Terror's Reach (31 page)

He was Batman. A creature of the night. A dark avenger.
Oliver smiled. He adored The Dark Knight, had watched it a
hundred times, knew every line and move and nuance. But it was
never the Batman whom he wanted to emulate. It was Heath Ledger’s
Joker that had spoken to him, made a connection deep in his soul.
Amoral, adrift and utterly alive in every moment of his existence.
That was the lesson Oliver took from the movie. That was the lesson
he tried to apply now.
The climb to the ridge of the roof was perilous but exciting. He
clambered up and sat astride the red clay tiles. Riding the house like
a mighty steed. He giggled at the image, and wondered if he wasn’t
a little too high on adrenalin. Might have to tamp it down a bit.
Shuffling along to the front of the house was easy, but he wasn’t
looking forward to the descent. Much easier to fall when you were
already heading down: the momentum always threatening to take
control.
In the end he was able to negotiate it without too much difficulty.
There was a valley on the roofs north-east corner, which lessened the
gradient. Oliver crept down and eased across to the next dormer.
It was about the same size as the one he’d emerged from, but with a
narrow pitched roof. It too had a single window, just large enough to
accommodate him.
He stood to one side of it, his toes pointing into the gutter. Gripping
the top of the dormer roof tightly with both hands, he braced one foot
against the main roof and used his other to kick at the glass.
The impact was horribly loud and hurt his toes, but it failed to
break the glass. He should have anticipated this and brought a tool.
He kicked the window again, aiming for the top corner rather than
the centre of the glass. He’d read somewhere that it was weaker around
the edges than in the middle. The window still didn’t break, but it
cracked. Almost broke his foot as well.
The third time did it. The glass shattered with a sound that
seemed to expand and fill the universe above him. It made Oliver
jump so badly that he nearly let go. He clung to the dormer roof,
too petrified to move, waiting for the inevitable response: shouts,
doors slamming, even gunfire.
But none came.
After a couple of minutes he leaned out and confirmed that the
attic room, his beloved sanctuary, was empty. He kicked the remaining
shards of glass from the frame, swung his body round and went in
feet first. He landed as softly as he could, crunching on the broken
glass, and waited again, his heart racing.
Still nothing. Oliver pressed the button to open the hatch. More
noise as the ladder began to extend: a low-pitched metallic grinding
that seemed to rattle through the house like a dentist’s drill.
He made it down the ladder, and there was no ambush; no one
came running. He debated whether to put the ladder back up and
decided that he must. After pressing the button he hurried away,
pushed through the door to the main corridor, and that was when
he heard footsteps coming towards him.
He ducked into the nearest room. Crouched behind the door and
listened as several people tramped past. Risked a look and glimpsed
the tail end of the group – Valentin Nasenko and one of the guards – turning the corner onto the short landing that led towards the games
room.

It seemed a peculiar destination, but Oliver had long ago given up
trying to fathom the logic of his father’s actions. At least they were
moving beyond the main stairs, which meant he should be able to
get out of the house safely.

But why the games room? What on earth could they want in there?

Fifty-One

Liam watched in sullen silence as the other prisoners were herded
from the room. It stung his ego that he wasn’t deemed important
enough to be taken along for the show. He was left in the custody of
a single guard, a thin-faced man with eyes as small and black as rabbit
droppings.
He consoled himself with the thought that at least he wasn’t
being fed to Yuri in the name of sport. Yuri was an ogre, a fact that
Liam had conveniently managed to ignore all the time he was Valentin’s ogre. Now that Yuri belonged to Felton, he was a very
different proposition.
Joe had proved himself pretty resourceful so far today, but Liam
couldn’t see him putting up much opposition to the Ukrainian. No
doubt that was why Felton was so enthusiastic about the wager in the
first place. It might be all over in a minute or two.
And then what?
His guess was that Felton would carve out the deal he wanted, and
Valentin would meekly go along with it. With his wife and daughter
held hostage he really had no choice. Then Felton and his men would
melt away into the night, leaving Valentin to summon the police and
let nature take its course.
Liam felt a tightening in his throat at the thought of what lay ahead:
decades of incarceration, impossible to endure. He noticed the guard
smirking at the misery etched on his face, and he found the strength
to push the self-pity aside. He nodded towards the dressing room.
'Don’t suppose your man left the panic room door open?’
The guard said nothing.
'Only I’m thinking, we grab ourselves a couple of bars each and
get the hell out of here. What do you say?’
The guard shook his head. 'What I say is: I’m earning plenty for
this. And I’m going nowhere with a fucking Paddy. It was you bastards
killed my uncle, on patrol in Armagh.’
Liam almost had to laugh. Just his luck.
His thoughts turned to Priya, and whether she had survived the
assault on the garage. He was certain he’d felt Turner go down, and
maybe someone else as well. If Priya was alive, it was odd that she
hadn’t been brought next door. Such an exotic creature would
definitely intrigue a ladies’ man like Felton. Unless he didn’t know
that much about her—
The revelation was stunning – a forehead-slapping moment, if his
hands hadn’t been taped behind his back. Liam felt a turbulent mix
of emotions. Anger at himself for not working it out sooner. Disgust
that he’d wasted such an opportunity, and made a bloody fool of
himself in the process.
She’d told him herself, hadn’t she, when he had her pinned on the
floor?
If you do this, you’ll never get out of here alive.
That already seemed a lifetime ago. When Valentin had ruled
the world, with Liam and Priya his faithful lieutenants.
And Priya a lot, lot more besides.
But Felton obviously wasn’t aware of her significance. That gave
Liam a tiny jolt of pleasure, even though it was far too late for the
information to be of any value. Selling her out now would only earn
him the same grisly fate as Travers.
She’s untouchable, Liam thought. The lucky cow.
And then he spotted the problem looming for Nasenko. Valentin
would surely have no qualms about accepting Felton’s terms when it
involved handing Liam over to the police. But could he do the same
to Priya?

Her position seemed hopeless, but Priya wouldn’t accept that. She was
a fighter. All the time she was still alive, she knew she had a chance.
What she had to do was find that chance, and make it count.
She had been placed close to the side wall of the garage, some
distance away from the other prisoners. Her mouth was covered with
tape, a tight, foul taste against her lips. Her hands were behind her
back and her wrists and ankles were bound with the same tape. A
moat of blood surrounded her.
Turner was a few feet to her right, slumped against the wall. He
was conscious but weak, every breath a wince of pain. He’d been hit
in the thigh and had lost a lot of blood. The guard had applied a rudimentary
dressing, which seemed to have stemmed the flow, but Priya
doubted he would last very long without proper medical attention.
Their other colleague, Eldon, was to her left. He’d been killed in
the initial gun battle and his body lay forgotten amidst the papers he’d
been searching through. His blood had run along shallow depressions
in the concrete floor and pooled with Turner’s, only inches from Priya’s
outstretched feet.
It was a repellent sight, but she had already worked out how it
could be used to her advantage.
The air in the garage reeked of violence and death and the acrid
tang of digestive juices. One of the prisoners had vomited, and the
guard’s remit obviously didn’t include cleaning up the mess. His only
concession to their well-being was to drag Travers’s body into the
corner.
At first there had been plenty of questions, mainly from Angela
Weaver and Terry Fox. They demanded to know what was going on,
who was in charge. If Liam’s gang were no longer a threat, why couldn’t
the innocent prisoners be released?
The guard fielded the questions with a stock phrase – 'I can’t tell
you’ – and a diminishing supply of patience. Eventually he took up
a position by the inner door, a distance from which he could more
easily ignore their interrogation.
Priya made no attempt to communicate with anyone. She knew
it was futile. The guard wasn’t going to speak to her, and the other
prisoners, when they looked at her at all, made no attempt to disguise
their loathing. Hand any of them a gun, she thought, and they’ll
kill me without hesitation. She had no problem with that. In their
position, she would do the same.
Part of her mind remained sufficiently detached to admire the man
who’d orchestrated this operation. The planning and execution showed
great skill and professionalism. It made Valentin’s team – herself
included – look like clumsy amateurs by comparison.
If this was the work of Robert Felton, it raised some interesting
questions about Oliver’s role. Priya believed she’d played him skilfully
enough to know if he was concealing information from her. If he’d
had any inkling of what was to come he would have betrayed that
knowledge in some way.
So it was feasible that Oliver had not been pre-warned, even though
Felton must have known his son was still on the island when he’d
launched his counter-attack. If only she had heeded Oliver’s warnings
about his father, she might have seen the danger in time. Instead she
was facing, at best, a life behind bars.
Or maybe not.
From this point on it was every man for himself. That was how
Valentin would see it, and Liam too. A matter of straightforward
common sense.
Priya had no one to rely on but herself.

Fifty-Two

Yuri descended the stairs three at a time, his breath emerging in quick,
excited snorts. Eager to get on with it.
Behind him, one of the guards escorted Joe with the slow, respectful
pace of an executioner. They followed a wide hallway into the depths
of the house, until finally Yuri reached a door and stopped. He turned,
waiting for Joe to catch up.
You remember what you said to me today, in the kitchen? How
you would kick my ass?’
'That’s right.’
Yuri bared his teeth. 'Well, now we will see.’
Yep,’ said Joe, as though he relished the opportunity. He couldn’t
afford to show any fear at this stage.
Pushing the door open, Yuri strode into the room like a gladiator
entering the arena. Shoulders thrown back, chest puffed out, chin in
the air. Another obvious attempt to intimidate him, but Joe was determined
that it wouldn’t succeed.
The guard took out a knife and cut the tape from Joe’s wrists.
He stepped back, looking slightly abashed, as if reluctant to be a party
to slaughter. When he wished Joe good luck he sounded as though
he meant it.
Joe stepped through the doorway and immediately understood why
this room had been chosen. It was a large, airy gymnasium, two storeys
high, overlooked by a gallery on the first floor.
The wall to his left was lined with impressive machines: a bike and
a rower and a full set of weights, an elliptical trainer and a treadmill
the size of a small car. But the centrepiece, undoubtedly, was the full
size squash court.
As the venue for a public battle, it couldn’t have been more ideal.
A square room, enclosed on all sides, with a glass wall at the rear and
a viewing platform above. A ready-made arena, with no furniture to
encumber them and nowhere to hide.
Felton was waiting on the gallery above the court. The room behind
him contained a pool table and, bizarrely, a fireman’s pole that led
down to the far side of the squash court.
Valentin was alongside him, a far less enthusiastic spectator. A guard
hovered close by, MP5 at the ready. The third guard had stayed with Liam.
Yuri was already inside the court, limbering up, his feet alternately
thumping and squeaking on the timber floor. Joe didn’t wait to be
prompted. Massaging the circulation back into his wrists, he marched
up to the glass wall, stepped through the door and shut it behind him.
He pointed at the guard in the gallery.
'Is this a fair fight, or will he open fire if I’m winning?’
Felton looked offended. 'There’ll be no interference with the result.
As for whether it’s a fair fight, you’d better ask Yuri . . .’
The Ukrainian chuckled, and said quietly, so that only Joe could
hear: 'To the death.’
Are those your orders?’
Yuri glanced up at Felton and shook his head. 'Fuck orders.’

Felton cleared his throat. 'I’m going to up the stakes. If Joe loses, we’ll
kill the kid. Jaden – is that his name?’
He looked at Valentin, who barely managed a frown. 'The other
terms are the same?’
'Oh, the gold’s still up for grabs. Don’t worry.’ Felton leaned over
the balustrade and smiled at Joe. 'I’m guessing you’ll fight a bit harder
if you have someone else’s future at stake. I’ve seen you out on the
beach with the boy, playing the surrogate father.’
You’d better not hurt him.’
'Well, you’ll have to sharpen up, then.’
The message had only just sunk in when Joe felt a heavy impact
to the side of his head. He spun away, falling, and heard a grunt of
satisfaction from Yuri.
So much for a fair fight.
Joe hit the floor hard and awkwardly on his right-hand side, his
knee and elbow taking the brunt of the landing. His vision was distorted
by flashes of light, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He sensed Yuri
moving in, aiming a kick at his skull, and he knew he’d be dead if it
connected. And then Jaden would die, and perhaps Cassie and Sofia
along with him.
No. He couldn’t let that happen.