Two metres tall, at least one-forty kilos—and all of it muscle and bone—Tugboat stood with feet shoulder-width apart, glowering. A navy frigate protecting the entrance to its home port.
What the hell are you doing here alone, Ryan?
He’d fought big men before, but Tugboat wasn’t named by accident or with irony. Kaine swallowed hard, cowered into the corner of the lift, gloved hands open and raised to his chest. Making himself a pitiful sight.
Tugboat beckoned him with curled fingers the size of small courgettes. In his hand the electronic wand looked like an electric toothbrush.
Kaine hesitated and looked from side to side, lower lip quivering, before stepping into the den.
Tugboat grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slammed him face-first against a cream-coloured wall. He let the air explode from his lungs. The wand squealed as it passed over Kaine’s body, up and down the arms, torso, legs, crotch, but found nothing.
The vice-grip on Kaine’s shoulder loosened. Tugboat spun him again and repeated the performance on Kaine’s front.
As he’d hoped, the big goon relied on the technology and ignored the personal touch. If he’d augmented the wand with a standard pat-down, Tugboat might not have come up so empty handed.
The wand spoke to Kaine, too. It told him Tugboat wasn’t carrying a concealed weapon, either. The big guy shouldn’t have stood so close to Kaine while waving it around so randomly. The user’s manual recommended full arm’s length, or it would react to a gun worn by the operator. In the trade, such a result was called ‘registering a false positive’.
Untrained amateurs with flashy toys could be their own worst enemies.
Perhaps Tugboat thought he didn’t need a gun to protect his boss. Or maybe his fingers were too big to work a standard trigger. Either way, it gave Kaine a slight advantage, assuming Lovejoy wasn’t carrying either. Then again, why would he carry a weapon at home when he had a Tugboat?
During the sweep, Kaine kept his head lowered and scanned the penthouse through hooded eyes.
A large, open-plan room decorated in a cool chic: white, cream, and chrome. A solid wall to Kaine’s left held four flush-fit white doors, which probably led to the bedrooms and the amenities. The right-hand wall housed a kitchen with black granite surfaces, white cabinets, no clutter, and no signs it had ever been used to prepare food. The full-width landscape windows above the kitchen units framed a stunning view of the river and the south bank.
In front of Kaine and directly opposite the lifts, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall faced east and boasted a view to put the penthouse firmly in the multi-million pound bracket. It held an almost-uninterrupted panorama of London’s most famous landmarks: the garishly illuminated London Eye, St Paul’s. On a sunny day, the view might have allowed him to see into the gardens of Buckingham Palace—not that he’d want to. Her Majesty deserved what little privacy she could find.
Lovejoy sat in a leather armchair side-on to the magnificent panorama. Barefoot, he wore skin-tight jeans and a snug-fitting silk shirt. Judging from the absence of holster-shaped bulges, Kaine doubted the man was carrying. Although there were plenty of places to hide a handgun in a room half the size of a basketball court.
The young, scantily clad, blonde woman he’s seen in the back of the BMW, lay sprawled on one of two sofas, apparently asleep, possibly comatose. A glass-topped coffee table, smeared with white powder, formed a centre console to the leather three-piece suite.
Finally, a small area in the far corner contained a brushed steel office desk, a leather swivel chair, and all the electronic trimmings necessary to run a small multi-national. A huge laptop occupied the centre of the desk. Its lid was open and the screen backlit the office in a pale orange glow. An impressive piece of equipment—expensive, too. Kaine guessed Lovejoy did all the typing. He doubted Tugboat’s fingers could operate a standard-sized keyboard and, according to Mortensen, the monster certainly wouldn’t be able to use voice activated software.
Tugboat pushed him forward.
“Well? What are you trying to sell?” Lovejoy shouted.
Tugboat returned to his station next to the lift but maintained easy access to the room. Kaine took three paces forward, giving himself plenty of space to operate.
Second line of defence breached.
One more to go.
“Stop there. Don’t come any closer with those shoes on and you aren’t invited to take them off. Well?” Lovejoy barked. “I don’t have all night and neither do you.”
He looked behind Kaine to the man-monster, who snorted.
Kaine took another step into the middle of the open part of the room.
Lovejoy raised a hand.
“I said, that’s close enough. What you got to say for yourself?”
“This is sensitive information.” Kaine pointed to the woman. “What about her?”
“Don’t worry about Lady F. She’s in dreamland.” He wiped his nose with his fingertips and sniffed. “Loves a bit of rough and tumble, but still not totally used to the blow. Not yet anyway, but give her time.”
A red mark under Lady F’s cheek suggested Lovejoy’s idea of a ‘bit of rough and tumble’ might not have matched hers. Kaine bunched his hands into fists. The bruise sealed Lovejoy’s fate. Kaine made a slight sideways turn to keep both men in view.
“I heard you were … leaning on the Constantine family. I can give them to you.”
“Oh, can you now?”
Lovejoy leaned back, stretched out, and put his feet on the coffee table, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle.
“I know where Mr and Mrs Constantine are right now.”
Lovejoy’s smile didn’t falter. “So do I, you stupid old fuckwit. They’re at St Catherine’s Surgical Unit. Poor little Justina’s in a real state, but Orestes is on the operating table and doesn’t know what day it is.”
Kaine hadn’t expected that and allowed it to show on his face.
Lovejoy’s feet slapped to the floor and he sat up straight, hands resting on his thighs. “Think I don’t know a setup when I see one? There’s no way Barney Mortensen gave up my name to a stranger unless they forced it out of him. I only let you up here to find out who you were and what you wanted. We could tell you were alone from the moment you stepped into the lights at the entrance.”
He looked at Tugboat, and the smile morphed into a sneer. “Get to work, Tuggy. Don’t make too much of a mess, and make sure he can still talk when you’re finished.”
Tuggy? How affectionate.
Kaine shook the tension from his hands. He’d seen it coming, but not quite so quickly.
The grinning Māori danced forward, light on his feet for such a huge lump.
Lovejoy laughed and rubbed his hands together.
“Looking forward to this. Better than watching cage fighting on the TV. More realistic.”
Lovejoy had just called Kaine a stupid old fuckwit. Maybe the smiling blond gangster’s assessment hadn’t been too far off.
How much would Kaine give for Danny’s coat holding now?
Chapter 19
Saturday 24th October—Early morning
Kensington and Chelsea, London
Kaine backpedalled until he bumped into the wall with all the doors.
So much for plenty of room to manoeuvre.
Tugboat stopped two metres in front of him. He threw a few air shots to loosen his shoulders, bending and twisting at the waist to increase his reach. The big man’s fists whistled through the air in a blur and snapped with a final twist at the end of the punch. Kaine felt the pressure of the moving air in front of his face. Tugboat knew how to throw a punch, that much was clear.
If one of the blows connected …
Kaine raised his hands, fingers open and relaxed. Huge men could be powerful, but slow. He watched Tugboat’s movements. Studied their timing and direction, looking for Tugboat’s pivot point and range of balance. His rear heel stayed anchored to the floor. A minor weakness, but a weak
ness nonetheless.
No doubt, Kaine had speed and experience over Tugboat, but the old boxing adage cut through his thoughts: ‘a good big man always beats a good small man’.
Being good wasn’t enough. Kaine had to be better, faster, more decisive.
With powerful shoulder muscles bunched, Tugboat danced forward and popped out a lightning left jab. Kaine ducked. The massive fist brushed the top of his head and smashed through the plasterboard wall behind, trapping the fist.
Kaine threw a right uppercut into the giant’s groin and ducked left in time to avoid a knee to the face. Kaine’s punch hit its target flush on, crushing the soft tissue. Most normal men with normal testicles would have gone down under such a blow, but Tugboat barely grunted. He shook his head, yanked his forearm from the hole in the wall and swivelled to face Kaine.
Behind them, still lounging in his chair, Alfie cackled.
“Low blow! Low blow. I ought to disqualify you for ungentlemanly conduct. It won’t do you any good, though. Tugboat doesn’t have any bollocks on account of a boyhood accident. He’s what you might call a eunuch. He doesn’t like me talking about it, but you’re not going to tell anyone. Boy, are you in big trouble now. He’s likely to tear your head off. Aren’t you, Tuggy?”
The giant Māori’s mouth snapped shut. He grunted again and kept moving forward.
Kaine danced backwards and circled to the left.
Move, keep clear, wait for the opening.
If he didn’t stay out of range of the powerful left jab, or the piledriver right, the fight wouldn’t last long.
Kaine dipped inside another clubbing blow and threw a flurry of punches: a double left jab followed by a right cross, but the Māori took them well, barely pausing in his forward momentum.
Tugboat shook his head as if to say, “That all you got, little man?”
It wasn’t, but Kaine had to put on a bit of a show. He needed to close the gap between himself and Lovejoy. Lull the blond man into not going for a hidden weapon, keep him as a spectator not a participant.
Panting hard for effect and maintaining his distance from the big man, Kaine lowered his arms, relaxed his gloved hands and shook them out. He raised his hands again and bent into a boxer’s crouch, keeping one eye on Tugboat, the other on Lovejoy.
Tugboat stood still and beckoned Kaine with his sausage fingers. An invite he had no intention of accepting.
“Doesn’t say much does he,” Kaine said, jinking to the right and faking a left jab, before sliding right again and stepping further back.
Nearly close enough. One more shimmy.
Tugboat matched Kaine’s movement, teeth bared. A smile. Definitely a smile.
“Hah,” Alfie said, “Tuggy’s what’s called a functional mute. He can make sounds but can’t form words. Weird, eh? Works for him though. Helps him concentrate because he doesn’t have any distractions. Spends most of his spare time in the gym throwing weights around.”
“I can see that,” Kaine said, panting and ducking inside a swinging roundhouse left.
Without thinking, Kaine snapped out a left uppercut. The blow landed hard, mashing Tugboat’s ulnar nerve into his elbow.
The big man grunted, shook his head, and took his first backward step.
No. Too early. Too early.
Lovejoy was still too far away. Beyond Kaine’s reach.
Tugboat stared at his elbow. A questioning frown formed on his mobile face. He clenched and unclenched his fist, trying to regain some sensation.
Kaine’s elbow strike would have paralyzed a normal arm, but Tugboat shook off the blow in seconds.
Fast recovery. Very fast.
It would only take one slip for things to deteriorate, and Kaine would be in real trouble.
Time to stop toying with him, Ryan.
Tugboat shook his arm and howled. He lurched into an attack, arms outstretched, attempting to lock Kaine into a bear hug. Kaine ducked underneath the encircling arms and threw a rabbit punch to the kidney. His fist landed on granite.
Tugboat screamed again and stumbled before righting himself. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowed, his expression pained. The kidney punch must have penetrated. Rage blazed behind the dark eyes.
Kaine sucked in more air, panting for real this time. Sweat dripped down his hairline and stung his eyes. He blinked rapidly to clear the blurring vision.
Lovejoy continued his taunting, seemingly unaware of the damage suffered by his pet.
“He used to box all the time, but we can’t find any sparring partners. They’re all terrified. Won’t step in the ring with him. Everyone reckons he’s too dangerous, but he’s a pussycat. Aren’t you, Tuggy. What do you think, old man?”
Tugboat dipped his right hip, lunged, threw another left jab, and followed it with a right cross. Kaine twisted at the waist, parried the jab, but let the second shot strike him a glancing blow to the top of the head. He grunted, buckled at the knees, and waved his hands in front of his eyes as though his vision was blurred.
“Ha!” Lovejoy cackled. “Has Big Ben started ringing early, you old bastard?”
Okay, finish this, Ryan. Finish it now.
Kaine dropped his guard and staggered backwards, moving ever closer to Lovejoy. His right heel struck the leg of the coffee table. He fell backwards and landed on the floor in a crumpled heap, keeping his hands close to his ankles.
Tugboat raised both arms and bayed in victory.
Alfie cheered.
“Kill him, Tuggy. Snap his fucking neck. I’ve seen enough. Can’t be arsed to question him after all. Kill the bastard for me, Tuggy.”
The monster took one pace forwards but stopped mid stride, his howl of triumph cut short, eyes and mouth opened wide in shock. He looked down. The handle of Kaine’s ceramic throwing knife stuck out of his chest, between sternum and left nipple. No blood. No other signs of injury.
Tugboat staggered forwards, fingers scrambling for the knife.
From the floor, Kaine kicked out. The heel of his boot hit the giant’s standing leg, crushing the kneecap. Blood gurgled in Tugboat’s throat. He toppled headlong and face-planted onto the tile floor, driving the knife deeper into his chest. He lay still. Blood flowed, slowly spreading across the nice warm tiles.
Lovejoy’s cackle stopped as quickly as Tugboat’s howl. Shock registered on his tanned face and he watched the pumping blood reach out to him across the white tiles.
For a brief moment, time paused. Nothing moved but the flowing pool of red on white. It reminded Kaine of Orestes’ blood on the starched cotton tablecloth.
Lovejoy’s scream broke the short spell. He jerked out of his chair and scrambled towards the office area.
Kaine shot out a foot and kicked the coffee table. It tripped Lovejoy, who tumbled to the floor and tried to stand, but his hands slipped on the blood. He fell again, sprawling face down on the floor.
Kaine planted his hands on the tiles on either side of his head, ‘kipped up’ onto his feet, and used the forward momentum to carry him into a flat-out dive. As he landed, he drove the point of his elbow into the small of Lovejoy’s back.
Vertebrae crunched.
Lovejoy grunted and stopped moving.
Kaine scrambled away from the bodies, alive for any signs of danger. There were none.
He climbed to his feet and leaned against the balcony door, breathing hard, waiting for his body to recover and the shaking to stop.
Kaine wiped the sweat from his face with a sleeve and tried to still his trembling hands, but adrenaline still surged through his system, speeding his heartrate, driving blood to muscles hungry for oxygen.
Adrenaline, part of the human ‘fight or flight’ complex, had saved him again. Most people didn’t know how to use it but, to a trained fighter, controlling the adrenaline response made the difference between success and failure—the difference between life and death.
Close, Ryan. Too bloody close.
As a rule of thumb, Kaine didn’t care much for the ‘fligh
t’ part of the quotation, but perhaps he needed to rethink his rule. This time, he’d cut it fine. He’d come close to losing—much closer than he expected. Maybe he should learn caution. Maybe he should learn to accept the help offered by his cobbled-together team of experts. He owed Danny an apology. Next time, he’d listen. He was getting too old to take on youngsters in unarmed combat.
Far too bloody old, Kaine. Idiot.
Lovejoy groaned.
Kaine straightened, pulled back his shoulders, and closed the gap between him and the human rubbish on the floor.
“Still alive, young fella? Good. You and I’ll need to talk in a moment. Just let me get my breath back. Your dead mate was almost as tough as he looked.”
Lovejoy groaned again, this time louder. His fingers scratched at the tiles, but nothing else moved except his mouth and eyes.
Kaine wasn’t worried. Judging by the bruise developing on his elbow from when he crippled the pathetic lump, Lovejoy wasn’t going anywhere. He doubted the man would ever walk again. The bastard wouldn’t be commissioning attacks on families, or hitting defenceless women, either.
Three deeps breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, lowered Kaine’s heartrate and paid back the oxygen debt he’d built during the fight. His stomach calmed and the shakes melted away.
Thinking of defenceless women, the young blonde on the couch hadn’t moved since his arrival. Keeping his eyes on Lovejoy in case he’d misdiagnosed the severity of the spinal injury, he pushed away from the wall. Steering a wide path to avoid the spilled claret, he stepped around the bodies and crossed to the north-facing wall and the leather suite.
The young woman, Lady F, lay still. Unnaturally still.
Crap.
Kaine placed two fingers on the side of her neck and found a steady beat, slow but strong. He made sure her airway was open and relaxed a little.
“Now then, Alfie,” he called out, “why were you in such a hurry to reach your office?”
Before searching the desk, he removed the leather gloves and replaced them with a more practical latex pair—no point making it easy for the crime scene investigators.
Ryan Kaine Page 17
