by J. D. Weston
Harvey removed his jacket and laid it over the seat of his bike. He moved to the centre of the courtyard, stopped before the giant doors, and inhaled, long and slow. He closed his eyes and rolled his neck from side to side, stretching out the tight muscles, preparing his body for what was to come.
And he called out to announce his arrival. To enter the lion’s den would be a foolish move. He would meet him outside, on equal terms. Somewhere in the pens that surrounded the building, an iron gate swung on a hinge and the deathly screech cut through the night until the gate slammed into the cage, steel on steel, and the percussive rattle of mesh faded.
“Rashid.”
Harvey’s voice returned from the far corners of the old buildings and he heard the taunt in his own voice. He was alive, and if Rashid Al Sheik had sense, he would be fearful.
“Rashid.”
Harvey’s shirt clung to his skin, and as the rain grew heavier, it found every inch of his body like the parched ground on which he stood.
A flash of lightning in the distance froze the scene in all its sombre glory on Harvey’s retinas, then faded once more to the eerie shadows.
“Rashid.”
A rumble of thunder growled high above. It seemed to roll across the sky like the snarl of a beast searching for a way through the dark and imperious clouds. Then, without warning, two large spotlights switched on, lighting the courtyard with bright, white light, semi-blinding Harvey. He raised a hand to block the light, squinting for better focus.
“Rashid,” he called, as he searched for a sign of movement. He knew Rashid would be there. If Harriet were to die, it would be the perfect place.
Another flash of lightning lit the landscape and the old building, and as if on cue, the two huge barn doors swung open. There was a light on inside. Harvey saw a forklift truck and pens where livestock would be delivered. There were rows of butcher’s hooks on a carousel and the wall was lined with tall livestock cages that disappeared into the darkness beyond. And there, silhouetted in the huge doorway, was a figure. It wasn’t Rashid Al Sheik. The man was tall and lean, and he stood with a confidence that a man feels with unnatural power.
A length of chain dropped from his hand and rattled to the ground by his feet. He stared at Harvey from beneath his pronounced and foreboding brow.
“Where’s Harriet, Farhad? Don’t make this hard on yourself.”
“You should learn to mind your own business,” he replied. His accent was thicker than Rashid’s, his voice was deeper, and the roll of his R’s more pronounced. “Leave now.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
Farhad took the first step forward and Harvey remained where he was. He counted down the steps until Farhad was in range. And it would be then and only then that Harvey would strike.
Nine steps.
Farhad was a featureless puppet with the bright lights behind him. Even the whites of his large, brown eyes were masked in deep shadow. He took another step, trailing the chain behind him like the leash of some unseen beast.
Eight steps.
“I do this for Asif,” said Farhad, though Harvey could see no expression on his face.
Harvey shook his head. “Asif was weak. He took his own life.”
Seven steps.
“Asif would never. He and I endured a misery beyond anything you can imagine.”
“He was tortured. He was strong.”
“You saw the scars on his back?”
“He took his own life, Farhad. He knew he would die anyway. You don’t have to suffer the same fate as Asif.”
“He was my brother,” said Farhad, and there was an anger in his voice. “Together we played as children. Together we became men. Together we were lions. We should have died together.”
Six steps.
“You don’t need to die, Farhad. Not for Rashid. Look at you. You’re not a lion. You’re a puppet. The only thing you endure is the misery Rashid causes. Don’t you see? You mean nothing to him. Where is he now? He’s hiding. He’s a coward.”
A flash of lightning lit Farhad’s face to reveal a grimace of fury etched in deep lines around his eyes and mouth.
“Rashid is our cousin. We are not like you. You may have broken Asif, but you will never break our bond. Not like I will break you.”
In a rush of energy, Farhad whipped the chain over his head and slammed it into the concrete before Harvey. He dragged it back and Harvey was unmoved.
Five steps. He was one step from being close enough to strike Harvey with the chain. The next attempt would be the beginning of the end, and for Harvey to survive, he would need to get close and personal to render the chain useless.
“You,” said Farhad, “you are not like other men in this country.”
Four steps.
“Like Asif, it is a pity to kill a lion such as you,” said Farhad.
He dragged the chain back, triggering Harvey into action. He rushed at Farhad as he began to swing the chain and his shoulder found that sweet spot below the ribs and deflated him. Harvey drove forward with his legs until Farhad’s great height toppled him and the two hit the ground with Harvey on top. Harvey managed to deliver a punch to the man’s ribs, but it had little effect.
Farhad’s strength was way beyond Harvey’s. His free hand found Harvey’s throat. His thumb jammed into his windpipe and his grip was like iron. He rolled, forcing Harvey off him, and tried to roll on top, but Harvey raised his leg, placed the flat of his boot against Farhad’s gut, and launched the man backward. Harvey scrambled to his feet and felt a rush of wind as the chain soared past his head.
He staggered back to put some distance between them and, once more, the chain swung past his face. The momentum caused Farhad to half-turn with the chain. He prepared for another swing, leaving his flank exposed, and Harvey attacked with full throttle. But Farhad was fast. The chain found Harvey’s arm and coiled around his bicep like a boa constrictor. Farhad moved quickly, pulling Harvey toward him with one strong arm then planted his other fist into Harvey’s gut.
Harvey reeled, doubled over, and felt the hammer-like blows raining down on him. He drew his knife and fought to stay on his feet. Farhad, seeing Harvey in his weakened state, grabbed his throat and raised his head to meet him eye to eye. His hand seemed to tighten like a vice. His vile face contorted with pure hatred and his lips peeled to show yellow, tombstone-like teeth.
And Harvey thrust the blade upward, deep beneath the man’s ribs. He watched as Farhad’s expression turned from malice to disbelief. He straddled the line between life and death. Deep, red blood trickled from his thin lips and his grip on Harvey’s throat waned.
Harvey gave the knife a final twist. Farhad’s body, along with the chain, fell limp to the sodden ground, and, once more, Harvey stared up at the gnarly silhouette of the abattoir.
“Rashid,” he called again, and he let the heavy rain wash the blood from his hands.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The stairway was hidden beneath a fog of smoke by the time Myers and Donald had managed to get Julios on his feet. The big man stirred once he was upright but was feeling the groggy come down of whatever drug they had pumped him full of.
They each had one of his huge shoulders around their necks and bore much of the man’s incredible weight. He was aware of himself enough only to stumble and they fell onto the stairs as a result of his loss of balance and bulk.
But surprising at it may have been, it was Donald Cartwright who stopped them all from tumbling down and breaking their necks. He dug in his heels and planted his back against the big man, while Myers at the top tried to pull him upright. And it was in that manner they descended one step at a time, coughing and choking on the fumes and turning their heads from the insufferable heat as the fire that had burst through from the lounge licked at the hallway walls and the wooden banister. Then the hungry flames settled to feed on the hallway floor at the foot of the stairs, and the road ahead was blocked.
“Hurry, Donald,” shouted Myers over the
din of the blaze. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him.”
“We’ll have to jump the flames before the fire gets too big.”
Donald descended two more stairs.
“I can’t hold him, Donald.”
The ceiling in the hallway crashed down in a shower of dust and smoke, and the flames reached up to feast on the new, clean air. They spread across the banister and torched the skin on Myers’ fingers. He let go. It was just a reaction, and if he had known what would happen, he might have suffered the pain. Julios’ weight carried him forward and, in that split second, no matter how hard he tried to find a footing, gravity had other plans for them all.
They tumbled. It was a slow fall at first, but as soon as Donald had fallen beneath Julios, and his huge mass had rolled on top of him, Myers was flung over the top. He landed on the lower stairs and rolled to the floor where the flames were encroaching. He stopped with his face just inches from the fire and he rolled again, patting his skin and his hair with frantic slaps. He staggered to his feet, surprised not to discover broken bones.
“I can’t get through,” said Donald. He was at the base of the stairs with Julios, who had regained some consciousness during the fall. He flinched at the heat and seemed to be aware of the position he was in, but his body was yet to catch up with his mind.
Myers ripped down the lime green curtains from the front window and began to beat the flames, but it was useless. The curtains began to burn and his already singed hand blistered.
“I need help,” said Donald.
It was then that Carver’s words repeated in Myers’ mind.
They all deserve to die.
But they were two men. Two living souls just five steps away, and between them and safety was a wall of raging fire that was spreading with every second that passed. He had to do something.
“Jump,” he screamed.
But the two men were forced back by the heat. Donald climbed back up two steps, dragging the big man’s bulk. Their options were running out.
“Go,” said Julios. His voice sounded drunk and lazy, but it was deep and carried over the crackles and hisses of the fire as a cannon might bellow above the sound of small arms. He tore his arm from Donald’s grip. “Leave me.”
Donald, more defiant than ever, began to drag Julios back up the stairs to the relative safety. But it was certain death and they all knew it.
“No,” said Myers. He pulled off his jacket and began to beat the flames.
It was at that point that the ceiling at the top of the stairs crashed down above them. The hot and unbearable air was filled with dust, and burning timbers blocked their upward escape.
Myers beat with everything he had. He beat so hard his arms ached, but his mind seemed to ignore the pain.
“Go now,” he screamed at them. They were two men. Barefoot and bare-chested. They had endured God knows what torture and suffering and their bodies bore the bruises, the abrasions, and the breaks with tenacious pride. He beat again, finding success with bursts of three. The flames retreated enough for a man to pass.
But they lingered, doubtful of their escape, and the flames returned. More of the ceiling behind them gave way and burning debris tumbled down the stairs. A wooden beam swung from its fixture in an arc. It all happened in slow motion. Donald saw the blazing beam. He raised his hands, but he was weak with fatigue.
The beam caught him square and he tumbled down in a ragged heap.
It was Julios, with quite possibly the largest shoulders Myers had ever seen, who bent, collected Donald onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and, in his drunken state, descended. Myers saw the move. It was brave and it was noble, but one mistake could kill them both. He beat again, three times, harder than before. Then again, and again, beating the flames back for a momentary space, a narrow path on which their lives depended.
The smell of burning skin was a smell that Myers could identify blindfolded. It was a smell that would never leave him. Julios growled and moaned with the first step and Myers stepped back, ready to help them through, just as Fox burst through the door in a stream of water. She held a fire extinguisher and, taking a few short moments to read the scene, she soaked Julios’ feet as he walked.
Fox backed out of the door, followed by Julios and Donald. Myers followed and felt the cool air lick at his skin. Together, Fox and Myers helped Donald down, and Julios, dazed, limped in a tight circle fighting the agony of the charred and blistered soles of his feet.
“The fire brigade is on its way,” said Fox, as she put the empty fire extinguisher down. “Standard police issue kit, sir.”
Myers nodded, grateful for her obedience to all the rules. She was in full control of the situation and, in that moment, he admired her. She would do well in the force. She had something that Myers could never find within himself.
“I also called an ambulance. In the meantime, I suggest we all move away from the house. Is there anybody else inside?”
The woman.
Myers pictured her content expression as she lay on the bed. He heard the words of the silent man.
She’s the one you want, Detective Inspector Myers. She’s the one who tricked your daughter into this.
“Sir?” said Fox, her voice loud, clear, and in control. “Tell me. Is anyone still in there?”
He glanced at Donald Cartwright, who lay motionless, and Julios, who said nothing.
“Sir?”
“No,” said Myers. He shook his head. “No. Not anymore.”
“Are you sure? You don’t seem so sure about that.”
“There’s nobody left,” Myers snapped. “Nobody alive anyway.”
A fire engine rounded the corner at the end of the street and Fox led Myers away from Julios and Donald.
“Sir, there’s no easy way to say this,” she began. Her face was that of a stoic professional, solemn and focused. “I’m under orders to arrest you, sir.”
“Arrest me? I just helped two men from a burning building.”
“There have been claims of harassment and Allenby has added gross misconduct. She didn’t give me the details, sir.”
Myers turned away from her and swept his hair from his forehead. The fire engine stopped with a hiss of airbrakes, but the sirens continued. Myers guessed they were ambulances and police cars. The whole street would be awash with uniforms soon.
“I thought you might appreciate an opportunity to say something before I arrest you, sir.”
There was a hidden meaning in her words. Some message that lay beneath the formalities.
“Did Allenby tell you about Harriet?”
Fox nodded.
“She thinks you’re losing it, sir.”
“I’m not losing it. She’s out there. Rashid Al Sheik has her.”
Fox bore that tight-lipped smile again. It was anything but a smile.
“You don’t believe me either.”
She said nothing and Myers could see her searching for the kindest words to say.
“I need time, Fox.”
“Sir, I can’t-”
“It was you that told me to trust my gut. I know he has her. I know we can get her back.”
“We?” Her expression altered and that wall of right and wrong began to rise. “Sir, I can’t-”
“Not you,” he said, and nodded toward the two charred men. “Them.”
It was a huge ask. He knew it and she knew it. He was not only asking her to disobey a direct order, but he was asking her to forget about two key witnesses and potential suspects.
“They aren’t the suspects here, Fox. They’re just two men who escaped a house fire. My daughter is the victim.”
The light of the fire cast an orange glow on one side of her face. The other side lay in shadow. She had the favour of youth and beauty on her side. Her flawless skin was almost doll-like. Her wide eyes were pure and honest, and her slender frame, though agile and lithe, was upright with the confidence of integrity. An integrity he was asking her to break.
&
nbsp; The first drops of rain began to fall, adding insult to injury. Fox appeared not even to register the rain. She was deep in her own battle of moralities. Flashing blue lights turned the corner at the end of the road. It was an ambulance followed by two police cars.
A flash of lightning lit the scene like a photograph embossing the moment in time on a roll of film for eternity.
“Fox? The clock is ticking,” said Myers, and the convoy of emergency vehicles drew closer.
“Do you know where she is?”
“I’ll find her.”
She said nothing but nodded once. She turned away and closed her eyes to her decision.
“I won’t let you regret this,” he said, and he stepped away from her, pulling his keys from his pocket.
“Sir?” called Fox, and she walked toward her car. She opened the door and reached inside, then emerged, unsure of her actions. “You told me once that this wasn’t a nine-to-five job.”
“I did,” said Myers with his hand on the car door. He glanced once at the two men, then approached her.
“You might need this.”
She handed him a blue file. There was a doodle on the front and Myers opened it to find Rashid Al Sheikh’s report, and the addresses of his businesses.
The girl he had belittled, ignored, and distrusted had not only disobeyed a direct order and let two witnesses leave a crime scene, but she had incriminated herself by giving him a head start.
“Seems like a likely place, sir,” she said, and she stepped out into the road to flag down the first of the squad cars, turning her back on Myers and the two men.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Rashid.”
Harvey’s voice, hoarse with rage and fury, broke.
He could shout no more.
He would face the lion in his den.
The entrance to the abattoir was filled with the sickly and sweet cold smell of death. There was a carousel to his right that continued into the next part of the building, disappearing through a curtain of clear PVC strips to keep the air inside cool for the lamb carcasses that hung from S-shaped butcher’s hooks. To his left was a row of offices. The doors were open, and the lights were off. But his eyes were drawn to those curtains and the light beyond.
