No Tomorrow (12 page)

T
he morning was cold and damp after the night's downpour. Puddles reflected the diseased sky above. Andrei Linnekin climbed out of his silver custom Bentley. He sipped from a tall take-out cup of coffee—latte with a double shot of hazelnut syrup. Two of his men were already on the pavement, one facing each way. He was glad to see they were alert. They had better always be alert. He paid them enough to ensure they never blinked. He was a powerful man. One of the handful of men that were trusted by the bosses back in the old country to run London. That brought him enormous wealth and influence, but also made him a prime target for all manner of criminals. Two more of his men exited the Bentley after him.

“You and you,” Linnekin said, pointing. “Stay here and keep an eye on my baby.” He stroked the car's hood, reveling in the squeak of skin against the polished paintwork. “I want her kept safe. She's delicate.”

He crossed the road. Traffic was almost nonexistent in this part of the city, especially at this time of day. The street cut through an abandoned industrial complex. It
was huge. A chemical plant of some sort. Linnekin didn't know the specifics and he didn't need to know. What mattered was it had closed down more than a decade ago. The whole neighborhood was industrial. There were no residences or other commercial properties. It was as close to isolated as anywhere in the godforsaken metropolis could be. The complex was the Russian's favorite place in which to conduct the occasional torture or execution. His men could work over some poor hapless soul for days on end without concern of discovery.

A chain-link fence surrounded the complex but there were several holes made by junkies looking for somewhere to shoot up or smoke crack. They didn't do so anymore. Not since Linnekin's men had put half of them in the hospital and the other half in the morgue. Word of these things spread. There were safer places to get a fix. The first of Linnekin's men held open one such hole for his boss to climb through.

Linnekin wore designer jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. The shirt had three buttons unfastened at the top to show off the solid gold jewelry glinting among his chest hair. His thick wrists were similarly adorned. His open-toe sandals kept his feet cool and dry. There was no sun for his sunglasses to filter but he rarely took them off. He was unarmed, because he was always unarmed. He didn't need to carry a piece when all of his men did.

He made his way across the wasteland lying between the fence and one of the complex's factory buildings. The ground was made up of uneven concrete slabs, cheaply laid and now cracked and warped. Grass had sprung up along the joints. There was a bad smell in the air: old chemicals and rust. He checked his watch. He was five minutes late and counting but he didn't care. Linnekin
owned the city. People waited for him, not the other way around. Sometimes he would be deliberately late to meetings with men of no small worth to show them he feared no one—to show them, in turn, who should be feared.

One of his men walked ahead, the other behind, footsteps loud on the hard ground. He passed a perforated oil drum blackened by soot. Litter had collected along the factory wall. London was a dirty town, made filthier by its inhabitants, who didn't give a shit about it.
No pride,
Linnekin thought, tossing his mostly empty coffee cup to the ground.

The lead man stepped through an open doorway. There was no door. Linnekin followed. He took off his sunglasses. The smell of chemicals was metallic and pungent. He'd never grown used to it. Concrete rubble from a collapsed ceiling covered the floor. The hole above was huge. Steel reinforcement bars hung down from around the opening, twisted and rusted. Linnekin heard the scurrying of rodents as he walked through the rubble, careful where he placed his feet. He should have thought about that and worn better footwear. He wore sandals, as his feet would sweat even in a snowstorm. He glanced up through the hole in the ceiling. A square shaft rose straight upward until it disappeared into the darkness. Water dripped on his head. Linnekin cursed and rubbed his hair. He cursed again, brushing his palm against the thigh of his jeans to wipe off some of the styling product.

In the adjoining room, he followed his man through a gap in a wall. Sunlight found its way into the room through smashed-out windows. Glass crunched underfoot. More rooms, more rubble, and Linnekin passed through another doorway without a door and into a large open area. There were holes in the floor and ceiling.
Their footsteps echoed. He noticed he could hear only two sets of footsteps and glanced over his shoulder. There was no one behind him.

He stopped and turned around. After ten seconds, nobody had come through the doorway. Linnekin called for the lead man to stop. Now the only sounds he heard were his own breathing and the crunch of grit beneath his sandals. He moved back and through the doorway. The corridor on the other side was empty. He tried to think when he'd last seen or heard the man following him. He didn't know.

The corridor was long and dark. Skylights ran along the ceiling but were caked in grime. Piping ran along one wall. Linnekin peered into the gloom.

“Peta,”
he called.

No answer. He'd better not be taking a leak. Idiot had the bladder of a thirteen-year-old boy. Linnekin called again, louder. Still no answer. He went back through the doorway.

“Get Peta on your cell,” Linnekin said to his lead man. “Find out—”

His man wasn't there. The room was empty.

He sighed. “What is it with everyone wandering off?” he shouted. “You stay at my side, remember? How can you protect me when I can't even see you?
Morons
.”

There was no reply. Heads were going to roll for this. He was in no mood for this kind of incompetence. One day it might cost him his life. His men knew that. They knew better than to leave him. He paid them never to . . .

His eyes widened as he began to understand. His pulse quickened. His breathing grew faster. He swallowed.

Linnekin panicked. Now he knew what was going on. This was it. This was the day when every brutal act he'd
committed was answered for. This was the day he looked his brother in the eye before he was murdered. Linnekin knew it, because that was how he had gained his position of power, influence, and wealth: by killing men who believed him unquestionably loyal.

He fumbled for his gun before remembering he hadn't been carrying one. He never carried one. The days when he needed to had long passed. He tugged his phone from a pocket.

His hands were shaking so much it took three attempts to enter the correct code. Why did he even have it locked? Who was going to steal from him? He found the number for one of the two guarding the car.

The line connected after a few seconds but the reception was terrible at the center of all that concrete and metal.

“Hello?” he said. “Can you hear me? Get in here now.”

There was a garble of static in response.

“Get in here now,” he shouted. “I need you.
Hurry
.”

The call disconnected.

No one was going to save him. He had to save himself. He turned around to rush toward the doorway and run for his life back the way he had come. But he didn't move because a man stood in the doorway.

He was tall and wore a charcoal suit. His hair was short and black. His eyes were just as dark. The expression was blank and unreadable, but Linnekin knew what kind of man he was staring at. He recognized a killer when he saw one.

The man's hands were down at his sides. He stood casually. No weapons. No aggression. But implicitly threatening by nature of his presence. He may have been
unarmed but Linnekin feared him no less than if he held a silenced pistol in his right hand.

Linnekin couldn't take his gaze from the blank face and cold black eyes. “Who are you?”

The man in the suit stepped forward. “Who I am is not important.”

Linnekin glanced around desperately. There were people nearby—his men outside and Moran and his crew already here. They had to be close. He could call for help, but what good was it going to do? If the man had got this far, then what had happened to them? Linnekin thought of the two men by the car and was furious at himself for leaving them to protect his precious Bentley. Would they hear if he screamed? Would they get here in time if they did?

Then Linnekin realized what had happened and felt like a fool. “Moran isn't here, is he? He sent you to kill me.”

“No one sent me.”

“Then he gave me up, didn't he?”

“Without much of a fight, I have to say.”

Linnekin exhaled. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick and coarse. “What are you waiting for, then? You believe I'm scared of you? Do you think I'm going to piss myself? I've been expecting a bullet my entire life and lived twice as long as I ever believed.” He stood straight and squared his shoulders. “I won't beg.”

“I don't want you to beg.”

“Then why don't you tell me what you do want with me? You won't get any money. I'd rather die now than give you the change in my fucking pocket.”

“Keep it,” the man said. “I don't want your money. But there are two things I do want. The first is for you to watch your language.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I bet you your knees that I am.” The man adjusted his suit jacket to show the grip of a pistol protruding from his waistband. “Shall we find out if I'm serious?”

Linnekin caught his response before it left his lips. He then shook his head. “The second thing?”

The man stepped forward again. There were about three meters between them. He said, “I want answers.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“You're in no position to negotiate.”

“I'm a businessman,” Linnekin said. “I'm always negotiating. The moment you told me you wanted something, you opened negotiations. You want answers. I want to walk out of here. So let's cut a deal.”

“Now I know where Moran learned his technique. Okay,” the man said. “I like your style. Let's deal. You tell me what I want to know and I let you walk out of here.”

“What about my men?”

“They'll have headaches.”

Linnekin considered, then said, “Okay. Then we have a deal.”

“Good. I want you to start by telling me why you've been trying to kidnap Gisele Maynard, aka Gisele Norimov.”

“Who?”

The man didn't answer.

Linnekin said, “Who?” again, then: “I don't know who you're talking about.”

“I can see that,” the man replied, a note of surprise in his voice. “You had Blake Moran's men watch her apartment for over a week. Last night, they broke in expecting to find her. They intended to kidnap her. Instead they found me.”

“I heard Moran lost some men. Good. A small price
for betraying me to you, but I appreciate the sentiment. You have my thanks.”

“Was Moran telling the truth about you asking him to kidnap Gisele?”

Linnekin shrugged. He let his shoulders relax. “When I ask someone for a favor, I'm not asking; I'm telling them they have no choice. I didn't remember the girl's name at first because I didn't pay any attention to it.”

“Explain.”

“I'm not into kidnapping. Such things are beneath me. Do I look like I'm struggling to pay the bills?”

“Then why?”

“Because, like Moran, I was asked to. Why are you even here if Moran's men found you and not the girl?”

“My reasons are my own,” he said by way of an answer. “What is the name of the man who asked you?”

“Who said anything about a man?
She
didn't give me her name.”

“A Russian?”

Linnekin shook his head. “British.”

“Describe her to me.”

“Tall. Well dressed. Blond. Green eyes. All business. I'd never met her before or heard from her since.”

“Why did you take a risky job from someone you didn't know? You said yourself that you don't need the money.”

“Because it wasn't in my interests to turn the job down.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I know what the f— I know what I'm talking about. This woman knew all about me. She knew my name. She knew the names of my men. She knew which town I was born in and when I came to this shithole of a
country. She could name every front company we use and had the license plates of every truck. She even knew when my next shipment was due to arrive. You don't say no a person like that. Just like people don't say no to me.”

The man considered this. His expression didn't change.

Linnekin added, “Whoever she is, she's dangerous. I could tell that in the same way I can tell you are too. Only you're a very different kind of animal to her. You're more direct. She's smarter.”

“I doubt that.”

Linnekin smirked. “Really? She got me to do what she wanted without even having to threaten me.
And
I left with a smile and wished her well. You, on the other hand, I'll spend every waking moment of my life hunting down.”

The man said, “A brave thing to say when you're at my mercy.”

“We made a deal, remember? I'm talking, so when this is over I'm walking. That was the deal. Your word is on that. People like you and I are the worst of the worst and we know that. We're happy with that. But we keep our word. That's the only humanity we have left. I'm telling you everything straight, just like I said I would. You're going to let me go, just like you said you would. We didn't negotiate about what happens later. Don't pretend you thought this would be the end of it. You know very well that I can't let this lie.”

“Fair point,” the man said. “What were you supposed to do when you had Gisele in your possession?”

Linnekin smirked again. He was starting to enjoy himself. “Nothing. She told me she'd know when I had Gisele.”