Freefall

by Adam Hamdy

  Wallace held the camera to his eyes and focused on the strange, colorful image. The street and building were blue, while heat sources such as interior lights and people glowed red, orange and yellow. Wallace saw three shapes that were clearly men. Two seated in a room on the ground floor and a third in the basement. Along from him was a red and orange lump that could have been a person slumped in a chair.

  “You see her?” Steven asked.

  Wallace nodded, not daring to hope that Steven was right, fearful that he was. The figure wasn’t moving and his treacherous mind conjured pictures of the horrors that Ash might have suffered at the hands of the men who held her. He returned the camera, and Steven passed it to Tyrese, who surveyed the building.

  “We go in now, right?” he asked.

  “The later we leave it, the more crowded the place is going to get,” Steven replied. “Three against three is good odds.”

  “Two on the ground floor should be easy,” Tyrese observed. “Third guy’s gonna be tricky, but I think we can manage it.”

  “Ethan?” Steven asked, turning to Wallace’s neighbor.

  “I’m in,” Ethan replied.

  “John, we’re going in to get her,” Steven said. “You think you can drive this thing?”

  Wallace nodded.

  “Then I want you here,” Steve said, indicating the driver’s seat, “engine running, ready to roll if we hit trouble. You follow?”

  “Yes,” Wallace replied.

  He was amazed how quickly everything happened. Steven distributed pistols and silencers to Tyrese and Ethan, who fitted them together, before accepting half a dozen ammunition clips, which they secreted in their pockets. Finally, Steven gave them black ski masks, which they rolled on to their heads like woolen hats.

  “We good?” Steven asked.

  “Yeah,” Tyrese replied.

  Ethan nodded.

  “Be ready, John,” Steven instructed as he, Tyrese, and Ethan left the vehicle.

  Wallace clambered into the driver’s seat and looked across the street to see the three men roll down their ski masks as they approached the solid metal door that barred the club’s entrance.

  70

  Ethan felt his hot breath percolate through the mask as they ran along the sidewalk toward the entrance. Steven massaged two patches of putty onto the door before sticking the detonators in. He signaled Ethan and Tyrese to brace themselves, and, moments later, the tiny charges exploded, taking out the locks. Steven held his Glock 18 ready and pulled the door open. Tyrese followed him and Ethan brought up the rear. They moved fast, trying to cover the narrow, dark corridor as quickly as possible. This was the most dangerous part of the building. If they were discovered they’d be sitting ducks.

  They bypassed the stairs that lay to their right. When they reached the end of the corridor, Steven raised his hand and signaled them to stop. They pressed flat against the walls, Steven against the east, Tyrese and Ethan on the west. Steven signaled himself and Tyrese and held up two fingers, indicating their targets, then raised five digits for the count.

  Ethan took a deep breath and readied his weapon. He was backup in case either of the others missed.

  Steven folded his final finger and rounded the corner, with Tyrese flanking him. Ethan followed, and they moved into a large room full of tables and chairs. A bar ran the length of the far wall. Ethan raised his Glock, covering for Steven, who shot a short Latino man twice, once in the head, once in the chest. Ethan heard the quiet pop of Tyrese’s gun and turned to see his target slump back in his chair, a single crimson hole in his forehead. Tyrese’s victim was another Latino man in a suit. His curly black hair fell either side of the wound that had killed him.

  Steven tapped Ethan on the shoulder and signaled the doorway behind them. Tyrese turned and pulled the door open, revealing a narrow stairwell.

  “Hey.” Tyrese disguised his voice as he spoke into the dim light. “Puede venir aqui?”

  “What’s with all the fucking Mexican?” a voice called back.

  Ethan saw Tyrese fire twice, and heard a grunt, and the sound of a heavy body falling against the ground.

  Tyrese waved them forward, and Ethan followed Steven downstairs where they found the body of a huge white guy, his heavy frame stilled by the two bullets that were lodged in his chest.

  The basement was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A corridor ran the length of the building and derelict offices lay either side of the gloomy passage. Most of the doors were open, revealing the decay and disrepair of the adjoining spaces, but one door was covered by a heavy drape. Ethan pulled it back to reveal a bolted and padlocked door, and Tyrese, who’d been searching the dead man’s pockets, tossed him a set of keys, which he tried in sequence, until, on the third attempt, the lock clicked open.

  Ethan drew the bolt, pushed the door, and found himself peering into darkness.

  “Here,” Steven whispered, tossing him a torch.

  Ethan switched it on, and it cast a narrow, bright beam of light over a dank carpeted floor. When he stepped into the room, Ethan prayed he’d find Ash alive and unharmed. But good things never come out of this kind of darkness, an inner voice replied, so Ethan crept forward cautiously.

  71

  The kiss of bare feet on a polished wooden floor. Tiny, fragile fingers trailed along a whitewashed wall. A light cotton dress, crisp and cool against the skin.

  Not this. No.

  Sunlight warm on her back. A line drawn ahead of her, separating light from shade. She shivered as she crossed the border into shadow.

  No. I can’t go in there.

  A door ajar. White wood framed by light. A young hand reached out to push it open.

  Don’t. Don’t do it.

  Her father’s room. She’d made this journey countless times. From the lush garden, into his bungalow, down the corridor, into his bedroom.

  Don’t go in there. You know what you’ll find.

  The little girl she once was couldn’t possibly hear the warning, and stepped inside.

  Please. Please don’t.

  “You sent for me, Father,” Alice said, fixing a practiced smile to her face.

  Don’t look. Please don’t look.

  The smile fell away the moment she saw her mother at the foot of the bed, lying trembling in a pool of her own blood, which was spreading from an angry wound in her stomach. Nicholas sat on the bloodstained sheet, holding an old revolver. Smoke wisped from the barrel and drew serpentine shapes in the warm air. He looked pained and ashamed, much as she remembered him the day he’d sat in her cell.

  Alice was numb with shock. She looked from her father to her mother, who was reaching out a blood-soaked arm, beckoning her. Horror fixed Alice’s feet to the floor, and she could only look at her poor, terrified mother as her life ebbed away.

  Wake up. Wake up.

  Somewhere deep within her, Alice felt a scream building, and her mother must have sensed her dismay.

  “Don’t be afraid, baby,” Alice’s mother said, a weak smile flickering across her face.

  They were the last words she ever spoke, and moments later, her eyes went blank, and Alice screamed.

  The decades-old scream lodged in Ash’s throat as she woke. She despised the men who’d brought her here, hated the torment they’d put her through, loathed the memories they’d dredged up. She’d worked hard to suppress her mother’s death, but it . . . he was back. He’d invaded her mind, infiltrated it, steeped it in his evil. She longed to scrub every shadow of her father’s existence from her life, but his raw, ugly power was still with her.

  She curled her fingers around the shard of plastic she concealed in her right hand. During the last interrogation, the pain had been so intense, so unbearable, that she had dug her fingers into the armrest of the chair, tearing her nails in the process. Beneath the leather cover she’d felt soft cushioning, and then discovered a plastic membrane, which she’d snapped. The crescent piece she’d extracted was about five inches long and a
n inch wide, and she’d used it to slice through her bonds, all the while making herself a promise that before she died she would kill the man who’d tortured her.

  The flashlight blinded her, making it impossible to see anything other than the outline of the masked man who crept toward her. She sat still, hoping he wouldn’t notice her severed bonds, which hung loose around her wrists and ankles.

  “Agent Ash?” he whispered, his voice different, mocking her with false concern.

  She felt her muscles tighten, and her entire body tense. She’d only get one chance, and she could see other shadows by the door belonging to the men who would doubtless kill her once they realized what was happening.

  Don’t be afraid, baby.

  “I’m not afraid, Mama,” she mumbled quietly. “I’m tired, and I want to be with you again.”

  “Did you say something?” the man asked as he drew near.

  The scream that had started in a child’s throat burst from Ash’s mouth and she leaped out of the chair and surged forward, swinging her arm and using all her strength to bury the plastic shard in the neck of the masked man.

  “Agent Ash!” another voice cried, but she barely heard it, as she pressed her advantage and barreled into her interrogator, knocking him off his feet.

  The man clutched at his neck, his hands pawing ineffectually as she fell on him. She stabbed him repeatedly, her fingers growing slick with blood.

  Ash felt strong hands on her and lashed out, but didn’t connect with anything. She became aware of a loud, bestial sound and realized it was coming from her. She was growling, crying and screaming as the pain of her entire life flowed through her.

  A blow, something hard against her head, and she was stunned into silence, the world dancing around her as though she was on a carousel.

  “Fuck!” she heard one of the men say, as he crouched beside her attacker and removed his mask.

  Torchlight illuminated a face she recognized: Ethan Moore, the nurse who’d posed with Mike Rosen in the Cromwell Center, a member of Max Byrne’s Ranger unit. Ash renewed her struggle. If her captors were too stupid to kill her, she’d make sure they suffered for it.

  The man kneeling by Ethan removed his own ski mask to reveal a middle-aged African-American face she didn’t recognize. He made futile attempts to comfort Ethan, who was bleeding out, choking on his own blood, his face riven by anguish.

  “Agent Ash!” the man holding her yelled. “We’re here to rescue you. We’re with John Wallace.”

  He removed his mask, and Ash recognized the familiar face of Steven Byrne.

  “He’s gone,” the other man said, and when she glanced over her shoulder, Ash saw that Ethan had fallen still.

  “She’s hysterical,” Steven replied.

  Ash felt the men grab her by her upper arms and pull her from the room. As they dragged her past a large dead body that lay at the foot of a flight of stairs, she tried to figure out whether this was a delusion. When they reached the top of the stairs, she peered into the room opposite and saw two more men, one of whom she recognized from the Nicholas County Courthouse as the man who’d handed her to her tormentors: Alejandro Luna.

  The Nicholas County Courthouse. Her father’s name, the scene of her capture, another sick joke life had played on her. Ash felt her jaw spasm and heard herself laughing uncontrollably. These men, her new captors. They weren’t her friends. They were taking her somewhere worse. Another nightmare. Another place of torment. She had to escape. She elbowed the African American in the gut, but before she could capitalize on his loosened grip, Steven Byrne brought the butt of his pistol crashing into the back of her skull, knocking her out cold.

  The door swung open and Wallace saw Tyrese and Steven emerge, carrying Ash between them. Her beautiful hair was gone, replaced by a shaven head that exposed much of her scalp. She looked filthy and malnourished, and seemed to be unconscious, her feet trailing behind her as the two men dragged her across the sidewalk.

  Wallace put the pick-up into gear and swung a U-turn, stopping directly in front of the entrance. Steven opened the back door and he and Tyrese bundled Ash inside, before clambering in beside her.

  “Go!” Steven urged.

  Wallace was puzzled by Ethan’s absence.

  “Pope didn’t make it,” Tyrese said, as though reading his mind.

  “Move!” Steven said as he climbed into the front passenger seat.

  Wallace looked at Ash’s bloody hands, and tried not to picture the horror of what had happened in that building. He focused on the road as he accelerated away. Putting the ugly Bunker behind them, he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Tyrese’s stony expression waver with momentary grief. Steven had turned away from him, and was gazing out at the city. When they made a right on to Ninth Avenue, a passing building transformed the window into a reflective surface and for a split second Wallace saw Steven’s face, his eyes heavy with tears. Whatever had happened in there, it was clear that these two old soldiers had paid a high price for the return of the woman he loved.

  72

  Salamander had found the elegant blonde’s driving license in her purse and discovered that she was called Sarah Hillier and that she lived in Great Milton. Bailey had remained silent, but had felt distinctly uncomfortable when his old friend had threatened Sarah with violence if she ever spoke about what had happened. Salamander had just seen two of his friends shot, possibly killed, and there was a flinty edge to his demeanor that Bailey hadn’t seen in years. He’d known it would not be blunted by reason.

  They’d abandoned the Jag in North Acton, and had left a trembling, tearful Sarah to deal with the consequences of her abduction. They’d fled along Du Cane Road, a leafy residential street, and had found a tiny minicab office under the railway bridge. Danny’s call had come as they’d been making their way across London in the back of a tired old Vauxhall Zafira. Bailey had picked at the foam exposed by a ragged tear in the upholstery as he’d listened to Salamander speak to the scrawny gangster, his nerves jangling as his friend’s mood had darkened. When the call was over, Salamander had removed his sim card and relayed what Danny had told him: Mayfield had escaped and Terry and Katherine were dead. Melissa had been taken. Bailey had struggled to process the news. He couldn’t comprehend how Mayfield could have got the better of one of London’s most notorious villains, and felt gnawing guilt at having exposed Terry and Katherine to such danger. Wherever she was, he prayed Melissa was OK.

  Salamander had surprised him by opening the window and throwing his phone out. Aware that the cab driver had suddenly shifted position and was taking an interest in their conversation, Salamander had clammed up and the remainder of the journey had been spent in silence.

  The taxi deposited them on Streatham High Road a little after five, by which time London was in full flow. The street pulsed with traffic that moved in a steady rhythm, and the pavements were thick with commuters, shoppers, derelicts, people of all shapes, colors and sizes, all absorbed in their own lives. As they stood watching the cab head north toward the city, Bailey took comfort in the normality of the people who surrounded him, longing for the day when he too could enjoy the sweet scent of the local Turkish supermarket without looking over his shoulder. Satisfied that, if quizzed, the cab driver wouldn’t be able to tell anyone which way they went, Salamander signaled Bailey with a nod of his head, and the two of them started down Stanthorpe Road, heading east.

  “What’s the plan?” Bailey asked, noting two women in burkas who’d just emerged from one of the council flats that lay ahead of them.

  Salamander waited until they’d passed before answering. “Danny said we should wait for his call.”

  “Is he OK?”

  Salamander shook his head. “He’s tough. I mean, deep down. He’s got what it takes.”

  Bailey was overcome by nostalgia as they continued down one of the many streets they’d torn around as youngsters. “You remember the time those kids, I can’t even remember their names—”

&n
bsp; “Karl Roker and Dave Arnold,” Salamander interjected.

  “That’s them,” Bailey continued. “Remember when they chased us down for—”

  “My bike. Yeah. And when they cornered us round the garages, backs against the wall, we kicked the shit out of them.” Salamander smiled wistfully. “Yeah, I remember. These were our streets, Haybale. They still should be,” he added pointedly.

  Salamander led them through their childhood turf until they reached Pilgrim Hill, a tiny rat run located beneath a Victorian railway bridge. Less than 250 yards long, the road was flanked by an old-fashioned pub, a large brick warehouse, a hand car wash, and a scrap metal yard. This was old, pre-hipster London, and as far as Bailey could remember, very little had changed. When they’d passed beneath the brick bridge, Salamander stopped by a key locker that hung next to a pair of solid metal gates. He input the correct combination, and extracted a key that opened the heavy padlock.

  “This place is yours?” Bailey asked as he followed his friend into a small concrete yard that was encircled by a high steel fence.

  “Yeah, first lock-up I ever bought,” Salamander replied, shutting the gates behind them. “I could never bring myself to sell it.”

  Corrugated metal sheeting covered two huge arches that were cut into the railway bridge, and there were double doors in each of the facades. Salamander used the key to open the nearest. Once they were inside, he switched on the lights to reveal a trove of memories. Old coin-op arcade games were lined up against the far wall, gathering dust. A couple of vintage green fabric G Plan sofas stood either side of a tabletop PacMan. Toys, games, signs, posters, mirrors, computers filled every available space, apart from a large area at the heart of the arched warehouse, which was taken up by a mint condition gunmetal gray Mercedes G-Wagon.

  “Remember how we always wanted one?” Salamander asked as he locked the door.