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

by Kerry J Donovan

  The delicious smells wafting from the shops on the main street—kebabs, curries, and pizzas—made his mouth water. Slicing Benjie’s throat open had done nothing to ruin his appetite. If anything, the metallic tang of warm blood steaming as it mixed with the super-chilled air made him hungrier, ravenous.

  Perhaps he was part vampire.

  Damn.

  But he’d sure as hell make one fine member of the Undead.

  When was the last time he’d eaten? A Subway chicken wrap for lunch and a can of cola.

  Tasty.

  Again, his mouth watered and his stomach grumbled.

  How long ago was that wrap? Ten hours? No wonder his stomach moaned at him so much.

  No time to eat just yet. Food could wait.

  Across the road, the single-storey building—the collection point according to TM—stood squat, dark, and ugly. Surrounded by a chain link fence that wouldn’t stop a kiddie getting in, the place wasn’t a patch on Palmerston School. On the other hand, the place blended in with its surroundings well enough, it seemed to fit the part of a temporary distribution centre. Although how TM gathered his knowledge, fuck knew.

  Worry started to edge into Barcode’s head.

  What if this was nothing but TM’s ploy to lower Barcode’s defences and get him alone? Put him in a place where the Goons could turn him over easy and quiet, like?

  Nah, if TM wanted him gone, he’d have done it in the Hub in front of the rest of the Tribesmen. Another example set to keep the little ones in line.

  Suspicion was a terrible thing. TM had given Barcode a task. A test, for definite. Barcode would get the job done and TM would make good on his promise.

  Honour. That were the way of the Tribe. Always had been, even with the first TM.

  He’d been standing in the same spot for the best part of two hours straight. His feet were just about frozen to the pavement, his calves had started to cramp. To cap it all, despite the black scarf wrapped around his face—one he’d stolen months ago from the Black Bear foot soldier along with the souvenir button—the cold ate into the back of his neck.

  Still, Barcode suffered in silence.

  Movement might give his position away. He refused to shiver. Didn’t rub his hands together for warmth. Barely even breathed for fear of raising a cloud of mist. He stayed put. Unflinching. A man of stone. He was ready. Ready for anything the Parksider assholes or their suppliers could throw at him.

  If TM were true to his word, Barcode would soon be boss of a bigger patch and take home more paper. The biggest patch in the Tribe it would be, and he’d earn more income than anyone outside of the Goons. A half-decent promotion, and one step higher up the ladder.

  Upwardly mobile, that’s what he’d be.

  A climber.

  As the new crew boss, Barcode would be managing a fifteen-man operation. He’d be facilitator, security officer, personnel manager, and a fuckin’ wet-nurse to the newbies. He’d mosh around the hood, in charge of seven pitches, making sure of the product’s availability and that it moved smoothly from Hub to pitch, and on to the customer with the minimum of disruption. Only he and the team leaders, Spook and Big Robert, would handle the product itself. The juniors, each one big and useful with knives and sticks, handled protection. They were junior only in rank, not in age. The titches, kiddies like Lil’ Aran, crept around at the bottom of the pecking order. Gofers desperate for a piece of the action, they survived on scraps and tips, standing in when illness or the filth took out one of the crew.

  Barcode read the time off his cheap digital watch—he’d left the distinctive gold Rolex knock-off in his crib. Didn’t want nothing to give him away.

  Not long now.

  Assuming TM’s info was legit and not bullshit, Barcode was about to take care of the second piece of business that night, and he was still riding high from doing Benjie. Even though the gnawing cold and the icy rain had chilled his bones and frozen the skin on his face, he managed a happy smile. Getting his own back on the rat-faced weasel kept him warm during his long wait.

  Benjie Harrington, aka Weasel, RIP!

  Gone and good fuckin’ riddance.

  Another seven minutes passed and the temperature dropped with the speed of a ho’s drawers as the wind whistling through the gaps in the houses increased. Fuckin’ hell, it couldn’t have been no worse.

  Still, Barcode didn’t stir from his hiding place.

  Wait. What’s this?

  A single headlight raked the alley, and the high-pitched whine of a moped—an ancient Aprilia RS50, according to TM—sliced through the low rumble of traffic on the far end of Deal Road.

  Yeah, here we go. ’Bout fuckin’ time.

  Barcode let the smile widen.

  He flexed some warmth into his fingers. He needed dexterity, speed, and strength. Wouldn’t get none of them with bitter cold, and frozen digits. He pulled out the knife, snapped open the blade, and watched as the stainless steel reflected the light from one of the streetlights.

  The honed edge of stainless steel turned him on.

  Barcode pressed harder against the brickwork, flattening himself out, melting further into the shadow.

  Timing was everything.

  He pulled the black scarf up and the hood down, leaving only a thin sliver of a gap. Enough to see through, but not enough to be recognised. Two jackets and a big black coat changed his shape and the pebble in the heel of his right sneaker would give him a limp and alter his movement—a trick he’d seen in an old spy movie. Ain’t nobody was gonna recognise him in his black rig even if he managed to step into range of some hidden snooper’s camera. Let alone the boy on the moped, who’d be shitting himself the second he spied the blade.

  Moped Boy, with a backpack dangling from his shoulders, leaned the Aprilia against the rusted railings surrounding the warehouse. He left the 50cc, two-stroke motor running and jogged along the path leading to the distribution centre’s front doors. He’d parked under the working streetlight, presumably for security, making it easy for Barcode to read the number plate.

  Well, fuck’s sake.

  The number tallied with the one TM made him memorise. Boss Man weren’t pulling a fast one, after all.

  Barcode’s heart beat faster, his blood started pumping, spreading the necessary warmth through his body.

  The moment Moped Boy slipped through the unlocked front door and disappeared into the building, Barcode pushed out from his hiding spot. He darted across the poorly lit street, limping on his right leg, and crouched behind a green dumpster, twenty metres from the fast-idling moped.

  If anyone in the warehouse spotted his move, Barcode’s chances of surviving the night wouldn’t be worth shit, but the bitter wind and downlow temperatures kept the guards inside the building, heads down.

  Assuming TM’s information held up, and so far, it had been dead exact, Moped Boy would only be inside for a few seconds. Then he and the Aprilia would return the way they’d come, heading back to the Parksiders’ new base, only they wouldn’t arrive. At least, not in one piece.

  Barcode started counting.

  The short sprint had done bugger-all to warm him, but only succeeded in making his legs scream out in cramp. But the cramp wouldn’t last long. The Parksiders’ loss of face and loss of product would more than compensate for Barcode’s minor discomfort. He’d warm up soon enough.

  By the time he reached an internal count of thirty-three, the big metal door creaked open and Moped Boy jogged out. His backpack was fatter and hung lower on its straps, looking plenty heavier than it did when he arrived.

  The fucker jogged down the steps, fastening the chinstrap of his bike helmet as he moved. He kept his head lowered and his eyes down.

  Too easy.

  The kid finished adjusting his bin lid, pulled the Aprilia upright, and threw his leg over the saddle. The engine screamed and he peeled away from the pavement with what Barcode imagined was an attempted wheelie, but the underpowered little bike didn’t have the guts and all t
he kid managed was a front wheel wobble.

  Time this right, Barcode.

  Moped Boy raced the Aprilia towards the dumpster.

  The moment he drew alongside, Barcode stepped out and clotheslined the little fucker right off the saddle. With his arm protected by the sleeves of the two heavy jackets and a rolled up newspaper, Barcode felt nothing but a gentle thump.

  The Aprilia carried on going and Moped Boy landed on his butt, rolled, and slammed into the low wall on the other side of the road. Ten metres away, the moped hit the tarmac. Orange sparks flew.

  With his switchblade raised and leading the way, Barcode reached Moped Boy before the unlucky fucker knew what was happening. The first two knife swipes cut through the webbing straps holding the backpack across the kid’s shoulders. The third sweep sliced through Moped Boy’s left Achilles tendon, a fraction above the heel notch of his sneaker.

  The kid screamed. Tried to scramble away. Screamed again when Barcode lunged forwards, aiming a slash at the fucker’s inner thigh, but missed.

  Shit.

  He slashed again and nicked the leg, but only lightly.

  “What the fuck?” Moped Boy squeaked, still trying to back away, but being hindered by his fucked-up leg. “You insane. Know who I work for? Asshole!”

  Barcode’s blade dug in again, struck bone. Again, Moped Boy screamed.

  “Black Bear Clan don’t like being shafted, fucker!”

  “What?” Moped Boy yelled. “You fucker, you fuck—”

  Lights snapped on in the surrounding buildings. The warehouse shutters screeched open. Figures poured through the opening.

  Barcode gripped the backpack, turned, and race-limped for the Aprilia. With its engine still running, he righted it, jumped aboard, and twisted the throttle. The beautiful little beasty took off like a butt-kicked ho.

  Less than thirty seconds. In. Out.

  Job done.

  He got away clean.

  Barcode crushed down the need to yell in delight. Couldn’t risk the chance of his distinctive laugh giving him away.

  With a shift of bodyweight and a twitch of the handlebars, he jagged right onto Harbinger Row, scooted around a slow-moving taxi, and headed for the safety of the canal.

  Chapter 33

  Monday 20th February – Barcode

  Walthamstow, NE London

  00:58.

  Twenty minutes after ripping off Moped Boy, and with the empty backpack, the moped, and his disguise still burning in a disused car park, Barcode turned for home, searching for his next ride—anything ancient would do. He always targeted cars made before the turn of the millennium since they was less likely to have factory-fitted immobilisers.

  Of course, he could have walked home. Wasn’t all that that far. Five, six miles maybe. Could stroll it in less than two hours. But a huge black guy schlepping the back streets alone and in the middle of the night would draw attention to hisself. It didn’t pay to ask for trouble with the filth, not with the load he was carrying. A kilo of blow and a surprise find—a roll of cash—was not something he could easily explain away.

  “Oh no, officer. This gear ain’t mine. Just looking after if for a friend, innit,” he muttered into the dark.

  Ha!

  Armed with his knife, he could take care of the average plod, but TM was expecting him in a couple of hours and Barcode didn’t want to cause upset, not with him being so close to “made man” status. No. The current situation called for extra caution.

  Barcode could have tried hailing a cab, but the same rules applied. Weren’t many cabbies gonna to stop for a big black man in the middle of the night. No fuckin’ way. Yeah, and he could have called one of the Tribesmen with a car for a lift, but that would mean he’d have to share the glory.

  Nah.

  Taking the Parksiders’ latest delivery was Barcode’s way into the big time. No way was he gonna share it with no one.

  A twenty-five-year-old Ford Fiesta, parked badly with two wheels up on the pavement, was just begging to be taken. In passing, he plonked a butt cheek heavily on the bonnet. The fuckin’ thing started wailing like a dog with its bollocks caught on a barbwire fence.

  Shit!

  To his right, a man shouted something obscene.

  Barcode raced away, ducked down a side street, and continued sprinting, with the breath rattling in his lungs, his legs aching, and the sweat pouring. He only slowed when the car horn stopped blaring and the man stopped yelling.

  Why run?

  Should have faced the asshole down, sliced him open, but …

  Getting into a dust-up with a civilian wouldn’t do much to keep his profile on the downlow.

  Half a mile later, with the cramp finally easing from his calves, he spotted another candidate. A shitty little Renault 5, in two-tone grey and rust. Perfect. The French knew shit-all about how to build a thief-proof car. He repeated the ass-on-the-bonnet trick. This time, the rust box stayed silent.

  During his time as a car thief, he’d learned all the tricks and often carried tools for the job, including slim-jims, levers, wedges, cables, bump locks, screwdrivers, whatever. Although each had its strength and weakness and offered entry to most vehicles without damage, they all took time. For the present situation, walking in the middle of a winter’s night in a gathering rainstorm, Barcode preferred the rapid, low-tech approach. With a rock picked up from a nearby garden, he caved in the rear passenger’s window—no one wanted to sit on a driver’s seat covered in sharp nuggets of glass. He pulled open the passenger’s door, leaned inside, and unlocked the driver’s door.

  Fuck-all to it.

  Ten seconds—and a screwdriver rammed into the ignition lock—later, the engine spluttered into life, and Barcode was off. He tried leaving the kerb with a tyre-burning screech, but the underpowered car shot forwards with all the pent up fury of a kitten playing with a ball of wool.

  So what if the smashed window let in the freezing air and the winter rain? It was a damn sight better than walking, and the little car’s heater soon started pumping hot air onto his face and hands.

  Fuckin’ aces.

  After racing from the area, he slowed to the speed limit and headed towards Walthamstow with a smile so wide, his cheeks soon started to ache and, again, his belly rumbled. Thieving and knife-work always gave him an appetite. The time on the dashboard clock read 01:03.

  Since TM didn’t expect him much before three o’clock, he had plenty of time to pick up some grub. A pepperoni pizza would go down great about now.

  Barcode pulled the shit-box Renault around the corner from the takeaway, parked in the darkest part of the street, and pushed through a steamed-up glass door into the bright, warm, delicious-smelling pizzeria. He sidled up to the counter and beamed at Petey, who took turns helping out his old man whenever he couldn’t get out of it.

  Barcode acted all calm and friendly, like. Relaxed.

  Nothin’ a matter here. Nothin’ going on at all. No, sir.

  “Wh’appening, blood?”

  Looking tired and bored to death, Petey nodded. “Wh’appening?”

  “Things good?”

  “Yeah, bruv. Business is good,” Petey answered in his slow—some would say dumb-assed—drawl. But none would say it to the fucker’s face. Petey was meaner than he looked, and he looked real mean all the time. “Pizzas are flying out the door and my dad’s gonna be here in an hour. Then I’m due to hit my pit.” He glanced over his shoulder at the kitchen door before leaning across the counter. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “You been gone awhile. Some secret mission for TM, right?”

  Barcode sucked air between his teeth and brushed a finger to the side of his nose. “S’right.”

  “Go okay?”

  Barcode leaned back and opened his arms wide before patting the stolen stash bulging in his jacket pocket. “Hey, Petey, my man. When TM need something done, he call on the only Tribesman who matters, y’know?”

  Petey smiled. “I know, Barcode. I know
well enough. Want yo’ usual?”

  “Sure enough. Double up on the pepperoni and add a Coke, ’kay? This niggah’s starvin’.”

  “Being out this late is likely gonna do that to you, bruv,” Petey said, while working the fresh dough into a platter, spreading the sauce, and throwing on a load of mozzarella and a handful of sliced sausage. “I saw that Renault you pulled up in. Make sure you leave it well enough away from my dad’s shop, y’hear? We don’t want no comeback from the pigs like what happened last time.”

  Barcode scrunched up his face. He didn’t take kindly to being told what to do by a junior, but he let it pass. Didn’t want nothing killing his buzz. The good mood was here to stay. At least for a while.

  “No probs, Petey. I’s on my way to the Hub now. Needed some o’ your homemade pie afore my chat with TM. I’ll dump the wheels well away from this place. Dig?”

  “Thanks, bruv,” Petey said, lowering his head as though finally remembering his place in the Tribe’s pecking order. As he slid the uncooked pizza into the oven, Barcode enjoyed the blast of heat that toasted his face.

  Petey set the timer for seven minutes and looked up at him.

  “You hear ’bout Rhino?”

  Barcode just about managed to stop himself nodding. As far as the world was concerned, he’d seen no one from the Tribe that night, and definitely not Benjie. No, definitely not Benjie the Weasel.

  He frowned and shook his head. “Nah. Wazzap with the man? Ariel drop the baby or something?”

  Petey repeated what the weasel was in the middle of saying before Barcode sliced him open, ending with, “Yeah, bro. Demarcus Williams and Crabapple drag him outta the Hub and into the courtyard. Man, he was screaming his innocence and crying like a baby. Then TM told us all to fuck off.”

  “Did you see Rhino make a signal?”

  Petey shook his head. “Nah, didn’t see nothing, me. Too busy concentrating on TM’s speechifying. Impressed with what he said ’bout you, bruv.”