Search and Destroy (30 page)

He allowed the car a lead of fifty or so feet but felt confident that he would not be noticed. He followed for ten minutes, letting a black cab slip in between the two cars. When the Ford pulled over and parked at the kerb, he pulled in on the opposite side of the street. The Ford’s interior light turned on, and he could see the woman lean over and kiss the hipster. Strathclyde’s upper lip curled involuntarily. He smiled as he imagined her delicate features in a rictus of unendurable pain. That would come later.

The man left the car and after a brief wave to his girlfriend, entered a large house. Strathclyde noticed a gleaming BMW in the driveway. A smaller Fiat Punto sat alongside the bigger car. “Still living with his parents. Fucking loser.”

The woman drove another mile or so into a north London suburb, clearly ignorant of the shark in her wake. Eventually she parked outside an upmarket apartment building. Strathclyde watched as she entered through the front door, and was pleased when he saw lights go on in one of the two ground-floor flats. That would make things easier.

He watched the windows of the flat for nearly an hour. Only the woman’s silhouette could be seen through the curtains. It was a safe bet she lived alone. He clenched his fists until the knuckles turned white. He would google the address later from an Internet café and get all the information he needed. Then he would arrange a little tête-à-tête.

The display on his phone briefly lit up and emitted a two-tone beep. He opened the text message, smiling as he read the contents.

Finally…

He started the engine and slowly traced his way home. He hummed along to the song playing on the radio. He’d always liked “Killing me Softly” by the Fugees. It was just a short drive home. Less than an hour at this time of day. A couple of clicks on the computer and he would be linked to a camera on the other side of the Atlantic. His only regret was that he would not be able to participate.

* * *

The nondescript white van trailed a hundred yards behind the Mercedes.

The man in the front passenger seat read the brief coded message on his smartphone. He nodded to the driver in confirmation. “We’ve got a green light on this guy.”

“What’s the brief from Topcat?”

“Confirmation of whether the subject hired a TSI team under false pretences. If so, reason for and others involved. If positive confirmation, the subject is to meet with an unfortunate accident. Top doesn’t care which method we use as long as it looks self-inflicted.”

“Roger that,” replied the driver. “I’ve got just the thing in my bag of tricks.”

The passenger turned to the two men sitting in the back of the van and smiled. They all knew what lay in that little black bag.

Danny Gunn glanced again at his older brother. His expression was pained and there was a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. “You okay?”

“Feel like my feet are in boiling water.”

“Maybe it’s better if I go on alone. I could drop you at a hospital?”

“No,” said Clay, an angry edge in his voice. “We can’t lose any ground. We may only have one chance to get Andrea back. If we miss it…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Then you’ll need to keep a low profile. You can stay by the car and lay down suppressing fire if we need it.”

Clay stared back with a stony expression. “No way I’m going to be left holding the coats, even if I’m hobbling along like a lame octogenarian. I won’t slow you down.”

“I know that. Just let me do the running around on this one.” He received a begrudging nod in way of an answer.

“To be honest, I’m havin’ doubts, too. I don’t want to risk your and Andrea’s lives, I know you’re capable of operating on your own. But if I bail now and something bad happens…”

Danny turned the wipers to full speed. Even so, the beating rain reduced visibility to a point barely past the front grille. He was forced to slow the vehicle. The last thing he wanted to do was end up crashing and being delayed even more. He glanced at the SUV’s GPS, trying to match road signs with the digital map of the rendezvous location extracted from Washington with the Roman Candle trick. Luckily traffic was sparse.

“You have reached your destination,” intoned the GPS. Danny peered through his window. There was a gate built into a chain-link fence, tangled with creeping undergrowth, and beyond, at the end of a long carriage road, stood a dilapidated red-brick mansion. There were newer corrugated-iron buildings off to one side—it looked like an old tobacco estate given a new lease of life. Several of the new-builds had US Navy Jeeps and transport trucks parked in their shadows.

“Looks like the navy boys are repurposing the land as a surplus depot,” said Clay.

Danny nodded. The drab government-type buildings to the west stood silent and unlit, and newer construction works were evidenced by the heavy equipment standing near freshly dug foundations: a dump truck and a battered JCB. The backhoe of the excavator looked like a dinosaur sniffing the damp air. “No construction crews.”

“You seen the weather?”

“True. Chances are they won’t be holding her in one of the navy sheds—too risky. Likely up at that house.” Danny pointed to the red-brick mansion, which sat on a wide spur of land that poked out into the ocean, looking over the water. It was three storeys high, the third encircled by a widow’s walk. The main entrance was flanked by two sets of marble pillars that stretched up to the first-floor balconies, fronting large windows with ornate storm shutters, folded out and pinned securely to the exterior walls.

“I don’t reckon we can drive up to the front door. It’s nearly a quarter-mile up that road, little or no cover,” said Clay. “Don’t appear to be any back roads. If there’s one man on that roof with a sniper rifle we’ll be dead before we make it halfway.”

“And there’s a chance that they’ll kill Andrea before we can get to her. But she’s dead if we don’t. Fuck.”

Danny reversed the SUV slowly away from the gates, turned and drove back the way they had come.

Andrea’s face was stiff and swollen from the beating she’d received at Lincoln’s hands. Yet he had been methodical and businesslike in his attitude, showing neither compassion nor overt cruelty. The man who now stood before her was a different matter altogether.

The leader of the PMCs and another man she didn’t recognise had delivered her to the front doors of a large house and handed her over without ceremony to the waiting party, this man, whom Lincoln had called Brightwell, and five other men, clearly his subordinates. Andrea had been dragged unceremoniously up the stairs to one of the rooms at the rear of the house. The man—tall and thin with blond hair—watched silently as two of his team tied her to an old metal bedframe. He seemed to direct them with only a flick of his skeletal fingers or slight nod of his head.

All of his five-man team were nearly identical, but looked nothing like their leader. All small wiry men with cropped black hair and high cheekbones. Only their eyes moved, the hard faces remaining static. Each man wore an identical uniform, a dark maroon jumpsuit without insignia or rank, and carried a large pistol on their right hip and a combat knife on their left.

The leader drummed his fingers in a wave pattern against his opposite fist as he watched the proceedings. Once his team had left the room, he carefully checked that Andrea’s bonds were tight. Suddenly his gaunt face sprang into focus mere inches from her own. The speed and surprise of his sudden movement made her cry out in fright. He reached out and gently placed two fingers against the side of her throat. She could feel her pulse hammering against his cold fingertips. He gave her a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. His breath smelled of copper and garlic and stale tobacco.

She shuddered in response to his touch. His fingertips felt like wet worms on her skin. He stepped back and Andrea looked around the room. The furniture was covered with dustsheets, vague shapes comprised of humps and angles. The bedframe she was tied to was propped against what might have been a wardrobe. She had been tied in the classic spread-eagle position with her limbs stretched out diagonally. The cords that held her to the bedframe bit into her skin as she instinctively pulled at her bonds.

“That’s it, girl, fight against it.” The man’s voice was English, cultured. He did not smile but his fingers drummed continuously against each other as he allowed his gaze to move over Andrea’s body. She squirmed under his scrutiny as if being violated. “Always better when they fight.”

Andrea forced herself to take deep breaths. Her heart bumped loudly in her chest. She watched the tall man pace back and forth in front of her, his fingers drumming and twitching like some freaky piano player. His face was gaunt, dark circles under his deep-set eyes. He stood as tall as Clay, but while the Texan was big and broad the man in front of her was almost skeletal. His skin was pallid and his blond hair was styled into gelled spiky tufts. He wore black skin-tight Lycra workout gear. It reminded her of the cyclists in the Tour de France.

She felt a sense of defiance rise. “You look like a male model for a fucking pipe-cleaner company.”

The tall man’s fingers halted their staccato drumming as he glared at her.

“My friends are going to come here and kill you. You and your little minions are all going to die horribly.”

The tall man laughed and shook his head. “I like your spirit. It’ll be fun breaking you. Your faith in your friends is misplaced, however. They’re already dead. There’s no one to save you, Miss Chambers. No one at all. You’re mine for however long I decide to keep you alive.” He added a Shakespearean flourish to his already cultured accent. “There is, I fear, no tomorrow for you, my dear.”

The man moved to a camera set upon a tripod in the corner of the room. “Now let’s get better acquainted. I’m sure you heard that Neanderthal Lincoln refer to me as ‘Brightwell’. And, indeed, I have a British passport in the name of Marcus Brightwell.” He paused, and Andrea shrank from the pleasure in his eyes. “But that was a name I took for expediency. My brother understandably didn’t want to be associated with my chosen profession. He always was one for outward appearances.”

He ran his hand through his blond hair, and smiled at Andrea. “I was born Jensen Strathclyde. I believe you had something that belongs to me.” He held up the flash drive, turning the small cartridge around in his fingers. “This is a real blast from the past. Haven’t seen this one for ages.”

Andrea gritted her teeth as his words hit home. “Strathclyde?”

“Yes, Stewart and I are brothers. I know we look nothing like each other. He takes after my mother’s side.”

“Different looks, same brand of psychopathic arsehole!”

Raising his hands with an almost camp flourish, he responded, “We are what we are.”

“You’re dead, soon, that’s what
you
are!”

Jensen Strathclyde smiled fully for the first time, showing small but perfectly white teeth, returning his attention to the camera. “These things are so much better, and smaller than they used to be. Do you remember the old camcorders? Some of them were bigger than a shoebox. And clunky to use. Do you remember those big old VHS tapes that went inside?”

Andrea watched him slip a mask over the top half of his face. The mask was an old-style executioner’s cap. His eyes and lower jaw stood out in stark contrast to the black material. He tapped the mask and again smiled. “It’s surprising what you can find on eBay these days.” He pressed the record button on the mounted camera, which was connected to a laptop by a cable. A small red light went on.

“You were the man behind the camera in that old video, weren’t you?” Andrea, making the connection. Jensen clapped his hands slowly in mocking response.

A surgical scalpel seemed to appear in his hand; she hadn’t seen him pick it up. He brandished the implement with pride. “Number ten blade. Teflon-coated shaft. The blade makes cutting almost effortless. Now we are going to have some fun. I’m going to ask you some questions and you are going to tell me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.” He laughed. “Not the questions TSI think I’m going to ask, of course. It was a neat trick convincing that fool Carter to give me this assignment. No, I shan’t be asking you about Stewart. But I do want to know how many others have seen that film.”

“Freak.”

Jensen continued as if he had not heard her. “Did you know that both the ancient Egyptians and the Mayans made knives from obsidian? One of the sharpest substances in the natural world. But these last longer, much more hard-wearing.”

Andrea involuntarily closed her eyes as he took a step closer. She could feel the heat radiating from his body as he pressed in close without yet physically touching her. The blade hovered an inch from her face. She released a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding as he finally stepped away. The grin from below his mask was full of satisfaction. Anger surged through her as she pulled again at her bindings. “Freak!”

Jensen’s hand flicked out like a snake’s tongue and the scalpel bit deep into Andrea’s eyebrow. Andrea gave out a screech despite clenching her teeth tightly together. She felt a trail of warm blood run down the left side of her face. Abject terror threatened to shut down her senses yet still she remained defiant. “Danny and Clay are going to kill you when they get here and I’ll be standing over you when they do.”

A patronising smile spread across Jensen Strathclyde’s face. “I think not, my dear. Your two bully boys are probably shark bait by now. Last I heard they were full of holes and squealing like stuck pigs.”

“We’ll see.”

“If I were you, I would be far less concerned with those two and more with what is about to happen to you.” Jensen pressed his nose against hers, his voice filled with contempt. “You must have watched the film on the flash drive by now. Have you any idea how long I can keep you alive? I’m going to enjoy opening you up and hearing your screams. My brother was the master back in the day, but now I’m better than him at this. I can peel you like an orange, piece by piece.”

Andrea winced as he slipped the blade inside her shirt, the scalpel like ice against her skin. In a few deft motions she was effectively naked from the waist up. Then the blade bit into her skin. Slow and deliberate, he dragged the scalpel across the centre of her sternum. Dark blood trickled in the wake of the blade, the wound opening like a crimson teardrop. The incision was less than two inches long but bled profusely. Her chest began to burn as if it were being attacked by a dozen angry hornets.