by Wes Markin
‘Now it’s my turn,’ Borya said. Keeping tight hold of his fist, he placed the palm of his hand against the side of Jake’s head.
‘No—’ Jake felt the sudden thrust, felt the explosion in the side of his skull where it collided with the wall, and his vision disintegrated into an incomprehensible mess.
‘Get off him, you fucker.’
No … Patricia .... Jake forced his vision into a whole, but he was still reeling too much to speak. He saw Patricia shove Borya, but the killer was an immovable object. Borya released Jake’s fist, and delivered a backhand. She flew back across the bathroom, struck the toilet and crumpled to the floor.
Patricia …
Jake reached out for Borya, but he was completely disorientated now. His hand flailed uselessly in the air. The sirens of the emergency services grew louder in the background. Hope ...
He saw Borya leaning over and clutch the front of his jacket. He bashed his fists off the assassin’s arms, but they were like columns of stone.
Then he was being swung into the wooden banister.
Crash.
He couldn’t believe that, merely seconds ago, he’d been winning this battle.
Crash.
Dream on, Jake, you’ve been played.
Crash. Crack.
Was that the bannister cracking, or his bones?
Crash. Crack.
His entire body burned. He squeezed his eyes closed. He didn’t bother trying to see. That ship had long sailed.
Crash. Crack
Then he was falling, and when he opened his eyes, in a brief moment of clarity, he saw Borya smiling down at him from the balcony.
Jake lay mid-way down the stairs among the debris of the bannister.
The sirens were seconds away. Surely now, Borya would make a run for it?
Borya smiled and reached his foot through the hole in the bannister. He was coming down to Jake.
Borya heard the sirens clear enough, but to leave before tearing his opponent’s throat out would be the true crime here.
His vision clouded from the blood running into it. This policeman had been a worthy opponent. The best he’d ever faced. He deserved to feel the defeat.
He stepped through the broken bannister. His legs were long enough that he’d be able to get within two steps of his opponent. It would then be a simple matter to lean over and offer him a brief nod of approval for his attempt on his life before ending him.
Even now, his enemy was rustling in the debris for a weapon. Such a worthy adversary. He nodded. The policeman selected a sharp, broken post from the bannister. A good choice, Borya thought, if you’d any strength left to use it.
Borya took a deep breath and felt the moment.
Everything was quiet. Still.
Peace.
His foot found the step.
Perfectly—
The shove in his back wasn’t hard. Didn’t need to be. He was standing in an awkward position with one foot on the balcony and the other on the step.
He thought he’d hit the detective’s wife hard enough to put her down for the foreseeable. My elegant dancer.
As he fell through the air, chest first, he felt no fear. A short fall like this would not harm him. The worst it’d do would crush the life out of his opponent, relieving him of the final pleasure of killing him with his bare hands.
A cold pain gripped Borya’s stomach, and then spread its claws up into his chest.
He rolled free of his opponent and slid down the stairs on his back.
Something was sucking the energy out of him.
At the bottom of the stairs, flat on his back, he looked down at his body.
The broken post was pointing out of his stomach, away from him, at a diagonal angle.
He reached down to it. It had entered the top of his abdomen and had most certainly slid under his rib cage. The fact that he was still breathing might indicate that it hadn’t yet made it to his heart.
He reached down to it, but another pair of hands arrived there too.
He looked up into the face of his opponent.
‘For Janice, remember?’
Borya smiled.
He felt the shove of the post, and the coldness bit deep into his chest.
Beaten.
At first, Yorke was confused.
His whole body ached, and his vision was like a broken autofocus on a camera, erratically moving back and forth between distortion and clarity.
It was the face, close to his own, that eventually stilled the chaos. ‘Jake …’
‘Ambulance is about to arrive. Your family is safe. All of them.’
‘Borya?’
‘Dead.’
‘Did you …?’
Jake nodded.
The relief was as overpowering as the disorientation. He closed his eyes, wondered if it was best just to rest, when a memory bit into him and tugged. His eyes bolted open. ‘Collette?’
‘Patricia is with her. She’ll be fine.’
‘Thanks Jake.’
He heard Jake apologising, but before he could hear the reason why, he’d already closed his eyes and returned to the warm blackness.
Epilogue
SUPERINTENDENT JOAN MADDEN pushed Jake deep into the hospital grounds.
The wheelchair squeaked under Jake’s weight.
Madden found a nice flowerbed. The skies had cleared under the colossal rainfall two days ago. It had not been this blue for a while.
‘Now, we can finally start Spring,’ Madden said, parking Jake alongside a wooden bench, and then taking a seat.
‘You look worse than me,’ Jake said. ‘Should we get you a wheelchair too?’
Madden’s facial expression didn’t change. He wasn’t surprised. Her face was that bruised it would be sheer agony to attempt it.
‘Borya Turgenev was evil. I suspect you enjoyed staking the vampire’s heart.’
‘Yes, immensely,’ Jake said with a smirk. ‘Just look at me.’
He paused to stare at the array of flowers, threatening to burst into life. He sighed. He could cover it up with sarcasm, but the truth was he’d enjoyed that final moment when he drove that post deeper into the bastard’s chest.
‘Well, make no mistakes, there’ll be others. Others just as evil … if not more so. Which is why you can’t run. You limited your choices when you opted in, I’m afraid. If you don’t want to listen to this from a boss, listen to it from a friend. Jake.’
Jake snorted. ‘You’re no one’s friend, ma’am.’
‘I hope, for your sake, Jake, that you’re wrong. You need me … and, believe it or not, I need you.’
‘Symbiotic?’ Jake said with another smirk.
Madden nodded. ‘That is where we are.’
‘I held a dead boy in my arms.’
‘I can’t imagine—’
‘Do you have any children?’
‘You know I don’t.’
‘A dead boy, ma’am. A dead child.’
‘The world is merciless, Jake. I made my choices when I was younger. Far younger than you are right now. I’d regret them if regret had an outcome. It doesn’t. I advise you to start thinking the same way. There’re not many certainties left in the life we’ve chosen, Jake, but there’re some. If you run, you die.’
Jake took a deep breath.
‘You can still do good.’
Jake raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘You saved three lives, Jake. You.’
Jake reflected. ‘I got lucky. It has nothing to do with what I’ve become.’
‘Nonsense. It has everything to do with it. How many people would have taken on Borya, let alone killed him?’
Jake sighed. She had a point. He looked at his hands. They looked no different. And he felt no different being a killer. But he was.
Nothing was more certain now.
She handed him an envelope.
‘Another Russian target?’
Madden nodded. ‘Another agent who fled years ago.’
‘More discreetly this time. Quietly. They’ve gotten access to Porton Down.’
‘The chemical factory? It’s military run!’
Madden shrugged. ‘The next time will be silent. You have my word.’
‘And do I have your word on the children?’ Jake said, staring at a bumblebee settling onto a sunflower.
‘Yes, Jake, you have my word.’
All of us together. Happy. Before Geoff Stirling and his Ford Capri.
Patricia froze. She placed her father’s letter down beside her on the sofa. She just needed a moment to collect herself.
Geoff Stirling and his Ford Capri.
Despite her early age, it was an event in her memory that still burned. A moment like that seared any possibility of true contentment.
She picked up the letter and continued.
You remember when you held my hand? The day I watched your brother die?
She looked down at her shaking hand clutching the letter. ‘Of course, Dad. I needed you and you pulled your hand away.’
I didn’t want to contaminate you.
Patricia felt the first tear run down her face. ‘It’s not an excuse, Dad, it’s just not an excuse.’
Patricia, when all is said and done, and one day it will be, probably sooner than you realise, I want you to remember me for the man I was before that day, and not the man I became.
‘There isn’t a day that goes past Dad when I don’t long for who you were before.’
Those priceless moments. Drops of rain. Frozen forever. Don’t let them melt. Hold them close.
She cried as quietly as she could. Her family were in the kitchen, and she didn’t want to spoil their time together. Their priceless moments.
Her father signed off with the suggestion that this may be his last letter to her.
She’d had this letter for two months now, ever since he was released on parole. She’d not received another one since.
She didn’t even know if he was alive or dead.
Crying quietly, she tried, but failed, to identify how she truly felt about this.
Firth had met Buddy Young twice before.
The only thing he recognised about the fading kingpin were his eyes.
Back in the day, when things were good, both he and Wheelhouse used to joke about these eyes. The Devil’s eyes. They could root around in your body, find the truth, and then incinerate your soul if need be.
Firth wondered if these eyes could see the truth in him right now. The reason he was here.
He certainly wouldn’t recognise him. They were both old men now and had been much younger when they’d last met. To Buddy, he would be nothing more than an aging nurse, here to check up on the machinery that kept him functioning.
But, for Buddy Young, sensing someone’s intent was the name of the game, not facial recognition.
Firth made a show of checking the wires around the back of the machine while Buddy’s fingers tapped a keyboard.
‘Get on with it.’ The robotic voice cackled.
The perfect gentleman, as always.
Walter Divall stood near. Firth could feel his eyes burning into him. The purpose for this vicious stare, Firth reasoned, was to maintain the pretence. Walter was Buddy’s most trusted man, so he needed to continue the façade that the old man was well and truly protected.
The other reason would be to warn Firth that he must finish what they’d started.
Borya had not succeeded with Patricia. Firth’s relief had been indescribable. Despite what he’d done to his best friend earlier, he’d felt a moment of happiness.
Yet, they were still here. The fact that Buddy had tried to have Patricia killed was still motive enough. Firth still had his task to complete. And it was no small task either. Killing a crime lord.
Firth looked at Walter and saw the frustration in his eyes. He wanted him to get on with it. He must have been desperate to nod his command, but to do so, would be dangerous for him.
‘Almost done, sir,’ Firth said to Buddy.
There was another bodyguard standing just behind Firth. He, like all the rest, looked deadly serious.
Firth moved around Buddy’s bed and looked up at the bodyguard. ‘Young man, could I trouble you for a moment? Could you hold Mr Young forward while I fluff his pillows?’
The bodyguard nodded his reply and came over to the bed. He put one hand on the old gangster’s chest, another on his back and tilted him forward. Already withered and frail, Buddy looked even more like a baby in those large hands.
The bodyguard was so preoccupied with handling his dangerous boss carefully, he failed to notice Firth take out his silenced gun from inside his gown. When he did finally acknowledge the gun, it was too late, and Firth blew his brains out.
Buddy slumped back. The bodyguard hit the floor. The humming machines were covered in blood and started to crackle.
‘Don’t worry, Buddy, you won’t be needing them,’ Firth said, pulling off Buddy’s oxygen mask.
Buddy’s stony eyes widened. Firth wondered if this was the only time the cold-hearted bastard had ever felt truly vulnerable.
Buddy’s trembling hand moved over the keyboard. ‘Walter?’ The robotic voice hissed out through a speaker covered with the contents of the bodyguard’s head.
‘It’s over, sir,’ Walter said from behind Firth.
Firth allowed Buddy to type one more message. ‘Who are you?’
Firth smiled. ‘Does it matter? I could be anyone. I have come on behalf of anyone you have caused misery in your malignant life. But I dedicate this one to my good friend, Herb. Goodbye Buddy.’
He shot Buddy in the neck, so he could gag and splutter on his own blood for a time before dying.
He then turned to Walter, who had moved closer.
‘In the shoulder, Mr Firth, as we planned.’
Firth raised the gun. ‘Yes, Mr Divall. In the shoulder as we planned.’
He fired.
When ex-detective Emma Gardner had Yorke over for lunch, he was stunned, and not just by the quality of the tuna niçoise salad. ‘I know mentioning a woman’s weight is a no-no … but that’s some serious weight loss.’
‘A stone and a half in two months.’
‘Is that how long it’s been since I last saw you?’
‘It’s three months actually. It was just after Christmas.’
‘Shit … sorry.’
‘It’s no use apologising to me. It’s your goddaughter you should be apologising too. She was starting to take a real shine to you.’
‘Takes after her mother then,’ Yorke said with a smile.
‘Hmm … yes, there were times when working with you meant a lot, Mike, but my life has been a whole lot better without you in it as much.’
Yorke put his fork down and laughed. ‘I really don’t know how to take that.’
Gardner shrugged. ‘Two ways. You are an impressive man in that you led us down paths no one else could. The problem is that I never felt comfortable with what we found down them.’
‘I always tried to support you, and everyone else, as much as was possible.’
‘I know, Mike, but in the heart of darkness, there is only so much support you can actually give. Sometimes the darkness just takes back. Anyway, Mike, the job wasn’t for me anymore … and I’m positive it still isn’t.’
‘We’re re-treading familiar ground here, Emma, let’s rewind. The weight loss?’
‘Well, I had to get into this.’ She stood and twirled to show her black security officer outfit.
‘Yes, but how did you lose it?’
She smiled and pointed at his salad. ‘It’s in front of you.’
‘Yes, delicious, but you can’t sustain life on it …’
‘Well, you can sustain less life which is kind of the point.’
Yorke smiled. ‘But is it a life worth living? Anyway, I bet you still guzzle back those Tic tacs.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘They�
��re one calorie each, Mike!’
‘Yes, but if you multiply that by a thousand a day, then I guess you’re still racking up the count.’
They both laughed.
Towards the end of their reunion, which had been pleasant, and a timely reminder to Yorke that he had many good people in his life, he probed her further on her new life. ‘What’s it like working a nine to five. Really?’
‘Consistent, safe, calm.’
Yorke nodded. ‘Sounds appealing.’
‘Sometimes boring,’ Gardner said and smiled. ‘But my life isn’t just about me anymore. I can handle being a little bored if it means I can be home for Anabelle, safe and calm.’
‘I understand. Those things that happened to you. Terrence Lock … the stabbing … there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think—’
‘Stop it, Mike, none of those things were your fault.’
‘I was in charge. I led you down those paths, remember?’
‘You didn’t lead me anywhere I didn’t want to go.’
Yorke nodded. ‘I think I’ve had enough too now, Emma. I think I’ve become like you—’
‘Bollocks!’
‘I did it again. Collette almost died.’
‘Collette followed you for the same reason I followed you. It’s in her blood, like it’s in mine, and it’s in yours. I’ve made a choice, a sacrifice for my family, but you’re not going to make the same choice.’
‘Oh,’ Yorke said, raising an eyebrow, ‘And why not?’
‘Because Michael Yorke, you are the best, and despite the fact that you always lead your team into that black heart, you always come back out the other side and, when you do, the world is a better and safer place for it.’
Later, after Yorke had left, Gardner prepared the evening meal. Now she was a security guard, it was essential she worked one weekend day, so she’d managed to secure Thursday as a regular day off. After chopping the vegetables, she heaped them into the slow cooker.
Her phone rang. She looked at the number. It was Robert Brislane. Her private investigator.
‘Hi Robert,’ Gardner said. ‘If it’s about this month’s expenses, I’ll get onto it later—’
