by Karl Hill
Unleashed
Karl Hill
Copyright © 2020 Karl Hill
The right of Karl Hill to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2020 by Bloodhound Books.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Print ISBN 978-1-913419-70-7
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
A note from the publisher
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1
December 2010
Attack is the best form of defence. Assisted by skill, cunning, and a whole lot of fucking luck.
Advice given to new recruits of the 22nd Special Air Service Regiment.
The weather didn’t matter. Not to Adam Black. Snow, hail, fog. Like clockwork, he went for his evening run. Whether it was habit or instinct or even enjoyment, he couldn’t be sure. Maybe insanity. But it was ingrained, second nature, down to the harshest training known to man, and so this particular evening was no different from any other. Except the moon. It was a blood moon, unobscured by cloud, surrounded by a million stars.
“Unlucky,” Jennifer predicted, as she watched him tying up his trainers, a half smile playing on her lips.
“Or maybe lucky.” Black laughed. “While I’m out, your lottery ticket might come up.”
“Which would be nice, if I ever bought one.”
“A major flaw. Let’s be honest. Having all that money would be… let me think. Boring? Who wants to be filthy rich, and live a life of shameful decadence and incredible luxury? Surely not you.”
Jennifer ruffled his hair. “Of course not. Heaven forbid. I can barely imagine how awful it would be. Dinner’s going to be ready in half an hour. If you’re late, you’re looking at soggy pasta.”
Black grinned.
“Half an hour or soggy pasta. Put that on my headstone, please.”
“I’d rather you put this on your head.” She handed him a black woollen mountain hat. “It’s minus two.”
Black regarded the hat with scepticism. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I don’t want any husband of mine wandering about with frostbitten ears. Embarrassing. For me, that is. What would the neighbours say?”
He shrugged – it was no use arguing – and put it on. Even with the hat, he cut a compelling figure. Unobtrusively muscular, handsome in a hard-bitten way, rather harsh cheekbones, dark eyes.
“Tough guys shouldn’t need to wear hats like this.”
“Which is precisely why you need to wear one. See you in half an hour, tough guy. Clock’s ticking.”
2
Black closed the front door behind him; it felt colder than minus two, coming immediately from the warmth. His skin tingled; his lungs felt the bite of the crisp air. A wisp of cloud formed with every breath.
He was dressed for the occasion; close-fitting long-sleeved vest under a light sweat-top with high-viz reflective bands; cycling shorts under semi-loose track bottoms; ankle socks; padded cycling gloves. And the hat, of course. He had tried wearing flat-soled running shoes – if ancient man got around on his bare soles, then why couldn’t trendy modern man? Plus, the running magazines raved about the concept. Black had tried them for six months, eventually judging the idea as bullshit. Too much stress on the ankles, the calves, his feet sensing every miniscule stone, every edge, every crack. The running magazines were consigned to the bin. Back to the traditional running shoe, all cushioned and springy.
He loosened up for a few seconds in the front garden. He avoided stretching – it was overrated, increasing the odds of a pulled muscle. Instead, he jumped gently on the spot, shaking his arms, rotating his neck, swivelling his shoulders, breathing deeply, filling his lungs.
He looked up at the night sky, and there it was. A blood moon. A strange, dusky-red circle, out of place amongst the stars. Like a perfect gemstone. Almost alien. He had seen more blood than he cared to remember and knew its every shade, every permutation. This was the colour of old blood, he decided. Blood that leaves a stain. Blood that doesn’t wash away.
He began his run. His programme changed every week. To keep rigidly to the same route was recipe for disaster – the mind became bored, jaded, affecting the body’s performance, until running became worse than a chore, an ordeal.
This particular week it was twice around the village park. From their cottage and back again, it was about a four-and-a-half-mile run. They lived a mile from the village of Eaglesham, located on the outskirts of Glasgow. A village set on the incline of a hill, in the broad shape of a capital A, structured round a common green. An eighteenth century ‘planned village’, filled to the brim with listed buildings, cute cottages, secret lanes. Created that way by the Earl of Eglinton, a rich Scottish aristocrat, apparently an altruist in his day. A cotton mill once stood in the centre, employing upwards of two hundred people. The cotton industry died, t
he mill died with it, reduced to a scattering of stones. The remnants could still be found, if a person looked hard enough, amongst the trees and bushes and long grass. Black was never a history buff. He had never bothered looking, and never would.
The hill going up to the apex of the A was steep, a half mile of slog. Going down was a breeze, though the road was treacherous with ice; a twisted ankle was not unknown.
He passed the darkness of woodland, separated from the pavement by a low dry-stone wall, until he reached the first streetlight, and then houses on either side of a two-lane road. He got to the centre of the village – a row of small, flat-roofed shops – then turned to his right and began the ascent. Here, the road was narrow, the pavement barely wide enough for one person. On his right shoulder were rows of tall, squeezed, terraced houses with crow-stepped gables, once homes for the mill workers, now overpriced getaway dwellings for rich people with money to burn, and time to do it. On his left, the park, a blot of deep shadow. He slowed a little; the incline was steep. He passed windows and glimpsed people doing what they do, going about their lives: watching TV; cooking dinner; sitting at a table; kids doing homework. Routine stuff. Normal stuff.
Halfway up, and he got to the only pub in Eaglesham, the Old Swan. A building of buff-red sandstone, Georgian windows, black-painted sills. People were outside in the freezing cold, smoking, chatting, maybe a half dozen. It was noisy inside – a week before Christmas. Party time.
He veered onto the road to avoid any collisions. Someone shouted something. A man’s voice. Black’s ears were muffled by his hat. What was it? Two words. Fucking clown. Could be. Black ignored him, ran on, and in a few seconds was beyond the pub, and back to running past more houses. His route would take him a second time by the Old Swan. By then, whoever had shouted would be finished his smoke and back inside sinking pints.
Probably.
Black couldn’t have been more wrong.
3
Five hours earlier: 3pm
Damian Grant was in a crazy shit mood, and when he was like that, crazy shit tended to happen. His cousin, and boyhood friend Tommy ‘Teacup’ Thomson, had seen this played out a hundred times before, and though he’d always gone along with it, mostly because he was paid to do so, he still never liked it. Teacup was no stranger to violence himself – professional boxer turned enforcer and all-round fixer – but Damian cranked it up to a whole new level.
Teacup was watching Damian, in the process of snorting his third line of cocaine from a glass-topped side table. They were not the only people in the room. Sitting in an armchair by a bay window, reading a newspaper and seemingly oblivious to Damian’s rants, was William Blakely. Contracted up from Manchester. Dressed impeccably as ever: powder-blue woollen suit, crisp white shirt, white silk tie, shoes polished until they gleamed like mirrors, silver cufflinks. What people didn’t know, was that he carried a knuckleduster in one inside pocket, and a blade tucked in the other. And he wasn’t scared to use them.
But Damian Grant was in a crazy shit mood, and Teacup didn’t know how the hell the day was going to pan out.
“I so needed that.” Damian sighed, reclining back on a beige leather chair, legs sprawled in front of him, two pale limbs sticking out like matchsticks from a velvet bathrobe. “I know you disapprove, but guess what. I couldn’t care less. Your disapproval gives me no concern. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because, old friend, with the crap I’ve to put up with, no fucking wonder I take sanctuary in hard drugs. Do you like that word, Teacup?”
“What word?”
“Sanctuary. That’s what this shit gives me. Sheer fucking sanctuary. Sanctuary from the old bastard.”
Teacup paused, thoughtful. He had to be careful what he said. Every word was important, when Damian was like this. Every word had consequences. On the one hand, the son. On the other, the father. A balancing act. He had to be loyal to both. If word got back he’d spoken ill of Mr Grant, then he’d have a problem. Consequences.
“Your father’s not an easy man,” Teacup replied, nodding sagely, as if in agreement. “He can be difficult. But then, he’s got a lot on his plate.”
“A lot on his plate!” Damian glared at him, eyes shining. “What does that even mean! If you’re going to open your mouth, at least try to talk some sense!” Damian’s voice took an icy tone. “It’s about respect. Or lack of. I’m not a fucking errand boy. Do this! Do that! He snaps his fingers and I come running. Scurrying about like his fucking pet dog. Let me explain something to you. Come close.”
Damian leaned forward in his chair. Teacup, sitting opposite, bent closer.
“It’s destroying me,” Damian said, his voice low, barely a whisper. “It’s ripping out my fucking soul.” He clutched his hand to his chest, in mock drama. “You understand this?”
He stared at Teacup. Teacup could only stare back.
“When all’s said and done,” Damian continued softly, “I’m quite entitled to my little dalliances.” He raised his head back and burst out laughing – a raw, wild sound. “What do you think of that word, Mr Blakely?”
William Blakely looked up from his newspaper. He spoke in a quiet, measured tone, at odds with his close-cropped haircut and heavy, blunt features.
“What word was that?”
“Dalliances! Fucking dalliances! Awesome, don’t you think?”
Blakely smiled. “Now there speaks an educated man,” he said, and resumed reading his newspaper.
And Teacup agreed. No expense had been spared in Damian Grant’s education. Private schooling (though he had been expelled from two schools), private tuition. He should have done better but hadn’t. His father, Peter Grant, never got the chance to get an education, had clawed his way up from the street, and so had lavished on his son everything money could buy. Only natural, a father looking out for his son, Teacup thought. But Damian had spat it back in his father’s face. Big time. It was difficult not to hear the bitterness from his voice when he spoke.
“That’s your third line today, Damian. Can I make a suggestion?”
“Watch out! Teacup’s about to make a suggestion. This should be something.”
Teacup licked his lips. What the hell, he thought.
“A night in wouldn’t do any harm.”
Silence. Damian regarded him with a long, thoughtful stare. Then he spoke, his tone quiet, almost reasonable. Not a good sign.
“A night in? Really? That’s your suggestion?”
Teacup didn’t respond. He’d said the wrong thing, and knew it.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” said Damian. Another silence. William Blakely looked up from his newspaper for a second time. Suddenly, Teacup heard a sound – the beat of his own heart.
“I’m not a fucking three-year-old,” said Damian softly. “Don’t condescend to me, Teacup, or I swear, you’re out on your arse – and then what would Daddy say. One word from me, and he’d have your fucking guts. He’d string you up by the fucking balls!”
Which was true, reflected Teacup. The simple fact was, despite being family, he was on the payroll, as was William Blakely, who had been brought up from Manchester specially. And they were getting paid to do a most specific job; babysit Damian during the Christmas period, when Damian was capable of the craziest shit. If Teacup left Damian’s side, for any reason, then he was in trouble. And Damian had been hitting the drugs and booze extra hard for a week, causing mayhem in every club, every pub. Nowhere was safe. Sanctuary, thought Teacup. There was none. Damian Grant had the stamina of a horse, and a strong inclination towards extreme violence. A difficult mix to handle, for anyone.
And then Teacup had an idea. He raised both his hands in placation. “No offence meant, Damian. I get concerned for you. You know that. Why don’t we try something different tonight?”
“Another of Teacup’s suggestions. This had better be an improvement on the last one.”
Teacup hoped it was. “We’ve been to every bar and club in Gla
sgow. Let’s go somewhere different. Somewhere a bit…” Teacup had to scrape around for the right words. “…out of the way. A change of scenery. Somewhere not so noisy. Somewhere… unusual.”
Damian brushed away white powder from beneath his nose, scrutinising Teacup with slit eyes.
“Unusual? Out of the way?” He sniffed. “I like the sound of that. Maybe a change of scenery is what we need.” He sat back. “This has potential. Maybe. Do you like that word, Mr Blakely? Potential!”
“Love it,” responded Blakely in a dry voice. It was obvious he didn’t give a shit.
“Do you have anywhere in mind?” asked Damian.
Teacup nodded. A place conjured up from old memories.
“Actually, I do. A country pub, where the beer’s good, and cheap, and no one’s going to bother us. Remote. No aggravation. I was there years ago. We can relax, have a laugh. Chill out. Maybe like old times. What do you think?”
