Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Nineteen

For the last five years Sir Anthony Grainger had woken at 5am. In the winter months he spent the first forty-five minutes of his day on the running machine in the basement. In the spring and summer however, come rain or shine, he ran in nearby Green Park. He’d just finished the final circuit and was at the side of the road, jogging on the spot, waiting for a couple of cars to pass. The screeching sound of the moped’s engine, as the rider accelerated towards him, startled Grainger. Then, above the clatter of the moped, three shots rang-out.

The first bullet missed and hit the nearby Royal Mail post-box, carving a large chunk out of the freshly painted icon. The second bullet shattered his clavicle, causing him to spin around, a scream of pain coming from deep in his throat. The third bullet smashed into his back, lodging in the scapula and knocking him to the floor.

The man on the back of the moped watched as the Knight of the Realm crashed to the pavement, motionless, then screamed at the driver, ‘He’s fuckin gone!’

Two hours later Rick Washington waited impatiently. The old warehouse East of the River Thames had been closed-up for years and was due for demolition. The area soon to be developed for upmarket apartment blocks. He looked at his watch again. They were late. ‘Where are these fuckers?’ he said out loud. Then he heard the clatter of the moped’s engine.

The two youths drove into the ramshackle building and screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust and petrol fumes. Washington stepped to one side as the smoke from the exhaust drifted past him. ‘You’re fucking late.’

‘Chill out, man,’ said the driver.

‘Yeah, chill, man,’ said the shooter.

‘Is he dead?’ said Washington.

The shooter laughed. ‘Dead as disco, mate,’ then the two kids high-fived each other.

‘Okay, good. And the weapon?’

‘In the Thames, man. Just like you said.’

‘Okay, guys,’ said Washington, ‘you did good,’ He threw an envelope to the driver. ‘Here’s your money.’

The driver quickly checked the envelope and grinned. He showed the bundle of notes to his companion and they both high-fived again.

‘And here’s a little bonus,’ said the American, as he threw over a small plastic bag.

The shooter caught it and held it up, shaking the pills within. ‘What’s this mate?’

Washington grinned this time. ‘Only the best E’s in London. Knock yourself out. It’s party time.’

The two youths again hit the high-five, climbed on the moped and clattered away in a cloud of dust and fumes.

The media was awash with the news of the horrific shooting of Sir Anthony Grainger. Rick Washington read the paper and was a very unhappy man. Yes, Sir Anthony had been shot twice, but he was not dead. He’d been taken to hospital and was now in a serious, but stable condition. The operating surgeon had made a TV announcement on the steps of the hospital. His statement made it clear his patient was strong and in the best place to ensure a full recovery.

In a rage, Washington threw the paper to the floor, as the pages spread out across the carpet he bent down and picked up one of them. He read a short piece about two young men who’d been found dead in the East End of London. First indications were they’d died from a toxic chemical. A small quantity of tablets had been found and were being analysed. A police officer had commented that the pills were most likely the cause of death.

‘Not all bad news then,’ said Washington.