by Tom Bale
himself in the process.
She’d told him herself, hadn’t she, when he had her pinned on the
floor?
If you do this, you’ll never get out of here alive.
That already seemed a lifetime ago. When Valentin had ruled
the world, with Liam and Priya his faithful lieutenants.
And Priya a lot, lot more besides.
But Felton obviously wasn’t aware of her significance. That gave
Liam a tiny jolt of pleasure, even though it was far too late for the
information to be of any value. Selling her out now would only earn
him the same grisly fate as Travers.
She’s untouchable, Liam thought. The lucky cow.
And then he spotted the problem looming for Nasenko. Valentin
would surely have no qualms about accepting Felton’s terms when it
involved handing Liam over to the police. But could he do the same
to Priya?
Her position seemed hopeless, but Priya wouldn’t accept that. She was
a fighter. All the time she was still alive, she knew she had a chance.
What she had to do was find that chance, and make it count.
She had been placed close to the side wall of the garage, some
distance away from the other prisoners. Her mouth was covered with
tape, a tight, foul taste against her lips. Her hands were behind her
back and her wrists and ankles were bound with the same tape. A
moat of blood surrounded her.
Turner was a few feet to her right, slumped against the wall. He
was conscious but weak, every breath a wince of pain. He’d been hit
in the thigh and had lost a lot of blood. The guard had applied a rudimentary
dressing, which seemed to have stemmed the flow, but Priya
doubted he would last very long without proper medical attention.
Their other colleague, Eldon, was to her left. He’d been killed in
the initial gun battle and his body lay forgotten amidst the papers he’d
been searching through. His blood had run along shallow depressions
in the concrete floor and pooled with Turner’s, only inches from Priya’s
outstretched feet.
It was a repellent sight, but she had already worked out how it
could be used to her advantage.
The air in the garage reeked of violence and death and the acrid
tang of digestive juices. One of the prisoners had vomited, and the
guard’s remit obviously didn’t include cleaning up the mess. His only
concession to their well-being was to drag Travers’s body into the
corner.
At first there had been plenty of questions, mainly from Angela
Weaver and Terry Fox. They demanded to know what was going on,
who was in charge. If Liam’s gang were no longer a threat, why couldn’t
the innocent prisoners be released?
The guard fielded the questions with a stock phrase – 'I can’t tell
you’ – and a diminishing supply of patience. Eventually he took up
a position by the inner door, a distance from which he could more
easily ignore their interrogation.
Priya made no attempt to communicate with anyone. She knew
it was futile. The guard wasn’t going to speak to her, and the other
prisoners, when they looked at her at all, made no attempt to disguise
their loathing. Hand any of them a gun, she thought, and they’ll
kill me without hesitation. She had no problem with that. In their
position, she would do the same.
Part of her mind remained sufficiently detached to admire the man
who’d orchestrated this operation. The planning and execution showed
great skill and professionalism. It made Valentin’s team – herself
included – look like clumsy amateurs by comparison.
If this was the work of Robert Felton, it raised some interesting
questions about Oliver’s role. Priya believed she’d played him skilfully
enough to know if he was concealing information from her. If he’d
had any inkling of what was to come he would have betrayed that
knowledge in some way.
So it was feasible that Oliver had not been pre-warned, even though
Felton must have known his son was still on the island when he’d
launched his counter-attack. If only she had heeded Oliver’s warnings
about his father, she might have seen the danger in time. Instead she
was facing, at best, a life behind bars.
Or maybe not.
From this point on it was every man for himself. That was how
Valentin would see it, and Liam too. A matter of straightforward
common sense.
Priya had no one to rely on but herself.
Fifty-Two
Yuri descended the stairs three at a time, his breath emerging in quick,
excited snorts. Eager to get on with it.
Behind him, one of the guards escorted Joe with the slow, respectful
pace of an executioner. They followed a wide hallway into the depths
of the house, until finally Yuri reached a door and stopped. He turned,
waiting for Joe to catch up.
You remember what you said to me today, in the kitchen? How
you would kick my ass?’
'That’s right.’
Yuri bared his teeth. 'Well, now we will see.’
Yep,’ said Joe, as though he relished the opportunity. He couldn’t
afford to show any fear at this stage.
Pushing the door open, Yuri strode into the room like a gladiator
entering the arena. Shoulders thrown back, chest puffed out, chin in
the air. Another obvious attempt to intimidate him, but Joe was determined
that it wouldn’t succeed.
The guard took out a knife and cut the tape from Joe’s wrists.
He stepped back, looking slightly abashed, as if reluctant to be a party
to slaughter. When he wished Joe good luck he sounded as though
he meant it.
Joe stepped through the doorway and immediately understood why
this room had been chosen. It was a large, airy gymnasium, two storeys
high, overlooked by a gallery on the first floor.
The wall to his left was lined with impressive machines: a bike and
a rower and a full set of weights, an elliptical trainer and a treadmill
the size of a small car. But the centrepiece, undoubtedly, was the full
size squash court.
As the venue for a public battle, it couldn’t have been more ideal.
A square room, enclosed on all sides, with a glass wall at the rear and
a viewing platform above. A ready-made arena, with no furniture to
encumber them and nowhere to hide.
Felton was waiting on the gallery above the court. The room behind
him contained a pool table and, bizarrely, a fireman’s pole that led
down to the far side of the squash court.
Valentin was alongside him, a far less enthusiastic spectator. A guard
hovered close by, MP5 at the ready. The third guard had stayed with Liam.
Yuri was already inside the court, limbering up, his feet alternately
thumping and squeaking on the timber floor. Joe didn’t wait to be
prompted. Massaging the circulation back into his wrists, he marched
up to the glass wall, stepped through the door and shut it behind him.
He pointed at the guard in the gallery.
'Is this a fair fight, or will he open fire if I’m winning?’
Felton looked offended. 'There’ll be no interference with the resul
t.
As for whether it’s a fair fight, you’d better ask Yuri . . .’
The Ukrainian chuckled, and said quietly, so that only Joe could
hear: 'To the death.’
Are those your orders?’
Yuri glanced up at Felton and shook his head. 'Fuck orders.’
Felton cleared his throat. 'I’m going to up the stakes. If Joe loses, we’ll
kill the kid. Jaden – is that his name?’
He looked at Valentin, who barely managed a frown. 'The other
terms are the same?’
'Oh, the gold’s still up for grabs. Don’t worry.’ Felton leaned over
the balustrade and smiled at Joe. 'I’m guessing you’ll fight a bit harder
if you have someone else’s future at stake. I’ve seen you out on the
beach with the boy, playing the surrogate father.’
You’d better not hurt him.’
'Well, you’ll have to sharpen up, then.’
The message had only just sunk in when Joe felt a heavy impact
to the side of his head. He spun away, falling, and heard a grunt of
satisfaction from Yuri.
So much for a fair fight.
Joe hit the floor hard and awkwardly on his right-hand side, his
knee and elbow taking the brunt of the landing. His vision was distorted
by flashes of light, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He sensed Yuri
moving in, aiming a kick at his skull, and he knew he’d be dead if it
connected. And then Jaden would die, and perhaps Cassie and Sofia
along with him.
No. He couldn’t let that happen.
He was still too dazed to avoid the kick, but he managed to roll onto
his back and twist at the hips, shifting his upper body away from where
Yuri expected it to be. But instead of retreating he moved closer,
reducing the distance of travel, and threw up both hands to grab Yuri’s
foot midway through its arc.
It was a partial success. There was too much power in the kick to
stop it completely but Joe got enough of a grip to divert its path. Yuri’s
boot thudded into his shoulder and the Ukrainian wobbled, off balance.
Reading Joe’s next move, Yuri leaned forward, intending to stamp
down on Joe’s arm, but Joe wrenched Yuri’s foot sideways, bending
the ankle as much as he could. As Yuri’s legs splayed out, Joe curled
up tight and swung his foot into the air, aiming for his opponent’s
solar plexus.
He missed his target but landed a kick in Yuri’s groin instead. The
Ukrainian let out a whoosh of air and staggered backwards. Joe used
that space to get to his feet, helped a little by the springiness of the
court floor.
He blinked several times, and was relieved to find that he could
still focus. He had the start of a pounding headache, and a lot of
bruising down his right side, but the adrenalin was pumping now,
numbing the pain.
With Joe in a defensive stance, prepared for the next assault, Yuri
grew cautious. For a few seconds the two men circled each other,
searching for a weakness to exploit. A couple of times Yuri dropped
his guard, taunting Joe, but it was a bluff. Yuri wanted him to lunge
forward, to commit himself totally, on the basis that he would be no
match for Yuri’s brute strength. But Joe stood a much better chance
on the counter-attack – and they both knew it.
There were jeers from above. 'Get on with it.’
Joe ignored the order, and for another full minute there was no
contact. Felton thumped the balustrade in frustration.
'Maybe we’ll see how well you fight with your legs shot to pieces.’
The guard trained his MP 5 on the court. Joe saw it but reasoned
that he had no particular incentive to obey, since he’d already assumed
that Felton couldn’t be trusted. For Yuri it was different. He couldn’t
afford to disregard a direct order from his boss.
He barrelled forward, a mass of fury and muscle, charging Joe with
all the strength and subtlety of a wild boar. In a larger room Joe could
easily have sidestepped him, but within the confines of the court there
was far less scope for evasive action. He had about five feet of clear
space to his left, and no more than three feet to his right.
He waited until Yuri was about to strike him, feinted left, then
dodged to the right. It meant that he crashed into the front wall, but
it sent Yuri stumbling the wrong way, his big hands snatching at fresh
air.
Before the Ukrainian could turn, Joe laced his fingers together and
clubbed Yuri on the back of the head. He put all his strength into it,
enough force to have knocked most people cold, but Yuri only juddered
a little, like a man being jostled on a busy commuter train. Then he
spun with astonishing speed and threw a punch. It sideswiped Joe’s
chin but still nearly lifted him off his feet. He heard a crack from his
jaw; tasted blood in his mouth.
There was another punch coming in, this one to the body. Joe had
no choice but to absorb it, letting its force drive him backwards, while
at the same time he was able to land a punch of his own: a good
right-hander that hit Yuri on the cheek, just below the eye, and raked
his nose as the Ukrainian reared away.
Probably the hardest punch he’d ever thrown, Joe thought, judging
by the screaming pain in his knuckles. He was pleased to see Yuri
falter, blood on his face and confusion in his eyes. Maybe this isn’t
going to be as easy as he’d expected. . .
But Joe was still reeling from the blow to his jaw. He knew there
was no way they could go on trading punches for long. A few more
like that and his hands would be useless.
Yuri must have come to the same conclusion. With the agility of
a man half his age, he launched a flying drop kick that caught Joe
completely unprepared. He managed to turn slightly, but that was all.
Not enough.
Joe was dimly aware of a whoop of disbelieving laughter from Felton,
then Yuri’s feet struck his hip and thigh and slammed him against the
wall. His head fell forwards and then whiplashed back, and his last
conscious thought was: It’s over.
Fifty-Three
What next? That question had been running ceaselessly through Angela
Weaver’s mind. It was now nearly forty minutes since the garage had
been invaded and she was no closer to an answer.
The man guarding them had stonewalled their pleas for information
and help. In Angela’s estimation, forty minutes seemed ample
time to have located and subdued Liam’s band of thieves. Surely by
now they should have released the innocent prisoners and summoned
the police?
But that hadn’t happened, which suggested that the new regime headed
by Robert Felton, if Joe’s assumptions were correct – didn’t
necessarily have their best interests at heart.
As the time wore on Angela found herself becoming increasingly
downhearted. Four hours of captivity had left her exhausted, emotionally
drained, and at times quite faint. Added to that, she was hot and
grimy and very, very thirsty.
While the dehydration helped in some respects, she was terrified
that event
ually she would lose control of her bladder in front of Terry
Fox. It seemed a ludicrous preoccupation, compared with the day’s
other ordeals, but perhaps that was why it gripped her so fiercely: a
distraction from the far greater horrors that lay beyond her influence.
Angela was hardly surprised when Priya started coughing. There
was a terrible stench in the garage, and because of the gag Priya was
being forced to breathe through her nose. She was sitting next to the
bodies of Travers and Eldon, with a huge slick of blood only inches
from her feet. Until now, Angela had done her best not to look in
that direction. Eldon’s corpse was particularly distressing. He had been
shot several times in quick succession, and one of the bullets had
struck him full in the face.
Whilst Angela couldn’t help feeling a tinge of pity for Eldon, she
felt no such compassion for Turner, who had sustained a serious leg
wound, or for Priya, who had glared at her a couple of times, angry
and unrepentant.
But now the Asian woman appeared to be in trouble. After pausing
to take some long, wheezing breaths through her nostrils, she erupted
with another burst of intense coughing. The noise was muffled by the
tape over her mouth but still made Angela wince. It sounded as though
Priya’s lungs were being shredded.
Angela turned to the guard. 'Shouldn’t you see if she’s all right?’
Terry Fox muttered, 'We should let her choke.’
Angela shook her head. 'Then we’re just as bad as they are.’
As the second bout of coughing subsided, Priya slumped against
the wall. Her face was flushed, her chest rising and falling at an unnatural
rate. Her mouth worked uselessly, twisting and writhing against
the tape. Suddenly her cheeks bulged, and her eyes widened in shock.
'She’s been sick,’ Angela cried. She made another appeal to the
guard, At least take off the gag. Otherwise she’ll suffocate.’
The man grumbled to himself, but strode across the garage for a
closer look. Priya was throwing her head from side to side, making a
frantic keening noise in her throat. For a moment her gaze settled on
Angela and her expression seemed to soften. Gratitude, or something
else?
'Okay, okay.’ The guard slowed as he reached the pool of blood.
He made a detour to avoid it and took a couple of awkward, mincing
steps to bring himself alongside Priya.
She twisted her body towards him, but didn’t think to lift her head.
