Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (6 page)

John, certain that nothing he said would aid his cause, stepped to his left and entered a fast moving stream of bodies bound for the trains.

“I’m here most Saturdays around this time,” the woman called after him, but John was on his way home.

*

Wilson turned to his partner after both men had watched John Smith disappear into the crowd. He was still churning inside from Johnson’s refusal to listen to his troubled thoughts. Sure there was protocol, but he had taken a bullet in the chest for the ungrateful bastard and surely that had to be worth five minutes off the record. Now he’d allowed Bradshaw’s murderer to flee, remotely releasing his keyless handcuffs into the bargain.

“Why did you let him go?”

“Because we know where he lives, and that’s where we’ll catch up with him.”

“We do?”

“Yeah, he needs to believe he shook us off or he won’t lead us anywhere.”

The tall agent was starting to piss Wilson off. “Are you going to let me in on your little secret?”

Johnson pulled out the Bluetooth device from his ear. “I sent his picture to HQ, and they have confirmed his identity as John Smith. He’s a friend of Bradshaw’s, but they cleared him nine years ago when Bradshaw first started working for us.”

“An alias?”

“Not according to HQ. Until we prove otherwise, we have to assume that he’s the killer or in league with the killer.” Johnson ran his hand through his short hair. “But we’ve got a bigger problem.”

“What?”

“The latest prototype of Bradshaw’s invention is missing from the lab.”

Wilson’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt his world begin to crumble. They should have been there, and all of this could have been cleaned up quickly and easily. Now things were a mess, and it was his fault. Johnson had been right. He shouldn’t have come back so soon. Or maybe it was Johnson’s punishment for not listening. “Well Smith didn’t have it. It’s too big to conceal. Maybe it’s still in Bradshaw’s apartment?”

Johnson said nothing, his eyes locked on Wilson’s face. Wilson began to fidget, stretching out his fingers and cracking his knuckles. The silence was unbearable. “You think it’s my fault. Come out and say it.”

Johnson’s stare never wavered. “The clean-up team have reported back to HQ. The item was not found.” He grabbed Wilson by the shoulders. “If we don’t sort this, then we’re both out of a job. If I lose this job, I’ll end your life. You need to get your act together and help me clean up this mess. Are we clear?”

There was no malice in the words, but the threat was genuine. Who did he think he was? The man, whose life Wilson had saved, was threatening him. Johnson had agreed to talk off mission. Sure, Wilson had insisted, but it was Johnson’s call. He was the senior officer, and he’d signed off on his return to duty. Blame could not be delegated. Why didn’t he get his bloody hands off?

“Are we clear?” repeated Johnson, raising his eyebrows and squeezing his partner’s shoulders tightly.

“Clear,” answered Wilson through tightly ground teeth. This was not what he had signed up for.

*

I drive along Kensington High Street putting out my Marlboro Red and lighting another. The harsh smoke catches in my throat in a pleasing way. Common sense dictates that I should put more distance between myself and the scene of my second illegal kill. Who am I kidding? Second murder, I mean. Well, actually my fourth murder, but the first two were before I was legally responsible so they don’t count. Bradshaw reneged and had deserved to die. Torture had been failing, and the pounding at the door necessitated immediate evacuation. Loose ends are never an option. Ten more minutes, maybe less, and he’d have told me everything. I need to think and driving helps. I can’t bring myself to drive straight ahead and on to relative safety.

To my right, at the tube station, I see a short, burly man being gripped at the shoulders by another man, about a foot taller. Both are dressed in thick navy blue coats. Johnson and Wilson. These are the Earthguard agents Bradshaw spoke of yesterday. Bradshaw’s description had sounded suspect but here they are, literally larger than life. This is a stroke of luck, perhaps? Instinctively, I duck my head as the tall one’s gaze wanders close. Idiot, what am I doing? I bear little resemblance to the man who entered Bradshaw’s apartment and snuffed out his worthless life.

I look in the mirror and tug at the battle scar on my bottom lip with my fingers. Could it have given me away? It is only noticeable when I smile, causing both lips to skew in a lopsided grin. Not a chance. I am safe.

The agents look like smartly dressed clowns in a circus, their disparate shapes adding comedy to deadly serious faces. Such pompous idiots wouldn’t survive a month in the SAS. I suspect their presence at the tube station is not for my benefit. So why are they here? Why aren’t they at Bradshaw’s apartment sifting through papers on the blood splattered desk? Could the agents be charged with recovering Bradshaw’s invention? Perhaps they were headed to its location.

An urge to run down the agents overcomes me. I need them alive for now but ... one twitch of the steering wheel and a burst of acceleration and these fools would be mulch. Heads would be crushed and bones snapped like twigs. Blood and brains would be spread across the pavement. My breathing quickens as my excitement grows. My thoughts unconsciously turn to Sasha. Later she will whisper down the phone to me, filth that she wants me to force out of her, and I will come like a train, thinking of her spread-eagled under my weight, unable to escape. The little bitch would love it too, she just doesn’t realise it yet. But no, failure does not deserve reward and so the call will wait until success is mine.

I follow the agents up a side street. They are too busy ignoring each other, eyes fixed dead ahead, to notice I am just a few yards behind. There is no doubt in my mind that I will kill them once I recover my prize. The agents get into a top-end, black Mercedes. Overpaid as well as overrated. I might tie them lying down and facing each other, securing them so that their positions are inescapable. With delicate twitches of a scalpel, I could nick the major arteries in their necks. I could watch as their faces pale, blood spurting in fine jets across each other’s bodies. The art will be in making the wound small enough to make death slow but not so small that the wound clots. Too big and the fun ends before it really starts. I am no surgeon but I am willing to learn. I can feel prickles of pleasure on my arms.

Anticipation is a wonderful thing. I can’t wait to talk with Sasha afterwards, or maybe even during. Her reluctant whispers will complete the day’s satisfactions. It’s so nice to have a sister.

6: Saturday 24th September, 14:05

The District Line tube train was mostly empty and yet it seemed like all eyes were on John.

Like a hot piece of coal, the unopened piece of paper bothered John every second of the short journey home. He had thought about pulling it from his jeans on the tube and once again when he exited the train at Stamford Brook station. Each time his fingertips wandered into his pocket he was overcome by the feeling that strange eyes watched his every move. But it was more than that. He had the oddest feeling that if he ignored the paper, maybe it, and the scene in his best friend’s apartment, would turn out to be figments of his imagination.

The five minute walk from the station went some way to allaying his fears that he was being followed. As he examined every person he overtook or met, he realised that he still didn’t know where Stamford Brook became Chiswick and vice versa, or if Stamford Brook was just part of Chiswick. His head was full of rubbish.

The closer he got to home the more space appeared between him and the next man. By the time he had turned two corners and reached the converted Victorian building, where he occupied the ground floor flat, there was barely a soul in sight. He leapt up the steps to his building, three at a time, taking one last look around him before entering.

He doubted that the two men he had evaded at High Street Kensington tube station could have stayed on his tail. And his home was the last place they would expect him to go - wasn’t it? Besides, they hadn’t asked him a single question before or after snapping the handcuffs on - not even his name, which meant they couldn’t know who he was or where he lived. Who the hell were those guys? They sure as hell weren’t regular police. Regular police did not turn and flee at the sight of their colleagues - armed or otherwise.

As he closed the main building door behind him with a shove from his heel, a veil of comfort tumbled over him like a warm, familiar blanket. At his own entrance, to the left of the stairs, he turned the key and barged open the door of his flat, letting out a long sigh of relief. It was good to be home. A hand tapped his shoulder from behind. Without thinking he lunged forward into his flat, turned and slammed the heavy door shut right in the tear-striped face of Savannah Jones.

John gasped for air. That was the second time today she had sent his heartbeat into orbit. Feeling somewhat foolish, he recovered his breathing and composure and opened the door again. She was in the same slinky mini dress as before, holding her high heels in her left hand and gripping her purse in the right. So that was how she’d crept up behind him. Her face was troubled, and her shoulders slouched. He should get rid of her quickly.

“I thought I had forty-eight hours.” John looked at his Rolex Daytona. “It’s quarter past two which means so far I’ve had about seven hours.”

“I need it now. I can’t wait any longer. It’s a matter of life and death.”

John put on his sternest face. “I still don’t have it, and to be honest, it’s no longer my priority.”

John watched as Savannah’s mouth drooped and tears welled up in her dark eyes. Her tall, slender frame seemed to shrink in front of him. How often did this girl cry? She closed her eyelids as if to halt the flow but instead sent a tear racing down each cheek. Part of him wanted her gone and another part of him welcomed the delay to his own, more serious concerns. When she wasn’t crying, she was a pleasure both to look at and be around, and for someone so miserable and unwashed, she certainly looked incredibly good. For one of the few times in his life, he welcomed the company.

He took a step back and opened the door wide. “Come in.”

Clearly not expecting the invite, Savannah needed a couple of seconds before the offer hit home. Once the penny dropped, she was quick to scurry inside. Savannah followed John through the second door on the left of the small entrance hall into the ‘L’ shaped lounge, diner and kitchen area.

“Can I get you a tea or coffee?” asked John, hoping he had at least one or the other to offer.

“Either would be cool,” replied Savannah, sinking into the soft old sofa against the wall.

John filled the kettle, found his last remaining tea bag, and pulled out two red mugs from a cupboard above the sink. Although strangely glad of Savannah’s presence, his mind was still filled with the shock of his friend’s grisly death. Images of the severed digits and the letter opener pinning Mark’s hand to his head flashed between moments of normality. The grief was now wavering on the surface, and he wondered for a second just how Savannah would cope if he broke down in front of her.

“Christos wasn’t too pleased that I only made him thirty quid from two appointments,” she called out from the sofa, where she lay back deep into the big, comfortable cushions.

John poured hot water into the mugs before sharing the tea bag between them. He gazed vacantly into one of the mugs as he added milk, watching the liquid become lighter the more milk he tipped in from the half-full carton. And then it overflowed, but he just kept on pouring until the liquid spilled onto the black granite worktop and then the floor, like Mark’s blood had spilled onto his favourite rug. John turned the carton further until it was perfectly upside down, speeding up the flow of milk into the mug and producing a ‘glugging’ sound.

“Are you nuts?”

John jumped, dropping the milk carton onto the worktop, sending milk and diluted tea all over his hoodie. He turned to see Savannah staring at him with her hands on her hips in disbelief. He shrugged his shoulders. How long had she been standing there? How long had he been in another world? He wasn’t doing so well.

“Mark was murdered this morning,” he said. “My best friend in the whole world. My only real friend, stabbed through his head and through his back.”

Savannah frowned as she studied John. Her mouth was open, and her eyes explored his, searching for something, something to tell her he was not messing her about perhaps? She approached John with her arms held out to him. He tried to back up, but the kitchen was small and there was nowhere to go. As she reached John, she grabbed him with both arms and pulled his head down onto her chest.

“Let it out,” she whispered in his ear.

John let it out. And out it came in guttural wails, many times the volume of Savannah’s in the early light of day. She guided him to the sofa, like a Good Samaritan helping an elderly person across a busy street, stroking his head as they moved, constantly whispering, reassuring, and keeping his head pressed to her.

“It’s okay, let it out.”

For fifteen minutes John lay, face buried in the sofa, as Savannah stroked the back of his head, over and over. Despite considerable effort, he was unable to stop. And then as suddenly as the grief had taken him, it went. He lay quiet for a while feeling weak and foolish, his embarrassment preventing him from turning over. Eventually, he spoke into the cushion.

“I think that the police may be after me,” he said.

“What for?” she said, still stroking the top of his head.

John was beginning to feel like a pet dog, but she had been there for him during his moment of need and he didn’t want to make light of it. His need to unload overcame his dented ego, and he flipped himself over to face Savannah. For the next ten minutes, he recounted the details of his trip to Mark’s apartment. She remained silent, lips slightly parted throughout, shaking her head as if she was listening to something that couldn’t be true. Thankfully, she rested her hand on his calf while he spoke.