Exit Wounds (8 page)

That was it. They had to get out of here. Paul was going to go back, get Richard and get the hell out of here. And then, he was going to come back, and get Dean.

Paul waited a few moments more and then ventured out back into the corridor, heading the way he came.

The room had been dark and with his mind focused first on remaining undetected and then his fury at Dean, Paul hadn’t even bothered to look round. If he had, he would have noticed Becky, bound, gagged and lying unconscious in the corner of the room.

M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch

Tony praised the god of the atheists when he found that there was a digital database of known gang tattoos and emblems available on the department server. But that victory was short-lived. The software was still pretty basic and after it brought up eight different possible matches that looked nothing like the image he had uploaded, Tony wondered if it was even worth having.

Drumming his fingers on the desk, Tony considered the option of tasking one of the subordinates to go though the database manually. He shook his head.
Share the workload, share the victory.

Tony had been chasing this case since the first body had been found and had fended off his fare share of other ambitious officers, hungry to beat him to the prize. He needed this result badly. It was his ticket out of his current position. He had been stuck here longer than he had planned anyway. With this result under his belt he would more than catch up with his scheduled career. And yet the thought of shifting through the thousands of possible images himself still filled him with dread.

There was another possibility that Tony hadn’t yet considered: The camouflage jacket. What if it was more than just a fashion choice? If the suspect had a background in the forces then it could be a military tattoo, specific to a particular regiment.

Tony reached for his phone and hastily punched in a sequence of digits. As he waited for the other end to pick up, he spotted Craig entering the room, coffee in hand. Tony had hoped he’d be able to avoid Craig whilst he was on one of his regular cigarette breaks but their eyes met immediately.

“Hello?” a polite female voice said, giving Tony an excuse to look away.

“It’s Horton from upstairs again. I spoke to you earlier about the software for matching known emblems and insignia.”

Tony heard an inaudible sigh down the receiver. “Yes, I know it’s pathetic but it’s all our funding allows at the-”

“Oh no, it’s not a complaint at all,” Tony interrupted, switching into auto-charm. “The searching program is a bit preliminary but the database is very comprehensive.” Tony paused for a breath. Judging the sound of silence as a good one, he continued, “I was just calling to inquire as to whether the database possibly contained images of military tattoos?”

Tony looked up. Craig was hovering around his own desk, the occasional glance flickered over Horton’s way.

“Oh, I don’t know... It might do I suppose.”

“I’d be ever so grateful if you could check for me please,” Tony told her. He imagined the woman to be thirty-something going on fifty-something. Young and computer-savvy, but abrupt and obstinate beyond her years. That’s what being locked in a basement filled with nothing but computers does to you.

Craig had made his way over to Tony’s desk, forcing him to look up.

“What you up to?” Craig asked. It was said casually, as if between friends, yet Tony could still feel the sharp edge of a suspicious finger pointed at him.

“I’m just chasing a tattoo I found the suspect has on his hand,” Tony replied, struggling to find the words that would satisfy Craig’s curiosity yet remain vague enough that he had given nothing away.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Craig lifted the polystyrene cup to his lips. “That search engine’s a waste of space.”

Tony nodded, “Thanks.”

Craig didn’t move. Tony thought about asking him to check through the database manually. If there was one person he could trust to come straight back to him if they got a result rather than run with it themselves, it would be Craig. That said, he still wasn’t comfortable with letting someone else in on his party.

“Hello?” the female voice said again, announcing her return.

“Hi,” Tony said.

“No, sorry. There’s nothing about military tattoos in the information I’ve got.”

Tony put the phone back down without saying anything else. He bit down on his teeth, thinking about where to try next. He was so close, he knew it.

“It’s not a military tattoo,” Craig told him.

Tony looked up quickly. He had almost forgotten Craig was still stood there.

Craig waved a hand towards the phone, “I heard what she said.”

“How do you know it’s not a military tattoo?” Tony asked, suddenly feeling the need to defend his hunch.

“It’s an old Caerphilly gang mark,” Craig said. “My dad has one just like it.”

An Abandoned Warehouse, Cardiff Bay

Paul was still stranded in the corridor behind the loading bay. Peering out first he had seen that the busy area was now deserted, and all that remained were four trucks, the engines still ticking over. Wary that someone could jump out or walk up to one of the vehicles at any moment and spot him being not where he was supposed to be, Paul had decided to wait it out until the trucks left.

They were taking their time. Finally the front door started rising and the first of the trucks moved towards the warehouse entrance. Paul wished he could race for the exit himself, but without his brother he was going nowhere.

With the last of them away and the shutter door descending again, Paul opened the door fully and walked out into the main warehouse. He had crossed no more than a few metres towards the stairs when a voice he had already grown to loathe shouted at him from behind, “What the fuck are you doing here!?”

Paul let his eyes roll before he turned round.
Bastard typical.

Dean stood in front of the doorway adjacent to the one Paul had just left. His eyes stared out from beneath a burrowed scowl, exaggerating the thin vertical scar that ran down his face. He stormed towards Paul, “Oi! I’m fucking talking to you!”

Paul could see his Beretta tucked into the front of Dean’s trousers. This could get very messy, very fast. Dean continued to cross towards him, getting closer and closer. Paul decided he was going to have to go for the gun.

Get it, take down Dean, get back to Richard and get the fuck out of here. Shoot my way out if I had to.
It was as good a plan as any at this point.

Dean was letting his anger control him and making the fatal mistake of getting too close. But then he picked up on Paul’s wavering eyes. His own flicked down and spotted the Beretta.

Suddenly his arm lashed from his side, reaching to draw the weapon. Paul leapt off his feet, bounding the few steps between them. His hands gripped Dean’s as the pistol lifted from his belt strap.

As they struggled, Paul choked one hand round Dean’s wrists, forcing the gun away from himself and pushed back the top slide with the other. He wedged it in the gap. The metal cut into Paul’s flesh, drawing blood. It hurt like hell but with the moving parts jammed, the Beretta couldn’t be fired.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Dean kept shouting again, withering to get his hands free and the gun back.

“Fuck you!” Paul shouted back, determined not to be beaten, not even in a shouting match. It might have sounded overly macho to a passer-by but the yelling did help. He needed adrenalin in his veins fast and the aggression helped fuel his muscles.

Paul leant his head back and slammed it forward. The impact of skull on skull sent them both reeling. Dean dropped the gun and it clattered across the floor away from them.

On his feet faster than his opponent, Paul went after the Beretta. Dean wasn’t far behind. Coming up quickly, he intercepted Paul’s quick sprint spinning round with his left leg forward and his right arm swinging.

Paul’s reactions happened almost by themselves. Instantly his left arm shot up, blocking the hook with the bony top of his forearm. In the same swift moment, he stepped forward and jabbed his left fingers into Dean’s eyes. His tear ducts responded almost as fast as Paul. With water abruptly flowing down his face, Dean’s hands came up incompetently as he staggered backwards a step, struggling to see.

Paul didn’t stop there. Casually, batting away Dean’s hands he followed through sending the heel of his right palm into his face. It only scuffed his chin but the strike connected hard with Dean’s nose, crumpling it on impact. The force of the blow sent Dean to the ground, sliding a couple of feet across the floor.

Dean looked up and ran his sleeve across his burrowed eyes. His teeth snarled at the edges of his mouth, and he shoved himself off the floor back on to his feet. His face was now a pulsating red, and his blunt features were stained with a mix of blood and tears. “You’re in trouble now, dickhead.”

Balancing his weight evenly, Paul spread his feet so that they were about a shoulder width apart. His knees were slightly bent and he kept his chin down with his elbows to his sides and his hands up, open and moving.

Again, Dean came at him with a swinging right hook. As before, Paul blocked it with his left forearm, but this time Dean quickly threw a straight punch with his left. Paul swung out the way, just missing Dean’s fist.

Relentlessly, Dean threw punch after punch. They weren’t well placed or particularly powerful but they were fast. Paul barely had time to react before three more punches had come his way. After a couple had landed on his arms and face, Paul edged a couple of steps back. Dean pushed forward.

Paul unexpectedly shot out his right foot, his steel-capped boot stamping down on Dean’s left knee. Yelling in pain, Dean dropped like a sack of shit. Paul stepped forward and hurled a second kick, this time into his face.

Dropping his arms to his sides, Paul stood upright and took a long, deep breath. He was just about to think about where to hide Dean’s unconscious heap when he heard two metallic clicks behind him. It was accompanied in quick succession by half a dozen or so more.

Looking around him, Paul saw that eight men, all armed with Kalashnikov assault rifles pointed directly at his chest had surrounded him. Completing his turn Paul let out a single sigh and nodded, “Now I’m in trouble.”

81

07.24 BST (British Summer Time)

Present Day

Cardiff. Wales. Great Britain.

An Abandoned Warehouse, Cardiff Bay

Richard Russell looked over the code that had scrawled up on his screen again, positive that he must have not read it properly the first time. Unfortunately the lines and numbers remained the same as they had the first time he laid eyes on them.

His mouth dropped open by itself, “No way.”

The sudden noise of voices barking from outside interrupted Richard’s thoughts. He quickly turned towards the door just in time to see the silhouettes of three armed men race past the window.

“Paul.”

Richard moved over to the door and opened it just a fraction. The men were racing down the suspended walkway towards the storehouse that the twins had been brought in through. Richard glanced down and saw that a few people on the production line below had looked up at the commotion but quickly returned back to their work.

“Shit.”

He knew he shouldn’t have got his brother involved in all of this. If anything happened to Paul now, it would be his fault. Richard followed down the footbridge, pausing at the dividing door. Again he was careful as he opened it slowly, hoping that no one on the other side would notice.

He peered through the gap at the warehouse on the other side. Down below, Paul was on his knees, his hands on the back of his head, surrounded by at least twenty armed men. One of the guards circled him like a predator studying its prey. Paul’s face was already bleeding from a cut underneath his left eye.

“Who are you working for!?” Giacometti’s voice bawled.

Richard opened the door further. Giacometti was stood on the suspended walkway, snarling down at Paul. He was flanked on either side by the men that Richard had seen running, the closest only a couple of feet away from him.

He wondered if he would be able to separate the guard from his weapon, use it to hold Giacometti hostage and get Paul and himself out safely.

No chance.

“Answer me!”

The circling sentry came in quickly, charging the butt of his rifle across the back of Paul’s head. Paul dropped to his hands, spitting out blood. The guard came in again from the side, fast and hard. The blow sent Paul on his back. He was still conscious. This seemed to anger the attacking guard. His foot connected with the underside of Paul’s ribs, almost lifting him off the ground.

“Answer me!!!” Giacometti screamed.

The guard kicked Paul again. In a wild frenzy he stamped down on his chest and lashed out to his ribs over and over again, booting Paul from side to side with each blow like a ball on a tennis court.

Richard couldn’t watch anymore. If he didn’t stop this now they were going to kill his brother.

“Stop!” he shouted down at the guard. He stepped forward with his hands raised, already twenty gun barrels pointed at him. “Stop! Please!”

“Richard,” Giaocmetti said. Despite the return of calm to his voice, Richard noticed Giacometti had not referred to him as his friend this time. “Since your brother is unremittingly silent, perhaps you can explain to me why it is he was discovered attacking one of my men?”

Richard glanced down, his hands still held above his head.

Paul rolled onto his front and lifted himself onto his knees. The guard that had beaten him up switched back to point his gun from Richard to Paul.

“Or why my friend Thomas tells me that it is clear he has no knowledge of computer coding whatsoever?”

Richard’s eyes met with his brother’s. “It’s because he’s not a programmer.” He looked back at Giacometti. “I am. Paul is my bodyguard. We work together. I do the hacking work and he watches my back and makes sure I get paid.”

Giacometti’s penetrating gaze bore into Richard’s skull. He could feel the rays of his vision scrutinising over every detail of his face, searching for any signs of deception.

“I can still do the job you brought me here to do,” Richard said. “Or you can shoot me. But Thomas suggested that you have some urgency with getting onto that server and if you want to do that today, then you’re gonna need me alive, and my brother.” He paused. “So what do you say we just put this all behind us?”

“You’ve spoken well, my friend.” Giacometti nodded, “You and your brother, Paul can return to the task I have set you.”

The guard held his rifle up, motioning for Paul to go. Richard lowered his hands as he watched his brother pick himself up and climb the stairs up onto the walkway. His strides were wide and precise. Not the walk of a man who had been beaten to the floor with the butt of a rifle only minutes earlier. Paul even flashed a quick smile at Richard as he walked past Giacometti and the other guards.

As they turned to head back to the room, Giacometti spoke up, “One more thing, my friend, Paul. If you lay a finger on any of my men again, I will have you shot in the head.”

Paul looked down at Dean’s unconscious body and shrugged, casually, “He started it.”

Richard waited until they were back in the office with the door closed before he properly looked at his brother. Unable to look at each other without smiling, he ruffled his brother’s hair, and laughed, “Cock.”

Paul playfully batted his hand away.

Richard pulled out his chair and collapsed back into it. Paul straddled one next to him and traced the cuts on his hands and face with his fingers.

“I take it you didn’t find a way out then?” Richard said more than asked.

Paul shook his head, “Nothing besides the front door.” He looked up at his brother, “I got a look in one of the crates they were unloading though.”

Richard turned, his attention suddenly peaked.

“It was full of AK ammo,” Paul said. “Richard, this isn’t just drug trafficking. This guy is building an army.”

Richard eyes fell to the ground. His mind lost in thought. “There’s more,” he said, looking back up. “I recognise this code. The one they want me to write a rootkit for, so they can gain access undetected?”

“I don’t get it,” Paul shook his head. “What do you mean you recognise it?”

“I mean I helped write it.”

Bedwas Road, Porset, Caerphilly

Tony Horton had refused to travel in Craig’s Kuga, stating that time was of the essence and his TT was no doubt the faster of the two. Even so, Tony clearly wasn’t happy about Craig travelling with him, especially when his shoes scuffed the inside of the door as he climbed in.

Craig’s father, Edward Hughes, lived in Caerphilly, a few miles north of Cardiff. The Audi had quickly shot up over the mountains and cascaded down into the bottom of the Rhymney valley into the country town with ease.

“I have to warn you,” Craig said as they passed the large Norman fortress that dominated the town centre. “My dad may be a little...” he mulled over an appropriate adjective. “Angry.”

Tony frowned. He found it difficult to imagine anyone related to Craig being described as angry.

Turning off to the right, it wasn’t long before the town centre made way for a suburb that Tony at once spotted as being primarily dominated by council housing. Teenagers clad in hooded sweaters loitered round a fenced-off stream and a few discarded trolleys lay on the side of the road. It didn’t surprise Tony that his colleague had grown up in such an area.

Craig pointed out the house and Tony pulled the Audi up adjacent. Hughes was quick out of the car and already on his way to the door when he noticed Horton’s reluctance. “What is it?”

Tony’s eyes flickered back to the group of hoodies on the other side of the road that had become attracted to the sight of his TT, shuffling their feet back and forth.

“You could stay here and guard it if you like,” Craig suggested. “I can talk to my dad by myself.”

“No way.” Reluctantly Tony made to move towards the house, glancing over his shoulder.

Craig shook his head and chuckled, “It’ll be fine.”

Horton didn’t seem convinced.

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you car safe for you!” one of the teenagers shouted over. The rest of the group quickly erupted into laughter.

Stepping forward, Craig lifted back his jacket, to reveal the handcuffs on his belt. “Yeah you had better!”

The teenagers jeered as one before breaking into their own individual jaunts.

Tony’s patience had run its course. Pushing past Craig he pulled back his own jacket to reveal his firearm sitting in its underarm holster, waiting to be called upon. They went quiet. Tony looked each of the hoodies in the eye, and then, his point made, turned round and rung the door bell.

As Craig rejoined his side, Tony allowed himself a small smile. Armed officers were still a relatively new sight on the streets of Great Britain and whilst the respect for a warrant card and a set of handcuffs had long diminished, the respect for a gun under your arm was still as fresh as ever.

Craig didn’t seem as pleased. He had been reluctant to enrol on the course that allowed him as an officer of M.I.T to carry firearms. His belief was that only armed response officers should carry weapons and they should only be used under extreme circumstances. Tony had listened to his speech on escalation before, but the fact of the matter was the world they lived in was becoming more dangerous every day, and guns were a necessary part of their profession now.

“Who is it?” a loud, dry voice called out from inside.

Craig leant closer, tilting one ear towards the door. “It’s me, Dad.”

“Who the bastard fuck is me!?”

Tony’s eyes widened. Craig avoided meeting them. “It’s Craig. Will you please just open the door?”

After the sound of a dozen latches being undone and the scrape of metal of metal on metal as a chain was lifted, the door finally opened.

Edward Hughes wasn’t at all like Tony had imagined, but then he found himself wondering just what had he imagined. The initial shock had been back at M.I.T. when Craig had told him that his father had been in a gang. How could somebody from a gang have fathered somebody like Craig?

The first thing Tony noticed about Edward Hughes was his height, or lack of. He only just came up to Craig’s nose and his back hunched over so much that at its peak it was almost level with the top of his head. He had lost almost all his hair besides a ring that circled around from ear to ear and hung down to his neck. He had a short, dirty beard and clothes that were decorated with equally filthy stains. He peered out at Tony from behind circle rimmed glasses before turning his bellowing frustration at his son, “Why didn’t you use your name in the fucking first place!?”

“I called you Dad,” Craig said. “How many other kids have you got?!”

Edward sneered with a mumble, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

As his father hobbled back down the corridor without even asking them why they were there, Craig forced a smile through the embarrassment. Tony smiled back politely before following Edward, leaving Craig to shut the door behind them.

Tony’s eyes bounced over the horded accumulation of working class life that swamped the living room. He remained standing as Edward lowered himself slowly into a well worn armchair with a puff.

Edward looked up at Tony, “You’re fucking filth.”

Tony opened his mouth to speak but words failed him.

“He works at the office with me, Dad,” Craig said, pushing past Tony. He fell back into the sofa opposite his father.

Edward chewed his gums, “Bastard pigs.” He turned to his son. “Bloody disgrace.”

“Disgrace? What? Having a member of the family that actually earns an honest living?”

“Fuck off! I’ve never met an honest copper my whole life!”

Craig sighed, “Well, strictly speaking, Dad, I’m not actually a Police Officer. I’m a-”

“Waste of fucking space!” Edward spat. He chuckled to himself. “Aye, you can say that again.”

Tony stepped in from the archway, “Mr. Hughes, I-”

“Ooooh, look at him! Gay boy’s got a tongue after all!”

“Dad!”

“I suppose he must do. After all what else would he lick your arsehole out with?”

“DAD! For fuck’s sake! Will you just shut up and listen for five minutes! This is important!”

Tony had never heard Craig raise his voice before yet alone swear. The difference shocked even him. Edward Hughes retreated back into his armchair, his lips twitching but not speaking.

“Dad, we’re trying to catch the guy who’s being raping and killing all the young girls in Cardiff. Now we’ve got a possible suspect, but we need your help to get an I.D. on him.”

Tony had wanted to play this his way, hiding as much information from Edward Hughes as possible. But Craig’s methods seemed to be working. His father had stopped yelling and was listening intently.

“The man we’re looking for has a tattoo similar to yours, Dad,” Craig held out his hand to Tony. He handed him the file. Craig flicked through and held up the enlargement of the bloody dagger flanked on either side by wings.