‘No,’ shouted Debra. ‘That’s impossible. He was murdered.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. But he was in his apartment, alone. No access to the building let alone his apartment. Dreadful thing, just dreadful.’
Haddock ended the call and sat down on her bed. The world spun around her, a coracle at sea. Colors seemed muted. Sound came at her from a great distance away, like an approaching locomotive. She couldn’t breathe. It was like her throat had closed up, or her tongue had gotten huge. The size of a loaf of bread.
Then she slowly regained her bearings. Battened down her hatches.
‘Robhurst,’ she screeched as she walked out of her room. ‘Get the driver and the men; we’ve got to get to the warehouse ASAP. Move it.’
The SAS sergeant looked up at her as she stormed into the kitchen and his face registered his shock at her pale and drawn features.
‘Jesus, Debra,’ he blurted. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s missus Haddock or Councilor, sergeant,’ she snapped. ‘We need to get to the warehouse. Now.’
Haddock and her entourage piled into their respective cars and took off at speed, heading for the warehouse.
They crawled slowly through the city’s morning rush hour traffic. But as they got closer to the industrial complex they could see the pillar of black smoke rising into the dull morning air, even though the sun had not yet completely risen.
The driver pulled into the industrial complex but a uniformed policeman stopped them some fifty yards from the warehouse. Standing next to the officer was a fireman, his kit stained black with charcoal, his face wet with sweat. He was drinking from a two liter bottle of water.
Haddock opened her door, stepped out of the car and approached the policeman.
‘What’s going on here?’ She demanded.
‘Not sure, ma’am,’ answered the policeman. ‘But you are required to keep back, for your own safety.’
‘You,’ Haddock gestured at the fireman, ‘Do you have any idea what’s going on or are you as ill informed as this moron here’
‘Steady on, ma’am,’ warned the policeman.
‘Oh fuck you,’ snapped Haddock.
The officer shook his head and decided to simply ignore the woman in an attempt to keep some of his dignity intact.
The fireman took another deep swig of his water before he spoke. ‘Explosions reported last night, emergency services rushed there. No idea what caused it. The warehouse has been totaled. Not a wall left standing.’
Haddock stood dead still for almost ten seconds, her eyes wide, mouth slightly open, face pale.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘Put it out.’ She pushed the fireman in the chest. ‘Go and do your job,’ she shrieked. ‘Stop standing around and do something.’
The fireman took a step back. ‘Hey,’ he retorted. ‘Settle down, you mad bitch.’
‘I’ll mad bitch you, you fuck head,’ squealed Debra. ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ answered the fireman. ‘Just calm down.’
Haddock pushed the man again but, before he could react, sergeant Robhurst grabbed Debra from behind; wrapping his arms around her, picking her up and carrying her to the car. He opened the back door and bundled her in, instructing the driver to get going as he did so.
‘Get your hands off me, you gorilla,’ shouted Haddock.
Robhurst grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her. ‘Shut up, you moron,’ he said. ‘Suck it up, pull yourself together. You’re losing it. What’s wrong with you?’
Haddock stared at the sergeant blankly for a moment and then she started to cry. Great heaving, wet sobs. ‘It’s all over,’ she howled. ‘Years of work. Gone. The commander is dead. The colonel is dead. The warehouse is gone. A whole lifetime of labor and nothing to show for it.’ She took another shuddering breath, her nose ran down her face and her cheeks glistened with oily tears, glowing bright red under her makeup.
Robhurst pulled out a hanky and thrust it at her. ‘Jesus Christ, wipe your face.’
Haddock scrubbed her face with the hanky, wiping off the snot and tears.
‘Now you listen,’ continued sergeant Robhurst. ‘You carry on acting the ass like this and you’ll lose a lot more. Treason, murder, sedition. They will send us to a place that makes Guantanamo look like a children’s fucking birthday party. So just buck up. Now.’
Haddock took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. You’re right. Thank you sergeant. So, what do we do now?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Nothing, would be my best bet.’
‘But what if they come for us?’
‘Oh, they will,’ assured Robhurst. ‘Of that we can be sure. It’s just a question of when.’
‘Can we stop them?’ Questioned Debra.
Robhurst shrugged. ‘I’m still alive and I’ve had all sorts trying to change that. I reckon that we’ve got a chance. Anyway, I’m not going to simply sit back and wait for them like a lamb to the slaughter. I know people. I’ve got favors owed. And as we all know, the best form of defense is a good offence.’
‘We still don’t even know who they are,’ pointed out Debra.
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ observed the sergeant. ‘They want us dead; we don’t want to be dead. That’s all the knowledge that we need.’
They drove home.
Debra snivelled quietly, her face turned away from the SAS sergeant as she did so.
Chapter 36
That morning they had moved from the budget hotel of the night before and gone up market. Two adjoining suites in the Soho Hotel, a boutique hotel in the middle of Soho, London - complete with all luxuries and mod cons.
Garrett, Petrus, Lindsey and Bradley were all sitting in Bradley’s hotel room drinking room service tea and talking.
‘So when do we sort out the fish lady?’ Asked Petrus.
‘Fish Lady?’
‘Haddock.’
Garrett grinned. ‘Not yet. We’ve stopped her ears and blinded her eyes. We’ve also drawn her teeth, so there’s nothing to fear there.’
‘So what do we do next?’
‘We let her stew for a while.’
‘Bouillabaisse,’ laughed Lindsey, referring to the famous French fish stew.
‘Okay, enough fish jokes,’ said Garrett. ‘It’s starting to get painful. Petrus, you came here for a holiday, we’re in London so, for the next few days let’s do some tourist stuff.’
‘Cool,’ responded Petrus. ‘I’m in.’
Garrett turned to Lindsey. ‘You fancy being a tourist guide?’
She nodded.
‘What about you, Bradley?’ Continued Garrett. ‘You keen to wander around London with us?’
The prof shook his head. ‘I’m working on something here. Need a bit more time. You lot go ahead.’ The professor was sitting at the table. On it were arrayed a selection of tools and instruments. No one bothered asking exactly what he was doing because his answers were usually beyond understanding anyway. Garrett knew that he would tell them all when he was ready to.
‘I want to buy a jacket,’ said Petrus.
‘I’ll take you to Oxford Street,’ suggested Lindsey.
‘Whatever. A nice jacket. Tweed. Proper English.’
‘Tweed is so lame,’ countered Lindsey.
‘Tweed,’ repeated Petrus, his mind made up.
Garrett smiled as they all left the room and headed for the elevators, happy that, for now, the killing was over and his friend could actually have a little bit of a holiday.
As they rode down to the ground floor, Lindsey’s agile mind was already working on an itinerary.
‘First we’re going to go full tourist,’ she said. ‘Tower of London, open top bus ride, Madam Tussard’s, the London Eye. Then we’ll take in a couple of restaurants and sights. If you guys want to go drinking or whatever you’ll have to do it at night on your own. I can go into some pubs with you but really only to eat.’
‘Hey, slow down,’ grinned Petrus. ‘First my jacket
, then we’re at your mercy.’
‘Tweed,’ sniffed Lindsey as the doors opened. ‘Really.’
Chapter 37
Many men who retired from the SAS went on to easier higher paid work in the private security world. Protecting spoilt movie stars, paranoid ‘dot com’ kids and self captains of industry.
Some set their sights lower and went into the same business but with less salubrious company, but even higher wages.
A favorite category of employer in London being the new bevy of oligarchs and international conmen that Russia was exporting into the rest of Europe. Amongst these men, and women, an ex SAS servant was a sign of prestige. A mark of one’s success.
And once a member of ‘The Regiment’ always a member.
After sergeant Robhurst had arrived back at Debra Haddock’s house he had got straight onto the phone, tracking down various past members of The Regiment, ostensibly those working for Russian hard men. Russian men with both power and influence.
These were the men who ran many of London’s clubs, casinos, whore houses and drug dens. Men with plenty of eyes and ears on the street.
They were also men who dealt in a commodity that Robhurst could afford, namely – favors. They would happily do him a favor as long as it was accepted that he, in turn, would be called upon to return the compliment with an equal, or probably bigger, measure. An assassination of a rival, the threatening of a law enforcement officer or the simple beating of someone who had gotten out of line.
After three straight hours on the cell, Robhurst had traded five favors for an army of eyes and ears on the street.
Now over four hundred doormen, bouncers, minicab drivers, prostitutes, croupiers, drug dealers and their clientele would be looking for men of Garrett and Petrus’ description. As well as the girl and her father. It wouldn’t be long and Robhurst would know where they were.
Then Robhurst went to Haddock and told her of his plan. She wasn’t that happy to learn that she would be left alone when the sergeant went out to hunt down their enemy but, as Robhurst explained, it didn’t matter because he was certain of exterminating them. So her safety was guaranteed.
Chapter 38
Petrus stepped out of the cab, holding the door open for Lindsey. Garrett followed, pausing at the passenger window to pay the driver.
The Zulu, adjusted the collar of his new jacket. An Edgar black and gray basket weave, heavyweight cashmere tweed, based on the jackets worn by Edgar Allan Poe. It fit perfectly, showing off his wide shoulders and narrow hips, the large bellows pockets on the side, perfect for storing spare magazines or hip flasks of whisky.
Even Lindsey had admitted that the coat was ‘well cool’ when Petrus had tried it on.
After the coat buying exercise the three of them had gone on a lightning tour of London’s tourist spots, taking in The Tower and The London eye, a huge Ferris wheel next to the Thames that gave one a real bird’s eye view of the magnificent old metropolis.
Petrus had been impressed by the city and the black cabs but less so with the outrageous prices of everything. Particularly working with the weak South African Rand, a currency that was almost twenty to one against the Pound. Even a short cab trip cost more than the average week’s salary back at home. Fortunately Garrett covered most of the costs from his seemingly inexhaustible supply of ready cash.
The doorman opened the front door to the Soho hotel and the three walked into the lobby. The entrance area was dominated by a massive statue of a black cat, the rest of the area an eclectic mix of traditional and ultra modern British.
They took the elevator to their rooms on the fourth floor. The doors opened into a long corridor, turquoise walls and dark gray carpet, bright blue wooden benches down the side along the walls.
As they stepped out, Lindsey turned to Petrus to make a comment on the outrageous colors when the air around then was torn apart with the whip and crack of passing shot.
Three men stood in the corridor; all were firing at them with semi automatic pistols.
Petrus threw himself in front Lindsey, knocking her to the floor. But he was too late. A puff of red mist flew into the air as the 9mm bullet struck her, spinning her body as she fell.
Lead ricocheted off the walls and splintered the mirror in the elevator.
Garrett drew his Walther and ran forward, firing as fast as he could.
Petrus jumped up next to him, also drawing and firing as he ran. At the same time the Zulu was screaming incoherently.
The door to their rooms opened and Bradley stepped out.
One if the attackers turned to fire at the professor but Garrett double tapped him as he turned, striking him in the neck and shoulder.
Bradley ducked back into the room.
Petrus ran out of ammo and dropped his pistol to draw his assegai. As he did so the second hit man fired, striking the Zulu in his left bicep, the steel jacketed bullet punching through the muscle and hitting the wall behind him.
And then Petrus was on him, ramming the wide blade of the assegai into the man’s eye and smashing him backwards into the wall, then withdrawing the blade and savagely slicing his throat open.
The third assassin turned and ran, leaving via the fire exit at the end of the corridor.
Both Garrett and Petrus turned and sprinted back to Lindsey. She lay on the floor, a pool of blood on her one side.
Petrus turned her over.
The bullet had struck her high on her left deltoid, grazing her deeply but at least the wound was far from lethal. Lindsey whimpered quietly, her whole body shivering with shock.
‘Go and kill that animal that ran away,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ll take care of this.’
‘I’m on it,’ said Garrett. ‘You make sure that you get out of here ASAP. I’ll see you at the first hotel that we stayed in at Earl’s Court. Move it, don’t forget Bradley. If Lindsey needs a hospital take her to one, her safety exceeds all other needs.’
‘Go,’ shouted Petrus.
Garrett spun on his heel and sprinted back down the corridor, banging through the fire door. He paused as he got outside, cocking his head to one side as he listened.
Footsteps.
Running.
He looked up.
On the roof.
The assassin had gone up. It was a good move; if Garrett hadn’t stopped to listen he would have naturally assumed that the man would head for the street and he would have gone down in pursuit, losing any chance of catching him.
He raced up the fire escape, taking three steps at a time, his Walther in his right hand.
When he got to the top he threw himself over the ledge onto the roof, rolling as he did so. A bullet sang off the steel stairway behind him and Garrett kept rolling until he was sheltered behind an air-conditioning unit. Then he dropped to his belly and wriggled forward, poking his head around the bottom of the steel unit. He caught a glimpse of his target, running towards the edge of the roof and then jumping, crossing from the hotel onto the roof of the next building.
Garrett sprang up and ran after him, pausing momentarily before he jumped to the next building, a seven foot chasm ten stories high. He hit the roof and rolled again, thumping up against the elevator housing. He stood up and scanned the area.
The assassin wasn’t there. Garrett ran around the roof top, checking out the surrounding buildings before spotting his assailant leaping from the next door roof onto a balcony in the adjacent building.
Garrett followed, grunting with the effort as he drove himself to his top speed, throwing caution to the wind.
He hit the balcony and followed the man up the attached fire escape onto the roof. All around neon lights flashed and hummed. Stream vents opened out onto the rooftops, expelling fragrant steam from restaurant kitchens and release valves on heating systems.
The pink and red and purple neon lights lit up the steam in a haze of hellish color.
Hieronymus Bosch – Christ’s Descent into Hell.
Another rooftop. Another jump. Garrett lan
ded badly, slipping in a torrent of water that sluiced across the roof from a broken water pipe. The River Styx.
A shot rang out and a ricocheted off the wall, missing Garrett by mere inches. Then he heard the target running down the fire escape. Boots ringing out on the steel staircase. He followed, running fast. Jumped.
He hit the ground only ten yards or so behind the target who was dodging through the people on the crowded street. Then the assassin took an abrupt left turn, into a narrow alley way. Garrett pounded in behind him.
There were no street lights and the alley smelled strongly of kitchen refuse. Rotten vegetables, fried food and cleaning products. No people. There was one doorway the end of the alley, obviously leading into a restaurant kitchen
The man ran to the end of the alleyway and grabbed the handles and yanked hard.
The door was locked.
He reacted instantly, spinning and firing at Garrett. Three shots and then his slide wracked back on an empty magazine. He threw the weapon at Garrett, obviously completely out of ammunition, and he drew a knife. A Ka-Bar Big Brother. Fifteen inches of serrated, blackened steel.
In turn, Garrett holstered his Walther and drew his Machete.
He stopped some ten feet from the man.
They stood and stared at each other for a few seconds before the man spoke.
‘Who the fuck are you guys?’
‘I could ask the same of you,’ retorted Garrett.
‘I’m sergeant Robhurst. Seconded to The Regiment. I’m the guy who is going to kick your ass.’
The Beast growled as it came to the fore. ‘Robhurst. The child killer,’ it grunted. ‘The remover of little girl’s fingers.’
The sergeant took a step back, visibly shocked at the change that had come over the man in front of him. From cold eyed combatant to wild eyed animal. He could see that the man was barely under control, his whole body vibrating with energy. With anger. A primal rage.
The Beast attacked.
Robhurst parried and danced, bringing his years of training, of experience and natural ability into play.
Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series Page 75
