Vendetta (21 page)

‘Elena?’ Sergei said, wiggling his nose like a bad smell had entered the room. ‘Elena’s in the gang. You know what Reuben’s rules are about that.’

‘So what are your girl and Elena doing in the photo together?’

The younger man’s face closed down. ‘All I know is that they used to hang out together. Calum must’ve found Elena by now . . .’

Mac’s surprise pushed him closer to Sergei. ‘Calum?’

‘Yeah, big brother sent him out to look for her and I know he told him to go down to the club. He takes care of all of Reuben’s awkward jobs, so when there’s anything unpleasant to take care of, our friend gets a call.’

‘Do you mean like killing someone?’

Outside in the yard, a car horn sounded and there was some shouting.

‘Dunno. I don’t ask.’

Mac’s mind spun with the new information. Had Reuben asked Calum to kill Elena? But before he could think through it further, there was more shouting from outside.

‘Do you know if Elena had anyone staying with her?’

‘
Vroom! Vroom!
’

‘What the fuck . . . ?’ Sergei growled, before he could answer Mac. He jumped up. Strode angrily over to the twin windows with a view of the forecourt outside. Looked out. Opened one of the windows and shouted, ‘Hey, what’s . . .’

But he never finished the sentence. Instead Mac heard the sound of glass breaking as an object came flying into the office. It spun like a mottled green ball on the wooden floor. For what seemed like minutes, but was only a split second, Mac watched the ball spin. When he realised what it was, he vaulted the desk at the same time as the room flashed in a white and blue sheet of lightning explosion.

forty-five

Mac didn’t hear the hand grenade explode. But the shockwaves shattered his eardrums like a hammer blow and crumpled his body. The room shook from side to side. Furniture broke apart and erupted into the air. The windows burst outwards in a shower of glass. For a few seconds he lay winded. Then clawed desperately, coughing at the smoky air. Struggled to his feet, but collapsed backwards in a heap, gasping for breath in the acrid air.

Even the buzzing and humming in his ears couldn’t shield him from the noise outside as more hand grenades went off. Then the steady thumping of a sub-machine gun. He heard the screams, yells and pleading of the wounded, crippled and dying. Mac grabbed a corner of the shattered desk, which was charred and smoking. Yelped with pain as the wood burned and came away in his fingers. He rolled onto his front, into a crawling position, and then rose upright like a dead man’s ghost. There was silence, apart from the crackle of flames and the sound of water gushing from unattended hoses.

Mac found himself curiously calm, as if he were back on the meds he’d been given after Stevie’s death that would take him in and out of the world. As the smoke swirled through the wreckage, he saw a masked figure appear outside. He looked through the empty space where the window had been and caught Mac’s eye. The figure toyed with a sub-machine gun. Raised and pointed it at Mac before hesitating. Suddenly a second, masked man appeared, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. He ran by, grabbed the first by the arm and shouted, ‘Let’s go, let’s go!’

The gunmen took off towards a black Mercedes; soapy water was pumping over it in the car wash. Black Merc. Elongated, ridged line just below the door handles. Just like the one he’d seen outside the doctor’s. Were these Doctor Mo Masri’s killers? Mac wanted to chase after them, but his legs were too weak. He steadied himself and stumbled to the office entrance. His foot stuck. He looked down and realised that he’d trodden on Sergei’s face. Or what was left of the other man’s face. His body looked like it had been on a dissecting table, his liver and stomach, slopping and wet, strewn around him. Katia and Elena’s happy-times photo lay in the muck of his exploded body.

Mac turned away from Sergei’s dead body. The door had been blown into a wreckage of splintered pieces. Outside he saw a war zone.

‘
We should warn you that some viewers may find the following pictures distressing . . .
’ The warning from TV news flashed through his mind. Bits of human bodies were scattered around. Arms. Feet. A pair of boots stood in the road a good distance from two car-wash workers groaning on the ground. Blood spread in myriad, almost artistic patterns, across the paintwork. Across the body of a blue Ferrari.

Ferrari. Toy red Ferrari. The kid.

Mac jerked back to the office. Rushed inside the wreckage and began searching. And searching. Suddenly he stopped. In the back yard, by a door hanging from its hinges, he saw a small foot peeping from under a plank of wood that had once been the top of a table. He ran forward. Pulled the wood off. There, lying on his back amongst some weeds, was Milos. His body completely unmarked by the results of the attack, he seemed to be sleeping a child’s sleep.

Live long and free.
The words carved into Milos’s birthday pie flashed through Mac’s mind. But he could see that the child wasn’t going to fulfil that dream because he wasn’t breathing, just like another boy a year ago.

‘I love you Daddy.’

The sing-song words, with the lisp from two missing front teeth, made Mac open his eyes. He lay on his back on a large turquoise towel, next to the one person he knew would never lie about loving him. Stevie. His son. He grinned as he slipped slowly onto his side. The six-year-old was facing him, his small body hitched up on his left elbow as he stared at his father. Apart from his honey hair, he was a little Mac all over. The blue eyes, the stubborn-set chin, the nose that was always going to be a dominant feature of his face.

They were at the beach. Southend. The day had started with a dawn that seemed unsure about whether the day was going to be hot or cold. And that uncertainty in the air had kept the people away from the beach. But not them, not Mac and son – oh no. They’d set off like it was going to be the best day of their lives. And if the sun didn’t venture out, well hey, that wasn’t going to get in their way. But it had come, bright and easy, just as they reached the beach.

They didn’t get many times like this to be together. Well, not since Donna had given him his marching orders last summer, smacking the door shut on a decade of marriage. He’d been the one to make a dog’s dinner of his marriage, not her, so he fully understood her hating his guts, but not once had she stopped him from seeing his boy. No, he’d been the problem. Never around when Stevie needed him. Months spent going underground, too busy being someone else rather than the father he should’ve been. The first chance he got after rinsing off the filth from his latest job, a kiddie-porn ring, was to have a special day with his little boy. Looking back, he should’ve realised that he was mentally and physically washed out and maybe he should’ve given it a day or two before he’d seen his son. But he hadn’t. And it had changed his life for ever.

Mac made a mock-growl as he heaved Stevie sky-high. The child let out a giggle that rippled like the waves lapping against the shore. Mac settled the small body against his chest in a loving embrace. Closed his eyes. Soaked up the silence. The peace. The quiet. The twin breathing of his son and his own. The tiredness faded away and he drifted into the most comforting sleep . . .

He didn’t know what woke him. A noise? The touch of the sea breeze against his skin? The dying warmth from the disappearing sun? He sat up. Looked around. Noticed the abandoned beach ball, bucket and spade that they’d taken with them. The deserted beach. Deserted . . . He shot to his feet. Frantically looked around. No Stevie.

‘Stevie.’

No response.

‘Stevie.’

He ran along the beach.

‘Stevie.’

His shout became a roar. He swung his gaze around. Left. Right. Back. Forward. And that’s when he saw it. Something bobbing in the water. A good distance away from the shore. He didn’t stop to think. Just hurtled into the water. Started to swim. Long strokes painfully stretched his muscles. Water tumbled into his mouth, open with desperation. He got closer. Closer. He wanted to deny what his eyes were telling him he saw. A small body, lifeless, floating, head down, in the rough sea.

He reached it. Turned the body over. It wasn’t true because it couldn’t be true. Stevie.

The small body moved. Mac looked down at the young child in his arms. The tiny mouth sucked in a shuddering breath. Reuben’s son was not dead.

forty-six

4 p.m.

Rio parked her beloved ebony BMW X5 outside the tattoo shop. When she’d first become a detective, a few people had pulled her aside and told her to get rid of the Beamer because, in their opinion, it would be too bling, too much of a reminder that she was ‘black’ – and she didn’t want to keep pushing that in people’s faces, now did she? She, in turn, told people to get out of her face and step back from her BMW, or Black Magic Woman, as she name-checked it. And she was the black magic woman that the police force was never going to be able to forget.

Rio got out the same time as Martin. Headed for the door. She noticed the Closed sign first of all. Tried to push the door open. Locked.

‘Check round the back,’ she ordered the younger detective.

She cupped her hands over a window and peered inside. No one. Nothing. Just a myriad of mounted designs like a junkie’s psychedelic daze looking back at her.

‘No one round the back.’

The tattoo artist was long gone. Was he running scared? And if so, why?

DI Rio Wray kicked the door in frustration.

Mac careered down the road in one of the half-washed cars from the car wash, mounting the pavement, overtaking, shooting lights and attracting obscene hand signals and shouts from other drivers. But none of that mattered. All he cared about was getting the unconscious child strapped in the passenger seat to the hospital. Abruptly the traffic came to a standstill.

‘Come on, come on,’ he growled. Then banged against the horn. Once. Twice. But the traffic was still going nowhere. He checked the kid. He seemed unnaturally still. Had he stopped breathing? Quickly Mac placed his palm against his small chest. He couldn’t feel anything. But he kept it there, waiting. Waiting. Then he felt that slight rise in his hand from the oxygen still pumping in Milos’s body. But if he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reuben’s son might not make it. The traffic started moving and Mac took no more chances. He mounted the pavement to the horror of pedestrians and kept going. And going. Then he hit the road again. Passed a side street with two cars in it. A black Merc, the other a metallic run-around. Two furtive men between the vehicles.

He skidded to a halt. No way. He couldn’t be that lucky, could he? To stumble across the gunmen? But what about the boy? He looked down at him. Decision time. He made his decision in a few seconds. Jacked the car backwards until he was near the side street. Flew outside, gun by his side. He moved with the grace of an avenging angel towards the entrance to the side street. He didn’t feel fear as he walked. The men were too busy, hurriedly transferring items from one car boot to another, to take note of his presence. As he got closer, Mac saw the holes in the black Merc. Bullet holes. He raised his gun at the same time as they saw him. One ran, while the other went for his pocket. Mac blasted a bullet in the ground near the man with his hand inside his coat. The warning shot made him pull his hand back. It came out empty.

Mac didn’t say a word as he kept the gun trained right at his heart. The other man slowly raised his hands in the air. In the distance, Mac clocked the other gunman escaping over a wall and knew that there was no way he was going to be able to plug him from here. Mac lowered the angle of the gun. Pulled back the trigger. A slug slammed into the man’s leg. With a groan the man dropped to his side. It felt good that afternoon to be finally shooting someone.

Mac finally spoke. ‘You move and that will be the end.’

Mac kept his piece trained on the bleeding man as he moved towards the cars and inspected their boots. Sports holder packed with grenades and firearms, one of which was a high-end pistol with silencer. Mac shoved it in his pocket, along with a couple of hand grenades. He found a machine gun under a sheet. He pulled the sheet off and walked back to the man. Crammed the cloth deep down in his mouth. Then he smashed his Luger on the side of his head, sending the man into an oblivion as dark as the colour of the Mercedes.

forty-seven

Mac burst through the doors of the A&E department of Mission Hill Hospital, holding Milos tenderly in his arms. The boy looked broken. His arms flopped to the side, his legs shook with every step Mac took. Mac was scared. Really scared for the boy, because since taking that life-giving gasp of breath, his body hadn’t moved again.

The place was packed. People standing. People sitting. People nursing their own wounds from life.

‘Help me,’ Mac shouted.

All eyes turned to him. Someone gasped. Then a nurse rushed towards him.

‘This way,’ she said urgently, already moving along the corridor.

He kept pace with her, until they reached a room. With one hand she pushed against some swing doors, making room for him to move inside. He entered a room with blue curtains surrounding three cubicles and the beep of machines pulsing in the air.