Unleashed: this summer's must-read crime thriller

by Karl Hill

  “I’ve always been impressed by the medieval forms of torture,” continued Grant, addressing the men around him. “Back then, they did not fuck about. Branding was popular. As a precursor, before the real stuff. So, here’s a precursor, Mr Black. Enjoy.”

  He placed the red-hot iron gently on the centre of Black’s chest. Black groaned. The pain was searing. Grant slowly drew the iron down, then across and around his nipple. Black took quick gasping breaths, mind-jarring pain coursing through every particle of his body.

  Grant lifted the iron, admiring his handiwork. “Give Mr Black another drink of water. I think he needs more light refreshment during the interval.”

  Nathan nodded, and left.

  “Did you enjoy that?” Grant asked.

  Black swallowed back a sudden feeling of nausea. He shook his head, as if the act would clear his mind of the pain, which it didn’t. “Loved it.”

  “That’s nice. We have all evening.” Grant was wearing a dark-blue leather jacket, which he removed, and placed over the back of a chair. “This is hot work, though a lot hotter for you. What’s the password?”

  Black brought his gaze up to Grant, his vision blurred, the world out of focus. “The password is – goodbye forty million pounds.”

  Grant sighed, and almost casually rested the poker on Black’s right shoulder, where he let it sit. The skin sizzled. Black released a low moan. He could smell his own burning flesh.

  “That’s not very funny,” said Grant. “For a man in your position. This can go on all night. So, stop fucking about. Or the pain you are feeling right at this moment will be like paradise compared to later.”

  Grant kept the poker on Black’s shoulder blade for another five seconds, then lifted it away. Black gasped.

  Nathan had returned, and again placed the lip of the glass gently to Black’s mouth. Black drank in tentative sips.

  Grant returned the poker to one of his men, who replaced it into the glowing red embers. “Get more logs in. Let’s get a roaring fire.”

  60

  Nathan watched silently as the torturing progressed through the evening. Every so often he was asked by his uncle to fetch water, which did not irk him in the slightest. He was glad of it. The spectacle was not enjoyable to watch. Not for him. The others were relishing it. But Nathan knew how this was going to play out. Black would never talk. And if that happened, then forty million was a lot to lose. Black would die, and the password with him. Then Nathan dreaded how his uncle would react.

  Every so often, Black would slip into unconsciousness, and then the water was used to splash his face and bring him back. By now, his chest was a patchwork of searing burn marks. Two hours had elapsed since the process had started. The room was hot and stank of sweat. The windows and patio doors had been opened, to let in the crisp night air. Outside there was nothing visible to the human eye save a sheet of deep impenetrable darkness. A mile from the vast Cairngorm mountain range, nestled in the woods, there were no street lights, no illumination from neighbours’ houses, no civilisation for twenty miles. There was nothing. They were alone in the wilderness. Peter Grant was right. No one could hear you scream.

  “We’re having a break,” said Grant, who by now had removed his pullover, and was wearing a pale-cream polo shirt daubed in sweat. Black had again dipped into unconsciousness, his head slumped forward.

  “Let’s get something to eat. Back at it in half an hour. Badger – you and Jack keep an eye on our friend. And Badger – you do not touch a hair on his head. Not one fucking hair. You understand this?”

  Badger nodded vigorously. “No problem, Mr Grant. He’s in safe hands.”

  “He’d fucking better be. We’ll be back soon.”

  Grant, his five henchmen, and Nathan filed out the room. Nathan glanced back, at the dismal figure of Black, bound and broken. No one was going to win. Black was the type of man who would rather die than talk.

  61

  Black stirred, raised his head a fraction. The pain was general, affecting his whole body. He was given a little succour, the French doors being open, allowing in the chill night air, bringing with it a cool, soothing touch to his burnt skin. But he could still function. And he saw an opportunity.

  Badger was standing three feet from him. Behind him, sitting on a long settee, was the policeman Jack Lomond, legs sprawled, slurping a bottle of beer, round face gleaming with sweat.

  Black swallowed, mumbled something.

  “What the fuck are you trying to say?” Badger shouted, scowling. He was holding a knife by the hilt, tapping the flat side of the blade against the palm of his other hand. It looked like a combat knife, possibly custom-made, with a serrated edge, about eight inches long. Not unlike standard US Marine Corps issue.

  “Sorry about your friend with the one eye,” croaked Black. “Didn’t think he was your type. Thought you preferred little boys.”

  Badger stared at him, face crimson with anger. “What the fuck did you just say!”

  “Or maybe it’s the really fat, ugly type you prefer. Like Sissy Boy behind you.”

  Badger took one long stride forward, leaned in close to Black, pressing the tip of the knife into Black’s cheek.

  “Say one more word – please – and I swear, as God is my witness, I will put this blade through your mouth and slit your fucking tongue in half.”

  Black responded with a ghastly smile. “Or maybe rent boys. Is that what you like? Rent boys, you ugly fuck?”

  Badger pressed his face up closer, almost touching. “I’m going to gut you, Black. I’ll make you squeal like a fucking pig.”

  Close enough.

  It was all Black needed.

  Black snapped his mouth forward, biting deep into Badger’s neck. He felt his teeth sink through skin, veins, and then the sudden burst of sticky, warm blood, as he tore through a carotid artery. He clamped his jaws tight, Badger unable to wrench himself away. Badger tried to scream, but the sound was a gurgling rattle. He waved the knife randomly, feebly. He was in shock, and convulsing, blood spraying from his neck like a fountain.

  Lomond gaped, slack-jawed. He scrambled to his feet, bottle dropped on the floor, rushed over. Instantly he was spattered with Badger’s blood. He tried to pull Badger off. He punched Black on the face, the side of the head. Black held him tight, like a limpet, jaws locked, teeth deep. A short struggle ensued. Jack tore Badger away. Badger clutched his throat, trying to staunch the flow of blood, his neck in shreds, blood spurting, strips of skin dangling. The chair Black was sitting on toppled over. Badger staggered, and fell sideways into the fire. In a second, his pullover was in flames.

  Lomond stepped back, eyes wide, shocked at the dramatic turn of events. Badger struggled to his feet, upper body consumed in flame. He tottered across the room, banging into seats and tables. A cushion caught fire, then an entire couch and in a matter of seconds the fire had leapt to other furniture. Badger got to the open doors at the back of the room, collapsed on his knees, where he remained, his body aflame. The drapes, bunched to one side, became a sudden column of fire, springing up to the ceiling.

  Lomond came to his senses. He darted out of the room. Black had maybe less than thirty seconds. Badger had dropped his knife. It was a foot from where Black lay, on his side, still strapped to the chair. Using his body, he bounced and shuffled the chair closer until he was able to grasp the hilt of the knife. Manoeuvring his hands, he began to saw the rope with the serrated edge. It was awkward, his wrists straining at the angle.

  The fire was ferocious, the ceiling immersed in crackling flame, bulbs exploding, flames licking the walls. If he wasn’t burned to death, then the smoke would kill him, or he would breathe in the hot air and burn from the inside.

  He sawed, back and forth, muscles aching; the rope loosened, then split. His hands were free! He used the knife to cut the rope at his ankles. He kicked away the chair, and stood, gasping. A door opened – the same door Lomond had exited. There was Peter Grant, the fire forcing him back, preventing
him from entering the room. For a second, their eyes locked. Black pointed the knife at him.

  “Come and get me, Grant!”

  Black turned away. He had to move quickly. He dodged past burning couches and tables. The grand piano was an unrecognisable lump of burning wood. He reached the open French doors and disappeared into the night. He glanced back, and glimpsed Grant staring after him, face etched in disbelief.

  62

  The room on fire was part of an outbuilding – the guest house, as Grant liked to describe it – set a hundred yards from the main house. Grant, Nathan and the others had no choice but to evacuate and watch as the entire building went up in flames. Nathan had never seen something catch fire so quickly.

  “What the fuck happened in there!” screamed Grant.

  Lomond’s eyes darted left to right, glittering in the firelight. Suddenly, his flat, round features were animated. “He ripped Badger’s throat open. I swear, Mr Grant. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Haven’t you.” Grant snapped his fingers and pointed at one of his men. “Give me that.” The man was holding a Luger semi-automatic pistol. He handed it to Grant. Grant aimed, and shot DS Lomond through the forehead. His head seemed to implode. The impact lifted him off his feet; he fell on his back on the grass.

  Grant stood over him and fired three more shots into his face. “Fucking moron.” He turned to the others. “We’ve got to find him. Now. He’s on his own, he’s freezing, and he’s in pain. He can’t get far. We’ll get the hunting rifles from the lodge, and torches. We’ll get the bastard, no problem. But I need him alive!”

  Nathan wanted to speak out, to object. Wait until morning. Bring more men up, from Glasgow. Get hunting hounds. But his uncle was not to be crossed. His uncle was in a mad-dog rage. If he opened his mouth, he would die. But then he might die anyway, on this cold winter’s night in the Scottish Highlands. There were eight armed men going after one man with a knife. Nathan had a dismal feeling in the pit of his stomach. Eight men weren’t enough.

  63

  The moon was hidden by drifts of grey cloud; the air was thin and bit the lungs with every breath. The light from the burning building gave Black a brief idea of his surroundings. He was running barefooted across a lawn, glimmering with frost. It looked almost magical. Encircling it was a wall of darkness – a wood. His immediate instinct was to take cover and lose himself in the shadows. He looked back. Foremost was the fire, the flames engulfing the entire structure. It was an outhouse, he realised. Beyond it, the silhouette of a much larger building. The main house.

  Black reached the trees and paused for breath behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. He needed time to take stock, to think. Also, he got a perfect view of the fire, and the surrounding garden. His feet were already freezing. The cold bit into the raw burn marks on his chest. He was naked from the waist up, in what felt like sub-zero temperature. If he didn’t get warm soon, hypothermia would set in, his pulse would slow, he would lose his self-awareness, and drift asleep. He would be dead within the hour. He needed warm clothes. And he needed a better weapon.

  Emerging into the light came the men. They stood in front of the fire, so that Black could only discern outlines. But he recognised the figure of Peter Grant. Grant was shouting, probably barking out orders. He saw Grant take a gun and shoot another man, at point-blank range, and then shoot him again while he was on the ground. There goes DS Jack Lomond. Cop. Ex-cop. Careless with his prisoner, thought Black. And if you’re careless in Peter Grant’s world, you pay with your life. And it seemed Peter Grant didn’t care who he killed.

  They retreated, back to the big house. Black started to shiver. The adrenaline rush of the escape and then the flight was wearing off. His body temperature was cooling. He had to guess what his enemy would do – Grant needed him alive. And he needed him soon. If he were to escape, then Grant would assume the money would disappear. Theoretically, Black could transfer the money anywhere he wanted, via online banking. All he needed was a computer. If he got to safety, then anything was possible. This was Grant’s worst nightmare, Black assumed, but even if he was captured, the clock was ticking. If the cops weren’t already crawling over the offices of Wilson, Fletcher and Co. they would be soon. In the morning, the staff would turn the key to the front door, take the lift up to the first floor, enter the premises, and discover a litter of dead bodies. An early morning wake-up call. Screams, panic, horror, and then the cops. Computers seized, accounts frozen, and Grant’s forty million lost forever.

  The clock was ticking.

  Black struggled to think, the freezing cold setting in rapidly. Grant had to find Black, no doubt. And soon. He would get sloppy in his haste and assume the obvious. That he would run. That he would look for a road, flag down a car, or look for a house, perhaps an isolated farmhouse, and seek shelter. That’s how any normal person would react, after abduction and sustained torture. Get as far away as possible.

  But Black wasn’t a normal person.

  64

  The main house – the hunting lodge – was buzzing with activity. Grant and his men were equipping themselves. They each changed into outdoor clothing. Thick ski jackets, climbing boots, thermal trousers, gloves, mountain hats. Grant had an upstairs room in his house which was sealed shut by electronic lock. In the room were racks devoted to rifles and shotguns. On the walls were positioned a variety of semi-automatic handguns. Glocks, Brownings, Berettas. Boxes of bullets were stacked on a unit. A veritable arsenal. They armed themselves, each choosing a rifle and a handgun they tucked in their jacket pockets. Grant also took a flare gun. They trooped downstairs and into the kitchen, where Grant distributed heavy-duty flashlights.

  Grant spoke quickly. “We fan out, walking through the wood, thirty yards apart. He can’t get far. We need to catch him quick, before he freezes to death. You keep your fucking eyes open. If you see him, you do not kill him. He’s not armed, so he’s no threat. The woods stretch for two miles, then slope down to the loch. There’s nowhere for him to go.”

  Grant scanned the waiting men who stood before him. “I need him alive. I swear, if one of you kill him, then you’re a dead man. I kid you not.” He snapped his head round to a man standing behind him, dressed in track bottoms and T-shirt. “You will stay here. Keep an eye on things. Get blankets. When we bring Black back, we’ll need to get him warm quickly.”

  The man nodded. “What if the fire brigade come? What will I tell them?”

  Grant stared at him for a long second. “What did you just say? We are in the middle of fucking nowhere. Why the hell would the fire brigade come?”

  “Sorry, Mr Grant,” he stammered. “But you never know.”

  Suddenly Grant slapped the man across the face, his shoulders trembling, his face drawn and skull-like.

  “Then tell them this!” he screamed. “Tell them Adam Black is burning my fucking world down!”

  65

  Black skirted round the periphery of the wood, keeping to the deep shadows of the trees. He had lost all sensation in his feet. His body shook with the intense cold; his teeth chattered. The wood appeared to form a natural boundary, surrounding Grant’s country estate. It took Black adjacent to the main entrance of the house. He saw the men enter the main door.

  Black waited. Fifty yards back, hidden in deep shadow, blowing air into his cupped hands, running on the spot, wrapping his arms about his chest. Cars were parked on a wide white-chipped driveway. Three Range Rovers. The place was illuminated by outside lights. A narrow road stretched into the darkness, presumably to a main road, dwarf walls on either side, lights built into the stone every twenty yards. Black looked up – the clouds had shifted, revealing fragments of a pale moon.

  Black knew they wouldn’t delay, and they didn’t. They filed out ten minutes later, wearing winter gear, clutching rifles, the unmistakable figure of Grant at the head, dishing out commands. Black detected the tension in Grant’s voice. His guess had been right. They were circling back round the house, to
the woods behind. They assumed Black would be running away. They assumed wrong.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Black sprinted to the front door. There was no cover, and he was in the full glare of the lights. If he was spotted by anyone looking out a window, or if there were security cameras, then he was finished. But he had to take the chance. He reached the front entrance. So far, so good.

  He encountered a solid wooden door. He waited a breathless second, listening for any sound inside. Silence. He hadn’t seen anyone take the trouble to lock it, which meant they weren’t expecting Black to show, and maybe they’d left someone to watch. He turned the handle gently, pushed – the door opened, just enough to slither through – he closed it silently behind.

  Immediately, he experienced warmth – a welcome sensation. He was in a wide, high hallway, deep white carpet under his feet, rich wood-panelled walls. Similar to the décor in the guest house. Doors on either side. At the top of the hall, a set of wide stairs. Nerves taut, he crept to the foot of them. He was still carrying Badger’s hunting knife. He assumed the bedrooms were on the top landing.

  A door opened to his right, from the kitchen. A man stood, framed in the doorway, holding a bowl of food in his hands, dressed in tracksuit trousers and T-shirt. He stopped and gaped at Black.

  “You,” the man croaked.

  “Me.” Black threw the knife, using a spin technique. The blade buried itself into the man’s chest. The man stood, motionless, staring open-mouthed at the dagger embedded in his body, hilt deep. Black followed up quickly. He leapt forward, kicked the man in the groin, drew the knife out, and stabbed him through the neck. The man collapsed into Black’s arms, gurgling blood.