He nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, that’s what I said to Alfie, but he told me it didn’t matter ’cause the bizzies wouldn’t be arsed to investigate properly. Alfie said he had the place sewn up and I had a free hand to do whatever I wanted.”
“Well, Alfie Lovejoy was wrong. The Constantine family is under my protection.”
“Who?”
Deep anger flared. The little shit didn’t know or care about who he hurt for his money.
“The owners of the restaurant. They are untouchable. In fact every business left operating on Hardwicke Row is untouchable. Get me?”
“Yeah, yeah. I understand. Want me to spread the word? I’ll let everyone know they’re off limits.”
Mortensen thought he could see a way out when none existed. Desperate hope gave flight to words that tumbled out on a puff of lager-soaked halitosis.
If Kaine hadn’t seen the results of the attack, he might almost have felt sorry for the biker.
Kaine shook his head again. “No, I’ll take care of the warning, you won’t be in a position to warn anyone.”
“Oh, God. Please don’t—”
“You see, I can’t stop thinking about that five year old girl and her comatose father.”
He lowered the knife and rested the tip at a point between Mortensen’s navel and the top of his briefs.
The fear returned. Sweat shone on Mortensen’s face and his whole body shook.
“P-Please don’t.”
His face crumpled and he whimpered, waiting for death.
Kaine felt nothing.
“You see, Mortensen, I can’t trust you not to go blabbing to Lovejoy and his boss. I could gut you like a fish here and now …”
He paused to let option one sink in. Mortensen opened his eyes and strained to see the knife. Kaine slid the blade lower, adding more pressure.
“…but that would be too quick. You deserve to suffer, and that’s why I brought along my little toy.”
Kaine placed the knife next to the recorder and brought up the canister again.
The brief flash of hope in Mortensen’s expression died.
“Wha—”
“What’s this?” Kaine asked, finishing Mortensen’s question. “This is a CO2 injector. A chemo delivery system. A bit like the hypospray Dr McCoy uses on Star Trek. You’ve seen them? Started off as science fiction, but it’s science fact now. Thing is, this device doesn’t only deliver medicine. Ah yes, I can see in your eyes you get where I’m going with this.”
Kaine pointed to the nozzle on the top of the canister.
“This is a spring release valve. All I need to do is press it against the skin, like this …”
Kaine lowered the device to Mortensen’s shoulder and pushed. The injector emitted a loud hiss and a puff of condensation. Mortensen would have been able to hear the hiss, but not see the puff of harmless carbon dioxide.
Screaming, he struggled against his bindings.
Kaine slapped him hard across the face rather than wait for him to pipe down.
“…and there you are. Dose delivered. No fuss. No bother. No need for an alcohol swab. It’ll probably feel cold around the entry site for a while, but don’t worry, you’ll feel nothing soon. Nothing at all.”
“Oh, God,” he cried. “What … w-what did you give me?”
“Fifty grains of Gypsophila 980-delta.”
Mortensen started shaking and didn’t stop.
“Oh, God. No!”
“Gypsophila 980-delta. If you can remember that name, it might just save your life. The ‘delta’ part is the most important.”
The terrified biker repeated the name aloud.
“Good,” Kaine said, “you’ve got it. Well done.”
Kaine had no difficulty keeping a straight face despite having just told the biker he’d been dosed with a flower more commonly known as ‘Baby’s Breath’. He only had to remember Orestes Constantine’s head injury and the blood on the restaurant tablecloth for all the humour to leech from his system.
“Oh, Fuck. What … w-what is it?”
“It’s a slow acting systemic poison. Remember that Russian who drank the tea laced with Polonium 84? He took weeks to die. You have three days. Four at the most.”
Mortensen stopped moving. Stopped breathing.
“That’s good, Mortensen. Very good indeed. Keep your heart rate down and your movements slow, and you might just get out of this alive.”
“What?” he whispered.
Kaine pocketed the pressurised tyre inflator—available at any good quality automotive and cycle retailers—and stood.
“I’m not a vindictive person,” Kaine said. “I believe in giving a man a second chance. You have one opportunity here.”
“Please. I’ll do anything.”
“Ever heard of Porton Down?”
“N-No. Not never.”
Typical. Ignorant fool.
“It’s the Government’s Military Science Park, near Salisbury. They run a unit specialising in chemical warfare. The unit conducts human trials and have a treatment for the poison coursing through your system. It’s long and painful and involves some invasive therapies.
“When I cut you free, find your way to Porton Down and ask for Colonel Andrew Chavasse. He’s the medic in charge of the research. Give him the name of the poison, which is?”
“Er … Gypsophila 980-delta?”
“Good. That’s right. Remember to move slowly, though. If you rush or raise your heart rate in any way it’ll increase the potency of the drug. Take your bike and ride slowly and carefully. If you have even a minor shunt along the way, the increased flow of adrenaline will probably prove fatal.”
Kaine hoped he’d primed the pump well enough. It wouldn’t take long to find out. He sliced through all four cable ties and stood back.
Rather than jumping up and rushing around the room in a mad panic, Mortensen sat up in slow motion, his breathing ragged but controlled. Ignoring the urine drying on his legs, the filthy little man pulled on his jeans and stood even more slowly.
“Salisbury you say?” he whispered.
“That’s right,” Kaine said, nodding. “Head west and don’t forget to ask for Colonel—”
“Chavasse,” Morton said, still shaking.
“And don’t say anything to your mates downstairs. Or they’ll get a dose, too.”
“Huh? You didn’t hurt them?”
Kaine frowned. “No need. Luckily for them, they were both out for the count when I arrived. Booze and drugs will do that to you.”
Mortensen lowered his eyes. He tiptoed towards the exit, unhooked his leather jacket from the back of a chair, and moonwalked along the short landing to the head of the stairs.
Kaine listened to every creak on every tread and waited for the Kawasaki’s engine to grumble into life before crossing to the window. He tugged back the thin curtain in time to see the motorbike pull away. If Mortensen had ridden any slower, he would have toppled off the machine.
“Oh dear. Some things are just too easy.”
Kaine grabbed the recorder and chuckled as he hit the stop button. Lara and the guys would probably get a kick out of the playback.
In his car outside, Kaine pressed redial on his mobile. He didn’t have to wait long for the slightly sleepy answer.
“Chavasse here. Is that you, Ryan?”
“Hi, Andy. Our friend’s on his way.”
“You’re kidding. He fell for it?”
“He’s not the brightest spark in the bonfire. Frighten an idiot into thinking they’re going to die and they become ever so receptive to an alternative scenario.”
“A natural human response to fear,” Andy said through a loud yawn that Kaine repeated.
“Can you treat him as one of your Guinea pigs? I need him kept on ice for a week or so. You’ll find him amenable to the most intrusive of tests. Don’t suppose you have anything requiring daily rectal probes?”
Andy laughed. “I’ll think of something. W
hen can I expect him?”
“Five or six hours. You have plenty of time to go back to sleep.”
“Christ, I thought you were in London? That’s only a couple of hours away this time of night.”
“Yes,” Kaine agreed, “but I thought it best to slow him down a little. Didn’t want him causing a pile up on the M3.”
“How on earth did you manage that? No, on second thought, don’t tell me. I’ll let Mr Mortensen fill in the details when he arrives.”
“It’s a good story, you’ll enjoy it,” Kaine said, still smiling. “Might go well with an audience and a bucket of popcorn. Thanks for this, Andy. I owe you one.”
“No you don’t, Ryan. My family and I will never be able to pay you back for what you did in Falluja.”
“I did very little. Right place, right time.”
“Less of the bullshit, Captain Kaine. I know what you and your team did for my little brother. He sends his regards, by the way. Or would do, if he knew we were talking.”
“How is Jack?”
“Doing really well. Rachel popped out another sprog last March. Their first boy after two girls. Never guess what they named him.”
Kaine couldn’t help rising to the bait. “Don’t tell me. Andrew, right?”
The medic laughed. “That’s right. Ryan Andrew Chavasse. A handsome little chap with a strong pair of lungs. So, what’s next for you?”
“Me?” Kaine asked, already planning his next move. “I’ve another house call to make, but I doubt it’ll be as easy as the last one.”
Or as bloodless.
Chapter 18
Saturday 24th October—Early morning
Kensington and Chelsea, London
The rain had eased during the drive from Mortensen’s grotty squat in Putney to Alfie Lovejoy’s domain in Chelsea. It was almost as though the rarefied atmosphere of the palatial residences close to the river were exempted from the worst of the British weather.
Kaine found an empty parking bay on a side street with a good view of the tower and stretched out in the driver’s seat. The Mercedes he’d liberated from the hospital car park—after pilfering the keys from a jacket in the doctor’s lounge—allowed plenty of legroom. Danny would have been pleased with Kaine’s selection and, even better, the ‘Doctor on Call’ certificate displayed in the windscreen ensured nobody would question its presence in the area.
Lovejoy’s tower block, one of seven within easy walking distance, stretched up and disappeared into the low clouds. Twenty-two storeys, according to Mortensen, but the top few were lost to the murk. Many of the visible floors were dark, but some shot beams of light into the darkness. No doubt, if its lights were on, the penthouse would illuminate the sky like a lighthouse beacon.
He took out his mobile, dialled a number, and waited.
“Morning, Captain,” Danny said. He sounded tired.
“Where are you?” Kaine asked.
“Golders Green. Parked outside the sister’s house. Nice place, too. She’s doing quite well for herself. The girls are inside, tucked up in bed for the night. You want me to keep babysitting?”
“That’s an affirmative. Anyone else follow them?”
“No, sir.”
“Anyone follow you?” Kaine asked, waiting for the explosion.
“Sir!” Danny snapped, clearly pissed at the implied insult to his skills.
“Well you keep telling me you’re jetlagged.”
“I’m not that jetlagged, sir. I’ll never be that jetlagged.”
Oh, the confidence of youth.
“That remains to be seen, Corporal,” Kaine said, dryly. “Hopefully, after my next meeting, we’ll be one step closer to ending this and we can all get some decent shuteye.”
“Your chat with the biker netted good intel?”
“It did indeed.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the city.”
“Certain you don’t need me to come hold your coat?”
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Kaine laughed.
He first met Danny in a Munich bar back in ’08. A pair of local neo-Nazis started picking on a non-white barman and Kaine took offence. Danny offered to help, but Kaine told him he had it covered. While he made short work of the skinheads, Danny looked after Kaine’s very expensive leather jacket. He also made sure no one else joined in the quarrel.
He’d been ‘holding Kaine’s jacket’ off and on ever since.
“You keep watch over the girls. I’m not certain who we’re facing or how big an organisation. Might be more than just a protection racket. I’m just about to run a gentle recce. My coat’s safe enough for the moment.”
“Yes, I’ve been involved in enough of your so-called gentle reconnaissance operations to know what’s involved, sir. Why don’t you hold off until we call in some of the guys from the old unit. We could get Fat Larry and Slim here by Sunday evening and half a dozen others by Monday afternoon. There isn’t a man among them who’d turn you down, sir. You know that.”
“No can do, Danny. Technically, I’m still a wanted man. Anyone found working with me might end up in serious trouble.”
“People like me and Rollo, you mean?”
“True enough, but Rollo’s too smart to get caught,” Kaine said and waited a beat before adding, “and you’re not worth anything.”
“Nice one, sir. Way to make a man feel good about himself.”
Headlights raked the Merc’s rear-view mirror. “One second, Danny. A car’s pulling up. BMW M Series. Could be our boys.”
The Beemer slowed as it drew alongside Kaine. He took a good look at the occupants. Big driver, whose head scraped the roof and right shoulder brushed the side window, and a normal-sized couple in the back. The woman, a blonde in a skimpy top, fawned over the man. He, also blond, seemed bored by her attention. The car turned into the underground parking beneath the tower block, and the steel shutters rolled down behind it.
“Sorry, Danny. The targets have arrived. I’ll let them settle in for a while. Where were we?”
“You were saying how expendable I was, sir.”
“Was I? Oh dear, awfully bad form of me, I’m sure. But to address your point, we are spread a little thin and I’d like some added backup. Unfortunately these jokers have something planned for Sunday and I can’t wait. They might already know about the sister’s place in Golders Green. I need to chat with them right away, to see what they have in mind. Maybe I can find out who’s pulling their strings and for what reason. I’ve contacted Rollo and Lara. They know everything. If I suddenly fall silent, Rollo will take over command. Understood?”
“Right you are,” Danny said sombrely, understanding what Kaine meant by ‘fall silent’. “Be safe.”
“Always.”
Kaine powered down the mobile and tucked it into a side pocket on his Bergen—he didn’t need it ringing at an inopportune moment. He left the Bergen in the boot of the Mercedes and took a moment to soak in the atmosphere.
Slow-moving traffic on the nearby Cheyne Walk drove away any possibility of silence, and the not-so-sweet fragrance of the river after heavy rainfall snaked across the distance easily enough. Rain-slicked pavements, still surprisingly well-populated with weekend revellers, showed a city that rivalled New York’s famed insomnia. It suited Kaine to have plenty of noise and movement covering his tracks.
He completed two slow circuits of the building, scouting the ground floor for alternative points of entry, but finding none.
Security appeared pretty solid. The western face of the building with its service clutter of pipes and venting ducts was protected by anti-climb paint, which matched the rest of the building for colour, but acted like the dye packs attached to clothes to deter shoplifters. No way up on that side. Flush walls and smooth-facing windows offered no easy means of scaling the other elevations. The balconies didn’t start until the tenth floor, and every means of ground floor access—main entrance, emergency exits, and lower windows—were alarmed and f
itted with expensive locks.
Given time and the right equipment, Kaine could have broken in easily enough, but he had neither available. A parachute drop onto the roof and an abseil onto the penthouse balcony would be another option, but he didn’t have easy or fast access to a helicopter. And obtaining a permit for an aerial approach in a no-fly zone might prove a tad challenging for a suspected terrorist.
Mortensen’s information presented him with a fast and direct entry method, but he’d hoped to avoid it. A frontal approach exposed Kaine to risk, but he could find no easy alternative.
Kaine decided to rely on his target’s complacency.
As a well-known local hard man, Alfie Lovejoy was assured of his position in the hierarchy of the area’s gangs. He’d consider himself one of the ‘untouchables’. On top of that, he had a big bodyguard for protection. He’d be confident. Hopefully, overconfident.
Kaine would use that—he was going to bet his life on it.
He returned to the Mercedes, deposited his diver’s knife in the hold-everything Bergen and left his Sig, too. Each would tip Kaine’s hand and neither would make it past Tugboat’s magic wand.
Modern metal detectors could identify more than just ferrous metals. They could be configured to pick up radio transmissions and other electronic bugs. Inquisitive little buggers. Reliable, too, but in the wrong hands, they weren’t infallible.
Kaine had something to fall back on besides his hand-to-hand combat training. He had stealth, surprise, and hard-baked clay.
Hopefully, he had luck, too. And he’d need plenty of luck if Tugboat’s abilities came even close to matching his reputation.
Kaine allowed a full hour to pass before pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. He locked the car door—too many thieves in London to leave it unlocked and vulnerable—and headed for the building’s well-lit main entrance, dropping into the character of a significantly older man. With rounded shoulders and a pigeon-toed shuffle, the camera would capture a short, thin, stooped man carrying a slight limp. A man who posed no physical threat.
He trudged up the three steps, one at a time, and rested at the spotlit porch, which was part-protected from the spitting rain by a wide concrete awning.
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive: Book Three in the Ryan Kaine Action Thriller Series Page 16
