Violation: a completely gripping fast-paced action thriller (Adam Black Book 2)

by Karl Hill

  He was rarely disturbed in his subterranean kingdom. A wall in his room was devoted to twelve monitors. Each showed him a full of view of each of the other rooms. He would watch. He would listen. They often needed tenderness, a display of affection, especially the very young ones. He was a master of that. To gain their trust. To calm their fears. Sometimes, in case of minor emergencies, a nurse was brought in. To deal with cuts or bruises or common colds. In extreme cases, such as the measles thing, they wheeled in a doctor. Beyond that, Lampton took care of everything. He consoled them, comforted them, humoured them. Loved them. The nurse and the doctor did it for the money. Lampton found such a concept vile. Never would he debase himself in such a way. He did it all for nothing. His was a higher calling.

  He loved those kids.

  But the rules were strict. He was allowed to read stories. During the day, he could play games. Interact. Keep them occupied. Made sure they brushed their teeth. Bathed them, which was difficult for him. But he kept his discipline. Sometimes, if a child became unruly, or particularly difficult, then he would threaten. Sometimes he would make an example of one in front of all the others. He did this rarely, but when he did, they listened, and any trouble went away.

  Lampton accepted all this, because he knew he must. If he didn’t, he would die. But the rewards were glorious.

  And one such reward awaited him. The little girl from the UK.

  She had been drugged when she arrived. With great delicacy, Lampton bathed her and changed her into fresh clothes. When she began to rouse, he fixed a hot chocolate from the little kitchen in his room, and brought it through to her.

  He placed it on her bedside table, and sat at the edge of the bed.

  She was pale, fragile. A little wisp of life. Perfect.

  She stared at him. How incredibly blue her eyes were, he thought. Blue, like the Arizona sky.

  “I’ve made you hot chocolate. Not too hot. With cream on top. And sprinkles. Look – little stars.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Lampton smiled. “What’s your name?”

  Nothing. Lampton expected no more. He was patient, attentive, understanding. These kids had been through a lot.

  “You can tell me later. People call me Stanley. Or Stan, if you want. I’m your friend. I’ll look after you. Nothing can hurt you now.”

  He leaned in a little closer, and spoke in a whisper. “And if you eat all your dinner up tonight, I’ve got a treat for you.”

  Closer still.

  “Ice cream!”

  No reaction.

  “Everybody likes ice cream. Do you like ice cream?”

  She responded with a slight nod, which set Lampton’s heart thumping.

  “That’s good. I think we’re going to be close buddies. Now if you need anything, anything at all, you just press this red button at the side of your bed, and Stan will come to help you. Strawberry or vanilla?”

  She blinked her eyes, but said nothing.

  “Both!” said Lampton. “With more sprinkles. I’ll be back soon, and we’ll play some games. And remember, if you need the smallest thing, press the button, I’ll be right here.”

  He left her, and returned to his room at the end of the corridor. He watched her in the monitor. He saw her cry into the sheets.

  Soon, he thought, the crying will stop, when he gives her love.

  37

  Black left the hotel without incident. He chose not to take the lift, but rather stairs via the emergency exit. The Bothwell Suite was a secluded section of the hotel, but the gunshots could easily have attracted attention. In the remote possibility the bodies weren’t discovered until morning, then the housekeeper was in for a hell of a shock. Rutherford, a minute before his final breath, had said he’d called the police. Black suspected the police would be the last people he’d phone. But he might have called someone.

  As Black left the hotel, he remained vigilant. He was hard to spot. Another lawyer in an evening suit. One amongst hundreds. He’d bet a million dollars he was the only one with blood stains on his tux. He kept the front of his jacket buttoned up.

  He made his way out of the front entrance. Still more people were streaming in. A car stopped on the road directly outside. A black Lexus. Three men emerged. The car drove off. They hurried up the stairs. Men in dark suits, hard features. Unspeaking, preoccupied in getting to their destination fast. Black turned his back, stood by one of the pillars, pretending to be on his phone. They passed him and disappeared inside. The cavalry. A tad late. But they would know in about five minutes that Rutherford was dead. And they would be careless not to assume Rutherford had given Black information.

  Black reflected. Rutherford could only tell him what he knew. Which was not a lot. They would still think their gathering on Monday evening hadn’t been compromised. Rutherford said an email would be sent to him that morning. With Rutherford dead, they simply wouldn’t send the email. Thus, no reason to abort. Especially if entertainment had been arranged. The show must go on, he thought grimly. It was a simple logic, but it was all he had. Plus, a hunch. All he needed was the particular day, which he now had. The rendezvous he would find. If his hunch played out.

  He headed for his hotel. He chose back streets, narrow lanes. No one was following him. The man he had killed with the blade had proved a difficult opponent. His head hurt. The side of his face ached. His cheek was swollen. His shoulder felt stiff. Maybe a torn muscle.

  He approached the hotel – a man waiting outside, smoking. Big, strong build, well dressed. Black could see the interior of the hotel through the glass entrance. Another two men sitting at a table. Not speaking. Waiting. Probably more men stationed outside his room. All of them waiting.

  Waiting for Black.

  Only one person knew where he was staying. Pamela Thompson. He cursed his stupidity, allowing her up to his room. She’d talked.

  The bitch was working for his enemies.

  The bitch would pay.

  Black turned back in the direction he’d come, and headed towards his car. No one had spotted him. He hoped. Every few yards, he checked to see if he was being followed, nerves stretched, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. He was exhausted. He doubted he could handle much more. If he were attacked now, he would be ineffective. He was living on adrenalin, and the tank was running low. He still had the Walther PPK. He held it in his jacket pocket, cradling it in his hand, its presence providing a modicum of reassurance.

  He got to the car. The night was quiet. The evening was warm and still. A couple strolled by, chatting, walking a small dog. They smiled at Black. Black smiled back. They seemed innocent enough. He waited until they were past, got into his car.

  He’d left nothing of any importance in his hotel room. He would not be going back. He’d kept the rucksack with the Desert Eagles in the boot of his car. A couple of small cannons. More than useful in a firefight.

  He drove off. It was suicide to head back to his flat. He was a wanted man. They knew he wouldn’t go there but would watch it anyway, just in case.

  He made his way out of Edinburgh, relieved he was leaving the city. A place where he’d experienced death close up. But then he tended to experience death close up wherever he went.

  He got onto the M8 motorway, the main road between Edinburgh and Glasgow, and took the turn-off to the town of Livingston. He found a Premier Inn. Same routine. He parked his car, found an off-sales, purchased a bottle of Glenfiddich, then checked in. The room was cheap and functional. No frills. He didn’t have any change of clothes, but he hardly cared. He showered. He poured himself a generous glass of whisky and drank it in one. Then another, which he mulled over. He suddenly realised he was ravenous. He used his mobile, found a local pizza shop, and ordered a delivery.

  Thirty minutes later there was a soft knock on the door. With a pistol in one hand, he opened the door a fraction. The pizza guy. He took the box, paid for the pizza. Wolfed it down.

  He was tired. He slipped under the covers, one pist
ol on the pillow next to him, one on the bedside cabinet, the Walther under the bed.

  He fell into a fitful sleep. Images flitted in and out of his mind. His daughter, screaming from the shadows. His wife, lying like a broken rag doll with her face torn to shreds from an assassin’s bullet. Strangers pointing at him. Accusing him, blaming him.

  A noise, barging its way into his sleep. It persisted, like an insect gnawing in his brain. Black woke to the sound of his mobile phone, on the floor next to the Walther.

  He checked the time. 6.30am. He had slept for eight hours. Longer than he expected. He felt mildly refreshed. He sat up, stretched over to his mobile. A number he recognised.

  He answered.

  “What’s up, Tricia?”

  A silence.

  A chill dread bloomed in his chest.

  “Tricia?”

  He heard breathing.

  Then she spoke.

  “He says he’s going to kill me.” Her voice broke. He heard her sob.

  Black’s heart rose to his mouth. He waited. A man’s voice.

  “Mr Black?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your secretary says hi. She’s a little distressed right now. She’s unable to come to the phone. She has a lovely place here in Millport.”

  Black waited, time suddenly frozen. He said nothing.

  “My name is Mr Lincoln. You know why I’m here. We should meet. Have a chat.”

  Black waited five seconds before he spoke, then said, “Why bother. You’re going to kill her anyway. And then you’ll kill me. Get it over with now. Then I can hunt you down and rip your fucking lungs out. Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr Black.” His voice was calm, relaxed, apparently unfazed by Black’s response.

  “She’s alive,” he continued. “You’ve heard proof of life. And while she lives, you’ll do what you can to protect her. I know you will, because that’s the type of man you are. So don’t bullshit. We don’t have time for it. Tricia certainly doesn’t. The ferry leaves Largs harbour at 8am. Be on it. We can meet for breakfast at the Oyster Café. My treat. 8.40 suit you? You should find it okay. As far as I can gather, there’s only one street in Millport. So don’t get lost. If you’re late, or you try anything remotely heroic, the consequences for Tricia will be… how can I put it? Tragic. Do you understand me, Mr Black?”

  “I understand completely, Mr Lincoln. I look forward to meeting you. And one thing you should be clear about.”

  “Yes?”

  “You have no idea of the type of man I am.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The line went dead.

  Black stared at the blank screen of his mobile phone.

  Death followed him and spread about him. Like a fucking cancer. So be it.

  If death was what they were looking for, they’d come to the right man.

  Bring it on, he thought.

  Bring it on.

  38

  Lincoln turned his attention back to Tricia. He’d located her easily enough. The address had been found by his employers in less than twenty minutes. They’d probably bribed someone in the Land Registry. He had to admire their efficiency and their ability to get information quickly. Of course, it had been a gamble. But when it came to gambling, Lincoln had always been lucky.

  She owned a second house on the island of Millport, her old family home she’d never sold when her parents had died. So she’d told him. It was an obvious destination. Black’s office was well and truly closed, and he wouldn’t risk her coming to work. Her main home had also looked unoccupied. Lincoln had assumed Black had told her to stay away for a little while. His assumption had proved to be correct.

  Two miles from the centre of Millport, set back two hundred yards from the shore, sitting at the foot of tall white veined cliffs, her house was a remote building built of solid brown stone, red slate roof, bay windows with bright white window frames. A neat front garden bounded by a rough dry-stone wall. An orderly lawn, with flower beds and hanging baskets. Not an unattractive place. Perhaps once a steading of some sort, complete with two outbuildings. One a small shed, the other a low-roofed barn. He was in the barn now, with Tricia.

  She was naked, her hands suspended above her head, bound by rope, the rope looping round a ceiling joist. Also rope binding her ankles. He smiled at her, but she wasn’t looking at him. Her head drooped, chin resting on her collarbone. She was still crying but not as loudly as before.

  Lincoln inspected her. She was fifty and looked as if she kept in shape. Though she wasn’t in prime condition at this precise time, Lincoln had to concede. He’d had a little bit of fun. He’d cut her breasts and thighs. Surface wounds. No deep scarring. Not yet. Purely to terrify. Enough to give her the right tone when she spoke to Black. There could be no defiance. Black had to know she was scared.

  Lincoln leant in, put his lips close to one ear. “Your knight in shining armour will be here soon,” he whispered.

  She raised her head a fraction. He’d replaced the gag in her mouth. She gave a soft moan.

  “I knew you’d be pleased.”

  He held up a knife in front of her face, and with one edge, gently brushed back her hair.

  “You’ve had a rough time,” he said, voice calm, soothing almost. “Blame Adam Black for that. He’s such a nuisance. But it will be over soon. I promise. No more pain.”

  On a rickety wooden workbench was a variety of old tools – discarded rusting stuff. Hammer, a box of screw drivers, chisel, saw, hacksaw, crowbar. Other equipment, including his Glock 20, complete with silencer. He placed the pistol in his inside coat pocket and sat on a stool he’d brought from the kitchen. He manoeuvred it closer to his captive. Its legs screeched on the stone floor.

  “Some lemonade?”

  A twitch of movement. A nod.

  “Good. I’m going to remove your gag. If you scream or do anything stupid, I’ll prise out your eye with this knife. Do you understand this instruction, Tricia?”

  Another nod.

  “That’s good.”

  He carefully untied the cloth bound across her mouth. She spluttered and coughed.

  There was a plastic bottle of lemonade on the bench. Lincoln reached over, unscrewed the top, and placed it on her lips, tipping it slightly. She drank, then coughed again.

  “Easy,” said Lincoln. He eased back, waited until she had stopped, then tilted it again. She drank greedily.

  “You’re thirsty.” He replaced the bottle on the bench. “I’m looking forward to meeting Adam. I think we might have a lot in common.”

  Tricia stared at him with glazed eyes, but said nothing.

  “I know a lot about him. The people I work for are very clever. They can acquire information about anyone. They found out about your little holiday home here. Imagine that. And they found out all about Adam. He was in the army. For most of his adult life, in fact. You probably know that. But did you know he was a captain in the SAS? I’ll wager he didn’t tell you. He keeps his secrets, does Captain Black. More lemonade?”

  “Please let me go,” she mumbled.

  “He was awarded the Military Cross. You get that for bravery. I’ll bet Adam was a handful in the battlefield.”

  Lincoln leaned in closer, the stool creaking.

  “And that’s what I think we share, the captain and I. What do you think that is, Tricia? What is it you think we share?”

  “Please…”

  “We like to kill,” he whispered. “We both have a real taste for it.”

  Tricia shed quiet desperate tears.

  Lincoln frowned. “No need to cry, Tricia. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

  39

  The child refused to talk. This didn’t annoy Lampton in the slightest. He watched her on one of the monitors in his room. She was sitting up in her bed. He had given her a doll and had told her it was called Lucy Smiles. She held it now, close to her, and that gave Lampton pleasure. Gradually, she would grow to trust him. He w
as a master in the art of manipulation.

  He didn’t know her name. If he’d asked, Falconer would have told him. But names weren’t important. If anyone told him her name it would have to be her.

  He smiled. She was special.

  Bath time soon. He could hardly wait. He would be gentle. He would treat her like a tiny porcelain doll, with great delicacy and care. Never rough. Not to begin with. The hurting came later, which he never intended. It just happened. Lampton put it down to a natural progression towards a final conclusion.

  The telephone on his desk bleeped. It was Norman Sands. He hated Sands. Obsequious bean counter. All he cared about was money. Lampton found him disgusting. A vile creature. He didn’t care about the children. It was all cash. He didn’t see the children as human beings but assets to be sold for profit. Lampton had much more noble aspirations.

  He loved his little ones.

  He picked up.

  “Lampton.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s an auction tomorrow night. Numbers 3, 5, 6 and 10. You understand?”

  Lampton found talking to the man brought a bad taste to his mouth.

  “Of course.”

  “We’ve got twelve bidders. From every corner. Repeat clients. So we want them looking immaculate. Get them dressed, get them doing what kids do. Just make sure they’re perfect. Mr Falconer will be down to look in later. Auction begins at seven. We want them animated, Lampton. No hiding under covers, or cowering behind cushions. You understand?”

  “I understand completely. There will be no fuck-ups, Sands. There never are. Mr Falconer knows I don’t let him down.”

  “Tell that to him if your measles problem doesn’t go away.”

  He hung up. Lampton replaced the phone back gently. He wasn’t a man to give way to rages. Unless he was pushed. Or when he succumbed to one of his episodes, when a little one needed teaching a lesson, and he forgot himself.