by WOOD TOM
The improvised lock picks were still usable. The torsion wrench would last a good while longer, but the pick was marked and bent a little from the previous usage. Victor used his fingers to bend it back into shape as much he could and crossed the street.
No one was around to witness him pick the closed-down business’s front door. There were two locks. He was inside within forty seconds.
Dust and mould spores reached his nostrils. He stood in the darkness and let his eyes adjust and his ears take in every sound for his brain to separate and analyse. He could hear the tick of pipes and noise of the outside city filtering in.
He was in a short hallway. A frosted glass door led deeper into the ground floor. He ignored it and ascended the stairs, making his way to the back of the building as soon as he reached the first floor. A pebbled window let in a little light. He unlatched it and heaved it open. It took some effort. The paintwork had eroded and the wood had swelled and warped.
He opened it as far as he could without risking damage, creating a gap higher than necessary for him to slide through, head first, on his back, until his hips lay across the sill. Cool wind ruffled his hair. He looked around.
Below was a narrow alleyway, barely shoulder-width across, marked on the far side by a spiked metal fence. On the other side of the fence lay a loading bay for a removal firm. The alley didn’t link to the open space behind Moran’s café because the office building was deeper than the two of businesses next to it. Victor had expected as much. He set his fingertips on the top of the outside window frame and slid backwards and up into a sitting position. He then pulled up his feet and set them on the window sill, shuffling back until his heels had reached the edge of the exterior sill and then hung over it. He stood, walking his palms up the wall until they gripped the lip of the flat roof above.
Victor set one foot against the inside of the brickwork surrounding the window and pushed off with both feet at the same time as he pulled with his hands, muscles straining all along his forearms, biceps and shoulders until he was high enough to swing a leg around on to the roof to make the last heave easier. He rolled on to his back and stood.
He’d reduced his profile to a crouch by the time he reached the roof of the office building. It was about a metre higher than the current roof. He stepped up on to it and over the small parapet. Skylights dotted the roof. He moved across until he overlooked the rear entrance of Moran’s café and the parking area behind it.
A back door was open and music from a radio drifted out through it. From the little he could see from his elevated position it looked as though it led into a kitchen. There were no windows on the ground floor at the rear of the café, but several on the two floors above. Some had lights on. Behind the closed blinds would be the headquarters of Moran’s organisation. Probably no more than an office or two with an air of legitimacy. The man himself would be in one of the lit rooms.
Victor changed position so he could see the van and the Merc parked outside the café. The space led behind the office building. Parking spaces were clearly defined in white paint, but all were empty aside from broken pallets and other junk presumably dumped there by Moran’s men. A fire escape was fixed to the office building’s back wall. A useful way of getting down, except Victor had no plans to.
He used the grip of the handgun to chip away at the roof’s concrete parapet until he had a handful of fragments. He hurled them at the Mercedes-Benz.
It was Moran’s car, Victor was sure. With all his men in the café a few metres away, and protected by a locked gate, there would be no need to engage the alarm. But the car had a huge price tag. If he parked it anywhere else he would only do so with the alarm switched on. That would become habit.
The concrete chips pelted the Merc’s bodywork.
The alarm blared. Lights flashed. Habit.
Victor moved back to where he overlooked the café’s kitchen door. Within seconds Moran’s men began rushing out of it – fuelled by espressos and excitement from the break in monotony that the alarm’s excruciatingly loud wail provided. It wasn’t a ruse to draw Moran out of the building. It wasn’t to distract his men. It was to mask the noise he was about to make.
Victor backed off a couple of metres, ran, and leapt off the roof.
TWENTY-TWO
The gap between the office building and the café was about four metres. The office building was three storeys high. The café only two. For a moment, Victor sailed through the night air, right foot extended, left trailing behind, arms out at right angles for stability, then arching forward as he tilted his head and gravity pulled him down, bringing his feet together and bending at the waist so when the balls of his feet hit the roof he was absorbing the fall’s energy and using it to bounce into a roll, moving on to his shoulders and elbows, hips and legs following over his head and coming back on to his feet.
Below him, the alarm ceased.
He heard a voice – Moran’s or one of his lieutenants – shouting, ‘It’s nothing. Get back inside and make sure you’re ready. We’re moving out in ten.’
The sound of Victor’s landing had been reduced by the roll but would have been registered by everyone outside if not for the car alarm. Someone in a room directly below him might still have noticed it. But he had leapt to and landed on a room without lights on at the windows. He’d stacked the odds in his favour as much as he could hope to.
There were no skylights, but Victor hadn’t expected to find any. There was no fire escape either. But there was a drainpipe.
He tested its stability. Good enough. He lowered himself off the roof, pressing his shoes either side of the pipe, then took hold. He felt it give a little as his weight pulled on the screws, but it held. He climbed down, taking his time to both limit noise and so as not to put any sudden strain on the pipe. When he was level with the sash windows, he took a hand from the pipe to try the window to his left. He wedged his palm beneath the centre cross-beam and heaved. It didn’t budge. He tried the one to his right. This one didn’t lift either, but he felt less resistance. He braced himself and tried again. His arm shook under the strain, but the window lifted a couple of inches. He took a breath and tried again. This time it lifted further and he felt warm air from inside flow out. Sounds followed it – music and talking, but both muted, from beyond a closed door.
Victor pushed the window as far up as it would go, then lowered himself further down the pipe. He reached through the gap with his right hand and gripped the inside sill. Then he pulled himself across as he pushed off the pipe, jerking his left arm over to grab hold too. A moment later, he was inside the room.
It was an office. Two desks occupied opposite corners. Filing cabinets lined one wall. Maps of London tacked to corkboards filled the other. Victor eased the window until it was nearly closed, but left a couple of inches to slip his hands under. He straightened down his jacket and brushed the grit and dirt from his suit. He didn’t want his appearance to give away how he’d entered.
He waited at the door, listened, and slipped outside the room when he heard no one in the immediate proximity. The music from downstairs was louder now. It drifted up a staircase at the end of the hallway. Between the staircase and the office was another door. It led to a room where he’d seen lights on.
Two voices on the other side of the door.
He drew the pistol, cocking it as he turned the handle so the click of the door opening disguised the noise.
The two men were both looking at him as he stepped inside. They were slow to react because the last thing they expected was for an armed stranger to walk through the doorway. Moran sat on a leather sofa, slouched back with his feet up on a glass coffee table. He was stripped to the waist and wearing a pair of spotted boxer shorts and sports socks. He faced a huge, but switched off, TV mounted on a wall. Next to the dirty soles of his socks were bags of cocaine, a mirror smeared with residue and a slim chrome tube. Another man stood near the doorway. He was talking about:
‘— the importance of maint
aining a unified front when dealing with—’
Victor dropped him with a backhanded pistol whip, and brought a finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Moran breathed. His eyes were as red as his nostrils.
Victor eased the door shut with his free hand and stepped forward. ‘I’m all your nightmares rolled into one.’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘Magic.’
Moran hadn’t moved. He hadn’t even sat up. ‘Do you have any idea who the fuck I am?’
‘You’re the man who wishes he was anywhere else but here.’
‘I’ve got fifteen hard fucktards downstairs. You pull that trigger and you’re dead. Do you get me, boy?’
‘No, if I squeeze the trigger, you’re dead. And you have twelve men downstairs, not fifteen. The other three won’t be coming back.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Do you recognise the gun in my hand?’
Moran didn’t speak, but his eyes answered for him.
‘You may have twelve men downstairs, but they’ve done you exactly zero good so far. And once you’re dead, what does it matter to you what happens next?’
Moran said, ‘What do you want?’
‘That’s better. I want to ask you a few questions.’
Moran sat up, pulling his feet from the table and setting them on the floor. ‘Go on then, ask.’
‘Gisele Maynard. I take it you recognise the name?’
No answer.
Victor said, ‘It’s really not in your interest to play games with me.’
‘So what are you going to do about it? You’ve showed your hand, boy. You want answers. I have those answers. You can’t torture them out of me. You can’t risk the noise or the time. Not unless you want my lads charging in here. You can’t shoot me either. You’ve gone to all this trouble for answers. Kill me, and you’ll get none.’ He smiled. ‘I think I’ve just owned you.’
Victor nodded. ‘You’re right. But your outfit is already down the three-man crew you sent after Gisele.’ He took a step and stamped his heel down hard on to the temple of the unconscious man. ‘Now you’re down four men.’
Moran shrugged away his shock and kept himself composed. ‘They’re company assets. You think they’re irreplaceable? You think I can’t put more guys on the payroll?’
‘Again, you’re right. So I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I can’t shoot or torture you, so if you don’t answer my questions I’m going to turn around and walk out of here.’
‘Quelle surprise. Run along now, bitch. Consider this a free lesson in who not to fuck with. Next lesson, I’ll have to charge. The price is your worthless life.’
Victor continued, ‘Then, after I’ve disappeared into the night, you’re going to hear from me again. The four you’ve lost so far will become ten by this time tomorrow. And I won’t stop there. I’ll keep picking them off. On the streets. In their homes. When you’re collecting product. When you’re delivering it. You’re going to struggle moving and protecting the same quantity as before. You’ll be spread thin. Thin means vulnerable. You can hire more men, sure, but as quickly as I can kill them? And before word hits the street that your organisation is haemorrhaging numbers? Can you rebuild your strength before your rivals decide it’s the right time to move in and take over? How are your suppliers going to react when they learn you’re being picked apart? How are you going to convince more men to put themselves into my crosshairs when new guys don’t survive the first twenty-four hours in your employment? How are you going to keep the loyalty of your existing men when you’re willing to let them die? And for what? To protect whoever hired you? Did they really pay you that much? Are you that scared of them?’
Moran didn’t blink. ‘You’re nuts.’
‘There’s a good chance of that, yes. What’s it going to be? Am I going to walk out of that door or am I going to walk out of that door and come back later?’
‘Sod it,’ Moran breathed. ‘It’s just a job. I didn’t get paid that much. It was a favour, okay? Whatever this is about, whoever you are, I’ve got nothing to do with that girl. I was asked to snatch her. That’s all. Bundle her into the back of a car and drop her off.’
‘Who asked you for this favour?’
‘Andrei Linnekin.’
‘Who is that?’
‘One of my suppliers. My main supplier. He ships the shit over here from wherever the hell it comes from. Afghanistan or some other hole. He asked me to get the girl as a favour.’
‘Where can I find Mr Linnekin?’
‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t know where he lives or operates from.’
‘Then how were you supposed to contact him when you had Gisele in your possession?’
‘Phone him, of course.’
‘Give me his number.’
Moran hesitated. ‘Look, if I do that and you go and fuck up his shit, he’s going to know I told you, isn’t he?’
‘And?’
‘What do you mean and? He’s Russian mafia, isn’t he? He’s with one of those commie outfits that own half of London.’
‘So?’
‘Are you soft in the head? You mess with him and he’s going to put a straight razor through all my tendons and leave me in the sewer for the rats to eat. Do you know how I know he’ll do that? Eh? Because I’ve seen him do it to someone else who betrayed him. Why do you think he had me there to see it? So I would know to never do the same.’
‘You’ve already told me his name, so my incentive for keeping you alive is rapidly diminishing. Either you give me his number or I look for it myself while you try to keep your guts inside your body.’
Moran picked the mobile phone from the glass coffee table and tossed it to Victor. He caught it in his free hand.
‘His number is in there,’ Moran said.
‘You’ve made the right choice.’
‘You are crazy, aren’t you?’ Moran asked. ‘You kill my men, break into my place of business, threaten me and now you’re going after the Russian mafia. And all for some woman. I take it she’s your girlfriend or your sister, right? She has to be, for you to do this.’
Victor shook his head. ‘I’ve never met her.’
TWENTY-THREE
The morning was cold and damp after the night’s downpour. Puddles reflected the diseased sky above. Andrei Linnekin climbed out of his silver custom Bentley. He sipped from a tall takeaway cup of coffee – latte with a double shot of hazelnut syrup. Two of his men were already on the pavement, one facing each way. He was glad to see they were alert. They had better always be alert. He paid them enough to ensure they never blinked. He was a powerful man. One of the handful of men that were trusted by the bosses back in the old country to run London. That brought him enormous wealth and influence, but also made him a prime target for all manner of criminals. Two more of his men exited the Bentley after him.
‘You and you,’ Linnekin said, pointing. ‘Stay here and keep an eye on my baby.’ He stroked the car’s bonnet, revelling in the squeak of skin against the polished paintwork. ‘I want her kept safe. She’s delicate.’
He crossed the road. Traffic was almost non-existent in this part of the city, especially at this time of day. The street cut through an abandoned industrial complex. It was huge. A chemical plant of some sort. Linnekin didn’t know the specifics and he didn’t need to know. What mattered was it had closed down over a decade ago. The whole neighbourhood was industrial. There were no residences or other commercial properties. It was as close to isolated as anywhere in the godforsaken metropolis could be. The complex was the Russian’s favourite place in which to conduct the occasional torture or execution. His men could work over some poor hapless soul for days on end without concern of discovery.
A chain-link fence surrounded the complex but there were several holes made by junkies looking for somewhere to shoot up or smoke rock. They didn’t do so any more.
Not since Linnekin’s men had put half of them in the hospital and the other half in the morgue. Word of these things spread. There were safer places to get a fix. The first of Linnekin’s men held open one such hole for his boss to climb through.
Linnekin wore designer jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. The shirt had three buttons unfastened at the top to show off the solid gold jewellery glinting among his chest hair. His thick wrists were similarly adorned. His open-toe sandals kept his feet cool and dry. There was no sun for his sunglasses to filter but he rarely took them off. He was unarmed because he was always unarmed. He didn’t need to carry a piece when all of his men did.
He made his way across the wasteland lying between the fence and one of the complex’s factory buildings. The ground was made up of uneven concrete slabs, cheaply laid and now cracked and warped. Grass had sprung up along the joins. There was a bad smell in the air: old chemicals and rust. He checked his watch. He was five minutes late and counting but he didn’t care. Linnekin owned the city. People waited for him, not the other way around. Sometimes he would be deliberately late to meetings with men of no small worth to show them he feared no one; to show them in turn who should be feared.
One of his men walked ahead, the other behind, footsteps loud on the hard ground. He passed a perforated oil drum, blackened by soot. Litter had collected along the factory wall. London was a dirty town, made filthier by its inhabitants, who didn’t give a shit about it. No pride, Linnekin thought, tossing his mostly empty coffee cup to the ground.
The lead man stepped through an open doorway. There was no door. Linnekin followed. He took off his sunglasses. The smell of chemicals was metallic and pungent. He’d never grown used to it. Concrete rubble from a collapsed ceiling covered the floor. The hole above was huge. Steel reinforcement bars hung down from around the opening, twisted and rusted. Linnekin heard the scurrying of rodents as he walked through the rubble, careful where he placed his feet. He should have thought about that and worn better footwear. He wore sandals as his feet would sweat even in a snowstorm. He glanced up through the hole in the ceiling. A square shaft rose straight upwards until it disappeared into the darkness. Water dripped on his head. Linnekin cursed and rubbed his hair. He cursed again, brushing his palm against the thigh of his jeans to wipe off some of the styling product.
