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

by Robert Enright

  “Vodka.”

  The student quickly handed the bottle back to Lucas, who snapped the lid off. The alcohol fumes exploded into the air around them, catching them both by surprise. Whatever this stuff was, it was strong. Lucas looked up at the student and smiled.

  “If I were you, I would stay away from here tonight.”

  “Hey, I have a hundred quid to spend. I won't be back until the morning.”

  “Good. Make sure of it. There are going to be a lot of police here and that poor sod over there is going to be trying to remember who led him down here.

  The student shrugged, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and then scurried up the alleyway, disappearing into darkness. Lucas watched him evaporate into the night, knowing he would never see him again. He retrieved the tea towel from his jacket pocket and poured the pungent alcohol over the fabric. He then rolled one half of it up into a tight wrap and carefully fed it into the top of the bottle. It took a few attempts, but with methodical patience, Lucas managed to slide it in. He held it under his jacket, ensuring the rain didn't interfere with the alcohol.

  The fumes raced upwards, hitting his nostrils. He walked slowly back to the main road, his eyes adjusting to the brighter London street. He noted the police car sat across the road, knowing the occupant was forcefully sleeping in the alley behind him. The Punto was still in place, twenty yards from where he was standing.

  Lucas spun back into the alley, leaning with his back against the wall. He took a moment to remember the wonderful smile on his wife's face when he’d surprised her with an extra Christmas gift last year. How they’d playfully fought on the bed because he had 'won' Christmas, something she vowed he would never be able to do.

  All of it a memory.

  Helen resigned to the archives of a life he didn't want anymore.

  With one hand holding the bottle under his jacket, his other rammed into his jean pocket. As his fingers grasped around the lighter, he felt the cold touch of Helen's wedding ring. His faced tightened in a vengeful scowl and he felt ready.

  He needed to be quick.

  He needed to be accurate.

  He pulled the bottle out and the vodka-laden tea towel swung lazily, heavy with fluid. He clicked the lighter a couple of times, teasing it to spark into life. On the third click, the flame arrived, dancing in the wet and windy night air. Lucas touched it carefully to the cloth. The flames spread up the cloth with a chaotic beauty and Lucas quickly ran out into the street. The yards between him and the car dwindled rapidly, and as he approached the back tyre, he gently tossed the flaming bottle over the roof of the vehicle.

  It crashed onto the bonnet of the Punto, shards of glass bursting out onto the road, chased by flames exploding into the night sky. The flames engulfed the bonnet of the Punto instantly, flickering wildly as they spread around the front of the car with a burning fury. The car shook in panic as the driver’s door opened, Hiller struggling manically with his seatbelt, trying to escape the oncoming inferno. The passenger door flung open and Lucas ran as fast as he could towards it.

  Tombs leant forward, about to exit the car. Before his foot touched the pavement, his eyes met those of Lucas Cole for a mere instant. Lucas grabbed the door and slammed it back, crushing Tombs' head against the car. He slumped forward, motionless, hitting the hard, wet concrete with a thud. He didn't move, blood trickling from the side of his skull.

  Hiller was oblivious, having won his struggle to free himself. He now stood in the road, his panic stricken face darting from left to right, trying to decipher what had happened. Lucas kept low, shuffling around the side of the car which was slowly losing itself in the fiery grip. Hiller fumbled for his phone, wanting to alert Shane and the others. When he looked down at the screen, Lucas sprang into action.

  He grabbed Hiller's arm, locking his grip tightly, and then rammed his head as hard as he could into the driver’s window. He pulled Hiller's head from the shattered pane, shards of glass and drops of blood scattering over the wet tarmac, and then with a surge of strength, hoisted him up and slammed him onto the Punto’s bonnet.

  Hiller's back collided with the red-hot metal, and he screamed in anguish as the flames surrounded him. He rolled off onto the floor, his clothes burning, his skin scalding as the flames spread down his jacket and his jeans. Lucas walked across the road, the rain hurtling towards him with no respite, the door to the Hamden Trading Building a few feet away.

  Chris Hiller rolled on the floor, the puddles doing their best to help him squash the flames that danced on his body with painful joy. They eventually extinguished themselves as the rain fell. Hiller had already passed out from the pain.

  The security guard, who had seen the flames burst into the sky from across the road, was racing back to his desk to the phone when the door flew open, the whistling of the wind and the cold, wet air whipping through the door accompanied by Lucas.

  “Don't even think about it.”

  Lucas's voice boomed, echoing in the plush marble corridor. The security guard, the same one he’d seen silently welcome Ashley to the building, froze on the spot. Lucas strode towards the desk, wet footprints left on the clean floor like soggy bread crumbs.

  The security guard slowly, with minimal movement, pressed the nine button three times, but before the call could connect, Lucas slammed down the phone with a firm hand. The other wrapped around the back of the guard's head, driving him face down onto the hard oak.

  The security guard rolled off the desk and on to the floor, his nose broken and his mind blank.

  Lucas pressed the button for the elevator, which opened immediately.

  Ashley Drayton was on the thirteenth floor.

  He pressed thirteen and the doors closed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “What the fuck is happening down there?”

  “Oh my god!”

  “Someone call the police.”

  “Already doing it.”

  “Is that man on fire? Oh my god he is!”

  “Is it a terrorist attack?”

  “Someone call the police, for God’s sake!”

  “I think Peter is!”

  Ashley's office was a beehive of panic-stricken activity, her whole team standing against the windows overlooking the chaos below. The Punto was still ablaze, a thick, grey beanstalk of smoke swerving up to meet the rain clouds.

  Ashley tried to remain calm, not wanting to alarm her team any more than they already were, and briskly walked back to her desk. The spacious, open plan office was over two thirds empty, only the six of them knuckling down for the nightshift were present. As she rummaged through her bag, the other five were still witnessing the chaos below, loudly voicing their theories and worries.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Peter flashed his overly affectionate grin as he leaned over her desk. She started slightly, then smiled politely back.

  “Yeah, sorry. I'm just a little flustered, that's all.”

  “Is it what's going on downstairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, you’re safe here.” He gently rested a hand on her shoulder, and she shifted slightly.

  “I know we’ve worked together for a while, Peter. And I really do think you’re a terrific guy.”

  Peter realised where Ashley was leading him and quickly retracted his hand followed by an empty display of male pride.

  “Hey, Ash. I was just checking that you were okay. I wasn't, you know, trying anything.”

  “I know. But I know we’ve had a few moments in the past and I want them to stay there. I have a boyfriend now and it's getting pretty serious.'

  “Since when?”

  Before Ashley could answer, the double doors to the office flew open violently. They swung round forcefully and slammed into the wall with an attention-commanding bang. Everyone turned, shocked and confused as the unknown man walked in, his footsteps leaving wet prints on the cheap carpet. His short brown hair was messy, water drops falling from his fringe and down his ster
n, handsome face. Water clung to his leather jacket. His deep, brown eyes were locked on one person.

  Ashley Drayton.

  Her co-workers moved cautiously from the window, walking slowly together, grasping onto the notion of safety in numbers. Ashley froze with fear, her eyes beginning to water as she began to contemplate the inevitable. His voice was as terrifying as she had imagined.

  “Everybody out.”

  He raised his arm and pointed a threatening finger straight at her. Rainwater fell from his sleeve.

  “Except her.”

  Lucas took a few more menacing steps towards the group, his muscular frame becoming more apparent as he approached them. He walked past a few of the empty banks of desks, his eyes not leaving hers.

  She could feel the hatred he carried, for her and her family.

  For the things they had done.

  For what they’d taken from him.

  Peter, with the foolish notion of trying to bend the situation to his benefit, took a few steps towards the oncoming Lucas.

  “Look mate, I don't know who you think you are, but you can fuck right....”

  Before Peter could finish his idle threat, Lucas swung a rock solid right hook, connecting fully with Peter's jaw. The impact echoed through the office, a few screams from the co-workers followed. Peter stumbled backwards, falling onto his backside. His jaw swung loosely from his skull, broken and useless. Lucas looked up at the group again, his eyes narrowing in on Ashley who hadn't moved from her seat. A horrified hush filled the room.

  “Everybody out, NOW!”

  This time, the request was received with frantic movement, Ashley's co-workers scrambling quickly for their coats hanging on the nearby coat rack, the ladies retrieving their handbags from their desks. Grant Bishop shed his usual hostility to haul a disorientated Peter to his feet, draping his arm over his shoulder and walking him slowly to the door.

  Ashley remained in her seat, staring her pleas of forgiveness at the emotionless widower before her. He took two more steps toward her. Large, wet footprints indented the carpet.

  “This will be a lot easier for both of us if you stay seated.”

  The double door to the office slammed closed.

  Starling was seated in the interview room with Officer Carter, recounting the moment the young PC had seen Lewis Drayton's headless corpse. Carter was a strong witness, giving great detail at the barbaric crime scene he’d stumbled upon. However, it all felt kind of trivial.

  Starling knew this was Sgt. Bailey's way of warning him to stop questioning him in front of the other officers. It had happened twice over the past few weeks and Starling knew that if he wanted his career to progress within the Metropolitan Police, there wouldn’t be a third.

  He thanked the young PC for travelling in for the interview, the stocky officer only too happy to oblige. Starling walked back through the office, past the empty desk of Paul Fletcher. He stopped for a moment, recounting the story Fletcher had told them earlier that morning. About the violence and trauma of Lucas's past. Although everyone knew what a distinguished career Fletcher had had within the Met, it had never occurred to Starling that at some point Fletcher had been right where he was.

  He continued walking through the office, looking for a spare hot desk to log in and type up the statement. He nodded a goodbye to Officer Murphy as he slid on his jacket and limped to the exit. He found a free computer and sat down, dropping his notebook in front of him and adjusting the seat accordingly.

  “That was quick.”

  Sgt. Bailey was standing a few desks down, staring disapprovingly at Starling, who leaned back in the chair.

  “He just recounted what had happened that night,” Starling replied.

  “Well we already had his main statement when it was taken before. Not really too much more to add.”

  Starling held his tongue, he knew Bailey was trying to get a rise out of him and he wouldn't let him. If he wanted to be out on the street catching Lucas Cole, the fastest way was to play the game, fall in line and prove to Bailey he was wasted in the office.

  Bailey grunted and began lowering himself to his seat when Officer Hatton rushed in. Even in a panic, she exuded a genuine beauty. Her brown hair, tied in a ponytail, bobbed behind her.

  “Sir, we’ve had reports of a fire on Lowton Road.”

  “Then tell them they have the wrong service. We aren't the fire brigade, Hatton.”

  A few sniggers from other officers, all wanting to remain in Bailey's good books as he sat back in his leather chair. Starling rolled his eyes.

  “I know, sir. But Lowton Road is where the Hamden Trading Building is located.”

  Instantly, Bailey and Starling both shot to their feet. A few of the other officers turned with interest.

  “Officer Patriski radioed in fifteen minutes ago to say everything was fine, but we haven’t since been able to make contact with him since.”

  Starling was already halfway to the door as the Sergeant began barking out orders, ordering all available officers to rush to the Hamden Trading Building. No one was to enter until he got there and his request for an Armed Response Team was granted.

  Within minutes, the rain-soaked streets of London were awash with blue flashing lights and the high pitch squeals of wailing sirens.

  Shane drummed his fingers on the dashboard, shattering the silence of the van with his rhythmic tapping. Tyrell sat silently, his eyes chasing a plastic bag being swept up in the rain addled wind outside. Stan was asleep, silently waiting to be woken. Carl Finch shuffled restlessly in the driver’s seat, bored and in need of a smoke.

  “Can you sit still?”

  Shane didn't so much ask, as tell him. Finch smiled apologetically, fishing his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He stepped out of the car, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, as the wet chill of the spring evening slammed into him. He struggled against the wind to light his smoke and then leaned against the van as he exhaled the carcinogenic smoke.

  Shane watched, shaking his head at what he believed was a pointless habit. He held the gun up to the light, admiring the polished barrel and the damage it could cause.

  “Yo, Shane. Let me hold that.”

  “Fuck you, Marley. I ain't giving a dumb fuck like you a gun. Think I'm stupid?”

  “Why you always gotta come at me with that dumb bullshit?”

  Shane spun round in the seat, pointing the gun at Tyrell who held his hands up in surrender. He looked to Stan hopefully, who was lost in his own dream.

  “How about you just shut your goddamn mouth until this night is over. If Tommy wanted you to be strapped, you would be.”

  Tyrell nodded in agreement and Shane slowly turned round in his seat. Finch rapped his knuckles on the window. Shane ignored him, but on the second rap he turned, his agitation obvious.

  “What do you want?”

  Finch beckoned Shane out of the car. He sighed, but as soon as he kicked open the passenger door he understood why.

  Sirens.

  The howling calling card of the Metropolitan Police was echoing through the streets of Canada Water, ripping through the downpour. They grew in volume and numbers by the sound of it and Shane slowly jogged down the alleyway.

  The first thing he saw was the flames, frantically reaching skywards with long, fiery fingers. Second, he noticed Hiller, face down and motionless on the floor. Tombs was nowhere to be seen.

  A panicked contingent of people raced out of the building, screaming and animated. The blue flashing lights were beginning to cast their repetitive glow on the buildings further down the street.

  Shane raced back to the van, thumping the side of it to wake Stan. Tyrell exited, joining Finch as he raced to meet Shane.

  “The fucker is here. Tombs and Hiller are down.”

  He cocked the gun and motioned to the fire escape hanging off the side of the building like a metallic arm.

  “Up we go.”

  Ashley sat facing the window, her wrists and ankles bound w
ith brown postage tape. She could see the blue lights flashing in the distance, like an over the top Christmas tree. She was willing them to arrive as soon as possible. She sniffed back her sobs, her tears staining her cheeks with black strips of mascara. The chair had wheels, but she knew it was pointless to try and move.

  Lucas stood to the side of her, casually leaning against the side of one of the desks. In his hands, he was unrolling lengths of industrial cable which he’d removed from the back of his jeans as soon as they were alone.

  She could see why Helen had fallen for him. He was classically handsome, his strong jaw covered in stubble. His body, wrapped in wet clothes and a fine leather jacket, was impressive. But his brown eyes, they conveyed a hatred and a pain that she could never put into words.

  When he’d spoken to her, his words had been stern but his tone soft. Almost gentlemanly.

  She realised that this was a good man, pushed to violent measures by the deeds of her and her family.

  A living embodiment of karma.

  “You don't have to do this, you know?”

  She looked up at him, her stained eyes pleading for mercy. He looked at her blankly, stretching the cable out with his hands.

  “I know. What I should be doing at this time is sitting on the sofa with my beautiful wife, hammering through another few episodes of Game of Thrones.”

  He stretched out the last of the roll of cable before picking up the other. He unravelled a little, before tightly knotting the pieces together. He pulled it tight, ensuring its strength and then proceeded to keep unravelling.

  “The thing is Ashley, I can't do that.”

  “I know and I am so sorry.”

  “And the reason I can't do that,” Lucas said, ignoring her apology, “is because you and your family took her from me.”

  “It's Curtis. He makes us do these things. Ever since we were young, he protected us, but he’s demanded complete obedience and respect. He is the one who took your wife.”