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

by Robert Enright

  Bailey's eyes lit up hopefully.

  “Do we have the plates?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I want them circulated to every goddamn police district between here and Brinscall. He will show up somewhere and I want us to know the second that happens.”

  Hatton nodded, her youthful exuberance almost too much for Bailey as he ignored the perils of middle age trying to ensnare him. She turned and marched off towards an empty desk, a renewed purpose in her step.

  “Hey, Hatton.”

  The young officer turned, her immersive green eyes locked on him with intrigue. It was a rare occasion where Bailey showed the world his smile.

  “Good job.”

  She smiled and immediately tried hard to disguise it. She then disappeared into the hive of activity in the office beyond. Bailey let out a deep sigh, his eyes straining, trying to remind him of his exhaustion.

  He removed his glasses and rubbed them thoroughly, trying his best to remove any thoughts or feelings of stopping.

  He needed to catch Lucas Cole.

  This whole situation had got out of hand. As he slid his glasses back on, he trudged with lumbering steps to the briefing room, to the large wall of evidence that had been amassed over the previous few weeks. There would be nothing new waiting for him; he was merely using it as a distraction.

  The thought of digging into Paul Fletcher's background, a police officer he’d had nothing but kind words and admiration for, was not a job he looked forward to. The idea of rummaging through the facts and finding the inevitable guilt was hard to stomach. The man would be arrested, his long, highly decorated career with the Metropolitan Police would be tarnished, maybe even forgotten.

  The old man wouldn’t survive in prison, but if the facts held together then there was no alternative.

  He, Robert Bailey, would send Paul Fletcher down for his remaining years.

  The very thought erupted in a spasm of anger as he walked through the door to the briefing room and in one powerful swing, he pulled a plastic chair from the row and hurled it across the empty room. It clattered into a number of others, the crash echoing out of the room and arousing the attention of a number of hardworking officers.

  Bailey stomped over to the board, looking at the photos of the dead Draytons, the maps with the circles drawn around them and the post-it notes with details scribbled across them.

  It told him nothing.

  “Where are you, you son of a bitch?!”

  Bailey muttered the words to himself, his eyes locked on the photo of a smiling Lucas. He knew that the man would probably never smile again.

  He didn't even know if he was still alive.

  Suddenly, knuckles rapped gently against the door. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing in on the young radio operator, Cheryl, who he had only ever spoken to a few times. She was a lot smaller than he remembered, her ginger hair hanging in a short bob beside her concerned face.

  “What?”

  “Sir, we’ve just had notification of a panic button being pressed.”

  “Then act upon it. Send officers to the scene immediately and ensure I get a full report as soon as they arrive.”

  He turned back to the board, scowling hateful eyes at the array of evidence that had so far failed to bear fruit.

  Cheryl coughed slightly.

  “Sir, the radio was last signed out by Officer Starling.”

  Bailey spun round, the mention of the name grabbing him instantly. He hadn't seen the man since that fateful night for Ashley Drayton, when he’d thrown his badge away in disgust and marched away in the rain.

  The man was finished as a police officer.

  “Why the hell is Starling radioing in a distress call?”

  He loomed over the young operator, who cowered beneath his intimidating frame. A few officers peeked up from their desks, intrigued by the conversation.

  “I don't know, sir. Officers are on their way to his location.”

  Bailey marched through the doorway, heading for his desk to retrieve the rest of his essential gear before he headed to his patrol car. Cheryl scurried after him, her high heels clomping on the tile floor.

  “Sir, that’s not all of it.”

  He turned to her, his eyes begging her to tell him.

  “The location is coming from two-eight-four Brixton High Street.”

  Bailey's voice left him. He knew that address without even having to think. Starling was in the Drayton's betting shop and he was under threat. Regardless of what the man had done or his lack of respect, he wasn't going to leave one of his men to the wolves.

  He leaned in towards Cheryl, his voice low.

  “Get every available unit heading to that location. Get me an Armed Response team waiting for me at that location immediately. Go. Now!”

  Cheryl scuttled off, clicking her way through the office as fast as she could. Bailey slapped his cuffs and baton onto his belt and then wrenched his arms into the sleeves of his luminous coat.

  “Everyone not dealing with a life or death, follow me right fucking now.”

  His voice boomed across the open plan office and the majority of the officers leapt from their desks, rushing after their superior as he jogged down the corridor, and bursting out into the pouring rain.

  He ran to his car and was pulling away within seconds. A fleet of flashing lights and sirens followed, howling through the London night in the blue glow they provided.

  The only light in Fletcher’s flat was the desk lamp illuminating his desk, its glow lighting the newly organised piles of notes. The laptop hummed slightly, as the fifteenth page of the recently typed memoir finished at the end of a well-written paragraph. The lights of the screen shot out towards an empty chair.

  The moment the location was announced on the radio, Fletcher darted to the sofa to retrieve his coat.

  He was still putting it on as he raced through his front door into the downpour.

  Starling's hand didn't leave the radio.

  His fingers clasped it tightly in their final moments, his other hand wrapped around Lucas's. His eyes stared directly upwards, the beaming lights from above reflecting in their lifelessness.

  The gurgling had stopped. So had the pain.

  Lucas grimaced as he looked at the young man, drawn into a world he’d tried to keep at bay. He had tried to do the right thing, by Helen, by Lucas, even by the Draytons. All it got him was the love of his life taken from him, followed by his senseless murder.

  Lucas understood the betrayal. He had slaughtered the woman Starling had loved. He would be drenched in hypocrisy if he couldn't relate.

  He gently reached a shuddering hand forward, his fingers delicately stroking the eyelids downwards, shutting out the light and allowing Starling to drift off towards those whom he had loved and lost.

  He could go to Ashley.

  With a grunt of anguish, Lucas pressed the shotgun to the floor, using it for support as he pushed himself back to his feet. His legs trembled under the pressure of supporting his body.

  He felt loose and dizzy, the loss of blood leading him towards a final goodbye.

  He fought against it.

  There was still one more thing to do.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out Helen's wedding ring, his link to the love that this whole crusade had been for.

  He squeezed it with a blood-soaked fist.

  With slow, pain-riddled scuffs, he trudged to the doorway that led up towards Curtis Drayton, the shotgun hanging loosely from the other.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Each footstep took longer than the last. The weight of each clomp was exaggerated by the echo of the stair well as Lucas slowly climbed it. Curtis heard each step grow louder, ducked down by the side of the door frame with his gun trembling in his petrified grasp.

  With every footstep, Curtis winced, wondering what it would take to kill this man. The gun shots told him that Mark and Banner had been killed, two more useless obstructions obliterated by this u
nstoppable tide of vengeance that was now climbing the steps with calculated, measured steps.

  Curtis didn't know that, with each step, a weaker foot followed, a thicker bloodstain remained. Never had a situation arisen like this, where Curtis was left to fend for himself. Not since all those years ago, when his bastard of a father had beat him senseless. Even then, he knew he had his family behind him.

  They proved that the night they’d gutted George like a fish.

  Now he was alone. The only way to freedom was through the man who would die trying to kill him.

  The gun rattled in his hand and he tried to control his breathing. Crouched down beside the door to his office, he was hoping to welcome his assailant with a bullet to the skull as he entered.

  Having forged a life off the deaths of others, Curtis had begun to feel immortal. His own life had never been in danger and without his siblings around him, he sat in genuine fear.

  Another step.

  Curtis checked that his gun was loaded.

  The footsteps stopped. They’d reached the top of the staircase. Lucas was on the other side of the door that Curtis had closed in a panic earlier.

  The handle turned slowly, the mechanism creaking slowly under the pressure.

  The door gradually glided open.

  Lucas darted through the door and Curtis opened fire, unloading four bullets at the movement before him.

  Lucas's leather jacket, the final gift his wife had got him before she was senselessly eradicated, flopped to the ground.

  Moments before, as he waited before the door, Lucas had eased himself carefully out of the jacket, leaning the shotgun against the wall. He didn't know anything about firearms and wasn't even sure it was still loaded. The horrible wound in his side, courtesy of the man he was about to face, still leaked, his entire jean leg a horrible shade of red.

  He slowly opened the door, half expecting a bullet to fly through and send him to Helen.

  Nothing.

  With as much force as he could muster, Lucas tossed the jacket over the threshold and into the tastefully decorated office, the desk sitting a sizeable distance from the door.

  As the coat was mid-air, gunshots rang out from the left, bullets ripping through his most precious item of clothing.

  Curtis had given away his position.

  Before the final Drayton realised, Lucas stepped in on an unsteady foot and drove the back of the shotgun into Curtis's skull, the thick, wooden butt cracking him just above the eyelid.

  Curtis tipped back, his feet sliding from under him as he collided with a bookshelf, knocking a few to the ground and following them swiftly. He cried out in pain, his gun falling to the floor amongst the chaos.

  Lucas stumbled in, blood smearing the wall as he shuffled across after his adversary.

  Curtis pushed the books away and crawled across the floor, whimpering.

  “Please, Lucas. Don't do this.”

  Pathetic words from a pathetic man, and words that fell on deaf ears.

  Lucas tried to raise the shotgun, but suddenly felt a surge of pain, a hand gripping him from the after-life and trying to pull him through.

  The shotgun clattered to the floor.

  He dropped to one knee.

  He squeezed Helen's wedding band, his eyes closed as he pictured her. She was reaching out to him from her deathbed.

  Curtis scrambled into the middle of the office, his eyes focused on the knife on his desk. He had never wanted to tarnish the blade with another man's blood, but he was desperate. He managed to get to his feet.

  Lucas slowly picked up the gun that Curtis had dropped and took aim.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The bullet whizzed through the air and Lucas felt as if he was watching it travel in slow motion, everything in the room appearing to blur out around it. The gun barrel shunted back into place in his hand and the bullet drilled a hole through Curtis's calf muscle.

  Curtis collapsed forward, his outstretched arm a few inches from the edge of the desk. He howled in pain, the blood pouring from the back of his tailored trousers.

  Lucas dropped his aim, his arm swinging loosely as he pushed himself up, his fist clenched around the wedding ring.

  Each step brought him closer to Curtis. Closer to the end of it all.

  Curtis had managed to pull himself to his knees, the pain burning his leg as he moaned for mercy.

  “Please, Lucas.”

  Curtis looked up at the man he’d wronged, seeing the horrendous state of his face, the beatings he’d persevered through just to make these final steps. His clothes were heavy with blood, some of which was dripping from the rip in the side of his shirt and splattering delicate drops on the floor.

  Lucas stopped a few feet from Curtis. The gun in his hand slowly rose.

  Curtis looked at him, tears falling from his eyes. This man had taken everything from him as he’d promised: his brothers, his sister, and his strong grip on the city. Everything that Curtis had had was now gone.

  There was no power anymore.

  Curtis let the tears roll down his cheeks, weeping at the realisation of what he’d caused. He had raped a woman he hadn’t cared about and had had her killed. For that, he had witnessed the swift and violent dismantling of his family. They had had bones shattered, body parts removed and they had all known it was because of him.

  Because of his actions.

  The barrel of the gun pointed at his head.

  Curtis roared a mighty scream of emotional anguish and then looked up at Lucas. Their eyes met.

  Both of them shed a tear.

  Through the violent clattering of rain against the window, they heard the distant wailing of sirens.

  The Drayton headquarters no longer held any fear for the Metropolitan Police. Curtis wiped a tear away and took a breath.

  “Just fucking kill me.”

  Lucas's hand shook, pulling the trigger would send the bullet straight through Curtis's temple and it would all be over. He would have killed the man who had raped his wife.

  But what about all the other women?

  All the other families who’d been dismantled and torn apart by the fallen monster cowering before him. They wouldn’t see this as their vengeance.

  He shook his head clear and refocused his aim. His arm straightening, he pushed the gun closer to Curtis's skull.

  The sirens grew louder.

  “Just pull the fucking trigger!”

  Lucas's finger stretched around the small, curved trigger.

  A ghostly hand reached out, the delicate fingers wrapping themselves around Lucas's arm. Helen floated beside him, her soft touch tightening around his blood-spattered forearm. He felt her trying to pull his arm away.

  Trying to get him to stop.

  He knew it wasn't real. It was his projection of what he knew she would want. For him to stop. For him to put the gun down.

  Lucas shrugged the arm off and pressed the gun against the weeping Curtis's forehead, the man a pathetic, frightened mess. A small stream of urine joined the blood oozing from his trouser leg, pooling around him.

  He tried to pull the trigger.

  The soft, wispy fingers rested themselves on Lucas's cheek, trying to turn his face and remove him from another murder.

  He fought against it, another tear rolling down his cheek as he tried to ignore her. He tried to forget her voice telling him that he wasn't violent. That he was a good man.

  She pulled with all her might, forcing Lucas to turn from Curtis and look at her.

  Their eyes met.

  She looked beautiful. It was the only time his memory had done her justice. Her angelic smile reached out and pressed down on Lucas's broken heart. Her blonde hair danced gently by the side of her face and for a moment, Lucas almost believed she had returned.

  She slowly shook her head.

  She didn't want another death in her name.

  Not even Curtis.

  With everything that had transpired, what did the man have left? Th
e death of the entire family he’d held so dearly on his conscience. The police moments away from bursting through the door, ready to repay him for his years of tyranny.

  The man had begged, cried and wet himself through fear.

  He was nothing.

  Lucas stared through his swollen eye at his wife, his fist still squeezing what was rightfully hers. Her soft, glowing hand ghosted forward and wrapped around his fist and he felt her touch encase his hand.

  She moved in close to him, his body was shaking at the severity of his injuries.

  Her piercing blue eyes searched his, she didn't need any words to tell him how much she had loved him.

  He could feel her hand squeeze his tighter.

  Then, with her other arm, she guided a spectral hand towards his face.

  Sirens wailed loudly.

  The rain lashed against the building.

  Curtis wept softly.

  Lucas heard none of it.

  Her finger pressed the tip of his nose and pushed it upwards. He felt her touch.

  He opened his eyes, allowing the tears to fall down as her face creased into a cute little scowl and she oinked at him.

  He chuckled through his tears, remembering how often she would do it to him, how adorable she was when she did her impression.

  He nodded his head.

  There would not be another death in her name.

  She slid her arms around his muscular, beaten body and pressed her head against his ever slowing heartbeat. He closed his eyes, feeling a closeness to her that he hadn't felt since she’d been taken from him.

  He opened them a second later and she was gone.

  The room was darker again, the radiance of his wife having momentarily illuminated everything around them. All there was now was Curtis, knelt down in a pool of blood and piss. He was still weeping, begging for Lucas to finish everything and not let the police take him. Lucas stepped in front of Curtis, the gun hanging in his hand.

  Curtis, with blood trickling from the cut above his eye, tipped his head back to meet his gaze.

  “Just fucking do it.”