Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  Nathan sat, and followed suit, putting on a napkin, and taking an oyster from the dish, and a piece of rough white bread from the basket, which he started to butter. “It’s good to see you smiling again,” he said. “Something’s up. Care to tell me? Or should I guess?”

  “Guess all you want,” replied Grant.

  “Maybe something to do with a large quantity of cash being transferred from Grand Cayman?”

  “In one,” said Grant. “There’s a lot of money washed in, and right now it’s in a safe place. Very soon it will be suitably cleaned up, moved on, and smelling fresh as the fucking daisies. And when that happens, the rollercoaster ride begins, because you’ll be taking care of a good chunk of it. A sort of portfolio manager. Right up your street, Nathan, yes?”

  Nathan nodded. “Absolutely.” He had waited almost his entire adult life for this moment. “I won’t let you down, Uncle Peter.”

  “Too fucking right, you won’t. It’s about time we put that degree of yours to a good cause.” His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “It was supposed to be you and Damian. Together, running the show. But not to be. Which means you’ll have to fill his shoes as well. Think you’re up for it?”

  Nathan nodded again. “I am.”

  Grant’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see. Play your cards right, our money could be doubled within two years. Maybe less. All legitimate. All clean as a fucking piper’s whistle. So I think I can afford to have a smile on my face. It’s been a long time coming. How are the oysters, Thor?”

  Thor, who was sitting to his right, his massive shoulders almost taking up the length of his side of the table, gave a wide smile.

  “Delicious,” he said. “As good as any in Berlin.” His accent was strong, his English broken. But Grant caught the gist.

  “Fucking Berlin?” replied Grant, his face showing mock outrage. “Are you having a laugh? Let me tell you something. Listen close. Only this morning these very oysters you’re shoving down your throat-hole were minding their business on some fucking rock, deep under the water, in a place called Loch Ryan. They’ve been picked and delivered and served, all this morning. This is as fresh as you will ever get. This is as fresh as the fucking mountain air. No fucking frozen shit. Fucking Berlin! Unbelievable.”

  At that, Grant wriggled a short knife into the oyster shell, loosened the oyster, sprinkled on Tabasco sauce, tipped the shell into his mouth, and allowed the oyster to slide down his throat.

  “Can’t beat that,” he said. “Class.”

  A waiter approached, holding a champagne bucket, and in it, a bottle of Moët & Chandon. The three men looked up.

  “Sorry to trouble you, Mr Grant. Compliments of Adam Black. He was wondering if he could have ten minutes of your time.”

  Grant seemed to stare into space for a second. “Fuck me,” he whispered. He glanced at Thor, and then said to Nathan. “The guy’s got balls.”

  “No doubt about it.” Nathan waited, aware his heart thumped like a drum in his chest. Waited to see what Peter Grant would do.

  Grant picked up another oyster and started to knife free the meat from the shell. “Ask him over.”

  50

  The waiter touched Black gently above the elbow. “Mr Grant has said that he’ll be able to see you. If you follow me, I’ll show you to his table.”

  “Thank you.”

  Black followed the waiter, past the bar and the raised booths, and into the restaurant. The waiter pointed discreetly to a table in the far corner, different from the others because it was enclosed on three sides by solid wood partitioning.

  Black nodded. The waiter left. Black made his way over. He felt a strange dead calm. He was approaching the man who had orchestrated the murder of his family. Similarly, this same man was about to face the individual who had killed his only son. A gruesome symmetry, he thought. But the calmness he now experienced was not unknown to him. He had felt it before, on the field of battle, before a kill.

  He got to the table. There were three men sitting at it. He recognised Grant immediately, from his pictures in the newspapers. The others he did not know, though the one facing him was unusually massive. Bodyguard.

  Black addressed Grant. “May I join you?”

  Grant tossed an empty oyster shell into a bowl. “Please do. Introductions – gentlemen, this is Mr Black. Mr Black, this is Thor, and my nephew, Nathan.”

  Black sat. The man before him, Peter Grant, was slim and tanned and very fit-looking. Black knew he was sixty-five, but he could have passed for a man twenty years younger – smooth skin, full head of grey hair, high cheekbones, solid chin. Shrewd green eyes. Eyes which did not miss the slightest detail.

  “We meet at last,” said Black. The big man opposite – Thor – leaned imperceptibly forward, placing two enormous hands on the table, palms down, fingers outstretched. He was saying – these hands will break your spine in two, Mr Black, if you make the tiniest sudden movement.

  Grant flashed a smile, revealing perfect white teeth. “We were always going to meet, you and I. I never expected it to be here. I had other places in mind.”

  “Like where?”

  Grant shrugged. “Less civilised places, shall we say.”

  “I understand completely. It was in such a place I bumped into your cousin – Tommy Teacup? Colourful name. Nice guy. He came at me once with a knife. I returned the compliment with a hammer.”

  The smile on Grant’s face flickered. “A tragic loss. Losing family is a heavy burden to bear.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. This is something we share. But in Teacup’s case, it was most enjoyable. Like yourself, he was just another cheap gangster scumbag, so no one’s going to miss him.” Black’s tone was almost affable. “And no one’s going to miss you, when you die. And I’m hoping to bring that about soon.”

  A tremor seemed to pass through Grant’s face. Black felt the big man opposite tense. But he knew, in this crowded place, he could do nothing. Safe ground.

  Grant took a sip of mineral water. “I was just telling the boys here about the oysters. How only this morning they were picked off some rock, deep under the water. Must be a shit life, being an oyster.” He took another sip, licked his lips with a pink darting tongue, and stared at Black, his gaze clear and unwavering. His voice lowered to a dry whisper. “That is where you will end up, my friend. Make no mistake. Deep under the water with the fucking oysters. Only you’ll be dead, and the crabs will be chewing on your eyeballs. And to that I give my solemn fucking promise.”

  “I don’t really know what a promise means from a cheap drug-dealing fuck,” replied Black.

  Grant smiled.

  Black returned the smile. “By the way, Willard Chadwick passes on his regards. At least he would, if it weren’t for the bullet I left in his face.”

  Grant cocked his head to one side, studying Black like an artist might study his new composition. “You’re a busy fucker.”

  “I like to keep myself occupied. When I was in Afghanistan, I was always kept busy. We fought the Taliban. Mujahideen. Holy warriors, they called themselves. However you felt about them, they were tough bastards. They had the ability to invoke real fear in their enemies, including us. Real fear. This might interest you, Mr Grant, seeing as fear and intimidation are keywords in your line of business. Do you know how they achieved this?”

  “Go on,” said Grant. “Enlighten us with your wisdom.”

  “They had two advantages. One – they had no home. And so, like marauders, they attacked while always on the move. Like the corsairs of old. That’s one difficult target. And two – they had nothing to lose, and so didn’t care if they died. Most of these men came from annihilated families. Villages burnt, relatives murdered. The army can’t cope with an enemy like that.” It was Black’s turn to drop his voice to a whisper, like the rustle of dead leaves in the breeze.

  “No one in the world can cope with an enemy like that,” he added. “And those are the two advantages I possess. I have nothing t
o lose. And here’s the good part. You’ll never know when or where I’ll strike. I’m not scared to die. I am your worst fucking nightmare, Mr Grant. And I am going to kill you. This is something you can count on.”

  A silence fell. Thor glanced at Grant for a sign, a signal. The other man – Nathan – sat motionless, suddenly pale, blood drained from his face. In a state of mild shock. He’d never heard anyone speak to his boss like that. Grant pursed his lips, as if pondering Black’s words. Then he nodded, as if he’d come to some inward conclusion.

  “You’re a dead man, Black. Your death warrant is signed, sealed and delivered. It won’t be quick, like your wife and daughter. Though I heard your daughter – Merryn? – begged for her life. Fucking begged. Must have been horrifying for the wee girl to see her mother shot down in front of her like a fucking bitch dog.”

  Black waited a few seconds. Then he spoke. “We’ll meet again soon. Your oversized friend should dry his face.”

  Thor’s big blunt features creased in puzzlement. Black picked up Grant’s glass and flung the water into Thor’s face.

  “Easy, Thor!” snapped Grant.

  “Easy, Thor.” Black grabbed a long silver-handled fork, and stabbed Thor through one of his hands. It penetrated flesh, blood and bone, through the tablecloth and into the wood of the table, where it remained, standing upright.

  Thor gave an abrupt shriek, staring wide-eyed at the utensil pinned clean through.

  Black stood. “Hope I haven’t spoiled your lunch.” The tablecloth under Thor’s hand was blooming with a bright rosy stain.

  “Don’t get blood in your oyster. I’ll catch up with you later, Mr Grant.”

  He gave the three seated men a polite nod, and left.

  51

  1am the following morning.

  The Travellers Inn was a ten-storey block of rooms, a mile from the airport, in the middle of a retail park. A bland, unremarkable building. The ground floor comprised a compact restaurant, a small bar and lounge. Two receptionists manned the front check-in desk during the day. Shift change occurred at 7pm. A different receptionist sat by the desk during the night, together with a concierge. There was one lift and a set of stairs for those who liked the exercise, or for a fire escape. There were twenty rooms on each floor. The hotel was used mainly by business guests on short-stay trips, flying in and flying out. People came and went. Strangers passing. People ate their breakfast in silence, and then disappeared. The bar was used for a quick drink or two, but rarely for steady drinking bouts. It was functional. No frills.

  Black had a room on the fourth floor. The main front entrance was locked at midnight, and entry was gained by electronic card – the same card used for entry to his room.

  Nathan Grant had booked several rooms on the floor below, under fictitious names. An insurance convention in the city centre, he’d explained conversationally. This had been arranged only the day before. As a result of the meeting at Giovanni’s, plans were suddenly accelerated, on instruction by an infuriated Peter Grant.

  Nathan knew Black’s room number. His uncle, mysteriously, had this information available, the source he’d kept to himself. Black hadn’t bothered using a false identity, and Nathan wondered at his naivety. He assumed Black felt secure, which could only work to their advantage. The mission was brutally simple. Black was to be finished off. In his room. That night. Thor was to do the deed, accompanied by two others – hard men, reliable when it came to inflicting violence. Nathan was to wait in the car park. Easy. In theory.

  He had been waiting in the car park adjacent to the main doors, close enough for him to watch people going in and out, but far enough away not to attract attention. The car – a black Vauxhall Astra, similar to a million others – was untraceable to him or anyone associated with him. In an hour, it would be left in a waste ground miles away, burnt out and abandoned. In the passenger seat, the massive figure of Thor, dressed in a suit and tie. At six foot seven, he sat with his head hunched against the car ceiling, a bandage wrapped around his hand – compliments of Adam Black. Thor was restless, barely able to contain his rage, muttering under his breath in his native tongue. Though the words fucking bastard were easy enough to understand. Two men sat in the back, also dressed smartly in suits. Insurance salesmen back late. Nothing untoward. All of them returning to their booked rooms.

  Black had entered the building an hour earlier. It was time.

  Despite the apparent simplicity, Nathan had his doubts. His stomach fluttered with nerves. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, anxious. The three men in the car were eminently capable, especially Thor. But Black was a formidable opponent. He thought back to the conversation earlier. Black had said he had nothing to lose. He wasn’t afraid to die. Nathan suspected his uncle had never confronted an enemy like this. An enemy not motivated by money or power. An enemy who had only one thing on his mind. Revenge.

  Thor picked up a black bag at his feet, which he opened, and pulled out three pistols, and three cylindrical-shaped objects. Silencers. He distributed them to the men in the back, one he kept, tucking it into a side holster hidden under his jacket, the silencer he put in his jacket pocket.

  “Room eighty-three. Fourth floor. You ready for this?”

  Thor grunted. “I’ll break his fucking neck.”

  “No, you won’t!” snapped Nathan. “No dramatics! No commotion. You understand? You go in, you shoot, you leave. It’s supposed to be a simple sweet kill. In and out. Kill him, then go. I’ll be waiting. Clean kill.”

  The muscle in Thor’s jaw twitched. “No fun in that.”

  “It’s not meant to be fun. It’s meant to be a fucking job. Get focused, and get it done.”

  Nathan handed him the entry card. Thor took it, got out the car, followed by his two accomplices. Nathan watched them enter the hotel and took a deep breath.

  52

  The three men entered the main entrance of the hotel. The concierge was absent. The receptionist at the front desk barely raised his head, engrossed in his mobile phone. Black watched the trio enter from a quiet corner of the lounge. It was just after 1am, and he was the only person there. The bar had closed an hour earlier. He watched them take the lift. As soon as the doors had closed, he moved quickly, racing up the fire exit stairs. He had a good idea where they were going.

  The three men reached the fourth floor. The hallway was like a thousand other hotel halls – beige carpet, pale nondescript wallpaper, forgettable framed prints on the wall. Decorated in colours of complete neutrality. They found Black’s room. They unholstered their weapons, fitted the silencers, all executed quickly and in unison, performed by men competent in their business.

  Thor stepped forward, and shot the handle off the door, the sound muffled, like a covered cough. He kicked the door open, and entered, followed closely by the others. It was dark, the curtains closed. There was one bed, a shape visible under the sheets. They positioned themselves around it, and fired, five shots each, five quick sharp bursts. Thor stretched over, pulled the sheets away. Pillows arranged in a row.

  “Fuck!” shouted Thor.

  Black appeared at the doorway, crouching, and entered the room. The three men jerked round. Black aimed his gun, fired once. Without the benefit of a silencer, and in the close confines of the room, the sound of the bullet discharging was like the crack of a firework. Like an explosion. One of the men flew backwards, top of his head blown off, colliding with Thor, both men falling to the ground. The other man aimed, fired, but it was dark, and Black was a moving target.

  The bullet missed, a chunk of the wardrobe door above Black’s head ripping away. Black rushed forward, firing as he ran, two bullets tearing through the man’s throat, causing him to spin round, blood spattering on the walls and bed, like paint flicked from a brush. Black was out of bullets. Thor got to his feet, casting off his dead friend. He pointed his pistol, but Black was on him, batting the gun from his hand, sending it whirling. Thor punched Black hard in the face. His fist felt like concr
ete. Black was stunned, stumbling back on one foot. But he jabbed his fist out, catching Thor on the side of the head. Thor shrugged it off, twitching his head as if irritated by a fly. Black followed up instantly with a right-handed blow on Thor’s chin. It had zero impact. Like hitting a tree trunk.

  Suddenly Thor leapt forward, roaring as he did so, disconcertingly fast for a man his size, both arms wide. Black punched again at the face, striking the left eye, but was caught in a bear hug. He raised a knee, pressing it against Thor’s pelvis to keep from being crushed. Thor tightened his hold. He was grinning.

  “Gonna squeeze the fucking life out of you.”

  Black had never encountered such strength. In three seconds, his spine would snap. With a gut-wrenching effort, he pulled back against Thor’s grip, using his knee as leverage. The grip loosened. Black used the moment to swing his head in and inflict a crunching headbutt, square on Thor’s mouth. He felt teeth crack. Thor released his hold, stepped back, shook his head, stepped forward again, raising his arms. Black struck out at his left eye; a massive hand hacked at his neck. Black sidestepped, his shoulder absorbing the blow. He leapt forward, like a rugby tackle, thrusting his body against Thor’s stomach, which was ribbed with muscle and hard as oak.

  Thor staggered back, kept his feet, pulled up a knee, battering Black on the chest. Black caught hold of the knee, wrenched it to one side, twisting ligaments. Thor grunted in pain, but reached over and somehow caught Black in an arm lock. Black allowed his knees to go limp, then leapt backwards in a kind of mad half-somersault, his arm pulled free. Thor lost balance, tottered back against the closed curtains; Black sprang forward, kicking Thor hard in the abdomen. Thor doubled over, but lashed out with an arm, catching Black on the ribs. Black sucked his breath in, winded, drove his elbow into Thor’s throat. Thor released a rattling gasp, choked, momentarily distracted. Black stood on something – the pistol, once owned by the man with half his brains on the bedroom wall. He snatched it up, just as Thor came stumbling towards him. Black raised the pistol and fired once, at point-blank range into Thor’s face. In the split second between the discharge of the bullet and its impact between Thor’s eyes, Black had a fleeting image of Thor’s features caught in horrified disbelief.