"It's too dark," she said. "You can't see anything."
He peeled back some shredded material and pushed gently. Her eyes were full of tears, but she didn't say a word. He took a bandana from his pocket, folded it and put it over the wound. "Bullet's lodged in there. Keep the pressure on the wound. I'll be back in five minutes."
Bedlam Boy stood up. Debbie's voice shook.
"And if you're not?"
"Then you'll be dead in ten."
The Boy jogged across the roof and leaped for the tree, sacrificing a near-silent descent for speed. He had an idea.
Chapter Eleven
Phillips reeled from the enormity of the cluster-fuck this operation had turned into. It should have been simple. Winter had warned them the target was trained, both with weapons and in hand-to-hand combat. But he also said Tom Lewis was mad. In Philips’s experience as a soldier—first for his country, then for money—the berserker insanity that turned competent fighters into killing machines was worse than useless. Berserkers not only disobeyed orders, they disregarded everything they'd learned. Yes, he witnessed men and women draw on incredible reserves to slaughter multiple opponents with an ease that made no logical sense. But berserkers rarely survived long enough for anyone to learn anything of use from them. It didn't matter how fast, or how powerful, a blood-crazed fighter became. They were made of meat and blood, and that was how they ended up. They also forgot whose side they fought on. If Tom Lewis was mad, it gave his team an advantage.
Not, Phillips thought, as he gritted his teeth, grabbed his left arm with his right hand, and yanked his dislocated shoulder back into its socket, that they should need an advantage. Four on one, with a hostage, and the element of surprise. Still. Spilt milk and all that. He sat in the kitchen, letting his head clear. He had only been unconscious for a few seconds at most, but he knew it would compromise his reactions. Markison's corpse lay on the stairs. Grey and Coulter had stopped signalling five minutes ago.
Outside, something dropped past the window. A shadow flickered. Phillips raised the gun, counted silently to three, stood up. An empty yard. No, not quite. A knife lay in the moonlight, dark with wet blood. He edged closer, saw the rope swaying.
Phillips stared at the knife for ten seconds, then punched his injured shoulder, welcoming the clarity accompanying the pain. He wasn't operating anywhere near his optimum capacity. Time to end this. Either Lewis and Capelli had run, or the dropped knife was supposed to make him believe that. In which case they'd stayed in the bedroom, waiting for him to enter the yard, an easy target.
Either way, he decided, screw Winter. Screw all of this. His team were down. He could live without the other half of Winter's payment, now he didn't have to split it four ways.
Time to cut his losses.
His belt vibrated. One long buzz. He put his hand onto the pager and waited. After ten seconds, it buzzed again. One long buzz. Number one. Coulter. The sniper. Still alive. Must be injured, as he hadn't signalled for ten minutes.
One last chance to salvage this. If Phillips left through the front door, and Lewis tried for a shot from an upstairs window, Coulter would put a bullet through his eye the second after he appeared. Coulter wouldn't have signalled unless back at his post, and the man never missed.
Decision made, Phillips limped through the house to the front door. His right foot ached, but it supported his weight. Torn ligaments. It didn't hurt as much as his back.
He pushed the door open and looked out towards the van, giving Coulter time to spot him. He wondered how many physio sessions it would take to sort out the damage to his back. When he saw the muzzle flashes from the van, he smiled in triumph. Then three bullets hit his chest, and he fell.
Phillips landed face-first, his blood flowing into the crazy paving beneath him. He lived long enough to watch the man they failed to kill emerge from the van and jog back to the house.
Chapter Twelve
It was cold on the roof, but Debbie suspected that wasn't the chief reason for her shivering. She was going into shock. Her mind kept slipping away from the situation, away from the concrete tiles digging into her hip, the rough bricks against her back, and the throbbing wound in her leg.
Going into shock would be bad. And she couldn't rely on Tom. No, she corrected herself, not Tom. The creature who terrified her the previous night. She wasn't the focus of his anger tonight, but she'd witnessed what happened to those that were. And he'd slung her over his shoulder like a summer jacket, clambering up to the roof with the confidence and grace of a circus performer.
He promised to come back for her. She wasn't sure how to feel about that promise.
Her lower back ached. She shifted position, and pain lanced through her leg as if someone had upended a kettle full of boiling water into the wound. Debbie dug her nails into her palms, banging her head back against the chimney to stop herself screaming.
For a while she looked out to sea. She talked to her dead mother about the illegal campfires teenagers lit on the beach during the summer.
—They're just kids, Mum
—Yes, Mum, I know, but that's not how policing works. We have to prioritise. Five kids having a barbecue isn't…
—When did he get so ill? I would have come earlier, Mum. Please don't cry…
—Look, Mummy, I drewed you a picture of a flower
The pain didn't seem important now. She had been warm with her mum in the kitchen just then. Not the Pakefield house, but back in North London, windows rattling every time a train passed. The warm kitchen with pale yellow walls. Debbie's favourite room. Always summer in there, Dad at work, Mum letting her lick cake mix off the beaters.
Debbie snapped back to the cold roof and the throbbing pain in her leg. Definitely shock. And, with no jacket or coat, the risk of hypothermia. How long had she been up here? She didn't think he was coming back.
She shuffled towards the tree at the edge of the roof, putting her weight on both hands to lift her body away from the tiles. As soon as she moved sideways, a fresh stab of pain caused her to gasp and drop back. Fresh tides of agony followed the impact, receding like the waves she saw reflecting the blurred stars.
That option was out, then. She lifted the folded bandana away from her leg. It was soaked red. The bullet might have nicked an artery. If she didn't get to hospital soon, she could die. Her phone was on the table downstairs. No use screaming for help with armed men out there. The thing running around in Tom Lewis's body—Bedlam Boy—was her only hope. God help her.
When her mind began the subtle drift into memory and fantasy again, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. She mustn't pass out. Think about something. Stay awake.
She concentrated on the last few books she'd read. Debbie got through her fair share of thrillers. Police procedurals mostly, because she liked to laugh at the errors when fictional characters investigated crimes. Her personal favourite was a clichéd detective with an alcohol problem. In reality, he would be off the case, off the force, and looking for a job as a security guard within a day of a colleague smelling his breath. Police work was hard and dangerous enough. You relied on your fellow officers. Your life might depend on it. No good trusting a maudlin piss-artist, however stunning his left-field, case-solving deductions.
Despite this, her bookshelf heaved with flawed, depressed detectives. She couldn't get enough of them. Despite trying other literary genres, her ideal escapist read was an unrealistic police procedural with a deeply flawed central character. What that said about her, she didn't know.
On the roof, a bullet in her leg, her life in the care of something she considered half-demon, she kept herself alive by picking apart the plot of the last pot-boiler she'd read.
You can't wander around a crime scene like that, leaving DNA all over the corpse. In the real world, no one would have called you in the first place. If they had, you would have crashed your pretentious sports car, been breathalysed, and spent the night in a cell while someone sober caught the serial k
iller you've been banging for thirty-seven chapters.
When Bedlam Boy climbed back up the tree and joined her by the chimney, she giggled. He said something to her, but she didn't respond. He reached down, put his huge hands under her armpits, and hoisted her onto his back. Debbie passed out.
When Debbie opened her eyes, she was back in bed. Not her own bed, the sheets soaked with her blood. Tom's room. He was there, packing clothes into a rucksack. Tom now, or his alter-ego?
She lifted her head from the pillow. Her vision blurred, and her skull buzzed. When she dropped her head back, the buzzing faded.
Tom faced her. One look at the face showed her it wasn't Tom Lewis.
"I dressed your wound. You lost a lot of blood. You might need a transfusion. I called an ambulance. Three of the bodies are in the backyard. The fourth is in a van outside."
"Did Winter send them?"
"It's not important." He zipped up the rucksack. "I'm leaving."
He opened the door.
"No. Wait."
He didn't turn, but he stopped moving.
"Winter's house. I emailed the lead officer. They think a small team took out all of his people, including John Strickland. The evidence suggests only one perpetrator, although that's implausible. Was it you?"
No answer. The first distant siren became audible.
"All of them? Did you kill Marty Nicholson? Tay Harper? Rhoda Ilích?"
No denial from the silent figure.
"How is that possible? What happened to you? Who are you?"
His voice was soft when he answered. "Bedlam Boys are bonny."
Debbie shivered at the song lyrics. "Is that what you are? A bedlam boy? What about Tom?"
He became unresponsive. The sirens got closer.
"I've known you most of your life. You're gentle. You're kind. If you can hear me, Tom, you don't need to live like this. You can choose a different life."
His dark green eyes, when he looked at her, were implacable, unreadable. "Who protects the Tom Lewises of this world, DI Capelli? You? The police? And what can you do with people like Winter, or Strickland? You lock them up if you catch them. But that doesn't happen, does it? They pay good money to make sure it doesn't. But you'd put me away, wouldn't you?"
Her turn to say nothing.
"No one protected Tom. But he's protected now. Tell me, who will cry about the people I killed? Will you?"
He left. A chorus of sirens now. Ambulance and police. Debbie wondered what they would make of what they found. And what she would tell them.
Bedlam Boy appeared at the door. He waved her keys at her and laughed. He'd changed clothes. There was blood on his fingers.
"Don't come looking, Debbie. It's over. Oh, and I'm stealing your car. Sorry."
Chapter Thirteen
By the time the ice in the champagne bucket melted, Winter had yet to finish his first glass.
He was angry. But his anger was natural, and under control.
The other emotion battling for supremacy was disbelief. No point in rejecting the evidence of his senses. But he wanted to. Tom Lewis had butchered four seasoned mercenaries, led by a man who'd never lost a single team member on previous missions. Winter watched each man fall. The worst was the third, when Lewis blew a kiss at the camera. Winter experienced an almost supernatural dread when that maniac winked at him before dropping the corpse. The wink said, still think you're safe? Think I won't come after you and finish this?
At least, Winter reassured himself after turning off the screen and shutting down the laptop, that last unspoken threat meant nothing. His long-planned departure from Britain ensured his safety. Robert Winter had vanished.
As the afternoon turned into evening, he focused his powerful, logical mind on this last loose end: Tom Lewis. As shocking, and as unpleasant, as it was, Lewis had won. Winter needed to accept that. In time, he would learn to do so. Living out his remaining years in luxury would make the process easier.
In the short term, a night's worth of stress relief arrived in half an hour, and he intended to squeeze every drop of value out of the twenty grand.
Winter took a long shower, letting the hot jets of water pummel his scalp and shoulders. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Tom Lewis wink.
He stood on his balcony, wearing the hotel's silk robe, looking out across the clear turquoise waters as they lapped at the white sand.
When the door chimed to announce his visitor, he was halfway to accepting his failure. He had a new life now. The old Winter needed to die so he could enjoy his retirement.
He pulled a fresh, cold bottle of champagne from the fridge and placed it on the table with two glasses. Once sitting on the bed, he buzzed her in.
Blonde, as specified, but with hair shorter than Winter's taste. Tall. Her dress, which ended mid-thigh in a strip of gauze, the colour of a summer sky. She wore a linen jacket. Her eyes were blue ice.
"Good afternoon, sir. My name is Amy." A well-educated European accent, hard to place. Swedish, perhaps. Her name didn't fit. He didn't want to use it, anyway. It made it harder to objectify her.
Winter didn't smile. "Come in and open the champagne."
If his abrupt manner disturbed her, she didn't show it. She moved with a confidence earned by those who understand their value. He would dismantle that confidence piece by piece. He felt better already.
'Amy' put her white leather bag on the chair. It looked heavy. As well as passing through the hotel's metal detectors, Winter had instructed the concierge to search his guest. Underwear and exotic toys, probably. Unnecessary for what he planned.
She hung her jacket on the back of the chair. Her arms were more muscled than Winter liked. He overcame his irritation. He would be more specific about his requirements with the next agency. She smiled as she twisted the cork from the bottle and poured a single glass. A non-drinker? Some party girl. And her smile needed a lot of work. Demure would be better. Subservient, eager to please. A little scared. Not so confident. He noticed something else in her manner. It took Winter a moment to identify it. Anticipation. Dilated pupils and parted lips. Unfeigned excitement. Ah. That explained the price. She wasn't acting. She wanted this.
Winter smiled back this time, the afternoon's disappointment fading. He admired the whore's perfect teeth. He would leave knocking them out until near the end.
She picked up the glass and took a sip. Was she teasing him now? Time to take control. He was about to get up when something in the way she held her head stopped him.
"Do I know you?" he said. Something about the shape of her face. He tried picturing her with darker hair, longer hair, glasses… he almost had it.
"No. You don't know me, Mr Winter." Did she just call him Winter? His stomach lurched, but he didn't allow his expression to change. "You don't know any of us, do you? My real name is Marit. You referred to me as Lot Six."
Shit. He slid his hand under his pillow. Another illegal service provided by the hotel. He pulled the gun out and waved it towards the woman. Infuriatingly, she smiled.
"Fine. Amy, Lot Six, whoever you are. Step away from the table. Sit down over there. Don't try anything. In this establishment, I could kill you and all it would cost me would be a surcharge for cleaning that rug."
Lot Six ignored his instructions. She took another sip of champagne. With her right hand, she reached into her bag.
Winter didn't believe in warning people before killing them. What was the point? He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a quiet click.
"It's a fake," said Lot Six. "Like the Rolexes they sell on the beach. Not fit for purpose. This one, however,"—and she pulled a handgun with a long silencer from her bag—"is the real deal. Keep nice and still for me, Mr Winter."
Winter processed the new situation. Too many variables to get a clear picture of how this had happened, and what she wanted. But he was still breathing. An encouraging sign. Hired killers didn't waste time talking.
"Tell me what you want," he said, "and I'll see what
I can do for you. You're obviously a very resourceful woman. I'm impressed you found me. Very impressed." That last was no exaggeration. How could anyone have found him, let alone this trafficked piece of shit?
"Don't speak, Mr Winter. Listen."
The hand holding the gun didn't waver. Winter looked her in the eye and nodded. Fine. He would listen. Then they would negotiate.
"You sell human beings as though they are objects. I imagine most of us at your auctions end up in sexual slavery. But not all of your buyers have the same career in mind for their property."
Winter mentally reviewed his auction regulars, wondering who she was referring to. Then she told him, and he had the first intimation this might not be a negotiation.
"Herr Blüthner, for example, offered me a choice. I can never be free again, that much is obvious. Not with what I know. But he offered me the chance to train as a troubleshooter for his business."
"A troubleshooter?"
She raised a finger to her lips. "Yes. A troubleshooter. Let me make it clearer. You have antagonised many people, including my employer. You, Mr Winter, are the trouble."
Lot six pointed at him, then angled a thumb back at herself. "And I am the shooter."
She pulled a chair to the end of the bed and sat down, keeping the gun aimed at the centre of Winter's chest.
"I accepted Herr Blüthner's offer. And here I am. Now then. Just one or two things you should understand before we get to business. This hotel. A luxury resort that caters to the ultra-rich. Owned by Herr Blüthner. He bought it three years ago. Hence your toy gun, and the fact I can walk in with a real one."
Winter's options narrowed every second. She might be younger and fitter than him, but, by her own admission, she lacked experience. He maintained eye contact, looking for the moment of hesitation. He still had the useless gun. He'd throw it, then rush her.
"Herr Blüthner owns five hotels world-wide, including this one."
The Fall of Winter Page 6
