TM had an uncanny ability to gather information and understand how best to use it. Somehow, the fucker knew everything that was going on. It proved useful. Hugely profitable. But worrisome, too.
Demarcus looked down and flexed his fingers. Long hours in the gym pumping iron every day gave him a ripped bod and strong hands. He looked good. Felt good. Was good.
He closed his eyes and listened to the hot water flow through the central heating pipes and click through radiators. How the ancient system kept working in this part of the school when the rest of the building was falling apart around their heads, no one knew. The plumber was good, damned good. A miracle worker. It didn’t pump out too much heat, but it made the Hub and the few rooms close to it, including the library, habitable.
Demarcus checked the time again—nearly a quarter to eight.
“Red, get the fuck moving, asshole!” he barked the order out, loud and sharp.
The wiry Irishman wiped his nose on the sleeve of his sweater, unpeeled himself from the chair, and shambled slowly towards the main doors. He was nothing but bony knees, skinny arms, and sticking out elbows. For the millionth time, Demarcus wondered what made TM hire him in the first place. He hadn’t seen the filthy Mick pig do much of value, not in physical terms.
Red couldn’t fistfight worth a damn, and he couldn’t handle a knife like the Frog, Alphonse. But he could read a wiring diagram. A sparky, the guy set up all the screens and ran out the internet cables.
No, not a fighter, Red looked more like a trolley boy or a barista than a terrorist.
A Mick terrorist? Really?
Maybe Red knew how to handle explosives, too. That would answer the question. Ah well, TM knew what he was doing.
Prob’ly.
While Red unbolted the doors and worked the key in the lock, Demarcus sloped towards TM’s monitor and hit the power button.
Demarcus couldn’t wait to find out what the invisible fucker was going to say next. He really couldn’t. Would a yawn wind up TM?
Prob’ly.
Chapter 22
Sunday 19th February – Evening
Walthamstow, NE London
19:47.
As with the previous night, a bitter, driving rain hammered down on Kaine’s back and legs. This time, with Lara safely in the hotel and under Connor’s close protection, Kaine could relax into his task a little more easily. Not that he would ever fully relax when working.
He adjusted the aim of the laser mic, trying to improve the sound quality, but the scraping of feet on wooden floors and the mumbled chatter of two dozen youngsters, mostly male, made the detail difficult to identify and the conversations impossible to follow.
Useless.
Kaine powered down the mic and set it to one side. He tweaked the focus on his field glasses, bringing the lighted window into greater clarity. The vertical blinds remained in place, unmoving, backlit by the brilliant white of fluorescent strip lights.
A bleep in Kaine’s headphones indicated an incoming signal.
The state-of-the-art, bone conduction headphones were a recent addition to their communications arsenal, provided courtesy of Rollo in his role as the team’s Quartermaster. The device’s prime benefits being silent operation, minimal interference on the reception from ambient noise—an absolute boon for battlefield operations—and the security of the scrambled wireless transmission.
He pressed the earpiece into activation.
“Alpha One receiving. Over,” he whispered.
“You there, Mr K?”
Gritting his teeth, Kaine shook his head slowly. No matter how hard he tried, he could never instil proper radio protocols in their hacker, but he wouldn’t give up the attempt. He had to tread carefully, though. Corky was, after all, a volunteer who could disappear from the grid any time he chose—as could every one of his team. Even though they worked with Kaine and gladly accepted the generous fees and bonuses he provided, they mainly did so out of a rather humbling loyalty.
“Alpha One receiving you full strength. Over.”
“Yeah, right. Good oh! What’s happening your end?”
“TM’s transmission’s about to start. Over.”
“Yeah, okay, Mr K. Corky’s not picking up nothing of interest my end. In fact, there ain’t no internet traffic within one hundred metres of the gaff … I mean the Hub. On top of everything else, mobile phone activity in the building’s just stopped. Er, … over.”
It seemed as though the Tribesmen were obeying the standing orders.
Excellent.
During his earlier recce, Kaine had studied the area surrounding the Tribe’s HQ.
A ninety metre wide strip of scrubland dissected by multiple railway tracks separated him from the rear of the four-storey building. The commercial estate close to the Hub stood dark and empty, the multiple warehouses and workshops being occupied only during the day. Some were boarded up and derelict. Most of the streetlights were dark, broken. At night, the industrial zone was pretty much a wasteland.
Beyond the radius of Corky’s predicted internet and comms blackout, rows of terraced houses radiated away, some running east to west, others north to south, some of their windows lit yellow, indicating occupation. Further away, the active streetlights and the rainbow of colours—moving headlights, flashing blues of emergency vehicles, shopfronts, bars, and restaurants—the rumble of life—showed a city in movement, a city alive.
The Hub, with its white-lit windows, stood in the centre of a well of darkness. The only sign of activity. If there was a metaphor somewhere, Kaine couldn’t see it.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, it’s pretty quiet here. Should be easy to identify TM’s signal and piggyback all the way to his location. Over.”
“Yep, right. That’s Corky’s plan. Got all his considerable resources focused on that bit of real estate. Corky won’t let you down, Mr K. You don’t never need to fear on that score. Er, … over.”
“Stand by, Alpha Two. Alpha One, out.” He hit the kill switch on the earpiece.
Kaine checked his watch. 20:01.
Not long now.
He settled under the meagre shelter offered by a dormant thorn bush and tried to ignore the rain dripping from his cap and running down the back of his neck. The more he aged the more difficult it was to put up with the discomfort of lying in the open on a winter’s evening. The Good Lord alone knew how long he could go on this way. Not that he had much of an alternative.
There!
Movement through Kaine’s field glasses caught his attention. A strip of material twitched in the bottom right corner of a window. The dark silhouette of a fist revealed itself. Slowly, the thumb extended and then the hand disappeared.
Rhino’s signal.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, are you receiving me? Over.”
Silence.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two. That’s you, Corky! Over.”
“Oh, sorry Mr K, thought you was talking to someone else. Corky’s receiving you right well. Any news?”
Kaine gritted his teeth. Corky may well be one of the best hackers in the world, but he might also be the planet’s most annoying human being.
“Alpha One to Alpha Two, signal received. Repeat. Signal received. Over.”
“You certain, Mr K?”
What the hell was going on in Corky’s head? Kaine took a breath before answering.
“Confirmed, Alpha Two. Signal received. You should be seeing a transmission right now. Over.”
“That’s interesting. Real interesting. Okay. Give Corky a minute, will you? Be right back. Alpha Two, out.”
Kaine frowned and shook his head again. The fact Corky had used the correct radio termination signal, not only confirmed he knew the protocol, but that he deliberately avoided using it to annoy Kaine. It also indicated that Corky was distracted, maybe even irritated.
This was the first time the self-styled “Information Acquisition Specialist” had ever displayed anything other than supreme confidence. Normally, Corky was
self-assured to the point of arrogance.
Kaine settled back. This was likely going to be an even longer night than he’d been expecting.
Chapter 23
Sunday 19th February – Rhino
Walthamstow, NE London
19:51.
Damian Baines trembled as he entered the Hub. Once upon a time, he’d liked the vibe of the place, except in winter when it was freezing, but not no more.
Way back, when he’d first joined the Tribe, the Hub had been safe, a place for home boys to hang out. At least it had been better than the shitty home life he’d endured with the drunken, fist-throwing bum of an old man and a useless addict of a mum. Back then, the Hub had been a sanctuary where he’d meet his buddies, share some beers, split packs of ciggies, spark up some spliffs, and chill. So what if they’d sold a few baggies of weed to line their pockets? Ain’t nobody got hurt. At least not often, and not seriously.
That was back in the days of the first Top Man.
Sure, the Hub had been a shithole back then. Dark, dirty, no power, cold as fuck, damp, but it had been theirs. A place to hang, a place to chill, a place of safety. But now … fuck.
It looked better now. That was for sure. Shiny, almost clean, and bright with its electric lights and its internet connection. In the corner, where the geeks sat doing who-the-fuck-knew-what, the place looked like the bridge of the USS Enterprise, for fuck’s sake.
Damian touched the ugly scar on his neck. Damn thing never let up hurting. Stiff and painful, the thing restricted his movement and made him look like a freak. Gave him the rotten nickname, Rhino, too. Fucking disrespect weren’t easy to live with. Even the little kids used it, but he couldn’t blame them. When the new TM gave him the nickname, thereby authorising it, Damian wasn’t allowed to argue. Whatever the new TM said became Tribe law. If Damian ever grew a pair and stepped out of line, the Goons would make an example of him.
Led by the creepy fucker, Demarcus Williams, the one who looked funny at all the young ones, the Goons would have their jollies. Damian prob’ly wouldn’t survive, and then what would happen to Ariel and the baby?
The Griffins offered him chance. A slim chance maybe, but Damian’s only hope of finding a way out of the mess. Didn’t matter if he believed Mr Griffin or not, Damian didn’t have an option.
Rock and a hard place.
Surrounded by the other Tribesmen, excited and chattering like the ignorant fools they were, Damian shuffled into the outer edge of the Hub, keeping his head down, trying to stay incognito.
Demarcus Williams and the spineless Irishman, Red, eyed them all as they piled through the main doors, making sure no Tribesman was stupid enough to ignore the rules and use their mobiles. Occasionally, they’d stop one or two apparently at random. Demarcus Williams mostly stopped the younger ones and patted them down. Some of the little girls, he’d take extra time over. He’d feel between their legs, cup their snatches, squeeze their butts. On the surface, he made it look like he was checking for contraband, but Damian knew better. The older, longer-serving Tribesmen knew better, too. But Demarcus Williams was protected by TM and the other Goons, and there wasn’t nothing nobody could do about it.
Once they’d all filed into the Hub and stood in rows in front of the screen—no one was allowed to sit during TM’s briefings—Demarcus Williams shut the doors and took his usual place alongside the monitor. Red guarded the door, and the other Goons, Alphonse, Crabapple, and Delinquent, spread out around the walls, making sure they had a good view of what went down.
Damian scanned the faces in the crowd. Everyone was present. No, not quite everyone. Barcode weren’t around. Strange. The arrogant bastard had been toadying up to the new TM ever since the Tribe had come under new management. The tattooed wanker fancied himself a “made man”, one of the elite. When TM gave Barcode his own patch and crew, the creep started swaggering around the place like the Queen had invited him to a garden party at Buck House.
Fucking asshole. Where is he?
Not like Barcode to go missing when there were butts to kiss and assholes to lick.
He’d love to know where Barcode was hanging right now and, given what happened with his wife, Mr Griffin might be interested, too. Unless the middle-aged man with the lightning-fast, kick-ass moves had already punished Barcode for trying to strongarm his wife. Now that event, Damian would really like to witness.
Oh yeah. I’d really like to see Barcode take a can of whoop-ass from the soldier boy.
Damian hadn’t forgotten the world of pain Mr Griffin laid on him with a single, lightning-quick thumb strike. Again, he rubbed the area above the scar. The electric shock hadn’t lasted long, but while it did, he’d been immobile, totally at Mr Griffin’s mercy. Despite that, the man hadn’t taken advantage. Instead, he’d helped Damian to his feet, walked him to a quiet place, and listened to his story.
No idea who the white man really was—definitely not the filth—or what he really wanted, but Mr Griffin had given him a bundle of cash money. He’d also offered Damian, Ariel, and the baby a future, and Damian were gonna grab hold of the opportunity with both hands.
He worked his way to the edge of the crowd and closer to the wall overlooking the railway lines.
Demarcus Williams, the creep, read the time from his fuck-off big gold wristwatch and silenced the crowd with a roared, “Shut the fuck up!” Then he hit the power button at the bottom of the big screen.
Rude bastard.
The kids were excitable, no need for such hostility. Terrorising little kids weren’t cool.
Behind the creep, the screen flickered, darkened, then shone brightly. The familiar black outline against a white background solidified.
“Good evening, Tribesmen. It’s so good to see another excellent turnout. Makes my heart glad. I take it you are all in tip top form and awaiting your instructions?”
The people mumbled a quiet response.
“I asked you ungrateful people a question!” TM shouted, the digitally masked voice rising to a roar. “Are you ready for your instructions?”
This time, the response was louder, more concerted, but still ragged.
“Yes, TM!”
“Good, good. Now, let’s get down to business …”
With everyone’s attention on the bullshit spewing from the speakers, Damian worked his way closer to the corner window. Still facing the monitor and smiling along with the rest, he stuck his hand behind his back, and worked it through the nearest canvas hanging strip. He stuck up his thumb, held it for a count of three, and withdrew the hand, sticking it in his pocket.
To his right, Red’s eyes narrowed, stared right at him. After a while, he shifted his gaze to Demarcus Williams, and then focused back on Damian.
What the fuck?
Sweat poured out of him, his hands shook, and his gut clenched. He hadn’t been so terrified since facing the gang of skinheads on the inside. The bastards worked him over, big time. Left him with the ugly scar, ruined his looks and his life. He thought everything had ended until Ariel smiled at him from behind the counter at the chemist. He’d only gone in to collect the cream that made the thick tissue on his neck more supple, more bearable. Not by much, but by enough to make a difference.
His beautiful, gentle, and lovely Ariel.
The first time they met, she looked at his scar with sympathy, not disgust. Then she smiled at him again. Later, on their first date, she asked him about it, where and how he’d gotten it. He’d hesitated before answering, but even then, Damian knew she was the one. If he wanted Ariel in his life—and he did—no way could he lie about nothing. Not never. Even though she might have taken fright and run away screaming, Damian gave her the whole sorry tale. But she didn’t. Instead of bolting, she stayed. She even helped apply the medicine every day in the places he couldn’t reach so easy.
Damian fingered the scar again. When he sweated, the sensitive skin around the edges stung like a mother. He wanted the meeting over so he could get home. Home to Ariel.
Red turned his head towards him again. Their eyes met, locked. Red sneered, rolled his head, and lifted a hand to tug his earlobe. Was he taking the piss at Damian’s scar or was he sus?
Had he seen the signal?
Crap.
“…stepping up the Tribe’s profile in the area,” TM said, his rhythm quickening. “I’m putting plans in place to smite our enemies.”
What the fuck was the asshole cracking on about?
Concentrate, Damian. This shit’s important.
Whatever TM was spewing, however ridiculous, Damian needed to remember it for his report to Mr Griffin. If there was any hope for the white man keeping his word, it would only work if Damian proved useful. A few banknotes here and there wouldn’t do no good in the long run. Damian needed a new life and a new identity for his family, and the only way to get it would be through Mr and Mrs Griffin. No other choice.
Helplessness weren’t a good feeling.
“You might have noticed one of the Tribe is missing this evening,” TM said, pausing while most of the Tribesmen looked around them.
Some frowned and whispered out the side of their mouths, but Damian and the rest of Barcode’s crew nodded. They’d noticed all right. Lil’ Aran—Barcode’s cousin and only real friend—even had tears in his eyes. Prob’ly thinking of how the Goons had taken Barcode out permanently, on account of Mrs Griffin kicking his butt. Lil’ Aran would be the only one to miss the tattooed fucker if he had fallen foul of TM’s ire.
It would serve the arrogant fucker right, though. Damian wouldn’t be wasting no tears for the loss of that murdering scumbag.
“That’s right. Mr Codell is not with us today,” TM continued through a cackle, “but don’t worry, he hasn’t been punished. Oh no. at this very moment, young Mr Codell is working through a mission for the Tribe. He’s putting himself in great danger for the cause, and I applaud him.”
The blurry shadow on the big screen moved and hands appeared above its head, keeping in full view. He started clapping. The Goons joined in immediately and encouraged the Tribesmen to do the same with threatening stares. The newer ones didn’t need too much encouragement and added whoops and hollers to their wild applause. The older ones, the original members of the Tribe, were less keen.
On the Money Page 20
