Rider (16 page)

Eventually, reluctantly, Kane nodded.

With a hint of genuine sorrow in his voice, David said, ‘Good. I never wanted any of this to happen.’

At the door, David’s two goons looked bored, as though abduction and violence were common occurrences, as though David often held a weapon in his hand and had a string of men tied to the snooker table at his feet.

One of the men walked over to the jukebox, pushed a few buttons to select a track, light a cigarette, and returned to his place by the door. From hidden speakers placed around the room, Janis Joplin’s voice scored out her rendition of
Summertime
.

‘Twelve years I’ve loved her,’ David said. ‘Loved them both.’ The gun rested in his hand, a finger placed almost lazily against the trigger. ‘You’re just like Ryan. If you hadn’t interfered, we could have gotten through this. The house, the cars, the clothes—they all have to be paid for. You know nothing.’

He stood, towering over Kane, and then turned, walked across to a mini-bar, put his gun down and poured himself a drink.

‘Let’s talk,’ he said.

One of the men stepped up and removed Kane’s gag.

Turning back to face Kane, David said, ‘Ryan had something that belonged to me.’

Able to speak at last, Kane moistened his lips and said, ‘I don’t have it.’

‘No,’ David said. ‘I know you don’t. Interpol have it.’ He sank the contents of his glass, picked up his gun again and took a solitary step forward. ‘Start talking,’ he said.

‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’
Wilson
said. ‘But Rider’s right, Bernhard loves her.’

They had handled the officer briefing a little while ago and were now in
Wilson
’s office, suiting up in their ballistic vests. They had already been down to the armoury.

‘But using her like this?’
Clark
asked.

Wilson
said, ‘It’s a last resort. If we get the chance, I want her here for the negotiations.’

‘He’s not the negotiating type.’

‘Which is why we have the ace,’
Wilson
said.

Clark
sighed. She hated wearing the vest but had already felt, firsthand, the protection it offered. It had been a particularly violent raid on a trafficking operation in
Manchester
six years ago.

Lyon had been tracking the organisation for a while before they were able to mount busts in both the
UK
and
Libya
, a country where the forced labour and sexual exploitation of illegal migrants was endemic, as well as their exportation to other countries.

Wilson
had headed up the
UK
task force and
Clark
had only been a detective for two years. She was a subordinate and always knew her place, carried out orders to the letter, and filed comprehensive reports that shamed many others on the team with their detail and detachment. But on this particular raid, she let her heart cloud her mind and acted impulsively. They had every reason to suspect that the property they were raiding contained not just the traffickers but also a number of forced Asian prostitutes, women who had been too afraid to go to the police or make a run for it—those who tried to run where usually caught and butchered in the most horrendous ways.

Clark
had given it too much thought, allowed her feelings to get in the way of the operation, a straightforward enter-and-extract situation.

Dawn raids were mostly successful because they held the element of surprise. They had taken down both the front and rear entrances simultaneously. In
Libya
, their counterparts were acting in unison.

The
UK
team stormed the building and were almost immediately under fire.
Wilson
issued orders for cover and consideration, but
Clark
had seen a young girl, no more than fifteen, running naked through a door to her right. ‘Got a vic,’ she shouted, referring to the girl as a victim, and she took off after her.

She followed the girl into the room, weapon raised, ready in case any of the perpetrators were in there, and discovered the girl alone, on her knees beside a makeshift and messy bed, rummaging in a hessian sack.

Clark
lowered her gun. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re going to get you out of here.’ The Asian girl looked up at her, eyes wild with fear, and
Clark
asked, ‘Where are the men?’

The girl said something in her native tongue, lost in translation, and pulled her hand from the sack. Before
Clark
knew it, the girl was shooting at her. The bullet hit her squarely in the chest. When Clark went down, stunned but not unconscious, she saw, foggily,
Wilson
standing over her and firing at the girl. Her blood coated her naked body like a sheet.

Wilson
checked
Clark
’s vest for impact, took her hand, helped her stand, and said, ‘Everyone’s allowed one mistake. Next time I give you an order, if you ignore it, I’ll shoot you myself.’

When the operation was locked down and marked up as a success, Clark was treated for a cracked rib and
Wilson
said, ‘Come on, you owe me a drink for that.’ They had been firm colleagues—even friends—after that.

Now, she secured her vest and said, ‘It’s not often we get to play the tough guys any more.’

‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’
Wilson
said.

‘I’ll be glad when it’s over. I’m getting too old for the theatrics.’

Wilson
laughed. ‘You’ll never be too old for a showdown.’

Outside the office door,
Dixon
slouched by. Life on the top floor with Biggs was clearly getting to him. ‘
Dixon
,’
Wilson
called.

Dixon
stopped, smiled. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘Don’t call me that. And suit up. We need all the men we can get.’

‘Is
Adams
on board?’

‘We have our man cornered,’
Wilson
said. ‘We’ll tell
Adams
later that we pulled you off your important paperwork.’

‘Yes, boss,’
Dixon
said. He hurried down the corridor.

‘Are we sure,’
Clark
asked, ‘that they have him at the Belgrave?’

‘They were seen going in through the back entrance. Couldn’t be sure it was Rider but if it wasn’t, Bernhard’s playing two games.’

‘How’d they get passed Intel?’
Clark
asked.

‘Watch me get my hands on Mickey Brown.’

‘Mickey Brown’s a tank. I’d pay to see that.’

Checking each other’s straps,
Wilson
said, ‘You gamble too much.’

‘Only on sure-fire wins.’

Wilson
lifted his gun from the desk and checked the magazine. ‘Good to go?’

‘Let the fun commence,’
Clark
said.

* * *

David slapped the butt end of a cue across Kane’s face and Kane spat the resulting blood on the carpeted floor, his cheek stinging and his head hollow.

‘I told you before, I don’t know anything.’

With his arms behind his back, still tied to the leg of the snooker table, his whole body had gone numb. And he was sure he had heard something snap inside his face two cue-slaps ago. His chin and his shirt were berry-red with blood.

‘Don’t lie to me,’ David said, poking the cue into Kane’s chest with every word.

‘They’re hardly going to tell me anything, are they? I’m not the police.’

‘You got close to them.’

David had been pressing him for as much information as he could gain about Ryan’s involvement with Interpol and how much they knew.

‘Ryan got close to them,’ Kane said. ‘I knew nothing.’

‘The correspondence Ryan gave them—do you know what it contained?’

‘Correspondence?’ Kane said. He laughed.

David knocked the cue off Kane’s right temple again.

‘That’s what this is about?’ Kane asked. ‘Correspondence? Love letters between you and your arms dealers?’ He laughed again.

David raised the cue again and when Kane refused to flinch, he lowered it. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Kane.’

Kane stared, defiant. ‘I’d love to hurt you.’

‘You give me no choice,’ David said. ‘I never wanted any of this to happen.’

Kane shook his head, more blood splashing the carpet, and he winced. ‘Go to hell,’ he said. ‘I’m so glad you’re not his real dad. Ryan was a bigger man than you’ll ever be, you fat ugly fuck.’

He was taunting him, almost begging David to hit him again. More than anything, he wanted this to be over. One way or another, it was going to end. And right now, he saw only one way out. When the end came, it would be welcomed, it would be embraced. And maybe Ryan—sweet, lovely Ryan—would be there to meet him. How could he have gotten it so wrong? The doubt that crept in after Ryan’s death was a curse that was finally broken.

‘You think it’s so simple, don’t you?’ David said. ‘If only you knew the sacrifices I’ve made.’

‘You call killing Ryan a sacrifice?’

‘I did what I had to.’

‘By murdering him?’

David shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ He turned, sat the cue on the snooker table and picked up his gun. He pointed it at Kane’s face. ‘All I ever wanted was the best for my family.’

‘Do you have any idea how fucked up that sounds?’ Kane asked.

David’s mobile phone started ringing, but he ignored it. ‘The last thing you want to do now is piss me off, Kane.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’

The phone kept ringing.

‘I like you, son. You’ve got balls, that’s for sure.’

‘You want to see them?’ Kane goaded. If he was going out, he was going out in style.

David turned away in disgust, finally answered his phone. ‘What?’

On the other end of the line, Detective Dixon said, ‘You better hope you’re not in the Belgrave in five minutes.’

‘Where are you now?’ David asked.

‘I’m heading to a backup van. I can’t hold them off,’
Dixon
said. ‘They’re already on their way—three vans, four cars and big fucking brass band.’

David terminated the call.

‘Jesus,’ he said to Kane. ‘Are you having fun, yet? Because it’s about to get a whole lot more interesting.’ To his goons, he said, ‘Pick him up.’

He sat his gun back down and walked over to the rank of safes on the far wall. Punching in a security code on the panel, he unlocked a safe and withdrew a hard-shell suitcase, handling it with extreme care.

As his men untied Kane and dragged him to his feet, David placed the suitcase on the clean, green felt of the snooker table, sweat glistening on his upper lip and forehead.