Terror's Reach

by Tom Bale

  happen?’

  Still facing Nasenko, Liam held his arm out at his side, aiming

  loosely at the three other prisoners. In his peripheral vision he saw

  McWhirter squirming, Travers and Yuri sitting stock-still, glaring at

  Liam.

  Eldon came back in, holding another handgun and several more

  phones. He picked up on the tension and loitered uneasily by the

  door.

  You have no choice,’ Liam said.

  Valentin spoke softly. 'Leave now, and I will treat this as a mistake.

  A foolish misjudgement. But go through with it, and I promise you

  will never get to enjoy what you took from me.’

  Liam sighed. He steadied his arm, checked his aim with an almost

  lazy glance at the three men against the wall, and then fired without

  warning. One shot. It hit McWhirter in the chest and killed him

  instantly. His head flopped onto Travers’s shoulder. The American

  shifted sideways in disgust.

  'Jesus Christ,’ he said. To Valentin: 'Open the damn vault, will you?’

  Valentin regarded Yuri, who scowled for a moment, then nodded.

  'Very well,’ said Valentin heavily.

  As Liam stood up there was a commotion from the hall. Manderson

  and Pendry hauled the American’s driver into the room. His face was

  covered in blood.

  'He got a bit mouthy on the way back,’ Manderson said.

  All right,’ said Liam. 'Take them along to Dreamscape. Everyone

  except Nasenko.’ He gestured to Eldon. You’d better get the maid.’

  You okay here on your own?’

  Liam nodded. He felt shaky and light-headed from the adrenalin

  rush, but he was disguising it well.

  He watched as the prisoners were led from the room. Apart from

  a few muttered obscenities from Yuri, no one said anything.

  McWhirter’s body was left slumped against the wall. There was very

  little blood visible. He looked as though he’d passed out after a heavy

  drinking session.

  Patiently Liam waited through the tramping of feet on the stairs,

  and a distant thump as Eldon fetched the maid from the boot room.

  Finally the house was silent. Empty but for the two of them.

  Liam turned back to Valentin Nasenko. The Ukrainian hadn’t

  moved. He was gazing intently at his desk, and he didn’t react when

  Liam tore off his mask and slowly drew the knife from his belt.

  'Ready to open the vault?’ Liam said.

  Yes.’

  Valentin rose to his feet. He thrust out his hands. Liam came around

  the desk and cut him free. For a moment the two men shared a sad,

  awkward smile, like strangers at a funeral.

  Then they embraced, and clapped each other on the back.

  Thirty

  The true force of her grief didn’t hit Angela Weaver until she had

  been marched along the road to Dreamscape, led through the house

  and deposited in the garage. Sitting on the dusty concrete floor, her

  hands bound painfully behind her back, it finally struck home that

  this was not a dream, not a hallucination or a practical joke.

  Donald was dead, and now she too might die.

  Tears leaked from her eyes, almost grudgingly. The air in the garage

  was stuffy and nauseating, but her body felt as though it had been

  plunged in ice. She began shivering, and then vomited without

  warning.

  The guard snarled at the mess. You’re gonna stink now, you silly

  bitch.’

  Another prisoner was escorted in and thrown down beside her.

  Angela recognised him as the father of the footballer’s wife. Terry

  someone, she thought, and felt ashamed. There had never been much

  community spirit on the Reach, and for that she and Donald bore as

  much responsibility as anyone else.

  Once he’d taken in his surroundings, he shifted so he could see

  Angela better. His eyes narrowed with concern.

  Are you all right?’

  She nodded, then saw the absurdity of reaching for platitudes in a

  situation like this.

  'Actually, no. They murdered my husband.’

  'Jesus. I’m sorry.’ He regarded her for a moment in sombre silence.

  “I’m Terry Fox. Trina’s dad.’

  Angela introduced herself. They watched as her guard strode back

  into the house, leaving them alone with the man who had brought

  Fox. His manner seemed less threatening than his colleague’s. Certainly

  Terry didn’t seem intimidated by him.

  'Hey! Get this woman cleaned up. You can’t leave her like this.’

  'Shut up,’ the guard said. He was leaning against the bonnet of a Renault Megane, inspecting a number of mobile phones. Angela

  remembered that the Megane belonged to the estate agent. She hardly

  dared contemplate what must have happened to him.

  'Look, I don’t care if you’re going to rob us,’ Terry said, 'but you

  can bloody well treat this lady with a bit of respect.’

  He kept up the protest until finally the guard relented and fetched

  a wad of paper towels and a glass of water. He knelt down at her side

  and hesitated.

  'Let her do it herself,’ Terry said.

  To Angela’s astonishment, the guard proceeded to cut her restraints.

  He drew his gun and kept a close eye on her while she mopped her

  blouse and rinsed her mouth with water. Afterwards Terry tried to

  persuade him to leave her hands free, but the guard wasn’t having it.

  'Cuff her in front, at least. She’s no threat to you.’

  Once again the guard complied, but he didn’t just tie her wrists.

  He bound her ankles as well. Then he did the same to Terry, before

  returning to his collection of mobile phones.

  'Thank you,’ said Angela.

  Terry nodded. 'Thank me later, when we get out of here.’

  Angela was taken aback. Until now it hadn’t occurred to her that

  she might have any kind of future beyond tonight.

  Her pessimism seemed justified when three more of the gang trooped

  through the house and into the garage. They had four prisoners with

  them. She recognised Valentin Nasenko’s maid and bodyguard, but

  not the other two men. Her heart jumped as she wondered what had

  happened to the family – and most of all, to Joe.

  She didn’t particularly care for Valentin himself. He had always

  struck her as a mean-spirited man, given to petulant tantrums. By

  contrast his young wife seemed friendly and sweet-natured, if rather

  shy, and her children were adorable. Angela prayed that no harm had

  come to them.

  And then there was Joe. She knew he possessed the skills to put

  up a fierce resistance to these men, but he was hopelessly outnumbered.

  She had to consider the very real possibility that he too was

  dead.

  Joe stayed close to the trees until he was level with the southern flank

  of Nasenko’s property. Then he dashed across the road to the cover

  of the boundary wall. He crept towards the gates and almost immediately

  heard voices. Someone coming out of the house.

  There was no time to reach the trees. He ran back to the corner

  and ducked down behind the wall. Heard what sounded like several

  people walking across the drive and onto the road. If they turned

  towards the bridge the
y’d spot him instantly.

  He waited, heart pounding, but the footsteps receded. After a few

  seconds he risked a look. He counted seven figures, moving briskly

  towards the other homes on the Reach. Four prisoners and three

  guards. One was the older man from the bridge, still in his high

  visibility jacket. The other two were in the same black uniforms.

  The four prisoners were Maria, Yuri, the American he’d seen in the

  Cadillac, and his driver.

  Joe watched them disappear round the bend in the road. The Cadillac

  driver must have evaded the initial attack on the house. They’d chased

  him to the bridge and brought him back here. Now he and the other

  prisoners were being taken . . . where? Some kind of central command

  point?

  Dreamscape, he guessed, since that was the only empty property

  on the island. Then he realised he had posed the wrong question.

  There was another, more critical issue.

  Why had they made a detour into Nasenko’s house?

  Oliver felt he was making excellent progress with Priya. Even the

  handcuffs worked to his advantage, preventing him from overstepping

  the mark.

  Priya. He liked that name. Probably an alias, but it suited her all

  the same. From the moment he’d offered to open the safe, she had

  become much warmer towards him. He hadn’t yet worked up courage

  to broach the other side of the bargain. If I open the safe, what will

  you do for me in return . . .?

  In the meantime he was grateful for the opportunity to vent his

  feelings about his father, something he was rarely able to do. His sister

  had stopped listening years ago, and he had no real friends.

  But Priya was clearly fascinated. She gazed deep into his eyes, deep

  enough to see all his frustration and pain.

  You truly hate him, don’t you?’

  'I despise him,’ Oliver said, and his voice caught as he added: 'He

  killed my mother.’

  Priya frowned, exhibiting some of the doubt that usually greeted

  this statement. However, she didn’t dismiss it or laugh it off the way

  so many others had.

  'She came from a very influential family. Her uncle was Cabinet

  Secretary, and she had other relatives in the Foreign Office, the military,

  the judiciary. That was the main reason he married her. With

  Dad, it’s connections that matter, not emotions.’

  He paused. It always upset him to recount this story, but he was

  exaggerating the effects a little, hoping that Priya might reach out and

  touch him. Even just her gloved fingers resting on his shoulder. . .

  He shivered. 'My mother was a moral person. She restrained him.

  He couldn’t lead the life he wanted while she was around, and she

  wouldn’t countenance a divorce. So he arranged an accident, at our

  place in Scotland. She was driving home one night, skidded and lost

  control.’

  Another pause. His eyes were moist, but Priya didn’t move an inch.

  'Couldn’t it have been a genuine accident?’

  'No. They found alcohol in her bloodstream. Way over the limit.

  But my mother never touched a drop when she was driving. Never.

  Dad used to tease her for being so uptight about it. That’s how I know

  it was murder.’

  He sent her a pleading glance, just as another member of the gang

  swaggered into the room and destroyed all his hard work.

  Oliver felt a flare of anger. The man had a mask on, but he wasn’t

  the one who’d been with Priya earlier. He was taller, stronger, exuding

  a gruff masculine authority that Oliver found oppressive.

  Priya didn’t look particularly glad to see him, either. She stood up,

  leaning forward as she studied what little she could see of his face

  through his eyeholes.

  'Turner? Shouldn’t you be with the Weavers?’

  'The husband’s dead. I took the old woman to Dreamscape. Thought

  I’d check things out here.’ He gestured at Oliver. 'Is this streak of piss

  any use to us?’

  Oliver stiffened. 'I told Priya that I’m prepared to cooperate—’

  'Oh, how spiffingly good of you!’ Turner grabbed Oliver by the hair

  and pulled him to his feet. Oliver shrieked, and the thug slapped him

  hard across the face.

  'Shut the fuck up, and show me the safe.’

  Priya wasn’t pleased. 'We should wait for Liam.’

  'Sod Liam. I wanna see what’s in there.’

  Thirty-One

  Valentin opened a drawer in his desk and produced a silver hip flask.

  He removed the cap and took a swig. Offered it to Liam, who was

  about to say no, then changed his mind. He deserved a drink.

  It wasn’t vodka, but whisky. It burned a trail down his throat and

  swelled his confidence still further. After Liam gave it back, Valentin

  had another sip and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand.

  'Did we convince him?’ Valentin asked.

  Travers? Definitely’ Liam stared at McWhirter’s body. The knowledge

  that he’d taken a life didn’t seem to weigh heavily on him at all.

  If anything, he was surprised at how easy it had been.

  'He served me well,’ Valentin said, with a note of regret. 'But he

  was losing faith in me. For McWhirter, certain things were black or

  white. He would never have agreed to something like this.’

  'A wise move, then.’

  Valentin gave him a measured look, then snapped back to the

  business at hand. 'Do we have other casualties?’

  'A couple. Donald Weaver. And there was a problem earlier at

  Dreamscape.’ Liam described what had happened with the estate agent.

  Valentin’s reaction was stronger than he’d expected.

  'Priya killed him? Was she hurt?’

  'No. She’s fine.’

  'Where is she now?’

  'At Felton’s. We got a surprise there, too. It turns out Oliver Felton

  didn’t go to Oxford.’

  'You mean he’s here?’

  'Don’t worry. We’re not going to harm him.’

  Liam saw the Ukrainian relax slightly as he thought it through. 'No.

  This could be very useful.’ Valentin looked at his watch. 'Come on.

  We must not be away too long.’

  Liam followed the older man down two flights of stairs. The vault

  was in the basement, between the servants’ quarters and a lap pool. It

  was a bespoke design, shipped over and installed by a specialist firm in

  California. Liam watched Valentin tap in the code and open the door.

  The interior was approximately ten feet square, and contained a

  fairly sparse collection of artwork and antiques. Valentin was a keen

  and knowledgeable investor, specialising in nineteenth-century Russian

  landscapes as well as contemporary Ukrainian paintings and sculpture.

  But the highest value pieces had been moved to alternative

  storage, where they would remain until Valentin had concluded an

  insurance claim for his entire collection – a nice little side scam that

  Liam had suggested, and for which he was receiving a separate bonus:

  twenty per cent of the proceeds.

  They left the vault open and returned to the ground floor. Valentin

  held out his hands for Liam to fit another set of plastic cuffs.

  'The other prisoners
are at Dreamscape?’ he asked.

  'In the garage. It won’t be very pleasant.’

  Valentin shrugged. 'Yuri and I must be treated the same as everyone

  else. And Travers must see that we are.’

  They were almost at the front door when Valentin nudged him.

  Thinking there was some kind of ambush, Liam reached for his gun.

  'Your mask.’

  Liam let out a nervous laugh. He pulled the mask from his belt

  and put it on, aware that Valentin wasn’t smiling at all. This was nearly

  a major fuck-up, and they both knew it.

  When he judged it safe to move, Joe advanced as far as the gates of

  the Nasenko property and paused again. The front door was standing

  open, the hallway beyond in shadow. He had to assume that Valentin

  and McWhirter were still inside, and probably not alone.

  He waited another minute, then decided to risk moving forward in

  stages. If he could get into the house, maybe he’d find a way to overcome

  whoever was holding them.

  Joe crept over to the pallet of paving blocks and crouched down.

  Waited thirty seconds and was about to move when he heard a noise

  from inside. It sounded like a laugh. He looked round and glimpsed

  a man approaching the doorway, adjusting his ski mask. Valentin

  Nasenko was alongside him, his hands bound at the wrists.

  The two men hurried away, taking the same route as the first group

  of prisoners. Valentin was talking quietly, but Joe couldn’t make out

  the words. Although Nasenko had a fearsome temper when aroused,

  on this occasion he seemed to be successfully holding it in check.

  Perhaps trying to negotiate with his captor.

  A brave attempt, but Joe couldn’t see it succeeding. Not when the

  gang held all the cards.

  He watched the house for another minute, then made his decision.

  McWhirter was still unaccounted for, and Joe wanted to know why.

  He emerged from hiding and ran up to the front door. Hearing

  nothing inside, he stepped over the threshold.

  As Oliver led the way upstairs, he experienced a crisis of confidence.

  Was cooperation the right course of action? It wasn’t a question of

  moral qualms so much as pure self-preservation. They may simply kill

  him once he’d outlived his usefulness.

  It wouldn’t be Priya who pulled the trigger, he thought. At least,

  he hoped not. But this man Turner was an out-and-out gangster. He’d

  do it without the slightest hesitation.