by Jan Swick
After that half second, she was rushing forward. The suited man turned to her and she saw a handsome face with a trimmed blond beard framed within the exposed circle that the hood didn’t cover. And she saw the shock on his face. He did not have time to react against her blow. The smaller rock she carried was launched. It missed, but taking him out with a wild throw had never been her plan. He twisted his head, turned away for a second as she threw the rock. It was enough to distract him, give her a chance to slip by the knife he wielded, the weapon that had put down Judd. She crashed into him and they both went down.
Matt heard the action through his headset. Knew it was Lisa, knew she might be in trouble. He got out of the car, but Daz remained.
“If the Watchdogs know everything, Orbach will be waiting for a call,” Daz said. It was all he needed to say. Matt understood. No time to waste. As he rushed across the dark quarry floor, the Swift came to life and turned and threw up soil and rock dust as it roared out of there.
“Lisa?” he called into the headset as he pounded along. “Lisa?”
His answer was more of the same. The noise of violent action as two or more people fought.
Daz whipped out of Cobham Hall Road and turned into oncoming traffic on the roundabout. And nearly ploughed down Bike 3. He stopped the Swift and leaped out and ran to where the bike had swerved and skidded and finished up on its side. Alfo and Siren were sitting on the grass verge, shaken up.
"The hell's happening?" Alfo shouted over the honks or horns and shouts of other drivers as they manoeuvred around the abandoned Swift.
"Get rid of the car," Daz told them. Then he lifted the bike and got on and got the hell out of there. Once he was up through the gears, burning around the roundabout, he pulled his radio and shouted one word: Orbach.
"Orbach's still there," came a voice in reply to his question. Not all of MacSec had joined the pursuit of the Swift. Of the ten who had taken the train to London to help their boss, three were watching the casino. Watching for Orbach, in case he left. So far, according to the voice, Orbach hadn't left. So Orbach's Expert hadn't yet sent a warning. Hopefully that meant he was dead already. But how long would Orbach wait for confirmation that the men in the Swift were dead before he got suspicious?
Daz programmed the Satnav as he rode and was back at the casino in twenty-two minutes. He had people watching the front and back entrances, but he chose the fire exit that Lisa had told them about. Orbach's bike was still there, in amongst the old bangers on the car dealer's forecourt. Daz's man was across the road, sitting in a bus stop with a newspaper. His plan was to watch and wait and follow Orbach if he left.
Daz sent his man away, gave him some bullshit task that had nothing to do with any of this. Then he took the guy's place in the bus stop.
Plan: watch and follow.
But two minutes later he scuttled across the road and hid behind one of the cars in the lot. He owed it to Matt to make this easy for him. No more running around London.
New plan: grab Orbach as he left the building and present him to Matt like a Christmas present.
But after two minutes lurking amongst the cars, Daz thought he might have a problem holding a guy hostage out in the open, especially tied-up. Plus, this wasn't a good place to kill someone. Too much chance of a witness telling the cops, of the cops themselves cruising by. Especially if Matt wanted to draw out Orbach's confession.
New new plan: take Orbach in the casino.
The fire exit had no latch, only a padlock and chain to secure it. Daz busted the hasp from the wall easily. Inside, he found wide open office space, empty, desolate, but there were stacks of builders' items that suggested a renovation was on the cards. He ran through room after room, making his way the length of the building. In every third room was a descending staircase, probably leading into a shop below or even to a street entrance. He went down one, just curious, but found a pair of locked double doors on a half-landing. Locked this side by a chain and a dusty padlock. Clearly there was no way up from below. He moved on.
He entered the room he guessed was above the casino and confirmed this with a glance out the grimy window – there was the car park, right across the road. Last office of the row, because the far wall had no doorway, no way to progress. It was blank unexposed brick.
But there was no exit in this room. The last one had been two rooms back, nowhere near the casino. And it made sense that there should be no way down into the casino – not good for security.
He spotted a file cabinet in the corner. A file cabinet normally doesn't stand out in an office, but this one did because it was alone. Brother desks and sister computers and auntie wall charts had all gone, so this solitary remaining piece of the floor's former life seemed wrong. So he yanked it aside. And found a hole.
Floor level, three feet high, and lined with rubber padding. It was the padding rather than the hole that made Daz think he had found Orbach's secret way in and out of the casino. He imagined Orbach coming through the hole and catching his nice suit on a dusty brick. Up went the padding.
On the other side he found a small room. There was a door. He opened that and found himself in a bedroom. The little room had been a closet once, now turned into some escape route.
The bedroom was clean but untidy and filled with ornaments. They were on the bedside table, everywhere. Books were scattered. Clothing was scattered. A man's bedroom for sure.
On one wall, in a glass case, was a pressed army uniform, full-size, with photographs surrounding it. Daz peered at them. The uniform was obviously Orbach's, because he was wearing it in some of the pictures. Most were scenes from outdoor regions overseas, places where he had served the US army, but others were indoor shots. In some he was alone, in others he had been captured as part of a group. In some he wore the uniform and posed, in others he had been snapped in motion adorned in civvies. Sweet and memorable scenes from the life of the man Daz was here to capture. Daz's eyes flicked quickly across them and rested on the top photo, the one above the collars of the uniform jacket, the centrepiece of the tableau, maybe even more so than the actual uniform. His eyes widened as a new truth hit him.
He went through the next door, holding his knife. A living room. Then a bathroom. The apartment reminded Daz of a luxury hotel room. There was another door. Small, thin. Daz grabbed the handle and pulled it open, and froze when he saw Orbach right in front of him.
Orbach was seated behind his desk, just feet away. The door was in the back wall of the office, behind Orbach, so he hadn't seen Daz, hadn't heard the door opening, and that gave Daz all the advantage he would ever need.
Two steps put Daz right there, right behind Orbach. Daz grabbed his hair and stuck the blade in his neck enough to hurt.
"Hello again," he said.
Orbach didn't flinch, or struggle, or seem surprised that someone had emerged from the wall like a ghost, and he didn't sound scared when he said, "Well done."
"Thanks."
"Not you," Orbach said, and that was when some beefy arm grabbed Daz round the throat from behind.
When Matt got to the top of the quarry, he found a group.
Bikes 2 and 4 had already arrived. Mac Sec stood around the container, watching the door. Each person wielded some item like a weapon, things taken from the site like spades and bricks. Lisa was sitting nearby, clutching her arm, which was bleeding.
"I think he killed Judd," she said. Mac Sec were angry, wanted to storm the building. Lisa had stopped them. "He has a knife. I had to get out of there."
He checked her arm, then went to the door. Burst right in, no weapon, carrying only an envelope, and stopped dead.
A man in a protective suit over a business suit, sitting on a chair, was slumped forward over the desk. Lisa must have gotten off a lethal blow, although he could see no blood. Judd was on the floor, neck gashed wide, an island in a sea of his own blood. Matt stepped around him.
He walked behind the suited man, wary that it could be a trick. Grabbed a handful of
plastic at the shoulders and yanked, and stepped away. A moment later he knew it was no trick. The man was dead. White foam filled his mouth. MacSec stormed in, crowding their dead friend as Matt unzipped the Watchdog's plastic suit and searched his pockets. He found only a driver's licence in the name of Alan Bates. Was Damon Mason Alan Bates in the same way that Teddy Riley was Anderson Orbach?
He clutched the envelope in his hand tightly, angry. All this time, all this way, all these obstacles, and one of the guys he had hunted was only three feet away, and yet the bastard had escaped justice forever by crushing a cyanide capsule between his teeth. Matt swung a hard kick at the guy's head, knocking the body and chair over backwards. There was no sense of enjoyment or relief. The guy was dead, but he had taken his own life. He had made a choice to escape the only way he knew, and it had worked because Matt could now never get him back.
He rushed from the container. Lisa came over, but he ignored her. Rushed right past, towards one of the bikes. He was a moment from getting out of there when she put her hand on his arm, and he paused. It hurt to do so, but he knew he could not just run out without a word to her.
"I'll find you after all this," she said, and right then he loved her. For that, he loved her. She knew he had to go, right now. Knew better than to try to talk him out of it, or even to delay him.
He gunned it. West. Back to the casino. There was one man still alive, hopefully. There was still satisfaction to be had.
He leaped off the bike while it was still moving and rushed for the doors. The casino was freshly opened, and he showed his membership card and looked at the camera. No klaxon. The dead Watchdog had not had time to call Orbach, so Orbach might not yet know, although he would suspect soon. Or maybe it was all a trap.
He went past the slots, which were filling up. Down the slope and into the tables room. He headed for the special door in the corner. Forty feet away, he noticed that the the guy who stood there, same guy as always, turned his eyes Matt's way, as if sensing that he was going to be approached by a customer who might need redirecting. Twenty feet out, the guy perked up, clearly knowing that words were going to be exchanged. Five feet and the ape knew some action would be needed.
He stepped forward, edge of the steps, and put out a hand like a traffic cop telling cars to stop. Matt didn't stop. He used the first step as a launch pad, bent knees straightening fast, punching upwards, a move that was almost comical, like superman rising into the air, but not comical because his fist caught the guy under the chin and snapped his head back and dropped him flat, and who would laugh at seeing something like that?
He had to drag the door against the weight of the unconscious ape. He slipped through when there was enough of a gap and found the lift and rode it up and stepped out and went to ZE BOSS's office. Opened the door nice and slow, ready for a trap. It was halfway open when he heard Orbach call out from inside.
"Don't come in, I'm getting changed."
Matt came in, but Orbach wasn't getting changed. He was behind the desk and he was bleeding. Numerous cuts, some long, his torn white suit very red. There was a dead man on the floor, and Daz. Daz was dead, too. Both dead men were also cut and bloodied. Blood was all over the place. Any more and you'd be forgiven for thinking someone had splashed white paint on red walls. Daz had put up a good fight, but of course no fight is good if you lose your life.
Orbach looked dazed and weak. But he was alert enough to show shock when Matt walked in. Then the shock turned to understanding. He lifted a pistol. Had barely the strength to raise it. Propped it on the desk instead, barrel aimed straight at Matt's midsection. That was when Matt noticed a neat round hole in Daz's cheek, and knew that Daz had held his own against two men until the cheating started.
"Damon was a tough bastard, so congratulations to you."
Matt took out his envelope, extracted a picture, unfolded it, showed it. Orbach didn't glance at it. Never took his eyes off Matt.
"I don't need that. I know why you're here," he said.
Without looking away from Matt, he jabbed a finger into a mobile phone laid on his desk. There was a neat round blood droplet right in the centre of the screen.
The phone dialled a number and another phone maybe a mile or a thousand away started ringing. The speaker was loud.
Matt stepped forward. three feet from the desk. Six feet from Orbach. Orbach rapped the butt of the pistol on the desk. Had barely the strength to do so. "Not another inch."
The phone was answered, but no voice spoke. Just a grunt of sorts. Orbach said, "It's done. Died right on his knees, begging for his life. Damon told him if he begged, he'd make it quick. Guy begged like a homeless man."
He jabbed another button, again without looking away from Matt, and the call ended.
"I couldn't tell him you killed Damon. That would just upset him and it's his son's birthday and all. Can't ruin the kid's night at the circus. But that's the only part I was lying about."
Orbach jerked his eyes downwards and Matt understood. Orbach's words to his mystery friend had gotten the message across to Matt. Matt dropped the envelope and dropped to his knees. But he took a step forward to do so, and that changed a six-foot distance to five feet. Now their eyeline was level, same as if they had been standing.
"Let's reverse things a little," Orbach said. "In films it's the condemned good guy who gets an explanation from the villain. But why don't you tell me? Explain how you found us?" He looked down at his bloody suit. "I'm probably dying here, so maybe I'm the condemned man after all." He managed a weak chuckle.
Matt flicked his eyes upwards, to a spot on the ceiling right above Orbach, sharp and quick, as if he'd seen something, and Orbach instinctively copied. Back went his head, and back went Matt's memory.
He had visualised it all in his head, over and over. Orbach standing five feet away, chin up, neck exposed; the belt ripped free in a backhand motion, uncurling like a slingshot, tension force and tangential velocity and mechanical energy all boiled down into a man’s simple knowledge that his strong shoulder could whip that metal buckle around so fast and hard that it would cut and bore and smash through flesh and muscle and gristle.
Just before he swung, he closed his eyes and watched it unfold in his mind, accompanied by a real-life soundtrack that was barely out of sync. The imagined Orbach, immaculate in a pale green suit, dropped into his chair and leaned back with his neck like a garden sprinkler, blood washing the ceiling. When Matt opened his eyes, it was like flicking two pages in a flip book: Orbach jerked forward in a fraction of a second and slumped over his desk.
Matt got to his feet and grabbed Orbach's phone. Fresh blood from his ruined throat had already pooled on the desk and soaked the phone. Matt didn't even wipe it off. He pressed redial and waited and heard a voice say, "Forget something?" and then he hung up. Broke the phone apart and left the room by the open door behind Orbach's desk. It killed him to leave Daz as he was, but Daz no longer had needs, and Matt did.
The deeper he got into the urban maze, the less conspicuous Matt felt. The paranoia dripped out of him and evaporated. By the time he had found the house he wanted, he was all out of worry and approached the front door like a man who had legitimate business there. Which he did. The house was dark, but he pretended to knock, just in case anyone in the houses across the street was watching. Then he went around the back. There was a high wooden fence, but the gate in it was swinging to and fro in the light breeze. He took that as a clear sign he was meant to succeed here.
Through and to the French windows at the back. They were locked, but they were old, and he yanked hard and the door made a cracking noise and slid open. Some broken-off piece of metal bounced on the carpet. A cat scarpered over, sniffed it, saw Matt, and dashed out between his legs. He shut the door and went through a kitchen, though a living room. Normal rooms. A lot of quaint knick-knacks that made him think it was a woman's home. The living room was scattered with toys, and these made him feel a little guilty about why he was here, but then he
reminded himself that he wasn't here for no reason. If they had left him alone, if they hadn't blown apart his life, Matt wouldn't be here right now. But he hadn't been left alone, not by a long shot. And a man with a child should have known better.
He went upstairs. Three rooms. One for a child, a small one. No older than five or six, given the wallpaper and the toys. A bathroom that was overwhelmingly female. He started to worry. Just a jot. Then he looked in the master bedroom and found a few items of male clothing in the wardrobe, and but the relief he felt was short. Apart from the clothing there was nothing that suggested a man lived here, and the clothing could belong to an ex-boyfriend or a new current boyfriend or a brother. His hopes started to fade again, until he stepped back onto the landing and saw a padlock on the trapdoor to the attic. Nice and thick, too much security against the inquisitiveness of a child.
He got a wooden chair to stand on and tested the lock by shaking it. Tough. But not as tough as the trapdoor. He slammed a solid palm into the wood, near the hinges. Six blows, as many as the pain would allow, and finally there was a crack. He used his other palm to smack the crack wider, until wood splintered from around one of the hinges. A minute later he was able to twist the door this way and that until it broke free from both hinges. He moved it aside and hauled himself up.
Right by him was a standing lamp and he flicked the switch. Cool green light lit the attic. It was spacious, carpeted, like a den. All male, this part of the house. His hopes returned. There was nothing here but a desk with a computer on top of it. The computer was on. A screensaver showing the time and date bounced around the screen like a cat trying to escape an oven. He went over and flicked the mouse and expected a screen demanding a password. But the text vanished and was replaced with a desktop of icons. The password, clearly, was the big metal lock on the trapdoor. He was in.
