“Do you mind emailing me the blueprints anyway? Over.”
“On their way, Mr K. You do know how to access them, right?”
“Yes thank you, Alpha Two. Over.”
“You is real welcome, Mr K.”
Kaine blew out his cheeks. Why did people think he had no idea how tech worked? He’d been dealing with military-grade comms and hardware all his adult life. Just didn’t boast about it.
“You still there, Mr K?”
“I’m still here, Alpha Two. Over.”
“Thought you was. As it happens, while we’ve been chatting, I’ve been texting with my mate. He’s read about you and hates the way you was set up as the bad guy. Says he’d love to help if you ever need it.”
“Damn it, Corky!”
“Steady on, Alpha One, old chap,” Corky said in a surprisingly accurate plummy accent. “That’s hardly the correct comms protocol, don’t you know. Over.”
“Alpha Two, I sincerely hope we never meet in person. I’m pretty sure I’d end up losing my … Stand by, Alpha Two. Something’s happening. Alpha One, out.”
The rear door to the school crashed open, and a rectangle of white light exploded into Kaine’s field glasses, momentarily blinding him until their internal electronics compensated for the input and dimmed the picture.
Kaine blinked twice to remove the orange after-image.
The rear door swung closed and movement-activated floodlights situated on the rear wall high above the exit burst into life.
The three men stood out sharply under the lights.
Or rather, two of the men stood. The third swayed like a drunk at pub emptying time, struggling to keep his feet, while his mates held him upright, preventing him from faceplanting into the concrete. Only they weren’t his mates and they weren’t trying to help.
The one in the middle was begging them to let him go. Pleading. His sobs echoed around the courtyard, bouncing off the three crumbling walls and spilling across the gap to where Kaine lay in the bushes.
Kaine trained his binoculars on the prisoner, adjusted the focus but, with his back to the powerful floodlight, the man was nothing but a black silhouette, unidentifiable.
Two against one. Bad odds.
Someone was about to take a serious beating.
The powerfully built man on the right—shaven-headed with a full and bushy beard—aimed a vicious kick to the groin of the one suspended in the middle. He screamed and curled into a foetal ball. The captors released his arms and the victim slowly sank to the ground. He ended up on his knees, bent double, awaiting his fate, crying and begging for mercy the whole time.
Pitiful.
The attackers stepped away and started circling their victim, promising a slow and painful death.
Damn it!
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, are you seeing this? Over.”
“Yeah, I see it, Mr K. Whatcha gonna do?”
“Nothing. Can’t afford to show my hand yet. These people are drug dealers and thugs. They know what to expect. Deserve all they get. Alpha One, out.”
Kaine cut the comms link and concentrated on the scene playing out below and fifty metres away.
The downed man looked up, shoulders hunched, one slightly higher than the other, head tilted a little to one side.
His head swivelled awkwardly left and right, the shoulders moving at the same time, as though head and shoulders were welded together. With hands raised to protect his head, the victim twisted at the waist, and the light fell on his bruised and bloodied face.
Damian Baines!
Rhino!
Chapter 25
Sunday 19th February – Evening
Walthamstow, NE London
22:03.
Kaine dropped the binoculars. With the courtyard’s lights shining, he could see well enough without them.
So much for standing by and watching two drug dealers dispensing punishment to one of their own. Damian Baines had been acting on Kaine’s instructions, which meant, de facto, he was one of Kaine’s people. His responsibility.
The two attackers continued circling. Every so often, one would dance forwards and aim a kick at Damian’s head, but deliberately fall short or wide. The next boot might not miss. The next might prove fatal.
Psychological torture mixed with the physical. An old and dirty trick.
And all the while, Damian begged for his life, while the other two laughed.
Kaine had seen the method used before. Twice in the past, he’d fallen victim to something similar. Similar, but worse, more professional, more extensive. He had the mental and physical scars as reminders. Even though these men were amateurs, the effect would be pretty much the same.
Sickening.
He pulled the Sig P226 from its holster and checked the load. Fifty-five metres in the rain. Not the easiest shots he’d ever taken, but not totally outside his operational parameters. But at this range, he couldn’t be certain of where he’d hit. He could aim to injure them, but any error in judgement or movement from the target could make the shots fatal.
Despite having no love for drug pushers or bullies, he couldn’t act as public executioner. He wasn’t sure the two men deserved to live, but nor was he certain they deserved to die. Kaine didn’t have the legal or moral authority to pull the trigger.
Damn it.
Kaine rolled down the woollen ski mask to cover his face and started forwards. He slithered through the long, sodden grass.
Moving through the dark towards the light, he didn’t need to take too much care, he only needed to keep his noise down. The bullies were having too much fun mocking and torturing their prey. Their attention was on their victim, not the surrounding wasteland.
Amateur hour.
No matter how secure they felt, the Goons should never have left their flanks unwatched, unprotected.
Thirty-five metres.
With every metre gained, the margin for error improved, but not by much.
The building behind his targets, with its walls full of unprotected windows and at least one room filled with kids, wouldn’t prove much of a defence for a through-and-through. No, he couldn’t risk taking a shot. Reluctantly, he slid the Sig back into its holster and secured the retaining strap.
He angled to the right, taking a circular route, keeping away from the lights.
The larger man with the beard stopped walking. He stood at right angles to Damian, who had to twist awkwardly to see him. The bearded man’s partner mirrored his movements, stopping on Damian’s other side and standing with his arms crossed. Icy rain soaked his thin top, plastering the material to his skin and making it steam, but he didn’t seem to mind. Too wrapped up in his business to notice.
“Who were you signalling, asshole?” Beardy asked, shouting over the driving rain.
“No one, Mr Williams. Scratching my back, I was. Like I t-told you in … in the Hub.”
Beardy—Williams, probably Demarcus Williams, one of the Goons—danced forwards. This time, his kick connected with Damian’s ribcage, whose scream couldn’t quite muffle the crack of breaking bones. Two, maybe three ribs at least. Damian collapsed, coughing.
Such an injury could puncture a lung.
Damn it.
Kaine scrambled to his feet. Raced forwards.
“Your turn, Mr Cox,” Williams ordered, through his laughter. “See if you can match that.”
Cox made a movement forwards, then stopped, looking in Kaine’s direction. His mouth dropped open and he raised a hand, index finger pointing.
Kaine reached Williams first. In one blinding movement, he snapped out a fist, landed a vicious rabbit punch to the big man’s left kidney, and kept moving.
By the time he hurdled Damian’s crumpled form, Cox still hadn’t had time to finish raising his arm. His open-mouthed face registered shock.
Kaine’s straight jab splintered the man’s nose. Cartilage crunched and blood exploded. Cox screamed, stumbled backwards. His hands flew up in protection, exposing a rounde
d gut.
Close in, Kaine threw a flurry of belly punches. Cox covered up, tried to dodge the blows. He bent double and screamed as his damaged face connected with Kaine’s rising knee.
Slowly, Cox toppled forwards. His face hit the concrete in a sickening crack of splintering teeth and fracturing bones. He lay still, poleaxed, arms splayed wide, legs crossed at the ankles. The only thing missing was a crucifix to nail him to.
A howl and movement from the side and slightly behind made Kaine dive to his left. He somersaulted to his feet, doubled back, and crashed into the legs of a slowly recovering Williams. The big man’s knees buckled, forcing him to the ground.
Breathing hard, Kaine regained his footing.
Williams, lying face up on the concrete, moved his right hand, scrabbling at his side, searching for something. A weapon?
Kaine booted him in the ribs.
Williams howled, coughed. He hugged his chest, the weapon forgotten.
Kaine stepped close to the gagging, spluttering creature and dropped to one a knee. He searched Williams’ pocket and found a snub-nosed revolver, a Smith and Wesson Model 442. Compact and lightweight, designed for concealed carry. Small but powerful. At short range and in the hands of an expert, the .38 could be accurate and highly effective.
Groaning, Williams tried to roll away. Kaine dropped his knee onto the man’s damaged chest.
Williams groaned. Pink spittle flew from his mouth. He stopped moving and Kaine eased off his weight a little.
“Ain’t pleasant, being kicked in the ribs. Is it, arse-wipe?”
Save for the slight rise and fall of his chest, Cox remained motionless. Damian writhed on the ground where he first fell. Struggling for breath, in need of hospitalisation.
Kaine had to move things along.
Built without an internal lock, the S&W 442 was hardly the safest handgun on the planet. He thumbed the release lever, broke open the chamber, removed the bullets, and dropped them into his pocket.
Williams turned his head, breathing heavily, but with difficulty. “Who … who the fuck are you?”
Behind the ski mask, Kaine smiled. “I’m the guy what’s just kicked your fat arse, dickwad.” Kaine winced internally at his use of the vernacular. “The Tribe’s been gettin’ uppity lately, and we’re ’bout ready to close you down.” Acting on the fly, he offered what he hoped was a half-decent East End accent.
“Who are you?” Williams repeated.
“You know who we are.”
“Parkside?”
“Nighty night, arsehole.”
Kaine snapped the 442’s empty chamber closed, reversed the gun, and clubbed the handle to the back of Williams’ head with enough force to stun, but not enough to crush the skull—unless he had a particularly weak one. Not that it mattered too much.
Williams’ eyes rolled up to the back of his head and he flopped back, groaning gently. He’d wake with a screaming headache at the very least, concussion maybe. But he would wake.
Inside the Tribe’s building, more lights bloomed.
Kaine rolled Williams onto his side and lifted his chin to open the airway. He scrambled across to Cox and placed him into the recovery position, too. No deaths on Kaine’s heavily laden conscience this day.
He hurried to where Damian—on hands and knees—was still struggling to breathe. Wet burbling noises confirmed Kaine’s initial diagnosis. The young man’s eyes bulged in fright. Suffocation was a real danger. Drowning in his own blood. A terrifying thought.
“Damian, you’ll be okay. Try not to panic. Try to breathe slowly. Easy for me to say, I know.”
He eased a hand under Damian’s armpit, choosing the uninjured side, and helped him to his feet.
“Come on, son,” Kaine said, pulling the youngster’s arm around his shoulder as gently as possible, trying to ignore Damian’s grunt of pain, “let’s get you to hospital.”
Struggling under the young man’s weight, Kaine shuffled away, heading for the side of the building, with Damian groaning and breathing wetly.
Keeping his eyes and ears open for a flanking attack, Kaine snapped the comms switch.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, are you receiving? Over.”
“Corky’s here, Mr K. Saw the lot. Corky’s impressed. You really kicked arse. Over.”
Kaine panted under the load.
“Thought I’d powered down the comms link. Over.”
“So you did, Mr K, but Corky has a built-in override. He saw and heard everything. Bad language and all. Naughty, Mr K. Over.”
“Alpha Two, Damian’s in a bad way—”
“Yeah, Corky heard. Not to worry, the ambulance is on its way. Should be on the corner of Boothe Avenue and Green Lane in about five minutes. Over.”
“Excellent. Directions to the RV point would help. Over.”
“Keep going as you are, and turn right at the end of Palmerston Road. Follow the bright lights. You’re within seven hundred metres. Over.”
“Thank you, Alpha Two, you are a genius. Over.”
“Tell Corky something he doesn’t know. Hey, Corky’s getting the hang of this radio lingo. Did you notice? Over.”
“Yes, Alpha Two. I noticed and it’s appreciated. Over.”
“Do me one favour though, Mr K. Over.”
“What’s that, Alpha Two? Over.”
“Work on your cockney accent, will ya? You sounded worse than Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Over.”
“Will do, Alpha Two. I promise. Alpha one, out.”
Everyone’s a flaming critic.
Chapter 26
Sunday 19th February – Evening
Walthamstow, NE London
22:14.
Kaine struggled under Damian’s almost dead weight.
In the brightly lit courtyard, they were hopelessly exposed. The blinding light from the movement-activated security spots made them stand out like targets on a firing range. He needed dark, the edge of the halo.
Damn it, move.
He strained under the heavy load, stumbled, corrected his hold on the injured Damian, and trudged forwards. One foot in front of the other. Breathing heavily, gasping.
“Blimey, Damian. Are you lugging … lead weights around in your pockets?”
Damian coughed gently. “Don’t … make me laugh … Mr Griffin. I’s hurting bad.”
They stumbled on the uneven path. Kaine’s legs almost collapsed beneath him. Damian grunted and slumped more heavily against him. He practically had to take the whole of the powerful young man’s dead weight, and his back ached from the struggle.
Sweat mixed with the driving rain. Salt water stung his eyes and ran into his mouth. Breathing heavily, he shifted the burden higher onto his shoulders and struggled onwards.
As if in sympathy, the rain eased a little, changing from tropical downpour to heavy drizzle.
“Stay with me, Damian. Not far now, son. After the medics fix you up, you can find your new home. Anywhere you fancy. You deserve it.”
“T-Thanks … Mr Griffin,” Damian rasped, “I-I didn’t … tell them nothing. Really, I …”
“I know, son. Save your breath. We’re not far.”
A heavy door crashed open behind them, and another light added to the glare.
“Stop them, you morons!” an electronic voice screamed.
TM?
Had to be TM.
Kaine stopped, turned. At his side, Damian’s wet cough sounded worse, even more worrying. He propped the young man against the school’s back wall.
“Damian, can you keep going?”
“I-I think so.” He grimaced, eyes creasing in pain, the scar tissue standing out pale against the dark skin.
Kaine gave him the directions and ended with, “Good man. I’ll catch you up. Go, go, go.”
With one hand pressing against the wall for support, Damian staggered away. Painfully. He needed time to get clear, reach the ambulance collection point, and Kaine was going to provide it.
Kaine turned to face the c
ourtyard and stepped out into the edge of the light. Scanning the scene, he stood his ground in the pouring rain. Feet shoulder width apart, left arm held loosely at his side, right hand resting on the butt of his Sig, the clip unfastened. He was ready for anything. Alone against the Goons. Four or five against one, maybe. He’d survived worse odds, and he only needed to hold off the enemy for a few minutes.
No problem.
Three tall Goons in heavy hooded coats strode out in to the light—one wide, one slim, and one slightly stooped and with bright red hair. The one with red hair bent over Williams, trying to wake him. The slim one did the same with Cox.
“Five thousand pounds to the man who drags that Parkside piece of shit into the Hub! I want to see his face when you kill him.”
The two Goons jumped to their feet. The one who’d remained standing, a white man with a dark suntan, a strongly handsome face, and short-cropped fair hair, grinned.
“Delinquent, Red, and I will be happy to oblige, TM,” he said. Given the circumstances and the downbeat location, the man’s French accent couldn’t have been more incongruous.
“Don’t just stand there, Coulthard. Go grab the fucker. Rhino too!”
The Frenchman, Coulthard, smiled. White teeth bright against the tan, the glint in his blue eyes betrayed … what, excitement? His breathing rate increased in depth and speed, and the exhaled air around his head condensed into a misty halo.
Delinquent, a shaggy-haired, light-skinned man with a youthful face, stepped alongside the Frenchman. The other one, Red, held back, keeping to their shadows.
Delinquent’s lips stretched into a cruel sneer. “Look at the scrawny fucker just standin’ there bold as brass. Why’s he wearin’ that ski mask, d’you think?”
“The coward is too afraid to show his face,” Coulthard answered, loud, taunting.
“What d’you reckon he waitin’ for?”
Coulthard shot his partner a withering glance. “Is it not self-evident? The fellow wants to give Rhino time to escape. Doesn’t matter. Rhino won’t get far. Are you ready to collect your share of the reward money?”
Delinquent nodded. “Let’s go kick his—”
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 22