“Nope. Don’t know who he is and don’t give a fuck. All I know is he pays well and likes his privacy. Only time I come in here is to let the cleaners in and watch over them while they work. TM don’t come in unless no one’s around.”
“Hmm,” Sean said, again, to mostly himself.
“Yeah. Hmm. It’s just you an’ me in here, fuckwit. TM ain’t falling for none of your bullshit. No fucking way.”
“So, what … what are we doing here?” Sean asked, swallowing hard and allowing a false tremble to return to his voice. “You’re … not going to try and force the information out of me with that gun, are you?”
Williams leaned closer. Close enough for Sean to smell his breath. Halitosis didn’t work well with a spicy aftershave.
“I hope so, fucker,” he growled. “I really do hope so.”
Something clicked, an electric motor whirred, and the middle three shelves of the full-length bookcase behind the desk slid apart to reveal a monitor the exact duplicate of the one in the Hub. On it, TM’s blurry outline appeared, almost large as life.
“Oh no,” Sean said, trembling again. “Am I still in trouble? Aren’t we ever going to meet?”
“No, Mr Freeman. I’ll be with you in a moment. In fact, I’m really looking forward to meeting you. I just need Mr Williams to run a magic wand over you. To make sure you’re unarmed and not carrying any nasty surprises, like recording equipment.”
“I don’t have anything you need to worry about, TM. Honest I don’t.”
Without lowering the gun or taking his eyes from Sean, Williams slid open the drawer in a small occasional table, reached in, and pulled out a handheld scanner. Grey and gleaming. State-of-the-art. Sean had used something similar in the past. Williams’ scanner detected both ferrous metals and electronic signals. It couldn’t pick up ceramics, though. It wouldn’t identify the ceramic knife hidden inside his leather belt, cunningly disguised as part of the buckle.
Sean never went anywhere without at least some defensive capability.
“Legs apart, arms out to the sides,” Williams ordered.
“Why, are we going to dance? If so, can I lead?”
“Fuck off, funny man.”
“Sorry. Sorry. Can’t seem to help myself.”
Sean stood still but trembled while the semi-literate buffoon swept over him with the scanner. Its ticking remained constant and even. No spikes or squeals seemed to confirm his claims. As far as the scanner was concerned, he was unarmed and had no recording devices.
“Satisfied?”
“More than satisfied, thank you, Mr Freeman. You’ll forgive me for being hyper-cautious, but security is everything in our game.”
Halfway through the speech, the electronic voice modulation deactivated and TM became less of a machine and more of a human being.
Williams’ expression was a picture. Surprise etched itself into every line and crease of his chiselled face.
“Close your mouth, Mr Williams. There are no flies in this room for you to catch,” TM said.
Williams snapped his mouth shut and swallowed. Slowly, the expression changed from surprise to confusion and then to recognition as a slim man of medium height and in his early twenties stepped through a door that had been hidden by one of the bookcases in the far corner of the room.
The man, dressed impeccably in a handmade suit and polished loafers, smiled broadly.
“You!” Williams said.
The scanner tumbled from his fingers, landed on the thick pile carpet, bounced, and settled.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the false fire coming from the TV screen in the fireplace.
“Yes, Mr Williams. Me,” the newcomer said, his accent educated and the voice gentle.
“Care to enlighten me?” Sean asked, although he knew the man’s name the moment he’d stepped from the shadows.
Sean was playing a role and would play it through to the end.
Corky had identified all the players in the game, and had sent Sean all their dossiers, including a fairly thin one on the man who stood before him, wearing an expensive suite and a welcoming grin.
Chapter 40
Monday 20th February – The Bout
Walthamstow, NE London
02:59.
“You’re going to rot in hell, Freeman!” Kaine screamed, struggling to free himself from the restraining hands.
“I expect so,” Freeman answered, smiling with evident glee, “but not as soon as you, old friend.”
They started in on him before the monitor on the wall powered off, and before Williams had finished pushing Freeman through one of the doors.
Delinquent landed the first blow, a rabbit punch to Kaine’s kidney. It did little damage. Kaine was ready for it, and the kid’s punch lacked any real power, restricted as he was by the reduced wind up, and the fact he was still holding tight to Kaine’s right wrist.
Essex Boy Robbie reacted slowly. Too slowly.
Using their grip on his wrists as support, Kaine flipped his legs up and over his head. His wrists suffered Chinese burns, but the holds broke and he landed on his feet, both arms free.
Coulthard screamed something unintelligible.
Kaine’s instant, short-armed left jab broke Delinquent’s nose again. Fresh blood flowed over the already congealed mess, spreading into a mask. Delinquent staggered backwards, screaming, hands covering the renewed damage to his face.
Essex Boy Robbie turned, mouth wide open. Kaine’s close-combat elbow strike broke his jaw, and the follow-up heel strike shattered the man’s right kneecap.
Two down, three to go.
A screaming, ranting Coulthard backed away, his good hand digging awkwardly into a trouser pocket, searching desperately for a weapon.
Kaine turned to the remaining two. Both big, both tough-looking. The one on the left, Baseball, had wide shoulders and stood over six foot tall. The Goon had retrieved his bat from the outer hallway, but no longer tapped the fat end into his cupped hand. This time, he held the bat in both hands, right over left, and held it high, a batter at the plate.
The fifth man, as tall as his dark-skinned mate but slimmer and white, carried a flick-knife in his left hand.
A southpaw.
Southpaws could be awkward in close combat and needed special consideration, but this one stood on Baseball’s right, which restricted his natural movement. The two would be getting in each other’s way. The most basic of errors. Southpaw was no trained professional and neither was Baseball.
Time to finish this and get to Freeman.
Kaine rolled his shoulders and eased the stiffness from his neck. He took up the first defensive position, standing sideways to the two Goons, leading with the left arm, right fist cocked and ready, the left foot slightly ahead of the right. Maintaining good balance, he stood still, calculating.
The two Goons paused, swapped hesitant glances.
Apart from when he’d allowed it to happen, none of the Goons had landed a decent shot on him, and their expressions told him they knew it. Their indecision told the story.
A bit of bravado might end things quickly. He clapped his hands. Both men blinked.
Coulthard, still backing away, had found his weapon, another vicious-looking butterfly knife, its eight-centimetre blade glinting as brightly as his first one had. The Frenchman certainly loved his butterfly knives, but he hadn’t been as slick opening it with his left hand. He didn’t look as comfortable holding it, or as confident.
“Okay, boys. Let’s have some fun,” Kaine said, adding a crazed laugh.
After all, as far as these plonkers were concerned, they faced a raving lunatic who’d blown up a passenger plane and cold-bloodedly assassinated all those innocent people.
Time to make the lie work for him for a change.
Smiling madly, Kaine relaxed his fists, flexed his fingers, and shook out his wrists. He rose onto the balls of his feet and shuffled forwards and back, swaying from side to side as though he
was in a boxing ring, warming up before a bout.
“I’ve been looking forward to this. Come get me.”
He danced forwards and threw a lightning left jab into Southpaw’s ribs. The air rushed out of him in a whoosh. The knife fell from his hand.
Kaine sashayed backwards and performed a perfect Ali shuffle, ending with a feint to the left and delivering a solid gut-punch to Baseball’s six-pack.
Baseball swung his bat wildly. It whistled through empty air, sailing high over Kaine’s ducked head.
Kaine danced away again, untouched.
“Come on, boys. I’m getting bored with this,” he said, still bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You know I’m a stone cold killer. Famed for it, I am! Which one of you wants to die first?”
With Essex Boy Robbie and Delinquent still rolling on the floor and groaning behind them, Baseball and Southpaw hesitated again.
“You with the bat,” Kaine said, beckoning with his fingers, “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough. I’m gonna make you wear that thing like a rectal probe.”
Kaine almost winced at his words and doubted either Goon knew what a rectal probe might be. He should have told the man where he was going to stick his bat, but he’d used enough unsavoury language for one night.
Baseball and Southpaw exchanged another rapid glance. Baseball nodded and dropped the bat. They turned tail and raced from the Hub as though the place had caught fire, or as though Kaine’s bluff with the burner phone had been real. In his haste, Southpaw bowled into Coulthard, knocking him to the floor. He landed on the point of his elbow, knocking the butterfly knife from his hand. The knife, like its earlier partner, skittered away from its French owner, useless.
Kaine dropped his guard, lowering his hands, flicking them out again. That had been almost too easy.
He strode purposefully towards the Frenchman, who scrambled away, one elbow and two feet scraping the parquet and polishing nice track marks in the dust and the grime.
When Kaine reached the grovelling Coulthard, he stopped and stood menacingly over him. The Frenchman snarled, raised his good arm in a pitiful attempt to protect his face, which was no longer as handsome as it had been earlier. Fear and swollen bruises would do that to a face.
“Not to worry, Alphonse, old chap,” Kaine said, turning on the charm, “you’re safe enough. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“You’re not going to kill me, monsieur?”
Kaine shook his head. “Not this time, Alphonse. I’ve had my fill of killing for a while. And it’s Captain, not mister. Captain Kaine, okay?”
Coulthard nodded.
“Now,” Kaine said, sinking to his haunches beside the defeated man, but making sure he could still see the two flailing Goons on his left, “since I’ve been so nice by letting you live, would you do me a little favour?”
Coulthard dipped his chin into his chest and looked up at Kaine through bushy dark eyebrows.
“What?”
“Nothing too onerous, old chap. Just help your two colleagues out of here. If I see anyone on my return, I won’t be so generous. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” Kaine added venom and a snarl to his question and did it so well he almost scared himself.
“Oiu, monsi—er, I mean, yes, Capitaine Kaine.”
“Excellent, excellent. Hoped I could rely on you, old chap.”
Kaine stood.
Essex Boy Robbie had turned onto his front and was struggling to push himself onto his hands and one knee. Delinquent sat in a heap, knees up to his chest, leaning against a wall, trying to stop the blood pouring from his nose.
“One more thing. Will you answer a couple of questions?” he asked.
“B-Bien sûr, Capitaine. Si possible.”
Kaine pointed to the door through which Demarcus Williams and Sean Freeman had recently disappeared.
“Where does that lead?”
“To the kitchen and the back rooms, Capitaine.”
“Is that where TM is right now?”
Coulthard raised one shoulder in one half of a Gallic shrug, the other being hampered by the sling. “Je ne sais pas. I do not know. Why?”
Kaine rubbed his hands together. “Thought I’d have a word with him and catch up with my old mate, Sean Freeman.”
He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Behind him, Coulthard grunted and used his good hand to push himself to a seated position.
“Monsieur le Capitaine?”
Without stopping, Kaine said, “Yes?”
“You are honourable, I think.”
“And?”
“I, too, have honour. Demarcus Williams has a gun. I … wanted to remind you.”
Kaine reached the door. He stopped and turned to the Frenchman.
“Thanks,” he said, adding a sideways smile. “I hadn’t forgotten.”
Chapter 41
Monday 20th February – Lara Orchard
Cambourne Cross Hospital, London
03:08.
A shadow fell across Lara. She glanced up to find Connor Blake standing over her, but at a respectful distance. He held a plastic cup in each hand and smiled.
“Looks like you need a pick-me-up, Doc,” he said, offering her one of the steaming drinks.
She sniffed the dark brown liquid before taking a tentative sip. Coffee, served in the military way—hot, black, and with something like three heaped teaspoons of artery blocker. She managed not to grimace as the scalding, over-sweetened drink burned her tongue.
“Thanks, Connor.”
“Reckon you could do with some rest, too,” he added, taking the chair alongside her.
He sat to attention, his eyes scanning the waiting area, never at ease. They were in a small bay, directly across from the pre-op suite, where Damian lay awaiting his turn in theatre. The last time Lara entered the windowless room, Ariel was seated at Damian’s side, holding his hand with both of hers, crying silent tears.
For his part, Damian had fallen in and out of consciousness, fighting the debilitating effects of a punctured lung, broken ribs, and a significant blow to the side of the head.
A nurse marched along the hallway outside, glancing at notes on a clipboard. She stopped, smiled at Connor, and retraced her steps back along the halls, reappearing moments later carrying a clipboard of a different colour.
“Nurse Gorringe?” Lara said, standing.
The nurse’s shoulders dropped slightly, but she barely slowed. “No news, Dr Griffin,” she said. “Mr Shah is on his way in. He’ll arrive shortly. Theatre is prepped and ready.” Her voice faded out as she pushed through the doors at the end of the corridor—the doors marked Operating Suite Three.
Lara returned to her stiff plastic chair, the ones cunningly designed to be as ergonomically uncomfortable as possible. Undoubtedly intended to stop visitors sleeping and encourage them on their way as fast as humanly possible.
Beside her, Connor growled. Showing frustration for the first time that night.
“This is ridiculous. Poor bloke could be dying in there. I’ve seen more efficient medical cover on the battlefield.”
“Can’t be helped, Connor. It’s the middle of the night and you can’t magic up a thoracic surgeon at the drop of a hat. I’m sure Mr Shah will be here soon.”
“Sorry, Doc.” Connor raised his hands in apology. “Not a big fan of hangin’ around in hospitals, is all. Don’t suppose you fancy doing the op yourself?”
She paused and slid Connor a questioning look before hiding it with a wince. It suddenly dawned on her that Connor might not know her actual qualifications. She and Ryan hadn’t had a moment alone together since the reservoir, and he had no time to brief her fully on Connor’s position in the group.
“I mean, after all,” Connor said, leaning close, a serious expression on his angular and darkly handsome face, “cutting open a gang member ain’t all that different from operating on a horse or a cow, is it?”
He took a deliberately loud slurp o
f his coffee, smiled, and added a wink.
“So, you know,” she said. A statement rather than a question.
“Yes, Doc. The moment the news broke about the captain and the trumped up charges against him, I made a point of watching every news article and reading every bullshit word the idiot hacks printed on the plane crash.”
He took another sip, this one silent, before continuing.
“You know there’s a whole load of Facebook groups and Twitter hashtags dedicated to Flight BE1555 and the captain. Some say he’s a wronged hero, others reckon he’s the devil hisself. Mind you, anyone who’s ever met the captain will be on the first side of the argument. No way he’s a terrorist. Never met a more honest or honourable geezer.”
Keeping her voice low, Lara said, “Ryan is innocent and we have the evidence to prove it.”
Connor turned fully towards her, excitement etched into his face. “Yeah?”
She nodded. “Video evidence of a confession by Sir Malcolm Sampson—”
“The arms manufacturer?”
He spoke louder than she’d have liked and she patted the air between them to silence him.
“Yes,” she said, checking both ends of the corridor to confirm no one was close enough to eavesdrop.
“Way I heard it, Sampson were banged up for tax fraud, yeah?”
“That’s what the authorities wanted the public to think, but Sampson tricked Ryan into shooting down that plane. Or rather, paid a man called Gravel to trick him.”
“Gravel? You mean Major Graham Valence?”
Again, she nodded.
“The captain’s boss and one of his oldest friends?” Connor added.
“Yes. I doubt anyone else could have pulled the wool over Ryan’s eyes … Still, Gravel did pay for his treachery.”
“When his farmhouse exploded?”
“Yes.”
Connor raised a little fist pump. “I knew that weren’t no gas mains failure,” Connor said and nodded to himself. “Poetic justice, you ask me. The captain’s doing?”
“No,” she answered, taking another sip from her cup. This time, she couldn’t hide the wince.
Ryan Kaine: On the Money: (Ryan Kaine's 83 series Book 5) Page 33