RECRUITED: A Mike Humber Novella (Demon Series Book One) (4 page)

‘The law must…’

‘And the victims?’ she interrupts me. ‘You’ll have them face a trial? Giving evidence of what he did to them? Being cross-examined and damaged for life?’

I stay silent as the faces of the victims swim through my mind. The images of the injuries, the bruises, the grip marks, the bites… of the innocent faces destroyed by a monster.

‘We’ll give him to you,’ she murmurs, ‘we can get you in and out without anyone ever knowing.’

‘No,’ I snap the word out, ‘no way.’

‘You’ve killed before,’ she carries on in a soft tone designed to lower my defences. ‘Tessa told us, Mike. Tessa told us what you did. You killed two men in the cellar of Huntington House.’

‘No.’

‘You killed in your duty as a police officer. You shot and killed an armed assailant.’

‘That was different.’

‘You’ve killed three people. By your hands three people are dead.’

‘No.’ My voice is a growl, like an animal warning for the predator to stay away. ‘Report him, give the evidence to the local police and let them deal with it.’

‘The local judge is part of the ring.’

‘What?’

‘He’s part of it, Mike.’

‘Then find another judge. Give the new judge the evidence of the other judge…report it to a different district…’

‘It will be too slow. Those involved will know something is happening and they’ll take action and our man will be gone…again.’

‘Why?’ I finally ask the question.

‘Our organisation has three owners. One of which is best described as a realistic humanist who desires to…’

‘A fucking hitman? You want me to be a contract killer? Lady, you are so fucking wrong in your judgement of me.’

‘…who desires to undertake selective procedures to eradicate the most dangerous in our society and they understand certain processes that the authorities undertake are not effective. The other two owners are ex-special forces with varied backgrounds.’

‘Get them to do it then.’ I try and shrug it off. ‘Special forces are far better at that sort of shit than any ex-copper.’

‘They have the capability. They have the means. They have the personnel.’

‘So?’

‘But they want you.’

‘Why? I’m a fucking alcoholic with an addiction to sleeping pills. I’m washed up, jaded, cynical, out of practice and…’

‘You haven’t had a drink in four months. You visit the gym every day without fail. Your body fat is less than five percent. You haven’t taken a sleeping pill in three months. You punish yourself with exercise to cause pain and you deny yourself alcohol to cause more suffering. You lie awake at night unable to sleep but refuse to take the pills because you feel you deserve the discomfort of sleep deprivation. Your self-loathing is evident and beyond question but your abilities are also without question. Your actions at Huntington House proved that no matter how far down you think you’ve gone, you’re still a very gifted and very dangerous man.’

‘I’m not dangerous.’ Her words sting me to the core, knowing I’ve been monitored and watched and everything she has said is true.

‘To the wrong people you are, or rather…to the right people…’

‘And this is going to do what?’ Bitter words tinged with acid flow from my mouth. ‘Give me vengeance so I can sleep easy at night? Give me closure for all the victims? Yeah, I’ll just keep on killing shall I and that’ll make me feel so much better. And what’s in it for you? Was your philanthropist fucking owner molested as a child? Does he want revenge?’

‘Yes.’ Her blue eyes lock on mine, shades different from Tessa’s and her hair is darker, longer. Her face is a different shape too but for a second my mind becomes befuddled and confused until understanding dawns.

‘You. He raped you. You’re the other owner.’

Cold steel on her face, not a flicker of reaction and this woman has spent a lifetime perfecting an ability to hide the emotions inside, but then I’ve spent a lifetime finding ways to see those emotions beyond the masks people wear. ‘Fuck me,’ I sigh wearily, ‘times must be hard if the company owners have to man the reception desk
and
make the coffees.’

A poor joke but she takes the lifeline to break the tension with a slow smile. ‘I wanted to meet you in person. After everything Tessa told me…’

‘You? She spoke to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit, how was she?’

‘Like I said before, she was okay but not great. What she went through will take time to heal. Mentally and physically.’ Her hand stretches across the gap between our seats to gently rest on my arm. ‘Mike,’ she stares at me imploringly, ‘we know these paedophile rings are connected. We know that if we take one down using lawful methods the others will disband and reform somewhere else and the authorities will forever be playing catch-up and during that time…children are being hurt, raped, molested, groomed and damaged beyond repair. But,’ she swallows and takes a breath, ‘but if we take them out, our way,’ she nods at me as though unwilling to say the words, ‘if we…
kill them
…that will send a ripple far greater than anything else. It sends a message.’

‘Shit.’ I exhale slowly and close my eyes. Everything she’s said is right. Ask any serving or retired copper. Ask any child therapist that has spent painstaking years trying to fix the damage that was done. Ask the drug addicts, the prostitutes and the desperate of how they ended up being where they are. Children are innocent but they grow to become adults and those adults perpetuate the cycle of violence and hatred. Western societies are too soft, too lenient and we know the spread of the offenders runs deep into every public service and government body. Those who make the laws will be offenders. Those who decide the sentences will be offenders. What Elizabeth is suggesting is an action of vigilantism. Of taking the law into our own hands to stop what the authorities cannot stop. But to kill them? If the evidence was fact, beyond question and absolute then fine, lock me in a room with them and I’d happily do it all day long. But what if the evidence is weak, or merely suggestive? What then? We kill everyone suspected of it? What about false allegations?

‘How good is the evidence?’ I open my eyes to find her examining my features. ‘Not my man…I know he’s guilty…the others though…’

‘We have enough.’ She looks down sadly.

‘What’s enough?’ I ask. ‘Enough for you? Enough for a court? And if you have enough for a court then it goes back to the original point that although what you are suggesting is morally right, the law
must
stand. It must. We veer away from the law and the world descends into chaos.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Very prophetic. We have evidence beyond
all
reasonable doubt.’

Beyond all reasonable doubt
is the burden of proof required for the conviction of a criminal offence, which is enough to put someone in prison but…

‘Not enough.’ I lift my head up and raise a questioning eyebrow. ‘Sorry, but…’

‘Testimonies, witness statements, covert recordings, audio capture, computer downloads and…’

‘You have all that?’

‘We do. The methods we deployed in obtaining the information were very illegal and would never be allowed for submission by a court, but nonetheless, we have that evidence.

‘Recordings? Of what?’

‘Discussions between them, between the people in the ring. Discussions of what they’ve done and what they’re planning to do.’

‘Discussions don’t amount to offences. That’s conspiracy to commit offences. How do you know they weren’t all just bragging and making shit up to impress each other?’

‘Because we filmed them doing it,’ she whispers.

The room goes instantly silent with the weight of her words, of what they mean.

‘You filmed them…’ I swallow and try again as my voice breaks, ‘you…you filmed them and did nothing to stop it? You watched a child being raped and…’

‘It wasn’t a live monitor,’ she says quickly, ‘we had no idea it was happening. The footage was downloaded and we picked it up later. It was…’ she struggles for composure, ‘brutal. They treated her like a doll, like a toy…I’ve never…’

‘Stop.’ The bluntness of my tone surprises her. ‘I’ve seen them before. I know what they do.’

She coughs and looks away for a second and the woman that looks back wears the mask once again. ‘So we have the evidence. Unequivocal. Absolute. Illegally obtained and never usable in a court, but we have it. Mike.’ She looks straight at me.

‘I don’t want to see it,’ I whisper, ‘but I have to know they’re guilty, I have to see their faces…you understand?’

She nods and her eyes close for a long second. ‘So you’ll do it?’

I stare down at the coffee mug and my hands holding it.

‘There’s something else too,’ she whispers, ‘something I haven’t told you yet.’

Four

The journey to the private airfield only takes an hour and we go straight to a light aircraft waiting to take off. Everything arranged, everything organised. A passport and driving licence in a new name. Bank cards too with access to real accounts containing real money. A wedge of Euro bank notes feels thick in my pocket. Everything arranged. Everything organised.

I feel sick to the stomach. Hot acid and bile churns and flares up my windpipe. Indigestion, heartburn, stomach acid. A headache dull and persistent, but nervous energy courses my veins as I mount the steps and clamber into the seat next to the pilot. I should be watching everything with interest. Talking to the pilot and staring amazed as we thunder down a grass strip and launch into the air. The little plane vibrates and bounces on thermals but none of this discomfort matters to me. If the engine cut out now and we plummeted to ground in a fiery ball of flame I would offer a prayer of thanks, because it would mean death and death would mean forever forgetting what I watched.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes and my throat feels constricted. A young girl, no more than eight or nine years old. Three men. High definition with audio. Full colour. Graphic beyond description. She cried and begged until she fell silent as her mind shut down from the horror of what they did to her.

Elizabeth was right. The evidence is beyond question, beyond anything. I couldn’t watch it all and I had to use my hand to shield the view of what they did to the girl so I could get clear sight of their faces. Lars Verhoeven, Phillipe De Smet both apparently Belgian and John Williams. Seeing him again after all this time stirred old emotions and memories and I stared so hard at the screen it seemed to flicker with static and my mind played tricks as I saw him glance up to the camera and grin wolfishly like he knew it was there. He held that gaze for several long seconds while the other two were absorbed in their torturous behaviour. Then, a split second before he turned away he mouthed something, a word, one word. It could be a trick of the light or a nonsensical muttering but it bloody looked like he muttered “
Get
Mike”.
That was the extra thing Elizabeth said she had to show me

Only when I had all three did I race from the room to break down in the corridor with loud sobs that echoed throughout the building. Elizabeth gave me a few minutes then led me back into the armchair room where she gently gave me the instructions, the passport, the documents and the bank cards. After that I was offered a new wardrobe and a chance to wash, shave or rest.

I declined and we were on the road within an hour of watching the footage. I open the bit of paper held tight in my hand and stare at the three names, two of which mean nothing but one means everything.

John Williams. As plain a name as you can get but that name was printed alongside mine in every newspaper in the country. Mike Humber. John Williams. Mike Humber the detective. John Williams the child rapist. Those headlines ensured he’d never face a fair trial and not only did he get a pay-out from the police, he also sued several tabloids for the stories they ran, and won.

He moved to France within a week of being discharged from hospital. Paris then down to the south and after that he disappeared. Rumours were mentioned about Spain and Thailand until The Carlisle Group tracked him down to Belgium, to Bruges. An old medieval town made famous by a movie.

I know I’m being played. Manipulated and used as the trigger guy. People far higher up the food chain and with much greater intelligence have played me like a puppet, but unless they’ve got access to Hollywood film editing software then I don’t care, because that footage was factual. It was uncut, without variance of pitch, colour, hue or saturation. I’ll do what they ask not for them, not for me, but because it has to be done.

‘
Make it newsworthy…’
was the last thing Elizabeth said to me.

The pilot doesn't even glance at me but operates his controls with the efficiency of the well-practised. We climb steadily higher and head south and over the channel following what I can only assume is a direct path.

To distract from the images flashing through my mind, I open the passport and stare hard at the details, reciting them back over and over. Mike Howell, aged thirty-nine years old, born London. The date of birth is quite close to mine so easy to remember. Using a fake name is a skill and the best ones are the ones closest to your own so they don’t feel unnatural when you say them. Mike Howell. The picture was taken in the offices and some clever bastard in an unseen part of the building got the documents done within minutes. My DNA will still be on record from my days in the police, so will my fingerprints. The Belgium police won’t have them but any prints they lift will be checked locally then nationally then internationally. Forensic awareness will be needed. Gloves and the prevention of losing body hairs at the scene. Maybe I should have shaved my beard off after all. Fuck it.

Mike Howell. They’ve even given me an unregistered mobile phone pre-loaded with minutes and a number to call when I’m ready for the pick-up. The rest is down to me.

‘Coming into land,’ the pilot speaks through the headset, the only words spoken during the entire flight. I don’t reply but watch as another grass strip looms up towards us and then we’re down, bouncing along as he applies the brakes before turning in a wide semi-circle to taxi back to the hangars.

‘Thanks.’ I tug the headset free and climb down from the too close confines of the tiny aircraft. A taxi is already waiting which is a mistake as taxi drivers have bloody good memories by virtue of their jobs.

‘Mister Owl?’ The cabbie leans out of his door nodding at me. I nod back, head over and get into the back. He gives me a big grin and sets off, driving slowly through the airfield and out onto a country lane before navigating onto the motorway or whatever the Belgian people call their motorways.

Another surge of grief twists me up. I screw my eyes closed and plead with my mind to take away the images I saw. Fingernails dig into my palms and my knuckles go white with the strain of making fists. I’d never forgotten what he did and I remember the accounts of the victims and the medical reports of the injuries, but seeing footage of the acts being committed is something so appalling, so abhorrent that words cannot describe it.

The cabbie is well briefed and drops me on the outskirts of the city. I alight in a residential street while he points down the road, giving me the direction to travel. When I try and pay him he waves a hand at me, shakes his head and drives off.

This morning I was unemployed and picking a fight with a lorry driver. Now I’m in Bruges, hired to kill three men and in so doing, send a signal to every other perverted fucking creep.

Funny how life goes.