by Wes Markin
‘And preventing you from ascending to the throne in Southampton?’
Walter smirked. ‘Everything that Southampton is right now is down to me, and me alone.’
‘I don’t disagree,’ Firth said, ‘But surely vanity and pride are traits best avoided in someone as professional as you?’
‘I avoid them when necessary and enjoy them when I have time.’
‘So, just kill Buddy then? It’s been a long time coming …’
‘And that there’s the problem, Mr Firth. Not only are his properties part of Southampton, but he himself is also part of it.’
‘Every king dies.’
‘True, but it’s the manner of a king’s death that is significant. My boss wants to seamlessly assimilate everything the Young family have built. If people suspect Mr Young has been forcibly removed by a bigger enterprise, we’ll struggle to gain the trust of everyone still involved.’
‘Will people care that much? He’s been a mean and vicious bastard for as long as anyone can remember.’
‘I don’t know, but my employer is more professional than you could ever imagine, and he will not take the risk.’
‘Okay, so where do I fit in?’
‘I need you to kill Mr Young.’
Firth smiled. ‘You’re joking. How the hell do you expect me to do that? Have you noticed where I am?’
‘As I’ve said, you’ve proven yourself. Parole will be granted.’
‘You have that much power?’
Walter nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Why does me killing him make any difference? Why don’t you just do it?’
‘Because if you kill him it’s not a business killing, it’s a revenge killing. It won’t be attached to me, or my employer.’
‘Revenge for what exactly?’
Walter took a deep breath.
‘For what?’
‘This is where you need that calm and that control, Mr Firth. In fact, you’ll need it more than you’ve ever needed it before. You cannot stop what is about to happen, and for you to die now would be unfortunate, and unnecessary.’
‘Revenge for what?’ Firth shook as he spoke because he already suspected the answer.
And it was unfathomable.
Walter widened his eyes. ‘Revenge for the murder of your daughter, Patricia.’
Firth closed his eyes, and saw the blood on the road, saw himself snatching his hand away from his daughter, and saw him putting his fist through the glass.
It was happening all over again.
Borya stared down at the prone figure of the detective. For the second time in three days, he was the victor. He remained unbeaten.
The policeman was alive. Not for long. Borya had retrieved his pistol which had been knocked from his hand moments before and had it pointed down at the meddling detective’s head.
He sighed. He preferred his quarry conscious. He took satisfaction from the look in their eyes before he closed them down, but he’d no more time for games.
He took a deep breath and began to tighten his trigger finger—
His shoulder burned, the shot was thrown off and the bullet fractured the floor beside the target’s head.
Borya spun and saw the detective’s wife at the bottom of the stairs wielding a bloody pair of scissors. My clever dancer.
She slammed the scissors into his chest.
With his free hand, he gripped the weapon and her hand simultaneously. She squealed. He then delivered a blow with the pistol. Her head snapped back, and her body quickly followed. She landed on the stairs.
He glanced down at the scissors and, in a rare moment of ungainliness, moved backwards and stumbled over the detective.
While on the floor, he examined the sharp instrument in his chest. Not too deep. It’d had to travel through a lot of muscle; internally, he should be fine. He pulled them out. There was a short spurt of blood, but nothing significant.
He watched her fleeing up the stairs.
You move well, my agile dancer, but now it’s my turn …
He picked up the pistol, aimed at her and fired.
Click.
Empty. And he’d used his spare clip already. He slipped the pistol in his inside jacket pocket, took the scissors and rose to his feet. He bolted for the stairs. Normally, he liked to take his time, but so far, he’d only executed two people in a reasonably busy house, and neither of them had been a target. They’d been collateral damage. Or bonuses. Depending on how you looked at it. The police, probably armed, wouldn’t be long away. Time was not a luxury he could enjoy right now. He took three steps at a time. She’d only just made it to the top, when he was just over half-way. He felt the warmth of her ankle on his palm, but it slipped free and his hand closed on empty air. My nimble dancer. She continued to impress him.
She rounded the bannister post at the top of the stairs. He thrust his arm through the railings. She vaulted his hand. My spritely dancer.
At the top of the stairs, he turned around the bannister post in time to watch her disappear into a room. He got there as the door slammed. He listened to the click of a lock being engaged.
He wanted to tell her that this was useless, but why bother telling her, when he could just show her? He stepped backwards, so he was against the bannister, and then charged shoulder first.
Crash.
He could feel her pushing back on the door with everything she had. It wouldn’t be enough.
Crash.
There was splintering sound. Are you ready, my elegant dancer?
Crash.
The door frame broke rendering the lock and handle useless. She remained behind the door though, so it still wasn’t open.
He was still holding the scissors that had been buried in his body twice. He barely acknowledged the pain. They felt like nettle stings. With his other hand, he pushed the door. It started to open.
You move well, but strength is a totally different animal.
She accepted her disadvantage, let go of the door and darted backwards. She was going for the small bathroom window. There was no point. No one could get through a window that size. Not unless you were in pieces.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. She spat in his face and kicked him in the shin. Another nettle-sting. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her in the bathtub.
‘Where is your family?’
She rolled onto her back in the bathtub. ‘They’ve gone, dickhead. Out of the window.’
Borya took a deep breath. He’d taken too long to get into the house. Their guests – the extra police officers had been his undoing. He’d not anticipated them. They’d delayed him outside. Saved the life of this woman’s family. Never mind. Here was the true target. This is who they desperately wanted dead.
He leaned over and grabbed his graceful dancer by the throat, just like he’d done to Joan Madden the previous evening.
Except this time, he wouldn’t be stopping.
She clawed at his hand as her face began to glow.
Firth roared. Let the warden come. Let them all come. He’d tell them everything. It was Patricia’s only chance now.
Walter and Harris didn’t try to restrain him. They just watched him as if he were a caged animal. A fascinating wild beast that posed no threat to them.
‘This was never discussed! Call it off – I’ll do anything!’
‘It’s too late, Mr Firth. It was due to happen ten minutes ago. Mr Young paid for efficiency. He opted for Mr Turgenev.’
‘The Dancer? The prick who killed Herb’s niece?’
Walter nodded. ‘So, you see, there’s nothing that can be done. It’s over. I’m sorry for your loss. And now, Mr Firth, it’s time to take the only option available—’
Firth spun and tore the books off the shelves. The classics that Wheelhouse had just stacked came crashing down. He grabbed the unit at either side and shook, letting loose the agony bubbling deep inside himself. The remaining books clattered to the floor. He shoved the unit, which smashed d
own onto the next one along. The next one wobbled, threatening a domino effect, but then stabilised, holding up the first unit at a tilt.
‘Finished?’ Walter said.
Firth spun back. ‘I’ll tell you when I’ve fucking finished.’
‘Okay.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You have three minutes, and then my deal is off the table.’
‘What? After you made me murder my best friend, and had my daughter killed?’
‘Let’s be clear on one thing. Mr Young had your daughter killed for arranging the murder of his granddaughter. I had nothing to do with that decision.’
‘Yes, but you knew, you arranged it, you could have stopped it, or warned me.’
Walter nodded again. ‘Indeed, I could’ve done any of these things.’ He sighed. ‘But I didn’t.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Two minutes.’
‘That was a fast minute,’ Firth said.
‘I’m in a rush.’
Firth felt the tears in his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand.
‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t have any family either,’ Walter said.
‘Why would that be of any consolation?’
‘Kindred spirits, perhaps? Maybe I could be the person you’d like to work for?’
Harris leaned over. ‘The Cleaner will be here any minute, Mr Divall.’ He gestured down at Wheelhouse’s body. ‘He only works in silence, and alone—’
Walter silenced Harris with a raised finger. ‘You can explain any delays to The Cleaner yourself, Mr Harris. I have given Mr Firth one last chance, and three minutes, to consider his options. You will afford him the respect he deserves in this final minute.’
Firth wiped tears away again. ‘Another fast minute.’
‘I believe you’ve made your decision already.’
Firth paced back and forth in front of the fallen shelf. ‘And what decision is that?’
Walter smiled. ‘Thirty seconds.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Twenty seconds.’
‘Where the fuck did you get your watch anyway?’
‘Ten seconds.’
‘I’m going to tear Buddy Young’s heart out.’
Walter clapped and looked at Harris. ‘And that, my friend, is why you always give someone thinking time.’ He looked back at Firth. ‘Let the old world of chaos and irrationality crumble … welcome to a time of order and control. Welcome to the future.’
Firth took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
His target’s eyes bulged and watered. Borya could have crushed her neck with relative ease. But she was special, this one. She’d been elegant, graceful and offered a challenge. Every competitor was entitled to feel their defeat. Every second of it. So, he starved her of oxygen, but didn’t grind her spinal column to dust.
When he’d done this before, to his own mother, she’d pleaded with her eyes. She’d tried to influence the outcome by begging for his mercy. That was part of the reason he’d cut her eyes out when he’d finished with her.
There was no pleading here. Neither was there acceptance. He was looking for hate, but not really seeing that either. As his target’s face began to take on a bluish tinge, he saw the real emotion in her eyes.
Sympathy.
Was he mistaken? He stared harder into those bloodshot eyes.
No, there it was. Pity.
He rarely felt anger, but he felt it now. He forced it back. Controlling his fragmented emotions, when they seldom appeared, was one of his specialities.
He lied with a smile instead. His lie, like everything else about him, was perfect.
‘Don’t pity me,’ Borya said, ‘I’ve lived through things you couldn’t even imagine. I’m more full than you could ever believe. It’s you who shall die empty.’
He felt something hitting his back. Hard. It stunned him. Which was surprising. He wasn’t often fazed by the blows of others.
‘Get the fuck off her.’
He felt a second blow. It was hard enough to wind him and force him to release his target.
He was dealing with someone of significant strength here. He smiled as he turned.
Although the man wielding the same pathetic bar that the detective had only minutes ago wasn’t as big as Borya, he was bigger than any adversary he was yet to face. His back stung from where the bar had struck him twice. He enjoyed the challenge. He licked his lips in anticipation.
Borya tore the bar from his challenger’s hand and threw it to the side and over the bannister.
Game on.
Jake didn’t quite understand how he’d arrived at this moment. Everything had moved so quickly. It started with a panic attack behind the wheel of his car. A quick journey into sheer hell as he relived again and again the explosion, and a little boy’s death.
He’d considered many options at that point. Confront Madden at HQ, turn himself in, go gung-ho and lay siege to the gangsters who had initiated this sorry affair, or just continue his retreat to St Malo in France.
None of these options had appealed, and he went instead for the default option. Michael Yorke. Confidante. Best friend. The closest thing to a brother he’d ever had. It was time to come clean about everything, open himself up to the greatest detective, and his greatest friend. Time to put himself at his mercy.
It hadn’t quite worked out that way.
Instead, he’d encountered the bloodbath on Yorke’s doorstep. Pemberton had been riddled with bullets. No pulse. Bryan had taken a head wound. No pulse.
Then, Jake had gone in through the front door without a weapon. Caution wouldn’t stop him. Not when some of the people he loved the most were inside that house. Inside, Yorke was lying on the floor. Feeling his heart in his mouth, he fell to his knees beside his motionless friend ...
A pulse.
No time to cry with relief though. There was blood all over the floor, but no visible bullet holes on his friend. The blood trailed off alongside the stairs. Who else had paid the ultimate price in this house?
Before he had chance to follow the trail, he was distracted by muffled voices from the next floor. After swooping for a metal bar, which was light and hollow, but in the least, something, he took the stairs as quietly as he could.
The fourth stair creaked loudly. He paused for a deep breath, praying he’d not blown his cover, desperate not to see a gunman leaning over …
Nothing.
He continued his journey and, when he saw between the bannister railings a massive man hunched over a bath in the bathroom, he felt adrenaline surge through his body. He was holding someone down in the bath. He took the last steps quickly.
As he rounded the bannister post, he could hear the man talking. He had a heavy Russian accent. Borya Turgenev? ‘Don’t pity me, I’ve lived through things you couldn’t even imagine.’
Jake charged down the corridor.
‘I’m more full than you could ever believe.’
Jake turned into the bathroom, bar ready.
‘It’s you who shall die empty.’
Jake hit the large bastard’s back. Hard. He drew back for a second blow, fearing that the first had not even fazed him. ‘Get the fuck off her.’
He swung again. Clunk. The vibrating bar stung his hands. He worried that it was doing him more harm than Borya.
Borya turned, smiling.
At six foot seven, Jake rarely had to look up to people. He suddenly felt very disorientated. To be told someone was this big was one thing, to behold someone this big was another thing entirely.
Borya licked his lips, tore the hollow bar from his hand and threw it over his head like a matchstick.
Jake had taken a lot of punches in his time, the big guy usually did, but never anything like this. Borya caught the side of his head, and the world seemed to disappear momentarily.
Recovering his senses, he swooped backwards out the door, and Borya’s next strike splintered the doorframe. Jake was no stranger to an old-fashioned street-fight. Misspent teenage years impressing others with his
size and strength could come in handy now. To fool Borya into thinking he’d lost his footing, he let his legs buckle, before delivering a crushing uppercut.
Borya’s head snapped backwards.
Jake sprang upwards, using the momentum to deliver a devastating left hook.
Jake felt a rush of adrenaline. He had Borya on the ropes. Stooping now, Jake darted in with some body blows. He kept his forehead against the giant’s solid chest, so he was able to deliver some rapid, fierce jabs.
Jake thought of the little boy lying on the road. He felt the rage burn. He ached for release.
Jab-jab-jab.
Jake moved backwards, both to catch his breath and survey the damage done. Borya didn’t sway, but he stood motionless with his head lowered, and his monstrous arms hanging at his side.
Fucking knuckle-dragger—
From the corner of his eye, Jake saw Patricia rising from the bath. He held out the palm of his hand in her direction. ‘Stay there!’
I need this time with him.
He closed his palm into a fist. ‘Come on, fucker.’
Jake slammed his fist hard into the side of Borya’s head. His knuckles burned, but it was the most pleasurable pain he’d ever felt. Borya stumbled backwards.
‘That’s for Pemberton.’
To give the knuckles on his right hand a break, he used his weaker left hand. With the adrenaline coursing through his veins, it was no less crushing.
‘That one is for Bryan.’
Borya stumbled further back. He heard the police sirens.
No, Jake thought. No. This is mine. ‘Lift up your head, fucker.’
He didn’t.
‘Fine. This is going to be a long list, prick. Buckle up. This one is for Janice.’ He darted in and swung.
His fist came to a sudden halt. It felt as if his hand had sunk into glue. How he wished that was the truth. Borya had caught his fist in a giant paw.
Borya raised his head; his face was puffy, the corner of one eye bled and his lips were ruptured. He smiled and showed blood-stained teeth. ‘You lead well.’
The pain in Jake’s hand was excruciating. He forced back the scream. And he forced himself to stay standing, despite his shaking legs. He would not let the Russian send him to his knees.
