Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (12 page)

Johnson gets out. He must be meeting up with Wilson at the station. My heart races. The gun must be close. I must calm down but my body is alight with tension and excitement. I am breathing too fast and I can’t keep my hands still. I light a cigarette and take three consecutive, long, hard drags into my lungs. It doesn’t help. I want to call Sasha but there is neither time nor privacy. If I don’t call before midnight she won’t answer. I promise myself another kill if I miss my deadline. My mind is wandering. I must concentrate. I put out the cigarette and follow Johnson.

*

Waterloo station heaved with late Saturday night travellers.

The left luggage office was easy to find with a huge blue and yellow sign just to the left of the first platform, with a DHL office on its right. The man on the counter was skinny, mid-fifties and had short hair, greying at the temples. He paced back and forth as if bored out of his mind. John instructed Savannah to wait outside and keep an eye out for the two men he had escaped at Kensington. He gave her full descriptions, right down to the shiny black steel-toe-capped boots. At first Savannah didn’t appear to be taking him seriously and so he repeated the request a second time.

“I’m on it, sir,” she joked, standing to attention and saluting.

John went up to the counter and handed over the ticket.

“Is this the original ticket mate?” asked the attendant, inspecting it closely. John suspected the man needed glasses.

“Of course,” answered John. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“We get a lot of copies these days,” he said. “Wives making copies of their husband’s ticket to find out what secrets they store here.”

“Well that’s the original ticket and I’m not married.”

“So who’s the gorgeous lady waiting outside for you? I should hang on to that one mate, you’ll never do better, scruffy lad like you.”

It was hard for John to take offence as the attendant was no picture himself and he felt no need to relieve the man’s boredom by allowing himself to be dragged into an inane conversation. Besides, John was anxious to pick up the item and get back to the hotel.

“Do you mind? That lady is my sister,” John said.

“I do beg your pardon, mate. Let me hurry your collection up.” The man turned and fled into the back with his tail between his legs, returning with a hard-surfaced Samsonite briefcase. “Nice piece of luggage that mate, we don’t see many of these.” He rapped his knuckles on the side as he passed it over to John. “Fireproof, bombproof, wouldn’t surprise me if it was waterproof too.”

“Thanks,” said John, tugging hard to pull the briefcase free from the attendant’s reluctant grip.

The case was surprisingly heavy and John’s first thought was that it was filled with gold bricks. Everything about the day felt like a movie. John took a deep breath and braced himself before strolling back out into the station. He tried to imagine he was invisible but his pounding heart reminded him he was very much in full view. He felt like a drug courier passing under the green ‘Nothing To Declare’ sign at Heathrow airport. John turned to his right where Savannah had waited to keep surveillance. He lifted the case to show her how heavy it was but she was nowhere to be seen.

13: Saturday 24th September, 23:00

I see the agents edging towards the girl from either side. She is half my age. Their backs are to the wall as they casually creep ever closer. To a casual onlooker they are stationary. All this time they’ve been following a girl hardly out of school? Wilson moves with the ease of a much lighter man. Perhaps I underestimated him. The girl is a real looker. Her dark brown hair shines and follows her gaze as she twists her head from side to side. If I didn’t have Sasha, I might be interested. The two giants of men are only feet away and still she is clueless. Why do I itch to call out to her? Instead I take a few pictures with my mobile phone.

Johnson is on the girl, pulling her away from the wall. He is strong, very strong. Wilson’s hand clasps around her mouth from behind with a cloth and she is out. They keep her upright from either side as they walk her back towards the car park. Nobody notices that her head bobs like her neck is snapped.

I notice her coat and my heart hammers against my rib cage. The black coat is a man’s and is far too big for her build. It could easily contain the briefcase beneath. Why else wear an oversized coat? And surely the agents would not risk an open manoeuvre unless the incentive was known. I am convinced. My time has come and I am prepared. I grab a Marlboro Red and suck on it greedily as I follow the agents. I take up position behind a station pillar. It gives me perfect sight and cover. I dip into my raincoat pocket and feel for the detonator. My hands are shaking.

*

With the briefcase returned to the left luggage office, John Smith ran the length of every platform, peering into train upon train. Breathing heavily, he headed to the car park. Where was she? He didn’t think for a second that she’d had a change of heart. If she’d wanted to leave him with the money that she still held, then he’d already given her every opportunity. He wouldn’t have blamed her and a part of him might have been relieved that she was safe from further harm. He surprised himself with the strength of feeling he was experiencing over her disappearance. After only one day - and a night - she had become the most important person in his life. He had to find her.

*

Savannah awoke to the pungent smell of leather. Her head pounded like a hangover sent from Hell. She opened her eyes to find herself in the back of an expensive-looking car. Without alerting her two captors in the front to her awakened state, she grabbed at the release handle to her right and kicked the door. It wouldn’t budge an inch.

“Let me out of here!”

The aroma from the hide upholstery seeped into her nostrils causing her saliva glands to over produce, bringing on an acutely nauseous sensation. An overhead light lit up the dark interior of the car.

She imagined that John would not be too impressed at her discovery of the two men she had been told to look out for. The truth was that they had found her, although how two such large creatures, complete in navy blue coats, had surprised her was a mystery. Her back had been to the large glass window of the left luggage office and she hadn’t dropped her guard for a second. An instant later, the two men were on her and a hand lined with a sweet-smelling cloth was forced against her mouth and nose. How long ago was that? John would be miffed. One simple job and she had blown it. She gave the door another kick.

“Don’t kick the car,” said Mr Tall, who sat in the driver’s seat with his head facing forward. “It lacks the raw power of the old sixty-nine Boss Ford Mustang, but it has a refined quality that calms me.”

“What are you talking about?” Savannah kicked the door again. “Let me out of here. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“The car is soundproofed and blacked out, Miss Jones. Nobody can hear or see you.”

“This is kidnapping.”

“Don’t be frightened, Savannah. We need your help and in return I’m sure that we can help you,” said Mr Short from the passenger seat. “If you’ll allow us to talk I’m sure that we’ll all be the best of friends.”

Five kicks later - enough that John could never accuse her of acquiescing - Savannah gave up. “Do I have a choice?”

“Just hear us out,” Mr Tall said. “That’s all we ask.”

“Go on then,” she said. “I’m listening.”

“Has Mr Smith mentioned us?” Mr Tall asked, shifting in his seat so that he could face Savannah.

“No, he just told me to keep a watch out for two men with navy blue coats.”

Savannah yawned. Whatever they had drugged her with had not completely left her system. She was dead beat. The thought of lying down on that king-size bed back at the hotel was more appealing than ever. “Can we get this over with so I can go?”

“Of course,” said Mr Tall, his forefinger on his chest. “My name is Johnson ...” He redirected his finger to the passenger seat. “... and this is my partner, Wilson. We work for an international organisation which, unfortunately, I can’t tell you about. I can tell you that we are the good guys but I guess that seems kinda unlikely to you now. We’ve been following Smith to see if he’s involved in Mark Bradshaw’s murder.”

Savannah shook her head and immediately wished she hadn’t. “John reckons Mark was murdered but I know he hasn’t got anything to do with it. John says his friend was a stock trader or something like that.”

“You believe him?”

She thought about it for a second. At first John had been a client, then a madman and then sane but mixed up in a murder. To be fair she had no evidence to support John’s innocence and as far as qualifications to judge character went, hers were non-existent. But she knew, not how or why she knew, but she knew.

“I don’t know much about men, but I know he’s no murderer,” she said.

“Bradshaw’s financial dealings were just a front,” Johnson said, leaning over into the back of the car and wiping Savannah’s footprints from the window and door upholstery with a wet-wipe. Savannah shuffled to her left to give him more room. “Mr Bradshaw had something of ours and we need to get it back before it falls into the wrong hands.”

This was beginning to sound crazier by the second. She was lost in a spy movie. “Are you for real?” she asked.

“Very real, Miss Jones.” Wilson shook his head at Savannah as his partner almost disappeared into the back to scrub at the door with a fresh wet towel. “It is a matter of life and death.”

Savannah resisted the urge to laugh. The day had gotten more surreal by the minute. If this was a joke then her captors showed no sign of humour. Two expressionless faces regarded her, one flat nosed and attempting to smile, and the other almost handsome but somehow nondescript. Was she supposed to speak?

“What do you want from me?” she said.

Johnson disposed of the used towel in a white plastic refuse bag and threw it to the floor in front of Wilson. “What are you both doing at this station?” he asked.

“John suggested a trip out.” Savannah looked out of her window at the steady flow of people entering and departing the station’s entrance.

“For what purpose?” Johnson pressed.

Savannah could not return Johnson’s gaze as she struggled to conceal the reason for their late night visit. She began to count the people leaving the station. One, two, three... “Does there have to be a purpose? Look, I hardly know him. We only met last night.” Four, five, six...

“Through Aphrodite’s Angels?”

Losing count immediately, she whipped her head around to face Johnson. Surprisingly, her headache had subsided. “You know about that?”

“We know everything about you: when you moved from Carmarthen in Wales to Shepherd’s Bush, how your mother and father died, the scumbag you now work for ... should I go on?”

“No.” Savannah thought for a moment. Here was an opportunity. “Can you sort people out?”

“Christos the Greek, you mean?”

“Yes. So he won’t bother me again, not ever?”

“If you help us.”

Johnson was a mask and impossible to read but she didn’t doubt his ability to help her. It was betrayal, pure and simple. Her fear of Christos outweighed her loyalty to John. No torture had been necessary, the chance of starting out again without a pimp in her life had been incentive enough. Savannah told them everything she knew and hoped to God that she hadn’t screwed up.

“So you’ll sort out my problem?” she asked, having brought them fully up-to-date. Johnson and Wilson hadn’t said a word as they listened intently, hanging on her every word.

Johnson exhaled loudly. “We wondered what took you so long in the pawn shop and why the lady in pink came screaming past us outside your bedsit.” She detected the twitch of a starting smile and then it was gone - back to business as usual. “John Smith is clearly a resourceful guy,” he added.

“How long have you been following us?”

“Since you left Smith’s place.”

Savannah cleared her throat. They had promised. “About my problem...?”

The tall man looked over to Wilson who nodded.

Savannah nudged Wilson’s shoulder to get his attention.

“What are you agreeing to?”

Wilson twisted his neck around to look at Savannah face on. It was the first time she noticed how completely squashed and spread out his nose was. “Help us out and we can help you. I promise that we won’t ask you to take any risks.”

Johnson confirmed the situation. “Get Smith on board and help us catch Bradshaw’s killer and we’ll sort Christos for you.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

Johnson motioned to the car door next to her. “Then you’re free to go.”

As if by magic the central locking system disengaged with a soft, smooth click. Savannah didn’t move. Memories of Christos’ threats echoed in her head.

As she spoke, a world of worry dropped from her shoulders, drowning the lingering guilt at betraying John. “I’ll do it.”

*

John leaned against a pillar and watched a multitude of drivers as they either parked and exited their vehicle or got in and drove away.

If Savannah was on a train, she was either hidden or already gone. Standing still felt like self-torture but he needed to recover his breath. After a minute he began to wander amongst the cars looking into windows, dashing from vehicle to vehicle like his life depended on it. It was hopeless. He was about to give up when he saw the shiny black Mercedes with blacked-out windows thirty feet away. It probably just belonged to an Arab dignitary but it warranted closer inspection. What else did he have to go on? He looked around to ensure he wasn’t being watched.

Two pillars across from where he had been standing moments earlier, he saw a tall black-haired man smoking a cigarette. It wasn’t the fact that it was a no smoking area, as was the whole station, but the fact that the man’s face was bright red and he was staring at the black Mercedes with more than a passing interest. This guy was no traveller or train spotter.

John returned to the pillar and continued to watch the unusual-looking man. He wore an old-fashioned raincoat with the collar turned up. When he wasn’t dragging on his cigarette or lighting another with the stub of the previous one, his hands were permanently embedded in his pockets.