A Reason to Kill (23 page)

DOM
inserted the short gold tube into his left nostril, hunched over the desk and snorted the second line of glittering nose candy. He breathed out through his mouth, leant back and closed his eyes as the rush sparked in his brain. He was not a regular user. This was a special occasion. The stress over the last week or two had weakened his resolve. Just a toot or two wouldn’t harm. Everything in moderation, with the exception of sex. “Oh, yes, yeesss!” He whispered. What a sensation. He wasn’t just high; he was on the fucking ceiling. His heart was pounding like a wild animal throwing itself at the bars of a cage. It was time to rock ‘n’ roll. The new cloakroom attendant had been coming on to him, flashing her baby-blues, fluttering her eye lashes like a china doll as she ran the tip of her tongue over glossed lips and appraised him. Well, she’d got his attention. He was as hard as rock. It hurt. He needed to fuck her stupid.

Eddie and Tiny had been sent to clean up the cop and hitter mess, and the old man had gone home. It was playtime.

‘Red’ Sevano – whose Italian father had married an Irish showgirl, resulting in his flame hair and nickname – was Dom’s personal fixer. Whatever Dom wanted, Red provided.

“Ring-a-ding-ding, Red,” Dom said, giving his aide a toothy grin. “Go get that new girl from the cloakroom to come up. I’ll be in my suite.”

“You got it, boss,” Red said.

Dom was obsessed with women. Fresh, young, attractive women, that he had not had the pleasure of being intimate with. He loved them collectively, not as individuals, but as a seductive breed apart. Had he not been wealthy, powerful, and in a position to attract willing partners, then he faced up to the fact that he would have been a serial rapist. Fantasising was not enough. He had to partake, and frequently.

Her name was Naomi.

Red showed her into Dom’s private apartment on the top floor of the club and discreetly took his leave.

Dom turned on the charm offensive, all but stripping Naomi with a lustful stare that left her in no doubt as to why she had been invited up.

She felt comfortable in his company. He reminded her of a favourite uncle she had fooled around with years ago. Her uncle had not been a paedophile in the accepted sense of the word. It had been her who’d seduced him. She had been staying with her Aunt Barbara and Uncle Roy at their house in Southend for a week, back in 2003. Her aunt had gone out pubbing it with girlfriends, leaving Roy to baby-sit their teenage niece.

She smiled at Dom as fond memories of being with her uncle flashed through her mind. She had snuggled up to Roy on the settee to watch TV. Her hand was on his lap, and she felt him begin to squirm as he became aroused. She let her fingers do the walking, to the fork of his thighs, and heard his sharp intake of breath as she fondled him. Within minutes he was stroking her through her panties, and then they were up in her room, almost ripping the clothes off each other…

...“No,” Roy had said. “We can’t do this, Naomi.” But there was no conviction in his voice, and she had gently guided him into her.

“It’s all right,” she’d said. “I’ve done it before. No one will ever know. Please, do it...Fuck me, Uncle.”

And so he had, at every opportunity during that week.

Dom’s eyes latched onto hers, and the look in them made her feel special. This could be the start of something big. She was ambitious, and determined to use her physical attributes to turn her life around. Dominic Santini might well be her salvation; a prize catch. Whatever had to be done to land him, she was up for it, and could live with.

Naomi Lynch had run away from the council house and her parents and siblings over four years ago, and had not returned to the hovel on the estate at Dagenham. She’d phoned her mother, just once, to let the old cow know that she hadn’t been abducted or murdered. Living rough had not been so bad. She had given blowjobs to kerb-crawlers to make ends meet, before she had been looked after properly by a pimp who knew a good thing when he saw it. Being freelance in the city was not an option. But she was bright, always looking for a better life. It had been a goon who worked for the Santinis’ who’d got her the job at Rocco’s. The dumb bastard thought she loved him. He didn’t want anybody else touching her, so had pulled strings to get her off the street. Now she was setting her sights higher. If Dominic liked what she had to offer, then she reckoned her future might be secure. Had Naomi been more astute, then she would have realised that men like Dom did not get serious with the help. She was recognised for what she was, a brass. Sex on legs. A young working girl who would end up an old whore on the docks, back to giving head in the shadows to men that paid cheap for a warm mouth to get them off.

They snorted coke, and Dom plied her with champagne. Before too long she was both giggly and giddy.

“I feel so light-headed,” Naomi said.

“Better lay down for awhile, then,” Dom suggested.

“Mmm, that might help.”

He lifted her up off the sofa, one hand curled round over a breast, the other up her skirt against the bare flesh of her thighs. She looped her arms round his neck and nuzzled his ear as she was carried into the bedroom.

As Dom lowered her onto the top of the king-size bed, she pulled him down and found his lips with hers.

The room was spinning. Naomi felt detached, separate from her body. Too much coke and bubbly. She was spaced out. Dom slowly removed all her clothes, kissing every inch of her body as each item was cast aside. She opened herself to first his mouth, crying out as his tongue pleasured her. And when he was ready and shifted over her, she raised her legs, hooked her ankles over his thighs and moaned as he entered her. She responded, met his deep thrusts, and marvelled at his drug-induced stamina. He brought her to the edge, then over it and into a realm where she had rarely been. Dom was insatiable, and became violent.

The cocaine acted as a buffer to the pain. Naomi hardly felt the grasping-tearing-pummelling hands that bruised her flesh. Or the teeth as they bit her lips and nipples.

Much later, she came to, shivering. He was beneath the bedclothes next to her, fast asleep. She had passed out. The session had left her aching and sore. Even her back passage felt torn and wet. Had he...She reached down between her legs. When she looked at her fingers, they were bloody. This was not what she had planned on. And yet she determined not to follow her instincts and run. The experience had been extreme, but not beyond repeating. She was hurting, but also satisfied in some fundamental kinky way she could not understand.

After tending to herself in the bathroom, Naomi climbed back into bed next to Dom, put her arm around his waist and went back to sleep.

One-thirty in the morning. Not a whisper of a breeze, and the moon’s cold light was shrouded by cloud. Perfect. All that was missing was the star of the show, who would shortly be making his final live appearance.

Gary had seen only eight people throughout the day. No doubt there was staff in the house, including a live-in cook or housekeeper. The dog patrols and other muscle were the only relevant threat to him. There was a separate building where they stood down from duty. It appeared that they were on four-hour shifts. Not too long to get complacent. Good thinking. Santini wasn’t completely thick.

Shafts of light glancing off trees. He sighted the scope on the drive and followed the Merc in. This was it. Many hours of physical inertia, to soon be followed by sudden, explosive action. All hell would break loose a second after he pulled the trigger.

The car slowed to a stop at the front of the house. He brought the space above the rear door area of the vehicle into sharp focus. Worked on his breathing. He was ready.

Nick left the engine running, got out and went back to open the door for Santini. Frank swung his legs out, and as he pushed himself up, Nick moved behind him and closed the door. No one came out of the house, so Nick followed his ‘boss’ up the steps, only turning back when the door opened and Carlo appeared.

“Thanks Ray. See you in the morning,” Frank said.

“Yeah. Goodnight, boss,” Nick replied.

Jesus fucking Christ! He had no shot. The driver was in the way. He may well have been able to shoot through the dummy who was unknowingly shielding Santini, taking both of them out with one bullet, or maybe not. He hadn’t gone to all this trouble just to waste one of the hirelings.

It was to have been a straightforward kill. A soft hit. He had been stymied. He should have taken the shot, but had hesitated. The bullet
would
have gone through both of them, but might not have killed Santini. And the last thing he wanted to do was put the wind up the guy, or deliver a warning. The no good bastard had to die. The prospect of waiting another day was frustrating. He was shaking with rage, and the voices were starting up in his head; cajoling, mocking and lambasting him for his failure. This wasn’t a subject open for debate with his demons. The incident had left him a little unnerved. But he hadn’t blown it, just needed to settle back and think it through. A full frontal assault on the house might be the way to go. He was already on the inside; an enemy in the camp. The element of surprise would be wholly his. He could hold fire – literally – for an hour or so, then break in, walk into Santini’s bedroom and have a little chat with the wop before popping him.

As he procrastinated and the minutes ticked by, a light came on at an upstairs window. He sighted-in on it and saw a glimpse of Santini through the open curtains. Maybe he wouldn’t have to wait, after all.

He was relaxed, at one with his surroundings. Drew his left leg up and braced his right foot against one of the heavy fertiliser bags. The strap of the Heckler & Koch HK91 was tightly wound around his arm, making the weapon an extension of himself. The assault rifle was effective at three times the distance he was from his target, and was extremely accurate, deserving its reputation as being one of the finest combat rifles ever produced. He planned to put one 7.62 NATO round into Santini, which would punch through him and maybe two brick walls behind him, such was the power of the full metal-jacketed shells.

Putting his eye to the scope, he zeroed in. The adrenaline started to pump through his muscles as excitement and expectation mounted.

* * *

Frank was feeling more like his old self, though doubted he would sleep until Tiny phoned to confirm that the ‘job’ had been satisfactorily completed. He undressed, pulled his robe on and went over to the small wet bar to fill a tumbler with JD and ice. Looking up, he studied the large, framed print on the wall behind the bar in the corner of his bedroom. In it, he was standing next to Reggie Kray. The photograph had been taken at Charlie Kray’s funeral, before Reg’s health had deteriorated and he had been diagnosed as having terminal cancer. It was signed: To Frankie. I know that I have your goodwill, Reg.

Frank remembered the October day he had attended Reggie’s funeral. It had been a lavish send-off, but he had been saddened by the sight of so many ageing gangsters, who were now reduced to selling ghost-written books of their seedy past, living off old, exaggerated and half forgotten memories that a certain section of society were titillated by. The lowering of Kray’s coffin into the cold ground alongside his two brothers – Charlie and Ronnie – signalled the end of an era in the history of crime. Time had moved on. Younger faces had been waiting in the wings to take over.

Frank walked across the room and opened the balcony doors. Stood out in the fresh air of a tranquil night, sipped his whisky and watched a distant guard pause while his Doberman took a leak. Somewhere nearby an owl hooted as...

...Gary took a deep breath, becoming one with the rifle as he squinted through the telescopic sight. Santini’s swarthy head almost filled the viewing field. He played the cross hairs across the broad face. This was almost too easy, and detached. He would much rather have dealt with the greaseball in a more close up and personal manner for maximum reward. Killing from a distance was not as satisfying. He was affording Santini a quick and easy way out. But it would deliver a message. Give the gangster’s son something to think about.

He inhaled again, smoothly eased the trigger back, and exhaled. There was a second of perfect, absolute stillness; of sweet synchronisation between mind and body.

The sound of the shot was almost deafening, splitting the silence like a clap of thunder as the bullet flew straight and true, to smash through Frank’s forehead, tunnel through his brain and create a fist-sized hole as it emerged from the back of his skull to continue on its journey, through the far bedroom wall, to lodge deep inside the brickwork at the rear of the house. Blood, bone, and brains flew back in a gusher that left a trail across both the carpet and the lilac-coloured duvet that covered the bed.

Francis Mario Santini had no last thoughts, and felt no pain. Death had taken him with a swiftness that resulted in an almost instantaneous cessation of being. The corpse was not blown backwards, it remained standing for a second – as if unsure of what to do next in this unrehearsed, singular situation – then toppled forward into the balustrade like a felled tree, hitting the wrought-iron handrail at waist level, to jack-knife over it and somersault to the paved area below. The cut glass tumbler spun from Frank’s hand, up into the night air, spraying Jack Daniel’s in golden droplets as it followed him down and shattered next to his blasted head.

Gary was already moving, chuckling aloud as he reran the picture of Santini’s dramatic if too quick demise, and the dive that left him laying twisted and broken, his dressing gown up across his back, bare arse shining as white as chalk under the bright security lights, and his toupee on the ground a yard or two away, looking like some small and furry nocturnal animal.

Up on his feet, moving fast, Gary left the shed on the run, darted through the trees to the open ground that he had no choice but to cross. He was almost back to the fence before he heard the distant shout of a nervous guard. So much for Frank’s fortress mentality, and his army of second-rate goons. No one was safe. Once targeted, his mark had been on borrowed time. Santini would have presumed that only an imbecile would attempt an attack on his well-guarded stronghold. Sooo wrong. And now that he had taken care of Santini he would employ his full efforts on dealing with Barnes. Or maybe visit the cop’s girlfriend and formally introduce his self. The couple were just like two overdue library books, and the penalty was much more than either could afford.

With one end of the rope tied around the rifle, he swung the weapon underhand, up into the air, over the branch that jutted out above the razor wire.

The deep, throaty growl of the dog almost certainly saved his life. Even as the torch beam found him, he had drawn the Glock. The guard might as well have stuck a target on himself. Gary fired three shots at the wavering disc of light, and a strangled cry told him his aim had been accurate. The torch fell, and its powerful white shaft backlit the German shepherd as it launched itself into the air, hackles raised as it attacked.

Even as he pulled the trigger, the dog’s front paws hit him full force in the chest, knocking him onto his back. His lungs cramped under the impact. He fought for breath as the slavering jaws came together on his wrist; sharp canines biting to the bone; broad head scything from side to side, powered by taut, bulging neck muscles.

Wrong hand, you brain dead shit machine!
he thought, raising the gun, pressing it into the dog’s ear and pulling the trigger.

The shepherd didn’t make a sound, just shuddered and went limp across his chest. He inhaled its final, hot, fetid exhalation, and felt the warm blood run from its mouth and nostrils onto his mangled wrist. It was dead, but its jaws were clamped in place.

Distant, muffled voices. The search for the assassin was on. More torch beams cut through the gloom; long blades of light darting, dancing, raking the darkness.

Tucking the Glock in his waistband, Gary gripped the dead dog’s bloody snout and tried to pull the jaws apart. They were locked and wouldn’t budge. Time was running out. He couldn’t climb the rope one-handed with the dead-weight of a fucking eighty or ninety pound guard dog hanging from his arm.

He withdrew the handgun again, forced the end of the silencer into the animal’s mouth like a jemmy, and prised it open. The teeth came out like gleaming nails from a packing crate. Fuck! That brought tears to his eyes.

Free of the burden, he looked around. As yet, he had not been seen. No one was hurrying towards him or shouting out his position to others. He pushed the gun back under his belt, grabbed both lengths of the rope and hauled himself up, sucking in air and grimacing as white-hot pain shot up his arm from the site of the bite. His left hand was numb. He could hardly grip with it, but somehow reached the branch and hauled himself up to straddle it and bump himself along, above the fence to the thick trunk of the spruce. He scrambled down to the ground and dropped flat as bullets thudded into the tree. The chatter of submachine gun fire split the silence. Once more he drew the Glock, took careful aim at the shape behind the now crackling electrified fence, and loosed off two shots.

Chip Martin grinned. He was sure he had all but cut the intruder in half with a hail of bullets from the Uzi. No one was near enough to see the look of shock and surprise on the tall Texan’s face as a hollow point slug slammed into his neck, blowing him off his feet, even as a second bullet shattered his sternum. Chip had all of five seconds – that seemed to last forever – to be traumatised by the awful realisation that he was dying.

Santini’s men did not follow. They were not about to wage war outside the estate. This was Essex, not Afghanistan. Their weapons were illegal.

Gary made it back to the car without incident. The plan had been to return to the storage facility, but he decided against it. The stinking, confined space had served its purpose. It was time to move on. And he needed to treat his swollen, pounding wrist.

He drove back into London and abandoned the car, leaving the keys in the ignition to make life easier for the next joy rider who happened along.

Keeping to back streets, away from main roads, he walked for almost two miles. He needed another safe haven. One where no one would search for him. He smiled. He knew just the place to lay low for a while.

Red Sevano got the call from Carlo Falco. He listened, knew that what he was being told had to be true, but found the facts hard to assimilate. An unexpected catastrophe is a shock to the system. The mind finds the event untenable and puts up a barrier of denial. After Carlo hung up, Red let the conversation repeat, picking out the salient points as he walked with leaden steps to Dom’s suite, dismayed that it had fallen to him to break the news.

It was almost two minutes before the door opened. Dom was glaring, enraged at being woken up.

“What the fuck do you want, Red?”

“I got bad news, boss,” Red said. He had taken two paces back from the threshold, uncertain as to how Dom might react.

“Which is?”

“The house got hit.”

Dom’s face darkened. He assumed that Red meant the club had been robbed.

“For how much?”

Red frowned. Then cottoned-on to his boss’s line of thought. “No, boss, Villa Venice.”

Dom went cold inside. Red’s eyes held the gravitas of impending news that he knew he would not want to hear.

“Say it.”

“Carlo just called. Your papa was the target, boss. He didn’t make it.”

Dom swallowed hard. His mind greyed, became a swirling column that made him rock on his feet as he fought to maintain composure. The two men faced each other, and for a few seconds Red thought that Dom might faint. He was ready to catch him if he fell.

“How?” Dom asked in a whisper

“After he got home, he went out on the balcony of his bedroom. It was one bullet. He didn’t know what hit him, boss. The shooter was in the grounds. He took two of the guards and a dog out.”

Dom experienced a landslide of emotions. He was the ‘Man’ now, out from beneath the long shadow of his father.
The king is dead, long live the king
. Molten anger and a thin, cold sliver of fear also vied for his attention. The fucking psycho hitman had reached into the very centre of the organisation. Noon had set them up. He was supposed to be nailing the cop, Barnes, tonight. That had been a diversion. He needed to think fast.

“Okay, Red. Here’s what you do. Get the girl outta here while I dress. Then phone Tiny. I want him and Eddie back here, now. And tell Carlo to have my father moved. We need to make it look like he was capped outside the estate. I don’t want the filth crawling all over the place. Capisci?”

“Yeah, boss.”

Red gave Naomi sixty seconds to get her shit together and vanish. She said nothing, just complied. She could feel the tension, and was astute enough to know that something big had gone down.

Red phoned Tiny. Told him that the operation was off, and that he and Eddie were needed back at Rocco’s, pronto. He finished up by calling Carlo and relaying Dom’s plan.

“That’s gonna be a bitch, Red,” Carlo said. “The boss was blown off the balcony. It’s not just a case of half his head missing. He got broken up when he hit the deck.”

“So arrange for it to look like he never made it home from the club. Have the Merc go off a bridge and explode. If the driver is dead at the wheel and the boss is in the back, it’ll look like the car got shot at. The crash will explain the other damage. And do it now.”

“The driver, Lansky, is out in the grounds. There’s only Sal with me.”

“So use Sal. He never was the sharpest knife in the rack.”

“Okay, Red.”

“Good. I’ll be coming in with Dom, soon. And Carlo, he’s pissed over this. He’ll want to know how the shooter got inside. I get the feeling someone will have to take the fall for the fuck-up in security.”