Brady had no choice but to leave Conrad to deal with the situation alone. He put his foot to the floor, pushing up to 70mph, hoping to God that the roads were clear. He focused on his target: the limousine which was now within sight.
Brady already knew where the Ambassador was heading. The lighthouse.
His phone buzzed again.
Brady answered it, easing off the gas.
‘Yeah?’ agitatedly answered Brady.
‘We lost Ronnie Macmillan, Jack,’ came the answer.
‘Fuck it, Tom!’ shouted Brady. ‘What did I tell you? Don’t fucking lose them!’
‘They got away from us at the traffic lights in Whitley Bay. We’re blocked in!’
‘Save it for someone who gives a damn! Right now I’ve got bigger problems thanks to you.’
‘Come on, Jack! You can’t blame us.’
‘Get yourselves over to the lighthouse asap.’
‘Yeah, will do as soon as these bastard lights change.’
‘I don’t care how you do it, just get there. Alright? Same applies to Kenny and Daniels,’ ordered Brady.
‘Sure,’ answered Harvey.
‘And whatever you do, do not let Adamson or Gates know where you’re going. Understand?’
Before Harvey had a chance to say anything, Brady had already cut the line.
He watched as the limousine passed Whitley Bay cemetery on the left and the crazy golf course on the right. It suddenly indicated and then turned right, straight onto the road leading to St Mary’s Lighthouse.
Chapter Forty-Four
Brady waited until the limousine disappeared from view, following the road round to the second car park that directly faced St Mary’s lighthouse. He cut his lights as he pulled in and let the Granada idle slowly into the first car park. The area was deserted. But he knew something was about to happen in the further car park hidden from public view. He tried to get the Granada as close as he could to the bend ahead so that he could make a quick getaway if necessary.
He cut the engine as adrenalin coursed through him. He had no choice but to leave the Granada and follow on foot.
Sticking to the grass verge he stealthily made his way towards the bend in the road. As he turned he saw three vehicles parked up about forty feet away from him: a black Mercedes van, Ronnie Macmillan’s Jag and the Ambassador’s limousine. Crouching down from view, he made his way to the public toilets for cover, ignoring the painful spasms in his thigh.
His breathing was shallow and fast. He tried to steady his nerves for fear they would hear him. There was only one thing going through his head: his brother.
What would he do if Nick was there? And crucially, how long did he have before backup arrived? Would there be time for Nick to disappear?
Steeling himself, he looked out from behind the brick wall of the toilet block.
He watched as the Ambassador got out of his car and walked over to the Jag accompanied by his driver. Brady watched as the rear door opened and the Ambassador climbed in and joined Ronnie Macmillan in the back. The Ambassador’s driver stood on watch beside the rear of the Jag, constantly surveying the area for any unexpected trouble.
Brady deeply breathed in as he realised Rubenfeld had been right all along.
He quickly looked around for Visa and Delta. They were talking with someone.
His heart was pounding. He felt physically sick when he realised who it had to be. The darkness made it difficult for see, but he was certain it was him. There was no mistaking it: it was his brother, Nick, who was talking to them.
Trying to control the terror that consumed him, Brady dragged his eyes away and looked over at the Mercedes van. Two men were sitting in the front watching. But it was too dark and too far away for him to be sure that they were the Dabkunas brothers.
Brady couldn’t believe it.
Ronnie Macmillan and the Dabkunas brothers were working together which meant … He thought about Simone.
He tried to steady himself, his mind racing as he realised the magnitude of what was taking place. He had swerved between believing Ronnie Macmillan and his henchmen, Visa and Delta, were responsible for Simone’s attack, then back to the Dabkunas. He now understood that they were in it together.
‘Oh Christ!’ he muttered under his breath.
He heard a noise and shifted his attention. Paralysed, he watched as Ronnie Macmillan buzzed down his window and barked an order at his men.
Whatever he said prompted Visa and Delta to walk over to the boot of the Jag.
Brady stood up and stealthily walked along the edge of the toilet wall trying to get as close as possible without being seen.
But before he knew it, they had spotted him
It was over with before he had a chance to react.
The black van screeched into reverse, swung itself around and sped past him at 60mph. Brady saw the same men in the front. The same men that had been filmed kidnapping Melissa Ryecroft. The Dabkunas brothers.
‘Fuck!’ he cursed.
He turned to get back to his car. He needed to radio for assistance. God knows where Harvey and Kodovesky were.
But before he had a chance to move a gunshot fired out.
Brady crouched down and watched as Nick came out from nowhere and floored the Lithuanian Ambassador, shielding him from the gunfire.
‘Fucking bastard. You set us up with the fucking pigs! I said if there’s any police we’ll kill her!’ threatened Ronnie Macmillan.
More gunshots rang out in Nick’s direction.
The Ambassador’s driver retaliated.
Suddenly, the Jag took off with Visa and Delta in the front. Tearing past Brady at breakneck speed.
Brady saw his chance and ran over to Nick.
‘What took you so long, Jack?’ demanded Nick as he looked up at Brady. ‘I gave you enough fucking clues!’
Brady couldn’t answer. He had too many questions.
‘Move it, Jack,’ ordered Nick. ‘She’s in the boot of the Jag.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Brady, searching his brother’s contorted face for answers.
He could see that Nick had taken a bullet to his left arm. Otherwise he could tell from the anxious look on his brother’s face that he would have taken the Ambassador’s limousine and gone after Macmillan.
Everything was moving too fast. This wasn’t what he had expected.
He stood, frozen to the spot.
He had no idea how many bullets his brother had taken for the Ambassador. Let alone what kind of undercover work he was doing for him.
He couldn’t think straight. His mind had gone blank.
‘Her name’s Monika. She’s the Ambassador’s daughter!’ Nick shouted at him in an attempt to make him move. ‘She’s been held for ransom, Jack. You don’t get to Macmillan he’ll kill her. Now fucking move it!’ urged Nick desperately.
‘I … I haven’t heard about any ransom. Nothing’s been reported to us?’ frantically questioned Brady.
‘Of course it fucking hasn’t! Stop asking questions like some dumb fuck and go after him like I said!’
Without thinking, he did as he was instructed. He ran, not feeling the pain in his ribs and thigh, numbed by adrenalin.
Nothing mattered. Answers could come later.
He had to get to his car and catch Macmillan.
Brady sparked the ignition of the Granada. Sparks and the metal components of the V8 growled in perfect unity. He slammed the gears into reverse, and looked quickly around as the tyres carved a black scar into the fresh tarmac. He pushed the gears into first and felt the car’s power thrust him back against the black leather seat.
He swung out onto the dual carriageway at about 80mph, his eyes glued to the red tail lights of the black Jag, speeding away from him. He threw the gears into third along the dual carriageway. The rear wheel drive almost slewed him into the grass bank. He managed to hold it and thrust his foot down hard.
‘Fuck!’ cursed Brady, narrowly missing a Nissan Micra
as it pulled out on him from the Brierdene Pub, swinging out across the two lanes in a U-turn. He caught a glimpse of the oblivious grey-haired couple inside as he passed them at 98mph on the wrong side of the road.
He had no option. He’d spent too long doubting what the hell was going on instead of just trusting Nick and acting on it.
The Jag ahead dropped into a lower gear and pulled away. Brady breathed in heavily and put his foot down, aware that the Jag had forty years of improved tech. He somehow managed to reach for his phone to contact Conrad.
‘Black Jag, southbound, Links past Brierdene Pub, at speed,’ he shouted.
‘On it, sir,’ replied Conrad.
‘Chopper,’ ordered Brady. ‘We’re not going to lose this bastard.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Coming up towards the roundabout by Monkseaton Drive.’
‘They’re heading in your direction. You’re going to have to block them off,’ instructed Brady
Silence. Brady wasn’t surprised: he knew the price Conrad had paid for the Saab.
‘Conrad!’ yelled Brady, as he watched the Jag approach the roundabout. ‘They’ve got a fucking girl in the boot!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Brady threw his phone down on the passenger seat and slammed his foot to the floor, thrusting the car even harder. He could see Conrad’s Saab approaching the roundabout at the same time the Jag was approaching from the opposite direction. Brady reached the tail lights of the Jag as it braked before it swerved hard, taking the corner.
He watched as Conrad took an extreme right onto the wrong side of the road to block the Jag. He heard the furious collision of hot metal and then the squealing of tyres as the Jag tried to swerve to avoid the Saab. It hit the right-hand wing of Conrad’s car with a heavy swing that sent it lurching across the kerb into the Rendezvous Café car park.
Brady looked at Conrad to make sure he was alright. His cold, steel-grey eyes confirmed that he wasn’t injured. Or if he was, he hadn’t noticed. They were narrowed, his jaw was set. He was determined that Macmillan and his suited thugs weren’t going anywhere fast.
Brady thrust the Granada after the Saab and Jag, spinning it round so it blocked the exit.
In the distance sirens screamed full pelt. Lights flashed, closer and closer.
Brady wasn’t sure whether they were coming to his assistance or the Ambassador’s. Not that it mattered right now. The only thing that concerned him was apprehending Ronnie Macmillan before he disappeared.
Brady could see steam coming from the front end of the Jag. Fluorescent green coolant was pissing all over the car park like a Newcastle fan after thirty minutes extra time.
The Jag was fucked. It was going nowhere. That much was clear. He watched as the driver attempted to turn the engine over, again and again. It was futile.
Ronnie Macmillan realised as much and bailed as the sound of sirens gained.
Brady watched as Ronnie pulled out a hand pistol.
‘Fuck!’ muttered Brady as he watched Macmillan make a run for it.
He had no choice but to go after him.
He threw himself out the car, rolling in a ball to protect himself from the shots being fired in his direction.
He looked up to see Conrad revving the Saab’s engine.
‘Conrad! Get the fuck down, will you?’ ordered Brady as he saw his deputy throw his car into gear and swing it towards the Jag and into the direct line of fire.
Brady used the distraction and sprinted after Macmillan, ignoring the shots and the screaming grind of metal against metal. He heard one more shot before it was over. He didn’t have time to turn back and make sure Conrad was alright. Breathing hard and fast, ignoring the crippling pain in his thigh, he sprinted after Macmillan. Before Ronnie knew it, Brady had rugby-tackled him, grabbing him by the legs. Macmillan went down with force. Face smashed hard into the jagged ground. Brady knew his nose was broken before he saw the blood.
With his full weight holding Macmillan down, Brady grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged his head back.
Macmillan screamed in agony.
‘Ahhh! You bastard! You’re breaking my fucking neck!’ shouted Macmillan.
‘Yeah? Tell you what. That’s only the start of it you fucking bastard!’ snarled Brady.
Without thinking he smashed Macmillan’s head forward, hard into the ground.
‘Where are they? Eh? Where the fuck are they, you sick bastard?’
Blood spurted everywhere covering the front of Macmillan’s white shirt and black suit. The ground was splattered. Brady paid no attention. He yanked Macmillan’s head back again.
‘Didn’t fucking hear you! Where are they? Nicoletta? Melissa Ryecroft? What the fuck have you done to them?’
‘You bastard! I’ll get you done for police brutality!’
‘Yeah? Log it in the complaints book!’
Macmillan moaned through gritted teeth as Brady aggressively yanked his head back for the third time.
‘This is for Simone!’ Brady replied forcefully thrusting Macmillan’s broken and bloodied face back into the hard, jagged, bloodied tarmac.
Macmillan spluttered and moaned in agony as blood gushed out through his broken teeth.
‘I’ll kill you if you don’t fucking talk!’ growled Brady.
Macmillan cried out in pain as Brady snapped his head back again.
He bent down to his ear.
‘No witnesses see?’ hissed Brady. ‘Self-defence on my part. Already been shot at by your thugs. Didn’t know if you had a loaded gun aimed for my chest when you came at me … Your fucking choice!’
He ignored the blood pouring down his hands from Macmillan’s face.
He also ignored the sirens as they pulled up at the roundabout and the shouts from the armed response team.
‘One last fucking chance, you bastard!’
‘Suck my cock! That’s what I got your copper girlfriend to do. She’s good, but then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ spat Macmillan.
Brady jerked his head back hard once more, ready to smash it into the ground again and again until he got rid of all his pent-up fury at what the bastard had done to Simone, Nicoletta and Christ knows who else.
But in that moment he suddenly realised what he was doing made him no better than the animal he was restraining.
‘Go on, you bastard!’ jeered Macmillan. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Brady didn’t react. Instead he fought every instinct coursing through his body to obliterate Macmillan’s face so that, like Simone, he’d never be able to talk again.
‘You and I are the same, Jack. We both have brothers who we have to protect. No matter what you fucking do I’ll never talk. Loyalty comes first. Then again, you’d know all about that as well, wouldn’t you?’ sneered Macmillan.
‘We’re nothing alike, Macmillan,’ stated Brady calmly, regaining his composure.
He released his hold on Macmillan’s head, letting it fall forward. He then twisted Macmillan’s arms even further behind his back, ignoring his cries of pain as he physically restrained him until the armed response team took charge.
‘She’s in the boot,’ Conrad called out. ‘I can’t get her out. It’s jammed … the boot lid’s jammed …’
Brady turned round but before he had a chance to react, Conrad had collapsed to the ground.
‘Conrad? Conrad?’ shouted Brady as he jumped off Macmillan and ran towards his deputy.
Four armed officers immediately had Macmillan covered before he tried to get up and make a run for it.
Brady didn’t notice. His attention was on Conrad.
His deputy lay in a heap on the ground. His eyes closed. His mouth open. His breathing erratic.
It was then that Brady noticed the blood pooling out from under Conrad. A small burn hole in his shirt told Brady that he had been shot in the shoulder.
‘Paramedics! I need paramedics over here!’ screamed Brady as he ben
t over Conrad.
Chapter Forty-Five
Brady ran to the Jag. He tried the boot but it wouldn’t budge. The rear wing had buckled when the car had gone over the kerb and hit the low wall surrounding the car park.
He blocked out the noise of the armed response unit. They had already disarmed Ronnie Macmillan’s suited henchmen, Visa and Delta. Not that they were going to give them much trouble. Not after Conrad had rammed the driver’s door at speed. The glass on the driver’s side was shattered from the impact.
Visa, injured from the collision, had crawled out of the Jag through the driver’s side; the passenger door had been blocked tight against the low wall. Delta, the driver, was in a critical state. It was clear from the damage to his head that it had smashed with full force against the door pillar when the Saab had hit. Visa had climbed over his lifeless body, armed with a handgun, ready to take out Conrad. Then Brady.
Conrad had taken a hit to the shoulder. Straight through his windscreen.
Brady had been lucky. He had missed the couple of shots fired in his direction as he had run after Macmillan.
Conrad had reversed the Saab back and then put his foot to the floor and drove it straight at the armed henchman who, with deathly precision, had his gun aimed at the back of Brady’s head.
His bones had snapped like twigs as, unable to react quickly enough, he was rammed between Conrad’s bonnet and the driver’s side of the car.
Silence had followed.
Brady by then had had his hands full questioning Macmillan while Conrad had pulled himself from the Saab, bleeding profusely. He had moved over to the boot only to find it jammed.
It was Brady who was standing there now, struggling to release the lid. His mind sped while the world around seemed to move in slow motion. Flashing lights blurred around him while muted, distorted voices yelled orders and commands.
Brady thought of the crowbar in his boot. He ran to the Granada.
Questions came at him from every angle.
Brady heard himself state the situation, barely realising it was him talking.
‘She’s in the boot. Lid’s jammed.’
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