[James Ryker 01.0] The Red Cobra

by Rob Sinclair

  Eva gave Ryker a cold glare. Gone now was any nicety. ‘Maybe you should read my statement.’

  ‘Come on, it’s not a hard question. And I’m not trying to trick you.’

  She sighed. ‘Fine. It was recent. About six months ago.’

  ‘And how long have you wanted to sleep with him?’ Ryker asked with a wry smile.

  ‘Why the hell are you asking me these questions?’

  ‘I’m just interested. I mean how exactly does a twenty-three-year-old girl end up in bed with a married man in his forties?’

  ‘I’m sure you can use your imagination. Even someone like you must have had sex before.’

  Someone like you. Ryker didn’t seek to clarify what she meant by that even though the choice of words intrigued him. ‘But who was the seducer. You or him?’

  ‘If all you’re interested in is petty gossip then I think it’s about time you left.’

  ‘And so do I,’ came an angry male voice from behind Ryker.

  Ryker turned to see a pint-sized man standing behind him. He was a good eight or nine inches shorter than Ryker. Scrawny too. But he had a confident and arrogant look on his well-tanned face, together with piercing dark eyes. He was late forties, maybe early fifties, and dressed smartly in blue pressed trousers and a cotton shirt with a thick-knotted tie.

  ‘Andrei Kozlov, I’m guessing,’ Ryker said, not in the least bit surprised or put off by Kozlov’s entrance. In fact, the second Eva had left him alone to go and shower he’d wondered how long it would be before company turned up. He’d been in two minds as to whether it would be her lawyer or Daddy that she called about the unexpected visitor. Clearly the latter was still her main comfort blanket.

  ‘Yes,’ Kozlov said. ‘And you are?’

  ‘James Ryker.’

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’ His voice was raspy – too much smoking or too much shouting. Maybe both.

  ‘He says he’s with the police,’ Eva said, getting to her feet and looking her confident self again.

  ‘With the police?’ Kozlov questioned. ‘So are you a policeman or are you not?’

  ‘Not,’ Ryker said. ‘Just helping with their enquiries. Into the murder of Kim Walker.’

  ‘He was asking me about Patrick and Kim,’ Eva said.

  ‘She doesn’t know anything,’ Kozlov said with distaste. ‘And if you want to talk to anyone in my family again you do it with my lawyer present. I already made that point clear to your colleague.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Ryker said. ‘You can call your lawyer now if you like?’

  ‘No, I would not like that. Who exactly are you?’

  ‘I already said. I’m James Ryker.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but who do you work for?’

  ‘The British Home Office.’

  ‘You can be sure that you haven’t heard the last about this intrusion. Now get out of my house.’

  Ryker shrugged. He couldn’t care less about Kozlov’s little power trip. He moved toward Kozlov in the doorway. Kozlov, looking slightly less confident with the figure of Ryker bearing down on him, moved to one side. Ryker stepped past and walked down the hall, sensing that both Kozlov and Eva had followed him out of the room. Ryker stopped and turned.

  ‘One more thing.’ He looked over at Eva, who was standing behind her father. ‘You never did tell me what you and Patrick were arguing about this morning. Why he grabbed you like that. Quite a temper on that man. I was sure he was going to hit you.’

  ‘Go!’ Kozlov said, his face creasing with anger.

  Eva smiled, the same wicked smile she’d given Ryker earlier in the day. Then she stuck out her tongue. Ryker couldn’t help but smirk at the deliberately childish gesture. Kozlov spun round to look at his daughter but she’d already resumed her passive look.

  Yes, she was a trouble-maker, no doubt about it. Ryker didn’t trust her. But he was certainly intrigued.

  Ryker began moving again, into the kitchen.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kozlov shouted, rushing up behind Ryker. ‘I told you to leave.’

  Ryker stopped and turned to face down Kozlov. ‘Heading out the same way I came in.’

  Kozlov didn’t blink as he stared at Ryker. ‘There’s an old saying my grandmother told me many years ago; when you can’t be sure of the ground beneath your feet, the best course is to turn back. And my advice to you, Mr Ryker, is to turn back now. Before it’s too late for you.’

  Ryker held his tongue at the thinly-veiled threat. Or perhaps it was merely a friendly warning. Either way, it took Ryker back to the conversation with Green at the restaurant. It seemed everyone in Andalusia was concerned for Ryker’s wellbeing.

  ‘Thank you for the hospitality,’ Ryker said looking at Eva. ‘And Andrei?’ Ryker stomped his shoe on the shiny marble tile underfoot. ‘The ground I’m standing on is as solid as can be. But thank you for the advice. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, Mr Ryker.’

  19

  Ryker had learned little of substance from his escapade to the Kozlov residence. What he did know was that everyone knew more than they were telling. Kozlov and Walker were in bed together, in a manner of speaking. Both were rich men, developers. Eva was quite literally in bed with Walker, sleeping with her father’s business partner. And Walker’s wife had been murdered.

  Ryker was barely scratching the surface but there was already a lot about the situation, the relationship between those four people, that Ryker didn’t like. So far no one had welcomed Ryker’s presence. Nor did they seem genuinely enthused at the prospect of getting to the bottom of Kim Walker’s murder.

  If they had something to hide, neither Walker nor Kozlov appeared particularly afraid or even perturbed by Ryker’s sudden appearance on the scene. Both were arrogant and cool men, certainly, and both had the weight of an expensive legal team behind them – apparently – but still their actions suggested something else to Ryker: that they thought they were above the law. And in Ryker’s experience, there were only a few reasons why people would come to believe that.

  Ryker headed back to his car. The few minutes inside the air-conditioned Kozlov mansion had cooled him nicely, but by the time he neared his vehicle, with the heat of the afternoon sun on his back, he was a sweaty sodden mess again. Together with his tiredness from the long haul travel and lack of a good night’s sleep, he felt rotten and made his mind up to call the day short and head back to his hotel.

  He was five yards from his car when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket. Ryker took it out and saw he had a missed call and a text message from Lisa, apologising for not answering his earlier call. Ryker was about to hit the button to ring her back when movement ahead caught his eye. He looked up and spotted two men ahead of him. His instincts screamed: the men didn’t belong there.

  Both men were tall, broad-shouldered. One was wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt that bulged from the muscles underneath. He was olive skinned with jet black locks of hair that fell around his face. The other man – older, fairer skinned with a heavily lined face and an army style buzz-cut – wore a jacket. A crazy choice of clothing given the heat. Perhaps that was normal for some of the hardened locals, but this guy didn’t look much of a local. And Ryker could think of only one good reason someone would choose such clothing: concealment.

  The men walked toward Ryker with purpose, their lips moving as they murmured instructions to each other. Ryker held his ground, waiting to see what would happen. His initial suspicion was confirmed a couple of seconds later when the man on the left – Buzzcut – reached into his jacket and brought out a foot-long monkey wrench. These two were hardly out for a quiet afternoon stroll.

  The men were more than ten yards from Ryker. He could rush for his car and hope he had the speed to get inside, fire up the engine and race off into the distance before they accosted him. Unlikely.

  Then there was the other option. The one Ryker chose. It’d been a long time since he’d been o
ut in the field. Nearly a year had passed by since he and Lisa had ended their previous lives and headed off into the sunset. Ryker was rusty. Perhaps these two lumps would provide some much-needed practice.

  Ryker caught the eye of the black-haired man – Rambo. The look on his face told Ryker he was the leader. It wasn’t clear whether he was armed. He could have been carrying a knife or a gun stuffed behind his back. Ryker was sure he'd soon find out the answer.

  He looked up and down the street. It was quiet, but still this was no place for what was to come. It would only take one random passerby to scupper Ryker’s plans. He needed space. He needed time. He had to find out who these men were, why they’d been sent there, and by whom. Kozlov was Ryker’s immediate guess but he wasn’t ruling out other possibilities.

  Ryker moved purposefully off to his right, towards the derelict construction site. He spotted the two men stop – obviously contemplating their next move. Ryker didn’t hesitate to see what they chose . He strode up to the rickety metal fence that ran around the site and hauled himself up and over, then moved off toward the not-so-glorious holiday homes.

  The row of apartments were in various states of build. At the near end the concrete and brick shells were almost complete, just awaiting a render finish, interior stud walls, plastering, doors, windows. At the far side they were in a much earlier stage of construction with nothing more than concrete pads, out of which hundreds of rusted steel rods protruded haphazardly into the air.

  Ryker moved with purpose to the near side, where the more complete buildings gave better cover. He glanced behind, confirming that the men had followed him inside the complex, then moved around the back of the buildings and in through the front doorway of one. He pulled up on the inside wall and readied himself.

  From there he had a good view through the apartment to a small window at the back which gave a glimpse of where Ryker had come from. And if the men chose to come at him from the opposite side, snaking around the far side of the buildings, he’d spot them coming a mile off: in front of him was a clear view to the front along the whole run of apartments – at least a hundred yards.

  Ryker spotted Rambo first. He was alone, edging around the same way Ryker had gone. And Ryker had been right about his choice of weapon. A handgun. Black. Looked to be a Glock. Ryker was pleased about that. He didn’t like not being armed on the job and was grateful for the opportunity Rambo was about to present him.

  Ryker ducked down and held tight, waiting for Rambo to approach. Ryker strained his hearing for any indication of the man’s movement. He heard nothing. Ryker wondered whether Rambo had stopped moving, or even gone back on himself.

  But then, with Ryker staring out into the open, he spotted the slightest shadow appear in the doorway in front of him. Just an inch.

  It was gone again a split second later. This guy wasn’t dumb, he’d at least spotted his error. But it was too late to take it back. Ryker now knew exactly where he was.

  As stealthily as he could, Ryker moved across the room to the bare concrete staircase and ascended to the first floor, hoping Rambo was quietly waiting for his friend to catch up before springing an attack.

  On the first floor, there was a gaping hole in the breeze-block construction. Ryker assumed an impressive floor-to-ceiling window had been planned, to take advantage of the stunning sea views. It was exactly what Ryker needed. He crept to the edge and carefully peered down below. Sure enough, Rambo was right there, pressed up against the wall, waiting for his moment of attack.

  But still no sign of Buzzcut. Where was he?

  Ryker didn’t dwell on the thought. He stepped over the edge...

  The man had no clue what was coming. Ryker landed on Rambo’s shoulders with a thud and a crack, and both men tumbled to the ground in a heap. Rambo was dazed and confused from the sudden attack. Ryker was alert, ready, one thing on his mind: he wanted that gun.

  Without hesitation, Ryker swivelled his body round and put Rambo into an arm bar, hyperextending the elbow joint to the point of bursting. Rambo squirmed, grunted, and moaned – maybe he knew what was coming. Ryker pushed against the resistance and there was a crack and a pop as the man’s arm dislocated. Rambo screamed out in pain. Ryker reached down and pulled the handgun from Rambo’s limp grip. Then he sprang to his feet, gun in hand, pointed at the man’s face.

  Ryker smiled. Yeah, he was rusty, out of practice for sure, but it felt good to be back.

  Ryker spotted movement. He spun and saw the glint of metal as Buzzcut’s wrench arced toward his face. He ducked. The wrench hurtled through the air but missed. Ryker saw his target, a yard away. He sprang up, fist-balled, and sent a crushing uppercut onto Buzzcut’s chin. His head snapped back. He wobbled, stumbled. Ryker smacked him in the side of the head with the grip of the gun. Buzzcut collapsed to the ground and landed in a heap next to his buddy.

  Ryker shook himself down and looked over the two lumps. Both were out of the fight. But Ryker wasn’t finished. He wanted answers.

  He was about to begin his interrogation when something unexpected happened: a gunshot rang out. A blast of concrete powder burst in Ryker’s face from the nearby ricochet. Ryker darted back toward the buildings, trying to find cover from the unseen shooter. He pulled up against a wall.

  In front of him, the two men lay on the ground. Buzzcut’s eyes were closed. He was out cold. The movement in his chest told Ryker he was at least breathing. Rambo was awake. He was still writhing on the ground in agony, clutching at his stricken limb and staring aghast at the misshapen mass.

  Neither man was an immediate threat.

  Ryker looked up and searched the area outside. He had clear sight down the row of apartments and across the nearby coastline. There was no shooter in that direction. There simply wasn’t anywhere for them to hide. Ryker dashed across the building and pulled up against the adjacent wall. From there he had a better view back to the road.

  No sign of a shooter, or even a potential hiding place. Ryker crept along the wall, heading further into the apartment shell. He moved through a doorway, his eyes focused on the bright glare coming through the open window space in front of him, through which he had an almost unobstructed view of the street.

  Still no sign of anyone with a gun.

  Ryker felt pressure against the back of his head so he stopped.

  A male voice spoke to him in Spanish. Ryker could understand the language quite well, enough to know what the man had just said – who he worked for. In fact, one of the words he’d used, above all the others, was understandable in countless languages. Policia.

  That was a fight Ryker didn’t want.

  Ryker dropped his gun and put his hands above his head.

  A second before something hard was smashed against the back of his skull.

  20

  The throbbing in Ryker’s head was still there the next morning, making it an effort to move even an inch. He’d been pistol-whipped, knocked unconscious, by an officer from the Policia Local – the municipal police in Marbella and the surrounding area. From what Ryker had gathered, the officer was responding to an anonymous call claiming an armed man was wandering the streets.

  After falling unconscious, Ryker had woken up in the back of the patrol car and then been frog-marched into a cell at a police station in Marbella where he’d been left for a number of hours before anyone had come to speak to him.

  Then, when he’d finally been moved from the cell to an interview room the previous evening, events had got really interesting. Despite Ryker’s protestations, the arresting officers claimed there were no other people on the construction site. That Ryker had been alone.

  Ryker certainly didn’t believe that Rambo and Buzzcut had suddenly jumped up and vanished. And then there was the supposed call from a worried citizen that the police were responding to. Ryker didn’t buy it.

  The only explanation was that at least one bent policeman was on the payroll in Marbella, and they were likely working for the person who’d sent those two
goons after Ryker. Kozlov was the obvious culprit, but Ryker was keeping an open mind.

  When Ryker had finally been allowed to make a phone call in the small hours of the morning, he’d managed to briefly speak to Green. Less than impressed – not just about being woken, but by the trouble Ryker was causing him – Green had soon been onto Walker’s lawyer, Graham Munroe, and then his contact at the Policia Nacional, an inspector named Miguel Cardo.

  Ryker wasn’t in tune with the many nuances of the Spanish police but from what he knew the Policia Local took on everyday policing in urban areas. Then there was the Guardia Civil, a more military-orientated force that had responsibility outside urban areas, including policing highways and borders. Finally there was the Policia Nacional, responsible for major criminal investigation.

  It was the Policia Nacional who was leading the investigation into the murder of Kim Walker. Unfortunately for Ryker, that meant he was at something of a loss with the Policia Local who’d arrested him. Because not only did they have no clue who Ryker was, they also knew nothing about Kim Walker’s murder. They were a different police force in fact from the equivalent Policia Local who patrolled the Mijas area where the murder had taken place.

  Which meant Ryker had no chance of a quick release once he’d been arrested for possessing an illegal firearm.

  Nonetheless, Green, Munroe, and Cardo had together somehow set in motion a chain of events that ultimately led to Ryker being released without charge that morning, and Cardo was the man who arrived with this welcome news. By that point, Ryker had been at the station for the best part of twenty-four hours.

  The inspector could have been a cartoon character. Every inch of him screamed policeman. He wore a navy-blue suit and light-blue shirt, and had slicked-back black hair, a pointed nose, and a thick black caterpillar moustache.

  ‘It seems you have some friends in high places,’ Cardo said to Ryker. His English was good, though came with a thick Spanish accent.