by Andy Remic
Anger took her then; took her in claws and threw her round the room. Mia was a woman who knew what she wanted – and got what she wanted. People did not laugh at her. Rage built in her chest. Fury pounded her with mighty fists. She swam on a red mist, and when she spoke her voice was low, and dangerous, and flecked with spittle. ‘Yeah, you laugh it up, cunt, you laugh it up real well. You’re a fucking coward, sitting there – with me all trussed up and helpless. Well, let me tell you, cunt, when I get my hands free I’m going to cut you up. You might rape me, you might stab me or shoot me, but you better fucking do the job right because I’ll find you, I’ll castrate you while you sleep – and feed you your own fucking balls for breakfast.’
Silence. Followed by...
A figure, close by.
Mia sensed rather than saw the man. She half–cringed, expecting more blows to pound her frail, shackled body. Instead, the gravelled voice spoke close by her ear, words tickling her with warmth and proximity.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said the voice.
A hand reached up, plucked the tape covering her eyes and binding her hair in a sticky clump. It tore free, ripping her eye lashes out, yanking her head to one side and dragging yet more fine brown curls away in huge trails. Mia didn’t cry out this time; her face was puckered into a snarl, eyes blinking in the gloom of the...
Where the hell am I? she wondered.
She squinted.
Slowly, her eyes began to adjust. It was a room, a square room with a high ceiling disappearing into vertical blackness. High above, wrist–thick pipes ran in parallel shafts. Some pipes hissed, dripped water to puddles on the dark concrete below, and a couple let off wisps of steam from leaking joints. The walls were black brick, old and crumbled, and through a brick archway ahead Mia could see a narrow low tunnel leading away lit by dangling bulbs on arcs of electric cable. Around the room sat wooden crates stamped in languages Mia could not read. And before her was –
A chair.
Mia shook her head, looked up at her hands chained above her head. A single thick chain connected to a broad meat–hook disappeared into the gloom. She had been hoisted onto the hook like a quartered side of beef. She looked down. Her feet dangled a couple of feet off the ground.
Again, her eyes moved around the chamber. It was curiously warm, and filled with strange contrasting smells – but, underlying them all came an aroma, a deep and terrible stench. The smell of something bad.
Mia glanced around. Where was her captor? Where was the bastard who threatened rape and murder?
‘You hiding in the shadows, you shit?’ Her voice snarled with contempt. Wiggling her legs, Mia could make herself swing on the chains – which rattled, links clanking together. Gradually her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The chair set before her was old, the wood smooth and polished by years of use. It had been set facing her. So that somebody could... watch?
‘Come out!’ she said, squinting into the shadows. ‘You scared of showing your fucking face?’
‘Not at all,’ said the gravelled voice.
There came a movement from the darkness, and into the pool of light beside the chair stepped –
An old woman.
Mia blinked, her mouth dropping open.
‘You’re not a man,’ she said.
‘The last time I looked, no,’ said the old woman in that same husky drawl. She sat on the chair, and Mia noted the two guns she carried. One a rifle, one a sawn–off double–barrel shotgun. The old woman reached down, placed the weapons gently against the floor with clacks, then sat back and placed her hands on her knees. She looked up, looked up at Mia with piercing blue eyes set in a wrinkled, time–ravaged face that, despite its age, exuded an incredible strength.
‘I... I thought...’
‘You thought wrong, my black dove.’
‘What do you want with me?’
‘I want nothing. Now, I want only... your silence.’
Mia blinked again, panting, licking her lips. What the hell’s going on? screamed her brain. Surely it wasn’t this little old dear who poked and prodded and beat me all the way to this torture chamber? Was it? Surely I can’t have been in the boot of her car? She can’t have lifted me out? Brought me here? Hoisted me onto this hook? I mean... just look at her. But the more Mia looked, the more she grew incredibly uncomfortable. The old woman was old – yes, certainly, a victim of the natural ageing process. And yet she sat with back straight, eyes fixed, hands steady. She wore a black baggy dress, short ankle boots, a grey cardigan. Hardly the stuff of gangster legend. Hardly the stuff of horror movies!
Mia felt a bubble of hysterical giggles welling in her chest. But then her eyes fell to the sawn–off shotgun. It was black. The edges of the barrel were chipped. The stock was battered, scratched, used. This wasn’t some weapon dragged from the display case of a country mansion. This was a working gun. A weapon that had seen battle.
‘You had a good looksie now, little lady?’ The old woman tilted her head, was smiling. ‘I know you have many questions, little dove, and all will be answered in due course.’
‘Why have you brought me here?’
The old woman lifted a finger gnarled like tempered oak, and placed it against her lips. She closed her eyes. ‘Shh,’ she said. It was little more than an exhalation.
Then she opened her eyes.
‘I thought you were Vladimir!’ blurted Mia, unable to contain herself. She could feel panic rising. Could feel her whole world – and battlement sections of her sanity – crumbling.
‘Vladimir?’ said the old woman with a frown, climbing to her feet. She picked up the shotgun. Strangely, this was quite the most frightening image Mia had ever seen. ‘No, my black dove. My name is not Vladimir.’
‘Then... who are you?’
The blue eyes locked on her. When she spoke, her voice was low, words steady, impassive face carved from mahogany. There was no frailty in this woman. No weakness. No sign of... age. Just an impression of strength. Of potency, power, and resolve.
‘You can call me Stolichnaya,’ she said.
As adrenaline burned low like an extinguishing candle, so Callaghan slowed his speed and contemplated his position. The BMW thumped beneath him, vibrations tingling cold fingers, and snow gathered on his shoulders as he pulled the bike in to the side of the road. He opened his visor, sucked in cold London air, felt the tentative touch of snowflakes on his skin.
The street was dark, tarmac damp, small piles of snow huddled in doorways and against kerbs. Some shops had wide windows lit bright displaying wares behind toughened glass; several had heavy steel shutters, yoof graffiti a display of covert urban challenge.
The place was dead.
Callaghan lifted his eyes, stared ahead. Watched traffic lights turn from green to red, then back again through winking amber, their glow reflected against the gloss road. He glanced behind himself, watched a lone black cab waddle up the street and turn right into a narrow roadway. It disappeared, engine coughing on its diesel narcotic.
Silence.
What to do? Callaghan stared at the traffic lights. OK. McGuinness is dead, Vlad and his men – most of them, at any rate – down and out of the game. His apartment was definitely out of bounds; if Vlad still lived, along with that mad killer Volos, that’s the first place they’d try to connect with him. So...
Cal shivered.
Mia, he thought. And Jimmy. Both had habits of dropping by his apartment. He had to warn them; but then, Mia never answered her phone (out of basic stubborn principal) and Jimmy had headed off for a night on the beer after his battering at the hands of Volos – as was Jimmy’s hardcore Glaswegian way.
Cal shook his head, remembering the fight between Volos and Vladimir. It had been... awesome. Brutal, but awesome. Like a raging, bare–knuckle bout between unrecognised world–champions.
And... where did Sophie come into all of this? Just what the hell was going on? What kind of rat–shit had his life turned into? What, in the name of fuck, had happened to the world?
<
br /> Cal fumbled for his mobile, then realised with a grimace it was back at his penthouse. ‘Shit.’ The sound spat on a stream of cold air, and he realised with a shiver that ice was seeping into his boots, creeping through rips in his jeans, invading down the throat of his jacket. His fingers were numb, face chilled, toes carved from ice. And pain stabbed him from a hundred minor places, all becoming more prominent as he focused on them, vying for attention, worming their way from behind a coke and whisky protective screen.
A vibration thrummed through the world. Cal thought he heard the rumble of a bike; deep and growling, an animal in a cage. And a sliver of corrupt ice pierced his heart.
No. It can’t be...
Cal turned, eyes widened in horror. Towards him, snarling, devoid of lights, came the stocky black bike he had watched take out the gun–laden Romanians. The engine pounded. And the rider...
It could only be one of the two men.
And to Cal, both were insane, psychotic and ready to kill...
He knocked down his visor and pulled the BMW away from the kerb. The roar of the black bike’s engine cut through the sound–proofing of his helmet, and without looking back Callaghan opened his machine hard, wheel lifting from the ground as he clamped himself to the tank and shot down the darkened carriageway.
The black bike stayed with him. He could hear it. Feel it; feel the rumbles through his belly.
A road flashed to the right, and Cal stomped the back brake, dropping a gear, leaning over until the engine covers were scraping the tarmac and his knee touched the ground. The BMW growled beneath him, telelever suspension as solid as a rock as Cal muttered a hurried prayer to the God of Grip. He slammed round the corner, onto a bridge lined with stone, shot ahead. He heard the screech of tyres behind him, fancied he could smell burning rubber.
Cal roared away, slammed left down a narrow dark alley. Weaving between bins, he careered from the end onto a main road and into the path of Range Rover; leaning hard, engine howling, he mounted the pavement, missed a bin by inches, then slammed back onto the road with a crunch of wheel–rims and a slosh of displaced snow.
He glanced back over his shoulder. To see the black bike appear, weaving around the now stationary Range Rover, and accelerating towards him powerfully like a stroboscopic image in a computer game.
Cal opened the throttle. The BMW lurched forward. And... the black bike drew alongside him, and Cal glanced left, could see Volos low down over the tank, no helmet or protective clothing, eyes focused on the road ahead, black hair streaming.
His head turned. Eyes connected. Volos nodded.
Cal frowned, opened his bike full, watched the needle dance up the tachometer. A line of cars appeared, stationary at red lights, snow peppering their bonnets. Cal maintained his speed, and risked another tentative glance. Volos was still watching him. Needle teeth glinted in the sulphur glow of the streetlights.
‘Bastard.’
The BMW screamed towards the row of cars, and at over a hundred mph slammed between two with a hiss of proximity and onwards, out onto the empty roadway. High buildings swept to each side. Snow slush parted beneath his front tyre. And there –
Once more, the black bike rumbled beside him.
Again, Cal slammed his bike right down a narrow side–street, and through a red light. Volos followed, his huge black v–twin rumbling and pounding and refusing to miss a beat. Cal swerved left, mounting the pavement, heading down a pedestrianised zone and hoping – praying! – a police car would see him and take up pursuit. But on this eerie, snow–filled evening the London streets were filled with nothing more than ghosts. Shit.
Volos pulled alongside. They swept past shop fronts, winter flower displays, bins and benches. Cal flicked open his visor. ‘Why don’t you fuck off!’ he screamed.
Volos surged ahead, then started to nudge his bike right, his intention obvious; Cal would be forced into the shop fronts, forced to slow and halt... and then... then what?
Cal clenched his brakes, and the BMW howled, tyres smoking, shuddering to an abrupt halt. He spun the bike 180º held on the front Nissin, rear wheel spinning and whining, tyre smoking, then shot like a bullet in the opposite direction weaving between two benches, rear wheel almost clipping a lamppost. He burst onto the road again, knee down as he skimmed a roundabout, and with headlights illuminating a line of glossy, snow–covered parked cars and rows of shadow–windowed terraced houses, he headed for the motorway...
Cal opened the BMW full. Full.
The world flashed by in a blur.
Yet still he heard the powerful V–twin come thumping up behind. Slamming around another roundabout, Cal sped down a slip–road towards the M25 with Volos in close pursuit. Snow was building on the slip road, and they hammered through the packed powder, wheels skimming and sliding, and then out onto the three–lane carriageway.
Despite the time there were cars moving slowly through the gradually building snow. Cal powered forward, bike humming beneath him, all sense of danger gone and lost as only one aim focused at the forefront of his mind... to get away. To get away from Volos; to get away from Vladimir; to get away from bastard men with guns and blades and the apparently singular aim of turning Callaghan into pâté. A panic settled numbly over Cal’s mind. No longer did he function like a normal, logical human being. Only one goal filled his horizon from edge to blood–tinged edge; only one aim filled his world like the nuclear blossoming of realisation in the skull of a hunted animal.
Flight. The need to get away.
Cars blatted angry horns as Cal slammed left and right, tyres sliding, BMW lurching and screaming as tyres spun and sprayed snow. He veered right, for a moment only inches from the central reservation, then braked – a spark of bright red – and moved left to manoeuvre round a large wagon. On a surge of power the BM roared, and Callaghan wasn’t even looking behind as cars and lights reared and dazzled from the darkness and he skated and slid around them at terrific speed, the bike growling and surging, braking and sliding, until realisation slammed him in the face and the knowledge of an impending death dawned like the rising of a new sun.
This will kill you, said a tiny, calm part of his brain.
It nestled amidst the chaos, like an angel lost in The Pit.
Forget razors and guns.
This motorbike, this snow, right now – it will kill you...
And he remembered getting his first bike. Sullivan, standing alongside him as they smoked a couple of Marlboros and stared with love and affection at the gleaming 400cc Honda CBR parallel import. It was a bit battered, a bit chipped, with a bald rear tyre and a cracked mirror. But hey, it was Callaghan’s first real big bike. And the thrill buzzed him through to his very core...
Sullivan placed a hand on his shoulder, smoke pluming around face. ‘I can only give you one piece of advice, Callaghan.’
‘Yeah, what’s that?’
‘This bike, mate. Just remember one thing. You must show her respect. Or she will kill you. No second chance, no messing about. Bikes are life–takers. They don’t suffer fools.’
And here he was – Cal glanced down through gathered tears of cold – doing 117mph in the snow on a slow–crawl stretch of M25. He eased off the throttle instantly. Words came drifting to him, from a haze of recent torture, from smoke–filled dreams of the past few hours of this – his unreal life...
But I will not always be so tolerant. I will not always be so merciful. You will come with me, Callaghan. You will come with me and you will bear witness; you will watch as I carve the bones. You will watch as I despatch the Deviant.
By running, Callaghan was putting everybody at risk. He was putting himself at risk, but more importantly, he was putting Sophie and Sullivan and Mia and Jimmy, putting all their lives on the line. But hey, you’re Callaghan right? A hard drinking womanising no good son–of–a–bitch, live for today, take any designer drug in the world, fuck anything that moves and steal anything that doesn’t... and to hell with consequences! Callaghan – the
man who put head into hedonism sex into sexuality cunt into continental. Why should you give a fuck?
Cal shivered. Volos was a madman: but worse, he was a madman with knowledge and a madman with intelligence and a madman with a mission. But worse of all, he had ability. To get the job done. Cal had realised that, watching Volos take out the Romanians... This was not some coked–up addict horny for a taste of serial killing action with a six–figure future book deal in his mind, to be written from the comfort of a padded cell at a later date as he watched SKY, drank vodka and received a “professional” lady visit once a week... No.
This was... if there could be such a thing... professional. And very, very real.
For once in his life, Cal thought about all those people he loved.
Thought about their lives. Instead of his own.
A slip–road loomed and Callaghan cruised up the lane, rolling to a crunching snow–stop in a lay–by just before the roundabout entrance. The BMW stuttered, coughed, and the engine died. Cal glanced behind. The black motorcycle had gone. Volos had gone.
‘Shit.’
He worked free his gloves and helmet, suddenly realising how terribly cold he was. It was inside him; in his core. Pins-and-needles of ice ate his toes. His eyes scanned from left to right, back down the slip–road, white and smooth and treacherous, with only his own tyre marks showing a trail. Beyond that, the dazzle of headlights shone as cars crawled their way carefully through the fluttering of heavy white flakes.
He looked up. Snow settled on his face.
Where’s he gone? Where has that bastard gone? Crashed in the snow? Callaghan gave a little smile. I really hope so. But... Got to move, he thought. Got to warn Mia and Jimmy. And... tell the police. Tell Bronagh. About McGuinness. That poor bastard. And about the shootings at his underground lockup. Maybe even Bronagh was at risk? A target for this Volos madman?
Christ, what a mess.
What happened to my life?
What happened to my sanity?
What happened to my whole easy–going world?
Cal fired the BMW, pulled on his helmet, and rode through the slippery slush. It took him ten minutes to locate a call box, on a lonely stretch of road beside a copse of snow–laden, crooked trees. Their frames were skeletal; diseased and dead. He stood the bike on its stand, eased his rigid wooden frame from the saddle, and hobbled to the box. Chilled fingers struggled to push money in the slot, and as the phone rang, so Cal analysed scrapes and cuts on the back of one hand from before – a million years earlier – when the Suzuki GSXR was shot from under him.
