by J. D. Weston
He felt eyes on him, and he found them through the tinted rear window, cold and fierce. The man was standing beside the entrance with his hands in his jacket pockets.
And Myers felt him.
Just a ripple.
“That’s what it is,” he said to the man, though he wouldn’t hear the words, and he thought of himself in a parallel life. One where Harriet was a memory and every day was steeped in shadow. “It’s just a ripple.”
Chapter Fifty
The van doors closed with a boom that was final.
The woman in the blue skirt suit shook the younger girl’s hand and said something that made her smile. It was a proud smile and her eyes shone.
They climbed into a BMW and waited for the van to leave, then, after a few short moments of reflection, they followed with the armed police car behind.
Harvey sighed.
It had been close. As close as he’d ever been. The blood on his hands would never wash away and that shadow he lived in was, for a while, lit for all the world to see.
But he could trust that man. The man that, only twenty-four hours before, had breathed in his face and vented his fury from the far side of the interview room. He could trust him not to breathe a word. They had shared something. Something that neither Harvey nor Detective Myers could ever articulate.
Myers owed Harvey his daughter’s life, and, in return, Harvey was free.
A pale, blue sky hung over London and the air bore that clean, natural scent that follows in the wake of a storm. That same clean air carried the smell of cigar smoke and expensive cologne and roused Harvey from his musings. John’s presence darkened the shadow that Harvey had found.
He wore his long, formal jacket over an immaculate white shirt with black trousers, and the wooden heels of his shoes clicked on the pavement. The steps were unhurried. He would be thinking of what he might say.
There was always a plan. Always a strategy of some kind.
He said nothing at first.
He stood beside Harvey and his arm grazed Harvey’s as he too found the lining of his pockets a welcome distraction. A cloud of cigar smoke washed over Harvey, then dispersed, leaving only a bitter taste in his mouth.
“He’ll be okay,” said John.
Harvey didn’t reply.
“The doctors are treating his burns and his feet are in casts. Broken toes.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“I should thank you, Harvey,” said John. “I should thank you for bringing him home. I should thank you for what you did. Whatever it was.”
It was John’s way of asking Harvey what exactly had happened.
“Do you mind if I spare you the detail, John?”
“I should thank you for doing as I asked. You took care of your brother, Harvey. You did what I asked. I know he doesn’t deserve it, but…”
“You’re wrong,” said Harvey, and he heard the words, alien and in contrast to anything he had said before. “You’re wrong. He does deserve it, John. And I don’t need you to ask me to look after him. Believe me, there were times when all I was doing was hunting for Julios, but…”
“But what?”
“But I learned things, John. I learned things that I think Donny would prefer me not to say. But, trust me, when times were tough, Donny stood tall. And when things had to be done that should never have had to be done, Donny did them.”
Harvey paused, leaving John to wrestle with the ambiguity.
“He did you proud, John. He’s a Cartwright.”
John cleared his throat and looked away.
“That’s the nicest thing you ever said about him.”
“Well, his heart was in the right place. He might be the spoiled, arrogant only child of a wealthy businessman, John, but he meant well, and he did the right thing. If he didn’t, I…”
Harvey stopped himself from saying it.
“You would have what?” said John, catching the scent of the bone that Harvey had offered.
“I would have killed him myself.”
Harvey took a few steps and opened the back box on his motorcycle. He retrieved his helmet and noted the scrapes from the dockside slide.
He fingered the flakes of paint and the small dent and made a mental note to repair them.
“He’ll be home in a few days,” said John, as Harvey climbed on the bike. “I doubt he’ll be in the mood for a party, but I was thinking we could do a little something, you know, to remember Julia. It might give him a chance to say goodbye.”
Harvey started the engine. It was a nice idea, and he told him so.
“Maybe I’ll have Sergio arrange something. Just us. You, me, Julios, Donny, and Sergio. What do you think?”
“I think you should ask Donny what he wants, John,” said Harvey, and he flipped his visor down to stare at his foster-father through the darkened tint.
John was very much like Rashid, he thought. He was capable and intelligent beyond words. He was a man that moved mountains to get what he wanted. But he was unable to do anything himself.
He was a powerful man. He was a good man at heart and Harvey could only be grateful he wasn’t a monster like Rashid.
“Come to think of it,” said John, his face adopting a confused expression. “Where is Sergio? Have you seen him?”
Behind the tinted visor, a rare but wry smile spread across Harvey’s face. It was a smile that was a smile, and it was a smile that would help him forget.
Harvey didn’t reply.
The End.
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The Spider's Web - Sample Chapter
"I have eyes on the target, sir," said Detective Sergeant Hawes, as Detective Inspector Mark Debruin entered the dark room. It was what Debruin had been waiting for. He knelt beside Hawes at the window.
"Get TSG on full alert," he replied. "He's not getting away this time."
"Tactical Support Group, this is command. We have eyes on the target. He's approaching the east entrance on foot. Give me Hammersley's location."
"Hammersley is behind the reception desk. Hasn't moved a muscle."
"Good. Wait for the command."
TSG confirmed the communication and the jabber of radios quietened as the two detectives and twenty-five tactical support operatives waited. Debruin and Hawes were positioned in an empty office space above a warehouse. The lights were off, and they peered through a grimy window at a dog food factory on the far side of the empty road. There was nothing special about the factory. There was nothing special about the owners or management of the factory.
What was special was the night-time security guard. Wayne Hammersley had a series of sex related convictions and a history of mental health problems.
"How the hell did Hammersley get a job as a security guard anyway?" asked Hawes. He spoke low as if he was voicing his thoughts and expected no answer.
"He's not a thief, he's a convicted sex offender. I can't think of any place less enticing than this, can you?"
"Well, yeah, I guess the smell is hardly an aphrodisiac, is it?" said Hawes, then he raised his radio and addressed the entire team. "Target is at the east entrance. We'll lose visual in five, four, three, two–"
The target, who seemed to be waiting by the entrance, slipped through the doorway and into the dark of the night. Debruin could just make out the lithe shape of the man as he took care to close the door behind him without making a noise. He seemed to just stand there. A faint outline of a man waiting in the shadows.
"What's he doing?" asked Hawes.
"He's waiting."
"What for?"
"I don't know. It's all part of his control. He waits. Maybe he's getting a feel for the room? Maybe he's listening?"
A full minute passed, then the dark shadow that was the target slipped from view.
"Target is in the building," said Hawes into the radio. "We've lost visual. TSG to follow on camera."
"Roger," came the reply from TSG command, Sergeant Gavin Spencer, a con
fident and able man who had made his mark in the force and now commanded the delicate operations that required brute strength and precision. The role was a fine balance of control, ruthlessness, and risk awareness. Not every man demonstrated the skills required. But Spencer was in full control one hundred percent of the time. Debruin had seen his team take down targets in busy train stations, crowded streets, and even a football stadium. All with minimal fuss and, even better, minimal media sensation. The use of firearms in a public place requires a commander to own every aspect of the scene. Any man can give the order to shoot, but most men would give the order to restrain for fear of entering the slippery slope of disciplinary action following an internal investigation. Spencer had that balance. He had the balls to go ahead and take a target down and he knew the limits. He was a safe pair of hands for Debruin to put his sting operation into.
"We have eyes on the target. He's moving along the east corridor. No weapons as yet."
"Roger that," said Hawes, then he lowered his radio and spoke to Debruin. "How do you think he'll do it?"
Hawes was referring to the man's MO. Most serial killers had a preferred method of carrying out their kills. But this particular killer had used a variety of methods, making it hard to pin crimes on him. He'd burned a man alive, he'd glued a man's mouth and nose closed, and he'd strung another up, slitting his throat to bleed out.
"He won't get the chance. We've got a tiny window of opportunity, Hawes. He's inside the building, but that's not enough. We need to catch him in the act. We need to catch him on camera."
"That's the easy part, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"Once we have him on camera, we actually need to catch him."
"That's why TSG are here. We've got a helicopter in the air, the streets are closed off, and we've got a dog team standing by. All we need is for Hammersley to give the signal."
"You have to admit," said Hawes, as he peered through the binoculars searching for TSG who were waiting in the shadows ready to pounce, "it's a good deal for Hammersley. A new identity. A new house in a new town. Not to mention the clean slate."
"You don't think he deserves it?"
"I'm not sure my opinion counts much. But no, sir. No, I don't. He's ruined the lives of at least five young girls. He deserves to rot in prison."
"He's done his time, Hawes."
"Oh, come on, sir. We both know he'll do it again. New identity or not. He won't be able to help himself."
"He's putting his life on the line here. He's risking a lot so that we can catch this man."
"The suspect hasn't hurt anyone that didn't deserve it, sir."
"Sorry, Hawes?" Debruin was riled by the flippant comment. He understood where Hawes was coming from. But to voice the opinion was to go against everything the force stood for. "Are you saying that we should let this man carry on killing people because he's only killing perverts and sex offenders?"
Hawes said nothing.
"Are you saying that we shouldn't give Hammersley a tiny bit of credit for risking his life?"
"I'm just saying–"
"I know what you're saying, Hawes. And for the record, you need to keep those thoughts to yourself in future. We're catching a vigilante here. The last thing I need is for my DS to be rooting for the target. I need to know you've got my back."
"I've got your back, sir," Hawes said after a brief pause for contemplation.
"Good. Well, let's keep it that way," said Debruin. "Get me an update from TSG."
"TSG, come back."
"Command."
"Sit rep?"
"Target is in the blind spot. He'll be moving into the reception area shortly and we'll pick him up on cameras seven and eight."
"Keep us updated, Spencer," said Hawes, then mumbled to Debruin. "I do, you know?"
"What?" said Debruin, his tone sharper than required.
"Have your back, sir. I know this is important. I'm all for it. I don't know why I said what I said."
"You said what you said because you have a daughter, Hawes. Because you're a father, as am I. But, to do what we do, we have to leave that father at home. We have to be the law and nothing else. Our opinions, as you said, don't really count. We're an extension of the law and that's that. Right or wrong. I've been chasing this man for six months and right now, this is the closest we've been to getting him. Do you know what I'm going to do when we have him in custody and he's charged with three counts of murder?"
"Go on, sir."
"I'm going to go home and pour myself a scotch and sleep the sleep of the dead. When I wake up, my daughter will be awake and having her breakfast, as will hundreds and thousands of other daughters. I'll be her father then. When it's over." He raised his binoculars and peered through the window at the teams he had prepared. It was the largest sting operation he had managed in a long time and all the wheels were in motion. "And then I'll go back to bed and sleep for a thousand years, Hawes," he said.
"We have to catch him first, sir," said Hawes, and he raised the radio. "TSG, any visual?"
"Negative," said Spencer. "He's still in the blind spot."
Debruin turned and sat on the floor with his back against the window. He closed his eyes and tried to channel the negativity from his mind.
The sound of the east door slamming was loud in the silence of the night and Debruin glanced up at Hawes whose body had stiffened.
"TSG, target has left the building through the east exit. Do you have eyes on Hammersley?"
"Hammersley is at his desk at reception. Do we move in?"
"No," said Debruin, and he snatched the radio from Hawes. "TSG, do not move in. We don't have anything to hold him. Something has spooked the target."
"Hammersley is on the move. He heard the door slam," said Spencer.
Debruin knelt beside Hawes and watched the target slip from view into the shadows between adjacent warehouses.
"Hammersley is approaching the east corridor," said Spencer.
"What's in that blind spot?" said Debruin to Hawes. "You did the survey. What rooms are there?"
"Hammersley is in the corridor. He's trying doors," said Spencer, relaying the man's every move over the radio.
Hawes unfolded a piece of paper and shone his small torch to reveal a floor plan of the building. The east entrance corridor had several rooms off either side before the reception.
"Stationery cupboard, first aid room."
"This one. What's this room here?" said Debruin, pointing to the largest of the side rooms.
"We've lost visual on Hammersley," said Spencer. "He's in a side room, north of the corridor. It's too dark to see what he's doing."
"That's the boiler room, sir."
"The boiler room?" said Debruin, and he sat back against the wall with the map in his hands. "Stop him," he called, just as a flash of brilliant orange lit the night. Less than a second later, the windows imploded. The blast sent Hawes crashing across the room and the sound of the gas explosion seemed to echo on for eternity.
More than twenty seconds passed before Hawes' radio crackled into life and Spencer's commanding tone came through loud and clear amid the shower of debris. The bright orange flame that had lit the sky was replaced by thick, acrid smoke that billowed from what had been the east end of the factory.
"We've lost Hammersley," he said.
"Any other causalities?" said Hawes, as he scrambled to his feet, slipping on the carpet of shattered glass and dust. He fingered a small slice on his face that had been made by the shattered glass and inspected the blood on his finger.
"Minor. We're dealing with it."
"What about the target?"
Debruin's head fell, dropped in defeat. He knew what was coming next.
"Negative. We've lost him."
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Also by J.D. Weston
J.D. Weston is the award-winning author and creator of Harvey Stone and Frankie Black. He was born in London, England, and after more than a decade
in the Middle East, now enjoys a tranquil life in Lincolnshire with his wife.
The Harvey Stone series is a prequel series set ten years before The Stone Cold Thriller series.
With more than twenty novels to his name, the Harvey Stone series is the result of many years of storytelling, and is his finest work to date. You can find more about J.D. Weston at www.jdweston.com.
Turn the page to see his other books.
The Harvey Stone Series
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The game is death. Winner takes all…
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The Silent Man
To find the killer, he must lose his mind…
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The Spider's Web
To enter the spider's web, he must become the fly…
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Book Three
To light the way, he must burn his past…
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The Savage Few
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