Chapter 16

I was in for a rough time.

The back of the van became not only a container but also an entertainment centre for those who were my jailers, particularly for the man I’d headbutted. He relished getting a little payback for the lump I’d put on his forehead. He punched me twice, once in each kidney, while the other three guards held me prone. I had steeled myself for a beating, but it doesn’t matter how ready you are, a dig in the kidneys always hurts like hell.

They were all swearing, at me, at each other, their professionalism slipping now that we were out from under the disapproving gaze of the public. One of them grabbed my hair and forced my face hard against the ribbed floor of the van. Someone punched me between my shoulders, causing a flash of pain that went all the way to the tip of my coccyx and back again. Then my arms were twisted round and another of them cinched my wrists with plastic ties. When that was done, I was hauled over so that I could see them as they threw punches down at my guts. Their faces were twisted with glee and hatred.

Considering that a minute or two before they believed I was a nut job intent on killing them and their mark, I could understand why they would want to hurt me. I was pleased in a way that they were using their fists, because if one of them thought to use a gun I might never see daylight again. Another thing that pleased me: while they were punching the shit out of me, they’d forgotten about continuing a more thorough search than the one that had already turned up my weapons. To motivate them to further fury, I spat a gob of saliva at them. My spit hit one of the men flush in his face, and he paused only to wipe it away before slamming his saliva-smeared palm down into my forehead. I suffered a double whammy. His palm rammed my head down on one of the ribbed spars of the floor. I almost blacked out. It didn’t stop them hitting me again.

Finally the beating subsided, though it wasn’t because my captors were any less furious or tired of hitting me. The driver was shouting at them through an open hatch. My blood was pounding in my ears, and there was too much bumping and banging as they shifted about to hear clearly, but I got the gist. The man in the front was shouting that the boss wanted me unharmed. Thank God for small mercies.

‘Think this is your lucky day, asshole? Well, guess again. We aren’t going to kill you. Not yet, but I don’t fancy your chances once the boss is finished with you.’

I squinted up at the voice to find the man I’d headbutted leaning over me. He was a guy in his mid-thirties, fit and strong-looking. Nothing distinctive about him apart from the raised welt I’d put on his forehead.

‘You can’t kill me,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘There were witnesses. They saw you snatch me off the street. The cops will be looking for me. What do you think will happen to you if I turn up dead?’

The men all laughed at my naivety. My tormentor pressed a knuckle into my breastbone, digging at a nerve bundle. ‘The cops will turn a blind eye. Mr Petoskey owns the cops here… didn’t you know that?’

One of them lifted a gun and I recognised it as the one I’d come armed with. He pointed it at my face. My tormentor said, ‘See, this is the way things will happen. Once the boss is finished with you, you’ll be gut shot and left lying in the road. We’ve plenty witnesses here who’ll swear we were delivering you to the police when you made a break for it, snatched one of our guns, and we had to shoot you in self-defence. We can do anything we want to you.’

‘No one would believe that…’

‘They would if they were told to.’ The man held out his hand and his friend slapped the SIG into his palm. The man carefully slipped the safety on. Then off again. It was all for show. He checked there was a round in the chamber. Then he jammed the gun under my chin. ‘In fact, there are enough of us here now, that if we told the boss that you got your hands on a gun and we had to kill you, well, he’d believe us too.’

I screwed my eyes shut, made a whimpering sound.

The man laughed and the others joined in like the pack of hyenas they resembled.

‘I thought you were supposed to be some sort of tough guy?’

‘You don’t know me,’ I said.

‘Oh, but I do.’ He tapped the gun on my forehead. ‘We heard that you might make a try on the boss. How’d you think we were ready for you coming? Did you think we just happened to have a van sitting around on the slightest off-chance that some random lunatic had a go at the boss? My problem is this… I don’t know what anyone was fucking worrying about. You’re a goddamn pussy who can’t even shoot straight.’

Again a round of laughter.

‘Joe Hunter. We’ve heard all about you. Fuckin’ Brit coming over here, thinking he’s the hardest fuck in town. Well, I got news for you

… you ain’t fuckin’ nothin’. You just made the biggest mistake of your life, buddy. You just came up against someone who isn’t afraid of your type.’

‘Jesus,’ I sighed.

‘You a praying man, Hunter? Well, get praying, ’cause you’re gonna need all the help you can get.’ The man lifted the SIG. Like I’ve already said, the stock is heavier than on most other handguns, so when he brought it down hard against my skull it put me right out of the picture.

How long I was unconscious I couldn’t say, because when next I gathered my senses the van had stopped moving. The side door was open and only two of my captors remained inside. The others were standing outside the van, their figures indistinct against a gloomy backdrop. They were talking hurriedly, but I couldn’t make out was being said. I lay there, gathering my wits as I started to assess my injuries. My entire body felt like one large bruise, but I couldn’t detect any breakages. It took me a moment to realise that my hands were now in front of me. The plastic ties had been removed and rigid-cuffs snapped on instead. My feet were free, and in kicking range of the two men keeping guard. They had guns out, so I didn’t fancy my chances. Anyway, I’d come to see Sigmund Petoskey, so I wasn’t about to spoil my prospects by attempting an audacious escape.

One of the guards outside moved towards the van. When he leaned inside I could make out the welt on his forehead. ‘Bring him. And if he tries anything shoot him in the knees.’

The two men grabbed me and pulled me to a sitting position. I recognised the one on my right as the recipient of my saliva earlier. He said, ‘You heard the man, try anything and I’ll kneecap you. We have to keep you alive for now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t put you through hell.’

There was nothing gentle about the way I was hauled from the van and dumped on my feet. Blood rushed to my head and I was a second or so away from blacking out again. Only the flash of agony from where the SIG had torn my scalp kept me galvanised. The two men hooked an elbow around my arms and then propelled me forward, following the other two. To make things more difficult I could have dragged my feet, but we were heading in the right direction. Stumbling along, I just kept my mouth shut.

We were inside an empty warehouse, a large open space bordered on either side by huge stacks of pallets laden with sacks and boxes of all shapes and sizes. The floor was smooth concrete, swept clean, with yellow markers indicating pathways for forklift trucks. Other yellow chevrons alongside the paths marked out danger zones, possibly where it was unsafe to turn the trucks due to the proximity of the stacked goods. It was dimly lit, only the occasional overhead strip light penetrating the gloom. We passed through pools of contrasting shade and light as we moved towards the back of the building. As we neared the far end, I could detect a sour tang and guessed that the warehouse was one of many next to the banks of the Arkansas River. With a building this large and well stocked, I was surprised that there weren’t more people around. Maybe they’d all been given the rest of the day off while their boss conducted his more nefarious brand of business.

There was an office at the left corner of the building, next to a roller door that was currently closed. Just inside the roller shutter was parked the limousine that had spirited Sigmund Petoskey away from the cinema. As we approached, a man clambered out the front, came round and opened the door for Siggy. Petoskey climbed out languidly, tightening his gloves over his fists like some gangster from a noir movie. He sneered at me, said, ‘I wondered when we would meet again. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’

Me too, if only he knew it.

One thing that was apparent: away from the ears of his business associates, Siggy Petoskey had lost the ridiculous accent that made him sound like Dr Watson from an old Sherlock Holmes flick. But he was still the same supercilious fucker I remembered with distaste.

Here, where the surroundings were better illuminated, I got a look at the product names on the boxes. I had to smile. Petoskey had gone from organising dog fights to shipping pet supplies. Another attempt, I guessed, at cleaning up his blackened image. He misconstrued my smile.

‘You have nothing to be happy about, Hunter. In fact, I think this is about to become the worst day of your life.’

‘I knew that the second I missed killing you earlier,’ I said.

The man with the welt on his forehead spun quickly, backhanded me across my mouth. ‘You need to show a little respect when speaking to the man in charge of your destiny.’

I stared directly into the man’s eyes, as I allowed a trickle of blood to seep from between my lips. ‘Respect for him? Sigmund Petoskey’s so full of shit he gives sewers a bad name.’

The self-elected disciplinarian lifted his hand again, but he was halted by the opening of the office door. A slight, unremarkable-looking man stood etched against the glare of a bright lamp. ‘Enough, Charters.’ He directed his words at the man with the welt, then turned an insipid stare on Petoskey. ‘We have no time for pissing competitions, Sigmund. Let’s show Hunter we mean real business.’

This newcomer was a stranger to me. He looked pretty bland with his watery eyes, his slight frame dressed in slacks and canvas jacket and a pair of suede boots, but I guessed that there was nothing commonplace about him. The way Charters jerked at his command and Petoskey nodded in acquiescence told me who was in charge here.

Directly in front of me the door to the office was pulled open and a silhouetted figure stepped forward. Framed in the lamplight from within was the last person I expected.

‘Louise?’ I asked. ‘Is that you?’

Louise Blake should have been warned to lie low, but it seemed as if she hadn’t taken Harvey’s warning seriously.

For one brief moment I considered the possibility that Harvey was involved in Rink’s disappearance. But I quickly discarded the notion. Louise Blake had always been a wilful person, and had probably chosen to ignore the warning at her peril. She had been brought here for the same reason that Rink was missing. It was all a set up. And all along, I was the real target for this plot.

Betting that she wasn’t a willing party, I searched Louise for any sign of deceit. Her face was in shadows, but I could still tell that it was swollen and sore. I couldn’t blame her for being wilful; every time that I’d featured in her life it seemed she ended up bruised.

‘Louise?’ I said a second time. ‘Are you OK?’

The woman sobbed.

The little man with the watery eyes flicked a hand at Petoskey. ‘Show him.’

Petoskey stepped up behind Louise and I saw him lift something to the back of her head.

‘No,’ I started to say, my body going rigid. On each side my guards strained to hold me back, while Charters grabbed at my hair, holding me so I’d no option but to watch.

CRACK!

Petoskey fired a single round into the medulla oblongata at the base of Louise’s skull. All motor function failed instantly, and Louise died without ever realising her face now decorated the front of my jacket and shirt.

She flopped to the ground, her hand outstretched towards me like a broken lily. In reaction I jerked forward, but Charters yanked back on my skull, bringing me to a squirming halt. Petoskey grinned, holding a semi-automatic handgun pointed at my chest.

‘You murderous bastard!’ I yelled.

Petoskey looked down at Louise’s cadaver, and there was something decidedly unhealthy in the way his eyes lingered on the swell and curve of her backside. Then he snapped his eyes up to mine. ‘Perhaps now you’ll fully understand how serious we are.’

‘You shithead,’ I said. ‘I’m your enemy, why did you have to kill her? She had nothing to do with me, for God’s sake!’

From my left-hand side, the little man interjected. ‘Charters, I stopped you before, but please ensure that Hunter learns a little courtesy when speaking to us.’

‘With pleasure,’ Charters said releasing my hair. He stepped in front of me, smiling as he studied my face. Then he backhanded me, his knuckles raking across my jaw. It left my skull tolling like a bell, and fresh blood invading my mouth. Judging by his smirk Charters was mildly pleased with his handiwork. ‘Watch your mouth in future,’ he said.

‘You watch your arse,’ I told him right back. ‘Because I swear to God I’m going to kill every last one of you.’

His next backhander slackened one of my teeth.

‘That’s enough for now, Charters,’ said the little man. ‘But if he shows any further disrespect, you have my permission to chastise him as you see fit.’

‘Here,’ I said, and spat a mouthful of clotty blood on to Petoskey’s overcoat. ‘How’s that for disrespect?’

Charters and his friends all got their digs in this time, leaving my kidneys screaming in protest. To my dissatisfaction, Petoskey appeared unfazed by my uncouth gift. It was obviously why he’d worn a raincoat.

‘Take him inside,’ the little man ordered.

Petoskey stood to one side as my jailers forced me into the office. It wasn’t the largest of spaces, and wouldn’t accommodate all of my captors, plus me. The only concession to furniture was a single wooden chair and a small desk, upon which lay a large envelope.

‘Please be seated, Hunter.’

I sat facing the door, but only because four meaty hands pressed me into the chair.

Charters hovered by the door, but his friends had to wait outside. Charters loosely aimed the SIG he’d taken from me. Petoskey and the newcomer took up positions so they were both facing me but neither would impede the aim of their guard. I looked from one to the other.

‘So let’s get things straight. Who’s the biggest arsehole out of the two of you?’ I asked.

‘I’m growing tired of your disrespect, punk,’ Charters offered from the back of the room.

I paid him no mind, searching the faces of my two immediate captors. ‘Well?’

‘I’ll allow you one concession,’ said the little man. ‘Our principal owes someone a final say on your fate, but if it comes to it, I don’t mind killing you and taking the consequences.’

‘I guess that means you’re the one that I have to kill first,’ I told him. ‘Then again, I owe Petoskey big time for what he did to Louise. Maybe I’ll save you for later.’

‘Such bravado from a man in chains,’ Petoskey laughed. ‘Should I show it to him now, Baron?’

Baron? That was the name of the little man. Just like his bland face, his name meant nothing to me, other than it was now marked for death.

‘I’ll do it.’ Baron picked the envelope off the desk. ‘Let me open this for you.’ He slipped out a black and white photograph and placed it in front of me.

Despite myself, I flinched.

The glossy shot was of my best friend.

Rink was slumped in a chair. He was tethered. His face was a patchwork of cuts and watery blood was spattered down the front of his bared chest. A wound gaped high in the meat of his right shoulder. Only the seething hatred burning from behind his swollen eyelids told me he was still alive.

‘Jared Rington is alive,’ Petoskey said. ‘But one more wrong move out of you, Hunter, and believe me, he will die.’

Baron stepped forward. ‘You do believe that we are capable of Rington’s murder, Hunter?’

Beyond Charters, I could see where they’d left Louise lying on the ground. Steam was rising from the ruin of her skull. ‘I believe you.’

‘Good, but just in case, listen…’

From his coat pocket Baron pulled out a digital recorder. He flicked it on and held it close to my ear.

‘Hunter.’ Rink’s unmistakable voice issued from the device. ‘Frog-giggin’ fuckers got the drop on me, man. I’m sorry I got you into this, buddy.’ He laughed humourlessly. ‘They say that they’ll hurt me if you don’t do as they ask. Tell ’em to go screw themselves.’

There was a static buzz, the sound of Rink being introduced to a Taser.

Baron flicked the ‘off’ switch.

‘When your buddy said that we’d hurt him, he meant even more than we have already. The only way you can stop that is to give us what we want.’

Petoskey leaned in close. ‘So… do we have your cooperation?’

What choice did I have?

A maxim of counterterrorism: you don’t make bargains with terrorists. You refuse to negotiate. You show the demented bastards that you aren’t prepared to back down. Not ever. Show them a weakness and they will exploit it, exponentially growing the problem.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my words weren’t those of an ex-counterterrorism soldier. They were those of a best friend.

‘What do you want from me?’

Загрузка...