Vendetta (13 page)

He stared hard at the gang leader’s home. A luxurious North London property of the type favoured by millionaire bankers, lawyers, media types. And arms traffickers. Standing behind the iron bars, dressed in Armani suits like rich zookeepers, two huge guards were keeping careful watch. They studied their new guest carefully and then one asked his name. When Mac gave it, the guard who’d remained silent pulled out his phone, eyes still on Mac, and verified who he was with someone inside the house. Reuben’s other man flicked his gaze off Mac and got back to scanning the avenue and neighbouring properties for any sign of anything. In the distance, behind the house walls, Mac could hear children shouting and screaming. An image of young ones hyped high on happiness at another party swamped Mac’s mind. Quickly he shoved the unwelcome memory away.

The guard finished his call and unlinked a rope chain from round the gate. He opened up, but only with enough space for Mac to pass through. Mac heard the crunch of gravel under his feet as he walked a few paces and then heard an angry call of ‘Hey’ behind him. One of the men took him by the arm and led him off to the portico.

The guard expertly patted him down, checking for hardware, a move Mac had only anticipated as he almost reached the house. He’d only remembered as he’d approached the gate that he still had his Luger stuck in his waistband. He’d backtracked and hidden it under a wheelie bin in front of a house further down the street and then returned. So Mac tried to remain relaxed, legs wide, arms spread. When the guard finished his search, he went through it again, more slowly this time, before finally, looking slightly disappointed, he motioned with his head that Mac was free to the join the kids’ party.

Mac walked on, over the gravel, gunless and defenceless.

Insane, insane, insane.

He’d didn’t even have a plan. Still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that Reuben was his man. But when he
was
sure, he’d need to choose Reuben’s moment of death carefully. Of course a child’s birthday bash was no place to commit a murder. But if this was his only chance, he had no alternative but to take it.

Click. Click. Click.

In the house opposite, from the master bedroom, a man took a few shots with a long-lens camera.

Click.

A picture of a man in a baseball cap approaching the main door.

Click.

A picture of the door opening.

Click.

A picture of one of the city’s newest criminals, Reuben Volk, in the doorway.

twenty-seven

Mac looked into the eyes of a killer. But was it the right killer?

The man known as Reuben Volk on the passport he’d used to enter Britain, and AK Reuben to those in the underworld, had a face that was disciplined to show little emotion. He was an inch off Mac in height, had a body that stayed pumped up and tuned from the weights he used every day in his private gym, and wore his hair in the short-back-and-sides style of a soldier. The only jewellery he wore was a white-gold bracelet and a pair of shades parked on the top of his head like they were his most prized possession. But what Mac always remembered about his features were his eyes. So dark a brown that it felt like Mac was being drawn into the despair and dark of a never-ending tunnel. Were those brown eyes the last thing that Elena saw?

Mac checked him over for any signs that he was surprised that Mac was still among the living. A slight opening of the eyes? A red stain appearing beneath the skin of the face? A hand moving for a gun to put Mac down permanently this time?

Reuben’s hand shot out. Instinctively, Mac reached for his gun, before remembering it was no longer there.

Reuben’s hand clamped down on the edge of Mac’s shoulder as he greeted him with a half-smile. ‘So glad you could come.’

So glad he could come? He would indeed be glad if he wanted Mac dead. In that case his victim had made it too easy for him. Mac searched the big man’s frozen eyes for an answer. But there wasn’t one.

He felt the grip tighten on his shoulder as Reuben whispered. ‘Have you got a problem . . . ?’

The way the question was posed didn’t invite an answer. Did he mean – have you got a problem? Or – you’ve got a big problem.

Mac whispered. ‘A problem?’

Reuben was looking him up and down. ‘Yes. You seem to have a few bumps and bruises. And you seem a little stressed. Not your usual self . . .’ Once again, Mac looked into the empty eyes. A concerned gangster? Or Reuben’s little joke? But he got no answer.

‘Daddy,’ a high voice shrieked.

A small boy barrelled his way towards Reuben and wrapped his arms lovingly round his leg. Reuben looked down at the boy clinging to him and smiled. Mac realised that he’d never really seen the other man’s features transformed by a loving smile.

‘This is my son, Milos.’

The boy turned his face towards him. Mac felt his belly rolling and his power of speech go. The boy’s face was almost a replica of Stevie’s. The same gleam of curiosity in his blue eyes; the tiny dimple in his right cheek; the two missing front teeth. Abruptly the picture of that other birthday party flashed through Mac’s mind. Desperately he tried to push it back, shove it away. But the image got brighter and clearer. Came into full focus. Took over Mac’s conscious mind . . .

twenty-eight

Stevie’s eyes shone happy-blue as he stared at his banana-shaped birthday cake. He had been banana-mad since hearing the ditty ‘Bananas in Pyjamas’ on a kids’ TV show six months back. The flames on the six candles matched the glow on his cheeks.

‘Don’t forget to make a wish,’ Mac whispered, hunched down on the other side of the table, camera in hand, ready to snap that magic moment. ‘And remember to close your eyes.’

The party was in full swing in the sitting room of the house he shared with his son and Donna. The place was decked out in streamers, balloons, party food and kids. And more kids. He didn’t even know that Stevie had so many friends. A hush fell as everyone waited for the birthday boy to blow out the candles.

But instead of doing it, he looked up at his father, the happiness slipping slightly from his face. ‘But what if it doesn’t come true, Dad?’

The adults in the room, including Mac, chuckled. ‘Believe me, son, it will.’ He winked as he dropped his voice low. ‘But only if you don’t tell anyone.’

Stevie turned back to the cake. His eyes lit up. His little mouth moved as he gathered a deep breath. Then he leaned forward and blew. Click. Mac took the picture. All of the candle flames were gone except one. Stevie blew again. It wouldn’t go out.

Blew.

It fluttered but bloomed back to full brightness.

Blew.

‘Bananas,’ Stevie let out crossly as the flame burned bright.

Mac pulled himself up and scooted to hunch down by his son. Put his arm round his shoulder.

‘Let’s make a wish together.’

Stevie grinned back at him and nodded. They both closed their eyes.

‘Ready,’ Mac said, a few seconds later.

Again Stevie nodded.

‘After three,’ Mac said, then chanted. ‘One . . . two . . . three.’

They let out twin breaths of air across the cake.

The flame died.

twenty-nine

‘Milos, say hello to my good friend Mac.’

Reuben’s words slammed Mac back to the present. The air in his chest blew out of his nostrils. A film of sweat formed above his top lip. Blood pumped with such intensity around his head wound that he had a desperate need to hold his head in his hands. But he didn’t. Instead he nervously looked at the kid and his father to see if they’d noticed his mood swing. But all he saw was the shy smile of a boy who held out his hand to him.

With a shaky smile in return, Mac shook his hand. The boy beamed with complete pleasure, as if shaking hands was the newest game he’d learnt. Reuben said something to Milos in Russian that had him skipping away. To Mac’s shock and surprise, Reuben put his arm round his shoulder and led him into the party. Grim-faced members of the gang made jokes and horse-played with children, but Mac could see it was all faked. When the kids turned and ran, the same men who gave the youngsters rides on their backs were whispering to each other and scowling in turn.

Reuben was still playing the genial host. ‘Today my son is six years old. Family is so important, don’t you think? Do you have any children, my friend?’

Mac couldn’t shake off Stevie’s ghost; without realising what he was saying, the words formed like ash in his mouth. ‘There was a boy. He died.’

Reuben said nothing but tightened his grip on Mac’s shoulder. ‘There will be other sons, my friend. Please treat my home as your own.’ Reuben’s hand fell away and the spark of emotion set off by his son left his face. ‘Please understand I have things to do . . .’

Mac knew that Reuben hadn’t been play-acting the doting daddy – but in reality he was a cold-blooded man dealing in death. Mac’s brain shifted into gear and he began to plan. Priority number one was he needed a weapon. But what? As his gaze darted around, a woman approached him with a small plate of party cake. Impatiently he waved her away. He wasn’t here to celebrate. Wasn’t here to eat. Wasn’t here . . . Sharply he looked across at the woman dishing out cake. Cake. Cake meant . . . Mac’s gaze flew to the buffet table manned by two people from a catering company. With long strides he moved over to the table.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ one of the caterers asked with a professional smile.

‘Just fill up a plate,’ Mac answered, his gaze doing the rounds of the table. That’s when he spotted the car-shaped cake with a serrated knife beside it.

‘Will this do, sir?’

Mac jerked his eyes up at the plate being offered to him. ‘Sure,’ he let out. ‘I think I’ll just help myself to some of that yummy-looking cake.’

He took the plate and headed up to the end of the table. Picked up the black handle of the knife. Looked around. Shoved it into his inside pocket. The blade rested high against his chest. There were so many ways to kill a man with a knife. Slit his throat. Stab him deep in the eye. Plunge it into the heart, then, with the flick of a wrist . . . twist.

Mac dumped the food. The sound of male voices drew him out onto the patio. Reuben was standing a few yards away with his back turned, deep in conversation with his mad dog of a brother, Sergei. Sergei was the younger of the two – how much younger, Mac didn’t know, but he guessed it was a big gap; one was maybe coming up to forty, the other in his mid-twenties. He wore a white vest, showing off his taut muscles, tats, and baggy, low-riding jeans. Sergei had a reckless streak that was reflected in the hard grooves around his mouth and eyes and in his feral, hand-raked bleached hair. Both men were dangerous, but Sergei was the one who’d never mastered the art of control.

‘Uncle Mac . . .’

Mac felt a tug on the bottom end of his jacket and looked down to see the little figure of Milos below him.

Mac whispered, ‘Careful,’ afraid the knife might fall out.

Milos let go and sent him a brilliant smile of innocence. ‘Do you want to see my new car? It’s just like the real thing . . .’

Mac said nothing. He looked away from the boy, towards his father’s back, and then out into the garden where a toy car was sitting. He also noticed that the members of the gang seemed to have thinned out. Mac looked at his target again while Milos tugged his trouser leg this time. ‘Uncle Mac – are you all right? Your leg is shaking.’

Mac looked down at the kid’s face and swallowed hard. What came first? The right of this boy not to see his father stabbed to death in front of him? Or the promise he’d made to Elena?

‘Milos,’ Sergei yelled. He gestured with his thumb. ‘Hop it and play in the garden with the others.’

All the animation drained from the boy as his eyes grew wide with fear. He didn’t leave with a happy skip this time, but ran as fast as his little legs could carry him.
So the kid’s piss- scared of his uncle
, Mac observed. When Mac looked back across at the men, Reuben was gone. Bollocks, he couldn’t find him. Sergei sauntered over to him, closely followed by his enforcer, Vladimir.

Sergei leaned close to Mac and whispered, in that fake American-ghetto accent he loved to use. ‘My bro wants you. Now.’

Why would Reuben want him? Unless he wanted Mac in a place he could do what he liked to him without many witnesses.

The muscles in Sergei’s neck visibly tightened and he hissed, ‘That’s not a request, that’s an order.’

The enforcer took Mac’s arm. Sergei was close by him on the other side. There was no way Mac was going to be able to grab the knife, with both men stuck to him like blowflies on a rotting corpse.

thirty

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news and more bad news?’ Detective Jamie Martin asked his superior as she walked into the office.

‘I don’t think there’s any good news when you’re dealing with murder,’ Rio answered as she pulled off her jacket.

They were in the squad office at their HQ, nicknamed The Fort by those who worked inside it, because it was believed to be the site of a former Ancient Roman stronghold and had been used as a high-profile government building during the Cold War. The Fort was really three buildings: a middle section that was modern and transparent, reflecting what The Met proclaimed its relationship with the public was, and one block on either side, made of tough, acid-stained grey, 1950s brick. Rio’s squad was stationed on the third floor of the new section. The place was brisk and busy.