The Game

FORTY-SEVEN

Victor released Dietrich’s wrist and scrambled away. The fight had vanished from Dietrich. He seemed to have forgotten Victor even existed, let alone that he had been trying to kill him five seconds before. Dietrich wasn’t looking at him. He was exposed. Vulnerable. But Victor didn’t take the opportunity to disarm his opponent and drive the knife deep into his neck, even though he had been taught never to fail to exploit a weakness, never to give away an advantage. Such single-minded ruthlessness had seen him triumph against the odds several times, but he held himself back now. He didn’t attack because there was something in the new arrival’s voice that stopped him. Something intriguing.

He stood and faced the new guy, taking his gaze off Dietrich because he was no longer a threat.

A man stood outside the open kitchen door. He looked to be somewhere in his mid to late forties. His eyes were small and deep set, pale blue bordering on grey. His skin was weathered brown and red — naturally pale skin exposed to a lot of sun. Deep crow’s feet etched the corners of his eyes. His hair was short, a mix of blond and grey, as was the short beard that covered his cheeks and surrounded thin lips. His expression was one of contemptuous amusement.

His neck was a trunk of muscle as wide as his skull. The bones of his face were dense and prominent beneath the weathered skin. He was about Victor’s height and a little broader. He looked like the few big guys Victor had known in the military: men with natural size and strength, made denser and stronger over many years of hard physical existence, not artificially gained via ritualised weightlifting that built slow-twitch muscle fibre only good at lifting and pushing and too slow and too hungry for oxygen to be of much use when life depended on it.

The man called Hart gestured to Coughlin. ‘Step back from the two lovers.’ He looked at Dietrich. ‘Safety that shiv.’

The urgency left Coughlin’s body language and he backed off. Dietrich obeyed without pause or question. He went to slip the knife back into its belt sheath.

‘No,’ Hart said. ‘Give the weapon to me. You can’t be trusted with it.’

This time Dietrich hesitated a moment. Victor couldn’t predict what he would do next, but he nodded and walked over to Hart, and gave him the knife. He was only a couple of inches shorter and probably weighed about the same, but he seemed tiny and insignificant next to Hart, because he acted as he felt.

Hart motioned and Dietrich moved aside. Hart stepped into the kitchen and Francesca hurried over to him. She threw her arms around his neck and he effortlessly lifted her by the waist from the floor. They kissed, long and hard.

Victor watched for a moment, questions in his mind now answering themselves one by one, only to be replaced by others.

When Hart and Francesca finally stopped kissing, he lowered her down and whispered something to her. Then his gaze locked on Victor. Francesca didn’t make eye contact.

‘What’s your name, compadre?’ Hart asked Victor.

‘Kooi.’

‘The man we’ve all been waiting for.’

‘I thought it was the other way around.’

Hart ignored the comment. ‘Good to finally put a face to the name.’ He walked towards Victor. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

Victor said, ‘Funny, I’ve heard nothing about you.’

A corner of Hart’s mouth turned upwards. He stopped and stared into Victor’s eyes. ‘I see you’re already integrating yourself into the team.’

Victor glanced at Dietrich. ‘We’re one big happy family.’

Leeson said to Hart, ‘We’ve got a lot to discuss. Join me outside?’

‘You’re the boss.’

They left out of the front door.

‘I’m going to clean up,’ Dietrich said to no one in particular and headed for the interior door. As he passed Victor, he added, ‘One all,’ referencing the wound to his shoulder and the one to Victor’s leg. ‘We’ll settle the scores another time.’

‘You mean when your daddy isn’t around?’

Dietrich’s jaw muscles bunched and he knocked his uninjured shoulder with Victor as he passed.

‘Never a dull moment,’ Coughlin said, then laughed. ‘I had my money on you, by the way.’ He exited through the front door, leaving Victor alone with Francesca.

She didn’t look at Victor when she said, ‘I was going to—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Victor interrupted.

‘Your leg—’

‘Is fine.’

He ignored her and looked through the kitchen window, to where Hart and Leeson stood talking on the driveway. Behind them stood the vehicle Hart had arrived in. Victor hadn’t heard it during his fight with Dietrich because his senses had been focused on keeping him alive. Hart led Leeson to the back of the white panel van and unlocked and opened the back doors. He pointed into the interior that Victor couldn’t see. Leeson smiled and patted Hart on the back.

Excellent job, Mr Hart, Victor read on Leeson’s lips. Then Leeson turned away and Victor couldn’t follow the conversation. Behind Victor, Francesca cleaned up the mess caused by the fight with Dietrich.

Victor thought about the effect of Hart’s arrival on the group’s dynamic. Leeson was the employer, but Hart was the alpha. Dietrich and Coughlin were afraid of him for good reason. It wasn’t just his physicality. He had the kind of gaze that could make anyone back down. The kind of gaze that was supremely confident because he had been born without fear, and long experience had affirmed the innate knowledge that nothing the world could offer necessitated his concern. Certainly no man. Dietrich and Coughlin had the sense to register that aura of invincibility and the experience to know it was best to concede to it.

Victor had seen that kind of gaze before. Sometimes in those who were borderline insane, or way over that line. Other times in those who had no right to it and whose faith in their own invincibility dematerialised when truly tested. Yet others, though, had every right to that confidence because they were still breathing despite a life of acute violence. Victor didn’t know which applied to Hart. Until he did, Hart was a problem.

Through the window he watched Hart close the rear doors of the white panel van, slide the locking bolt across and then fix a padlock. The van looked at least eight years old. Grime darkened the paintwork to an uneven grey. The wheels were filthy. It was the kind of van removal men used, and couriers and tradesmen of all descriptions. Dents marked the bodywork. It looked like a well-used vehicle that wasn’t looked after beyond the absolute essentials. It would blend into traffic, its driver mistaken for a regular working man, one of any number of trades that did not include professional killing.

The rear compartment might contain almost anything, but clearly it was something Leeson needed to put the job into action. And only Hart had been trustworthy or capable enough to transport it. Or whatever was in there belonged to Hart. Victor memorised the licence plate to pass on to Muir. It would most likely do no good, because if Hart had been chosen for this important task he would be competent enough not to make any of the amateurish errors necessary for Muir to discover anything useful from the licence alone.

Francesca had taken a seat at the table. She toyed with her coffee cup. She didn’t look at Victor.

‘How long have you known Hart?’

She still didn’t make eye contact. ‘Long enough.’

Victor slipped the butter knife into a pocket. It had been a poor weapon to use against Dietrich, but any weapon was better than none. The kitchen door opened and Hart walked in, ducking his head under the low frame.

‘What’s the job?’ Victor asked Leeson once the younger man had closed the door behind him.

Leeson didn’t answer. He poured himself a glass of water. Hart stood near the door, blocking the only way out, should it come to it.

‘Tell me what the job is,’ Victor said. ‘Right now. Or I walk.’

Leeson faced him. ‘I’ll tell you this evening, Mr Kooi. Now Mr Hart is back with us there is no need to keep you in the dark any longer.’

‘Except until tonight.’

‘Except until then,’ Leeson agreed. ‘We shall all eat together here and after dinner is concluded I will explain the job and what your role is to be within its remit. Okay?’

Victor nodded.

Hart said to Francesca, ‘Time to go.’

She stood and made sure to glance at Victor as she left the kitchen. This time Victor didn’t look back.

‘I’ll see you again tonight, Dutch,’ Hart said, then left too.

Leeson followed and Victor watched the three through the window. The driver’s door slammed behind Hart and Victor felt the faint hit of bass wash through him. Hart drove the van with Francesca in the cab next to him. Leeson drove behind in the minivan. Victor’s gaze stayed on the rear of the white panel van, and whatever valuable contents its back compartment held, until it had disappeared from view.

Victor heard Jaeger’s heavy footsteps behind him. Victor faced him.

‘That guy is bad news,’ Jaeger said.

‘Tell me about it.’

Jaeger stroked his stubble and said, ‘I’m going to kill him.’