by Karl Hill
Still, he remained vigilant. He kept the visor down. The car he was following was distinctive. Not easily lost. But he could get unlucky with the traffic lights. It drove at a moderate pace, keeping within the speed limits. The cars between them pulled off. Black was directly behind him. With the visor down, his face was hidden. He could see the back of the driver’s head.
They were moving out of Glasgow, heading for the motorway, south. After twenty minutes, they merged on to the M74. Black kept his distance, allowing cars in between. They stuck to the slow lane, staying just under 60mph. Thirty minutes passed, forty. They passed turn-offs for East Kilbride, Motherwell, Larkhall. Black’s old stomping ground, when he was a boy. Fleeting memories flashed through his mind. Childhood friendships. He wondered occasionally about his school friends, how they turned out. None of them like him, he wagered. None of them killers.
They kept going. They approached the turn-off for Lesmahagow, west. A place somewhere between a village and a town, a couple of miles from the motorway, perched on the edge of moorland. Black slowed, keeping well back.
What the fuck is he doing here? A remote place. Isolated. Black rethought – probably a good choice, given the events about to unfold. If Black’s hunch proved true.
They passed the sign for Lesmahagow. After three miles, the road narrowed, high hedgerows on either side, beyond which were fields and woods. Black kept a good distance behind, nerves stretched. On a road like this, if he were vigilant, the driver in front might sense he was being tailed. But then not everyone shared Black’s paranoia.
The miles wore on, another twelve, heading further west, heading into Ayrshire. They passed a sign for Cumnock. The car in front slowed, put on its indicator, turned sharp left, up what appeared to be a single lane. Black approached a sign – Westcoates Hall. Private. Black waited a minute, then followed, turning his lights off. It was getting dark. Black drove slowly. The road was wide enough for one car, with passing places every two hundred yards. Low dry-stone walls on either side. Beyond, the gloom of woods.
After half a mile, Black slowed right down. The road led to a house, in the distance. More of a country mansion, the windows ablaze with lights. Cars were parked in a courtyard to one side. The road in was gated, the gates open, two men standing, watching. Guards. More men milling about the courtyard. Security was tight. Important people were attending, thought Black grimly.
Black stopped the car. He could go no further. He reversed, reaching a gap in the wall, beyond which was a cluster of trees. He manoeuvred his car through the gap, onto rough grass, and into the shadows. Black got out, retrieving the gym bag, and made his way to the house.
The woods stretched along one side of the road, a long sweep of darkness, stretching down to the building, skirting along a boundary wall, then continuing on. Black made his way towards the house, hugging the wall, invisible in the shadows. A car passed – a silver Range Rover. It swept past him. Black ducked. The car drove on, stopping at the gates, one of the guards talking to the driver, then pointing to a specific space in the courtyard. The Range Rover drove through. The men talked into handsets, closed the gates. The party was to begin soon, assumed Black.
Black increased his pace, though the going was slow. The ground was uneven. Easy to suffer a twisted ankle. Black eventually reached the side of the house – the woods pressed up close to the waist-high boundary wall. The building was huge, two storeys, with a third attic level, judging by the row of dormer windows. To one side was a large glass conservatory, curtained off. There was a rear wooden door, with a Gothic arch, black iron hinges. Two men were standing at it, talking quietly, smoking. They were dressed smartly, dark suits, white shirts. Tall, well built. They were sharing a joke. Laughing. The distance between the boundary wall and the door was about thirty yards, with nothing in between except a concrete space. Suddenly the lights went out, not individually, but as one – with the exception of the conservatory, where soft light flickered behind the drapes.
Black required to gain entry. A third man appeared, sauntering round the corner from the front, walking towards them. He stopped, and struck up a conversation with the two men. Now three. Black waited, hunkered behind the stone wall, nerves taut. He looked over – the third man was walking on. Presumably patrolling the building. There would be other men, no doubt. Black waited twenty more seconds. One of the men knocked on the door. It opened. He said something to someone, disappeared inside. Now one man.
Black had an idea. He crept further down, fifty yards, slipped over the wall, crouching low. He pulled out the Glock, clicked on the silencer. He opened the bag, took out one of the Desert Eagles, and placed it in the shoulder holster. He looked over at the man at the door. His back was turned. Black stood, and strolled towards him, one hand close at his side, holding the Glock. The man looked round, frowning. It was dark. Black raised a hand, waving. The man waved back, uncertain. Black approached, casual.
Ten yards.
“Who the fuck…” started the man, drawing a pistol from an inside pocket of his jacket. Black was first. He raised the Glock, firing as he walked. Once. Twice. A bullet in the throat, one in the chest. Hardly any sound at all. The man bounced back, on to the ground, groaning. Black ran forward – fired a third into his head. Clock was ticking. Suddenly every second was crucial. He knocked on the door. A bolt slid back. It opened. A man stared, face frozen in bewilderment as he stared into the barrel of Black’s Glock. Black fired an inch above his eye. The top of his head was a sudden froth of hair, blood and bone. Another man behind him, spattered in his friend’s blood. Black used the two seconds of shock. He shoved the door open, firing. The third man dropped, dead before he could think about it, brains scattered on the ceiling.
In less than ten seconds, Black had killed three men.
He dragged in the first man, bundling him on top of the others. He closed the door gently. Their absence would be noted. If there were two guards patrolling clockwise and counterclockwise, Black reckoned he might have five minutes. Maybe a couple more as they tried to figure out what was going on.
Black slid the bolt back in place. He turned. He was in a bare narrow hall – cluttered with bodies – and at the far end was a closed door. Black moved. He opened the door, emerging into a large kitchen. It was semi-dark, the light from the hall giving some illumination. A stainless-steel island worktop in the middle, ovens, microwaves, metal shelves, units, hobs. A commercial kitchen. Black guessed the building was hired out, for wedding functions, parties, special occasions. And much darker activities.
He crept through, a shadow, Glock in one hand, the hard weight of the Desert Eagle resting in its holster, pressing against his ribs, providing a modicum of reassurance. The Glock held fifteen rounds. Ten left. Enough for considerable damage. He passed through double swing doors, into another short corridor, another door. Locked. The place was well fortified. An essential requirement, given its use. Black knocked on the door, softly, heart in mouth, nerves tingling. He had no idea what to expect.
A bolt clicked, the door opened six inches. Black held the Glock waist height, fired twice into the recipient’s midriff. He heard a gasp. He pushed the door wide. Another corridor, a door on either side, one at the far end. A man was on the floor, writhing, clutching his stomach. Too bad. Black shot once more, the man suddenly still. He wore a mask. More specifically a silver Venetian mask, the type perhaps used in a masquerade, covering most of the face.
Black removed it, put it on. He was approaching the inner sanctum. His mouth was dry. Music drifted from beyond the far door. Faint laughter. Black got to the door, turned the handle, pushed. This time unlocked.
And entered into hell.
54
A spacious hall, thick lush carpets, vaulted ceiling. Opposite, the main entrance at the front of the building, comprising double stained-glass doors, two men standing on either side, wearing masks similar to Black’s. On Black’s right, a passageway into other rooms, too dark to make out. To Black’s left, a wide
arched opening, the entrance to a glass walled passage, and beyond that, the conservatory.
The lights were off. Instead, illumination was served by candles. Hundreds. Placed on holders on the floor, lining the hall, the passage. Candles placed on furniture, candles flickering from brackets on the walls. Candles on an intricate candelabra above his head. Black felt like he’d stumbled into some ghostly subterranean world, devoid of daylight, inhabited by monsters. Heavy drapes covered the windows. There were five men altogether, including the two at the entrance, all with masks. A third stood close to the door through which Black had entered. Another two standing on either side of the entrance way to the conservatory. All wearing dark suits, muscular. Paid for their lethal competence, thought Black. And their silence.
One of the men nodded to Black, who nodded back. Black stepped to one side. Now, from his position, he could see into a section of the conservatory. People sat on couches, chairs. Men. Talking quietly. Wearing long blue gowns. Wearing ornate Venetian masks, their faces hidden. Just like the video. Black waited, acutely aware time was running out. Any moment, the bodies would be discovered. Then sheer carnage. Black hardly dared to breathe, senses sharpened to a point. Music played, classical. Piano, violins. Recognisable, but Black couldn’t put a name to it. Suddenly a gong chimed, a soft echo from the opposite rooms, to Black’s right. The conversation stopped. The gong sounded again. Complete silence, save the guttering of a thousand candles.
A man emerged from the darkness. Wearing a soft red-velvet gown, trailing down to the ground. He walked solemnly, looking straight ahead, paying no regard to the guards on either side. He wore a full face mask delicately designed with swirling patterns of white and gold. Black froze. Behind him, heads bowed, followed two children. A boy and girl. No older than nine. Wearing white smocks down to their knees. Arms stiff, rigid at their sides. Faces pinched and pale, wraith-like in the strange shadows of the room. Behind them, another man, same trailing gown, ornate face mask.
They walked slowly past, a sinister procession. The children were trying not to cry. Black watched them go by. A sudden, powerful, raw emotion consumed him, like fire through his veins.
Pure red rage.
The procession made its slow sombre way out the hall, through the glass corridor, into the conservatory. Drapes were drawn, blocking Black’s view. A silence followed, heavy, portentous. Twenty heartbeats. A scream cut the silence – the little girl.
Black moved.
55
Black had his hands clasped behind his back, holding the Glock. He brought his hand forward and up, and shot the man next to him in the side of the head, close range, almost execution style. The man slumped to the ground, blood bursting out like a geyser. The other four men saw it happen, but shock made them hesitate. It was all Black needed.
He crouched, fired twice – two clean hits into the chests of the men at the door. Not kill shots. But the torso was an easier target. The remaining two – the men at either side of the drawn drapes – wakened into action, drawing pistols from shoulder holsters under their jackets. But their jackets were tight and buttoned. They were unprepared. Black performed a forward roll into the centre of the hall, finishing on his feet in a semi-crouch, fired twice. Both men fell, still fumbling for their weapons.
Five men down. Black strode over to the front door, loomed over the two fallen men. The Glock coughed twice. The same treatment for the men at the drapes. Just to be sure. Basic training of the Special Services – when you shoot someone, make sure you kill the fucker. Nine shots, nine whispers in the night. The Glock was out of rounds. Black drew out the Desert Eagle, a motherfucker of a gun, placed the Glock back in the holster. He remained taut and still. Men’s voices from behind the drapes, laughing. Black swallowed back nausea.
Time was drifting away. He swept aside the drapes.
And confronted evil.
56
A recollection, vivid beyond all others, remained with Black, to haunt him all the days of his life – a room glowing with a hundred candles; ten men, sitting on couches, chairs, divans, naked save for glittering complicated face masks; two children, kneeling in the centre of the room, bowed heads, stripped of their clothing, trembling with terror.
Ten masked faces jerked round. The children did not look up, kept their eyes fixed on the floor. Black faced the men, the formidable Desert Eagle held in both hands, moving it in a slow sweep about the room.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Hope I’m not intruding.”
The men didn’t move, transfixed by the dramatic change of events.
“If you please, take off your masks.”
None of them moved.
Black nodded. Encouragement was required. “I understand your reticence. Let me help.”
He shot the man closest to him, straight in the face. The force propelled the chair he sat on back off its legs. Without a silencer, the noise was like a cannon firing, amplified by the confines of the room. The two children screamed, jolted round to stare up at Black. If the men patrolling outside didn’t know there was a problem, they knew now.
The group, almost in perfect unison, removed their masks.
“The Desert Eagle can be persuasive,” said Black. He nodded at a fat, bald man, head shimmering with sweat.
“Hello, first minister. Unlucky, tonight. Kids – what are your names?”
The children stared, glassy-eyed.
“Your names!”
They snapped out of their trance.
“Alanna,” stammered the girl.
“Paul,” whispered the boy.
“Over here, beside me. I’m getting you out of this shithole.”
They didn’t move. Terrified. A noise behind him. The front door rattling. Men trying to gain entry. They’d be here in seconds, guns blazing.
“Over here! Now!”
The two children jumped to their feet, grabbing up their clothing, and scrambled over to stand next to him.
He gazed round the room, at the faces looking back. Some he recognised – there, the chief constable. And there – the man he had followed that evening. He glared at Black, lip curled in anger. No fear there. Sheer, undiluted hatred.
“It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen.”
He picked up a tall bronze stand holding a tray of ten candles. He flung it over to the heavy velvet drapes at the windows. In a second, they caught fire. Black knocked over a side table, laden with more candles, a seat catching fire, the carpet suddenly alive with flame. One of the men jumped up. Black shot him in the neck. He emitted a gargled scream, staggering across the floor, bumping over more tables on his path, creating fire in other pockets of the room.
Black retreated, slowly, one step at a time, the children cowering behind his legs. The room was ablaze, the drapes catching quickly, forming a wall of fire around them. If any tried to get past Black, they were only too aware he would shoot them without compunction.
“We’re going to burn!” cried a man. Black recognised him vaguely. A television soap star. Or something of the sort. Black couldn’t have cared less.
Black removed his own mask, tossing it into the flames. “I fucking hope so.”
Black reached the glass corridor, amazed at how rapidly the fire had taken hold. The men were screaming, shouting, pleading. Some had flames licking from their hair, lurching about, human fireballs. It was either fire or Black’s bullets. Another tried to rush past him. Black shot him in the gut. The screams played second fiddle to the crackle of furniture and flesh.
Black got to the hall. He’d seen enough. The children clutched either side of his jacket. The front door crashed open. Black spun round. Two men entered, one tripping over the dead bodies.
Boom! Boom! The cannon explosion of the Desert Eagle echoed through the hall. The first man was literally taken off his feet, the impact bouncing him onto the wall, half his chest eviscerated. The second was luckier, the bullet removing the lower half of his arm.
Time to go. The fire had taken hold of the drap
es at the hall, spreading across the carpet. Glass panes were exploding in the heat. More men at the front door, beaten back by the flames. Also wary of more bullets.
Definitely time to go.
57
Black went out the way he’d come in. The children followed close behind. On his way, he encountered a man heading towards him, running full pelt through the kitchen. Black didn’t hesitate. He fired once, the Desert Eagle blasting. The man bounced off his feet, half somersaulting over the cooking island in the middle of the room. Black didn’t stop. They reached the back door. No one was there. They’re busy at the front, thought Black. Death and destruction were a welcome distraction. For a little while. He turned to the children. They were still naked, clutching the white gowns they’d been given.
“Put them on,” said Black, speaking quickly. “We’re going to get out of here. But we have to be fast. We’re going to run to the little wall.” He pointed at it. It was visible in the darkness, illuminated by the flames consuming one end of the building. “We climb over it, then we keep running. No one will see us. We’ll be hidden by the trees. Your feet might hurt when you’re running on the ground, but there’s nothing I can do about that. Don’t make a sound. You understand?”
They nodded, gazing up at Black. He attempted a half-smile.
“Quick!”
They pulled the garments over their heads. Black raised the Eagle, vigilant. The way was clear. They darted across the open space, reached the wall. Black helped them over. They were virtually invisible, hidden by the shadows and trees.
Black walked quickly, half crouching, using the wall as cover. The two children followed closely, remaining silent. A man ran past them, only yards from the wall, a rifle in his hand, speaking urgently into a mouthpiece. Black stopped. The man ran on, towards the commotion at the far end. Black motioned for the children to keep moving.
