by Sam Crescent
“Wonderful. Do continue.”
“I had to take the female to my present location as I thought she may have been with Waterman, but it appears she’s innocent.”
“I saw her file myself and would be inclined to agree, but even files can be deceptive. Tampered with. What’s her reaction been like?”
Bishop thought of her reaction—but not the initial one Huntington meant. He tossed the image of her sitting on the bath edge with her legs open from his mind and rewound to see fury and incomprehension on her face when he’d approached her outside the hotel. “She’s either innocent or a bloody good actress.”
“Anything else?”
“I was followed from the hotel. Probably the man Waterman sent to collect.”
“Marvellous.” The word was full of disgust and sarcasm.
“I gave him the slip, but it won’t be long before they’re on the lookout for my licence plate.”
“They haven’t spotted it since you infiltrated his mob, so why the devil would they find you via your vehicle now?”
“I suppose…”
“New plates will solve it. Should have done that before. Bloody got sidetracked with other things.”
“Yes.” Like shoving your cock into women.
Bishop waited for further instruction. Huntington didn’t seem in a hurry to offer any—he did that often, just left the line open while he thought things out, leaving Bishop hanging on until he deigned to speak. While he listened to what he imagined was Huntington getting out of bed and walking downstairs to his alcohol cabinet—a nasty, tacky-looking globe where the top half opened to reveal even tackier crystal decanters—Bishop glanced at the monitors on a shelf above his desk. His cameras were trained on all areas of his property. The grounds were in darkness, nothing untoward going on, and he let out a breath of relief. He wasn’t afraid of what he’d have to do if someone did happen by—he was trained in armed combat and had no conscience with regard to sinking a bullet or knife into anyone who threatened to expose him or the government officials he was contracted with—but he had Fallan to consider now. She hadn’t seen a gun let alone handled one until she’d met him, and false bravado wasn’t enough to get her out of a tricky situation.
This location had been secure for years. It didn’t exist as far as any regular Joe was concerned. It wasn’t on any files other than governmental ones, and he didn’t receive any mail or deliveries. He picked up his post from a PO box and bought whatever he needed himself. His credit cards were at his other, civilian address, and the name on them was a far cry from any he’d used while working. He rarely went ‘home’, though. That place contained too many memories, too much of his past that he’d forced himself to forget.
After… Well, years ago, when…when things had gone wrong, he’d removed all photographs of… Removed things that reminded him of what he’d lost, what his job had made him lose, and vowed never to dwell on them again. Every so often she infiltrated his thoughts, but he quelled them, pushed the sight of her smiling face away because seeing her made him hurt.
He clenched his teeth, annoyed that he’d let her in again, if only for the briefest of moments. He’d failed her, put her in danger, and she hadn’t even been aware of it until it had been too late.
Until the bullet had ripped off the side of her face and ricocheted through her brain, taking her away from him. From that traumatic, absolutely hateful day, he’d vowed never to allow a woman into his life again. Never to let a woman be in the danger she had been in.
You can’t even bear to think of her name, can you?
No, he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Ever.
Guilt rested heavily on his shoulders, a burden he’d carry to the grave. He worked twenty-four/seven, burying himself in his jobs so he didn’t have a second to pause and think. And now here he was, allowing another woman to get to him, making him want to know her in ways he shouldn’t. Was he ready to try again, was that it? Had years of one-night stands and abstinence in between trysts given him enough time to grieve? To forget? To forgive himself?
I’ll never forgive my fucking self.
“Uh, there’s been a development,” Huntington said, his razor-sharp tone hauling Bishop out of his thoughts and into the present.
“What is it?” Bishop’s heart rate increased, the familiarity of adrenaline surging through his veins erasing the last vestiges of thoughts from the past.
“Seems someone—Waterman’s crew, I suspect—has enlisted the help, shall we say, of a CCTV camera operator in the city. They’ve been for a little visit. Frankie Lash, to be precise.”
“Fuck.” Bishop hiked in a long breath, then let it out slowly. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do? So what’s your next course of action?”
“Get the fuck out of here before they work out where my vehicle could have headed after it was last captured on camera.”
“Good lad. The next location—you know the drill.”
“I do.”
“And take Miss Jones with you, blindfolded, of course.”
“Of course.” Bishop paused then asked, “The CCTV operator?”
“He has a new, bigger smile, so I’m told.”
“Shit.”
“He’s on his way to hospital. I’m sure they’ll stitch his cheeks up and send him on his way in no time. Whether he’s left alone after that isn’t our concern.”
“What? Are you shitting me? You’re going to let him go back to his usual life knowing Waterman and his wankers will go after him again?”
“We can’t take care of every casualty, Bishop.”
Bishop bit back a snide retort. He worked for a government where he always put himself in danger for its MPs, this time to prevent some sordid, sexual information being leaked to the press. He worked on behalf of men and women who weren’t prepared to make sure those who had been hurt when Bishop did his job—innocent civilians just going about their lives—were cared for in the event things went tits up. People drawn into messes they didn’t know they were in until it hit them in the face—messes created by the very MPs who professed to care for their constituents when they went live on TV while touring the country for their campaigns.
The whole lot of them made Bishop sick, and he came to the sudden realisation he wanted out.
“This is my last job,” he said, then gritted his teeth.
“I don’t think so,” Huntington said. “It’s so very easy for us to plant information. You know that as well as I do.”
And it’s so easy for me to gain a new identity and fuck off.
Huntington cleared his throat. “Stop being so dramatic and get on with it. By the sounds of things, it won’t be long before Waterman comes knocking on your door.”
Chapter Six
Waterman drummed his fingers on his desk blotter. “Sounds like a plan.”
“You coming with us?” Frankie asked, his expression showing hope, like some constantly kicked puppy wishing that just this once he’d be petted.
“I think I will, seeing as it’s that wanker we’re dealing with. I’d love to know what name he’s using for this job. Bet it’s something he’ll be dying to tell me when I have his nuts in a vice and he realises there’s no way out.”
Frankie laughed. “Nice one, boss.”
Waterman stifled a sigh. Frankie really was getting on his nerves lately, almost as much as Kemp, who stood in front of his desk, face like a slapped arse. Waterman guessed Kemp was pissed off at Frankie pipping him to the post. What Kemp had to suck up was that Waterman gave the orders. Frankie had been sent to deal with the CCTV man, and Kemp was supposed to be finding out where that wanker might have gone. And by that instruction he’d meant for Kemp to visit the hotel and ask a few questions. Instead, Kemp had driven out of the city, parked on a quiet side street, and let a prozzer entertain him until Waterman had given him a call to say Frankie had come up with the goods.
He’d deal with Kemp later.
Waterman would never for
get that wanker’s name. Rook, it was, Peter Rook, but if he worked for the government, as Waterman had found out, he wouldn’t be using the same name now. But he’d be finding out what his alias was very shortly when they turned up at his hideout and forced it out of him.
Would Rook bleat, though, that was the question. A man contracted to work for the government wasn’t known for caving during torture. Rook would keep all the information to himself, of that Waterman had no doubt. Still, what did a name matter, anyway? Slicing off his bollocks and feeding them to the fishes was all he needed to make him feel better. Rook being introduced to the Thames would be satisfaction enough for Rook gaining his trust the way he had when he’d worked for him. Mind you, a bit of torture passed the time, didn’t it? Gave them all a laugh, a bit of a breather, so toying with Rook before they offed him was definitely on the cards.
“Right, you have his location, you say?” Waterman asked Frankie, deliberately keeping Kemp out of the conversation.
“Yep. Our CCTV man worked out Rook lives in some remote farmhouse in the sticks. Fifteen or so miles away, give or take.”
“Right.” Waterman picked up a half-smoked cigar from his ashtray and used it to crush the ash in the bottom. “And our CCTV bloke—how was he after he gave that information?”
Frankie stuck out his chest, prancing from foot to foot as though in the corner of a boxing ring, more than ready to start the next round. “Reckoned he wouldn’t do anything like that for us again. Went on about him losing his job if he did. Same shite as last time.”
“And how did you respond?” Waterman had a damn good idea, but he liked hearing his employees relate their actions all the same.
“Gave him a Cheshire cat, didn’t I?” Frankie nodded a few times, still prancing.
“Nice one. He knows we mean business. He’ll be in my employ now, I think.” Waterman lit his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth before blowing out smoke rings.
“Yeah, I told him he might be,” Frankie said, finally halting his irritating dance.
“And you, Kemp.” Waterman stared at him, leaning back in his chair to take another puff of his cigar. “What did you come up with?”
“I didn’t find anything out,” he said, trying and failing to keep his eyes from darting left to right.
“Ah, well. Doesn’t matter,” Waterman said jovially. It does—oh, it fucking does, you tosser. “So long as we got the result we wanted. Right. Frankie, get on the blower and tell what’s-his-name to get the car ready. Kemp…you sit your arse down here and have a nice drink with me while we wait.”
Although it was the middle of the night, Waterman wasn’t affected by being out at such an hour. Most of his work was done in the darkness, his body clock set to him kipping during the day and coming alive in the evening. Daylight had a habit of showing up all the starkness of blood, the colour so much more startling when the sun shone. Had a habit of alerting the good citizens of London that something was amiss. A man stabbed in broad daylight while out shopping with his missus. A bloke mowed down by a bus as he crossed the road on his way to the local boozer. Although some jobs had to be done in daylight hours, he preferred the majority of them to be completed in the shadows. Less chance of witnesses. Better chance of getting away with it.
He sat in the back of the car, What’s-his-name driving them to their location, the man unaware of why they were going, and not enquiring why, either. He was a good sort. Did his job, looked the other way, and, as far as Waterman was aware, kept his mouth shut. Frankie and Kemp sat opposite, Frankie looking pleased with himself for a job well done and Kemp appearing decidedly queasy. Waterman had plied the latter with brandy and a tab of LSD—two large shots that had Kemp wincing as Waterman encouraged him to drink up quick—and Kemp had eyed him oddly, no doubt sensing the tension that had sprung between them once Frankie had left the room.
Fucking tosser ought to know me better by now. I carry no one, let no one take the piss out of me.
“You all right there, Kemp?” he asked, keeping a poker face. “Only, you appear to be a bit peaky.”
“I’m fine thanks, Guv,” Kemp said, staring out of the window at the countryside spilling by, eyes glazed, fingers twitching on his knees.
Waterman followed suit. No street lamps here, only the glow of the moon, its meagre illumination doing nothing but giving the world a dark grey hue where it touched, the rest in black shadow. Trees zoomed past, stout, spiky branches stabbing the air, twigs on the ends resembling hands in star shapes or giving a two-fingered salute. Clouds scudded across the moon, swift on their journey, indicating quite a breeze must have picked up since they’d got in the car.
Bored of the scenery, Waterman returned his attention to the interior of the car. He opened his mouth to make small talk, but the glass partition between the rear and What’s-his-name in the front hummed down.
“We’re almost there, Guv,” the driver said. “Place over there to your right, look.”
Waterman did look, spying a squat dwelling that sat in a field all by itself. No trees, no coverage. Dangerous.
“Cheers,” he said, reminding himself to become reacquainted with the driver’s name once they got back to his office.
The car turned right and What’s-his-name slowed as he drove them up what felt beneath the tyres to be an asphalt track. He doused the headlights, and Waterman leant forward to get a better glimpse of the place out of the windshield. From the shape of it the building was a non-descript farmhouse, something no one would take any notice of if they drove past. The lack of anything around it was a wise move on Rook’s—or the government’s—part. Rook would be able to see in all directions, his sights clear to the fields beyond, to the sides, and the road ahead.
They drew closer, and Waterman’s stomach knotted. He hadn’t been out on a job in a long while—getting on in years had seen to that—but it didn’t mean he wasn’t able to look after himself in a dodgy scenario. He kept fit pumping iron, jogged once or twice a week, a minder at his heels, and indulged in target practice—not that he could ever forget how to use a gun. Didn’t hurt to pop a few shots off every now and again, though, did it?
The car came to a halt, and Waterman nodded at Frankie and Kemp. They got out and disappeared into the darkness, coming back after a few minutes to proclaim the outside was clear. No traps, no men hiding around corners. Waterman got out, adrenaline spiking.
He rapped on the driver’s window and waited for it to glide down. “Turn around, mate, and wait for us.”
Waterman strode towards the Cotswold stone house, narrowing his eyes at the windows. No bars, but he’d bet his last quid that was toughened glass—bulletproof, most likely. The front door looked like any other, except, if Rook was as savvy as Waterman suspected, it would be lined with steel, the opaque glass panels as bulletproof as the windows. He nodded, impressed at how normal the place seemed, when, in fact, it could be riddled with booby traps with Rook lying in wait inside. He lifted one hand and flicked his wrist.
Frankie was the first to obey the silent command. He went to the car boot, now facing the house, and popped the lock. He brought out a battering ram, over a metre long, in daylight a lurid yellow but in this light a murky grey. Waterman nodded, and Frankie went to work. The door was a stubborn bastard but opened eventually, swinging back on its hinges and smacking against the interior wall with an almighty crash. The noise was nothing compared to that which the ram had made, and it was a good job the location had no neighbours otherwise Waterman would have had more people to silence.
Frankie went inside, but Kemp remained on the doorstep, teetering a bit. The cold fresh air had probably made him feel drunker and more out of sorts than he had when getting in the car.
Waterman grinned. “Don’t fancy doing a search-and-find then, Kemp?”
Kemp shook his head. “No,” he said, the word sounding like nose. “You don’t employ me for that kind of thing. I don’t even know why you ‘sisted on bringing me here.”
Being
even bolder now he’s having a trip, is he? Cheeky bastard.
“Thought you might like to see how things are done on this side of it,” Waterman said. “I mean, it’s all very well being the one who goes around quietly finding out information, but I feel it’s best to know all aspects of the business, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Nose,” Kemp said, nodding to a beat only he could hear.
Frankie appeared in the doorway, his face grim, eyes blazing.
“Well?” Waterman asked.
Frankie shook his head. “No one here, boss.”
“Any sign they have been?” Waterman frowned at Kemp, who wove through imaginary obstacles, arms out in front as though he was wading through foliage.
Prick.
“Yep, bed’s still warm.” Frankie bit his bottom lip and clenched his hands.
“Just missed him, then.” Waterman sighed and stared at Kemp again. “Still, seems a shame to waste such a quiet location.” He smiled at Frankie.
“What d’you mean, boss?”
“Well, there’s no one around to hear any screams, is there?” Waterman jerked his head in Kemp’s direction.
Frankie nodded and approached the tottering man. Waterman turned and walked to the car, getting in the back seat, pleased by the warmth.
“Give those two a minute,” he said to What’s-his-name. “Then Frankie will be out and we’ll get back to the office.”
Chapter Seven
Fallan couldn’t see a thing. Bishop said it was better this way, if she didn’t know where he was taking her, but the blindfold chafed the bridge of her nose, making her want to rip it off.
Not the best way to wake up but she supposed it was better than looking at the business end of a loaded gun. The whole secrecy thing was beginning to annoy her, though.
