The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) (33 page)

“Do you think I’m afraid of you?” he said, regardless.

Milton kept staring. He had to be his most persuasive here; his plan depended upon Fabian taking him seriously. “You should be afraid. You asked what I used to do. I never did tell you. I was in the military, at first. The SAS. But then I was transferred into intelligence. I did wet work. You know what that is? I was the person who was sent to kill you when you became a threat to the government’s interests.”

Frankie responded with an unconvincing laugh. “Don’t make me laugh. What are you trying to say? You were James fucking Bond?”

“I’ve killed more than a hundred and fifty people in my life. I scouted them, learned everything there is to know about them, and then, at a time of my choosing, I reached out and snuffed out their lives. That’s what I’m going to do to you. I could’ve done it when we met, after the funeral, but I needed your help to get into the vault. I don’t need your help any more, Frankie.”

“You’re full of it.”

“You won’t know when, you won’t know how, and you won’t see me coming. It might be quick or it might not. But I want you to know that I’m going to do it, and the reason I’m doing it is because you murdered Eddie. You killed your own son.”

Milton stood. The two men at the adjacent table were on their feet, too, but Milton froze them to the spot with a glare. The promise of violence was written in his eyes.

“There’s one other choice. One chance.”

“To do what?”

“To bring this to an end without any more bloodshed. Your blood, Frankie. And your sons, your wife, and anyone else who stands between me and you. First, you let the girl go. She doesn’t mean anything to me, but she needs to write the story about Leo Isaacs. And, second, you go to the police and confess to what you did. About how you killed Eddie, and about how your son murdered that guard. You’ve got one day. If you don’t do it, I’m going to pay you a visit. And it won’t be nearly as civilised as this.”

Fabian stood, brushed his hands down his shirt and the front of his trousers, and collected his jacket from the back of the chair.

“You do that, Mr. Smith. You’d be welcome. I think you’re bluffing, but maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re as stupid as you sound. I don’t know. But you know where to find me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Fabian took out his wallet, pulled out a fifty-pound note, and laid it on the table. He left without looking back. Milton turned to watch him as he went, saw him leave the restaurant and cross the street to his car. He waited until the taillights came on and the car drove away, and then, finally, he took out his phone. He dialled a number and waited for it to connect.

“It’s me,” he said.

“I’m here,” replied Alex Hicks. “I’ve got him.”

“Follow him.”

MILTON WENT to a meeting that evening. He wanted an hour’s worth of peace, a small interval where he could close his eyes and listen to the shares of the men and women who were just like him, with the same compulsions and problems, the same urge toward self-destruction. The meeting was in Fitzrovia, at the St Charles Borromeo Church on Ogle Street. He hadn’t been to the church before; it was a Step & Tradition meeting, focusing on the twelve steps and the twelve traditions. The step that had been chosen for discussion was the third, requiring that alcoholics made a decision to turn their will and their lives over to the care of God as they understood Him. Milton sat at the back and listened. He didn’t have the piety of others, and, although he did not believe in God, he tried to clear his mind in the hope that he might receive a sign that what he was about to do was right. He had orchestrated a course of events that had its own momentum now, and there could be no resiling from it, no stopping it from hurtling toward its inevitable conclusion. Milton had done it for Eddie, but he realised as he sat in his plastic chair that he hadn’t considered whether this was what Eddie would have wanted. The realisation flooded him with uncertainty. He wondered whether—instead of the selflessness that he thought he had been striving for—his behaviour was, in fact, selfish. An attempt to seek redress for his own wrongs by arrogantly assuming that he was doing good.

He didn’t get the peace of mind that he had hoped to find at the meeting. All he left with were more doubts.

THEY MET in a lay-by on the road just outside Oxford. It wasn’t far from Littleworth, the village where Eddie had been murdered. Milton pulled off the road and parked his battered Volkswagen next to Alex Hicks’s sleek Range Rover. He got out and hurried ahead, sliding into the passenger-side seat. It was dark, and rain was falling heavily onto the windscreen. The two men sat there for a moment, watching as it sluiced down the glass. The taillights of the cars passing by on the road became indistinct red swipes, blurred and smeared by the water. They were both wearing black. Milton was wearing a tactical shirt and matching trousers, and he had a balaclava and a pair of gloves in his bag back in the car. Hicks was dressed in similar fashion.

Milton broke the silence. “You ready?”

“I think so.”

“You need to do better than that, Hicks.”

“I’m ready.”

“You get what I asked for?”

“There,” Hicks said, jerking his head to indicate the leather satchel on the back seat. “It’s all there.”

Milton swivelled around and reached for the straps of the satchel. He hauled it into the front, unzipped it, and looked inside. There were three items: the first was a holstered Sig P226. It was a superb weapon, with a twenty round magazine capacity, double-action first round capability and class-leading accuracy and reliability. This one was chambered in 9mm. Milton had used the Sig on many occasions and was as comfortable with it as he could be.

“Is this yours?” Milton asked him.

“Yes. You don’t need to worry. It’s in good condition.”

The second item was a pair of night-vision binoculars.

The last piece of equipment was a small box with a belt clip, a press-to-talk switch and a headset. It was a H4855 Personal Role Radio, the same model that the British army used.

“What channel will the men be on?”

“Two.”

“And us?”

“Twelve. You used this before?”

“Of course.” It was an excellent piece of kit. The inbuilt receiver enabled the radio to be keyed remotely with the press-to-talk switch fob. Milton would attach the radio and the pressel to his belt.

“Has Higgins bought the story?”

“I think so. He’s on board, anyway.”

“What’s he planning?”

“A five-man fire team. All of us. He’s not taking any chances.”

“What about him?”

“He’ll stay out of range.”

“But he’ll be there?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want you to do?”

“Lay back and snipe. I’ve got my HK in the back.”

Milton nodded. That was about as fortuitous an assignment as Hicks could have hoped for. It meant he would be able to stay out of the way. It was fortuitous for Milton, too. It was more than likely that he would need covering fire at some point, and Hicks would be able to provide it.

“Are you clear on what we need to do?”

Hicks nodded. “You’re taking the biggest risk.”

Milton shrugged that off. “If there’s enough of a distraction, I’ll be able to get in and get out. You don’t need to worry about me. Just watch your back, that’s all. If Higgins sees through the plan, he’ll come for you.”

“I know that.”

“Your wife and kids?”

“They’re still out of the way.”

“Good.”

Milton collected the leather satchel, opened the car door and stepped outside. Traffic sped by in both directions, and a large eighteen-wheeler rumbled past just a few feet from where he was standing. The air was damp, and the grim sky promised yet more rain.

Milton held the door open. “Good luck.”

“You too,” Hicks said. “And thank you. For helping. You didn’t have to.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” Milton said.

He closed the door and made his way back to his car. He opened the door and dropped down into the seat. He put the satchel on the passenger seat, the mouth of the bag falling open so that he could see the ominous blackness of the Sig inside.

MILTON HAD chosen a good spot from which to surveil the house and a wide portion of the southern grounds. The estate was surrounded by a dry stone wall, typical for the Cotswolds. He had driven to the main gate and then followed it around to the west and then the north, trailing the perimeter until he found a spot that he liked. He had parked out of sight at the side of a switchback lane and then prepared himself. He applied camo paint to his face, smearing it across every last inch of skin until only the whites of his eyes stood out when he checked his handiwork in the mirror. He pushed the in-ear plugs into place, pulled his balaclava over his head and settled it all the way down so that the skin around his neck and throat was covered, too. He put on the shoulder holster, jammed the Sig into place, and checked that he could easily withdraw it. He could.

He collected the small rucksack that was sitting on the seat next to him, stepped outside and went around to the boot of the car. He had stopped at a Shell garage on the drive west and bought the additional supplies that he thought he might need. He opened the plastic carrier bag and took out the two bottles of wine. He unscrewed the tops of each bottle and poured the wine out onto the verge. Then, he took out two bottles of motor oil and a jerry can that he had filled with petrol, filling each wine bottle half and half with each. He took a thick rag, used his knife to slice it in two, and used the halves to seal the mouths of the bottles, covering each with several layers of duct tape. He opened a packet of tampons, removed two, and taped them to the sides of the bottles.

Milton wrapped the Molotov cocktails with the remainder of the torn rag so that they didn’t jangle against each other, and put them and the knife into the rucksack. He slung it across his back and crossed the road to the wall. It was eight feet tall. He pulled on his gloves and leaped, his boots jamming against the rough stones so that he could pull himself up. He clambered to the top, quickly checked the landscape beyond—there was nothing to concern him—and then dropped down onto the other side.

He lowered himself to his belly and surveilled. He was in an area with plenty of untamed vegetation. There was a narrow strip of cleared land between the wall and the trees that had been planted alongside it, and then beyond that was an expanse of overgrown grass and weeds that swayed sluggishly in the gentle night-time breeze. Milton crept between the trunks of two squat birch trees, then slithered forward through the grasses until he reached the point where they had been trimmed, allowing him a clear view of the estate and the house beyond.

He had given some thought to undertaking this operation himself, without help. He remembered much of the layout from before. It was his habit to pay close attention to his surroundings, and he recalled enough details from his visit here for the wake that a full reconnaissance had been unnecessary.

He took out the binoculars and used them to scan the grounds from the main gate, following the winding drive into the gentle hollow with the lake at the bottom and then to the house itself. He remembered that it had been equipped with an excellent security system, and he confirmed that now. The gates were substantial and observed by a CCTV rig. But that had been easily avoided; he had simply breached the perimeter over the wall and away from the cameras. But that would not be the end of the matter. Milton recalled seeing motion sensors and security lights as he had driven nearer to the house, and, although he could see nothing now from his distant vantage point, it was a reasonable supposition that the measures would be continued throughout the grounds. But he was confident that he could get to the house without gaining attention.

That, then, would leave the matter of getting inside.

It would be difficult, but Milton could do it. He had breached more impressive security than this.

He had considered his options, but he had elected to do things a different way. There were two parties deserving of punishment for what had happened to Eddie Fabian. On the one hand, there was Frankie Fabian, and, on the other, Richard Higgins. Fabian had killed his own son, but, had he waited for just a few hours, Higgins would have done it for him. That, in Milton’s estimation, was enough to bring Higgins and the Feather Men within the ambit of his vengeance. Higgins had also been responsible for suppressing the stories that would have brought his hideous paymasters the public scrutiny their previous actions had deserved. There was a payment to be exacted for that, too. Milton could have gone after them both, one after another, but he liked the symmetry of setting them off against each other like this. The Feather Men were impressive: well armed and trained to the highest standards. Milton had needed Fabian to understand that he was in danger, and to bolster his security appropriately, for Higgins and the others would have overwhelmed him otherwise. Milton wanted there to be a stalemate, at least for a short while, because, in the chaos that would ensue, he would be afforded the opportunity to slip into the property and see that justice was done.

There was Olivia to think about, too. She had complicated matters.

He put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned down into the hollow. He saw the lake and the boathouse and the single guard who was smoking a cigarette while gazing out over the still waters. The man was leaning against the wooden balustrade that prevented a drop down into the water, and Milton could see the tip of his cigarette as it flared with each breath that he drew in. Milton thought he could make out a shotgun resting against the side of the building.

He scanned left, following the path through the gardens to the dark expanse of lawn, across the gravelled parking area and finally to the house itself. It was brightly lit from security lights that threw illumination up onto the walls and out over the parked cars and down to the lawns. The curtains in the windows had been drawn, the glow from the lights inside visible as a muted glow through the fabric and more brightly down the middle where they had not been properly pulled together. The kitchen’s grand extension at the back of the house had been finished with a thatched roof, as Milton remembered. He angled the binoculars up a little and scanned across the first-floor windows: some were lit, their curtains drawn, too, while others were dark. Olivia was probably being held in one of the upstairs rooms; that would have been where Milton would have kept her.