by Graham Smith
He has me standing on my toes, so it’s no use trying to use my weight to draw him to the ground – he’s too strong for that. Instead, I swing a foot forward, as far as it will go, and thrash it backwards with enough force to break his shins.
My foot misses his leg, but I’m not worried. My leg flies past his and alters our balance. Instead of me being stretched back against his chest, he’s now hunched over my back.
I twist, and let my standing leg go weak.
I throw my head back as we are falling, and it collides with his as it lands on the polished wooden floor.
His arm loosens its grip on my throat long enough for me to break loose. I spin round and crash my forehead into his nose. His head goes back and presents me with the target I’ve been looking for.
I punch the goon with my knuckles extended. He may recover from the blow to his larynx, or he may spend the next couple of minutes gasping his way to his grave, that’s his problem; for now, he’s out of action.
I look for Kingston and see he’s picked himself up and is reaching for the gun. I charge towards him and hit him with a running tackle that slams him into the table and drives the breath from both of our bodies.
The table overturns and I hear the gun skittering away. I’m gasping for air as Kingston picks himself up. He’s unsteady on his feet but, after the punishment I’ve taken tonight, he’s in better shape than I am.
He lifts a chair above his head and crashes it down on my chest.
What little air there is in my lungs gets driven out.
68
I’m fighting to breathe and I see Kingston take a frantic look around him. I guess he’s looking for a weapon and pray he doesn’t find one.
Kingston’s eyes don’t rest anywhere for long. Some air enters my lungs and I feel strong enough to move, just as he launches himself towards the door that I came through.
I know, if I let him out of my sight, I’ll have to leave with my mission unaccomplished. There’s no way it would be safe to look for him in his own house. He’ll know where his weapons are, and the best places to ambush me.
Somehow I haul my aching body upright and stumble after him.
He’s ten feet ahead of me as he goes towards the door that leads to the kitchen. The door hangs open behind him and I see him reaching for the knife block as I enter.
His fingers grasp a large carving knife and he gives a vicious smile. ‘You’re a dead man, Buster. Even if I don’t kill you right now, my men will hunt you down. Nowhere will be safe for you. You’ll die screaming, begging for the pain to end.’
I ignore his taunts. He doesn’t know who I am or where I’m from. There’s no way his men can find me once I leave here. All he’s trying to do is goad me into going for him, putting myself within reach of the knife he’s holding.
He advances towards me as I round a granite-topped island that has a sink in the middle.
I throw various items from the worktop at him, but none are substantial enough to do any damage.
He tries to come around the island at me, but stops when he realises I’m circling round to where the knives are. I glance over my shoulder and see a full wine rack.
I grab two bottles by their necks.
As weapons, they are not the greatest, but they’re strong enough to deflect a blow from the knife, and heavy enough to numb a muscle if I can get sufficient power into my swing.
Now it’s me who advances.
‘Come on then, prove you’re The King. I’ve dropped all your henchmen, this is your chance to prove to them why you’re known as The King. If you can take me down you’ll become a legend.’
I see the flicker of excitement in his eyes. He wants that veneration; he wants to be classed as better than his thugs.
Inside me I know this has to end soon. If we get drawn into a long battle, the beating I’ve taken will give him the advantage. There’s also the fact that one of his goons may not be sufficiently hurt to stay down for any length of time, and his wife could make another appearance. She’d looked wasted earlier, so I’m hoping she’s passed out in her bed.
Kingston takes a dancing half-step forward, flashes his knife, and leaps back two steps as I retreat a pace. His move works for him and he grabs another knife from the block.
We face off against each other: him with a knife in each hand, me with a bottle of wine in each of mine.
He flashes his knives in front of my face in a steel blizzard as he advances on me.
I throw the bottle in my left hand at his head and, when he lifts his knives to deflect it, I strike forward with the bottle in my right. I don’t care what I hit, so long as I hit something.
The bottle crashes against his left forearm causing his fingers to involuntarily open. His knife clatters to the ground.
He still has the advantage of knife against bottle, but now I’ve had a chance to judge how quick his reflexes are.
They are good, but not necessarily good enough.
I transfer the bottle to my left hand and wait for him to slash or stab at me.
When he does move to attack, it’s with a mixture of short controlled movements that could become a slash or a stab at any time.
I swing my bottle towards his knife, deflecting it away from his centre, as I wheel inside his arm and throw an elbow at his head.
The bottle slips from my fingers and falls to the floor, sending broken glass and red wine across the cream tiles.
My elbow collides with something that’s too hard to be anything other than his forehead. The pair of us slump to the ground, fighting for control of his knife. I can feel pieces of glass digging into my back as he wrestles himself on top of me.
Instead of defending myself, I use both my hands to twist his knife arm until I feel him release his grip. While I’m doing this, his free hand is throwing short hard punches at my face.
I feel my nose burst and my lips split, but I don’t change my tactics.
With the knife released from his hands, I writhe and twist underneath him until I can buck him off me.
I straddle him and throw punch after punch at his face, turning it into a bloody pulp. I feel a sharp pain in my leg and see he’s grabbed a knife and stabbed me.
As he pulls it out to stab me a second time, I twist his arm until the knife drops and I hear the crunch of his wrist bones breaking.
I deliver a thundering punch to his jaw that leaves him fighting consciousness.
I lever myself off him, open a cupboard, and pull Kingston into a position where I can rest one of his legs on the bottom shelf.
I stamp down hard enough on his shin to break the bone.
I kick anything that could be used as a weapon away from him, and return to the dining room. One of the goons has gotten himself into a sitting position, but the others are all lying where I dropped them. Four chests are rising and falling, which tells me only one of them is dead.
The guy sitting up watches me in fear as I gather up my jacket, backpack and the two guns.
‘I’m going to talk to Kingston. Are you going to be stupid enough to interrupt our conversation?’
His answer is the defeated shaking of his head as he presses his hands against a bloody stomach wound.
69
I arrange Kingston into a sitting position, fill a bowl with cold water and throw it in his face. A second bowlful of water gets tipped over his head.
He needs to be awake and fully alert for what I’m about to do.
I place my backpack on the floor opposite him and drop my denims before I sit beside it. He’s watching me with confusion in his eyes.
I get my supplies within reach and stare at him. ‘Pay attention.’
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I remove the lid from his bottle of cognac and pour the contents on the stab wound on my right thigh. I don’t know what damage has been done, I just know there’s more blood coming out than I’d care for.
The brandy stings, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the pain I’ll feel in
a minute.
My next move is to empty a bowl of water over the wound to cleanse it and wash the brandy away.
Kingston’s eyes widen in surprise when I remove the blowtorch from my backpack and put one of his wooden salad forks between my teeth.
I wet the fingers of my left hand and use them to prise open the wound in my leg.
The blowtorch crackles into life; the blue flame, an inch and a half long, hisses with contempt.
My mouth tightens, and I almost chicken out of what I’m about to do, but a memory of Taylor spurs me on.
I point the tip of the blue flame into my stab wound and hold it there for two long, agonising seconds.
I clamp my teeth down on the salad fork as the pain becomes unimaginable. Were it not for the fork, I’d be screaming. Beads of sweat appear all over my body.
I put down the blowtorch and look at my leg.
The sides of the wound are red and inflamed but that doesn’t worry me, it’s only pain. What’s important is that the blowtorch has done what I’d hoped it would do, and cauterised the veins split by Kingston’s knife.
I pull some antibiotics, which I got from a pharmacy, out of my backpack and take a handful to counteract any infection that may have gotten into the wound.
Next I use my T-shirt to form a rudimentary bandage.
I pull up my denims and look at Kingston as I button my shirt. His eyes show a mixture of respect and revulsion.
‘You’ve seen what I’m prepared to do to myself. Can you imagine what I’ll do to you if you don’t answer my questions?’ I lift the blowtorch. ‘Who shot the girl on the yacht?’
Kingston swallows and looks to the door, hoping for a rescue that doesn’t come.
‘So that’s what this is about. She was your girl.’
‘You have five seconds to give me an answer.’ I don’t bother telling him what the consequences will be if he doesn’t. The blowtorch hissing in my hand is enough of a threat.
‘She wasn’t meant to die.’
‘Four.’
‘It was Henderson who was supposed to die.’
‘The Scottish guy? Three.’
‘Yeah.’ Kingston squints. ‘Hey, he looks a bit like you.’
‘He’s my father. It was me on the boat with him. Two.’
Kingston swallows and shakes his head. His eyes show fear.
‘One. Who pulled the trigger?’
‘It wasn’t one of my men. They’re okay with a pistol, but I needed someone who could shoot a rifle.’
I move the blowtorch until its flame is two inches above his shattered leg. ‘Zero.’
I pull back the leg of his trousers.
‘Wait. It was a guy I hired from a business associate.’
‘Names.’
‘The shooter is known only as The Mortician.’
‘And the man who gave you his number?’
The name he gives sends my blood cold. It’s not only that the guy is connected, it’s also the people who are connected to him. Of all the gangland figures in New York that Alfonse had named for me, Genaro Chellini’s name topped every list – whether you looked at wealth, influence, reputation or reach.
He is not the type of man who’d hire an amateur. Therefore, The Mortician will be a deadly foe.
I hold the blowtorch near enough to Kingston’s ankle for him to feel its heat without being burned.
‘Who was the trigger man and how did you find him?’
He repeats the names, and the fear in his eyes indicates that he’s telling me the truth.
‘How can I find this Mortician?’
He tells me the name he’s stored The Mortician’s number under in his cell, and pulls an iPhone from his pocket.
‘Thank you.’ I put down the blowtorch and look him in the eye. ‘You set The Mortician after my father and got my girlfriend killed. That’s not something I can forgive.’
I plunge one of my knives into his heart and watch the light fade from his eyes.
It doesn’t feel good, but it does feel like justice has been served.
70
I grab a set of car keys from a bowl at the front door and make my way out of Kingston’s house.
I press a button on the key fob and the indicators flash on a Bentley. I climb in, fasten my seatbelt, and listen to the engine burble as I let it crawl its way to the gates.
The guy in the gatehouse doesn’t look up as I pass through.
I drive without aim, until I see a sign for a subway station.
I stop by the sidewalk, spend a few minutes checking Kingston’s cell, and put my plan into action. A search for “me” in the contacts gets me Kingston’s number. I test it with my cell and his phone rings.
His call history doesn’t show any contact with The Mortician, but I didn’t expect it to. Text messages also come up blank.
Next I check his apps and see he has Snapchat. The criminal’s favourite app: once a message has been viewed, it disappears.
Or at least that’s the theory.
The reality is quite different. Someone with Alfonse’s skills can access a person’s Snapchat history and see every message. All he needs is a phone number.
I use my burner cell to call him. He answers on the fourth ring and is groggy with sleep. He sounds pleased to hear I’m alive, but I still detect a large amount of worry in his voice.
I spend five minutes giving Alfonse a combination of requests and instructions. He promises to have answers by 9 a.m.
I look at my watch and see I have five hours to kill. Some rest, a new pair of denims, and a few proper dressings for my wound are the order of my day.
It’s time for me to move on. The longer I stay in one place, with Kingston’s phone and his Bentley, the greater the odds are of any pursuers being able to find me.
A couple of young dudes are lurching their way towards the subway, but I don’t think they’re worthy candidates. Instead of bequeathing the car to someone, and possibly having Kingston’s goons hunt them down, I leave the key in the ignition and his cell on the passenger seat.
I dismantle my burner as much as I can. Each piece will find its way into a different garbage bin in the subway.
I’m only halfway through the subway’s entrance when I hear the roar of a large engine. Someone has already claimed the Bentley. Perhaps Lady Luck will allow them to keep it.
I plan my route back to Brooklyn and think about what I’ve learned. It would have been far better if the trigger man had been one of Kingston’s own men.
Now The Mortician has become involved, things have ratcheted up another level.
He is a professional killer; I’m a doorman.
He will be calculating; I’m following a loose plan and improvising as I go along.
He will have a cool head; I am filled with a burning rage.
He will probably have had some military training; I was taught to fight in a garden by my grandfather.
He will have access to a personal armoury; I have three knives, one blowtorch, one gun with six bullets and a second gun with none. I don’t even know what ammunition it takes so I can’t buy any more; I’ll get rid of it in the first drain I pass in a secluded area.
None of The Mortician’s advantages are enough to make me think about giving up. Not one of them compels me to return to Casperton rather than risk my life.
The Mortician killed Taylor. I can’t rest until I’ve killed him.
71
The guy behind the counter at the all night convenience store looks more tired than I do. There are bags under his eyes big enough to be slung between two trees and used as hammocks, and the pallor of his skin doesn’t suggest good health.
Those are his issues though.
I pay for the antiseptic cream, bandages, a new pair of denims and a packet of power bars, and limp out of the store.
My leg has been a constant source of agony since the adrenaline rush I experienced at Kingston’s house dissipated. I could have added strong painkillers to my shopping list
but I don’t want anything to dull my wits.
The only hope I have of beating The Mortician is to outsmart him, and to do that I need to be sharp.
An all-night diner provides fuel for my body, and their coffee is stewed enough to resemble treacle. In my weakened state it’s just what I need.
I have an hour to wait until it’s time to call Alfonse. I’ve worked out what my plan should be and what I need Alfonse to do to make it happen.
My plan isn’t foolproof, of that I’m sure, but it will be good enough to give me a chance to kill The Mortician. That’s all I ask.
Also on my shopping list is a replacement burner.
There is the possibility that The Mortician will not fall for my ruse. Should that happen, I will have to hunt him in a different way.
The base of another plan forms in my head, but it’s riskier than the first one, and may well require me to recruit some assistance.
I return my thoughts to plan A, and cross-examine it for flaws. There are far more than I am comfortable with, but I have time to smooth out some of the wrinkles. Should other failings arise, I will have to improvise as best I can.
Despite all the coffee I’ve had, tiredness is threatening to overtake me. As soon as I’ve called Alfonse, I will find myself a bed and get some rest.
72
Cameron rubs at his eyes and lifts his head from the pillow. His watch shows he’s slept for a solid eight hours. In years past he’d always needed a minimum of seven hours sleep before he could function at a reasonable level. Now he is getting older, five hours tends to be as many as he can get.
He glances around the room and sees nothing has changed since he closed his eyes. A plate appears through the gap under the door. It has two slices of buttered toast, with a blob of what he presumes is jam on it.
He lifts the toast and sniffs it. There’s no hint of spice or pepper, so he takes a tentative bite. His mouth isn’t set on fire, so he chomps the rest without fear.
