The Choice

by KERRY BARNES

  ‘No!’

  ‘Mike, you ain’t going alone. I am coming.’

  He softened his voice. ‘Babe, please stay here. This ain’t about the business anymore, is it? I want you safe. Please, just do it for me, just this once. And I ain’t going alone. Staffie’s gonna meet me.’

  ‘Mike, the longer that bastard is out there, the more chances he’ll have to make a plan for himself. With Lance and Willie out there in Spain, we’re thin on the ground. I’m going back to my house, to check on Jackie.’

  ‘No!’ he demanded again. ‘I’ll go there, okay, when I’ve been to Eric’s place. Why don’t you call Neil and his cousin to check out that address of Torvic’s hideaway place your brother gave us?’

  ‘Okay, no problem. I’ll call them when you’ve left.’ She tried to sound convincing, and it worked because Mike was still worrying over his brother.

  Zara watched as Mike found his jacket. Her father had always instilled into her a simple mantra: make sure you are in control. But the problem was she felt that things were spinning out of control. What with Torvic on the loose, Willie on the warpath for some doctor weirdo, then hearing all about Torvic’s infatuation with her – was the bastard serious? – and, finally, Staffie finding out that what had happened to Liam may be linked to Staffie’s uncles, it was as if she’d thrown hand grenades up in the air and then been expected to catch them all at once before they exploded around her.

  So, despite Mike’s plea for her to stay at the hotel, that was not who she was. She needed to get back control – of her life and her business – before she could even think of a proper future with Mike and his family.

  Once again, the rush to get out of that hangar plagued her mind. She’d been absurdly foolhardy after meticulously planning to set up that meeting with Torvic. So, the upshot was that as much as she wanted to do as Mike asked, she couldn’t: it just wasn’t in her make-up. She was the one who’d ultimately made the mistake of leaving that remote control behind in the hangar, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let her firm pick up the pieces for her cock-up. She would go to this secret hideout of Torvic’s herself. First, though, she would have to go back home and pick up her other car, as Mike, no doubt, would be using her Mercedes.

  * * *

  Bluesy Watson rolled over and wanted to gag.

  Lying next to her, with his arms above his head and stinking of stale sweat, was Striker. She’d been his go-to girl for as long as she could remember. Not that she wanted to muse over the idea that she’d been shagging the great fat lump for over twenty years, but he did pay her well.

  ‘Morning, Bluesy,’ he said coldly, just to let her know he was awake.

  She tried to shuffle off the bed but was dragged back by her thong. Taking a deep breath, she quietly sighed. She knew what was coming and it would be him in twenty minutes if he pressed for his morning blow job. Still, that little chore would earn her a oner, so she gritted her teeth and turned around.

  ‘Morning, Striker.’

  It was a joke that he still preferred his nickname, even after all these years. Looking at the man now, with his rolls of fat and wheezy chest, she couldn’t imagine that he’d earned that name from being so good at football. However, she was no spring chicken herself, being a little chubby around the waist, with a few deep lines under her hooded eyes. So, she was grateful, in some respects, that she still had Striker as her regular punter. Most of her customers had gone for a younger model, unless, of course, they liked a really experienced brass.

  ‘Er, flash the cash, babe. You know the score.’ He was good for cash; the man was fucking loaded.

  Striker leaned over the bed to grab his trousers. With his bare arse in the air, he farted and didn’t even excuse himself.

  A moment later, Bluesy shook her head and took a deep breath; this was not going to be pleasant. However, with a hundred quid from last night’s action and another ton this morning, she could pay her weekly rent. She had to suck it up and think of England or the Bahamas.

  ‘’Ere you go, girl, and make it good.’

  Bluesy smiled sweetly, took the money, and shoved it in her bag.

  Just as she was about to go down on him, his dog, Misty, started barking.

  Striker sat up straight. ‘Get dressed. Someone’s outside.’

  Instantly relieved, Bluesy, with the money in her bag, had an excuse to go. She watched the concern on Striker’s face. ‘Er, babe, shall I wait or …?’ Yet, she already knew the answer.

  ‘Nah, just fuck off now.’

  She pulled her tube dress over her head, grabbed her shoes, bag, and jacket, and left the room.

  Striker climbed into his trousers and followed her down the stairs.

  Misty, a springer spaniel, was scratching at the back door.

  ‘Go out the front,’ he whispered, as he pushed her towards the hallway.

  Bluesy didn’t need to be told twice. She opened the door and noticed her car covered in ice. ‘Fuck it,’ she grunted, as she forced the door open. Once inside, she put on her jacket and started the engine, glad to be leaving the fat old git.

  Striker made his way to the kitchen and listened. It was quiet. His dog looked up at him and then sat down, waiting for her master to open the door.

  ‘Jesus, you little fucker, I missed out on a blow job, all ’cos you wanted a piss.’

  With a heavy sigh, Striker unlocked the door and let the dog out. Leaving the door ajar, he opened the large American-style fridge and retrieved eggs, bacon, and sausages, and then he turned the hob on.

  ‘If I can’t have a blow job, a fry-up’s the next best thing,’ he mumbled to himself.

  Once he’d fried all the food, he buttered four slices of bread, made a large mug of tea, and sat himself down at the kitchen table, ready to get stuck in.

  Smelling the food, Misty came charging back in, bringing with her an ice-cold gust of air.

  ‘Now you’re done. No more fucking barking.’

  He watched the dog curl up in her bed and smiled to himself. He hated people, but he loved dogs. After he closed the door, he sat back down to enjoy his breakfast. Misty, however, was still grumbling under her breath.

  Folding a piece of bread in half, he dipped it into the runny yolk, but before he’d a chance to take a bite, the back door flew open.

  Striker dropped the bread and froze. Dressed in an old jumper and muddy jeans stood Torvic.

  ‘Jesus, Torvic, I thought you were dead!’ He peered closer and sniffed the air. ‘You stink, mate. What did you do? Fall into a petrol tank, did you?’

  Torvic slammed the door shut and sat heavily in the chair opposite Striker.

  ‘Fucking hell. Look at you, sitting there like nothing’s wrong. Didn’t you know I was captured by that fucking Zara Ezra and Mike Regan and his firm?’

  ‘Oi, mush, don’t you come barging into my house ranting, right! No! How would I fucking know that, eh? Anyway, looks like you’ve escaped.’

  Torvic glared in annoyance, grinding his teeth.

  ‘They fucking had me locked up in her hangar …’ He stopped and shook his head, unable to bring himself to say what had happened. It sickened him.

  ‘And?’ questioned Striker, as he wiped his mouth with a tea towel.

  ‘They made me kill Alastair, and they killed Stephan. My Tiffany’s dead an’ all.’

  ‘What? The fucking sick bastards … Fuck, I’m sorry, mate.’

  Striker looked over at Torvic and suddenly realized that the man’s presence put himself at risk.

  ‘Torvic, what are you doing ’ere? You need to leave. I don’t want anyone sniffing around. And if the likes of Lance Ryder are involved, then that bastard will follow you right to my fucking doorstep.’

  Looking nervous, Torvic shook his head. ‘No one followed me, right? No one.’

  Striker pushed his plate forward and leaned back on his chair. ‘This ain’t good. You can’t come ’ere ever again, right? Now, what d’ya want? Money? A motor?’

  �
�No, I need your help with something else.’

  Striker wondered how the man could still string a sentence together; he looked as though he’d been dug up from the grave.

  ‘What exactly?’ He sighed.

  ‘I’m gonna kill them all and I want that fucking monstrosity of a mansion of hers burned to the ground.’

  Scrutinizing Torvic’s lifeless expression, Striker replied, ‘And why would you want to burn that house down?’

  Torvic smirked so cruelly that even Striker cringed. He hated that evil glare because it reminded him that Torvic was such a dangerous, wicked man. Throughout their relationship, he’d always managed to have the upper hand over Torvic, but there were times when he felt his arsehole might go. Like now.

  ‘Because I fucking well hate the place,’ blurted Torvic, with loathing in his eyes.

  Striker sighed, leaned back on his chair, and watched the man beating himself up with anger. He’d known Torvic for most of his life and was well aware of how reckless he could be. Now, though, things had changed, and Striker wasn’t too happy that Torvic was bringing trouble to his own door. Torvic had definitely crossed the line.

  Torvic snatched the cup of tea directly in front of him and gulped it back as if he had a raging thirst. Striker watched the man’s hands shake. He was obviously exhausted and weak.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that. You have no idea what I’ve been through. I can still smell the burning flesh from my little Tiffany’s body. It was all charred and …’ He choked back the words as he said, ‘It was like a roasted pig.’

  Immediately, the contents of last night’s dinner rose to Striker’s throat. He pushed his chair away and ran to the downstairs toilet where he expelled the vomit like a tidal wave.

  Ignoring Striker’s departure, Torvic tapped his forefinger rhythmically on the table like a metronome as he thought about the last few hours’ work. Then he looked at the contents of Striker’s breakfast and pulled the plate to him and began devouring it like a starving animal. By the time Striker had returned, the plate was almost empty, and Torvic’s face was slightly pink.

  Striker didn’t know if he should feel disgusted or impressed. More pressing was what to do now. He had to think of something quickly before Lance Ryder, the bloody ninja, came knocking.

  ‘Tell me, Striker, do you have any idea what they actually did to my boys and me?’

  Striker was swallowing another wave of sickness. He knew that what was coming next would have him throwing up again because that look on Torvic’s face said it was an unthinkable act.

  ‘No,’ he replied, hesitantly.

  ‘They tied us all up, and then they killed Stephan in front of me. They held acid over my granddaughter’s head and then …’ – the words stuck in his throat – ‘they made me pour acid over Alastair’s head. I was forced to watch as he screamed and screamed until he died.’

  ‘Jesus!’ It was all Striker could say as he visualized the horrific scene. Then he remembered what Torvic had done in the past. One victim stuck in his mind: Sonya Richards. The poor innocent woman had been left with no face after Torvic’s granddaughter had poured acid over her. He didn’t smile or show any reaction, but, inside, he was thinking, what goes around comes around.

  ‘So, you’re determined to take revenge, I take it?’

  ‘Of course I fucking am! They killed my Tiffany. I have no family, and I don’t care if I live or die anymore. I want them dead.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And just so you know, all my contacts are backing away. I made a call to my top man, who did give me a piece of advice, and that was to leave the country. Me, fucking me, leave the country? Not a fucking chance! Well, the Regans and that bitch Zara Ezra will not run me out of this country. Her fucking father may have done that years ago, but Zara won’t do it, not this time. Even a million-pound bounty on my head will not have me running for the hills, I’ll tell you that much.’

  Striker’s eyes widened. ‘A million-pound bounty? Are you having a laugh?’

  Torvic leaned forward. ‘Don’t get any fucking ideas, Striker, because I have too much on you. One word from me and you’ll be gone from this life faster than you can blow your fucking nose. But I know what you’re all about, you greedy fucker. So, I’ll give you a million if you help me take them out.’

  Striker shook his head. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking that, but a million in cash. You really will have to lie low or fuck off because everyone will be crawling out of the woodwork. Lance Ryder, for one. That man is pure genius. He came close to you so many times, but the idiot trusted me, or you would’ve been dead yonks ago. So, if he wants a million, it won’t take him long to track you down.’

  ‘Ryder is already tracking me down. He was fucking there when they captured me.’

  Striker leaned forward, his face chalk-white in shock. ‘You’re kidding me? Fuck, it won’t be long before he realizes that it’s me running the fucking show … Colin hasn’t answered my calls either. Did you go and see him like I asked you to?’

  ‘What? Are you fucking listening to me, Striker? The Regans and Zara have annihilated my family, so I couldn’t give a shit about fucking Colin. I can’t stand the poncey prick anyway, and, correct me if I’m wrong, but ain’t that your job to deal with him?’

  Striker grabbed his almost empty mug of tea and launched it across the room. The dregs flew up the cream walls, and the mug exploded into hundreds of pieces.

  ‘You, ya stupid cunt, have been obsessed over the Regans when ya should’ve been getting ya nut down to fucking business. I swear to God, if you don’t pull your head outta your arse, we’ll both be locked up, and I’ll fucking put a bullet through your head before I go to jail. That much, I can promise you.’

  Torvic curled his top lip. ‘Ya think I care about going to prison? Look at me, Striker. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything anymore. Don’t you get it? Once Zara Ezra and the Regans are dead and cremated, then I’ll take over the manor. I’ll have my business back, and you’ll have your tasty earner ready for your long-awaited retirement. And another thing: fuck Colin. Ya don’t need that prick. I’ll go over to Poland meself and get the goods flown over.’

  Striker glared with fire in his eyes. ‘You really think that once Zara Ezra and the Regans are dead, the world will be a safer place?’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You just don’t get it. You weren’t the only man I had distributing the drugs. I’ve got men in France, Spain, and fucking Germany, all awaiting a delivery. So, now, d’ya see why I need to get hold of Colin? For all I know, Lance Ryder may already have got to him.’

  Standing up to leave, Torvic gave Striker a sneering sideways glance. ‘Me and you were like brothers once, until our enemies ruined that. You could’ve trusted me in Poland, not poxy Crawford, but they’ve killed my family and I won’t rest ’til they’re all dead!’

  Striker lowered his gaze and wondered if Torvic was right. They had been close all their lives, and now the reason for them screaming at each other was about Regan and his firm and Ezra.

  Accordingly, he moderated his tone. ‘I know, mate. Look, I’m sorry about Tiffany, I really am, and I’m on your side. Believe me, I am.’

  Torvic looked questioningly over at Striker to see if the man was being honest. A glimmer of hope in those hooded eyes told him he was.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Striker.

  He was trying to keep a calm look about him, yet, inside, he knew that the tables had turned and Torvic’s unpredictable character now had him by the bollocks. For his own self-respect, he wasn’t going to have that. Be answerable to Torvic? Not in a million years. Having him out of the picture sooner rather than later would be a blessing and an answer to his own concerns.

  His mind now devising his own plan that would be far more cunning than Torvic’s ever would, he asked another question. ‘Okay, mate, what car are you driving?’

  ‘Well, mine ran out of petrol but I managed to get hold of Stephan’s. That bitch, Zara, had it in her garage. Why?’

/>   ‘I just wondered whether or not to take mine, but his is a faster motor.’

  Torvic grinned. ‘So you’re gonna help me, then?’

  Striker grinned. ‘Oh yeah, I’ll help you all right. I take it you’ve got the petrol, ’cos you smell like you’ve doused yourself in it.’

  ‘I was in a fucking rush.’

  ‘So, Torvic, do you have a plan in mind?’

  Excitedly, Torvic replied, ‘Yeah, we park the car in the farmer’s lane right near the mansion. That’s where my car broke down. Zara’s CCTV doesn’t cover that area and we can carry the petrol across the field. We’ll need to make a few trips although it’s only a short distance. I want that mansion like a towering inferno, hopefully with Zara Ezra and Mike Regan in it.’

  ‘What about the farmer? Have you thought that he may call the police?’

  ‘He’s an old boy, a drippy twat, so he won’t do anything. Trust me, Striker, I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘And what’s in it for me?’

  Torvic laughed loudly. ‘Me and you, Striker, we’ll have a big piece of the pie. Once Zara and the Regans are out of the picture, we’ll have access to far more than a few measly bits of business. We’ll be able to take over the whole of the South-East and then the North. You’ll have that condo in California. And as for me – well, I’ll have my fucking revenge.’

  Striker gave Torvic a conceited grin. He really didn’t need Torvic to take over any manor; he was quite capable of mastering that himself. ‘I’ll bring my gun, then.’

  Leaving the kitchen and making his way upstairs gave Striker the time to prepare a plan. It would include a strategy that would sort out Torvic and this mess once and for all. He opened his drawer and retrieved a gun, handcuffs, and chloroform.

  * * *

  Zara stepped out of the taxi and stood at the gates of her house, clutching the gun that rested on her hip. Her heart was pounding hard, and for just a moment, she shook with nerves, imagining being gunned down by the Devil himself, because, right now, that’s how she saw her venture.

  As she ran along the drive, she didn’t take her eyes off the house up ahead, looking for any movement, from the lights, curtains, or anything that would suggest Torvic was there lying in wait.