Severed

16

When I get to the bridge, I see that it crosses a canal and that the buildings on Orsman Road back on to the canal path, which gives me something of an advantage. I pick out the target building. It's bordered at the rear by a brick wall about eight feet high, with a set of double gates in the middle topped with two lines of rusty-looking barbed wire. It all looks fairly imposing, but looks can be deceptive, and I know I'll be able to get through security like that easily enough.

Taking a deep breath, I descend the steps that lead down from the bridge to the canal path and walk as casually as I can towards my destination. On the other side of the canal a couple of joggers run past, looking exhausted in the heat.

And then, finally, fate intervenes on my behalf. As I approach the gate, I hear someone talking behind the wall. Once again, the language is Serbo-Croat. I slow down and stop, and a second later I hear the gate being unlocked on the other side. There's nowhere to hide, so as it opens outwards, I step behind it and stand there, out of view.

A young guy in a cheap black suit emerges, letting the gate swing back on its hinges behind him. He's talking into a mobile phone, and he's got his back to me as he walks slowly down the path. Taking my opportunity, I curl my fingers round the end of the gate and stop it shutting automatically, then slip inside, leaving it on the latch.

I'm in a car park about twenty yards square which leads to the back of the building. There are banks of windows lining each floor. Most have the blinds down and the others appear empty, which seems strange given that there are about a dozen vehicles of all shapes and sizes in the car park, including a Jag and a brand-new Merc CLK-Class Cabriolet.

As I step forward, I hear the gate reopening as the guy in the suit comes back in. He's off the phone now and has clicked the gate shut. I slip behind a metallic blue Land Rover Discovery and crouch down while he passes. He pauses to light a cigarette, then continues towards the back of the building. He's the only person I can see, and I walk behind him, my footsteps barely making a sound on the dusty concrete.

By the time he hears me, he's five yards from the back door and I've already retrieved the Glock from my waistband. He turns round, and I see that he's in his late twenties with bad teeth and ferret-like eyes which widen dramatically at just the moment when I smack him in the middle of the forehead with the gun's handle. He grunts in pain and goes down on one knee, so I smack him again, this time on the temple; the blow is easily enough to knock him unconscious. He'll be out for a good few minutes, which is the best I can hope for at the moment.

There's a wheelie bin a few yards away, next to a locked-up loading bay, with a pungent smell of old fish oozing out of it in the still heat. Shoving the Glock back in my jeans, I pull him roughly to his feet and drag him over to it. I remove the lid and the smell suddenly gets a lot stronger. I dread to think what the people here have been eating. You wouldn't want to dump your worst enemy in here – unless, of course, your worst enemies are like mine are turning out to be. I hoist him over my shoulder, toss him inside, replace the lid and take a deep breath of fresh air.

The back door's a fire exit and it's been propped open with a stop. I open it slowly and find myself in a darkened corridor with cement flooring. There's an empty kitchen area to my right, and another door directly ahead of me, which looks more promising. I try the handle. It's unlocked.

This time I find myself in a carpeted hallway with lighted chandeliers on the ceiling. The air conditioning's on in here, and I can hear the steady buzz of casual conversation coming through some open glass doors ahead of me. There's a peal of female laughter, and I wonder what kind of place I'm in. I pass a carpeted staircase on my left, and then I'm through the glass doors and into a narrow, windowless bar, lit up by the soft glow of half a dozen Chinese lamps. The decor's not what you'd describe as expensive, but it's definitely making the effort, and I'm surprised at how much better this place looks on the inside.

The tables lining one side of the room are teak in colour, and the low-slung armchairs around them are worn leather. Most of them are occupied by two types of people: thin young women who look barely out of their teens, wearing respectful, slightly vacant expressions, and skirts so short they're in danger of hanging themselves with them; and expensively, occasionally gaudily, dressed men with too little hair who, to put it politely, are a long way past their peak. None of them glances my way. The men are too preoccupied, and I'm guessing the girls wouldn't dare. This is, I realize suddenly, the public area of a brothel, and the people who run things will be somewhere else.

The barman – who's wearing a burgundy waistcoat the colour of the wallpaper and a minute bow-tie, and is the only man in here younger than me – looks my way with interest. I smile at him and turn away, heading back out and over to the staircase.

As I take the first of the steps, a door opens to my right and through it comes a short, squat guy with a razor-sharp widow's peak and a more than passing resemblance to Bela Lugosi in his glory days as Count Dracula. We're only three feet apart. He scowls and opens his mouth to say something, but the gun's out of my waistband in one movement. I shove it hard against his belly before he can react, and move in close to him, putting a hand behind his neck so that we're almost in an embrace. He smells of stale and very cheap cigarette smoke. He looks extremely angry too, his features wrinkling into an expression of almost unhinged aggression. But he's not stupid. He can feel the Glock's barrel and doesn't resist as I give him a cursory pat-down, retrieving a four-inch flick knife from his trouser pocket.

I press my thumb into the pressure point just below his ear. 'I've killed two men today,' I tell him calmly. 'Unless you tell me what I want to know, you're going to be number three.'

He grunts something unintelligible and meets my eye to show he's not intimidated.

I know I haven't got much time. Any minute now, someone's going to come past, see what's happening, and raise the alarm.

'I'm looking for a big man with dark hair and very brown skin.'

He looks blank.

'He's had a lot of plastic surgery,' I add, hoping this'll help identify him.

He looks totally confused. 'What you say?'

I suddenly see what Lucas meant about not having a plan. It's time for decisive measures. Returning my hand to his neck, I slam my thumb into the pressure point and he gasps in pain, his legs wobbling. I could easily knock him out, but again, I doubt if he'd be under for more than a few minutes, and I really don't want to go through this whole building temporarily incapacitating every thug I come across, because, one way or another, I've got to get back out of here again.

'Right, up the stairs,' I snap, swinging him round and shoving the gun into the small of his back. 'You're going to take me to the guy who runs this place, and if you try anything, you'll be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.'

I push the Glock's barrel right into his back, just so he's in no doubt that I mean business, and he starts up the stairs. I follow very close behind, my breath on his neck. I hear more laughter coming from behind me, this time male, and the sound of chairs scraping across the carpet. I'm guessing that some of the men in the bar are getting ready for their main course, and they'll soon be heading up the stairs as well. I give Dracula a shove to speed him up.

'You know who I'm talking about, don't you?' I whisper, and this time I flick open the blade on the knife and jab it hard against his cheek, almost but not quite breaking the skin.

He grunts again, a defiant sound, and I know this guy's not the sort who intimidates easily. I may have to make him bleed to get where I need to go, but I'm hoping he'll see sense. I was a soldier, not a torturer, and the idea of carving a blade across a helpless man's face is not a prospect I relish.

When we reach the top of the stairs, he turns left and we start to walk down a long hallway, the kind you get in a hotel, running the length of the whole floor with doors on both sides. All the doors are shut, but from behind several of them I can hear the sound of women faking sexual pleasure, as well as the occasional animal growl of exertion. The hallway itself is empty, everyone being far too busy to be hanging around in corridors, but already I can hear the new arrivals from the bar starting up the stairs.

I give Dracula another jab with the knife. He continues to walk, then stops at a heavy fire door close to the end of the hallway, and tries its handle.

'It's locked,' he grunts.

'Unlock it, then. I know you've got keys. I felt them when I searched you earlier. And hurry up.'

I jab him again, and this time the skin breaks and a tiny drop of blood comes out. Dracula flinches slightly, and pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket. I watch as the droplet trickles very slowly down his cheek, and for a moment the sight of it makes me nauseous.

He opens the door just as the punters and the girls come into view. Before any of them turn our way, I push him through and follow behind, hoping they haven't spotted us.

We're in a small alcove with stairs leading up to the next floor. We stop at the bottom. I can't hear anything coming from up above, not a sound, which concerns me. This building's only three storeys, and if there's no-one up here, I really don't know where else to look.

'Where's the man I want?' I demand.

He motions with his head towards the top of the stairs, and I wonder whether I'm being led into a trap. I watch him carefully. A line of blood runs all the way to his jaw where I've cut him. He's beginning to look nervous.

I click the knife's blade shut and put it in the back pocket of my jeans, then place an arm round Dracula's neck and pull him close, using him as a human shield as we lumber up the stairs together like some sort of pantomime horse.

'Next time there'll be no jab with the knife,' I hiss in his ear, ignoring the smell of wax and stale smoke that comes from there. 'I'll just settle for blowing your spine out.'

On the third or fourth step from the top, the third floor comes into view. The layout is the same, but the lighting is much harsher and the walls are painted a stark white which has stained with age.

Suddenly a door to the left opens, and lo and behold Rubberface appears. He's turning round and talking in Serbo-Croat to someone I can't see.

Moving fast, I shove Dracula up the last couple of stairs and swing him round so he's facing Rubberface.

Hearing the commotion, Rubberface turns our way and immediately curses. He's been caught off guard, and he freezes for a moment.

I know it's not going to take him long to gather his senses, and as soon as he does he's going to try to get back inside the door. I pull the gun away from its position against Dracula's spine, and point it straight at his torso.

'Move, and you get a bullet in the gut,' I state in tones that tell him I'm the one in control of this situation.

Unfortunately, I'm not. No longer under direct threat from the Glock, Dracula seizes his chance and grabs at my wrist, bucking and kicking as he tries to break my grip on his neck. I stumble back, and Dracula uses his free arm to try to elbow me in the belly; but I twist away from the blow and put every ounce of my strength into squeezing the air out of his throat. He chokes and gasps but keeps struggling, and I'm sent crashing backwards into the wall, my gun arm thrust high in the air as Dracula yanks at it. Rubberface is yelling something else in Serbo-Croat, and now I know that I've got seconds to retrieve matters, otherwise I'm finished.

Bouncing back off the wall, I slam my knee into Dracula's coccyx. I'm sure he would have cried out in pain had he been able to breathe, but the pressure he's under finally takes its toll. His grip on my wrist loosens, and I pull my arm free. I'm swinging it back to smack him in the head with the barrel in a final effort to take him out of the equation when he grabs my wrist again, stopping the gun's trajectory at just the point when the barrel's facing his temple.

It's a mistake. My finger's already tight on the trigger, and the sudden force he applies causes a further involuntary tightening.

The noise of the Glock firing explodes in my ears, and I feel a warm splash on my arm as a gout of blood from what's left of the side of Dracula's head lands there. More blood splatters heavily on the carpet, and he goes limp in my arms. It may have been an accident, but it was also a perfect shot, straight into his temple, killing him near enough instantly.

Military training emphasizes the need in battle to compartmentalize your feelings. You need to kill without compunction or emotion, and then to move straight on to the next target, so I drop him to the floor and step straight over his corpse, the Glock held tight in both hands as I approach the door Rubberface has just disappeared through. No more than five seconds have passed since he made good his escape, but I've lost my most effective weapon, surprise, and now the whole dynamic has changed because they know I'm coming. As soon as I step through that door, I'm likely to take a bullet. If I go in commando-style, rolling, I'll have no idea where my targets are and I'm still going to end up shot, particularly if that rat-faced bastard with the MAC-10's in there. I need to think of something else, and fast.

Then a girl screams.

It comes out of nowhere; or, more accurately, it comes from somewhere behind the door. It's full of panic, and it stops me dead in my tracks. I hear it again, louder now. There's pain there, too, I'm sure of it, and my adrenalin goes into overdrive all over again.

The door begins to open.

'Help me,' I hear her beg. 'You've got to help me.'

The door's open about six inches now, and I can see a head appearing in the gap. I stand frozen to the spot, the gun outstretched in my hands, the end of the barrel barely a couple of feet from her. I have no idea what is going on.

'Come out here slowly.'

'They've hurt me,' she sobs.

I repeat the instruction. I'm not going in there.

The door opens further, and a terrified-looking young woman with a mane of blonde hair, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, rushes towards me, oblivious to the gun, an expression of huge relief on her face.

I'm already lowering the gun as she runs into my arms, burying her head in my shoulder. I breathe in her clean, musky smell, and then she pulls back and her eyes meet mine. I'm trans-fixed. It's like gazing into dark pools.

Which is unfortunate, really, because by the time I realize she's holding something by her side, it's far too late.

One hand whips out and, with surprising strength, knocks the Glock out of my grasp, while the other slams the stun baton into my side, and for the second time that day I judder wildly as God knows how many volts go shooting through my body.

I just have time to curse myself for being so damn stupid before my legs go from under me and I crash heavily to the floor.