Live Fire (21 page)

When he went in, Mark and Yates were sitting on one of the sofas with their feet up on the coffee-table watching the sixty-inch LCD television. Three Thai girls wearing only T-shirts were curled up on another sofa like napping kittens. Yates was flicking through the channels while Mark was tossing salted peanuts into the air and trying to catch them in his mouth. Wilson was standing by one of three amusement-arcade video shooting games, blasting away at Zombies and Aliens with a plastic gun in each hand. ‘Who do they belong to?’ asked Mickey, jerking a thumb at the girls.

‘Chopper brought them back,’ said Mark.

Yates frowned. ‘I thought you did.’

‘Not mine, mate,’ said Mark. ‘Kicked mine out first thing this morning.’

‘Leave them alone. They’re with me,’ said Wilson. ‘I’m done with them, Mickey, if you want to take them for a spin.’

‘I’ll get my own sluts, thanks,’ said Mickey. He dropped two dozen DVDs onto one of the coffee-tables. ‘Got the latest Tom Cruise movie, and it’s a perfect copy,’ he said. ‘And the new series of
CSI
.’

Mark waved a large white envelope in the air. ‘Your mate Wanlop was around with the latest Europol watch list,’ he said. ‘Gave him fifty thousand baht and he went on his merry way.’

Mickey took the envelope from him and went to the bar. He pulled open the double-doored fridge and took out a Singha. ‘Anyone else want one?’ he asked.

Three voices chorused ‘Yeah’ in unison. Mickey pulled three beers from the fridge and tossed them to Yates, Wilson and Mark, then flopped on to one of the sofas. ‘Where’s Davie?’ he asked.

‘He went for a massage,’ said Yates. ‘Said he’d be back in time for the West Ham game.’

‘What time’s it start?’

‘Another hour yet,’ said Yates.

Mickey slit the envelope with his thumbnail and took out a sheaf of computer printouts. He swigged his beer and flicked through them.

‘Anything interesting?’ asked his brother.

Mickey grimaced. ‘Paedophile. Paedophile. Drug-dealer. Paedophile.’

‘Same old, same old,’ said Mark. ‘Sling over the paedophiles – be handy to know who we can beat the crap out of, if we get the chance.’

Mickey passed over a handful. ‘Knock yourself out,’ he said. He turned a page and his eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, under his breath, and his teeth clamped on his cigar.

‘What’s up?’ asked Yates, craning his neck to see what Mickey was looking at.

Mickey’s brow furrowed as he read the printout in his hand. Blue smoke streamed from between his clenched teeth. ‘You will not believe this,’ he said. ‘You will not bloody well believe this.’

Shepherd spent two hours in the gym, an hour running on a treadmill, thirty minutes on a rowing machine, and the rest doing sit-ups and press-ups. There was no sign of the Moore brothers or their team. He showered and changed, then went outside to where he’d parked his Jeep. He tossed his gym bag into the back and stretched. Yates had given him his mobile number but Shepherd didn’t want to call him yet. He smiled to himself. It was a bit like calling a girl for a second date – too soon and you appeared too keen, leave it too long and they lost interest. He drove out of the gym’s car park and headed for Second Road, so called because it ran parallel to the beach road. He parked a couple of hundred yards from the Penthouse. As he climbed out of the Jeep a pickup truck drove by and three pretty girls standing in the back threw buckets of icy water over him. He yelped and jumped back but the damage was done. He was soaked. The girls whooped and waved, and Shepherd forced a smile and waved back as the truck drove off. He retrieved a towel from his gym bag and draped it over his shoulders. He managed to avoid further drenching on the way to Sharpe’s hotel. The girls at Reception giggled when they saw how wet he was, and pools of water collected around his feet as he rode up in the lift.

Sharpe opened the door. ‘Been for a swim?’ he asked brightly.

‘Happy new year,’ said Shepherd, sourly, walking into the room.

‘The trick is to stay inside during the day and only go out at night,’ said Sharpe, closing the door.

‘I’m under cover trying to penetrate a criminal gang, Razor, not infiltrating a pack of vampires.’ He sat in the chair by the window. He was already shivering from the room’s aircon. ‘How’s the nose?’

‘It hurts, but I’ll live. How are you getting on with the Brothers Grim?’

‘Like a house on fire.’

Sharpe gestured at the fridge. ‘Do you want a beer?’

‘I’m floating in the stuff from last night,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll take a water if you’ve got one.’

Sharpe opened the fridge. ‘Why would I have water?’

‘Soft drink?’

He held the fridge door open so that Shepherd could see it was stocked with nothing but beer. Shepherd shook his head in disgust and used his towel to dry his hair. Sharpe took out a bottle of Heineken and flipped off the cap with an opener fixed to the fridge door. ‘Do you think they’ll bite?’ he asked.

‘I’m not picking up any vibes that they’re going to sign me up,’ said Shepherd. ‘They might just think I’m one of the guys, someone to have a few pints and a laugh with.’

‘They know you’re a villain, right?’

‘They know I’m a car thief and they know I’ve been inside, but so far as I know they just think I’m John Westlake.’

‘I thought the plan was for Button to get Europol to tip off the local cops and that they’d tip off the Moores?’

‘Yeah, well, maybe the message didn’t get passed along. Has Charlie been in touch?’

Sharpe rolled his eyes. ‘Did you ask her about me switching hotels?’

‘I didn’t get the chance. I will, though.’

Sharpe looked at his watch, then stretched his arms. ‘I’m stiff as a board, sitting in all day,’ he said. ‘Thought I might go out for a massage tonight.’

‘Razor . . .’ said Shepherd.

‘Therapeutic,’ said Sharpe. ‘Purely therapeutic. Unless you need me to tail you?’

‘I’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘They tend to stick to the same bars, and if they were going to do something, they’re hardly likely to try in Walking Street.’ His phone rang and he took it out of its Ziploc plastic bag. He looked at the screen and motioned for Sharpe to be quiet. It was Andy Yates.

‘Hi, John, what are you doing?’ asked Yates.

‘Just been to the gym. How are things?’

‘The guys are planning to do some Muay Thai training, do you wanna swing by?’

‘Muay Thai? What’s that?’

‘Thai kickboxing. Great way of keeping fit.’

‘Yeah, okay. I don’t see why not. Where do I go?’

‘It’s the Fairtex Sport and Racquet Club. You can’t miss it. It’s a huge building on the North Pattaya Road, with Chinese dragons and shit outside. See you there in about an hour.’

Shepherd put the phone back into its plastic bag. ‘They want me to go kickboxing,’ he said.

‘Lovely,’ said Sharpe. ‘Give me a chance to get a massage.’

‘Just make sure it’s a real girl doing the massaging,’ said Shepherd.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The guys took me ladyboy-spotting and, trust me, it’s difficult to know for sure.’

‘I thought you just look for an Adam’s apple.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘Apparently not,’ he said. ‘According to the guys, a lot of the ladyboys start taking female hormones before puberty so their voiceboxes don’t develop.’

‘Bullshit,’ growled Sharpe.

‘I kid you not. I saw some that you’d never know were guys, not in a million years. So, you be careful.’ He stripped off his wet shirt. ‘Have you got a dry shirt I can borrow? I won’t have time to get back to the villa.’

Sharpe went to a pile of clean, ironed laundry and tossed Shepherd a garish Hawaiian shirt covered with parrots and palm trees. ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to ride shotgun?’ he asked.

‘You enjoy your massage.’

Shepherd parked behind the complex and walked into the reception area. A receptionist with waist-length hair showed him where the Muay Thai training facilities were. There were four boxing rings, a training area with punchbags, and a weights area. Half a dozen Thais were training, each with a tracksuited coach close by. Mark was in one of the rings, lashing out at two plastic pads being manipulated by a thickset Thai in a pale blue tracksuit. Mark was wearing red gloves and gold shorts but was barefoot. He kept on his toes and ducked from side to side as he hit out at the pads, alternating fists and breathing out through clenched teeth with each blow.

Mickey and Yates were standing at the side of the ring, leaning on the ropes. They waved when they saw Shepherd. Davie Black and Barry Wilson were in the weights area. Wilson was lying on his back doing bench presses while Black stood over him, urging him on.

Mark’s trainer barked at him in Thai and lowered the pads. Mark stood panting in the middle of the ring, his gloved hands on his hips. His face and chest were bathed in sweat and his shorts were soaking. ‘Hi, John,’ he said, between breaths. ‘How’s your luck?’

The trainer climbed out of the ring and went to the main area where half a dozen Thai fighters were taking it in turns to attack the punchbags.

‘Holding up,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s the story here?’

‘This place has produced some of the world’s best Muay Thai fighters,’ said Mark. The current featherweight champion’s in their stable and I’ve had a few bouts against a guy by the name of Atachai. He’s been voted Thailand’s fighter of the year.’

‘How did that go?’ asked Shepherd.

Mark grinned. ‘He beat the crap out of me but I managed to hurt him with a couple of kicks.’ He banged his gloves together.

‘So Muay Thai’s – what? Like karate?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Karate’s Japanese,’ said Mark. ‘Karate is kicking and punching but you can’t grab and, more often than not, there’s only token contact. Muay Thai is full on.’ He banged his gloved hands together. ‘Fists, feet and knees are the main forms of attack. You can grab with your hands and put the knee in the stomach. But nothing below the belt. So, do you wanna put the red-man suit on, then?’

‘So you can kick me senseless?’

‘That’s what the suit’s for,’ said Mark. ‘Protects everything. I wouldn’t be able to do you any damage.’

‘Except to my self-respect, of course.’

‘Are you chicken, John?’

‘Not exactly.’

Mark flapped his arms and made clucking noises. Shepherd shook his head.

Mickey and Yates joined in. The Thais who were training stopped what they were doing and looked over to see what the noise was about.

‘Guys, leave it out,’ said Shepherd. He knew there was no way he could avoid getting into the ring with Mark, but it was important to play his role to the hilt. ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’ The three men were still making chicken noises. ‘You’re mad,’ he said. ‘All of you. Bloody crazy.’

‘Go on, John, put on the suit and get into the ring,’ said Mickey.

It was a test, Shepherd knew, like dogs scrapping to assert their place in the pack. Mickey and Mark were top dogs so it was important to prove that, and the only way to do so was to give Shepherd a public kicking. Mark had been right: the padded suit would protect him from serious injury, but it would slow him down and hinder his movements. He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll do it. But I’m not wearing the sissy padding. You want to fight me, let’s do it properly.’

Mark stopped waggling his arms. ‘Have you done kick-boxing before, John?’

‘I’ve boxed a bit,’ said Shepherd.

‘Boxing and Muay Thai are way different,’ said Mark. ‘I could hurt you.’

‘Yeah, or you could bore me to death,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you want a scrap, I’ll give you a scrap.’

Mickey raised an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. ‘Ballsy,’ he said.

‘Bloody idiot,’ said Yates. ‘John, Mark’s been doing Muay Thai for almost ten years. He was south of England champion before we moved to Thailand.’

‘Hey, if John wants to try his luck, let him,’ said Mark.

‘I’d wear the suit if I were you, mate,’ said Mickey.

‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where do I get changed?’

Mickey showed him where the changing rooms were. Shepherd went inside and put on the sweat-stained T-shirt and shorts that he’d been wearing in the gym. There was a full-length mirror on one wall and he watched his reflection as he loosened up. He had never done any kick-boxing but he had no qualms about getting into the ring with Mark. Shepherd knew that on the street most martial arts were worse than useless for self-defence because they each had their own set of rules, and anyone who followed the rules could be beaten. A boxer wouldn’t use his feet, a karate expert wouldn’t grab or gouge, a judo expert was unable to punch. Once you knew what the rules were, you knew the fighter’s weaknesses. Shepherd had no rules when he fought. He fought to win and would do whatever it took to achieve that objective. The problem was that when he got into the ring with Mark, he would have to follow the rules of the sport. He could punch and he could kick and he could use his knees and elbows, and he couldn’t kick him when he was down. Shepherd smiled at his reflection. His SAS training had stressed from the start that in combat there were no rules. Kicking a man between the legs was a valid technique, as was gouging out his eye or smashing his trachea. In a fight to the death you did what you had to do to survive.

Shepherd went up onto the balls of his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. Killing Mark Moore would be easy. What was going to be more difficult was fighting with him, following the rules of Muay Thai, and letting him win. If Shepherd got into the ring and beat him, his infiltration of the Moore crew would be over. Mark and Mickey were the dominant alpha-males, the leaders of the pack, and they would not allow anyone in their gang who threatened the status quo. So, Shepherd had to fight, and fight well, but ultimately he had to let Mark win. He took a deep breath and went back into the training area.

Mickey had a pair of boxing gloves ready for him and he fitted them while Mark did some stretching exercises in the ring. ‘You sure about this, mate?’ said Mickey. ‘The padded suit will take the sting out of the punches and kicks.’

‘Yeah, and make me look a right twat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be okay.’