He laid two fingers against the pulse in her neck. Couldn’t find one.
No. No.
He wasn’t going to believe that she was gone. She couldn’t be . . . He felt a pulse, but it was weak. Quickly he looked over Rio’s body. Saw the damage done to her wrists. Saw that the cuts were vertical. Whoever had done this knew that the quickest route to death from a slit in the wrists was not horizontal but ripped straight up or down. He needed to stop the bleeding or she wasn’t going to make it. Quickly he grabbed up the flannel and wrapped it round one of her wrists. But he needed something to do the same to the other wrist, so he bolted out of the room and found the bathroom. Seconds later he was back with a white towel. He tied it tightly round her wrist. Placed a finger to a point inside Rio’s elbow and pressed. Did the same with her other arm. Now all he could do was pray that the force he was applying to her pressure points combined with the makeshift tourniquets around her wrists would stop the flow of blood.
His phone went, but he ignored it. Just kept up the pressure. If anything happened to Rio . . .
‘If you think you’re going to die on me, think again you stubborn, big-mouth cop,’ he let out, staring at the sick brown tone of her face.
He kept the pressure up.
One minute.
Two.
Three.
His phone went again. He ignored it.
Four.
Nearly at five, the blood slowed down. Eased back. Disappeared. He gazed down at her spread legs. Had the bastard raped her as well? Gently he pushed her legs together. He took out his phone. Voicemail from Reuben. He listened.
Delivery coming in early. 10.30.
Shit. He needed to get across to Reuben’s now, at Club Zee. He checked his watch.
9:12.
One hour and eighteen minutes.
That didn’t give him a heck of a lot of time to make it to Reuben before the new delivery time. But what about Rio? He couldn’t just leave her. But if he didn’t, he’d never make it. He rubbed the inside of his nose with the tips of two fingers. What was he going to do? A wave of weariness coursed through him. He was so tired, so tired. He searched for the pills. Empty pocket. Then he remembered they were long gone. No chemicals to help him make his decision. Rio or Elena’s killer? Bolshoi. Rio.
He punched in a number.
‘Bartholomew Station . . .’
‘Listen. You need to send an ambulance to Eight Calvin Street . . . Just bloody listen, it’s Detective Inspector Rio Wray and Detective Martin. They’re both down . . .’
He snapped off the connection. Gave Rio one last look before rushing for the stairs.
seventy-one
9:40 p.m.
Mac made it to Club Zee fifty minutes before the new time of the delivery. The security on the front door was heavy, a total contrast to the easy in-and-out access Mac had experienced earlier in the day. The same two men who’d been on guard duty at Reuben’s house stood with menace and an air of steel as they checked out the street. Mac got straight into the frisk pose when he reached the door but – obviously remembering him from earlier – one of the men nodded and let him through.
The only person in the reception was Jeff, the manager, who appeared only interested in the phone in his hand as his fingers and thumb beat against it. He looked up when Mac came in.
‘Las Vegas Bar, second floor,’ was all he said, but Mac felt his gaze burning into his back as he took the stairs.
The bar was at the rear of the building and its interior lived up to its name. OTT glitz, electric mauve and blue strobe lighting and a miniature Statue of Liberty ice bucket lit up in puke yellow on the bar. All of Reuben’s gang were sitting, while he stood like a lion presiding over his pride up front. The mood in the room was expectant and taut.
‘You’re late,’ Reuben called out as soon as Mac stepped in the room.
‘Yeah, I had a few things left to do.’ He gestured to the cuts and bruises on his face. ‘I had to dole out some justice to someone who thought he could get away without paying me my dues.’
‘And Sergei’s bitch? How did she take the news?’
‘She wasn’t at home.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find and take care of her tomorrow.’ And from the sound of his tone, he wasn’t talking about wrapping her in his loving embrace.
Mac moved loosely across the room and leaned against the bar as Reuben started to speak.
‘This is what’s happening with the delivery tonight.’
Every muscle in Mac tightened, his heart rate kicking up a gear as Reuben finally got down to telling him all he needed to know about the delivery. Well, he hoped that was what he was going to do.
‘I know you were all expecting to meet slightly later, but my contact in Hamburg has moved the transaction thirty minutes earlier, so we’ll need to be in place by ten thirty.’
Bolshoi, Mac thought. Why would he move the delivery time? Something must’ve happened? Or maybe Bolshoi was just keeping everyone on their toes, which meant that this was an important delivery.
‘The delivery will take place in St Katharine Docks.’ He nodded to one of his men, who went behind the bar and came back holding a large map with key places circled in red.
‘We’ll be assembling in a warehouse near the quayside. We don’t need to worry about anyone appearing, because the place is empty and has been earmarked for redevelopment . . .’ As Reuben continued to talk, he indicated the places marked on the map.
St Katharine Docks.
Empty warehouse.
Mac stored the information away.
‘The delivery will be arriving by boat. I need some of you inside the warehouse with me and the rest of you to be lookouts on the outside.’ His voice hardened. ‘All of you have seen today’s bloodshed, which means that someone out there doesn’t want us around. Probably one of our rivals.’ An evil smile creased his lips. ‘But believe me, after this delivery, there will only be one king in this town.’
Sounded like Reuben was gearing up for a full-on battle to eliminate his rivals. Mac’s cop persona slipped back into place. He didn’t want any more blood spilled on the streets of the capital. He should contact Phil . . . No he couldn’t do that while Elena’s killer still breathed air.
Reuben snapped his gaze onto Mac. ‘After the delivery is unloaded, I’ll need you to check it over and make sure it matches the manifest.’
The Russian’s gaze swung back across the gathering. ‘Anyone messes up . . .’ The menace coating his tone meant he didn’t need to finish the sentence. ‘We leave in five minutes.’
He took a step back, signalling the end of the pre-meeting. But Reuben wasn’t finished with Mac. He beckoned him over. Pulled him to a quiet spot at the end of the bar.
‘I was only partly telling the truth in my little speech. I do want you in the warehouse to check the delivery. But I also need you around. I need someone I can trust. These people . . .’ He gestured with contempt at the men who were leaving, ‘As soon as the bullets start flying, some of them will run away like little girls.’
‘Is there going to be gunplay then?’
‘After what’s happened today,’ The Russian shook his head. ‘Who knows what might happen?’ His voice dipped to a deep growl. ‘But if anyone comes looking for me, I’ll be ready. You need to be ready as well, so whatever you’re packing, make sure it’s fully loaded.’
They were both distracted by a newcomer entering the room. Mac had been expecting this. The appearance of Calum. In fact, he’d been surprised that his former friend wasn’t already in attendance. Calum spotted Mac and Reuben, but he didn’t move from his position just inside the door. A terrible feeling swept over Mac like he knew that something bad, really bad was about to happen.
‘What are you doing here?’ Reuben asked Calum.
He didn’t answer, instead let his gaze swing around the men in the room. Then he took two halting steps inside. Pushed closed the door. The bang as the door connected with its frame echoed th
roughout the room.
Then he spoke, his eyes on Reuben only. ‘I know I said I wouldn’t—’
The gang leader cut over him. ‘If this is about the money we talked about—’
It was Calum’s turn to interrupt. ‘No, this isn’t about my fee.’
Silence. Calum walked slowly towards the Russian and Mac. This time his gaze screwed into Mac.
‘Some information has just come into my possession that you all need to know about,’ Calum called out dramatically.
Every man stared intently at him.
Calum kept moving forward, his gaze never leaving Mac.
‘Reuben, I’m sorry to do this so close to the delivery.’
Mac sensed what was coming. The blood receded from his face.
Don’t do this.
‘It had better be good, Calum, because we’re getting ready to head out.’
Don’t do this.
Calum smiled. ‘There’s an undercover cop in this room.’
The oxygen was sucked from the room as a collective intake of breath.
Don’t do this.
Reuben pushed up off the bar. ‘What are you talking about?’
Calum moved slowly, but surely, to Mac. Got into his space. ‘I’ll let Detective John MacDonagh tell you all about it.’
seventy-two
‘He’s talking bullshit,’ Mac said calmly.
He knew he was backed into a tightening corner, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get out of it. Reuben swung his gaze urgently from Mac to Calum.
‘The only person we know for definite who’s been a cop in this room is Calum,’ Mac carried on.
Reuben pinned his attention on Calum, which gave Mac the time he needed to turn the tables on his former best friend. ‘The way I hear it, no one really knows why he got tossed out of the cop shop. What if he didn’t get slung out? What if it was all a screen for making him undercover?’
Mac’s nerves only got tighter when he realised that the man he was accusing was saying nothing. Worse than that, Calum had that smug, ‘gotcha’ expression smoothed over his face.
Finally Calum spoke. ‘You tell me, Reuben. What do you think?’
Then his hand snaked inside his jacket. Pulled something out. Looked like a wallet. Mac’s face screwed up. A wallet? That didn’t make any sense. A wallet . . . ? As Calum passed it to Reuben, Mac’s mind ticked away.
‘Open it up,’ Calum instructed the Russian.
As the gang leader flipped the wallet open, Mac realised what it was. Shit, his game was up. Mac went straight for his Luger, but Calum already had his Glock 19 in his face, his thumb pressed into the thumb rest. Mac froze, the sweat matting against his forehead as the mutterings of the men filled up the room like a mob just getting started at a lynching.
Reuben moved towards him and slapped the opened wallet in front of his face. His warrant card.
Name.
Rank.
Number.
Most damning of all, a photo.
Mac always left it in Phil’s safe hands when he went on an op, so how traitor Calum had got it he didn’t know. But Mac didn’t have time to figure that out as a hand reached into his jacket. Someone else wrenched both his arms behind his back, making him clench his teeth. One of the other men jammed a hand into his jacket and pulled out his Luger. It was the first time that Mac saw confusion and shock stamped across Reuben’s face. Mac knew there was no point denying it, so he stared defiantly back at the Russian.
He knew his man well enough to know that when he was angry he was bad, but when he was quiet he was worse. Reuben looked at Mac like a disappointed father. ‘You know what really pains me about this, my friend, is that I took you into my confidence. Treated you like a friend, even a member of the family. Of course the greater the betrayal, the greater the . . .’
Reuben found a bottle of spirits on a table. Gripped it tightly and then crashed it against the wall in a move that seemed to cost him no effort, but showered his audience in brandy and shattered fragments. He examined the jagged edges of the cut glass, then threw the broken bottle down where it crashed against the floor.
Mac almost let out a huge puff of relief, until he saw the Russian pick up a second bottle. Champagne this time. Smashed it against the wall. Then scored the wall with it. Only after he saw Reuben run his fingertips along the bottle’s edge did Mac figure out that he hadn’t thought the edges of the first bottle were vicious enough. The edges scored deep but uneven gouges out of the wall. ‘That’s better,’ Reuben let out softly. ‘A fit weapon for a family traitor . . .’
He was in the mood for sadistic violence now, and Mac knew he had little time. ‘Your slimy little sidekick here is right – I’m an undercover cop, and you know how that works, don’t you? I can alert my controller and have half The Met here in ten minutes, armed and ready for action. I’m telling you now that I’ve already done it.’
It was pathetic and Mac knew it. But it was all he had. He stole a glance at Calum, who turned away in embarrassment. The big bear of a man in front of him pulled himself close and said with contempt. ‘Is that so . . . ?’ Bottle in hand, he took a swing at Mac, who saw the glass glittering in the lights as it came towards him. But there were no cuts, just a reinforced fist in the face, which threw Mac backwards. He crashed into a table, scattering its contents over the floor. He rolled across the floor, groaning and moaning, coming to rest face down on carpet that sweated alcohol and dirt. He managed to heave himself onto his back and found Reuben standing over him. His steely face staring down at him, broken bottle in hand.
‘Where are your police? Eh? Where are they now . . . ?’
He slashed the jagged edges of the bottle towards Mac. But it never reached him, because Calum grabbed the Russian’s arm.
‘You’re getting very upset, boss. That’s not a good idea, not with the delivery round the corner. Why don’t you let me take care of this? You head on – I’ll do a good job here. You can rely on me. I’ve got my own reasons.’
But Reuben didn’t move.
Calum leaned in close to him. ‘Think. You can’t be late for Mister Bolshoi. No one is late for Mister Bolshoi.’
The gangster hesitated for a moment before he straightened up. Chucked the bottle away. Calum aimed his gun at Mac. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ Calum pushed his gun closer to Mac’s bleeding face. ‘I’ll take him downstairs . . .’
‘No, shooting him won’t be good enough.’
But Calum had that covered. ‘I’m a professional. I know where to shoot a man to ensure a long, lingering and painful death. It’s not your usual MO, but needs must. I’ll take him down the drinks cellar; you can get your boys to clear up the mess tomorrow.’ Seeing the doubt on Reuben’s face, Calum added, ‘I might’ve been a cop once in my lifetime but, believe me, my blood runs cold for them now.’
Silence.
Reuben slowly checked his watch. Then gazed long at Calum. Back at Mac. His lower lip rippled with the deadly ease of a reptile’s skin. He looked back at Calum. Nodded. Looked at his two heavies who had secured Mac’s gun and arms. ‘Go with him. Make sure the job gets done properly.’
Calum nodded.
Reuben wiped some of the alcohol from his face as Calum and the two men bent Mac’s upper body forward in a painful stress position. Then they manhandled him out of the room. Once outside, Calum tapped his gun lightly across Mac’s temple. The impact wasn’t great, but it made his legs collapse beneath him. The two men dragged a dazed Mac along the corridor and down three flights of stairs. They didn’t care that his body twisted and bumped on its descent. They hit a dimly lit corridor. Reached the cellar, which had a heavy oak door.
He was yanked into the cellar, where rack after rack of bootleg booze was stored. Calum ordered the two men, ‘Stand him up straight.’
Before turning to Mac and saying, his green eyes sparkling as if he was high on good shit, ‘Before we get down to business, this one isn’t from Reuben, this is gratis for attacking me this afternoon
, you little bastard.’
A fist to the face sent Mac crashing backwards into metal shelving. He slumped downwards to the floor while bottles crashed around him. Amid the acrid fumes of spilled alcohol and damp wood, he was dimly aware that Calum had his Glock ready and primed back on him.
Reuben hadn’t left, but stood at the end of the corridor leading to the basement. He was never a man who liked loose ends and Mac might become a loose end if this job wasn’t done properly. So he waited. Waited.
Bang.
Pause.
Bang. Bang.
Satisfied, he turned back to the stairs to get on with the job of meeting the delivery.
seventy-three
10:05 p.m.
Mac couldn’t understand why he was still alive. Calum had punched him out . . . he didn’t remember a thing after that. Almost darkness surrounded him. He reached out for something to help him stand. His hand searched through the air until he found what felt like a length of metal. Pulled himself up, but the metal shook and bottles tumbled and crashed around him, making his body curl inwards to protect himself.
Mac tried again, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. Then straightened up, feeling along the wall for the light switch. He found it. Flicked it. Nothing happened. He moved over to the door and tried to pull it open, but it wouldn’t budge.
No answer. If he started yelling for help that might alert the wrong type of people. Instead he headed back across the room to see if there was any other way out, and tripped headfirst over something lying on the floor. Winded, he lay for a while. Having settled his breathing into an even beat, he got to his knees. He reached over to feel what had taken him down. Large, bulky, cloth, like a sack of old clothes left outside a charity shop. He slowed the movements of his hands as he moved upwards. Felt something lukewarm. Couldn’t place what the material was. Moved up. A ridge poking out of whatever he touched. Funny shape, with one hole . . . no, two . . . Mac’s hand jerked back when he realised what he was touching. A nose on a face. And from the temperature of the skin, a face attached to the body of someone who was dead. He hoped it was that bastard Calum. But was Calum such a bastard if he’d left him alive? He didn’t know what the other man’s agenda was, but he wasn’t ready to put his name back in his mobile’s contact list under ‘favourites.’ Beside, he didn’t have time to think about Calum Burns, he needed to get out of here. Now.
Vendetta Page 23
