The Pretender's Gold

by Scott Mariani

  The hard, wiry figure of the attacker clambered quickly to his feet. The very familiar hard, wiry figure, whose silhouette was dimly backlit against the hut’s snowy windowpane. Ben stared at him. The figure stood still and stared back. Neither spoke. The only sound was the moan of the wind outside and the patter of snow against the hut roof.

  Ben broke the silence. Said, ‘Boonzie?’

  And the man who just a moment earlier had been viciously trying to kill him replied, ‘Ben? Holy shite. Is that you?’

  A thousand emotions rushed together in Ben’s heart and he embraced his dear old friend so tightly that he realised he was crushing him. Boonzie might have still been as strong as an ox and dangerous as a leopard, but he felt thin and frail after his confinement.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Boonzie. You had me a little worried.’

  ‘Damn guid thing I recognised ye when I did, laddie,’ Boonzie rasped. ‘I might’ve kilt ye, thinkin’ ye wiz one o’ them murderin’ basturts.’

  ‘You’ll be pleased to hear there’s a few less of them now.’ Ben stepped over to the shelving unit and took down the lantern he’d been about to grab when Boonzie had surprised him. He turned it on but kept it angled away from the window in case anyone saw the light.

  Boonzie did appear leaner, and older, than when Ben had last seen him. His cheeks were hollow and more deeply etched with lines, and his hair was whiter and thinner. His clothes were torn and soiled from the dungeon and the crawl through the pipe. He looked like he’d been through hell. But he was the same old Boonzie, as tough and sour and mean and indefatigable as ever, with a twinkle in his eye that no force on earth could quite extinguish.

  ‘What in the name o’ jumpin’ Jesus are ye doin’ here, Ben?’

  ‘Mirella sent me to find you. She was getting a little concerned, too.’

  Boonzie’s expression crumpled into a look of agonised emotion at the mention of her name. Maybe some forces on earth could extinguish the twinkle after all. ‘Is she okay? When did ye last speak tae her? That piece o’ shite Hacker said he wiz gonnae hurt her. If anythin’ happened tae that woman—’

  Ben shook his head and assured him, ‘Not going to happen. She went to stay with her brother in Rome. She’s safe. Out of her mind with worry, but safe.’ Remembering that he had Carter’s and Banks’s phones in his pocket, he fished one out and offered it to Boonzie. ‘You should let her know you’re okay.’

  Boonzie’s shoulders sagged with relief. He gazed at the phone and seemed about to take it, then hesitated and shook his head. ‘Aye, I should. But somethin’ tells me we’re no oot o’ the woods yet, laddie. Mebbe that’s one conversation that can wait.’

  They sat on the floor of the hut with the lantern light between them, and Ben quickly filled Boonzie in on the events of the last few days. Mirella’s call; his encounters with Stuart’s local heavies and Hacker’s associates; the fate of Jamie McGlashan; Grace Kirk’s involvement; and the historic cache of gold coins whose accidental discovery had sparked this whole affair. Boonzie listened intently with a face of granite, then asked, ‘Have ye seen Ewan? How is he?’

  ‘Still the same, last I heard. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Fuckers. They’re gonnae pay for what they’ve done. Stuart, his cop pals, the lot o’ them.’

  ‘You’ve done enough, Boonzie. Let me take it from here.’

  ‘Oh, aye? And tell me why would I dae that?’

  Ben sensed the warning in his friend’s voice, but he pressed on anyway. ‘Because Mirella told me you were sick. At times during these last two days I was pretty sure I was looking for a dead man. Now you’re alive, I need you to stay that way. For her, and for me. Okay?’

  Boonzie glowered at Ben. The twinkle in his eye had chilled to the dangerous glow that had cowed many a bigger, brawnier SAS soldier in its day. ‘Haud yer wheesht. Sick, my arse. Takes more’n a wee bit of a dodgy ticker tae bring doon auld Boonzie McCulloch. Them fuckers have it comin’ and I mean tae be there when it happens.’ He raised a finger and pointed it at Ben like a gun. ‘An’ dinnae even think o’ tryin’ tae stop me, laddie. Or—’

  ‘That’s what I thought you’d say.’ Ben took one of the captured pistols from his belt and held it out it to him. Boonzie eagerly grabbed it, handling the weapon as though he’d been born with it in his hand. Ben had sometimes wondered if that might be the case. He said, ‘Remember how to use one of these things?’

  ‘Aye, an’ I can still show you a thing or two.’

  ‘Then we need to get moving,’ Ben told him. ‘Because Grace is running scared somewhere inside that castle with Stuart and Hacker. Ten more of their people could be arriving any time. I’ve got to go and find her before they do, or they’re going to kill her.’

  ‘So what’s yer plan, laddie?’

  ‘Just like always,’ Ben said. ‘We go in, shoot the bad guys, get out and go home.’

  ‘Aye, not a bad idea. But I’ve got a better one. I wiz workin’ on it when you turned up.’

  ‘What?’

  Boonzie gave a sly chuckle. He picked up the lantern, stood and beckoned for Ben to follow him. ‘Come an’ see what I found, laddie. I think ye’ll find it interesting.’

  Chapter 56

  Carl Hacker swore as he made his way from the basement floors of the castle, not just because everything was coming apart at the seams. Ben Hope’s last shot had punched a 9mm hollowpoint deep into the meat of his left shoulder and done massive damage in there. Bones were shattered and nerves were shredded. His arm dangled limp and unresponsive. His whole left side was still numb, though when the pain kicked in it would be murderous. His shirt and jacket were soaked with blood and he was leaving a thick trail of red splashes behind him. Sweat poured from his brow into his eyes.

  As he struggled up the flights of steps to the ground floor he used his good hand to call Stuart on his phone and tell him the bad news. Stuart had only just finished his lunch, and sounded as though he’d washed down the poached salmon with a quart of fine wine. His eruptive reaction to the news was pretty much what Hacker had expected.

  Hacker got off the phone as quickly as he could and hurried the rest of the way to the buttery room where the castle’s large supplies of booze were stored under lock and key. It was also the room in which Mitch Graham had been charged with guarding their new prisoner, Grace Kirk. When Hacker had left his guy in there with her, the door had been securely bolted from the inside. Now it was hanging half open. A trail of red footprints led out of the door and up the passage.

  Hacker burst inside the buttery room and saw Graham sprawled out with his arms and legs akimbo, still clutching his phone. He wasn’t moving. The woman had gone. Broken glass littered the floor. It looked as though dozens of bottles of Charles Stuart’s best-quality claret had been emptied around Graham’s slumped body. Except the glistening red pool wasn’t all wine, because there was a large amount of blood still pumping from the wound in his right thigh. Graham’s own very large and very sharp bowie knife was protruding from his leg six inches above the knee.

  Hacker staggered over to him and almost slipped and fell in the slick of wine and blood. Kneeling beside his stricken associate, he clasped the hilt of the knife with his one usable hand and tried to yank it out, but the broad blade was so tightly clamped by Graham’s perforated quadriceps that he couldn’t shift it.

  ‘Graham! Mitch! Talk to me!’

  No response. Graham was deeply unconscious from shock and blood loss. Hacker couldn’t move him. He was still trying to figure out what to do when, a moment later, Stuart came crashing through the buttery room door. His lunchtime tipple hadn’t just affected his voice. He stumbled to a halt on the edge of the red pool, swaying slightly on his feet as he surveyed the scene. ‘What the hell’s happening?’ he demanded. ‘Where’s the bitch gone?’

  ‘Obviously somewhere she doesn’t want to be found,’ Hacker snapped back at him, wishing he’d just piss off.

  ‘Go and find her. Now!’

 
‘You’ve got much bigger problems than just the Kirk woman. McCulloch’s escaped, and right now I can’t say exactly where Hope is either. I locked him in the dungeon but it would seem it’s not as secure as you thought it was. He’s probably loose by now.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Stuart raged at him. ‘Are you telling me that you ran away from your post and left him down there unattended?’

  Hacker blinked sweat from his eyes. ‘For God’s sake, man, look at me. I’m wounded. I’m not able to deal with him on my own, okay? Not until Mikey Creece and the others get here. That’s not what I get paid for.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of what you get paid for,’ Stuart yelled. ‘I told you to go and find that fucking woman, for a start. Then you’re going to put right the rest of what you screwed up!’

  ‘Are you blind? I’ve a man down here. He matters more to me than your bullshit about a load of gold that probably doesn’t even exist.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Stuart reached inside his tweed suit jacket and came out with a small, shiny automatic pistol that Hacker had never seen before. Before Hacker could react, Stuart pointed the gun at the unconscious Graham and squeezed the trigger. The ear-splitting crack of the shot made him flinch, but at short range his aim was good enough. A pink mist sprayed from the side of Graham’s head. He twitched once and flopped back down into his blood pool.

  Stuart said, ‘There. Now he doesn’t matter any more, does he? So go and do what I tell you. Find the woman. Find Hope. Do your blasted job.’

  Hacker stared down at his dead crony. Stared up at his employer. In that moment he forgot all about his own injury and the useless arm that might never function properly again. A surge of rage filled him with renewed strength and he grasped the hilt of the bloody knife, ripped it clean out of Graham’s leg and reared up towards Stuart, wanting to slice his guts open.

  Stuart’s face blanched and he stumbled back towards the doorway, raising the gun again. ‘One million pounds, Hacker. Cash.’

  Hacker stopped. Still clutching the knife. ‘One million?’

  ‘One and a half. Two. I really don’t care, all right? Just do it.’

  Hacker stood there glowering at him, hating this cowardly little bastard who thought being rich was his magic ticket out of trouble, no matter what. What most pissed Hacker off about that was that it was usually true.

  Hacker said, ‘Lose the gun. I don’t trust you.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to gain by shooting you, Hacker. Listen to reason. We can still work together.’

  ‘Lose the gun,’ Hacker repeated.

  ‘Only if you drop the knife.’

  Hacker paused a beat. He let the knife slip from his hand and splash into the blood pool at his feet. Stuart put the gun away. Hacker said, ‘All right. Two million, cash. For that you get whatever you want. Except one thing. When this is over, Hope is mine, and mine alone. You started this whole mess, but I’m going to finish it. After that, I don’t work for you any more. Because I quit. Understand?’

  That was when Hacker’s phone rang. He didn’t take his eyes off Stuart as he answered it.

  The call was from Mikey Creece. Telling him that he, Phil Buckett and the other eight Dishonourables who’d flown up from London with them were en route and just thirty minutes out.

  Chapter 57

  In retrospect, Grace knew that her escape had been down to pure luck. Luck that they’d allocated only one man to guard her. Luck that they’d stuffed her in a faraway corner of the castle, where nobody else could hear the commotion. And luck that the idiot they’d put in charge of looking after her was a filthy would-be rapist with neither brains nor self-control.

  Right from the moment they’d overpowered her in Ben’s cottage and dragged her out to the car, she’d been aware of the way he was looking at her. She’d known that, sooner or later, he was going to make a move. They’d been closeted alone in the room together for less than an hour when he’d done exactly that.

  The room was where the castle’s owner kept enough booze to cater for a hundred lavish banquets. Sitting quietly on an ale cask next to a tower of wine boxes, her hands tied behind her back with a plastic cable tie, Grace could feel her captor’s eyes on her. He was leaning casually against the opposite wall, smoking a cigarette and thinking thoughts that left a dreamy kind of half-smile on his face. The knife he held loosely in his hand was bigger than a meat cleaver, shiny and curved. After a while he said, ‘You know what’s going to happen to you, don’t you, darling? You’re not getting out of here.’

  ‘I’m not your darling.’

  He shrugged. ‘I hate to think what they’re going to do. I could help you.’

  She said nothing. Refusing to play his game.

  ‘But if I was to help you,’ he added, ‘then you’d have to give me something in return.’

  In your dreams, she thought. She kept silent, but her heart stepped up a beat and she tried not to let him see her swallow.

  ‘Maybe you ought to let me try out the goods first,’ he said. ‘You know, get a taste. Like a sampler. To help me decide if I want to help you or not. I mean, it’s a risk for me. I’ve got to think it’s worthwhile, know what I mean?’

  That was the moment when she knew it was going to be more than just talk. He crushed out his cigarette and flicked away the stub. Pushed away from the wall and took a couple of steps towards her. Studying her intently. Virtually licking his lips. He pointed the knife casually at her chest and said, ‘Got a shirtful there, aintcha, darling? You could start by letting me take a peek at those. How about you take your top off for your uncle Mitch?’

  She gave him a flat look and said, ‘My hands are tied, moron.’

  He grinned and replied, ‘So what you’re saying is, if your hands weren’t tied you’d show me what you’ve got? Yeah?’

  ‘Hey, you never know your luck.’

  ‘That’s just for starters. You don’t buy the car till you’ve had a test drive, right? So I still need to see the rest of the goods. Right?’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said. ‘But my hands aren’t going to untie themselves, are they?’

  He came forward two more steps, close enough that she could smell his bad breath. ‘Stand up then, darling. Let me cut you free. Then we can have a bit of fun, you and me. Well, me more than you. But that’s how it goes.’

  She stood. Her heart was running so fast there were virtually no gaps between the beats. He came behind her, chuckled and said, ‘Careful now. Wouldn’t want you to get cut.’ Then she felt the cold steel flat of the knife blade touch her wrist. She could barely breathe. The blade was so sharp that the plastic cable tie holding her hands parted in seconds.

  Her arms dropped to her sides. Her wrists ached from the bite of the plastic. She slowly turned to face him. Up close, he had a complexion like corned beef. His face was livid and his eyes were bulging. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Get your kit off. Nice and slow.’

  Grace crossed her hands in front of her as though she was about to reach for the hem of her jumper and peel it off. Then, so fast that her movement was a blur, she made a fork of the index and middle fingers of her right hand and jabbed it as viciously as she could into his eyes.

  He let out a scream. ‘Arrgh! You fucking bitch!’ Half blinded and streaming tears he tried to lunge at her with the knife, but she easily ducked out of the arc of the blade and then launched a savage kick that caught him squarely and solidly in the testicles. He screamed again. But now his blood was up and he was raging like a wounded bear. The knife whooshed at Grace again, and this time she almost didn’t manage to get out of its way before it slashed her to the bone. Grace staggered back, tripped over the ale cask and fell.

  ‘I’ll cut your fucking liver out!’ He towered over her. The knife started coming down. Trying to wriggle away but knowing she’d never make it in time, she lashed out another kick and struck him in the knee, knocking him off balance. He wobbled for an instant a
nd then crashed headlong into a stack of wine crates, which toppled over and sent loose bottles cascading all over the floor. Glass smashed and red claret splashed everywhere as he floundered about trying to regain his balance. But his foot connected with a rolling bottle and he went down again, losing his grip on the knife. Grace snatched it up as it clattered to the floor. He was already struggling to his feet, grabbing the broken neck of a wine bottle.

  Grace had followed all the police self-defence courses. She could take down a violent offender in one stroke of an extendable baton. Pin a strong man to the floor with an arm lock and cuff him before he knew what was happening. But in no way was she capable of surviving a knife fight against a large, murderous, military-trained killer who at this moment wanted nothing more than to slash her head off with a broken bottle.

  And so she stabbed him, hard and fast, before he could do the same to her. The razor-edged blade sank deep into his thigh. Blood spurted in her face. He let out an animal howl like nothing she’d ever heard before, and fell back clutching his leg.

  Grace was already racing for the door, petrified to open it in case more men were in the passageway outside, running to their crony’s aid. But the coast was clear. She sprinted away from the open doorway. A corner. Some steps. Another passage. This was the service section of the castle, where the walls were plainly whitewashed and the floors bare stone, and everything looked the same.

  The men would soon be hunting for her all over. Maybe they already were. Grace had no idea how many more of them Stuart might have working for him. There could be half a dozen. There could be ten. But the castle must have a hundred rooms and a thousand nooks and crannies in which she could hide, so that she could gather her wits and figure out what the hell to do next.

  She passed under a stone arch and found herself coming into the residential part of the rambling castle, where the walls were covered with rich tapestries and paintings and the floors were polished marble. She spotted an open door, peeked through to check the room behind it was empty, then darted inside and closed the door behind her.