by Adam Hamdy
She leaned against the balcony rail and looked down at the hard pavement far below. How easy it would have been . . . Her eyes drifted up and out towards the bay. Gentle waves lapped the sandy beach where she and Wollerton had stripped to their underwear. There was nothing between her and the wide sea but clear air, but even if there had been cameras on her, Brigitte was beyond caring. She let the tears come and drowned in despair, dejected and broken.
Chapter 70
Ziad and Awut never went back to the house on Kenyon Street. Something had happened to the two cops Eddie Fletcher had on his payroll. The leader of the Seattle chapter of the Red Wolves had paid the police officers to keep watch on Ziad and Awut in case Deni Salamov tried anything, but the men had simply disappeared. Ever cautious, Awut had moved them to a warehouse on Riverside Drive, which is where they headed after the attack on the East Hill Mob. They concealed the van inside the building and traded it for an ancient sky-blue Lincoln Continental that was parked in the yard outside.
Awut drove east through the city, and as Ziad watched industrial give way to residential, his righteous fury gave way to reflection. He was assailed by memories of the men who’d died in the Meals Seattle warehouse. He’d known many of them for years and had considered some of them friends. He knew they had families, friends, hopes, dreams. They were all gone. The promise of their futures replaced by death, a horror inflicted so Ziad could satisfy his thirst for revenge. The contorted faces of Rasul’s men filled his mind, spliced with memories of the people who’d died during his escape from Al Aqarab. As he recalled them clutching at their throats, unable to breathe, Ziad wondered what he’d become. He glanced at the emotionless man next to him. Was Awut ever tortured by such things? He caught Ziad’s eye, and Ziad looked away immediately, feeling foolish and ashamed. Guilt was for the weak. Deni, Rasul and Essi had driven him to this, he told himself. If blame was to fall on anyone’s shoulders, it must land on theirs. The shame and anger he’d felt for so long were rekindled when he pictured Essi in the arms of her lover, and Deni and Rasul laughing about the ease with which they’d framed a fool whose only mistake had been falling in love with the wrong woman. He recalled all the cruelties he’d suffered in Al Aqarab because of them. They deserved what was coming to them, and anyone who stood with them was guilty by association.
Ziad dismissed his troubling thoughts and focused on the road ahead. They were out of the city now and were on I-90, part of a ceaseless flow of traffic heading east. The six-lane highway was lined with high pines that sliced the rose-gold sunlight. Awut took Exit 34 and at the end of the slip road, he made a left on 468th Avenue and drove north. A few houses and pockets of industry kept the wilderness at bay. Many of the homes they passed proudly displayed the Stars and Stripes, and Ziad wondered whether the wholesome people who inhabited the houses knew what really happened at the huge complex a few miles up the road.
Ten minutes after leaving the interstate, the houses vanished and the old Lincoln sped through untouched forest until the trees gave way to reveal Tanner Foods – a massive processing and distribution facility – on their right. They were tested for coronavirus by a security guard who was expecting them. When the results came back negative, he waved them through the gates and they drove into a car park that was packed with vehicles. Five huge warehouses were evenly positioned around the 200-acre site, and each of the vast buildings was serviced by smaller structures and loading bays. Everything was newly painted and gleamed in the sunlight. There was real money here.
A man in a high-vis vest directed Awut to the far corner of the car park, where a group of men gathered beneath a huge redwood. Ziad recognized Ben Cresci, Deni Salamov’s largest customer. Whatever the corporate filings said about Tanner Foods, it was Ben Cresci who truly called the shots. Cresci had jet-black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. He wore huge gold-framed sunglasses and sported a thick moustache. His dark-brown suit and wide-collared white shirt completed the seventies porn star vibe, but this was no seedy entertainer. He had the air of a man who knew the world was going to disappoint him, and the sharp features, hard eyes and volatility of someone who would meet such disappointment with extreme violence. Originally from somewhere in Italy, the Cresci family had controlled Seattle’s heroin trade for three generations. As far as Ziad knew, Cresci’s name and heritage were the only Italian things about the man; he was reputed to hate Italian food and didn’t even speak the language. The men who surrounded him were a mix of nationalities and ethnicities. The only thing that united them was that same propensity for violence and an endless hunger for more. More money, more power, more of everything. These weren’t the heart-of-gold mobsters of the movies. These were dangerous men.
Awut parked near the group and he and Ziad got out and walked over. Hunter, Cresci’s psychopathically cold number two, the man who’d finally brokered the meeting, stopped them and waved two bodyguards forward. Ziad and Awut were searched thoroughly and when the guards were satisfied they posed no threat, they were nodded on.
‘Mr Cresci,’ Ziad said, offering his hand.
Cresci made no move to take it. ‘We ain’t friends, Malek. I’m seeing you because Hunter says you’ve got something to say.’
‘We have a shipment—’ Ziad began, but Cresci cut him off.
‘This you making your move, then? Word is Deni and the East Hill Mob have almost wiped each other out over my product, which is now in the hands of the police.’
Cresci’s voice rose and Ziad could see him trying to control his anger.
‘I’m not making any moves,’ Ziad replied. ‘Just trying to fill a need. Your product is gone, but the demand isn’t. We have a shipment en route from China.’
‘H?’ Cresci asked.
‘We’re getting out of that business,’ Ziad said. ‘The world has moved on. We’re bringing in fentanyl—’
‘That fucking shit!’ Cresci cut in. He turned to his associates. ‘Everywhere I turn, people tell me to get into that stuff, but it fucking kills people. What good is a dead customer?’
‘Only if it’s misused. Same as heroin,’ Ziad countered. ‘It’s easier to transport, hard to detect and it’s much more profitable.’
‘So I hear.’ Cresci looked pointedly at Hunter. ‘Wave of the future, they say. My father always said those who don’t adapt, die.’
Cresci shook his head and took a couple of frustrated paces, and that’s when Ziad knew they had him.
They’d created a need, punching a hole in the man’s supply line. He had a huge beast to feed and his greed and desperation would enable Ziad and his associates to step in.
‘If we switch,’ Cresci said, ‘it’ll be the whole West Coast coming with us.’
Ziad nodded.
‘You have any idea what kind of volume we do?’ Cresci asked. ‘Our network runs from here to San Diego, and east to Chicago.’
‘We know,’ Awut said.
‘So, the master speaks,’ Cresci observed. ‘I know this one –’ he nodded at Ziad – ‘he’s a soldier, not a player.’
Ziad ignored the slight. He wasn’t here to have his ego serviced. He was here to win.
‘What about you, friend?’ Cresci asked Awut. ‘Who are you?’
‘The less we know about each other, the safer we’ll all be,’ Awut replied. ‘We know the extent of your demand and we will guarantee to meet it.’
‘We?’
‘I speak on behalf of the Red Wolves,’ Awut revealed, and Ziad felt a change in the atmosphere.
‘I’ve heard of your outfit,’ Cresci said. ‘International. You’ve even got people here. Reputation for being reliable.’
‘Very,’ Awut replied.
‘You can trust us,’ Ziad said. ‘I’ll handle port operations. We have drivers who’ll make the deliveries.’
Cresci ignored Ziad’s remark and kept his eyes on Awut.
‘How long before the first shipment arrives?’ Cresci asked.
‘Four days,’ Awut replied.
Ziad w
as surprised at the answer. The shipment must have left China weeks ago. These guys were seriously good.
‘What about Salamov?’ Cresci asked.
‘Rasul Salamov is dead. Killed with most of the East Hill Mob,’ Awut said. ‘Deni Salamov is a spent force. He’ll take on what’s left of the East Hill Mob to avenge his son, and they’ll rip chunks out of each other until they’re both finished.’
Cresci thought for a moment. He turned to Hunter. ‘This is Hunter’s play. He’ll be your contact. Agree terms with him.’
Cresci leaned close to Awut. ‘Don’t ever betray me. And never let me down,’ he said menacingly.
Awut didn’t reply, and Ziad felt the weight of expectation in the silence that followed.
‘We won’t,’ he assured Cresci.
Cresci glared at Ziad and Awut before walking away, followed by most of his entourage. Only Hunter and a couple of bodyguards stayed.
‘We need to talk price and volume,’ Hunter said, his ice-blue eyes gleaming intensely. Was he on something?
Ziad nodded. They’d just seized control of the most extensive drugs distribution network on the West Coast.
Part Three
Chapter 71
Neither the stagnant pools in the muddy banks nor the stench of marine fuel could do anything to diminish the sweetness of the first breath Pearce took when he finally surfaced. He gasped one lungful after another, his body tense, on edge, waiting for the first signs of choking, but each breath was followed by one more, and he gradually relaxed and realized today wasn’t his last. At least not here. Not yet.
The river had washed away all traces of the toxin from his clothes, and when he glanced around he realized he’d drifted downstream. He could just about see the roof of the Meals Seattle warehouse in the distance. He heard the sound of sirens approaching and felt an urgent need to leave the area. He had no desire to be caught by the police, nor did he want to meet whoever had piloted the drones. Not with his gun somewhere at the bottom of the river.
He looked for any sign of Rasul, but saw only the whirls and eddies of current in the green water. Then he caught sight of something stuck in the bank, twenty metres upriver, towards the warehouse. The object was caught in a clump of long grass and as he swam towards it, Pearce recognized the shape as Rasul. He was face down in the shallows and wasn’t moving.
Pearce grabbed him and turned him over. Rasul’s face was grey and his lips were blue, but the airborne toxin meant Pearce couldn’t risk mouth-to-mouth, so he pulled Rasul onto the long grass and laid him down on the tiny patch of ground that stuck out from the steep bank. Pearce sat astride Rasul and pounded a series of chest compressions. He had no idea how long Rasul had been dead or why he’d stopped breathing. He could have caught a breath of the toxin or might have taken a lungful of water. Pearce pressed his palms against the man’s chest, but there was no response, so he sat up and pounded a couple of haymakers into Rasul’s solar plexus.
Rasul gasped and colour flushed his cheeks. Pearce got off him and the man rolled onto his side and choked up river water and vomit. Rasul’s eyes were wild with fear.
‘You’re OK,’ Pearce reassured him. ‘Just take a moment.’
‘What happened?’ Rasul asked when he’d finished being sick. His voice was thick and raw.
The sirens were very close now, and Pearce was growing nervous. ‘You weren’t breathing,’ he said.
Rasul took a moment to compose himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said at last.
‘Can you swim?’ Pearce asked. ‘We have to leave.’
Rasul sat up and rubbed his chest. ‘I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.’
‘It was better than the alternative,’ Pearce said, sliding into the water.
Rasul joined him and they waded out to the deeper parts before letting the current take them. As they swam away, Pearce saw the first flashes of blue light further upstream.
Chapter 72
It was dark by the time they reached the community centre. Pearce was driving the Ford Falcon they’d stolen after emerging from the river, and when he made a right onto 140th Street, he saw the whole neighbourhood had changed. Two men stepped off the sidewalk and blocked Pearce’s path, signalling him to halt. They were part of a larger group stationed on the corner, and as Pearce scanned his surroundings, he saw similar gangs of men on every corner. There weren’t many vehicles out, but any that passed were stopped and the drivers questioned. The supermarket and coffee shop were closed, and only the main entrance of the community centre was lit. Deni Salamov had put the block in lockdown, and Pearce had no doubt the men now standing in front of the car were armed.
The shorter of the two was the first to register Rasul in the passenger seat, and his eyes widened.
‘Come on, Amr,’ Rasul said to Pearce as he stepped out of the car. ‘Leave it. These men will deal with it.’
‘Allah be praised,’ the shorter of the two guards exclaimed.
‘Rasul, you’re alive,’ the other remarked in astonishment.
‘Of course,’ Rasul said with the bravado of a star quarterback. ‘Dispose of the car. It’s stolen.’
He went on without looking back, and Pearce followed him to the community centre. Four men stood by the main entrance and Rasul’s arrival prompted similar astonishment, but he ignored the words of praise and relief and took Pearce inside the building.
They stepped onto an intricately patterned Persian carpet that ran the length of a broad corridor. The walls were decorated with framed tapestries of red fabric embossed with gold Islamic scripture. There were more men here and some openly carried shotguns, pistols and assault rifles.
A figure came running out of the shadows.
‘Rasul!’
It was Abbas Idrisov, the old veteran of the Chechen War. He rushed along the corridor and embraced Rasul. ‘Praise be. We’d heard . . .’ he left the implication hanging.
‘And it would have been true,’ Rasul said, ‘if it hadn’t been for this man.’ He gestured towards Pearce.
‘Alli’ er hamak,’ Abbas said, blessing Pearce in God’s name. ‘Your father has called everyone here. His grief is beyond anything I’ve seen. He wants to tear the city apart hunting every last member of the East Hill Mob.’
‘This wasn’t East Hill,’ Rasul said, picking up pace.
The corridor led them to a large hall. The ceiling had been painted blue and was covered with white religious scripture. A divider ran down the centre of the room and on one side there were forty or so men, most of whom were over the age of fifty, and on the other side perhaps double the number of women.
Pearce saw Essi Salamov, the young woman Ziad Malek had hit during the street fight with her boyfriend. She was at the heart of a group of grieving women and they all looked stunned when they saw Rasul, but he hadn’t noticed his sister and went straight to the men’s side of the centre, where his father choked on his sobs with a group of elders. The other men were astonished to see Rasul and one of them nudged Deni. The old gangster looked up, and for a moment his face registered nothing but confusion. Then disbelief, and finally the years fell away as hope filled him. He got to his feet and sprang towards his son, tears flowing with every step.
They embraced each other and Deni clung to his boy like a man who planned to never let go. Pearce was touched by the moment, and almost forgot about Rasul’s murderous behaviour earlier that day. Even the worst villains could be human.
‘How?’ Deni said, finally, almost choking on the words.
Rasul was also weeping and simply nodded at Pearce.
Deni locked eyes with Pearce and they shared a moment of profound gratitude. Deni grabbed Pearce’s arm and pulled him into their hug. Pearce couldn’t help but get swept into the emotion of the moment. He hadn’t felt the embrace of family since childhood and had almost forgotten what it was like to be the centre of someone’s world. Sharing Deni and Rasul’s reunion might be as close as Pearce would ever get, and the sadness of that thought struck him like a b
low. For the first time he accepted the gap in his life was real. He’d suppressed the realization, fearing it might make him vulnerable, but the need was there. He’d live a solitary existence as a perpetual outsider, but sharing in these profound emotions, he realized what he was missing.
‘I owe you everything,’ Deni Salamov told Pearce. ‘Everything.’
These are bad men, Pearce told himself. Killers. Drug dealers. Humans, he caught himself thinking. Just human beings.
Another body joined them and Pearce saw Essi Salamov on the other side of her father and brother. Tears streamed down her upturned face. Her smile was so broad it threatened to split her cheeks.
‘Rasul,’ she said, pulling her brother down so she could kiss his forehead.
Soon the four of them were joined by others, and they formed the heart of a crowd of mourners who all wanted to embrace the son who’d returned from the dead.
Chapter 73
‘The people will take their time to grieve,’ Deni said. He gestured towards the mourners on the other side of the room, those who’d lost sons, brothers, fathers that day.
He, Rasul and Pearce had stepped away from the group and were standing by the large windows which overlooked the football pitch.
‘Then we will get to work,’ Deni continued. ‘We will hunt down the East Hill pigs and make them pay for what they’ve done.’
‘This wasn’t East Hill,’ Rasul replied. ‘They were set up. Just like us. We weren’t meant to survive. You and East Hill were each supposed to believe the other was responsible for the massacre. You were supposed to destroy each other in your quest to avenge your dead. If we hadn’t escaped, the truth would have died with us. East Hill didn’t do this. Those men in there were as shocked as us. Someone else did this. Someone else set us up. Someone else tried to start a war.’
