“Once I get the kid safe, I’m gonna have to leave.”

  "And?" Mandy says.

  I grab her and plant one on her lips. Like kissing a dead shark. I let her go.

  She pulls a face. “What was that for?”

  “Just checking something,” I say.

  “Well here,” she says, grabbing the last remaining mint from a bowl and handing it over. “You need it more than me."

  I suck on the mint. “Wait a few minutes before we leave,” I say. “We’re going right. So you go left.”

  She nods. “What do I tell Cassie?”

  “Tell her . . . I dunno. Tell her I’m trying.”

  Mandy lifts her eyebrows to the ceiling. I push the kid up the steps and pull the steel door open. I look around. It’s cold. My breath fogs the air. No sign of cops. The whole town bright with neon signs, but low on people.

  I give Mandy the thumbs-up and we split.

  “Walk natural, but keep your head low,” I say as me and the kid move along the street.

  We’ve got a five-minute walk ahead of us. Out of China Town. Across Portland Street, to a multi-storey car park tucked away behind an office tower. Somewhere the searchlights and thermal imaging won't find us.

  I keep a discreet hand on the kid’s elbow as we pass by a strip club. It's quiet in the early hours. So quiet I hear the faint buzz from the horizontal pink neon sign outside. Two sumo-shaped bouncers stand on the door. They look tired.

  We’re just heading past the main square in China Town, when I hear squealing tyres and the sound of V6 engines.

  As we cross the road, I see bright headlights converging on us. From the left, the right. Three BMW saloons screeching to a halt. The doors fly open and big guys in dark jackets and hoodies jump out. Freddie and Frogger too.

  “Bollocks,” I say, stopping the kid in his tracks. “Run.”

  I turn and push along into a sprint. We double-back, Rudenko’s men catching up. Pumped up. Tooled up.

  The only place I see open is the strip club.

  The bouncers are already shitting their black pants, shutting the doors. I run full-pelt and shoulder barge my way in before they can lock us out. I force my way through. The bouncers try and push me back. I nut one of them hard and grab an empty beer bottle left on a ledge. I smash it over the other bouncer’s head. It buys me a second to drag the kid in behind me.

  But there’s no time to lock the doors. The charging pack are right up our arses.

  I run the kid down a short flight of stairs and straight past the window where you’re supposed to pay for entry.

  Into a large room bathed in pink and purple light. Crystal balls hanging from the ceiling. A series of circular platforms with thin Far Eastern girls hanging off poles. A mix of late-night chancers with fivers held out, ready to stuff ‘em in a G-string.

  I look for a way out. All I see is a long bar lit white on the back wall. I don’t see an emergency exit and I don’t want to get suckered from behind. So I push the kid over to the bar, knocking a waitress flying with a tray of drinks.

  The kid shouts at me in panic. “What do we do?”

  I pick him up by his hoodie and the belt on his jeans.

  The barman scarpers. I drop the kid behind the bar and tell him to stay down.

  I stand with the small of my back against the bar top. Rudenko’s men pile in.

  Here we go.

  17

  The first one to have a go is a young skinhead in a green bomber, armed with a carpet knife. I pick up a high stool from the bar and clock him hard in the face. He spins away.

  I think the stool will make a good weapon, but it’s yanked from my hands by Freddie. He swings a knuckle-duster fist. But the guy moves like he’s made of cement.

  I duck and drive a fist of my own up under his ribs. He wheezes and lurches forward. No time to enjoy the look on his face as he rests on the bar.

  Two more guys wade in. One cracks me on the chin. Another boots me in the side. I grab the second guy's foot and wing him off to one side into a table and chairs. I send the other one packing with a jaw-breaking uppercut.

  As Freddie recovers from the rib-cracker, I ram his face with both hands into the edge of the bar. That just about kills him. He crashes to the sticky black floor of the club like a giant redwood.

  Rudenko has five more guys. And then there’s the boss himself, alongside Frogger, patting a baseball bat in the flat of his palm.

  With a second to get my bearings, I notice the club emptying out. I also get a chance to reach inside my jacket and pull out my gun.

  The next guy who comes at me is a real ugly bastard. Face like an old potato. I do his wife a favour and shoot him in the chest. Point blank. Fuck you and goodnight. I try and remember how many shots I have left.

  Doesn’t matter. A big, burly character wrestles me for control. The clip blasts out into the floor. I drop the empty gun as the guy gets me in a headlock. Squeezes the bloody air out of me.

  “Hold him still,” Frogger says, pulling out a pistol of his own. No silencer. Lining up square between my eyes.

  As he’s about to pull that trigger, I hear a heavy glass thunk.

  Frogger goes starry-eyed and drops to the floor. His pistol spills away under a gap at the base of the bar. I look up and see the kid holding a big magnum of champagne.

  Still in the grip of the big guy behind, I hold out my hands. The kid throws the bottle. I catch it by the neck and swing it over my shoulder. The heavy end smashes in my hands, over the big guy’s head. He drops off me, covered in blood, bubbles and broken glass.

  Right, that’s it. I’m officially pissed off.

  The remaining three goons surround me. One with a metal bar. I make light work of ‘em. A thundering right hook. A snap of an arm. A head butt in an eye and a hand on that metal bar. I pull the owner towards me and crack him with the point of an elbow. I pick him up and drop him on his back on the edge of a dancing platform.

  I take a breather and look around me. The music still beating and spotlights spinning. But the whole club empty except for a floor full of bodies.

  I turn and see Rudenko. He’s got his bat, but he hasn’t got the balls to use it. The cocky bastard should have brought a gun, not a lump of wood. He backs up as I walk towards him. I feel a presence behind me. A giant one.

  I look over my shoulder. Freddie is on his feet again. Lumbering forward. I pick up a wooden chair and smash it against the nearest dancing platform.

  The chair falls to pieces, but leaves me with a broken leg in hand. The end of it sharp and splintered. I turn as Freddie lunges. I ram the sharp end into his guts. He staggers back, the chair leg sticking out of him. Blood spilling all over the floor.

  I turn and see Rudenko disappearing through the main entrance. The kid cowers half-down behind the bar. I call him over. For once he doesn’t argue. He hops over the bar top and picks his way through the bodies.

  He runs behind me as we pass the pay window and up the stairs. The bouncers are halfway up the street with everyone else from the strip club. Girls included. Grabbing onto their naked knockers and shivering in the cold.

  I see Rudenko running in the opposite direction. I give chase, but he makes it to one of the abandoned BMWs before I can catch up. He steps on the accelerator, all the doors of the Beemer still wide open. He swings his own door shut and pulls the car around me. Revving hard up the road and almost mowing down the people in the street.

  I think about that scumbag, Frogger, lying limp in the strip club. I could return right now and finish him off. Finish ‘em all off. Or chase Rudenko and ram him off the road. Set fire to the car and watch him burn.

  I feel the old Breaker wanting to bust out to the surface. I take a deep breath and push him back down.

  I do this for money now. Not for fun.

  Besides, there's no time for all that shit. I’ve got a witness to hand over to Detective Price.

  I tell the kid to get in one of the cars. I throw the rear doors shut and climb behind the wheel. The daft bastards left the keys in the ignition and the engine running. I slam my door closed and tell the kid to belt up.

  Won’t be long until the cops are on the scene, so I reverse the car at speed and spin it around. I drive the wrong way down the one-way system and force an oncoming taxi to swerve to the side of the road.

  I pull out across Portland Street and down a couple of side roads. We enter a concrete multi-storey. I stop and grab a ticket. A yellow barrier rises. I take the ramp up a couple of floors, tyres squealing at speed.

  Sure enough, I see a shadowy figure at the far end, standing next to a car. The headlights dipped.

  I roll the Beemer slow towards him. As we get closer, I see the car’s a grey Mondeo. The pool car kind detectives drive around in.

  I bring the BMW to a stop a good twenty yards away. I leave the headlights on him. He blinks into the light.

  I recognise him from the reception of the Renaissance Hotel. Scruffy beard and hair. His tie thin and loose around his neck. A blue Barbour jacket left open. No doubt he's got a piece holstered inside.

  Still, he’s good to his word. He came alone.

  “That him?” I ask the kid. “That your Detective Price?"

  The kid nods. Hope in his eyes for the first time. “Yeah, it's him.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” I say, dipping the headlights. “Let’s get this over with.”

  18

  We meet Detective Price in the headlight beams of our cars. Engines still running.

  “You okay, Danny?” the detective asks the kid.

  “Think so, yeah.”

  “Then come on,” Price says. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

  The kid steps forward.

  I pull him back by the shoulder. “One second,” I say, talking to the detective. “I want guarantees.”

  Price seems edgy. He keeps tapping his foot. “Come on, you know I can’t do that,” he says, taking out a cigarette and lighting it.

  “I want to know the bastards in blue aren’t gonna be up my arse,” I say.

  He blows smoke out of his nostrils and laughs. “I'm not the Chief Constable. And you’re a kidnapper. Not to mention a cop killer.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “You think they give a shit?” Price says. He takes another drag. “Look, I’m not gonna arrest you.”

  “Damn right you’re not.”

  “But I can’t promise another copper won’t,” Price continues. “If I were you, I’d hand over the kid right now and get out of here."

  “If you want the cop killer, I left him sparked out on the floor of a strip joint in China Town. Big pink sign. You can’t miss it.”

  "My job is to protect my witness. Not to round up Russian scum."

  I hesitate a moment. Hand stopping the kid from walking. There’s an awkward silence. I look Price in the eye. He looks straight at me and smokes. He knows he’s said too much.

  “Look, what are you waiting for?” the kid says, getting impatient. “Detective Price is witness protection. Let me go . . . I wanna go.”

  “Shut up and wait here,” I tell him.

  I approach the detective. I want to test something. A theory forming in my mind.

  Price tenses up. A hand straying up the zip of his jacket. He wants to reach for his gun. As I get close, he drops the cig and goes for it. I snatch his hand out empty. I twist his fingers and plant him against the driver door of the car. I take out his service weapon. Empty the clip and toss the piece away.

  I reach inside his jacket pocket and find a phone. It’s locked. Just a bunch of dots. I twist harder on the hand. He cries out in pain.

  The kid walks over. “What the fuck are you doing? Let him go?”

  “I’ll let you go in a minute. Right off the roof of this car park.”

  The kid shuts his trap, but he kicks out at the front bumper of the Mondeo.

  “How do I get into your phone?” I ask Price.

  “Piss off,” he says.

  I twist harder.

  He shrieks. “Alright. Just, do make an L.”

  “Make a what?”

  “An L, you fucking idiot. You make an L with your thumb.”

  “Oh,” I say, unlocking the phone. "I'm a bit shit with these things." I tap through to his call list.

  Boom. I knew it. Copper bullshit always smells stronger.

  I put the phone on speaker. I hit the call button. The phone lights up.

  “Price?” a dazed-sounding Frogger answers, as if he’s just woken up from a long nap.

  I cut off the call before Price can talk. “You can’t have known for sure the killer was Russian,” I say, “unless you were Frogger’s contact. The inside man.”

  I let the guy up. He’s not going anywhere. He shakes out his wrist.

  “You arranged our way in,” I continue. “And you told Rudenko we were in China Town.”

  “You were supposed to be in and out clean,” Price says. “How was I to know Frogger would go nuts?”

  “Because it’s Frogger,” I say. “And he’s Lithuanian. Not Russian.”

  The kid is furious. He shoves Price back against the car. “So all this time, you’ve been pretending to be some fucking mate to me. And you were one of them? Why?”

  “The universal answer,” Price says, shaking his head. “Fuck-ing money.”

  The kid flips out. “Shit! So what now?”

  “Give me a minute,” I say. “I’m thinking.”

  I’m thinking I’m a fly in a spider’s web. The more I fight against it, the more tangled up I get.

  “I tell you what he’s gonna do Danny,” Price says. “First he’s gonna hand you over. Then he’s gonna help me get you in the boot of my car.”

  “He’s the only one protecting me,” the kid says. “Why would he do that?”

  “Because if he doesn’t,” Price says, regaining his swagger, “it means he either goes on the run with you and gets done for kidnapping––”

  “And the or?” I say.

  “The or is even better. The kid testifies he saw you pull the trigger on the two cops. Double homicide. A man with your record?” Price clicks his tongue. “Ouch.”

  “But he didn’t do it,” the kid says. “I’m not gonna testify to that.”

  The detective lowers his voice. “You will when we’ve got your fucking mum tied to a chair soaked in petrol.”

  Price lights another cig, as if to make the point. The kid starts yelling and swinging at the detective. I hold him back by the hood.

  I know Rudenko. The petrol thing is the least of what they’ll do. And I can see in the kid’s eyes, he’ll bleat on me to save his mum and sister. And when he’s fingered me for those cops, they’ll hire someone like me, but from out of town. And there’ll be a tragic accident involving young Danny here. It’ll be reported on page twenty of the Evening News. Yep, the pair of us will be tomorrow’s fish and chip paper.

  “Oh, and Charlie,” Price says. “You want to see your daughter again, don’t you?”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “Don't play as dumb as you look,” Price says.

  Shit, he’s really got me.

  I pause a moment. I grab a tighter hold of the kid. “Open the boot,” I say to Price.

  The kid can’t believe it. “What? What are you doing?”

  “Smart move,” Price says, stooping inside the driver door. He releases the boot.

  The kid fights like hell, so I scoop him off his feet and carry him kicking and screaming to the rear of the Mondeo.

  “You got anything to tie him up with?” I ask Price.

  He undoes his tie from around his neck. I lower the kid in the boot. I push his face into the black carpet, muffling his screams.

  Price binds the kid's flailing ankles with his tie.

  He holds him down while I remove my own tie. I use it to fix his wrists tight behind his back. Price has a pair of handkerchiefs zipped up inside an outside pocket on his jacket.

  “You got a sniffle or something?” I ask.

  “Comes in handy at crime scenes,” he says, tossing me one of the hankies.

  As he scrunches one up into a ball, I twist the other long and thin. Price forces his handkerchief inside the kid’s mouth. He holds it there while I tie mine around the back of the lad’s skinny neck. I make sure it’s fixed secure.

  The kid looks up at me. Big eyes full of tears and terror.

  I shrug at him. “Sorry kid, if there was any other way—”

  Detective Price slams the boot shut. He extends a hand. “No hard feelings.”

  I leave him hanging.

  Price climbs behind the wheel of the Mondeo. He rolls past me as I walk back to my car. He winds down his window. “I’ll square things with Rudenko. Try and throw my colleagues off your scent.”

  It makes me sick, but I thank him. I have to keep the Rudenko mob sweet from now on.

  Price winds up his window and accelerates out of the car park.

  I’m not far behind. Heading out of town fast, taking a lesser travelled route out of the shit, where the pigs aren’t checking.

  I see the chopper hovering in the distance, travelling in the opposite direction.

  There’s no way I can go home, so I decide to head for the airport. Catch an early morning flight. I’m smart enough to always keep my passport on me. You never know when you’re gonna have to skip the country for a while.

  Yeah, a nice Spanish break where I’ve got connections. By the time the sun comes up, this’ll all be over.

  19

  I’m zipping along easy down the Parkway road. Cutting past traffic and hitting the motorway. The BMW is fast and I see the airport signs already.

  This isn’t my first emergency holiday. Probably not my last. And I’ve got a couple of mates at the airport I slip a few quid to.

  There are ways to get in and out and bypass customs. Ways to get on a chartered plane rather than one of the regular airlines. Strictly trade secrets.

  I turn up the radio. Neil Diamond. Forever In Blue Jeans. Well wouldn't you know it? Must be a good omen. I sing along. Might be the lack of sleep, but I feel as happy as Larry.

  Nice car too. It's a 5 Series. Tan leather. Sat nav. Automatic.

 

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