Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series

by Kerry J Donovan

  Orestes’ left arm hug loose, dangling towards the floor.

  Kaine pushed through a small crowd of onlookers filling the pavement outside the Bistro. A woman had a phone to her ear. She spoke urgently. He heard the words, “Ambulance and Police,” and put away his own mobile.

  A young man, his expensive coat protected by a black umbrella, pointed his phone at the damage. Filming. The bastard was standing there filming the destruction, not making a move to help.

  What the hell’s wrong with people?

  On his way into the restaurant, he barged the film director hard enough to send him crashing to the pavement. The mobile spilled from his hand. Continuing the movement, Kaine kicked the phone ahead, and stomped on it as he passed. The man yelled something, but Kaine silenced him with a single glare that yelled, “Don’t tempt me, son!”

  The bright lights inside the Bistro hurt his eyes. All but one of the tables stood empty: tablecloths white and starched, silver cutlery shining bright, candles unlit, standing ready for the evening’s service. The table nearest the smashed window had taken the full force of the attack. It was a mess of broken dishes, spilled stew, and red.

  Blood.

  Orestes groaned.

  Alive. Thank God.

  His left arm moved. The fingers twitched and he groaned. Orestes raised the hand to his head and struggled to sit up, still groaning. Blood oozed from between his fingers and dripped down his arm.

  Half a concrete breezeblock lay on the floor between the table and the window, part-hidden by a mound of granulated glass. Blood on one corner of the block showed where it had contacted Orestes’ head. Mercifully, the window had been fitted with tempered glass and had disintegrated on impact. Float glass would have formed razor-sharp flying splinters and the damage could have been a heck of a lot worse. The girls would have been in the firing line.

  Kaine studied the flight trajectory. If Orestes hadn’t been in the way, the block would most likely have hit the younger one, Kora.

  He looked down at the weeping girls wrapped in their mother’s arms and quietly seethed. The bastard responsible for this act of cowardice would pay.

  Christ would he pay.

  Kaine crunched through the granules and squatted in front of the injured man.

  “Best you keep still, mate. An ambulance is on the way.”

  Orestes groaned once more. “No, I’m … okay. Really.” He lifted his head.

  “No neck pain?”

  “No … just a headache.”

  Good, probably no spinal damage.

  “The … the girls?”

  “Don’t worry, they aren’t hurt.”

  Orestes placed his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. Blood ran down his right hand and stained his shirtsleeve bright red.

  Justina climbed to her feet and stood in front of the damage, hugging her daughters tight against her legs. They still wept, but she had fallen silent. She turned to Kaine, eyes wide, pleading. He’d seen the same desperate confused look on survivors in the aftermath of a hundred different battles.

  “Help him,” she said. “Please, help him.”

  “The ambulance will be here soon. Are the girls okay? No cuts?”

  She tilted their faces up, inspecting each in turn for damage—wild eyes, tears, pale skin, shaking. Clearly in shock.

  Justina looked up at Kaine, chin trembling. She shook her head. “N-No cuts. No blood.”

  “Excellent. Are they your daughters?” he asked, playing the ignorant stranger.

  Justina frowned as though unable to process the question.

  “Do you live upstairs?” he asked, more forcefully.

  She blinked and nodded. “Y-Yes. I …”

  “Good. Take them away. I’ll look after him, your husband, until the ambulance arrives.”

  Justina hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave, but Orestes flapped a hand. When he spoke, his words were mumbled, he sounded groggy. “Yes, ángelos. Take them … upstairs. I’m … good. S-Shocked is all.”

  She shot a suspicious glance at Kaine. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, certain. Look after your little ones.”

  Reluctantly, and keeping Orestes in sight, she shepherded her daughters into the kitchen and took them through a door marked ‘Private’.

  Kaine took a napkin from a nearby table and approached the injured man. “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Are … are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I’ve seen one or two injuries in my time.”

  Orestes peeled his hand away from his head, sucking air between his teeth as clumps of hair stuck to his fingers and pulled on the wound.

  Without touching it, Kaine inspected the damage. A five-centimetre L-shaped flap of skin peeled back to reveal livid red and purple muscle and a flash of white skull. The concrete block had made a good start at a scalping, but at least the bone appeared intact. Orestes yelped as Kaine used the napkin to fold the flap back into place and push the edges together. He pressed the napkin to the injury.

  “Looks worse than it probably is. Head wounds always bleed to buggery. Here,” he said taking Orestes’ right hand, “hold it against the wound. It’ll help staunch the bleeding. The wound’s going to need a good clean and quite a few stitches. The medics will probably keep you in overnight to monitor for concussion. You were lucky.”

  Orestes winced and pointed at the breezeblock with his free hand. “Call that … call that lucky?”

  “Well, yes,” Kaine said, frowning. “If the bastard lobbed a full block, it would have had more impetus after crashing through the window.”

  “The girls …”

  “As I said, you were lucky.”

  Kaine stood and took in the damage once again. “What’s up, mate? You annoy one of the local hooligans?”

  The man squeezed his eyes shut. “No idea. Probably just a random act.”

  Yeah, right. Maybe Texter wasn’t playing silly buggers after all. What are you mixed up in, Orestes?

  “Kids these days, eh?” Kaine said. “Too much drugs and no sense of right and wrong. I don’t like moving you, but do you think you can stand? We need to get you clear of the window.”

  He also wanted to move away from the rubberneckers and their phone cameras.

  “I think so.”

  Kaine helped him to his feet, eased him clear of the destruction and the driving rain, and lowered him into a chair deeper into the room.

  “Well done. By the way, I’m Vince Abernathy. We’ll shake hands later, if you don’t mind.”

  Kaine smiled, but his attempt at levity missed the mark. He needed more practise to perfect his bedside manner, that and the fictional joke book.

  “Orestes Constantine … Orestes. Thank you for your help Mr Aberna—”

  “My friends call me Vince. Only my boss calls me Mr Abernathy. My boss and the taxman. How are you feeling now?”

  “Weak, a little unwell.”

  “Pounding headache too, I bet?”

  Orestes’ colour changed from grey to green, and he swayed in his chair. He placed his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands once again.

  “Breathe deep and slow, it’ll help with the nausea. With a head injury it’s best you don’t have anything to drink until the doctors give you the okay. Meantime, try to stay awake.”

  “Don’t feel well. Dizzy. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Kaine jumped to his feet. Concussion was a distinct probability. “Okay, let’s get you off that chair. I don’t want you falling over and spoiling the carpet.”

  He helped lower his patient to the floor and placed him in the recovery position, injury side up. A rolled up tablecloth used as a pillow kept his spine in alignment, and two knotted napkins to hold a third in place kept pressure on the wound. A battlefield dressing in the middle of a London restaurant, how his military skills kept coming in handy. Although, maybe the Constantines wouldn’t have needed his help if those same military skills hadn’t killed the fami
ly patriarch in the first place.

  For God’s sake, Ryan. Concentrate.

  He sat cross-egged on the floor and tried to keep Orestes awake and lucid.

  “So, I’m new to the area. How far is the nearest emergency hospital?”

  “I don’t … Um, not far. St Catherine’s on the Green, about twenty minutes.”

  “Okay, that’s good. The ambulance shouldn’t be too much longer even in rush hour traffic. Try to keep your eyes open.”

  “The lights … bright.”

  Kaine shifted around to his left, throwing his shadow across Orestes’ face.

  “Better?”

  “Thank … thank you.”

  “No problem. Did you see who threw the block?”

  “No, I … had my … back to the window. Why are you asking … all these questions?”

  “You need to stay awake. Just thought we could chat to pass the time. Your colour’s improved. How are you feeling?”

  “Better. Much better now I’m lying down. Thank you.”

  “No worries. Headache?”

  “No thanks, I … I’ve already got one.”

  Kaine laughed. If the man could crack jokes, it was a good sign.

  “After the window exploded, I heard a motorcycle roar away. Have you upset any Hell’s Angels recently?”

  “No, how many times—”

  Ore tried lifting his head, but grimaced in obvious pain and lay back down again, resting his cheek on the back of his left hand.

  “Who are you, Vince. And what do you want?”

  “I’ve rented a room across the street. I’m hungry and saw your restaurant. Guess I’ll have to order a pizza instead.”

  “I apologise for the inconvenience,” Orestes said, his voice stronger and taking on an ironic edge.

  The man showed spirit. Another good sign.

  Kaine warmed to him. He preferred to like the people he decided to help and, just as importantly, it was good to be appreciated in return. It wasn’t always the case. A few years ago, in the Sudan, his patrol had stumbled upon a village under militia attack. After eliminating the threat, the villagers turned around and threw stones at him and his men. Without hanging around for an explanation, Kaine ordered an immediate and strategic withdrawal, assuming the colour of his skin and his uniform had something to do with the villagers’ reaction.

  Strange times.

  He looked towards the damage. The crowd had increased in number and stood on the pavement outside in the wind and the rain, gawping through the empty frame. Some talked through the sides of their mouths, others had phones held high, jostling for a better view. Kaine moved further around Orestes to hide his own face from prying lenses.

  Ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

  Ideally, he’d leave before the ambulance arrived along with the police, but to run off would likely draw even more attention to himself than he’d already done by rushing in to play the hero.

  Way to keep a low profile, Ryan.

  “I’ll wait with you until the medics get here, but then I’ll have to go. I have an important business meeting tomorrow and need to prepare my notes.” He offered an apologetic smile. “I also need to find somewhere to eat. Don’t mean to sound callous, but I doubt you’re going to be open for a day or two.”

  The door in the kitchen opened. Justina hustled through and rushed to her husband’s side. Kaine scrambled to his feet and gave them space.

  Orestes raised his head again, this time holding it up for longer. “Rena and Kora?”

  “Neither is injured. Only shocked at the loud noise and worried about the blood. I left them talking to Arana on the computer. She’ll keep them calm and will telephone if they need me.” Justina showed him her mobile and looked enquiringly at Kaine. “Mr?”

  “Abernathy. Call me Vince.”

  “Mr Abernathy, I must thank you for all your help.”

  Kaine raised his hand to halt further appreciation. “I did nothing. I’m glad your daughters are okay. I think your husband will be fine, but he felt a little queasy.” He shot a glance at the empty window frame. “You’ll need to call someone to board this up at some stage, but don’t touch anything until the police arrive. They’ll want to see the damage as it is.”

  At his mention of the police, the couple shared a look that spiked Kaine’s internal alarm system. Neither wanted a police involvement.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  Justina started to speak, but Orestes frowned and tried to hide it from Kaine.

  “It is not you, Mr Abernathy. My husband does not want me to speak out, but I must. The police here do nothing. They’ll come and take a report, and they’ll give us a crime number for the insurance claim. But that’s all. They do nothing to protect us from—”

  “Enough, Justina,” Orestes said, his voice even stronger. “Mr Abernathy doesn’t need to hear any of this. I’ll be fine. You go back to the girls. They’ll be terrified.”

  “No, they are good with Arana. You need me and … I …”

  Orestes held out his hand to her. “Okay, okay. Stay until the ambulance gets here, but don’t leave the girls for too long. I tell you, I’m … okay. Bloody headache is all.”

  The sirens grew louder and cut off as the ambulance arrived and parked outside, its emergency lights washing the darkening streets with a pale blue strobe. The paramedics, a man and woman in green fleece and overalls, exited the bus and slalomed through the gawpers. The man carried a stretcher, and the woman led the way into the restaurant with a big medical holdall. With the minimum of fuss, they set to work on Orestes. She introduced herself as Bridget. The man didn’t speak.

  A few moments later, another set of blue lights arrived, but without the accompanying siren. The patrol car parked behind the ambulance. Two uniformed officers climbed out. The taller, younger one started dispersing the crowd, and the other, an inspector, pushed open the door. He paused in the doorway to appraise the scene.

  Kaine slipped into the background, trying to make himself inconspicuous. Ordinarily, he’d offer the medics a case history, but decided it would be better to keep quiet.

  The inspector, a sour-faced man of similar height and vintage to Kaine, but about twenty kilos heavier, took a cursory look at the damage. He wrinkled his nose at the breezeblock before rolling towards Orestes and the paramedics. Thankfully, he paid little attention to Kaine.

  The cop introduced himself, to no one in particular, as Inspector Blackstone from the local station and pulled an old-fashioned notepad from his breast pocket. Kaine half-expected him to lick the tip of his pencil before he started writing. So much for the much-vaunted, twenty-first century hi-tech policing.

  Kaine stood against the kitchen counter and studied both the paramedics and the local law enforcement at work. He was impressed by the former, but not so much by the latter. The inspector did nothing, and his junior colleague did little more.

  The paramedics were effective and efficient. Working together and keeping Orestes’ head and shoulders in line, they rolled him onto his back, fitted a collar, and attached him to a backboard. A wholly unnecessary procedure in Kaine’s opinion, but clearly one mandated by the London Ambulance Service for all patients with head injuries. Being safe rather than sorry and demonstrating a response to working in a modern litigious society.

  Finally, Blackstone acted. He strode forward, leaned over the kneeling paramedics, and pointed to the smashed window. “See who did it, sir?”

  His bored delivery didn’t instil a whole lot of confidence in Kaine.

  Bridget scowled up at Blackstone. “Hang about, love. This man isn’t well enough to answer any questions.”

  After checking his vitals, Bridget took a penlight from her breast pocket and shone it in Orestes’ eyes. He groaned and tried to pull his head away.

  “Sorry ’bout that, sir,” she said, speaking with calm, quiet authority. “I think we’d better put you on that stretcher and get you out of here.”

&nbs
p; “This is ridiculous,” Orestes said, lifting a hand to the collar. “I can walk to the ambulance. Not that I need one.”

  Kaine smiled.

  Bridget took Orestes’ arm and firmly placed it at his side. “I’ll be the judge of that, Mr Constantine.”

  “Jackson,” she said to her colleague, “what’s that head laceration look like?”

  Jackson answered. “Deep and ugly. Needs stitches, and I really can’t rule out a skull fracture.”

  Bridget nodded. “Agreed. His pupillary reactions are a little sluggish, and his pulse is racing. Let’s get him on the stretcher and into the bus. Sir?” she said, looking at Kaine and ignoring the inspector. “Fancy giving us a hand? I’ll talk you through the process.”

  “Happy to help,” Kaine said, stepping forward. “I used to be a lifeguard and have taken a few first aider courses, but you lead, I’ll follow.”

  She smiled. “Good. Take the feet, roll and lift when I tell you.”

  Bridget scooted around and took a firm hold on Ore’s head. Jackson had control of the shoulders.

  “This is embarrassing,” Orestes grumbled.

  “Won’t be long, sir,” Bridget said, smiled down at Orestes, and started her countdown.

  They had Orestes strapped onto the stretcher in seconds.

  “Thanks, sir,” Bridget said. “That went well.”

  From his position off to the side and well away from the blood, Blackstone coughed.

  “Where you taking him?”

  “St Catherine’s on the Green. He’ll need a scan and overnight obs.”

  Justina gasped and threw a hand to her mouth.

  Orestes grimaced. Tears squeezed out behind his closed lids. “I’ll be fine, darling. You need to look after the girls.”

  “I’ll ask Arana to take care of them and will follow you.”

  “No, they’ll need you now. Stay here. I’m in … good hands.”

  Bridget nodded her thanks to Kaine, but arched an eyebrow at Blackstone. “Thanks for all your help, officer. Couldn’t have managed without you.”

  “You only had to ask,” Blackstone said and opened the door for them after they hoisted the stretcher—his first constructive action since arriving. “Constable,” he said, crooking a finger at his subordinate, “carry that medical bag to the ambulance, would you?”