One by One: A brutal, gritty revenge thriller that you won't be able to put down.

by Robert Enright

“I will reunite you with your wife, piece by piece.”

  Curtis stood, re-buttoning his blazer before stomping towards the front door. Tommy rolled the manila folder into a long cylinder and gently tapped a pain stricken Fletcher on the top of his skull.

  “I'm keeping this.”

  Fletcher waited for the front door to close and he immediately darted to the kitchen. The cold water couldn't burst from the tap fast enough as it connected with the red, burning patch of skin on his forearm. He stood for ten minutes, as instructed for a burn, with the water slowly numbing the pain and restoring his mind to normal.

  He thought about all the plans he’d made for tomorrow, how he was going to turn his life around.

  He sat on the sofa, poured another drink, lit a cigarette and ignored them completely.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ashley sat in the small kitchen on the thirteenth floor of the grand Hamden Trading building, looking out of the large windows that let the outside world in. Rain drops clattered gracefully against them, racing each other down the glass and into oblivion. She had enjoyed a nice, hot cup of coffee, chatting with a few colleagues who hadn't envied her night shift.

  At five to six, she gathered her bag and left the kitchen, walking down the long corridor towards the open plan office where her night would be spent. The elevator door opened as she approached and she quickly ducked into the nearby stairwell as Peter Masters stepped out. As nice a guy as Peter was, his attraction to her was obvious and sometimes made for uncomfortable moments outside of work hours.

  'Just tell him you have a boyfriend now!' She told herself, smiling at the thought. How she wished she could have run into her boyfriend’s arms after her family ordeal earlier. After a few moments, she re-emerged into the hall, pretending she was just arriving.

  She almost collided with Mary Reid who was waiting for the elevator.

  “Sorry!” She realised who it was. “Hey Mary. How are you honey?”

  Mary hadn't been herself, not since the horrible news of the death of her friend. Ashley could barely force herself to smile, the guilt trying its best to wrestle out and confess her role in it all. Mary however, did manage one.

  “Tired.” Her usually bubbly, round face was crestfallen, evidence that a few weeks of solid crying can change a complexion. Her usually vibrant curls hung from the side of her head like morbid curtains.

  “I know it's hard.” Ashley gently rubbed her friend’s arm.

  “It's crazy,” Mary began to well up, her voice cracking as it struggled with the memory. “It was only a few weeks ago I saw her. I should have booked her a cab.”

  The struggle was pointless and Ashley put a reassuring arm around her friend as she sobbed.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “She just wanted to get back to the hotel. To speak to Lucas and...”

  Her words trailed off, replaced by heavy breathing in a futile attempt to regain composure. Ashley felt cold, knowing this poor woman was shouldering blame that rested with her and her repulsive family.

  “I know she did. She loved him and was happy. At least take comfort in that.”

  “I hadn't seen her in so long.”

  “I remember you telling me.”

  “I'm sorry. I must look a right state.”

  “Don't be silly, honey. You know you can talk to me about it whenever you like.”

  The lift dinged its arrival and the doors slid open. Grant Bishop, another member of Ashley's team walked out, grunting a hello and steering as clear as he could from the emotional traffic jam in the corridor. Mary dabbed at her mascara-stained eyes with a tissue and stepped into the lift.

  “Thank you, Ashley.”

  “What are friends for?”

  They shared a warm smile, the doors cutting it off as they collided. As the lift embarked on its journey downwards, Ashley let out a large exhale. For a brief moment, she hated herself. The pain caused by her wasn't just reserved for Helen and Lucas. The ripple effect of it had travelled throughout the lives Helen had touched. She thought of Helen's life up north, whether she’d had parents who were sobbing over baby pictures or siblings who didn't know whether it would be okay to laugh when they saw each other next. She shook it from her head, telling herself again that it was all about survival in the Drayton family and survive she had.

  Her watch said it was three minutes past six. She silently cursed her lateness, pushed through the double doors and went to work.

  Lucas went for a wander for the next few hours, stopping at a nearby café to purchase a coffee which this time wasn't haunted by a heart-breaking vision. As he walked the streets, he noticed a box van that parked in the alleyway behind the Hamden building. He could only assume they were there for him. The young police officer was still sitting in his patrol car, the windows covered in rain drops like watery freckles.

  The black Punto by the alleyway still hadn't moved.

  The entrance to the student halls that neighboured the building was a beehive of activity, students rushing in and out, returning from lectures or heading for another night of cheap drinking. It certainly hadn't been as busy when he’d entered it earlier. The sun was dying out, its glow fading as thick clouds began to dominate the evening. Streetlights burst into light, illuminating patches of thoroughfares.

  At a quarter to eight, Lucas saw what he’d been waiting for and duly dumped his now empty coffee cup in to a nearby bin.

  A young student exited the building, cupping his hands to his mouth. Smoke drifted up from his young features until it lost itself in the rain. His messy brown hair was pushed flat by his hood.

  Lucas looked back to the front of the building.

  The young police officer was looking downwards, a blue glow lighting up his face as he lost himself in one of the latest mobile phone game addictions.

  Lucas waited to cross the road as a black cab whizzed by, followed by sprays of water from the wet tarmac. He hurried across and the student only looked up in acknowledgement when Lucas asked him if he had a lighter.

  He handed it to him.

  Lucas then asked him for something else.

  Officer Patriski sighed, the completion screen flashing in front of him telling him he’d completed yet another level on yet another pointless game. It seemed that every week there was a new 'must play' app available that spread around the station like wildfire.

  He’d been sitting outside the building for the last four hours and nothing had happened. He cursed his eagerness, getting caught up in the whirlwind of excitement which had snared everyone in light of what had happened. Someone was killing the Draytons and he offered to stake out the building. He wanted to be the first on the scene should Lucas turn up.

  But as the minutes had turned into hours and the excitement had faded to boredom, he began weighing up the likelihood of Lucas Cole being an idiot. Of course he wouldn't walk straight into an arrest. He may be a man on the edge but he didn't appear to be a fool. Not from the evidence of how he’d systematically taken out several men and butchered two members of the most notorious crime family in the country.

  There was a moment of marginal excitement, when he reported in that a black van had pulled into the alleyway and a Punto with two men had been sitting outside the building for as long as he had.

  Again, disappointment when he was told to stand back as it was just Curtis trying to protect his sister and the last thing they wanted was to antagonise a grieving Curtis Drayton.

  Only two hours left until he could go home, he shuffled uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, his Met Vest hanging from his slight frame awkwardly.

  The next level had just loaded when he was startled by a knock on the passenger window. He took a moment to collect himself and shook his head while winding down the window.

  “You just gave me a heart attack.”

  “I'm sorry.” The young student apologised, his hood now stuck to a wet patch of brown hair. The aroma of cigarettes filtered into the car from his clothes.

&n
bsp; “It's fine. What's the matter?”

  “Sorry to be a pain, Officer, but there’s a homeless man in that alleyway over there.'

  He pointed but Patriski struggled to see the hand through the raindrop-laden windscreen.

  “He asked me for money. Of all the people to ask, a student?”

  “Being homeless isn't a crime.”

  “I know. And I wanted to help. So I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone as it was in the way and the bastard snatched it out of my hand.'

  'He forcibly took your phone?” Patriski managed to hide the smile, but his eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “Yeah. I tried to get it back but he told me he would beat the shit out of me if I came near him.”

  'And he is still there?'

  'Yeah. It happened, like, a minute ago. Thank God you were here.”

  Patriski thought carefully. He badly wanted to get out of the car, but it was against his orders.

  “I'm not supposed to leave my vehicle. I am here on another call.”

  “He’s right there,” the young man said desperately, again pointing out of Patriski's line of sight.

  Patriski sighed. It was five minutes before he needed to give his half hourly update, but his hands found their way to the radio sitting proudly on the breastplate of his stab-proof vest.

  “Control Receiving. Officer one-four-two. On scene at Hampden Building. Just an update for the call. Sitting here and it's all quiet.”

  Both of them waited in silence, the only sound the rain drumming against the windscreen like fingers on a table.

  “Received,” abruptly shot from the radio.

  Patriski turned back to the young student.

  “Right. Let's make this quick.”

  The student nodded and stepped away from the window as it closed. He was already halfway across the road when Patriski closed the car door behind him. He looked up and down the street, rain slapping against his face with a cold repetition. He jogged across the road as the student disappeared into the alley.

  Shane Meehan sat in the passenger seat of a black Ford Transit, the paintwork shimmering in the light from the streetlamp. Rain hammered against the body of the vehicle, echoing hollowly. Shane had known Tommy Drayton since they’d been kids, growing up in the same gyms together and sparring daily. Despite being a ferocious fighter, Shane had called time on his fighting career five years earlier, tendonitis in his left knee making a full recovery impossible.

  He was an asset to the Draytons, however, his bulky frame and vicious fighting style meant he was perfect to call on when they needed someone taken care of. His ginger hair was shaved almost to the scalp and his thick, orange beard gave the impression his head was upside down.

  “Any news?”

  Carl Finch, hands on the steering wheel, looked at Shane who shook his head.

  “Not yet.” His accent was thick, almost indecipherable.

  Finch nodded, his long brown hair bouncing. He wouldn't argue or complain, not with Shane or the Draytons. They’d cancelled a gambling debt he owed them, in return for jobs such as this and he was determined to cling onto his addiction-obsessed life for as long as possible.

  The smell of marijuana wafted through from the back of the van and Shane turned abruptly, his powerful neck muscles throbbing with anger.

  “What have I told you fucking pricks about smoking when we’re working?”

  Tyrell and Stan, nicknamed 'The Marley Boys' for their dark skin and braided hair leant forward through the thick cloud of smoke, like genies emerging from a lamp.

  “Calm down, bruv,” Tyrell said, his bearded face smiling uneasily.

  “Don't you tell me to calm down you little prick. I'll come back there and knock bash the living fuck at a'ya.”

  “Yo Shane, you always so uptight. Take a hit of this shit.”

  Stan, the younger and slimmer of the two, handed the spliff up towards the enraged Shane with the hands that had stabbed sixteen people in the name of the Draytons. Tyrell smiled his lazy grin, the last thing a number of people had seen before receiving a bullet to the skull.

  Shane snatched it with a powerful hand and crushed the entire thing in a shaking fist. He didn't so much as flinch as the burning rock was extinguished against his skin.

  The 'Marley Boys' watched on with impressed horror.

  Shane stared at them for a few seconds and then slowly returned to his seat. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out the .93 Beretta that Tommy had given him. The other gun was with 'Tombs', sat in the Punto on the other side of the building. He pulled back the safety, checking the chamber in full vision of Stan and Tyrell. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror, boring holes into their reflections.

  “If I smell that fucking stuff again, Lucas will be receiving two less bullets. Understand?”

  The two men nodded, trying their hardest not to show fear.

  But they were scared. Everyone was scared of Shane Meehan, and tonight, he guaranteed to show Lucas Cole why.

  The other .93 Berretta sat loosely in the palm of David 'Tombs' Tombley's hand. It didn't feel right, like it should be heavier. A former bodybuilder who had met Tommy Drayton at a local gym years earlier, Tombs had found steady work for the Draytons since.

  He’d even took a shine to their sister, Ashley, for a while but was told to back away by Curtis as he held a butchers knife to Tombs' throat.

  Tombs, as his dear old Dad would say, 'wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.' But he was big, he was strong and he was loyal.

  Loyal to his Dad until he’d lost his battle with pancreatic cancer.

  Loyal to the Draytons, who paid him well and kept him out of prison.

  And he was loyal to whoever he was ordered to protect. He recalled that night a few years back, when he’d had to shadow Lewis Drayton when he ran a coke deal in Shoreditch. He’d sat and waited in the car, assured by Lewis that he would be back in five minutes.

  As soon as six minutes flashed on the basic Casio stopwatch he wore on his tree trunk-sized wrists, Tombs went looking for him.

  He found Lewis on the ground between three middle-class bearded guys, an avalanche of finely polished shoes raining down on him.

  It took less than twenty seconds for Tombs to render two of them unconscious and break the third one's collar bone.

  The Draytons had paid him handsomely for his loyalty then and were willing to pay handsomely for it tonight.

  His loyalty to Ashley.

  Beautiful Ashley Drayton.

  'Yo Tombs, what you make of that?'

  Chris Hiller, an old friend of Curtis Drayton and a man happy to let his psychotic need to hurt people aid his friend's family, nudged the large man in the passenger seat.

  He motioned at the wing mirror with his eyebrows and the behemoth beside him slowly turned to see the reflection. They saw the young policeman leave his car, jog across the road and then slowly walk towards the alley behind them, casually sliding his hands into the top of his Met vest.

  Tombs shrugged.

  “Well, keep your eye on it, big man.”

  Chris smiled at Tombs; he’d always liked him. It would be a pleasure to maim Lucas Cole with Tombs by his side.

  They sat in the car and waited.

  The rain continued to fall.

  Officer Patriski walked slowly down the alleyway, the smell of rubbish overflowing in the bins exacerbated by the wetness of another spring night in London. He tucked his hands behind the breast plates of his Met Vest, his arms loosely hanging. He wanted to look casual, approachable, anything to calm down an erratic homeless person who would undoubtedly be hostile.

  As he ventured further down, he could barely make out the student anymore and, of more concern, he couldn't really recall what his face had looked like.

  Where was this homeless man?

  Had he made a mistake?

  “Hey kid, where is he?” Patriski called out, wondering if he should go further. Suddenly, a hand grasped the back of his vest an
d pulled it back. The vest crushed against his chest, locking his hands in place.

  'UNHAND ME THIS INSTANT!'

  Patriski struggled, but his captor held on with incredible strength and then struck a quick, yet painful knee to the back of his legs. He fell to his knees, scratching uncomfortably against the wet concrete.

  “I'm really sorry, Officer,” Lucas apologised.

  He reached down with his free hand and unclipped the radio from the breast plate of the safety vest, which was now his reason for captivity. He slid the radio into the back pocket of his jeans, and then struck the officer with a hard elbow strike to the back of the skull. It would have been worthy of winning any Muay Thai bout.

  Patriski's world faded to black.

  Lucas dragged the unconscious man into the doorway and then gently lowered him to the cold, wet alley floor, the body shrouded in dark shadows. It had hidden Lucas well enough.

  Lucas took a few steps out, calmly looking around the alleyway, trying to peer through a sheet of rain. The young student approached him, a large smile adorned on his face.

  “That was insane,” he chuckled.

  “Here.” Lucas handed him two fifty pound notes. The student gratefully accepted them, stuffing them into his jean pockets before the rain got to them.

  “Is he dead?”

  Lucas shook his head confidently and then took a few steps to a dented dustbin he’d visited earlier. He opened the carrier bag he’d stuffed behind it, pulling out a bottle of Vodka. The student’s eyes lit up.

  “Are we celebrating?”

  Lucas chuckled, surprising himself with how long it had been since he had last laughed. He handed it to the student.

  “Hold this.” He reached back into the bag and pulled out a few rolls of thin, industrial strength cable, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, resting them against the back of his leather jacket. His hand disappeared into the plastic once more and returned with a packet of cheap tea towels. The student watched, puzzled as Lucas removed one of the tea towels and stuffed it into his pocket. The others went back in the carrier bag, which he tossed against the wall. They hit the floor with a muted slap.