekeeping”.
For the following hour, TM summed up the previous week’s performance of each crew and each pitch in turn. He went through his usual onslaught of intimidation, derision, threats, encouragement, bribery, and promises of future greatness.
He ended each rant with specific instructions to each team leader and ordered Alphonse, who by this time was sitting behind one of the desks, to hand out product and envelopes. This part of the process always reminded Damian of the movies he’d seen as a kid where working men would receive their pay in cash and in brown envelopes on Friday afternoons ahead of a weekend blowing it all in the local boozer.
When TM first started doling out the cash this way, Damian half expected to have Tax and National Insurance payments deducted at the source. But it didn’t work like that. Each team leader received the team’s cash to divvy up as he saw fit. No even-handed profit sharing for the Tribesmen.
Goddamn it.
Things couldn’t go on, they had to change.
“Right now, where is he?” TM said, the head moving as though scanning the faces in the crowd. “Ah, there you are, Rhino, my man. Why are you skulking in the corner?”
Damian flinched.
Oh Jesus, what now?
The crowd of white and black faces, Goons included, turned towards him. His mouth dried. Couldn’t swallow.
“It’s not like you to be so shy. Step forward, Rhino, dear fellow.”
Damian blinked under everyone’s stares.
Move, man. You can do this!
He threw back his shoulders as best he could against the stretch of the scar and stepped into the outer edge of the front row.
TM boasted he knew everything, saw everything.
Shit, no.
The signal. The bastard had seen his signal to Mr Griffin.
“That’s right, Rhino. Step forward.”
Silence fell. An ominous, pulsating silence.
“Y-Yes, TM?” he managed, his voice little more than a squeak.
“Since Barcode is away on … other business, I’m going to hold onto your team’s payment until next time. We need to ensure the correct protocols, don’t you agree?”
Relief flooded through Damian, but he tried not to show it. Maybe he would see Ariel again. Maybe even live to see the baby.
“Er, yes, TM,” he said, nodding. “We all needs rules. They keep the Tribe strong.”
He parroted the words TM used to end all his transmissions. They almost sounded like a prayer.
“But can you operate without product?”
A trick question?
“No, TM.”
“As you happen to be Mr Codell’s deputy, you’d better step up, then. Collect tomorrow’s supply from Alphonse. Wouldn’t do to let the customers down, now would it?”
Damian bobbed his head in agreement, said, “Er, no, TM. Right,” and turned away from the screen.
He hurried to the desk to collect his crew’s package from the solidly built white man with the French accent. The skinny geek at the table next to the cashier’s desk weighed a brown paper package, typed something into his computer, and handed it to Alphonse, who passed it across.
Damian felt the weight of one day’s supply. Five hundred quid’s worth of blow and a couple of hundreds’ worth of grass weren’t heavy. He stuffed the bundle into the inner pocket of his jacket and strolled back to his position by the window. He needed to be in position to make the end-of-show signal, but he couldn’t make it obvious. He wanted to rush, but couldn’t risk drawing any more attention to his movements. TM’s transmission didn’t usually last long after he’d dished out the packages and delivered his final pronouncements.
With TM’s final rant underway at last, Damian leaned his back against the wall alongside the window. Not long now.
“That’s it until tomorrow, when I’ll be calling for volunteers for the next County Lines run. I’ll also be looking for another cuckoo team,” TM announced. “Remember this. If I don’t have enough volunteers, I shall be running a raffle. Now, go and make the Tribe richer. But remember … it’s a dangerous world out there. Be careful.”
The dark head dipped and the screen turned black. End of transmission.
As the Tribesmen relaxed and started buzzing, Damien lowered his head.
Thank fuck for that.
He’d gotten away with it. Only one more thing to do. A simple thumb’s sign up and he was done, maybe for good.
Slowly, he edged to his right, simultaneously sliding his left hand behind his back. His fingers found the straight line of the window reveal and touched the vertical blinds. With his right hand, he fingered the scar on his neck, with the other, he gave the sign.
Done. He was done.
“What the fuck was that!” Red shouted from across the room, pointing at Damian.
“What?” Damian said, terror flooding his system, weakening his bladder.
He nearly pissed himself.
“You rattled the blinds. A fucking signal,” Red shouted, reaching into the pocket of his cargo pants and rushing forwards.
“No. I didn’t. Didn’t do nothing!” He raised his hands in surrender.
Around him, the Tribesmen scattered, clearing space for Red and the other Goons.
Jesus, fucking Jesus.
Demarcus Williams met Red in the middle of the room. With Alphonse still in charge of the inventory, the other two Goons, Crabapple and Delinquent, covered the doors, knife and baseball bat up and ready for action.
Lockdown was in full swing.
Damian stood still. No hope of making a run for it. He studied the faces of the Tribesmen, but none were about to make eye contact. He was alone. Totally alone.
“I saw it,” Red said, loud, definite, accusing. “You did the same thing when TM started speaking.”
The big screen blinked into life again, and the shadow reappeared.
“Explain yourself, Mr Doohan,” TM’s electronic voice demanded.
Doohan? Red’s name was Doohan?
Did it matter?
Oh shit.
“Sure thing, TM,” the Irishman replied in triumph. “When you started speaking, Rhino rattled the blinds over there. Did the self-same t’ing when you signed off, so he did.”
Damian was fucked. Not a chance, but for Ariel and the baby he needed to try.
“No, TM. Scratching my back, I was. Got aches and pains. You know, on account of …” He touched his fingers to his neck.
“Wait. I’ll check. Hold him still.”
The screen turned blank once again. Before Damian could say anything else, before he could move, Demarcus Williams and Crabapple swooped in and pinned both arms behind his back.
No point struggling. They had him tight.
Demarcus Williams leaned closer. His foul breath warmed Damian’s cheek.
“I’m gonna enjoy this, fucker,” he whispered. “Haven’t had much exercise this week. Need some target practice, too. Stops me getting rusty.”
While Crabapple held still, Demarcus Williams tightened his grip on Damian’s forear
m and levered up hard.
Muscles and sinews stretched.
His shoulder popped. Burning fire lanced through Damian’s body. He screamed. Couldn’t hold it in. He stood on tiptoes, trying to relieve the pressure on the separated joint. Blood pounded in his ears, beat through his shoulder.
“No, please. Stop. Stop!”
The whisper returned. “Before you die, you’re gonna tell me who you were signalling. The Parkside Crew? The Hallgate Mob?”
“No, please. I-I weren’t signalling to no one. H-Honest.”
Sweat leaked out of Damien. Poured from him. Fire torched his shoulder and arms, and the wrist Demarcus Williams twisted with enough force to stretch the bones and ligaments.
“Then, after we fuck over the Parkside Crew, or whoever, I’m paying a little social visit. Ariel and I are gonna get better acquainted.”
Damian screamed. Lost it completely.
“You bastard! No! Leave her alone!”
Blind panic took over.
He bucked, fought the agony. Struggled. Kicked out, aiming for shins. Missed. Only succeeded in increasing the fire, the pain in his shoulder.
Jesus, no!
His vision swam, dimmed, faded to grey.
“Stop!”
The monitor brightened and Demarcus’ grip on his arm loosened but didn’t break. Fire still pulsed through his shoulder, but the pressure lessened and he dropped to his feet, panting hard.
“I-I didn’t do nothing, TM. Nothing. Honest, I didn’t.”
The image on the monitor changed to a video shot of the Hub using a fisheye lens and taken from high up, above the main monitor. In the bottom right of the image, a figure wearing a dark blue jacket, Damian, leaned against the wall beside one of the windows. A timestamp at the top of the image showed 20:02:05 and counting.
Directly behind the figure, one of the vertical strips rippled.
Damian tried to swallow, but couldn’t find the spit.
The image froze and the screen split in two, horizontally. A second video appeared alongside the first, identical in layout. The new picture scrolled forwards, the clock ticked on. After ten seconds, the same thing happened to the blind and the picture stopped moving. The only significant difference between the two stills was the time. The second clock registered 21:49:19.
Demarcus Williams whispered in his ear again. “Looks clear enough to me, fucker. Say your prayers.”
His quiet, ugly laugh turned Damian’s stomach inside out. He tried to catch the eye of his crew, and of the other Tribesmen, but no one met his gaze. No one was coming to his rescue.
He was totally and utterly fucked.
TM’s silhouette emerged in the top corner of the monitor.
“Anything to say for yourself before I pass sentence, Mr Baines?”
“I didn’t do nothing, TM. Scratched my back is all.”
“Not good enough,” TM said, his voice calm, almost sad. “Mr Williams, Mr Cox, take him away. Find out all you can. Don’t forget to film it for me. You know how I love home movies.”
With the images on the screen standing in frozen accusation, Demarcus Williams and Crabapple dragged him across the floor.
Damian, panicked and desperate, kicked and screamed the whole way out of the Hub.
Chapter 24
Sunday 19th February – Evening
Walthamstow, NE London
21:51.
Kaine tapped the earpiece. “Alpha One to Alpha Two, are you receiving me? Over.”
He waited.
Come on, Corky. Where are you, little fellow?
After eight long seconds, he repeated the call.
“Oh, just a sec, Mr K,” Corky responded, offhandedly. “Be right with you.”
In his annoyance, Kaine couldn’t help grinding his teeth at Corky’s demeanour. In his head, Kaine counted to five—the most he could manage.
“You still there, Mr K?”
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, yes, I’m still here. Over.”
Kaine relaxed his jaw muscles. Teeth grinding did the molars no good at all, and it made talking difficult.
“Ah, bonzer.”
Bonzer?
Oh Lord. Surely the hacker wasn’t still trying to convince people he was based in Australia? No matter, Kaine had no intention of trying to identify a location for the extremely useful but massively annoying man.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, I received the termination signal at 21:49. Over.”
“Ten to ten. Yep, I saw it.”
Corky and Rollo’s state-of-the-art comms package incorporated a neat little digital camera built into the microphone arm, enabling Corky to see what Kaine could see in near-as-damn-it real time. The wonders of modern technology knew few limitations, or so it would appear.
“Any news for me? Over.”
“Yep, sure have, and its real interesting, Mr K. And by the way, there ain’t no need for all this ‘over and out’ military bullshit. Ain’t no one gonna be earwigging these particular conversations. No way.”
He coughed out an aggravating little chuckle before continuing.
“Corky and Quartermaster Rollason designed this state-of-the-art techie stuff for our radio chats. Laser targeted, full encryption protocols, multi-site, and random signal generation and receipt. Completely and utterly secure, we is. The only way anyone’s gonna hear what you says is by creeping up on you and listening hard. And from what Corky knows about you, Mr K, that ain’t likely to happen. Not in this lifetime. Is Corky right?”
Kaine pulled in a deep, cleansing breath, wiped the rain from his face, and tried not to answer with a string of expletives. He left swearing to the ignorant and poorly-educated. Mostly.
“Security of messages is not the main reason for following radio protocol, Alpha Two. When the caller says ‘over’, it’s the signal for the recipient to begin talking … Oh forget it. Why did you say ‘interesting’ just then? Over.”
“Well now, Mr K, that there is the million-dollar question. Corky said it were interesting, because, for the past two hours, there weren’t no signal leaving or entering the Hub. That interesting enough for you?”
What?
Kaine blinked more rain from his eyes.
“Repeat that, Alpha Two. Over.”
“You heard me right, Mr K. Nobody in that building were using no comms equipment. No mobile phones, no landlines, and no satellite signals. Nada. Zilch. Rien.”
“Are you certain? Over.”
“Totally, Mr K. Ever since you laid this little challenge on Corky, he’s been digging into the techie setup inside the Tribe’s lair. They’ve got a real smart system over there, but not smart enough to block out dear old Corky.
“They got all the goodies. Corky means, a landline with PXB, VPN, satellite, two-way radios, you name it. Fuck it, they’ve even got a mobile phone mast on their roof. And, through that, they have powerful and instant access to every licenced carrier in the UK. Corky’s been monitoring their comms for the past … little while. Ain’t no worries on that score. But, from the time Rhino gave you the start signal, to the moment you got the termination signal, there weren’t no comms traffic in that there building. Guaranteed.”
“Okay, Alpha Two, I understand. Over.”
“You know what this means, Mr K?”
“Yes, Alpha Two, I rather think I do. Over.”
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s using a hardwired, closed-circuit system to talk to the Tribe. The TM fucker’s inside the school! Corky can’t piggyback on the signal, ’cause there ain’t one. Only way Corky could give you any pictures or sound is by physically splicing into the co-axial cables, or by planting his own cameras and mic inside the school, and no way that’s happening. Corky ain’t no cat-burglar.
“However, come to think of it, Corky does know one particular geezer what might be able to help. Corky’s mate owes him a favour or two. Yeah, and he’d probably be happy for a little excitement about now, what with his new baby making his life so boring and all. Want Corky to give
him a shout?”
The pause in Corky’s rant gave Kaine the only indication his question wasn’t rhetorical.
Kaine didn’t relish the idea of having one of Corky’s potentially unreliable and unvetted “mates” sticking his nose into The 83’s business. After all, officially, Kaine was still a fugitive, one of the UK’s Top Ten most wanted. The last thing he needed was to allow a total stranger to join the team. Someone who, for all Kaine knew, would hand him over to the authorities at the drop of a five pound note.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two. Thanks all the same, but I’m not sure that will be necessary. I have my own idea of where to take this. Over.”
“Yeah, Corky’s been giving it some thought, too. What you gotta do is sit on that building with Rhino at your side, and watch people leave through the front or back door.”
Kaine nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Why don’t you set up a couple of video cameras front and back and do it remotely? All you gotta do is get Rhino to tell you which bugger weren’t actually inside the Hub when TM was gabbing. Then you’ll prob’ly twig who he is. Is Corky right, Mr K? You bet your life he is. Er, … over.”
Corky had a point, but Kaine could see a major flaw in the hacker’s logic.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, how many exits are there? Over.”
“Just the two, Mr K. Just the two. Over.”
“Are you certain? Over.”
“Corky’s always certain. Main entrance at the front, and the back door you’re looking at right now. They can’t climb out no windows on account of all them security bars. By the way, those bars is a real fire hazard, you know? Health and Safety nightmare, you ask me. No wonder the authorities condemned the building all them years ago.”
“Alpha Two, did you find any architect’s drawings of the school and, if so, can you send them to me? Over.”
“’Course I did, Mr K. Mind you, they isn’t exactly up-to-date. Thirty-odd years old, but they gives you an idea of the basic layout of the structure. Doubt the Tribe will have made any major structural changes to the place, neither. Leastways, Corky ain’t been able to find no record of tunnels being built, or fire escapes being added in the past year. Don’t mean they haven’t, though. But it ain’t likely.”
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 21