Consequence (22 page)

“The phone had a faint signal,” one of the men said. “Which indicates they could be some distance away from the nearest mast.”

“That’s a start isn’t it?” he hoped.

The technician sucked in air through his teeth and sighed it out, “Not really,” he said, disappointed. “It could be a dodgy phone or poor surroundings.”

The detective shook his head in disappointment and looked at the clock.

73

James Roach appeared from the bedroom where the troubled Lisa Price lay. He had fed her half a bar of chocolate, some crisps and had given her plenty of water.

Darren Morris was in the living room, sitting in silence. He looked at his watch when Roach returned. “Three hours away from a million quid,” he announced happily.

Roach suppressed a smile.

“This is a big moment for both of us,” Morris said.

“Something could still go wrong,” Roach said unsurely.

“What’s got into you?” Morris asked, “You’re normally the unfeeling zombie of this partnership. You have the face of a man who drowns kittens and beats his grandmother. You kill without thinking twice, you would happily commit genocide if the money was right, and I bet even then your blank expression wouldn’t change. Yet now, because of this simple kidnapping, you start worrying? You bewilder me, you really do.”

“Kidnapping is different to killing.”

“Yes, it’s easier.”

James Roach opened his mouth to reply but he quickly slammed it shut again. A loud thud echoed throughout the flat, it seemed to be coming from next door. More minor noises vibrated the room in which the two hitmen-come-kidnappers sat; Roach was the first to react. He bolted to his feet -- his face now the intimidating picture of old -- and rushed to the door to see if he could hear any sounds.

Darren Morris remained calm.

The sounds soon dwindled and Roach crossed from the door to the wall in an attempt to hear any noises from the flat next door.

“Well?” Morris asked calmly.

Roach shushed him and shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear anything.

Morris smiled, “There’s nothing to worry about--”

His words were cut short as the front door burst open. The wood cracked and sprayed bullets of splinters. The deadbolts, padlocks and the chain ripped free from the door and wall, bringing a hail of plaster and wood with them.

Six men rushed into the room, four headed straight for James Roach who was as ready as ever. The intruders, all dressed in black, got more than they bargained for.

Roach swung his fist hard as the men rushed him; his wrist reverberated as his knuckles slammed into the jaw of one of them, instantly cracking three teeth and sending him sprawling to his knees -- gargling blood and spitting enamel.

He ducked a full blooded punch delivered by another intruder; the man twisted his body to put his full power into the swing. Grabbing his outstretched elbow -- inches from his face -- Roach pushed it inwards until he heard it crack. His attacker screamed in horror as his forearm snapped and his wrist broke inwards. He threw himself onto the floor, horrified to see that bone from his arm had torn through his skin and had pierced his sweatshirt.

Morris, sitting in a relaxed position, didn’t have as much time to fend off his attackers. As the other two men rushed him he lifted his feet from the chair and, drawing both legs back to his chest, kicked out hard, sending it flying into them. It tripped up one of them, sending him sprawling -- his chest slammed into the back of the chair on his way to the ground and he reduced the hard wood to splinters before smacking the back of his skull on a rotting skirting board.

Dodging a shoulder barge from the second man Morris sidestepped quickly, picked up another chair and slammed it over the second attacker. It snapped as it hit the top of his head and he collapsed in a heap, blood seeped through his black balaclava and he keeled over, before slowly and agonisingly losing his balance.

Morris rushed to help Roach, who was trying to break free from the grips of the final two assailants. Grabbing one from behind by the neck, he held onto him until the intruder realised his grip on his colleague, then he kicked hard into the back of his calf; the darkened intruder yelped and lost his footing.

Dragging him to the floor Morris repeatedly jabbed him in the face, erupting sprinkles of blood with each well placed, power punch.

Roach broke free of the other intruder’s grasp and managed to gain the momentum in the battle by delivering a swift hook to his abdomen. The man recoiled as the blow hit; Roach gripped the top of his head as he dipped forward in pain.

He heard mumbles of worry and fear as he held the masked head over the kitchen counter. He slammed his face hard onto the laminated top, the sounds of broken bone, shattered cartilage and pained screams filled the air. He forced his head into the counter again and again, repeatedly levering his skull onto the wood until he ran out of breath and the muffled screams had stopped.

The body fell to the floor, landing alongside the attacker that had died beneath the crushing fists of Darren Morris.

Breathing heavily, both men looked towards the shattered doorway. What they saw sank their hearts.

74

Peter Sanderson stood in the doorway of the decrepit safe house, two heavyset bodyguards either side of him. In his sweaty right hand, clasped in his chubby fingers and aimed at James Roach, was a 9MM pistol.

“Shit,” Morris uttered.

The two bodyguards stepped into the room, allowing a gap in the doorway through which another three men appeared, all of them carrying automatic pistols. Three of them trained their weapons on Morris and Roach whilst the other two restrained the pair of kidnappers.

“What’s this all about?” Morris wanted to know as one of the men grabbed him and walked him into the living room.

Sanders trudged through the door and slammed it shut behind him; it jarred in the damaged frame and popped back open. “I thought I would pay you a visit,” he said calmly. “See how you’ve been doing.”

“We’re doing fine,” Morris assured as he and Roach were forced into the two unbroken hardback chairs.

The defeated attackers moaned and groaned around the flat, one managed to drag himself to Sanderson’s side. He mumbled an apology and tried to propel himself to his feet but his boss stopped him with a kick to the jaw.

“Stay on the fucking floor,” he bellowed. “Lie there with the rest of the fucking filth.” He snarled in disgust before rocketing another hard boot into the wounded intruder’s ribs. He turned to Morris and Roach and smiled, “If you want a job done I guess you have to do it yourself.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Morris said with a touch of urgency in his voice.

“What do I
want
?” Sanders seemed to mull this over as one his bodyguards grabbed a chair for him and escorted his wide derrière onto it. “I want many things, but I’m not here for what I want. I’m here for what I
command
, I command respect and loyalty. You see, my dear friends, I believe in trust and honour amongst fellow criminals, especially the ones working for me. So you can imagine my shock when I found out that you two...” he eyed both the men with hatred, “have been fucking me around.”

“We haven’t--” Morris began.

“Don’t bullshit me Darren,” Sanders interrupted. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“
This
is what I’m talking about,” Sanders waved his arms around, indicating the flat.

“We just wanted a change of pace that’s all,” Morris said sarcastically.

“Kidnapping is certainly a change of pace, I will agree.”

Both Darren Morris and James Roach felt a ten tonne weight crush their hearts and an icy chill speed up their spines.

“We’ve been watching you,” Sanders continued with a wry smile.

“We?” Morris said, the sarcasm gone from his voice.

“Like I told you on the phone Darren, I have more men on this cartel case. It just so happens that these men ran into Pearce’s contact, the man you promised me was dead and empty of information. Luckily for me, and very unluckily for you, he was very much alive and
full
of information.”

“Pearce probably had more than one contact,” Morris said, trying to snake his way out of trouble. “The one we found was dry, so we killed him.”

Sanders sighed and shook his head. He rapped his fingers on the butt of the pistol which had been lowered slightly. “Another lie,” he said finally. “My men saw you check into a bed and breakfast. They watched you all night.”

“We couldn’t get in touch with Pearce’s supplier that night so we waited--”

“They saw you meet up with that duck-arsed convict Linders and drive away in a freshly resprayed car, then they followed you here. It disappointed me it really did, so many years of good service. But, you see boys,” his fingers became unsteady on the trigger. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you wanted to pull a little side job, but kidnapping is a step beyond and I’d be against it, you know that. And for that, there’s a price to pay.”

“If you want a cut of the ransom money you can have it,” Roach spoke for the first time.

“I don’t want money, James. You know how the game works, you break my respect, you lose my trust; if you lose my trust, I break a leg… or two.”

“You came here to break our legs?” Morris asked.

“Not quite. You see, you lied to me and your lies jeopardised this whole operation.”

The two bodyguards beside Sanders lifted their guns and aimed them directly at Roach and Morris. The kidnappers froze in fear, staring down the barrels of the two pistols.

“No,” Sanders raised an arm and the men lowered their guns. Morris and Roach were relieved, but the feeling didn’t last long. “
I
want the satisfaction,” Sanders raised his gun. “It’s a shame to lose you boys,” he declared with a complete lack of compassion. “You’ve done so well for me over the years, but all good things must come to an end.”

Two shots screamed through the flat, the musty air was pierced by bullets and blasted powder. Two spent shells spat from the gun, spun through the dim atmosphere and descended into the blackness. The body of Darren Morris hit the floor at the same time that the shells bounced from its dusty surface; the chair slipped from underneath his limp body and he fell like a ragdoll. A small precise hole in the centre of his forehead oozed blood, turning his facial features into a mirage of crimson death.

James Roach remained seated with his head hanging loosely over the back of the chair. A bullet wound to the right of his left eye dripped blood over his forehead and into his hair.

“Such a shame.” Sanders rose from his chair. “They throw away all those years of loyalty for one fucking kidnapping. It makes me sick it really does.”

“Sir!” one of Sanders’s bodyguards shouted from an open doorway in the flat.

“What?” Sanderson barked.

“They have the little girl in here, tied to the bed,” he declared, anxiously looking into the room where Lisa Price lay.

“And?”

“Well,” the bodyguard hesitated. “What do you want me to do?”

“What do you fucking think I want you to do you stupid piece of shit! Kill the fucking bitch!” Sanders bellowed.

“She’s just a little--”

“Do as I say or you’ll end up like these two,” Sanders indicated the two dead assassins.

The bodyguard nodded and retired back into the bedroom. Seconds later another shot rang through the building and the man emerged looking ashamed. “It’s done,” he said with his head hung low.

Sanders nodded pleasantly. “Clean up this mess,” he ordered. He walked over to his wounded men and prodded them with his foot. “Get these fuckers on their feet and away from the scene.”

The bodyguards nodded.

“Take their bodies,” he instructed, nodding at Morris and Roach. “Dump them in their car out front and drive it off a cliff, or burn the fucker. If the kidnapping is linked to them it might come back to me, so dispose of them.”

“What about the other car sir? The BMW?” one of the bodyguards asked.

“Fire bomb it before you leave the scene, it’ll get blamed on fucking joy riders and arsonists. This area is full of the bastards.”

Sanders left the building with an accomplished smile on his face.

75

Michael Richards drained the remains of his
Jack Daniels
and
Coke
and slammed the glass down on the table, sighing satisfyingly and licking his lips.

“Want another?” Phillips was sitting seated next to his friend. Finishing his pint of
Guinness
he rose and took Richards’s glass.

“Sure.”

They had returned to the pub where they had spent last night drinking and playing pool. It was empty, quiet and cheap. They both agreed to give themselves a break. They were criminals after all, not business men, and the past few days had been very generous to them. This was their way of letting off steam. There was also the added advantage that when the two got together for a quiet drink the ideas flowed, although many were useless or impossible and the rest were forgotten the next day.

Phillips put the empty glasses down on the bar. The petite barmaid, showing no interest in her job or surroundings, sat solemnly on a stool behind the bar. Her attention was fixed on a small television which aired a reality show.

“Excuse me,” Phillips muttered in her direction.

He received a mumbled reply which suggested he should hold on for a few more seconds.

Glaring at the screen he tried to decipher what could hold her attention so much that she couldn’t look away. What he saw was two people sitting on a sofa talking about food, whilst an overweight, half naked, tone-deaf woman sang along to a Mariah Carey song in the background. The camera flicked from them to her, then into a garden where a young woman sunbathed.

He shook his head in disbelief. He despised reality television -- large scale voyeurism for the small minded.

He coughed exaggeratedly.

“Hold on a minute,” the woman muttered.

“What is it you do here exactly?” Phillips questioned.