by Karl Hill
Sands – How do you know? She might turn up.
Lincoln – No. I’ve wasted a day already. You need to pull those strings of yours, and get me what I need.
Sands – I’ll see what I can come up with.
Lincoln – Thank you.
Twenty minutes later he received another email. Another address. Efficient, he thought. Whoever was feeding Sands his information had influence. Lincoln was under no illusion the people he was working for were powerful. And rich. And incredibly well connected.
He checked the internet. The address was a slightly awkward location, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He was mildly irked the job was taking longer than anticipated. Setbacks were to be expected. It did not diminish his excitement. In the end, it would be well worth it.
He checked timetables. If he got a taxi now, he would make the final crossing.
It was early evening, just as Black was meandering his way through the grand main entrance of the Excelsior, when Lincoln set off to capture the bait.
The bait to reel in Adam Black.
35
Black passed two kilted doormen, who nodded politely at those who entered. The main reception hall was elegant and subtle, without being ostentatious. The floor was travertine tiles, coral red. White marble pillars stretched up to a high ceiling of intricate glass construction. Black was impressed. The walls were dark oak, painted glossy black, richly decorated. Silver box lanterns hung suspended from the ceiling. Perhaps a little ostentatious, he decided. Classical music played, just on the periphery of the senses.
The elevators were on one side. Black counted five. On the other, wide sweeping carpeted stairs.
The reception counter was manned by four uniformed women, multi-tasking. Another two kilted stewards were beckoning them through double-sided glass doors, holding trays of flutes of champagne. Black took one, and followed a group of young lawyers, laughing loudly. He laughed with them. Part of the crowd. A short passageway and then through to the Cairngorm Bar. It was already full. More oak panelling, plush carpets, soft lighting from candelabras. Candles flickered from deep shelves and alcoves. Heavy tapestried curtains prevented any evening light. The place was alive with conversation, laughter. People out to enjoy themselves, and get blasted with drink in the process.
Black could hardly blame them. He recognised himself in those smiling faces. His former self. When he was a partner in his old firm. When life made sense. Rubbing shoulders with colleagues, swapping stories, gossiping, drinking at the bar. Laughing. When he was a normal human being.
What had he become? A vigilante. He’d been made, created. His wife and daughter murdered, and as a consequence, the veneer of his humanity ripped away. Maybe he was kidding himself. Perhaps the death of his family had done more. Perhaps it had set him free. That the man he was now was the man he had always been. A stone-cold killer. A chilling thought, which he did not dwell on.
He looked about him, keeping to a shadowy corner. It wasn’t inconceivable that someone in the crowds might recognise him. From the old days. But unlikely. He was just another face in a penguin suit. Those around him were immersed in their own worlds. More people were filing in. It was 7.45. The meal would be announced in about fifteen minutes, he reckoned.
Time to move.
The Bothwell Suite was one of two penthouse rooms on the west wing of the top floor. Black left the bar, still holding his untouched champagne glass. He smiled at the stewards, at the girls at the reception. No one noticed him, too preoccupied. Black strolled up the stairs, without a care in the world. People were coming down. Polite nods. More smiles.
He got to the first floor, to a hall. A discreet sign on the wall indicated the gymnasium and saunas to his left. Black turned right, along a broad passageway. The walls were decorated with portraits of people he didn’t know. The ceiling was arched with wooden beams, the coving intricate silver filigree.
He arrived at a series of lift doors. He pressed a button. He waited twenty seconds. The doors slid open. It was empty. He got in. Mirrors all around. He pressed the button for the top floor. The penthouse. Ten storeys up.
Black felt an almost imperceptible shift of movement. Lights flashed as he progressed past each level. A soft sound chimed. He’d reached the top. He took a deep breath, focused, calming himself. Fun time. The doors opened.
He arrived at a small carpeted foyer. A sign with an arrow pointing left – the Bothwell Suite, through heavy double wooden doors. It was a gamble. Rutherford might not be in. He might be out for dinner. Or just out. But Black didn’t think so. The man he saw leave the offices of Raeburn Collins earlier looked like a man scared. Scared enough to have bodyguards carrying concealed weapons. He’d be lying low until he’d got the message. The message that Black was dead.
Black steadied himself. Suddenly he barged through the double doors, and staggered in, bouncing from one wall to the other. He was in a broad corridor, with only one door at the end. This was an exclusive section of the hotel, offering privacy for the occupants. Which was advantageous. Any commotion wouldn’t be instantly noticed, giving Black time.
On either side of the door sat a man, suited. They both jumped up, startled at Black’s entrance.
It looked like Rutherford was home.
Black weaved his way towards them, spilling champagne, face slack, one hand on the wall to steady himself.
“Think I’m lost,” he slurred. “Where the hell am I?”
One of the men shook his head.
“Wrong place, pal.” The man who spoke was tall, as tall as Black. Bulky with muscle, visible through a tight-fitting suit, one hand under his jacket. Head shaved to the bone. Heavy features. Flat, broken nose. Prominent brow. Ex-boxer, thought Black. He looked supremely fit and strong. The other, who had sat back down, was tall, but slimmer. Lean muscle. Black glossy hair tied back into a ponytail. An old scar split his face from his eye to the side of his mouth, causing his lip to raise in a constant sneer. One evil looking fucker.
The Boxer approached him.
“You should be downstairs with the other shitheads, so fuck off.”
Suddenly the door to the Bothwell Suite opened. A man appeared, framed in the doorway. He paused to inspect the commotion. Large, full head of blond hair, ruddy red cheeks. Dressed in black bow tie, tuxedo, evening suit. Ready to go downstairs.
Donald Rutherford.
For one frozen moment, their eyes locked. Rutherford recognised Black instantly. He took a step back, eyes wide.
“Black!”
The two men, Scarface on his chair, Boxer standing one foot from Black, turned towards Rutherford, puzzled.
“It’s Black!” he roared. “Kill the fucker!”
He darted back into the suite, the door slamming behind him.
The distraction was all Black needed. The Boxer turned back to him, in the process of pulling out a pistol from beneath his jacket. Scarface was rising from his chair, similarly reaching for under his jacket.
Black rugby tackled the Boxer, propelling him backwards into Scarface, the three men toppling onto the hall carpet, like skittles in a bowling alley. Black rolled, got to his feet, pulling out the KelTec. The Boxer was on one knee, aiming a smaller pistol. Possibly a Walther PPK. Black beat him to it. The Boxer’s face suddenly exploded with the impact of Black’s bullet.
Scarface fired, missed, the flying fragments of the Boxer’s face spoiling his aim, the bullet lodging into a picture on the far wall. Black returned the compliment, fired back, once twice. For the briefest second, Scarface gave Black a look of startled indignation as his throat burst open, then the look was obliterated as the top half of his head spun across the room.
Two down.
Now, the clock was ticking. Black had to move quickly. Despite the seclusion, the noise could still attract people – guests, hotel staff, security, police. A grisly sight awaited them. With two dead bodies on the floor, Black would have a lot of explaining to do. With the distraction of the dinner function going on
downstairs, he might have gained a little extra breathing space. Black opted for worst case scenario, and reckoned he had five minutes, maybe ten at a push.
He got to the suite door, fired at the handle. The door bounced open. Black stepped to the side, anticipating gunshots. Which is exactly what happened. Four shots, muffled by a silencer, peppering the corridor wall.
Black had been trained for exactly this scenario. He crouched, dived through the door way, firing randomly as he moved. More shots, above his head. He was in a large, high-ceilinged room. Above, a massive crystal candelabra. A real fire crackled under a stone hearth. A huge television on one wall. Couches, chairs, low coffee tables, an ornate bureau in one corner. In another corner, behind a high-backed chair, a man firing a pistol. No sign of Rutherford. Black took all this in as he dived behind a leather corner suite, offering zero cover. This was not the movies. A bullet would scythe through furniture as easily as a knife through hot butter. Bullets ripped behind him, churning up cushions, fabric, chunks of leather.
Black fired back. His last bullet. A pause. His adversary was reloading. Black had no bullets left. He took his chance. He vaulted over the remains of the corner suite, sprinted across the room, hurdling over a long coffee table in front of the fire. The man was reloading the cartridge sleeve. No time. He flung the pistol at Black, and dodged from behind the high chair, just as Black cannoned into it.
The man produced a knife. Black spun round, produced his own flick-knife. They faced each other. The man was four inches shorter. Wide shoulders. Long arms. He was wearing a loose white shirt. A short neck as wide as his head. Cropped white hair. Stocky, muscular. A slab of a face. He weaved the knife left and right, then a circle, metal glimmering in the firelight.
“Come on, you fucker.”
Black made a sudden hard motion. He threw his blade. It flashed through the air, penetrating the man’s chest. The man gasped, staring in shock, incredulous at the sudden turn of events. He reached up to pull the blade from his suddenly soaked shirt.
Black stepped in. The man staggered back to avoid him, bumping into a footstool. He pulled out the blade. Black was on him, hacking at his neck, then driving his fist into the man’s face. The man grunted, but seemed to absorb the blows, maintaining his stand. He scythed the blade through the air with one massive arm, trying to slice Black’s jugular. Black blocked, but the effort sent him off balance. The man lashed out with his other arm, rocking Black with a thunderous blow to the side of the head. It felt like he’d been hit with concrete. Black stepped away, disorientated. They stood, regarding each other, panting.
The man lurched forward, waving the knife, the movement uncoordinated, sluggish. He was losing blood fast, and was dying on his feet. Black moved aside, caught the man’s wrist, pressed a pressure point, jerked the wrist round hard, then rammed the palm of his hand against his elbow, feeling the bone snap. The knife fell. The man sucked in his breath, bending over to protect his broken arm. Black grabbed the back of his head, yanking his face down against his knee. Teeth broke.
The man sank to the floor. Black retrieved the knife, and slit his throat. He picked up the man’s pistol, a Walther PPK, similar to his dead friend in the hall, loaded the cartridges.
The suite was a series of interconnecting rooms. Time was precious. He made his way through double glass doors, emerging into a long dining room complete with full-size dining table and ten cream leather chairs, and a bar on one side. No sign of Rutherford.
Black went from room to room. The last was the master bedroom. Locked. This was it. If he wasn’t here, then he was a fucking magician.
Black fired once. The door cracked open. A large room, all oak cladding, blackened rafters on the ceiling, king size bed. Beside the bed stood Donald Rutherford, hands above his head.
“I’m unarmed!”
Black appraised him. It was almost humorous. Two lawyers dressed for a formal evening. About as civilised as you could get. In Black’s case, his crisp white tuxedo stained with the blood of three men. This was a million miles from being civilised.
Black raised the pistol.
“I’ve called the police,” said Rutherford.
“Quite right,” replied Black. “But we’ve still time for a chat. Gilbert Bartholomew got too close for comfort, and you had him killed. Yes?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The police will be here in five minutes.”
His eyes flickered from Black’s face to his gun. Black almost admired his bluster. He fired a round into the bed, six inches from Rutherford’s leg.
“Jesus Christ!”
“The next one you get in the balls. It won’t kill you, but the agony will be fucking unbelievable. Tell me why you’re so keen on killing me?”
Rutherford blinked, forehead glistening with sweat. His lower lip trembled.
“I don’t know what you’re…”
“Fair enough,” said Black, aiming.
“No, please!” shrieked Rutherford. He talked, the words staccato, rattling out his mouth like bursts of machine gun fire. “Bartholomew was proving dangerous. Asking too many questions. He needed to be removed. I was told to get into the firm, find out all I could. About why he’d gone there. When I discovered he wanted a will prepared, and mentioned you, we needed to find out more.”
“You were told to join the firm?”
“Ordered. These people are fucking powerful. They can do anything.”
“But you are one of these people, Rutherford,” said Black.
“No! I get orders. If I don’t do what they say, they’ll kill me. My family.”
“Your family?”
Rutherford nodded. The seconds were ticking by. Black took a deep breath, swallowing down his urge to get out fast before any more goons appeared at the door. Or the police, for that matter. But he needed a piece of vital information.
“You’re just a foot soldier. Is that it? Innocent. Just following orders.”
“That’s all I am.”
“Gilbert Bartholomew. Fiona Jackson. And only five minutes ago you told your handsome friends to kill me. Who are all dead, by the way.”
Rutherford sobbed. “Please. I don’t know anything.”
“And the little girl?”
Abruptly, Rutherford’s face straightened, eyes fixed on Black.
“The little girl?”
“Sure. The one in the video. Though I dare say it’s a regular thing, so I might need to be specific. About five years old. Blonde hair. Being passed about. Remember that one?”
Rutherford’s lips worked, but managed only a mumble.
“You see, Rutherford, I know what you and your circle of acquaintances indulge in. I know what you’re trying to keep quiet. You have a family? Christ knows what you do there.”
“I don’t know…”
“I saw the video. You were one of them.”
Rutherford shook his head.
“You were all wearing masks,” continued Black. “But that fancy ring you’re wearing gave it away. The type you were all wearing. A token of club membership, yes? You really should be more careful. When is your next gathering? Tell me, or I swear to Jesus Christ Almighty, I will fire a bullet into your fucking eye.”
“Three days from now,” gasped Rutherford. “Monday evening.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I swear it. No one knows until that morning. We’re given a location by email. It could be anywhere in the country.”
Suddenly he sank to his knees. “Please, I was forced. These people have their ways.”
“The only person forced was that child. Who are these people?”
“I don’t know. Government ministers. Police. Corporate executives. Never any names. We get emails. Instructions. Only one person knows who everybody is. He organises things. He chooses where and when.”
“Who, Rutherford?”
“He calls himself the Grey Prince. Why the fuck do you care?”
Black regarded him for two seconds.
“Two reasons. First, your ring of confederates tried to kill me. You brought it on yourself. Second, you’ve abused, raped and murdered kids for God knows how long. This has to stop. I’m speaking for them. Let’s call it retribution. A reckoning.”
Black paused, then asked, “Did the little girl die?”
Rutherford lowered his head to stare at the carpet. “They all die.”
“Look at me.”
Rutherford lifted his head.
“Do you know her?”
Black showed him the photograph of Gilbert Bartholomew’s daughter. Rutherford glanced at it, looked away. Black stepped forward, grabbed him by the hair, jerking his head up to face the picture, his pistol pressed under his chin.
“Do you know her?” he hissed.
Rutherford stared at the girl’s face.
“No,” he muttered. “They all look the same.”
He bowed his head again.
“Of course they do,” said Black. “Look at me, Rutherford.”
Rutherford looked up.
Black shot him in the face, then again in the chest.
He had information. A date.
And if his hunch was right, then he knew how to find them.
36
Stanley Lampton had never been a victim. He didn’t have abusive parents. He hadn’t been abused as a child. It was just in him. Borderline psychotic. During his many meetings with prison psychiatrists, the general conclusion was that it all could be boiled down to power. Power over the vulnerable. Power over kids. The complete destruction of their innocence turned him on. The ruination of a young life got him hard. If asked, Lampton would disagree. He would say he loved those kids, and he would say they loved him right back.
The power which his employer Boyd Falconer had granted him was something he could only have dreamed of. In his mind, he had arrived in paradise. He was careful not to overstep his limits. Falconer had made this clear. If he did, then the penalties were severe. He would be taken out to the desert, shot in the back of the head, and left for the vultures to pick. This frightened Lampton, but the rewards overshadowed everything.
