Corky frowned and shook his head. A lock of hair flopped in front of his eyes. He brushed it away but it fell back again.
“A countrywide manhunt couldn’t find him. That were months ago. Rumours spread that he’d been freed and murdered in retribution for killing the child, but … The rapidly cooling corpse in your hallway shows up that particular theory as a load of nonsense, yeah?”
During Corky’s explanation—the longest single speech he had ever heard the hacker deliver—Danny took a moment to ponder the similarities between Csaba Nemeth’s story and that of Melanie Archer. The parallels between them were uncanny. Only the outcomes differed.
Both had been accused of murder, and both were on temporary release from prison. Both prisoners’ transports had been attacked, and both had been freed. During each escape, people had died and been injured. But after that, the stories diverged. Significantly.
While Nemeth’s friends plotted his escape and killed people in the process, Melanie Archer’s enemies intended to kill her, but their plans had fallen foul of the captain and Danny. To save Melanie Archer, Danny and the captain had killed and maimed the would-be murderers, but only because they had to. Definitely not by choice.
The stories needed to keep diverging. The guilty Csaba Nemeth lay dead in a pool of his own blood and faeces, but the innocent Melanie Archer still lived. If the captain and Danny had anything to do with it, she’d stay that way.
“…you listening to this, Danny?”
Corky’s words cut into his thoughts.
“Sorry, Corky,” he said, glancing at Marian, who was staring at him, her expression unreadable. “What did you say?”
“Corky asked what you wanted him to do next,” the little hacker asked, showing disappointment in the way Danny was ignoring him.
“I need time to think.”
Marian shifted her position. She’d clasped her hands and pressed them into her lap. “My God, what’s Robbie got us into? With a man like that involved … They intended to kill us, didn’t they?”
Danny met her eye. Nodded. “Men like Csaba Nemeth don’t leave witnesses behind.”
“Robbie … he’s in danger. Vadik’s going to …”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. They kept you both alive for a reason, and for the same reason, your husband’s important to them. They need him to do something for them, and they’re using you as leverage. It must be related to his work.” He turned to the TV screen. “Agreed?”
Corky shrugged. “Agreed.”
“Any idea what that might be?”
Again, Corky shrugged. “Could be anything. Corky’s not had much time to dig. Been busy with other stuff. Mr K’s been keeping Corky busy lately, you know.”
“Mr K?” Marian asked.
“A friend,” Danny answered for Corky. “The best you’ll ever have. I’ll tell you more later. Corky, do you have a location for Mr Prentiss?”
“In his office at the haulage yard in Derby.”
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Is he …”
“Yeah, certain,” Corky said, smiling inappropriately. “Corky’s been following your hubby’s Range Rover on the traffic cams ever since it left your house. They arrived about fifteen minutes ago and went straight up to the fourth floor. Mr P’s at his desk and Vadik Pataki’s in the room with him. They’re sitting in the office in silence. Ain’t saying nothing. I can see your hubby right now on his laptop camera. Fancy take a butcher’s for yourself?”
Marian shuffled to the edge of her seat and sucked in a deep breath. “Yes please.”
A rectangular window appeared in the middle of the TV screen, pushing Corky’s window up and across to the top left corner. A haggard, puffy-eyed Robert Prentiss occupied the centre of the window. Forearms on the desk, he hunched forwards, close to the camera, and kept glancing from the top left of his screen to his wrist. He was keeping a close eye on the laptop’s clock and his watch as though staring at the time could speed it up. Or slow it down.
Vadik Pataki sat in a leather chair behind him, legs crossed, a smug smile on his dark face. He looked relaxed and comfortable. Unlike Robert Prentiss, Vadik Pataki had all the time in the world.
“Oh God,” Marian said, “he looks awful.”
“Corky,” Danny said, “can Vadik tell we’re watching this?”
“Not a chance. Corky’s disabled the light on the laptop’s camera. To anyone in the room, that there camera’s inactive.”
Danny grinned. Corky really did think of everything.
“Nice one, Corky.”
“It ain’t nothing, Danny-boy.”
“What’s Robbie doing?” Marian cut into the love fest.
“Looks like they’re waiting for a bank transfer to go through,” Corky piped up. “Mr P’s laptop is logged into the company’s bank account. He keeps refreshing the screen every couple of minutes.
“Money?” Danny said, trying not to sound underwhelmed. “A kidnapping for ransom. How much are they demanding?”
“Nah,” Corky said, scratching his scraggy beard, “that ain’t it at all. Mr P’s waiting for a transfer from OTL Bank in Hungary. He’s expecting a one-million-five-hundred-thousand-euro deposit into the Prentiss Haulage account.”
“He’s doing what?” Danny asked, totally gobsmacked.
“That … that just doesn’t make sense,” Marian said, slumping back into the settee. “You must be wrong.”
“Nah. Corky ain’t never wrong with stuff like this. That there laptop is open to the company account and waiting for one and a half million euros, which is really interesting. You know why, Danny?”
Danny sighed.
Here it comes.
Corky loved to play the Quiz Master to show off his skills.
“No, Corky, I don’t know why. Care to enlighten us?”
“Happy to, Danny-boy. Happy to. Well, it’s like this—”
A bell rang somewhere inside the house.
“Corky, hang on a minute.” Danny shot a questioning look at Marian. “What was that?”
Fear showed on her face. “Oh my God! Danny, someone’s just opened front gates.”
Danny jumped up and raced to one of the windows facing the front of the house. He peeled the heavy curtain a few centimetres away from the wall and peered through the gap. The double gates at the front of the house were swinging slowly open. So far, they’d made it half way. Behind the gates, a dark blue Mercedes waited. Fully tinted windows hid the occupants.
Shit! What now?
Chapter Five
Wednesday 3rd May – Danny Pinkerton
Amber Valley, Derbyshire, UK
Danny stared at Marian. Even though she looked terrified, he had to ask. “Are you expecting visitors?”
She shook her head. “No. No one. We … the gates shouldn’t open on their own. Only Robbie and I have the keycode. W-What’s happen—”
Danny raised a hand for silence. He removed the spy glasses and propped them in the window, making sure the camera angled towards the gates.
“Corky, how’s that?”
“Tilt them to the left a smidge.” Danny nudged the specs and Corky nodded. “Perfect.”
A picture of the gates appeared in the window on the TV screen, replacing the one of Robert Prentiss in his office.
Good, that’ll work.
Danny returned to the settee and reached out a hand. Marian took it without hesitation—a good sign.
“Is there a panic room?”
“No. Why would we need a—”
“What about a basement? We need a room with solid walls. Somewhere safe.”
She rubbed her forehead. “I-I don’t. I …”
“Quickly, Marian.”
“The wine cellar!” she shouted, pointing towards the kitchen.
Danny started towards the door, pulling her with him. At the same time, he tugged out Nemeth’s Beretta. Nineteen shots should be enough. Although he was nowhere near as accurate over long distance as the captain, at clo
se range Danny usually hit what he aimed at.
On the TV screen, the gates were fully open. The Mercedes nudged forwards.
“Corky,” he said, turning back to the door, “I need a running commentary. Over.”
He allowed Marian to lead him across the entrance hall, towards the kitchen. The whole time, Corky’s description rolled through his earpiece.
The Mercedes crawled along the gravel drive and stopped in front of the portico. The doors opened and three men in dark suits jumped out. Each carried a semi-automatic handgun. Corky couldn’t make out the manufacturer. The front passenger, whom Corky described as a “tiny little blond bugger”, had a phone to his ear and was orchestrating the others. He pointed towards the house. While Blondie stayed safe behind the car, protected by metal and glass, the other two approached the house.
Danny shot a glance at the front doors. Unlocked!
“Wait,” he whispered, and they made a rushed detour.
He released Marian’s hand, turned the key, and slid home the four bolts—all heavy, all solid. The best he could do.
They headed for the kitchen again.
One of the lionhead handles squeaked as it turned. Loud banging rattled the doors, but they held firm.
“Hurry,” Danny urged, pushing her onwards.
Marian’s frantic whimpering stabbed him through the heart. He was trained for this shit. She wasn’t.
The kitchen’s brightness brought more worry. How secure were the French windows? When would Blondie send his minions around to the back? Danny checked the locks. All secure. At least, as secure as glass doors would ever be. The rear exit, a solid oak stable door, split in the middle, was locked, too. All its bolts thrown. Those doors would stand firm enough.
“Where’s the cellar?”
She headed deeper into the kitchen and stopped beside the massive two-door American fridge. The digital clock on the central panel read 09:19.
He’d been in the house less than an hour when it had seemed like most of the day. She pressed a panel on the wall next to the fridge. A hidden door popped back to reveal a small opening with concrete steps leading down and around to the left—the original part of the house. With solid walls, the bricks painted the same light grey as the kitchen panels, it would do well enough.
He pointed her down into the darkness.
“Go. Find somewhere to hide. Stay there until I call you.”
Behind them, the banging continued. The front doors were holding, but for how long?
The banging stopped as quickly as it started.
“Corky, what’s happening? Over.”
“The pocket-sized boss-man’s screaming. Speaking Hungarian. Corky’s software’s working on the translation … Yep. He’s telling them to leave it and search the rest of the house. … Wait. Crap.”
“What’s that? Over.”
“Boss-man’s just told them to kill the woman and Nemeth. The murdering rapist bastard has outlived his usefulness and can’t be trusted. His words, not Corky’s.”
“What’s happening with the other two? Over.”
“One’s going left to search around the back, the other’s heading to the right. The first one’ll be with you in a few seconds. Hurry, Danny. Hide!”
“Hide? Moi?”
Not happening, Corky!
He was in no mood to hide.
He clicked the earpiece into rest mode.
Marian hesitated until Danny gave her a gentle push. She reached out to throw a switch on the brick wall.
“No!” he whispered. “Keep it dark.” He powered up the internal light on his mobile and handed it over. “Turn it off once you’ve found somewhere safe. And keep quiet.”
Fear shone bright in Marian’s eyes, but she had enough wits about her to say, “Be careful, Danny.”
Brave woman.
“Always,” he whispered and gave her a confident smile.
She turned and hurried down the steps and around the corner, the mobile’s white light leading the way. Moments later, it disappeared, extinguished.
Danny pressed the panel closed. It blended seamlessly into the run of floor-to-ceiling kitchen units. It could have been made for the job of hiding a panic room. For camouflage, he dragged one of the tall kitchen chairs in front of the panel. It didn’t look out of place.
Movement flashed in his peripheral vision.
The first intruder slowed as he reached the French doors. Danny ducked and crouched behind the island.
The man—long, dark hair, drooping Zapata moustache—stopped. Zapata squinted and leaned closer to the window. He shielded his eyes with both hands, straining to see inside. The butt of the Heckler & Koch P30L in his hand clinked against the mirrored glass. In the right hands, the 9mm with its fifteen round mag, was accurate and deadly.
In the right hands.
The words didn’t describe Zapata in any way. The moustachioed idiot had no idea about covert searching. Anyone with half-decent military training would have crouched low, stayed out of sight, but not Zapata. The man had no idea who he faced. As far as he was concerned, he’d been sent to kill a terrified woman and her distracted rapist guard.
They probably intended to make the double murder look like a break-in gone wrong. Whatever their actual game, they’d already demonstrated their ruthlessness. Marian’s injuries showed that clearly. These men had no mercy.
Danny smiled.
No mercy.
Two could play that game.
Zapata wore a business suit and silk shirt. No body armour.
Danny raised the Beretta, took aim. Centre mass. Although unfamiliar with his stolen weapon, he’d fired a Beretta PX4 Storm before.
Zapata stood tall and still and was less than three metres away. Even though the double-glazed panel would affect the first bullets’ trajectory slightly, Danny still couldn’t miss. Two shots, rapid fire, would do it. Not a problem.
“Corky,” he whispered, “I have the first man. Where’s the second one? Over.”
The stable door’s lever handle dropped, waggled, and a palm slammed against the upper panel, giving Danny his answer. The door rattled in its frame.
Zapata turned towards the noise. He shouted something. The handle stopped moving. Man Two answered, his words muffled by the woodwork. Zapata spoke again and turned his face to the glass once more, looking for movement.
Danny slowed his breathing. His heartrate fell.
Wait, Danny. Wait for it.
Man Two roared.
Something hard slammed against the back door. An upper panel splintered. The door buckled, but held firm. Another louder roar followed. A second blow. The top half of the stable door crashed open and slammed against the wall. The bottom half stayed in place. Under the impetus of his shoulder charge, Man Two folded over the bottom panel, cracking his head against the door jamb. He let out a string of swear words. Danny didn’t need a translator to know a cuss when he heard it.
Danny took careful aim at Zapata.
He fired twice.
The first bullet destroyed the toughened glass panel, and the second followed through the cleared opening. It punched through the middle button of Zapata’s silk shirt. Eyes widened in surprise, the attacker fell forwards, landing face-first in a pile of glass granules. More glass rained down on top of him.
Danny fired on the turn. Bullet three tore into Man Two’s door-opening shoulder. Bullet four drilled a neat, nine millimetre hole into his forehead and exploded out of the back of his head in a spray of bone, blood, and brain matter. In slow motion, Man Two’s body sagged and flopped over the bottom door, arms hanging down. A Sig P226 slipped from his lifeless hand and clattered into the floor tiles.
The gunshots rang in Danny’s ears. Man Two was dead, no longer a threat. He changed focus.
Zapata still breathed, although the growing pool of blood saturating the pile of shattered glass suggested it wouldn’t be for long.
Neither man had fired a shot.
“Jesus, Danny-boy,” Cork
y said, his voice trembling. “What happened, man?”
Danny told him.
“Shit, you okay?”
Danny couldn’t remember a time when Cory had asked after his wellbeing.
“Peachy,” he answered.
There would be no revulsion for taking these two lives. Zapata and Man Two would have happily murdered Marian and one of their own. They deserved no one’s pity, and no more of Danny’s time.
“What’s Blondie doing? Over.”
“Nothing much,” Corky said, stronger, already recovering from the shock. “He’s still on the phone. Corky’s trying to break into their signal, but it ain’t easy. Taking longer than normal. Their service provider’s changed their encryption protocols recently. Tricky little buggers have developed a triple-lock, double-redundan—”
“No need for the details, Corky. What’s he saying?”
“Idiot thinks them shots were his men taking out Mrs Prentiss and Nemeth, and that’s what he’s telling whoever’s on the other end of the line. They’re laughing about it.” He paused and added, “Evil fuckers, these.”
Danny sniffed.
Tell me about it, mate.
The earpiece clicked again. “Okay, so, while old Corky’s keeping his eye on Blondie, what’s your plan?”
Good question.
Danny stood and took in the carnage that used to be a beautiful modern kitchen.
Dealing with the housekeeping—collecting the H&K from the pile of broken glass and the Sig from the floor next to the dripping corpse—gave him time to think.
“What’s happening with Robert Prentiss? Can you put that window on the TV screen again?”
“Sure thing. Launching it now. They’re still waiting for the transfer. Vadik’s not looking so relaxed now, though. Getting a little antsy about it, if you ask old Corky.”
On the Hunt Page 5
