by Mark Dawson
Nadia screamed.
Milton turned and quickly located the others.
Llazar had freed himself from Hicks and was rising to his feet. His gun was on the floor, dislodged during the struggle.
Florin was getting up, too, a knife in his fist.
Pasko went for the blade on the table.
Three on one.
Florin squared up to him. He had blood running out of his nose from where Milton had struck him. Milton could see that the man was a comfortable and adept fighter: his weight was evenly balanced, and his arms were loose and moving freely as he passed the knife from hand to hand.
Milton sensed movement and turned as Llazar swung the wooden chair at him. Milton had just long enough to raise his arms to cover his head, and the chair broke across his right shoulder and the top of his arm.
Florin sprang forward and slashed down. Milton sprang away into the middle of the room, the knife nicking his shoulder. Pain flashed. Milton ignored it.
Florin had overstretched and unbalanced himself. Milton stepped up, wrapped his arms around the bigger man’s waist, and heaved up, lifting him off the floor and bringing him across the room until they both clattered into the parilla. Milton slammed Florin down onto it, the sudden impact enough to send them both through the metal grid and onto the floor between the frame.
Llazar grabbed Milton from behind and yanked him up. Florin disengaged himself from the wrecked frame as Milton put his feet on the metal and pushed back, toppling Llazar.
Florin stabbed again at Milton’s gut just as Hicks arched his back and kicked out at the big man. The top of his foot cracked into Florin’s elbow. His thrust was redirected, the tip of the knife flashing across Milton’s skin, scoring a narrow trench from his breast down to his navel.
Milton was lying atop Llazar.
“Milton!” Hicks warned.
Florin drew back with the knife and stabbed down. Milton intercepted the downward thrust and redirected it, the six-inch blade disappearing into Llazar’s shoulder. Milton held the blade there as Florin tried to free it and then drilled the point of his elbow into the bigger man’s face. Florin’s nose exploded, even more blood spilling out to mingle with the flow that had already been discharged. He slumped to the side, the back of his head bouncing against the concrete.
Florin fell flat and then lay still.
Milton quickly looked up.
Pasko had grabbed Nadia and now he was backing away, the smashed parilla standing between them.
Milton twisted the knife in Llazar’s shoulder and then yanked it out.
Llazar screamed in pain.
Milton put the blade to Llazar’s throat, pushed down and swept it to the right in a firm, fluid motion. The blade cut deep enough to sever the windpipe. Blood pulsed out of the wide incision, spraying up and splashing over Milton’s skin.
Milton spun at the sound of a slamming door. The door through which Pasko had entered was closed; the older man had fled. He turned. Nadia wasn’t there. Milton gasped for breath and looked down at his body. He was covered in blood: some of it his own, most of it from the men that he had disabled.
He turned to Hicks. “You okay?”
“Fine. Go and get her.”
Milton ran for the door.
Chapter Fifty-Five
THE DOOR WAS LOCKED.
Shit.
Pasko had abandoned his son to buy himself a little extra time.
“Milton.”
He turned back into the room. Hicks nodded to Florin. He was starting to stir.
Milton went to Llazar’s body. The blood was still bubbling out of his neck, the force stilled now that his heart had stopped pumping. Milton frisked the body quickly and expertly and pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket. There was only one key on the ring that could fit the bracelet around Hicks’s wrist, and, when Milton tried it, the cuff popped open.
“Nadia,” Hicks said.
“They’ll be long gone by now.” Milton angled his chin in Florin’s direction. “But he’s left us with him.”
Milton unlocked the bracelet that was still attached to the wall and went over to Florin. The big man was coming around. Milton turned him over onto his stomach and cuffed his hands behind his back.
Hicks was kneeling over Sarah’s body.
“Dead?”
Hicks nodded.
“Don’t worry. He’ll pay. But we’ve got to get out of here.”
“I know.”
“Florin, too. Take his legs.”
Hicks grabbed Florin by the ankles and Milton grasped him beneath the shoulders. Between them, they carried him through the door through which they had entered the room.
#
THEY WERE IN THE BASEMENT OF THE BUILDING.
The floor was used for storage; Milton found a room full of empty coffins and another with bottles of chemicals. A third room was equipped with another stainless steel table that was gently cambered toward a drain in the middle. The table, and the other equipment around it, was self-evidently used for the preparation of bodies. The more Milton considered it, the more he was impressed with what Pasko had built. The business would be useful for washing the dirty money from his illicit operations and would offer additional side benefits, too: it made the importation of new workers for the brothels both simple and reliable.
And, he suspected, access to cremation would be a useful way to dispose of bodies.
Hicks found his clothes in a storage cupboard and dressed.
Milton collected his own clothes from the room with the parilla and took them to a small bathroom at the end of the corridor. There was a cracked mirror on the wall and Milton regarded himself: he was a mess. There was a cut in his eyebrow from where he had been butted; his shoulder was discoloured with a darkening bruise from where the chair had been broken over him; he had bloody wounds on his shoulder and chest where Florin’s knife had scored him. Beyond his own wounds, he had more blood on his face and down his body from the three men he had taken out.
He took a handful of toilet paper and mopped off as much of the blood as he could. It wasn’t ideal, and plenty was left smeared across his skin, but there was no time to be more thorough.
There was one more room to check. Milton forced the door and found his pistol and the flick knife that he had confiscated from Hamza.
He pocketed both and went back to the preparation room.
Florin was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his chin resting on his chest. Hicks had thrown water in Florin’s face; the blood from his crushed nose had been diluted and smeared, staining his shirt, but he was finally coming around. He opened his eyes, closed them again, and then tried to move his arms. The cuffs rattled behind his back, and his eyes opened for a second time, his face switching from confusion to anger.
“Wake up,” Milton said.
Florin looked up at him with no attempt to disguise the hatred in his eyes.
“Where are we?”
Florin spat at Milton; the gobbet landed at his feet.
Milton took out the balisong and snapped the blade open. He reached down with his left hand, grabbed Florin by the chin, and raised his head so that his neck was exposed. “I’ve killed one of your friends this evening,” Milton said, laying the edge of the blade against his larynx. “Don’t think you’re a special snowflake. Answer the question.”
Florin paused, weighing up how much trouble he was in—and deciding, perhaps, that it was rather a lot—and cleared his throat. “North London.”
“Where?”
“Kilburn.”
“Do you have a car?”
“Outside.”
Milton nodded to Hicks and they both reached down to bring Florin up to his feet.
“Which way is out?” Milton asked. “Up?”
Florin nodded.
#
MILTON LEFT HICKS to help Florin up the stairs and went on ahead. He drew the pistol and held it ready as he emerged into a small lobby. There were three doors:
the door to his right led to a chapel of rest, the door directly ahead opened into a tastefully decorated office where the undertaker could meet prospective clients, and the door to the left led outside. It was ajar. Milton was reluctant to use it.
“Is there another way out?”
“Through the office,” Florin said. “There’s a fire door.”
“Where’s your car?”
“In the car park.”
“Keys?”
“In my jacket pocket. Hanging up over there.”
There was a large padded leather jacket on a hat stand in the corner of the lobby. Milton took it and emptied the pockets: he found a bunch of keys, a wallet and a mobile phone.
He held the phone out. “Passcode?”
Florin recited a six-figure combination and, when Milton entered it, the phone unlocked.
“Your father’s number?”
“The last number I called.”
Milton scrolled to the relevant page and saw an outgoing call from earlier that day. The call was credited to BABA.
He put the items back into the pockets, slipped the jacket on, opened the door, and made his way into the office. The room was dark. There was a single window, but it was covered by a blind and it was dusk outside. There was a single desk with a PC, a keyboard and a mouse, together with a neatly arranged tray of stationery. Milton paused, collected a stapler and slid it into his pocket. He crossed to a door that was opened with a panic bar. Milton edged up to the door and, with the pistol in his right hand, he reached out with his left and pushed down on the bar.
The door swung open. There was a car park outside. A black BMW 750 was parked ten feet away. It was the only vehicle that he could see. He waited for a moment, looking up and down the street beyond the car park. The undertaker’s was screened by a wall and several neatly trimmed trees, and he could see a row of illuminated awnings and the occasional car that passed by. He didn’t recognise the location.
Hicks brought Florin to the door.
There was no sign of anyone outside. No sign that anyone was observing him. No sign that Pasko was still here.
Milton reached for the keys and blipped the lock. The BMW’s lights flashed and, with a second press, the powered tailgate began to rise.
Milton ducked down and hurried outside. He made it to the car without incident. Pasko was long gone.
He looked into the trunk. It was spacious and offered more than enough room for Florin.
He turned back and gestured that Hicks should bring Florin outside. Milton helped him to manoeuvre the bigger man inside, arranging him so that he was lying on his side with his knees up against his chest and his wrists behind his back. Milton closed the boot and got into the front of the car. Hicks slid in next to him.
“We need to set up an exchange,” Milton said. “Nadia for Florin.”
“You trust Pasko?”
“No. But he’s lost one son. You think he wants to lose the other?”
“I doubt it. Are you going to call him?”
“His number’s in Florin’s phone.”
“Where are you going to suggest?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
MILTON DROVE for ten minutes until he was well away from the undertaker’s. He parked at the side of the road and took out Florin’s phone. He entered the passcode, navigated to the phone menu, and flicked through until he had the number for BABA. He pressed dial.
The call rang three times before it was answered.
“Florin?”
“Milton.”
Pasko paused before he responded. “It appears that I owe you an apology, Mr. Milton. You are a resourceful man. I underestimated you.”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“Perhaps. But I have something that you want. The girl. She is here, with me. It will be a simple thing to punish her for the inconvenience that she has caused.”
“Florin might have a different view about that.”
There was no response. Milton could hear the hush of traffic on the other end of the line. Milton waited for Pasko to speak.
“What do you propose?”
“An exchange.”
“My son for the whore?”
“That’s right.”
There was another pause as Pasko considered the offer. “I need to speak to Florin,” he said.
“No,” Milton said. “He’s alive. You’ll have to trust me.”
“Then there will be no exchange.”
“I’m not a fool, Pasko. I don’t speak Albanian. I don’t want him telling you something that might be unhelpful to me. You know I want the girl. I know you want him. I don’t have a hand to play if he’s dead.”
There was no response. He heard the muffled sound of a car horn and then the sound of voices.
“Fine,” Pasko said. “We will meet. Florin for the whore. Where?”
“The Golden Jubilee Bridge. You know it?”
“Yes.”
“The side nearest to the Houses of Parliament.” He looked at the clock in the dashboard. “I’ll meet you in the middle of the bridge. One hour. Bring the girl. I’ll bring your boy.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
MILTON FOUND A QUIET SPOT on the way to the rendezvous. He parked up and went around to the trunk. Hicks joined him.
“Ready?”
Hicks nodded.
“On three. One, two, three.”
They lifted Florin out of the trunk and marched him around to the back of the car. He slid onto the seat, his arms still pressed awkwardly behind his back. Milton gave Hicks the key to the cuffs and his pistol.
“Get in next to him,” he said. “Put a bullet in his knee if he causes any trouble.”
“With pleasure.”
“Take the cuffs off when we get close.”
Hicks indicated that Florin should shuffle across to the other side and got into the back with him. Milton closed the door and went around to the trunk. He shrugged off Florin’s heavy leather jacket and took the flick knife and stapler from his pocket. He spread the jacket out so that he could get to the lining and, working carefully, inserted the blade of the knife between it and the leather. He sliced open a small incision, just big enough for him to slide three fingers inside, took his phone from his pocket and slid it inside. He took the stapler, fed both sides of the sliced-open liner into its mouth, and stapled them together. He repeated the procedure two more times. He was happy with his handiwork when he was done.
He got back into the car and continued into the centre of the city.
#
MILTON PARKED the BMW on Embankment Place. It was an arcade of shops beneath the mass of the Hungerford railway bridge. Embankment underground station was behind them, with a Costa Coffee on the corner. The car was alongside Action Bikes and opposite a business that specialised in commercial scuba gear. The area was lit by harsh artificial lights that were fitted to the underside of the bridge. There was a stream of pedestrians disappearing into the underground station and emerging from it. A man and a woman staggered by the car, both of them obviously drunk, arm in arm to lend each other support.
“Ready?” Milton said.
“You sure about this?”
“I am.”
Milton stepped out of the car and went back to the door next to Florin. He took the knife from his pocket, held it to the window so that Florin could see it, and then opened the door. The Albanian slid out.
“Take it easy,” Milton said.
He reached into the car, collected Florin’s heavy leather jacket, and handed it to him. The big man put it on. Milton put his hand on Florin’s shoulder and guided him to the front of the car. Hicks stepped out, the small gun hidden within the folds of his open jacket.
“This way,” Milton said, nudging Florin in the back.
They set off to the south, between the pillars that supported the bridge. Florin was in the front with Milton within touching distance and Hicks just behind him and to the side. Milt
on didn’t expect trouble from Florin. He had seen a demonstration of what Milton was capable of, and he knew that Hicks was armed and had very good reason to bear a grudge. And he knew that he was about to be handed over to his father. The trouble—and there would be trouble—would come later.
They emerged onto the pavement at Northumberland Avenue. There was a green cabmen’s shelter on the corner, and Milton thought of the similar shelter in Russell Square where he had worked until recently. They passed the shelter and reached the double flight of steps that led up to the bridge. Milton guided Florin to the steps.
“Up.”
They ascended. There were two pedestrian bridges across the river, one each side of the old Hungerford railway bridge that ferried trains between Charing Cross and Waterloo. The bridges were both deceptively light, contrasting with the bulk of the old concrete and iron railway bridge that they enclosed. There were more people on the bridge, men and women crossing to and from the South Bank. It was busy; that was good. There were CCTV cameras, too; that was also good. The potential witnesses and the fact that everything was recorded increased the odds that the exchange would go down without incident.
They continued out across the dark waters of the Thames, looking down as a squat tug muscled three garbage-filled barges to the north, running against the tide. The Houses of Parliament were to the right and, opposite them on the other side of the river, was the floodlit wheel of the London Eye and the vast hulk of the old city hall.
