Ryan Kaine

by Kerry J Donovan

  “Too fucking right,” Baz said.

  Mauro dropped the pristine cleaver on the nearest chopping surface and backed out of the door, ignoring Kaine, but never tearing his eyes away from Brutus and the Glock. Smiler and Baz raced after him. They moved quickly. Almost as fast as Tugboat had done.

  Kaine slowed his breathing and loosened his shoulders and neck. How would Brutus react?

  “So,” Brutus said, taking two steps closer, but keeping out of reach, “just you and me now, cowboy.”

  Kaine nodded. “Yep. Just you and me.”

  “But I have the gun.”

  Kaine couldn’t argue with that.

  “Out there,” Brutus said, using his empty hand to point to the dining room, “you accused me of killing people for Sir Brandon, but you were wrong. Dead wrong. I kill people because I fucking enjoy it. So what is stopping me from shooting you in the face for the pure pleasure of seeing you bleed? Tell me that.”

  Slowly, Kaine looked up and pointed at the light fitting in the middle of the ceiling. “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.”

  Brutus looked up. He couldn’t help it.

  Kaine drove forward from the freezer, shot out an open-handed left uppercut, and struck the base of Brutus’ nose with the heel of his hand. The big thug yelped as his nasal bone exploded. Kaine followed up with snap-kick to Brutus’ left knee and a simultaneous clubbing right to his left temple, landing the full-powered blow with the side of his fist. Both kneecap and skull crunched.

  Brutus’ eyes rolled up into his head and he teetered for the briefest of moments before toppling backwards to the floor. His head made a sickening thud when it bounced off the tiles. Blood and gore splattered across the floor.

  Kaine took the Glock from the killer’s dead hand, turned, and raced after Smiler and his cronies. No point checking for life signs. No human could have survived the trauma.

  He burst through the outer door. The chill wind blasted away the sweat formed from the kitchen heat and the short bout of exercise.

  He needn’t have worried.

  Smiler, Baz, Mauro, and a fourth man were sitting, cross-legged in a puddle in the middle of the car park—hands on heads, fingers interlaced. A relaxed Danny covered them with his SA80.

  The frightened young man from earlier, still with his arm around the pretty sous-chef, looked as though he’d died and gone to heaven. She leaned against him and didn’t seem to mind his close attention.

  Jordan Christie rushed towards Kaine. “Are you okay, mate? What happened to that Russian creep?”

  Kaine nodded, said, “I’m good, Brutus isn’t,” and added a wry smile.

  Behind the trademark horn-rimmed glasses, Christie’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Would it be okay to take my people back into the kitchen? It’s freezing out here.”

  Kaine screwed up his face. “Wouldn’t recommend it. Dead bodies aren’t pretty, and you wouldn’t want to disturb a crime scene. Best go around to the front to the dining area. Call out who you are first. I have a couple of men rounding up the other guards.”

  “We called the police as soon as we got outside. I’m surprised they aren’t here already. Cop shop’s only around the corner.”

  “Don’t worry about that, but, can I ask a favour?”

  “Anything,” Christie said, worry clouding his face.

  “Please wait fifteen minutes before you call again. Only this time, dial 9-9-9, and ask for someone more senior, someone in charge of serious fraud, or anti-corruption, or murder. Definitely not the locals.”

  “Fifteen minutes?” the chef asked. “You need the time to escape?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But the other diners will have called the police, wouldn’t they?”

  Kaine shook his head. “Doubt that very much. Most of those people will want to distance themselves from the whole event. Wouldn’t surprise me to learn that half of them are on their way to Heathrow right now, desperate to find a country without an extradition treaty with the UK.”

  Christie laughed. “In that case, no problem. You’ll have your fifteen minutes.”

  Kaine shook the chef’s offered hand. “By the way, I’m sorry to have ruined your service.”

  Christie flashed his teeth. “Kidding aren’t you? I’ll be making a meal out of this, if you pardon the pun. This whole incident is going to form the basis of my next book. I’ll create a whole new menu called, Killers in the Kitchen, or, Death While Dining. I’m considering a beetroot based starter.” He glanced towards his domain. “Plenty of blood in there?”

  “A little, but I didn’t hang around long enough to make a study.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said, eyes now shining as bright as his smile. “I’ll use my imagination.”

  Judging from what Kaine had seen of the chef’s creations, the man didn’t lack for anything in the imagination department. As for his taste, that remained open to debate.

  “After tonight, you might consider looking for a new backer.”

  Christie scoffed. “That won’t be a problem. There’s an honesty clause in my contract with Sir Brandon and, for some reason, people keep falling over themselves to throw money at me.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure his brigade couldn’t hear and whispered, “Between you and me, mate, I have no idea why anybody would fall for my bullshit when all they need is a bit of good pub grub. Still, who’s complaining?”

  “Not you, clearly,” Kaine said, warming to the diminutive chef.

  Christie turned sideways to bring the others into the conversation. “We were watching your film show through the monitor in the kitchen. Mind if I ask who you are and why you risked your life tonight?”

  Kaine raised a finger to his lips before answering. “Best you don’t know.”

  “You mean if you tell me you’ll have to kill me?”

  Christie’s laugh caught in his throat as he flashed a glance towards his kitchen and imagined what must have happened to Brutus. He quickly shook his head. “Sorry, bad taste. I’ll go before I piss you off.”

  “Good idea,” Kaine said, adding a dead stare.

  The celebrity chef hurried away, shepherding his brigade around the side of the building and out of sight.

  He closed on Danny, who hadn’t moved since Kaine emerged from the kitchen.

  “You okay, Captain? I saw you wringing your hand.”

  Kaine looked at the outside edge of his right hand. A small split in the skin over the knuckle showed where he’d crushed Brutus’ skull. “Brutus had a strong nose, but a glass temple.”

  “I would have let these fuckers go and come to help you out but, … well, one-on-one, I didn’t think it would take you long to deal with the big bugger.”

  Kaine stared Danny down and showed him the Glock. “You know he had this?”

  “Ooops,” Danny sniggered, “my bad. Still didn’t seem to cause you too much of a problem, though. What we going to do with these clowns?”

  “There’s a walk-in freezer in the kitchen. It has a lock.”

  “Cool.” Danny laughed. “I’ll go put them on ice for the good cops.”

  Kaine groaned. “What about the rest of Sir Brandon’s security team?”

  “Just got the news,” Danny said, tapping his earpiece. “Fat Larry and Slim rounded them all up and have them secure. What do you want done with them?”

  “They’re only the hired help. Let them go.”

  “What if any kick up a fuss?”

  “They won’t.”

  “But if they do?”

  “Fat Larry and Slim will know how to handle them.”

  Danny grinned. “Yes, sir. I guess they will.”

  Kaine checked his watch and lowered his voice. “We’d best hurry. There’s a crowd waiting and a load of paperwork to complete before we can catch our cross-channel ferry. France awaits.”

  “In a hurry to get back to a rather attractive female horse doctor, Captain?”

  “Get on with your work, Corporal Pinkerton,”
Kaine snapped.

  “Yes, sir. Certainly, sir. Right away, sir.”

  Danny twitched the muzzle of the SA80. The four captives jerked. “Okay boys, up you get. Time to chill out.”

  “Corporal!”

  “Sorry, Captain. Can’t help it.”

  “Force yourself.”

  “I’ll try, sir,” Danny said, still grinning as though he was having the greatest time. “Oh, now this is nearly over, you wanted me to remind you to give your friend in Porton Down a bell. He can send Mortensen to the police now, right?”

  Kaine thought about it before answering. “There’s no hurry. Mortensen’s going to spend the next few years in jail. He might as well get used to rectal probes.”

  Danny winced and prodded a reluctant Smiler between the shoulder blades with the muzzle of his SA80.

  “Oh dear, and you say my jokes are bad?”

  “Who’s joking? With a haircut and a shower, Mortensen’s going to scrub up nicely. He’s likely to prove very popular with the old lags on C Wing.”

  Danny marched the prisoners towards the kitchen, giving an acceptable rendition of Jailhouse Rock.

  Chapter 26

  Wednesday 28th October—Evening

  The Corpulent Canard, Hounslow, London

  Kaine helped Danny feed the uncomplaining prisoners into the freezer and lock the door on them.

  “Want to make certain he’s dead?” Danny asked, pointing his rifle at Brutus.

  Kaine shook out his hand and flexed his fingers. “You can if you like, but I’ll lay good odds he’s breathed his last.”

  Danny walked closer to the body and took in the depressed fracture at the man’s temple. “Bloody hell, Captain. Didn’t pull your punch, did you?”

  “I thought it best not to waste time.”

  “You aren’t wearing gloves. Want me to splash his face with bleach? There’s bound to be a bottle around somewhere and you wouldn’t want the cops to find your DNA.”

  Kaine nodded. “Good idea. I knew there had to be a reason to keep you around.”

  “You can be really hurtful, you know,” he said, looking anything but hurt. “While I clean this piece of filth, are you going to do the business with Sir Brandon?”

  “Well now, Danny.” Kaine broke down the Glock, examined its barrel for pitting, and checked the load—Remington UMCs—and reassembled it within seconds. The gun would serve its purpose. Just.

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do, and I’d best get a move on. The police won’t be long.”

  “Good idea. Mind if I have a nibble on some of the posh nosh lying around? It’ll only go to waste if I don’t.”

  “Feel free. I doubt Chef Christie’s going to object and it’s already been paid for.”

  Kaine left Danny to his cleaning and his scavenging and unbolted the inner kitchen door. Carefully, he entered the dining room. Sir Brandon, alone at his table, sat with his back to Kaine, speaking quietly into a mobile phone. Kaine couldn’t hear what was being said, but the urgency was obvious in the man’s arm waving actions.

  Kaine cleared his throat. “Hello there, BB. Bet you didn’t expect to see me again.”

  Sir Brandon twisted in his chair. His eyes bugged wide, his jaw dropped, and the mobile slipped from his hand and clattered onto his dirty plate. The flabby businessman jumped to his feet, pushing the chair away with the backs of his legs. At the same time, his right hand slid under his jacket, reaching towards his armpit.

  Kaine raised Brutus’ Glock, aimed and in a flowing movement, squeezed the trigger twice. Two loud cracks reverberated through the room, and two small tufts of white cotton lining burst from the right shoulder of Sir Brandon’s otherwise immaculate black tuxedo. Corresponding holes drilled high into the brick wall behind him.

  Sir Brandon squeaked and fell back into his chair, hands shooting towards the candelabra dangling from the ceiling.

  Kaine allowed himself a mirthless smile.

  “Brutus had no idea how to maintain a weapon,” he said. “If this Glock didn’t shoot high, you’d have a ruined shoulder right now.”

  Kaine lied about the Glock. Its accuracy wasn’t that far out, but, in his experience, very few things focused the mind better than being shot at and he didn’t want Sir Brandon’s writing hand incapacitated. He extended his arm, pointed the Glock at the older man’s sweaty forehead, and stepped further into the room. Sir Brandon’s eyes never left the muzzle of the gun, transfixed by its power over life and death.

  Once Kaine reached the table, he slid into the seat directly opposite the multi-millionaire building magnate. His aim never wavered.

  The curtains at the entrance fluttered. Fat Larry’s gaunt face poked into the room followed by his stick-like frame. He carried a H&K MP5 assault rifle. Anyone who didn’t know better would have seen him as emaciated, a man barely capable of carrying his own weight. They would have been mistaken. Once, after a particularly harrowing and extended search and rescue mission, Kaine and his unit had returned to base, bedraggled and threadbare, but intact. A team of medics had tried to rush Fat Larry into hospital. They wanted to treat him for dehydration and malnutrition, when he needed nothing more than a shower and a change of clothes. ‘Fat Larry’ had the body fat percentage of an elite marathon runner and the strength of a bear. As with all of Kaine’s chosen men, Fat Larry could manage a thirty kilometre route march over mountainous terrain carrying an assault rifle and an eighty kilo Bergen, and barely into a break sweat. Fat Larry ate as much as two normal men.

  “Everything okay in here, Captain?” he asked, his deep, booming voice at odds with his wiry frame.

  Kaine nodded, said, “No problems here, Private,” and turned and twitched the Glock at Sir Brandon. “What about you, friend. Anything to say?”

  Sir Brandon was bright enough to kept silent.

  “We’ll be out in a minute, Private. I just need to impress on our well-dressed friend here the precarious nature of his situation.”

  “We’re ready for the off as soon as you are, Captain,” Fat Larry said and melted back behind the curtain.

  Sir Brandon swallowed hard. He started to lower his hands but shot them up again when Kaine shook his head.

  “W-What do you want with me?”

  “First things first. Take out your gun, and please, please give me an excuse to shoot you in the face.”

  Driblets of sweat ran from Sir Brandon’s receding hairline and tracked down his puffy cheeks. They joined underneath his chin and dripped onto his shirtfront.

  “I-I … don’t know what—”

  “Best you move very slowly and use your left hand.”

  He tried to comply, but his left hand struggled to remove a small but deadly Ruger 380 Auto from the suede holster tucked under his left armpit. Eventually, he managed to tug it free.

  “Place it on the table, barrel pointing towards you, and push it across to me.”

  Sir Brandon followed the instructions. Kaine lowered the Glock and aimed it at the red cummerbund encircling the other man’s wide belly.

  Kaine took the Ruger, unloaded it, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. Not the most accurate or reliable weapon ever made, but deadly enough at close quarters.

  Sir Brandon raised his hands again, slowly. “H-How?”

  “How did I get the better of Brutus and his men?”

  He nodded.

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it? What you really need to know is what I want and how are you going to get out of this alive. Am I right?”

  He nodded again and another drop of sweat fell from his chin.

  “That’s really simple,” Kaine said, checking his watch—two minutes before Chef Christie would phone the police and a few more before they arrived, “You and I are going on a little drive.”

  Sir Brandon stiffened. His mouth opened. A strangled sound emerged, but no words.

  “Don’t fret, old chap,” Kaine said. “You have a chance to survive the night.”

  “W-Where are you tak
ing me?”

  “Not far.”

  “Oh, God. You’re going to kill me?”

  “Isn’t that what you ordered Brutus to do to me?”

  “I have money. I-I can pay you. P-Please don’t …”

  “It’s nothing less than you deserve, but money might help persuade me to let you live. We’ll see.”

  Behind the fear and the tears, the light of hope shone in the man’s pale eyes.”

  “Anything,” he whimpered. “I-I’ll pay anything.”

  Yes, you will.

  The image of two little girls screaming and their father lying face down in his own blood returned to stoke the fire of Kaine’s anger. He barely retained control. For two pennies, Kaine would have pistol-whipped the pitiful creature with his own little gun. But no, Kaine was better than that. His damned code wouldn’t allow him to beat a helpless old man into a pulp. Besides, his plan required Sir Brandon to remain unmarked and coherent, and in full possession of all his teeth and all his faculties.

  “You can lower your arms now, but keep them in view, there’s a good chap.” He reinforced his command by twitching the Glock.

  Sir Brandon dropped his hands to the table and rattled out an audible sigh.

  “Don’t relax too much, old sport. Your writing hand’s going to be doing a load of work over the few hours.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll explain when we reach our destination. Now, up you get. Move smoothly and quietly to the exit where your carriage awaits.”

  Bowling Road was as quiet as Kaine had seen it. A few private cars and taxis rolled along each carriageway, headlights dipped, and even the traffic lights cooperated by changing to green when needed.

  Behind the wheel, Slim—built like a barn and the owner of a right cross powerful enough to fell a small oak—stopped the Range Rover alongside Bistro Mykonos’ boarded up window. It was an ironic gesture not lost on Kaine or the prisoner at his side.

  “Oh, God,” Sir Brandon said the moment he recognised the place.

  The window’s destruction marked the start of Sir Brandon Banner-Hardy’s fall from grace, and it was about to mark the end of BHCL as a going concern. That the story would conclude at the Bistro within the following day or so was also fitting.