Vendetta (39 page)

‘Was there a kid in the car?’

‘I couldn’t see one.’

‘The car?’

‘A red Mini.’

Mac kissed the shocked woman on the cheek and ran back to Phil’s car.

He did a three-point turn, crashing into a parked car as he did so, and headed back down towards the main road, reviewing what he’d got as he did so. If he were in Katia’s shoes, where would he be headed? Only one place – out of the country. Then he remembered what Rio had said about finding the false passports in Katia’s home. She might have an assumed name, but how was she going to do it? He might not have figured that out yet, but what he knew for sure was that he wasn’t going to let another little boy lose his life just like Stevie.

ninety-one

Airport? No, that wouldn’t work for a kidnapper, Mac reasoned as he drove at a furious pace. Too many checks at an airport. He thought about a ferry. Quiet, unobtrusive, no one would notice an adult and a kid in a car going to France or Belgium. The boy would still need a passport. In fact, that was going to be her insurmountable problem. So why take the kid anyway? A kid she couldn’t take anywhere? Mac thought of Bolshoi’s yacht. If they were in cahoots, that might work. But the police had put the boat on lockdown. Plus, Bolshoi had claimed he was going looking for her. It didn’t make . . .

Mac cursed as he became aware of the road and realised he was heading straight into the back of a stationary car positioned at the roundabout.

He slammed his foot on the brakes, but was going too fast. His body flew sideways as he smashed into the back of the car. The vehicle in front jerked forwards. Mac’s head snapped back. Molten pain radiated on the left side of his neck. He tipped his mouth open. Took in large gulps of oxygen. Gritted his teeth as the pain shot into his shoulder as he eased his head straight. He saw a figure getting out of the car in front. Mountain of a man who looked like he had murder on his mind. He inspected the damage done to the rear end of his car and then turned his attention to Mac. Mac tried to restart Phil’s car, but the only sound he heard was the rattle of an engine that was going nowhere.

The man reached Mac and hammered on the driver’s window.

‘I want a word with you,’ the man demanded, spit flying with his rushed words.

Mac wasn’t in the mood for more aggravation and he needed an out of this situation. So he did the one thing he knew he shouldn’t be doing in public – pulled out his gun. Pain still pulsing in his shoulder and neck, he got out of the car and pushed the piece in the other driver’s face. The man shuffled back, raising his hands in a defence position. ‘No need for any—’

But Mac didn’t allow him to finish. ‘Change of plan – we’re swapping cars.’

‘OK. Take it easy, mate.’

‘Keys?’

The man quickly shoved a hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out the car keys. Threw them. Mac snatched them from the air in a one-handed catch. Rushed over to the car and stopped dead. Inside was a woman moaning in the passenger seat.

‘Get out,’ Mac ordered.

Her eyes grew wide with horror when she saw the gun. ‘I can’t move. I think I’ve got whiplash.’

‘Come on sweetheart . . .’

‘Please . . .’

Mac waved the gun. She started crying but didn’t move. Quickly he pushed the gun in the front of his trousers. Leaned down and placed an arm around her shoulders, the other under her legs. She screamed with the alarm call of a banshee. He took two steps back, then laid her gently on the road. The woman screamed again. Mac looked across at the man and yelled, ‘Don’t just stand there, you prat, call an ambulance. It’s an emergency.’

Mac scrambled into the hijacked car and hit the road. He knew he was driving on a road to nowhere. He just couldn’t figure out how Katia was going to get the hell outta Dodge. Abruptly the words he’d shouted at the terrified driver hit him.

‘Don’t just stand there, you prat, call an ambulance. It’s an emergency.’

An emergency. An emergency.

His head spun with the possibility of what was beginning to form in his mind. He eased the car into a layby. An emergency. A sick child. That would be perfect for someone fleeing the country. A child who’d suffered injuries in an explosive criminal operation. Maybe in those kind of rushed medical situations, a kid didn’t need a passport? Or maybe Katia was going to use one of the many false passports Rio had discovered at Katia’s home.

He took out his phone and started checking for ambulance flights and other methods for getting an injured kid out of the country, but soon fell short. He didn’t have the resources to find out where a woman and child fleeing the country would be able to get a flight under false names.

He leaned his head against the steering wheel. If he didn’t find that info soon, Milos . . . Stevie’s image crowded his mind. His son was smiling just before he blew out the candles on his birthday cake.

Mac inched his head up. He needed access to those resources now. He yanked out something from his pocket. Studied it. His gut burned. He didn’t want to do this. Didn’t want to do this. But who else did he know who had access to a web of resources to help him find Katia and Milos.

‘It’s Mac. I need your help. Meet me at—’

‘I know where you’ll be, Mac.’

The line went dead.

ninety-two

‘How did you find me so quickly?’ Mac asked the person who slid into the shadows of the front passenger seat of the car.

He’d been waiting in the car park of a service station on the M25 for no more than ten minutes.

The newcomer pulled out a smoke. Pressed a lighter. The mini-flame cast half of their face out of the shadows.

Mister Bolshoi.

He took two easy drags from his cigarette. Satisfied with the spots the nicotine hit in his body, he gave Mac an answer. ‘I stuck a tracking device on the underside of your shirt earlier.’

Startled, Mac immediately raised up the hem of his T-shirt to find something that looked like a tiny black dot. Then Mac remembered how Bolshoi had leaned on him, clutching his T-shirt as he gave him his business card outside the safe house. He should have figured that out, but sheer tiredness had pushed him off centre.

‘So, it seems we have a situation here,’ the Russian continued.

‘Let’s lay out some ground rules first,’ Mac said, his hand resting securely on the outline of the gun in his trousers.

‘I don’t make promises, not where the safety of my daughter is concerned.’

‘I know what she’s up to and I don’t think even someone with your resources will work it out. So you need me. And I need you.’

Bolshoi hitched the side of his mouth into what could have been a smile or a sneer. ‘When I suggested this temporary partnership an hour ago, you weren’t interested – so what’s changed?’

Mac tipped his head to the side. ‘Just because I’ve figured out what she’s up to doesn’t mean I have the know-how to get there . . .’

‘Ah, I see. You want me to use my connections to pave the way for you.’

Mac didn’t like that he was having to ask this filth-ridden bastard for help but he didn’t have much choice. ‘Something like that,’ he answered tightly.

Bolshoi wound down the window. Flicked the unfinished cigarette outside. ‘OK. We can work together to find my daughter. When we catch up with her, I’ll order her to tell you what she knows about her sister’s killing. Then me and Katia go one way and you go wherever it is that undercover cops creep off to in the dark.’

‘And what if she was the one who killed Elena?’

One of Bolshoi’s hands curled into a fist against the car seat. ‘I won’t allow any harm to come to Katia. Surely you understand that?’

Mac thought carefully. He knew the risks he was running getting involved with this man who had his fingers on too many triggers.

‘OK. Agreed.’

Bolshoi grunted approval, but added, ‘Let me just repeat my warning of earlier – don’t give me a reason to put you in the earth next to Elena.’

Mac explained his theory that Katia had kidnapped Milos as part of a plan to flee the country, but Bolshoi was unconvinced.

‘Unlikely. A professional would know to keep it simple. There’s a thousand ways to swap from one country to another without being traced.’

‘But your daughter isn’t a professional, is she? Unless there’s something about her you’re not telling me?’

Mr Bolshoi pulled out his phone. ‘No, she’s not . . .’ He punched in a number. Spoke. ‘Calum . . . ?’

‘Are you crazy?’ Mac furiously whispered.

Bolshoi ignored him. ‘I’ve got a job for you. I need some information. Reuben’s son Milos was kidnapped from the hospital. Our mutual friend Mac thinks the
kidnapper
might be planning to leave the country using the boy as a cover. Can you make some phone calls and see what leads the police have got? If there’s anything else in the mix? If they’ve got any other leads? Spread some money around if you have to . . .’ Bolshoi listened and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sure Mr Delaney is upset with me. I never said I didn’t have business of my own to sort out while I am here. He’ll just have to remain, as you English say, “hopping mad”.’

He cut the call and looked back at Mac. ‘What’s with the stony face, my friend? Still holding a grudge against my freelance employee? Calum’s a businessman; you can’t expect a businessman to forgo lucrative work to help a former client out. That’s not realistic, especially given the circumstances.’

‘He’s lower than the return on my pension,’ Mac spat back. ‘Only interested in who bids the highest for his services. He could’ve told me what was on Elena’s phone and saved me a hell of a crap-load of trouble.’

‘The simple answer to that is you should have put in a bid for his services. If you’d slipped him some cash this morning, he’d have told you all you needed to know.’

Mac didn’t want to admit that Bolshoi was right, but knew he was. When he’d gone to see Calum, he’d worked on the ‘friend in need’ angle, assuming that would be enough for Calum to help him, rather than recognising the fact that his former friend had turned into a ruthless, money-for-hire operator.

‘You shouldn’t confuse business with friendship. That’s a bad mistake. Men in our line of work shouldn’t have friends.’

‘I’m not in your line of work.’

Mr Bolshoi laughed at him. ‘Deception. Wearing the mask of someone you’re not. Believe me, we’re in the same type of job.’

The two men waited. Mac wasn’t happy doing nothing so he asked: ‘If you were looking after Elena as a promise to her dead father, why did you make her one of Reuben’s people?’

Bolshoi took out another cigarette. But didn’t light up, just played with it between his fingers. ‘She’s like all young women these days, she wanted her own career. I thought arranging for her to take care of Reuben’s comms would keep her out of trouble. That’s a low-risk occupation and Reuben was given strict instructions to keep her in the background. But it seems I was wrong about that. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of work, anyway. Too much like her father. Too much honour and morals and all that sort of nonsense. You know – the things that keep people poor. And now,’ he sighed, ‘she’s dead.’

‘You seem to be getting over it.’

Mister Bolshoi pulled a face. ‘Death is my business and I don’t get sentimental over business. Unless it’s flesh and blood of course. Like Katia. That’s different.’

‘And does Katia have honour and morals and all that sort of nonsense?’

Bolshoi’s phone went off.

He discarded the cigarette. Turned his attention to the phone. Listened. ‘Thank you, Calum. Your fee will be paid in the usual way . . .’ He sighed again. ‘I’m sure that Delaney is, as you put it, tearing this town apart looking for us. No doubt the German surveillance teams will inform him when I’m back in Hamburg. Or perhaps not, I’m getting bored with that city. Nothing interesting has happened there since The Beatles last played there.’ He cut the call again and looked over at Mac. ‘Your people have nothing to go on. And the tattoo on the kidnapper seems to match Katia’s. Let’s see if your theory about her is correct.’

Bolshoi’s body tensed up as he used the phone again. ‘I need you to do a global search on airline and airport databases in the UK. I want to know if a single woman in her twenties is travelling with a young boy tonight from one of the London airports. She could be going anywhere, but Eastern Europe is the most likely destination. The woman may be using the name Katia Romanov. Or she may not. See what you can find. And I need it quick – so move fast.’

As soon as Bolshoi turned to him, Mac said, ‘Calum won’t be able to find that type of information—’

Bolshoi cut over him. ‘I’m sure he won’t – that’s why I was talking with my people in Hamburg.’

So they waited, the silence crawling and crowding around them. The phone went off.

‘You’re sure about that? That’s disappointing . . . OK. Spread the search. Try ferries, coaches – any means someone could use to flee the country.’ When he’d ended the call he whispered to himself, ‘Silly bitch. What is she playing at? Why didn’t she call me . . . ?’

Mac grabbed Bolshoi’s lapel. ‘You know what’s going on here, don’t you?’ Bolshoi looked down at his fist with a malevolent stare. For an instant, Mac tightened his fists. Then let go.